Today, I woke up and purpose captured me. I needed to go down and work. You see, my job works around me quite literally. After leaving my apartment, I walk down a flight of steps. I open the door that leads to Main Street, and then move south past two doors and unlock the third. I lock it behind me and then walk past shelves filled with thousands of books I could never read. I open the west door to the basement and turn on the light. I rule this half of the basement with an iron fist. Labeled comic book boxes filled shelves while in the north east corner unsorted comics wait for me to wrap my totalitarian hand around the throats and force them into submission.
I choose my hours. I choose what I do. Today, I spent half an hour picking up the mess left behind by a High Schooler who gained job experience by sorting comics and comic book boxes my brother did not take out from the new shipments that came in the last couple weeks. I wanted to get started since I only have three months to finish this project and need to put in close to five hundred hours total to get it all completed.
This was not the only purpose of my day. I wanted to finish the dishes I started last night, and even as I type this several sit submerged in water waiting for me to run the yellow and green pad over them to wipe away the clinging muck. Without a roommate, the dishes did not seem important to get done. Then, I had a roommate but did not have the time or want to exceed the effort to do it. Finally last night, I filled the sink full of water added the Dawn dish soap and then began to wash the plates, bowls, silver ware, and cups.
Overall, my purpose got me out of bed. I put in a few hours, and now I plan to do dishes. However, most of my day I felt incredibly inadequate. The drama from my roommate still lingers in my mind, especially since I still get countless pieces of mail I know for the most part she will simply throw them into the trashcan. She also lingers in the apartment, although since Andy moved in things actually feel easier. Andy, however, spends most of his time out in the world leaving the apartment lonely with just my kitty.
Although I know I have friends, I know I have a plan for my future, and I know my family supports me even in my potential mistakes, I felt incredibly lonely. I felt like an dehydrated person with an empty glass and no water. I began to text my friend, Katie, and told her how the gay themed movies I currently have been watching make me feel both incredibly happy while also incredibly sad.
She talked me through it all. She, like any good friend, told me how awesome I am in various contexts and I explained that she was simply brilliant. She liked the fact I quoted Doctor Who. I can't wait for my future as uncertain, but a large part of me just hopes that my friends have the same kind of hope, scary as it sometimes is. Donna Troy, a character from DC Comics Teen Titans once said in Titans/Young Avengers: Graduation Daysaid, "I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I know that tomorrow will come and I will be there to meet it." It's been my lifeline and I truly believe it. Today, I felt sad, I felt purposeful, and now I feel lonely, but at the end of the day, I can't wait to tomorrow's roller coaster.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Moving Forward
My blog lingers out in cyber-space and I actually feel sort of bad I do not post more often. I wrote that poem earlier today about my recent roommate troubles. The extent of the troubles ends with 'I no longer have a roommate'. River, my cat, and I once again live alone in this apartment. River seems fine with it. She lays next to me in the couch in the living room and purrs wildly. She still rushes up to whatever wandering soul crosses my doorway into my kitchen. I just sit here and do homework.
I have worked on a few different things since my last post. Tomorrow marks the first day on my new novel. My boss and I plan to write a novel throughout the month of February and March. We beginning at midnight tonight, and will finish on the 31st of March. It gives us roughly 60 days. We write almost 900 words a day, and will have 50,000 words by the end of March. That end of March is my old roommates wedding and the next time I will see my parents, it would nice to have something to show to them.
I started work on a journal dictating the characters and some situations in which the characters may interact. I want to write an Urban Fantasy novel dealing with mages and vampires. The idea resonates in my mind, but I think I will have troubles actually starting it. The beginning always feels like the hardest part. You must establish these characters as honest-to-God people and not just open representations of me as a writer.
Sometimes, I think I wrote better characters growing up in LaBolt. In retrospect, the characters I role played online had a ferocity that I no longer have. I sometimes feel that when I role play now that all my characters blend together. To me, they all look the same instead of different people standing on their own two feet. I wonder why that is... and more importantly, I wonder how I can change that?
Well, I do not really have much else to say. I just wanted to give people an update on my very boring life. Now, I head back to math homework, or reading a few comics. Then it's bed, and work.
I have worked on a few different things since my last post. Tomorrow marks the first day on my new novel. My boss and I plan to write a novel throughout the month of February and March. We beginning at midnight tonight, and will finish on the 31st of March. It gives us roughly 60 days. We write almost 900 words a day, and will have 50,000 words by the end of March. That end of March is my old roommates wedding and the next time I will see my parents, it would nice to have something to show to them.
I started work on a journal dictating the characters and some situations in which the characters may interact. I want to write an Urban Fantasy novel dealing with mages and vampires. The idea resonates in my mind, but I think I will have troubles actually starting it. The beginning always feels like the hardest part. You must establish these characters as honest-to-God people and not just open representations of me as a writer.
