BrightenedBoy

The Looking Glass

2012-01-24T19:18:00.000-08:00

I stand before the looking glass
And there behold a faded husk
Whose eyes are wide with haunted pasts
And skin is coated in red rust

I stand before the looking glass
That awful place where terrors lay
The horror I find staring back
Not drink nor dreams can chase away

I stand before the looking glass
Where once there shone a midday sun
The golden hues are gone to black
Their lighted weavings long undone

I stand before the looking glass
Before what was and could not be
This reeking, bulging pile of ash
Is what remains of what was me

I stand before the looking glass
Before regret, despair, and dread
Before a will begun to crack
Before a gaze that would be dead

I stand before the looking glass
Before the things I threw away
Before what's gone and won't come back
A haggard ghost of yesterday

As I turn from the looking glass
Before my soul breaks from the pain
The very fact of what I am
Envelops me like jagged rain

Selected Entires: June 2004

2012-01-19T18:14:00.000-08:00

In June of 2004 I was entering the summer that I was sixteen. My family had departed for our new home in Deep South State and, after a fortnight at my grandparents' house, I was undertaking a summer with my birth-mother, Anne, that would forever change our relationship.

June 1, 2004

Today was a bit painful. Grand Ma and I went to Beautiful Town today. While there I spoke at length with First Twin and Short Boy. First Twin and I talked about the future and what lied ahead, while Short Boy and I discussed the past and our memories. We talked about playing ding-dong ditch and the time that I pretended to be pregnant while Short Boy was the doctor delivering my baby.

In the end it was hard to say goodbye.

I am reminded of a quote from the book Poland: “This was supposed to be a place of light for a thousand years.” It was.

June 2, 2004

Aunt Crazy, Uncle Responsible, Cool Cousin, Grand Ma, Grand Pa, and I went out to dinner tonight. We ate at a 1950s-style restaurant called “The 1950s Diner.”

Dinner was nice. I had spaghetti, a milk shake, and fries, a combination that wound up leaving me so full I thought I’d explode! It seems that this is a growing trend during the past week. Grand Ma and Grand Pa routinely make such good food that I often find myself full.

Cool Cousin has been going through a lot of stress lately. Her business isn’t doing very well and she is in quite a financial pickle. Aunt Crazy and Grand Ma were talking when they didn’t think I could hear, and they believe Cool Cousin should file for bankruptcy. The strain has taken its toll on Cool Cousin’s health. I am so glad I am only sixteen and I don’t have to worry about all of this. I will pray for Cool Cousin tonight. I hope that everything will work out for her.

Tomorrow, Grand Ma and I are going to the movies to see The Day After Tomorrow. If I had known this yesterday, on June 1stI could have said that we were going to see The Day After Tomorrow the day after tomorrow.

June 6, 2004

I’ve been e-mailing Christian Girl [a friend from Beautiful Town High School] as much as possible. Hearing from her is such a joyous feeling. I already miss her so intensely. I have to put that out of mind, though, as I’ll be leaving this sanctuary on June 8th at about three o’clock in the afternoon and I’ll have other concerns.

I am worried about having a job.

I know that it’s just Wendy’s but I’ve never had a real job before and I don’t want to screw up. How embarrassing would it be to be fired from a fast food restaurant? I would never get my parents to shut up about it. Well, actually, I wouldn’t even tell them about it in the first place. Better to not even give them the ammo.

However, I still wouldn’t be too happy to lose my employment. Two days. I also worry about crime in the area. Anne's Town can be pretty rough from what I’ve heard, and I’d prefer not to die this summer. There’s a way to have positive thinking, imagining yourself being brutally murdered, meeting your maker as your blood mixes with the salt and grease on the floor of a burger joint.

I am frightened about all of this, although I haven’t told anyone yet. I plan to discuss my concerns with my mother Anne on Tuesday. She grew up in the ghettoes of Independence City, in downtown. I don’t want to share her fate. And, though I love her, I mean that in more ways than one.

June 7, 2004

We made the long drive to Maryland and went to the United States Naval Academy today. I’ll write more about it tomorrow but, for the record, it was amazing.

June 8, 2004

The Naval Academy was a huge facility. It was like a self-contained city! There was a breathtaking church that I can say, without reservation, is one of the greatest structures I’ve ever set foot in. It was topped by a gorgeous, impossibly high dome. My grandfather Weird Family went to the Naval Academy, as did his father (my great-grandfather) and as did almost every generation of his family since the school’s founding.

We looked up records on my grandfather and great-grandfather. I found out that Grand Pa’s cousin was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Go figure, right? I left my grandparents’ house today and, after a hellish ride, arrived here at my birth-mother’s abode in Decaying State.

