Every single time that I try to write, I sit down. I start something. I have a fabulous idea. I have a purpose. I quote something that inspires me. Then I become pathetic. I am hiding something. I am afraid. Something in my head won't allow my heart to move through these little fingers of mine.

I am suffocating.
I am choking.
I am drowning.

And of course all of that is a metaphor, for the fact that I lost my father, right?
I mean, that's what it comes down to I suppose.

I ache for the deep Pacific ocean. For its salty mystery.
For fish and for legitimate love.

I long for a 1970s mustache and green shag carpet.
I long for Volkswagons without seatbelts, and for sandcastles.

I ache for high tide and rip tide and red tide and tiny bodies tumbling around under water,
and buckets full of sand crabs.

I feel those rocks beneath my bare feet.
Scraped knees.

I was always searching for something.
I could never climb high enough,
or dive deep enough into the chaos.

Where is my patio...?

Tonight I am missing a patio.

Patio, to me, means family. You see, with a patio you can all come together. At a coffee shop, a bar, a house by the beach, an apartment in the village. A patio is a space for people to love and to be loved.

I need a patio right now.

21 years since Bess was taken from us.

2 weeks until we go to trial to seek justice for Milanca and Xavi being taken from us.

The amount of ache in my heart is so heavy that only a strong, full patio could support it.

Everyone should read this. Everyone. It's that good.

Follow this link to see Lindy West BREAK IT DOWN.


Thank you for writing and posting this. Seriously.

Class War

I've often wondered what it would be like to just go to the doctor when you were sick. Or to just buy new clothes when the ones you have no longer fit properly. Or to not look at price tags. To pay bills on time, every month. Without having to choose carefully between one thing or another. To have unlimited access to education and knowledge.

People have that. Many of my friends have that. I think it's great. I'm happy for them.

Yet I question a system that allows so many to never know that sense of security.
A system that sets so many up to fail.
A system that is inherently hierarchical and unbalanced.

There is no reason, not one, that people should want for things that are abundant.

That's why I'm an anarchist.
There is something better than this.

It's compassionate and kind.
It's egalitarian and it's possible.

I want so much for people to open their eyes.

Bad Days

I've been working on trying to keep things in perspective. Today for example, was not the best, but when I think about it... even my really bad day at work is someone else's dream day.

I woke up warm, safe, loved, healthy, and employed. I played with my internet phone on my convenient commute, learned new things, interacted with intelligent, kind people, and came home to a son that amazes me every day. We struggle less if we understand and empathize with the struggles of all. I believe that this way of thinking is key to living as a functioning anarchist in a capitalist nightmare.

Be understanding and humble.
Be sympathetic and kind.
Understand and recognize your privilege.
Work hard, HARD, every day, to better yourself and the world around you.
Fight, passionately, for what you believe to be right and good.
Don't get tricked into falling in line or giving up your values.
Hug people.
Cry openly.
Open up.
Reach out.
Sing out loud, even when people are listening, even when they aren't.
Give, everything you can, especially your heart.

So how was my day...? Well it wasn't all that bad in the grand scheme of things.
And tonight my son gave me a big hug and kiss goodnight.
And tomorrow is another day.

Be fucking brave, in everything you do. Even the little things.

Ancient History

When I was about 12 years old, give or take, my family took me on a little weekend "vacation" to a place called June Lake. We were to stay in the lake house of a coworker friend of my step monster.

I remember very little of that trip, however what I do remember is very significant in the shaping of my young identity and as such, I will never forget it.

My step monster was an interesting character (I'm being generous here.) In general he was a racist, sexist, abusive asshole, however he was also oddly into the arts. Looking back, dude was probably just very sad and closeted. I mean really, a racist, sexist, TAP DANCER from Wyoming who hated women but LOVED MUSICAL THEATRE? Yeah. Ouch.

Anyway, at the time he had been a bartender for a musical dinner theatre company (no really, as I write this out, I'm getting it,) and this house we were to stay at was owned by some of his performer friends from work.

I've always been a little bit of a hussy, not going to lie. I wanted to feel loved, even if I knew it was meaningless. Sometimes even especially if I knew it was meaningless.

(Mom, if you read this, please understand that I am taking liberties with artistic freedom here and my memory is just as bad as yours so this is as much fiction as it is memoir.)

That being said... there was a boy at this weekend long lake house get away. He was dreamy. He was dreamy in every way and I never forgot it. He sang to me. He sang to me Mr. Sandman, by the Chordettes. He sang to me Earth Angel, by The Penguins. We hid away from the other kids to talk about poetry and love and music. He was 16. He was a few years older than me, but oh we had so much in common and had so much fun. Just talking though. He never made a move. Now that I think of it... he was a 16 yr old boy who sang THE CHORDETTES to me and never made a move. Yup.

Well, kiddo, I still think you are dreamy, wherever you are. I am still waiting for the man or woman who will sing to me that I am "peaches and cream" and all of that.

I think sometimes that being an anarchist requires that you look deep into your own history and explore where you come from, and how your own biases have influenced the way that you look at the world.

I think that being an anarchist requires that you let go in ways that make you at least a little bit uncomfortable.

Big change doesn't come effortlessly. It comes with pain and suffering and agitation. You have to scratch at the skin a bit, get a little dirty, you have to see things for what they are, not for what they want you to see them as.

That 16 yr old boy, he showed me that I was desirable in a way that wasn't sexual. That was really special to me. I have never and will never forget it. I felt wanted, without feeling like an object.

What is tragic about this story... is that I don't think that I have felt that since. So here's to you, kid from my past, you rocked it. I hope that you are out there somewhere enjoying the hell out of this life <3

Recently I had a most unfortunate experience in which someone refused to recognize their privilege and straight up got angry with me about it. There is so much wrong with this.

So I thought I would share with the class a little lesson in recognizing privilege...

Every time you think to yourself "I have to do... xyz," think instead, "Why is it that I get to do xyz and others will never have that opportunity?" Do this, even if the thing you are doing sucks.


It works with everything, big and small. I will share a couple examples:

"I have to do the dishes, I hate doing the dishes." Becomes... Well, I am grateful for being in a space in my life that allows me to have a sink, in an apartment, and food to eat, which dirties up my dishes. I am privileged to live in this space and have these dirty dishes. I think I'll just do them and be thankful, even though it sucks.

"My job doesn't pay me enough." Becomes... Thank goodness I have a job, when so many others do not. I am privileged to have this job, even though sometimes it sucks.


Recognizing privilege isn't a bad thing, it's a necessary thing. It keeps you in check and allows you to be a kind, more compassionate person who doesn't take things for granted and is willing and able to see that others may not have access to the same things that you do. Do that. It's good for you. You're welcome.