Sometimes, I think I wrote better characters growing up in LaBolt. In retrospect, the characters I role played online had a ferocity that I no longer have. I sometimes feel that when I role play now that all my characters blend together. To me, they all look the same instead of different people standing on their own two feet. I wonder why that is... and more importantly, I wonder how I can change that?
Well, I do not really have much else to say. I just wanted to give people an update on my very boring life. Now, I head back to math homework, or reading a few comics. Then it's bed, and work.
Moving On
Touch-screen buttons
click.
Relationship ending
words.
Thumb slams
next letter
wrong spelled words
shift to correction.
Slashing sentences
stabbing syntax
last text
final breath
Tacks, Coins, Awards
strewn across
her empty room
Tall top hat
crowns
four bags
her remains
garbage.
click.
Relationship ending
words.
Thumb slams
next letter
wrong spelled words
shift to correction.
Slashing sentences
stabbing syntax
last text
final breath
Tacks, Coins, Awards
strewn across
her empty room
Tall top hat
crowns
four bags
her remains
garbage.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Writing, Contemplating, Moving Forward,
I spent the majority of tonight working on a novel that found itself percolating in my mind over the last few days. Instead of giving a small tidbit of that for my writing, I actually came to a sudden realization. As I sat here pulling this piece together from a variety of things I already wrote, my friends showed up. My roommate, already decently intoxicated, began to once again tell me we needed to watch something other than what I watched. I tried to continue to write and talk with her friends as more people showed up to join the cadre of people. Now as they left, I realized that I sort of enjoy being alone.
Throughout the last four semesters, I constantly needed people surrounding me. When I came back from the Navy, I lived with my new roommate, Char. The two of us moved and shook with a variety of different people finding our way into countless friend groups. We loved each other. We loved partying, and we loved people. Sometimes, she liked to be alone, and I honestly did not understand it. I spent every waking moment either with people or blaring out the silent world with my music. Now, that has changed.
I sit here now alone in my apartment thinking back over the last few weeks. My roommate goes out with her friends, drinks, and comes home, sometimes alone, other times with friends, sometimes with lovers. I stay here with my cat. Now, I do go out and meet people. I spend time with friends, but the majority of my time in the apartment, I am alone. Sometimes, I flip through my Western Civilization II book, other times, I research the answers to my Quantitative Literacy book, or just sit write alone. I never thought being alone could be so relieving.
Part of it, I think, might be the fact that in five months I leave for New Jersey. If I make new connections severing them at the time I leave may feel impossible. The few friendship I find dear, I continue to cherish. I invite them over. I write with them. I make dinner plans and go out, but going down and drinking myself into a stupor feels like a waste of time. I would inevitably spend money that I do not really have. I would make friends with people I will leave behind. I want my life to move forward; and regardless of the fact one of my friends say he will be coming with me, I am moving alone.
I told myself that this semester would be about me. I work out every day or every other day (every two days at the least). I have gotten my money out of the gym membership I paid for. I will continue to go as long as I can afford it, and I will try to eat as healthy as possible. My friend, Marc, says I am growing up. Well, maybe I am.
Throughout the last four semesters, I constantly needed people surrounding me. When I came back from the Navy, I lived with my new roommate, Char. The two of us moved and shook with a variety of different people finding our way into countless friend groups. We loved each other. We loved partying, and we loved people. Sometimes, she liked to be alone, and I honestly did not understand it. I spent every waking moment either with people or blaring out the silent world with my music. Now, that has changed.
I sit here now alone in my apartment thinking back over the last few weeks. My roommate goes out with her friends, drinks, and comes home, sometimes alone, other times with friends, sometimes with lovers. I stay here with my cat. Now, I do go out and meet people. I spend time with friends, but the majority of my time in the apartment, I am alone. Sometimes, I flip through my Western Civilization II book, other times, I research the answers to my Quantitative Literacy book, or just sit write alone. I never thought being alone could be so relieving.
Part of it, I think, might be the fact that in five months I leave for New Jersey. If I make new connections severing them at the time I leave may feel impossible. The few friendship I find dear, I continue to cherish. I invite them over. I write with them. I make dinner plans and go out, but going down and drinking myself into a stupor feels like a waste of time. I would inevitably spend money that I do not really have. I would make friends with people I will leave behind. I want my life to move forward; and regardless of the fact one of my friends say he will be coming with me, I am moving alone.
I told myself that this semester would be about me. I work out every day or every other day (every two days at the least). I have gotten my money out of the gym membership I paid for. I will continue to go as long as I can afford it, and I will try to eat as healthy as possible. My friend, Marc, says I am growing up. Well, maybe I am.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Poetry, Writing Groups, and Awesome New Friends
Poetry causes me grief. Something about searching out the proper words for the exact meanings drives me nuts. I took a poetry class originally to find a more precise way to write. For the longest time, my friends called my writing incredibly flowery. I wanted to try and write something meaningful with novel length. A few years ago, I read Willa Cather’s A Lost Lady for a “Willa Cather and Midwest Women Writers” course. The book felt incredibly precise, with some of the scenes sounding more like poetry than anything else. This remains my goal.
