I was born in the nice part of town, but grew up in the outside, though still near, suburbs.
I had toys and enjoyed playing with them. I liked digging and puddles. Rolliing down hills of grass. I had a few friends, but enjoyed playing with myself more. I didn’t have to tell anyone what to do then.
I had a sister, but we often fought, often to the point of her bleeding.
Years later, she got me back with a knife in a too-small apartment.
My parents enjoyed taking us on trips across the country, and sometimes to Canada. I enjoyed these trips, even the long stretches of driving. I had an active imagination.
I learned things in school and would be proud of learning them telling people that I know this and that, but I don’t know this or that (I didn’t want to seem like a know-it-all). The teachers all liked me and I liked them. My parents, also teachers, made sure to get me the best teachers. They did.
I went to little league and soccer, but hated how unsupportive the whole thing was. It was like a place to go to to make sure you look stupid and have everyone laugh at you. I liked the pizza after, though.
I enjoyed pretending to be a mermaid in the bathtub, wrapping a towel around my legs to make it seem like a big fin. I did this often.
We had many dogs but only one cat. Or only one cat that counted.
I got sick and recovered as well as I could. I learned new things, things they don’t teach you in regular school. It took me a long time and there weren’t any books in the library that said how not to feel afraid but Mom and Dad were nice at least.
I would play on the beach with Grandpa. He would bury me in sand so I couldn’t move and pretend to walk away, waving. When he died, his ashes were spread over the Pacific. Whenever I see the waves now, I think they’re him waving to me, coming back again and again. But it’s just water.
I was always Grandma Beach’s favorite. (This was nice because I wasn’t Grandma Seattle’s favorite. Her first grandson, my cousin, was.) She would let me dress up in her clip on earrings and long nightgowns and put on dance shows set to her old albums. I always loved to dance The Nutcracker, in its entirety, for her every Christmas. I liked how goofy her pictures always looked, she had the family gap in her teeth and worked it to her advantage.
I took up music and got good at math.
I still couldn’t throw or catch a ball, usually just ducking.
I preferred the company of adults. I loved to go out to eat with my piano teacher. That was the prize for winning the most hours practiced each month. I made sure I won every time.
Later I had a different piano teacher who would offer up lunches out, and used-bookstore shopping and general showing me the neat indie things to do in town. I would turn pages for her and her quartet’s recordings, and they would enjoy getting me slightly drunk. Mom never seemed to notice, I was with an adult.
I got more friends and learned more about things you need to learn about after a certain age and was happy to learn them well enough. I didn’t like any of the books we read in school, though. They hardly ever teach good books in school, or good books are never considered good. Who gets to decide this made me start an afterschool club. We read good books.
I learned more words and the latin roots of words and they came in handy, too, from time to time. I kept words on paper and passed them out in hallways at school. People then passed the pages out to others and I got a reputation. This reputation got me in trouble and stuck in a room full of people who didn’t even read books, let alone good ones.
I told the teacher there was some sort of mistake, and was put back in proper place.
This is where things get fuzzy.
I forgot things. i spent time driving. I spent time smoking and drinking. I didn’t care about school, I wasn’t going anywhere super amazing after anyway. I play the piano. I stop playing the piano. I act, finding I’m good at accents. I read and buy more books I do not read, but I say I have read them because they’re good books. I learn things and forget other things still. I love and am loved and it hurts to lie like that. I move away, but not far. I waste time. I realize I rather enjoy drugs. But not too much. I move away, farther. I take my time and it’s cold and then colder. And yet colder still. I get a job and we spend time doing our job. We go out after, for a long time, and end up sleeping all day before waking up to do the job we all do again and again again. I meet people. I don’t see people again. There are so many people doing so many things what makes you think you’ll see them again? I take trips, not far. I get hurt, and get mad about the hurt things, and then feel better about them, they seem silly now. I spend time thinking about the things I think about, often for hours. I spend time listening to music, watching movies, reading books, talking, eating, peeing, shitting, jerking off, fucking, riding the bus, riding the train, riding in cars with boys. I don’t go hiking or biking. I go to bars and bathhouses, I go to the museum. I get mad at the woman who always is feeding the pigeons by my train stop. I get hungry. I go to Napa. I sit down in the sun and drink wine and chat with friends. We chat about a lot of things, mostly chatter though. Other people chatter around us, and we find that annoying. I move from one apartment to the next. I’ll never own my own. I get nervous. I get anxious. I go to sleep. I write letters and burn my cds for friends who need a friendly friend. I don’t break any bones yet. There’s a moment where I think of something great but soon forget it and don’t remember it ever. I load up on carbs and regret it. I vomit. I pay my bills. I text and email people, others I talk to on the phone. I remember hurt feelings and almost wish the scar still meant something feeling, and not just a fashion. I remember what it’s like to feel your feet in the sand, wiggling. I make bad decisions and regret them and make other bad decisions and do not. I make good decisions and feel good about them and make other good ones and don’t care. I laugh, a lot, and cry other times. I curse, when I mean it and even when I don’t. I say things I do not mean to get things done. I say things I do mean to let things rest. I rest my head on a pillow, most nights, and rise from the same pillow, most nights. I go to the supermarket without a shopping list. I still dream, fluently. I still cannot speak French. I go to homes where I do not live and am greeted warmly. There are other home I do not go. I go home. I cut my toenails and put on deodorant and smell nice. I shave, shit and shower in under ten minutes. I keep my calendar open and closed. I flutter at the thought of fluttering. I consume dead objects of consumption, gladly. They may not always agree with my appetite. I may spend my time laughing at my face in the mirror, covered in blood. I may spend too much time in bed. I may, even, wonder from time to time why others just won’t think like me, why they crust my mind with disease. I may fall asleep gently this night. I may regret not calling more. I ay be accused of murder. I may question my motives, as always. I may always repeat “I is nothing special”. I may repeat myself. I may be the same pustule of snot, piss and shit as you. I may meet you one day and think we’ve met before, thinking “that face is familiar, but the voice distant”. I may request more time. I may adhere to your desires, if only this one time. I may wish for more hopeful futures. I may wander the street, feet slop-sided, and give in to temptation. I may go insane to arrive at sanity, I may. I may eat a pickle or a turnip. I may gulp and belch. I may tire, and go to bed, but being unable to sleep focus on the running of the city as it sounds outside my apartment. I may call you “he” when making introductions. I may alter my appearance for the sake of mutual vanity. I may fuck a banana peel to feel what it feels like. I may dream with the city, walking around a flower. I may wave to you from the bus, knowing you’ll never see the blatantly timid action. I may have already done that. I may always wake wondering if the weather will be nice even if I know it won’t. I may always embrace and abandon the chaos that this life leads towards. I may always meet people and fall in love and out of love and the difference is the other person, the difference is you.