Mom’s car doesn’t have air conditioning so we had to ride with the windows down. In addition her indicators are broken, so we were never entirely sure how much gas we had plus, we got lost. We stopped at a McDonald’s and got into an argument but we were soon reconciled and back on the road. It was mercilessly hot, but as we neared Anne's Town and night approached it became nice.

I did my “Fabulous Life” impersonations for my mother, my mother’s husband, my uncle, and my uncle’s friend. They found the parodies to be extremely funny, but I’ll go into that tomorrow. We have a busy day ahead of us beginning in the morning.

June 14, 2004

Yesterday I made a stupid joke to Anne about a caviar smell coming from her legs. She freaked out and called my parents, who weren’t mad but were shocked. I apologized. In all honesty I never thought that my mother would be offended by the joke or I never would have made it.

She forgave me, but I was still embarrassed and highly angry; if Anne wants to be my mother for two months she has to handle me herself, not resort to calling in the real parents when she finds herself in over her head.

June 19, 2004

From what I’ve heard Blonde Cousin, Thomas, and my parents say, our house in Deep South State is like a mansion. I find myself eagerly anticipating my arrival there on August 1st, as I long to swim in our indoor pool, long to sit in our hot tub, long to have SOMETHING to do!!! I long for Marie, my true mother; for Pie, for Thomas, and, to an extent (although not a large one), my father. I do not miss Powell at all.

I used to love Powell not only as a brother but as one of my best friends, however he’s turned into a vulgar, violent pig who I want nothing to do with. My father, on the other hand, has become continuously more pleasant and controlled. I retain a deal of caution when dealing with him, though, because I’ve seen how quickly he can become vicious; such days as December 6, 2003 still haunt my mind.

The way I see it, if I don’t open up too much with Powell or my father then neither one of them can hurt me anyway; I won’t even give them the opportunity.

I wish that Marie was less of an impenetrable emotional fortress, as I have a great deal more love and respect for her than for either of my biological parents. I don’t think she knows how much I admire her or how much she means to me. I am so happy that she is my mother.

Anne's drama irks me.

June 27, 2004

I went to the Serbian Orthodox Church today, and it was amazing. The church was indescribably beautiful, lined in oak and gold, watched over by magnificent chandeliers and Orthodox crucifixes.

When I walked into the church there was no one there and so I went behind the iconostas (oh, I don’t know how to spell it), the wall that separates the pews from the altar. It is adorned with icons of Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, St. Nicholas, and other religious figures.

No women are allowed behind the iconostas, which at first seriously affronted me but, as my mother tells me, is for a perfectly good reason. She said it has something to do with a woman’s menstrual cycle, although unless she were to bleed through her pants and onto the altar I don’t see how the place could be “contaminated.” My mother assured me that it has nothing to do with male supremacy and I was placated, but here’s my thinking: men ejaculate, right?

Anyway, there was no priest because their original one tried to murder a parishioner who was elected to the church presidency after failing to install Communists who would have helped pilfer some $250,000.00 left by a deceased worshipper to the church. They’re trying to find a new preacher and are convening this Saturday to be addressed by one of the candidates. For the record, the old priest is in fail on attempted murder charges.

June 28, 2004

Apparently my mother does not possess quite the fortitude I’d attributed to her. She has decided to “play it by ear” with regard to leaving Angry Man, her emotionally abusive husband, because she needs the rent money and he’s been acting unusually nice recently.

Also, she remembers that when she was struggling with heroin addiction he stood by her side and put her through rehab. She feels that she owes him something, and she’s right; to kick him out now would leave the man homeless and without money or a way to receive income. I think that what she should do is allow him to stay until July 14th so that he’ll have enough money to find another home. Then her debt to him will have been repaid and he’ll be moving out, nothing odd, no vengeance to be taken.

June 30, 2004

The rent here, a total of $600.00, is due to my Uncle Nose-Hair on July 1st, which is tomorrow. Legally, if it isn’t paid on that date, my mother has thirty days in which to come up with it. She and Angry Man are tightly strapped for cash this month and she asked Uncle Harry if the rent could be paid a few days late, upon which he said, “I don’t want to hear it.”

Given that my mother and Angry Man have paid the rent early in the past I find this statement to be incredibly imbecilic, especially if one understands that Anne forwarded the money ahead of time only because Uncle Nose-Hair and Mexican Aunt drove themselves to near bankruptcy with stupid and irresponsible purchases. Mexican Aunt won a $50,000.00 lawsuit against her employers and managed to spend all of it inside of two months on cheap furniture and clothing from the Fashion Bug (which she’s worked into her head is some kind of elitist boutique).

As a result of this idiocy, Uncle Nose-Hair and Mexican Aunt are now in serious financial trouble and have taken two mortgages on their house.