I do not fell that I write poetry particularly well. I do not delve into my scenes as much as I should. I keep everything mostly to the sense of sight instead of actually moving beyond to the various other senses like I should as a good poet. My poetry professor, whom taught me everything I wanted and did not want to know about poetry, got me thinking about the senses and their levels of importance. Sight starts the beginning of experiences. You see things first. The sense of smell comes next, although smells linger in your mind. Smells stroke the memory pulling you back to places. Finally, you have the feeling of things underneath your hands or against your skin. Finally, the sense of taste sits the longest, but you need to get close enough. If you taste it, you remember the tastes or even the feeling of certain things against your tongue.
My poetry never touches on each of the senses as I stated. I need to start looking for words that will give you those sensory details. I recently made friends with someone who adores writing poetry due to the precisions. The story surrounding this friendship still makes me smile. That is a story for another time. She likes poetry due to the precision of words. According to our mutual friend, that choosing of words takes the majority of time in her poetry.
Together, we three friends created a Creative Writing group, which I hope will help me find some precision in my own writing, while helping my friend Nikki with her beginnings as a creative writer herself. I have wanted to be a part of a creative writing group for ages. A creative writing group on campus invited me to join them, and I have taken creative writing classes with all of them. Although I adore each of them, I feel like their beliefs and mine just don’t work in conjuncture with each other. I just want to work on my writing while taking my final semester of classes. I think blogging from time to time will help keep me going.
Although poetry causes me grief, I understand how studying poetry will help my novel writing. I love the fact I am just starting my writing career and by trying a variety of different types I expand my horizons. Maybe working with someone who loves the precision will help me write better poetry or at least expand my vocabulary for these mundane blog posts.
I do not fell that I write poetry particularly well. I do not delve into my scenes as much as I should. I keep everything mostly to the sense of sight instead of actually moving beyond to the various other senses like I should as a good poet. My poetry professor, whom taught me everything I wanted and did not want to know about poetry, got me thinking about the senses and their levels of importance. Sight starts the beginning of experiences. You see things first. The sense of smell comes next, although smells linger in your mind. Smells stroke the memory pulling you back to places. Finally, you have the feeling of things underneath your hands or against your skin. Finally, the sense of taste sits the longest, but you need to get close enough. If you taste it, you remember the tastes or even the feeling of certain things against your tongue.
My poetry never touches on each of the senses as I stated. I need to start looking for words that will give you those sensory details. I recently made friends with someone who adores writing poetry due to the precisions. The story surrounding this friendship still makes me smile. That is a story for another time. She likes poetry due to the precision of words. According to our mutual friend, that choosing of words takes the majority of time in her poetry.
Together, we three friends created a Creative Writing group, which I hope will help me find some precision in my own writing, while helping my friend Nikki with her beginnings as a creative writer herself. I have wanted to be a part of a creative writing group for ages. A creative writing group on campus invited me to join them, and I have taken creative writing classes with all of them. Although I adore each of them, I feel like their beliefs and mine just don’t work in conjuncture with each other. I just want to work on my writing while taking my final semester of classes. I think blogging from time to time will help keep me going.
Although poetry causes me grief, I understand how studying poetry will help my novel writing. I love the fact I am just starting my writing career and by trying a variety of different types I expand my horizons. Maybe working with someone who loves the precision will help me write better poetry or at least expand my vocabulary for these mundane blog posts.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Watching Above
I look at nights by Vincent van Gogh,
And see though eyes that feel.
Stars swirl blues and blacks
blending yellow to teal growing green.
Everything moving by planets or
suns with humans such tiny specks.
I wonder if ants see streetlights
twirling orange to whites fading navy.
The light shall fade, dying into day,
eternity of dark before the brilliant rebirth.
We enter their world. Giants uncaring,
we destroy their mounds with a misstep.
Do they worship us in churches of dirt,
praying we accept their offerings of crumbs?
And see though eyes that feel.
Stars swirl blues and blacks
blending yellow to teal growing green.
Everything moving by planets or
suns with humans such tiny specks.
I wonder if ants see streetlights
twirling orange to whites fading navy.
The light shall fade, dying into day,
eternity of dark before the brilliant rebirth.
We enter their world. Giants uncaring,
we destroy their mounds with a misstep.
Do they worship us in churches of dirt,
praying we accept their offerings of crumbs?
Friday, January 13, 2012
Through a Transgender's Eyes
My short narrative feels a bit out of place. I know one transgender in my life who recently began to take hormones; however, I do not know much about the confusion that they feel. I wanted to try to write and understand a lifestyle I myself am not a part of. I wanted to break down the confusion and figure out how the process may begin.
The idea started at the gym. I thought about my life several years ago when I thought I could change my appearance, then I began to break down how much I can easily change in comparison to the people around me. I thought about the other people in the LGBT community and how hard being a transgender could be.
My courtship and marriage aggravated this thought. I spent thirty minutes in class today listening to Dr. Stover talk about the legality of the syllabus. I put on my coat and threw my backpack over my shoulder making it up the few steps to the professor who packed up his things. I asked a simple enough question, “Are you going to discuss alternate lifestyles?” He explained that ‘cohabitation’ will be the only thing that may factor into alternate lifestyles. This appalled me. This course supposedly teaches ‘social diversity’ but only expands upon the knowledge that my heterosexual classmates learned from varied media since birth. I just wanted to take a survey course in Courtship and Marriage giving me a broad understand of both homosexual, bisexual, transgender, and heterosexual rituals dealing with both.
As I left the class, one of my fellow classmates came up to talk to me. He pulled me aside in the hallway and explained a second course that might be closer to what I talked to Dr. Stover about. He even mentioned the fact that this course brings a transgender into the course to explain some of the things in which we study. This Human Development and Sexuality course dealt with all the social diversity Courtship and Marriage should entail. However, the course did not hold the same level of importance to the university. It did not cover the social diversity goal that such a course should have.
Although I came up with the idea of the short narrative a few days ago, it did not truly capture me until today. I wanted to actually explain the diversity I wanted to see or at least come to some sort of explanation that I could understand. If I did not capture the emotions right, please let me know. I want to expand my knowledge of the topic and try to see things from a perspective I do not fully understand. Please comment, and let me know if I should change things or how to change things.
The idea started at the gym. I thought about my life several years ago when I thought I could change my appearance, then I began to break down how much I can easily change in comparison to the people around me. I thought about the other people in the LGBT community and how hard being a transgender could be.
My courtship and marriage aggravated this thought. I spent thirty minutes in class today listening to Dr. Stover talk about the legality of the syllabus. I put on my coat and threw my backpack over my shoulder making it up the few steps to the professor who packed up his things. I asked a simple enough question, “Are you going to discuss alternate lifestyles?” He explained that ‘cohabitation’ will be the only thing that may factor into alternate lifestyles. This appalled me. This course supposedly teaches ‘social diversity’ but only expands upon the knowledge that my heterosexual classmates learned from varied media since birth. I just wanted to take a survey course in Courtship and Marriage giving me a broad understand of both homosexual, bisexual, transgender, and heterosexual rituals dealing with both.
As I left the class, one of my fellow classmates came up to talk to me. He pulled me aside in the hallway and explained a second course that might be closer to what I talked to Dr. Stover about. He even mentioned the fact that this course brings a transgender into the course to explain some of the things in which we study. This Human Development and Sexuality course dealt with all the social diversity Courtship and Marriage should entail. However, the course did not hold the same level of importance to the university. It did not cover the social diversity goal that such a course should have.
Although I came up with the idea of the short narrative a few days ago, it did not truly capture me until today. I wanted to actually explain the diversity I wanted to see or at least come to some sort of explanation that I could understand. If I did not capture the emotions right, please let me know. I want to expand my knowledge of the topic and try to see things from a perspective I do not fully understand. Please comment, and let me know if I should change things or how to change things.
To Feel Like a Woman
I understand the physical nature. Broad shoulders linked to muscular arms; a strong chest with a thing waist creating a ‘v’; broad thighs formed from running. Even the anatomy itself does not create confusion. I understand the use of the penis for reproduction or personal pleasure. Understanding the reflection in the mirror, understanding that this mirror reflects my outward appears confuses me.
When my family went to McDonalds, I asked for the girl’s toy. I placed the small figurines in a short line like a glass menagerie of Barbies, Trolls, or My Little Pony’s. The other kids at school scoffed when I brought dolls to school. I liked to dress them in the clothes my parents did not buy for me. As I grew older, everything felt wrong.
Watching the boys play basketball, the sight of sweat on their bodies made me feel aroused. Their muscles bulged as they stopped abruptly and turned to shoot the ball towards the hoop. As their feet hit the ground from the layup, I watched a smile come across the lips if the ball whooshed through the hoop. If the ball bounced off the red rim, their brow remained furrowed and they rushed down the street. Unlike the other boys in the class, I only looked at the cheerleaders picturing myself in their outfits.
I thought about looking from the sidelines. The skirt rested on my shaved thighs revealing the long lithe legs. I thought about the sports bras covering breasts to stop them from hurting with the variety of jumping. The skirt would move up and down showing my spanky-pants. I wanted the long hair down past my shoulders and the same eccentric blue make-up to support my school.