Knowing that my mother would never refuse, Uncle Nose-Hair insisted that he must have all $600.00 by tomorrow. So distraught was my mother that yesterday afternoon she sold her wedding ring for a measly three hundred dollars, only to come up over $200.00 short. I am absolutely furious with my aunt and uncle, whom I haven’t visited in days.

How dare they put this pressure on her when she’s working so hard? Their level of moral deficiency is unfathomable.

The Move and Other Things

2012-01-15T16:03:00.000-08:00

On a more indulgent whim earlier this Fall I accompanied Cool Cousin, my 40-year-old chiropractor relative, to see a highly regarded psychic.

This was mostly an exercise in silliness; the entire car ride to his place of business was punctuated by terrible Miss-Cleo style proclamations from both of us, but when we actually arrived he proved surprisingly accurate in some respects.

"Are you planning a move soon?" he asked me.

"I'm not sure," I answered.

Of course, I was planning a move and knew that full and well, but I didn't want to give him anything to grab onto.

"Well, I see a big transition coming up for you," he said. "And not just occupational or personal; this is definitely a physical move. Are you in school?"

I nodded.

"Well, I specifically see you leaving your current school. Maybe you'll transfer or take a semester off. And you're moving, too. You're going to be living somewhere else very soon."

He was right--righter than he knew--where school was concerned, as I graduated months after seeing him. And, though we delayed and debated and attempted to avoid it, it has come about that Out Family will also be moving.

This move has occasioned great debate within Our Family, namely because of my parents' choice of a new home. On one of their periodic kicks, they determined that we were going to use our relocation to go "back to basics" and they put a contract on a cramped 200-year-old farm house on the outskirts of Mountain Town.

For several reasons this is not a desirable situation.

First of all, our family is a large one. Between my mother, my father, Beautiful Cousin, Thomas, Pie, three dogs, a cat, and me, we already occupy a great deal of space. Add in the real possibility that Powell will soon be moving home and we require as much square footage as possible.

Even without Powell's presence the farm house is tight; its four bedrooms provide insufficient accommodation for the six current residents and that fact has already necessitated Beautiful Cousin's rooming with Pie. Should Powell come home he will effectively be living on a couch.

Beyond space considerations the house is unsightly, has a vague odor, and lacks basic amenities such as public water and air conditioning (we'll have to make due with window units to get through the Southern State summer).

My parents appear to have recognized the folly of their decision, as they tried at the last minute to secure a contract on another house, but they came to their senses too late and now everyone else has to live with the consequences of their momentary enthusiasm.

The problem with my parents' ill-advised step, one they're about to encounter in a very big way, is that after a decade of leading an upper-middle-class existence they're unequipped to live like the working class people they pretend to be.

"We've lived in nothing but new homes for ten years," I told Beautiful Cousin. "We've had domestic help for ten years."

"I know," she said. "Your parents think this is so great--wait 'till summer rolls around and your father has to live in a house with no air conditioning."

"They'll probably try to break the lease," I said. "Just you wait and see."

The circumstances of our move are awkward enough. Our house was auctioned off at short sale after my parents, faced with an intransigent bank unwilling to renegotiate a mortgage worth twice the value of our home, refused to make payments on a loan they could afford. That was bad enough. Their absurd choice has made an already unfortunate set of circumstances even worse.

The aftermath of that choice has been about as flattering to them as the choice itself. True to form, they've celebrated their newfound financial freedom by planning to purchase a pool, a hot tub, another dog, and all-terain vehicles. My irritated rejoinder that the disposable income expended on such luxuries should be diverted into a college fund for 16-year-old Thomas has been met with their telling me to "mind [my] own business."

Things are going well with us, though. I've learned to pretend I'm not angry, and they're happy thinking I've come around to the fact that they're never wrong. There's more going on but I'll have to share it another time. My professional endeavors, complex and tenuous as they are, merit a post of their own.

For New Year's Eve

2012-01-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

In at least one respect, 2012 started out better for me than any year before it. To be sure, I've had my share of enjoyable New Year's Eves, but each of them, without exception, has seen me alone or in the company of family members. In fact, from 2005 to 2011 I had an unbroken stretch of watching the Ball drop in my living room.

This year I decided to spice things up.

"Listen, Mature Girl can't come," Black Dress Girl cautioned me on the phone.

"Yeah, Beautiful Cousin bailed on me, too," I replied.

"What a hooker. So, are you still going to come? It might be boring with just the two of us here."

"It's better than being home by myself."

"True."

With less than an hour to go before 2011 retreated forever over the horizon I got in my car and drove out to Western City. Black Dress Girl met me at the front door of her house and then together we went to downtown Western City, where a surprisingly large crowd had gathered to watch a citrus fruit be dropped from atop a telephone pole at midnight.