Instead, I sat in the bleachers looking at the men feeling too big for the petite body inside of me. Even if I could never be a cheerleader, I wanted the long hair. I wanted to feel the bra strap dig into my shoulders and my back. I wanted to show off my stomach and wear the skirts. I just wanted to be one of the girls.
Sometimes when my mom and dad stayed out late, I sneaked into her room and placed my small feet into my mom’s shoes. I picked up her bras and put it around my shoulders. My thighs proved too big for her skirts. I looked at myself in the mirror picturing myself with a more lithe body, longer hair, and without the certain appendages that make me male.
At night, I stare without my shirt on at the ceiling of my bedroom. I wonder how other people feel within their body. Do they picture themselves dressed in the cheerleading outfit? Do they think about having a vagina feeling myself up inside the night instead of stroking on an erect penis? My heath professor teaches us to feel comfortable in our bodies. I stare blankly at the ceiling wondering what it would take to feel comfortable in mine.
When my family went to McDonalds, I asked for the girl’s toy. I placed the small figurines in a short line like a glass menagerie of Barbies, Trolls, or My Little Pony’s. The other kids at school scoffed when I brought dolls to school. I liked to dress them in the clothes my parents did not buy for me. As I grew older, everything felt wrong.
Watching the boys play basketball, the sight of sweat on their bodies made me feel aroused. Their muscles bulged as they stopped abruptly and turned to shoot the ball towards the hoop. As their feet hit the ground from the layup, I watched a smile come across the lips if the ball whooshed through the hoop. If the ball bounced off the red rim, their brow remained furrowed and they rushed down the street. Unlike the other boys in the class, I only looked at the cheerleaders picturing myself in their outfits.
I thought about looking from the sidelines. The skirt rested on my shaved thighs revealing the long lithe legs. I thought about the sports bras covering breasts to stop them from hurting with the variety of jumping. The skirt would move up and down showing my spanky-pants. I wanted the long hair down past my shoulders and the same eccentric blue make-up to support my school.
Instead, I sat in the bleachers looking at the men feeling too big for the petite body inside of me. Even if I could never be a cheerleader, I wanted the long hair. I wanted to feel the bra strap dig into my shoulders and my back. I wanted to show off my stomach and wear the skirts. I just wanted to be one of the girls.
Sometimes when my mom and dad stayed out late, I sneaked into her room and placed my small feet into my mom’s shoes. I picked up her bras and put it around my shoulders. My thighs proved too big for her skirts. I looked at myself in the mirror picturing myself with a more lithe body, longer hair, and without the certain appendages that make me male.
At night, I stare without my shirt on at the ceiling of my bedroom. I wonder how other people feel within their body. Do they picture themselves dressed in the cheerleading outfit? Do they think about having a vagina feeling myself up inside the night instead of stroking on an erect penis? My heath professor teaches us to feel comfortable in our bodies. I stare blankly at the ceiling wondering what it would take to feel comfortable in mine.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Rant at Random on the Matter of Mirrors
People say that looks do not matter. The personality shines through the looks. Some days, I feel like I have a huge personality, but I wear my insecurities out in the open. I hate the way I look, and for as long as I remember I dreamt of change. Eight years ago, I stood in the bathroom of my parent’s house. I spread out my lips showing my gums and teeth, and then just let out a short smile. My smile looked large with my top lip showing off my gums and my top teeth looking almost horse-like. The smile promptly faded as I examined my form in the reflective surface. I stood five foot ten inches tall. I cut my hair a few months before, but it remained thick. I had only a few strands of hair around my nipples. The only real chubbiness on my body sat around the waist. I looked over at the scale knowing I weighed around one hundred and seventy pounds. I began to dream of a future life, where this ugliness I saw in the mirror vanished and I grew into the swan I thought every duckling grew into.
The image aged slightly as I thought about my future appearance. The waist slimmed from hours working out at the gym. I let my hair grow longer and shaggy, like the other boys in the class. The hair now held a slight curl, which came from actually spending time on it. I kept the air off my chest one-way one another. Perhaps, I paid to have it waxed stripping the hair off with slight pain, or taking the time to shave it. I learned to smile with my lips closed. I thought about wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a white shirt over a swimmer’s build.
Today, I looked in the mirror and saw how I am. Hair culminates across my chest, on my arms, down my legs, and over my back. My head remained the only place not covered with hair. My forehead as the years passed continue to grow higher. My stomach hardly changed, except for the addition of the hair. I wear large glasses given to me by the U.S. Navy. I wear only a pair of shorts I owned in high school ripped at the seams and falling apart. My wide smile just reminds me of my grandma or my mom. The balding and hair resembles my grandfathers. I stand the shortest of the Bell men, but I feel okay with that fact.
I hypothesize that eight years from now, I probably look about the same. I might lose or gain a few pounds, but will remain semi-active without owning a vehicle. My hair may continue to recede, and at that point I will choose to cut it shorter than ever before. My smile will always show my teeth and gums, but somewhere down the line I shall lose these large glasses and get smaller frames or perhaps even my first set of contacts. I hope my tattoo marks the biggest change in my appearance. I want a Time Lord seal on the back of my right calf, and a stylized Ouroboros on my left to keep the circular images equal. Regardless of the tattoos or even going bald, working out makes me feel better about my appearance. I feel healthier, and maybe look healthier.
Some days, my hair stands straight up like a faux hawk because of the baldness. Some days, I feel I look terrible without a hat. A few of my friends say they survive on the ‘fat and happy diet’. Some days, I do not even think about what I look like. I wish that some day I would never, but that society and my lifestyle will never interact. I live a semi-shallow existence, but that does not mean I can’t find happiness in the mirror. It just might take another eight years.
The image aged slightly as I thought about my future appearance. The waist slimmed from hours working out at the gym. I let my hair grow longer and shaggy, like the other boys in the class. The hair now held a slight curl, which came from actually spending time on it. I kept the air off my chest one-way one another. Perhaps, I paid to have it waxed stripping the hair off with slight pain, or taking the time to shave it. I learned to smile with my lips closed. I thought about wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a white shirt over a swimmer’s build.
Today, I looked in the mirror and saw how I am. Hair culminates across my chest, on my arms, down my legs, and over my back. My head remained the only place not covered with hair. My forehead as the years passed continue to grow higher. My stomach hardly changed, except for the addition of the hair. I wear large glasses given to me by the U.S. Navy. I wear only a pair of shorts I owned in high school ripped at the seams and falling apart. My wide smile just reminds me of my grandma or my mom. The balding and hair resembles my grandfathers. I stand the shortest of the Bell men, but I feel okay with that fact.
I hypothesize that eight years from now, I probably look about the same. I might lose or gain a few pounds, but will remain semi-active without owning a vehicle. My hair may continue to recede, and at that point I will choose to cut it shorter than ever before. My smile will always show my teeth and gums, but somewhere down the line I shall lose these large glasses and get smaller frames or perhaps even my first set of contacts. I hope my tattoo marks the biggest change in my appearance. I want a Time Lord seal on the back of my right calf, and a stylized Ouroboros on my left to keep the circular images equal. Regardless of the tattoos or even going bald, working out makes me feel better about my appearance. I feel healthier, and maybe look healthier.
Some days, my hair stands straight up like a faux hawk because of the baldness. Some days, I feel I look terrible without a hat. A few of my friends say they survive on the ‘fat and happy diet’. Some days, I do not even think about what I look like. I wish that some day I would never, but that society and my lifestyle will never interact. I live a semi-shallow existence, but that does not mean I can’t find happiness in the mirror. It just might take another eight years.
Hi, I'm JT
I love the idea of writing a blog. Well, to be honest, I love the idea of writing. I love the feel of my keys gently pecking at the keys and letters appearing. Those letters slowly form words, sometimes misspelled, then you hit the delete key a few times as those letters return with a more cohesive order. Those words form sentences, those sentences join together to create paragraphs, and paragraphs create chapters. It resembles life where one piece builds upon another. That first sentence ran away from me a bit.
I cannot remember when I started writing. I remember sketching figures of Power Rangers with pencils on taped together sheets of writing paper. I then colored them in appropriately so that each of them faintly resembled the Power Ranger of appropriate color. I then fastened them to the wall with tape or sticky tack. Eventually, they fell down taking small pieces of paint with them. I did the same for the pictures I elegantly colored with crayon. Those too fell down or ripped off the wall. For almost a decade, Jasmine’s delicate hand held out for a flying dove remained taped to the inclined wall of my bedroom. I remember coming up with alternate adventures for the Rangers in between the ones on television, but I never wrote them down.
In High School, I wrote fifteen thousand words of a story about a young boy finding out about his dissensions from ancient deities. He went to the mythic world of gods and fought monsters with others like him. He never triumphed, mostly due to my own inability to finish a story.
When High School ended and college began, I wanted to continue to write, but never felt I had the appropriate outlet. Then I took a couple English classes, decided an English degree would do me little, switched majored a few times, and returned to English a newfound man. I resolved that words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and books remained the only place out there to truly make me happy. Sure, I experienced love, friendship, heartache, fear, panic, and pleasure throughout all those years between my leaving English behind and returning, but why did I decide to keep running away from writing and literature which could give me all those experience in a single sitting?
I joined a Creative Writing course, where I wrote what I wanted and edited my way into an A. I then took a Poetry course with a Professor who eventually became a trusted confidant and mentor; I may even go so far as friend. I took another course on Travel Writing, and then spend a semester surrounded with literary analysis papers as my only outlet. Now, my final semester of school encroaches on my writing life, and I decided I needed an outlet for my words.
This blog stands as a testament to my continued writing. I decided to start with a story instead of an introduction like this one. I plan to look over the stories I post and make a few changes here and there. I want to practice short stories working on the very basics of storytelling; beginning, rising action, climax, and falling action.
The preceding story started while I worked out at the gym yesterday. I listened to Darren Criss singing teenage dream and got a flashback to the Katy Perry music video. I remember seeing an innocent-looking Katy with straight hair and a simple dress making her look more Church-going than the majority of the scenes within the video. She watched a man throw his fists against a punching bag with a longing look. I took that idea and created the story you read blow. I still need to do some cleaning up of the last paragraph which makes me wonder whether I want a positive/hopeful ending with the running back’s friend and the running back himself looking at the narrator or make the running back himself say the line and take away any sense of hope that narrator has at a relationship.
I will answer these questions with time. Right now, I just hope to keep on writing another story this time about a transgender individual or perhaps about mirrors, looks, and changed appearances as years progress. As always, the story will appear as I begin to put those words, into sentences, and into paragraphs.
I cannot remember when I started writing. I remember sketching figures of Power Rangers with pencils on taped together sheets of writing paper. I then colored them in appropriately so that each of them faintly resembled the Power Ranger of appropriate color. I then fastened them to the wall with tape or sticky tack. Eventually, they fell down taking small pieces of paint with them. I did the same for the pictures I elegantly colored with crayon. Those too fell down or ripped off the wall. For almost a decade, Jasmine’s delicate hand held out for a flying dove remained taped to the inclined wall of my bedroom. I remember coming up with alternate adventures for the Rangers in between the ones on television, but I never wrote them down.
In High School, I wrote fifteen thousand words of a story about a young boy finding out about his dissensions from ancient deities. He went to the mythic world of gods and fought monsters with others like him. He never triumphed, mostly due to my own inability to finish a story.
When High School ended and college began, I wanted to continue to write, but never felt I had the appropriate outlet. Then I took a couple English classes, decided an English degree would do me little, switched majored a few times, and returned to English a newfound man. I resolved that words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and books remained the only place out there to truly make me happy. Sure, I experienced love, friendship, heartache, fear, panic, and pleasure throughout all those years between my leaving English behind and returning, but why did I decide to keep running away from writing and literature which could give me all those experience in a single sitting?
I joined a Creative Writing course, where I wrote what I wanted and edited my way into an A. I then took a Poetry course with a Professor who eventually became a trusted confidant and mentor; I may even go so far as friend. I took another course on Travel Writing, and then spend a semester surrounded with literary analysis papers as my only outlet. Now, my final semester of school encroaches on my writing life, and I decided I needed an outlet for my words.
This blog stands as a testament to my continued writing. I decided to start with a story instead of an introduction like this one. I plan to look over the stories I post and make a few changes here and there. I want to practice short stories working on the very basics of storytelling; beginning, rising action, climax, and falling action.
The preceding story started while I worked out at the gym yesterday. I listened to Darren Criss singing teenage dream and got a flashback to the Katy Perry music video. I remember seeing an innocent-looking Katy with straight hair and a simple dress making her look more Church-going than the majority of the scenes within the video. She watched a man throw his fists against a punching bag with a longing look. I took that idea and created the story you read blow. I still need to do some cleaning up of the last paragraph which makes me wonder whether I want a positive/hopeful ending with the running back’s friend and the running back himself looking at the narrator or make the running back himself say the line and take away any sense of hope that narrator has at a relationship.
I will answer these questions with time. Right now, I just hope to keep on writing another story this time about a transgender individual or perhaps about mirrors, looks, and changed appearances as years progress. As always, the story will appear as I begin to put those words, into sentences, and into paragraphs.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
My First Love
He just wears his tennis shoes and a pair of shorts. I watched as he did fifteen push-ups. His board of a back sank down with his arms and went back up. He turned over and forced his abs to constrict fifty times. Then he stood up, stretched out his arms, did a few fake punches, and grabbed the tape to wrap his hands. He punched the bag a couple of times, just feeling the weight. I leaned against the bleachers to watch as he hit the bag one time and then another. I want him to ask me out.
I thought myself out of his league. He ran down the football field with the ball in his hand, his cleats kicking up chunks of earth as his teammates thrust their shoulders at the opposing team. He weaves around the skirmishes for a touchdown. I sat in the bleachers with my square glasses and flat hair, holding the clarinet in my hands playing at half time. One time, he would just look over at me and see me watching him, give me a bright smile usually reserved for the cheerleaders. I, of course, returned it.
A week later, the English teacher paired the two of us up to do a scene from Hamlet. We read the scene and discussed Hamlet’s monologue. He sat across from me reading a line and creating an end stop where no punctuation dictated such action. I smiled at his focus on each word, sounding hollow, yet masculine with his deep voice. When he stopped abruptly and told me he did not understand Shakespeare, I offered to explain it to him later that afternoon if he had the time. He said he had football practice, and I said I could wait.
My butt began to fall asleep as I waited for him. I sat in the gym, my back resting against the wall shared between the gym and the lunchroom. I watched him exit the locker room his hair still damp from the post-shower The others exited the gym to the north parking lot letting in the brisk air of the early snowfall. He flashed me a smile as I stood up. He wore a coat over a sweatshirt with just his shorts and tennis shoes. He held his gym bag with him. He apologized for taking so long, and I just stumbled along with a no problem.
We walked together out to his car, and he drove me home. He smelled clean like body wash and deodorant. We talked about college next year and how we would be going to the same school. He wanted to study history and coach football. I wanted to study English and history, but I explained that writing remained my true passion. He said I must have a vivid imagination. I just nodded.
My parents worked until seven, so we had the house to ourselves. I broke Hamlet down as one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I got out my notes and the two of us went over the deaths starting with Ophelia and then the others. I reached out for a piece of paper, and like a movie, he did the same. He stopped my sentence about the poisoned sword. Silence blanketed the room. I looked over at him and our eyes met. He made the move slowly towards me. I blushed slightly but tilted my head slightly to meet his lips.
“What the hell are you looking at faggot?” My eyes snapped away from the half-naked frame at the punching bag to another footballer player glaring at me. A cold gust came from the door that led outside of the gymnasium slamming shut as the man stomped his foot in my direction, warding me off like a dog. I jumped as his shoe slammed against the ground. I took the couple of steps backwards needed to make my way into the lunchroom. Turning, I rushed past the janitor who pulled the two sides of the table, obtuse triangles rising to acute, saving space. I give him a wave with a forced smile.
“Nothing, I was looking at nothing.” I muttered the words to myself as I opened the glass doors and let the cold chill of a midwestern winter frost my spirit. I looked back into the gym, only for a second, hoping to catch a longing glance.
I thought myself out of his league. He ran down the football field with the ball in his hand, his cleats kicking up chunks of earth as his teammates thrust their shoulders at the opposing team. He weaves around the skirmishes for a touchdown. I sat in the bleachers with my square glasses and flat hair, holding the clarinet in my hands playing at half time. One time, he would just look over at me and see me watching him, give me a bright smile usually reserved for the cheerleaders. I, of course, returned it.
A week later, the English teacher paired the two of us up to do a scene from Hamlet. We read the scene and discussed Hamlet’s monologue. He sat across from me reading a line and creating an end stop where no punctuation dictated such action. I smiled at his focus on each word, sounding hollow, yet masculine with his deep voice. When he stopped abruptly and told me he did not understand Shakespeare, I offered to explain it to him later that afternoon if he had the time. He said he had football practice, and I said I could wait.
My butt began to fall asleep as I waited for him. I sat in the gym, my back resting against the wall shared between the gym and the lunchroom. I watched him exit the locker room his hair still damp from the post-shower The others exited the gym to the north parking lot letting in the brisk air of the early snowfall. He flashed me a smile as I stood up. He wore a coat over a sweatshirt with just his shorts and tennis shoes. He held his gym bag with him. He apologized for taking so long, and I just stumbled along with a no problem.
We walked together out to his car, and he drove me home. He smelled clean like body wash and deodorant. We talked about college next year and how we would be going to the same school. He wanted to study history and coach football. I wanted to study English and history, but I explained that writing remained my true passion. He said I must have a vivid imagination. I just nodded.
My parents worked until seven, so we had the house to ourselves. I broke Hamlet down as one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I got out my notes and the two of us went over the deaths starting with Ophelia and then the others. I reached out for a piece of paper, and like a movie, he did the same. He stopped my sentence about the poisoned sword. Silence blanketed the room. I looked over at him and our eyes met. He made the move slowly towards me. I blushed slightly but tilted my head slightly to meet his lips.
“What the hell are you looking at faggot?” My eyes snapped away from the half-naked frame at the punching bag to another footballer player glaring at me. A cold gust came from the door that led outside of the gymnasium slamming shut as the man stomped his foot in my direction, warding me off like a dog. I jumped as his shoe slammed against the ground. I took the couple of steps backwards needed to make my way into the lunchroom. Turning, I rushed past the janitor who pulled the two sides of the table, obtuse triangles rising to acute, saving space. I give him a wave with a forced smile.
“Nothing, I was looking at nothing.” I muttered the words to myself as I opened the glass doors and let the cold chill of a midwestern winter frost my spirit. I looked back into the gym, only for a second, hoping to catch a longing glance.
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