"Oh, my gosh!" I exclaimed, looking around the cobbled square and its adjoining restaurants and shops. "Black Dress Girl, this is so nice! How have I never known all this was here?"

Western City is known, even beyond our region, as a nexus of working-poor misery, but the section in which we stood was filled with fashionable restaurants, quixotic boutiques, and well-dressed young people.

"This is the nice part of Western City," she said. "I'm surprised you don't know about it. There's even an art gallery in that building over there."

She sniffed.

"It's not very good, but it's the principle of it."

As we awaited the fruit's descent we reflected on the end of 2011 and the uncertainty that the future year would bring.

"I'm really glad you're here," she said. "And I'm glad it's just us. Gosh, it's so weird to think of where we'll be this time next year."

"Do you have any resolutions?" I asked.

"Well, I really do want to move to Humid State," she replied. "I have family there and housing is so much cheaper in that part of the country."

I grimaced; Humid State, where Uncle Car Salesman, Aunt Ostentatious, Blonde Cousin, and Pretty Hair once lived, is hundreds of miles away.

"That would suck," I said. "I'd miss you a lot. I'd be happy for you, though."

"Well, you might not be here anyway," she reasoned. "Don't you maybe have a job out in Movie State?"

"I have an internship, which I'm doing remotely," I clarified. "But if they offered me a position I'd take it in a heartbeat."

I realized then that, sad though the thought of being gone from Southern State in a year's time made me, it was something I wanted. I'm ready to start a career and a life.

A falling fruit, half a movie, and a warm parting later I drove home and promptly walked to my neighbors' house, where the mood was far less reflective.

Black Boy and, to a lesser extent, his brother, have been neighbors and friends to my family since we moved to Mountain Town on December 17, 2005. Black Boy is twenty now, but his penchant for a good joke and a good time has been undimmed by the years since we met as teenagers.

"This nigga," he exclaimed as I walked into a house filled with people. "One beer away from being fucked up."

"That's so not true," I denied.

"Yeah," he smiled incredulously before turning back to a girl he'd been talking with.

"BB!" Blonde Boy Friend, my brother Powell's 21-year-old best friend, yelled when I crossed into the kitchen. "BB, do shots with me!"

"No," I held my hands up. "You know I can't. I'll have a beer or two, but that seriously has to be it."

Four shots later my reservations were a great deal lightened.

In that state of mind, with my face pink and my laughter uncontrollable, I didn't so much believe I was a good dancer as I didn't care that I was a bad one.

"Oh, gosh, I'm so terrible at this," I said, stumbling in a way that had nothing to do with my inebriation.

"No, no," Black Girl giggled. "You're totally good."

"You do not believe that!" I laughed, and then we were both cackling as I continued my arhythmic jerking to the music.

"BB!" Black Boy called over.

I turned a rosy face his way and he started laughing.

"Nigga, you drunk, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not."

The rest of the night went on in a procession of absurdity and good cheer that ended with me walking back home and falling into my bed at six-thirty in the morning.

So, I spent the first hours of 2012 in the company of happy and loving friends. I hope that augurs well, and I hope I'm able to ring in many more years in similar fashion.

A New Year

2012-01-01T21:18:00.000-08:00

As always, a happy New Year to you all.

I'll be posting more soon.

And Suddenly It's Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T17:26:00.000-08:00

I should apologize for my absence, though I hardly think it unreasonable. December was a busy time for me; after all, I graduated college this month.

The actual event took place on the 20th but the extended weekend before was, by design, epic in nature. I was spending my last days as a campus resident. I figured I'd better do so in style.

It's worth noting that my very presence at Major University during this time period was technically illegal and thus by definition endowed with a certain foundational element of coolness. University stipulations state that all residents are to be gone within a day of their last exam, which for me meant being out by Thursday, December 15th. I decided I didn't much like that, though, and so instead of departing I spent Thursday evening hosting a "get-together" that morphed into a party as least as large as the one that landed me in jail for a night on my birthday in April.

I took great pride in doing all the things that our university's police force had once, without evidence, accused me of doing: I flagrantly violated the occupancy rules for my residence area; I condoned, permitted, and facilitated underage drinking; I played loud music in brazen disregard of noise restrictions; and I not only allowed several of my guests to urinate in public, but, once I'd gotten enough in me, happily joined them.

It was all rather enjoyable.

Friday was spent in the company of a wonderfully cute but hopelessly closeted boy with whom I watched two movies, shopped at a thrift store, and got coffee; and then Saturday it was back to partying.

I went with my friend, Undercover Douchebag, to a gathering in a neighboring town, and it was at this event that he earned his new pseudonym. You see, Undercover Douchebag doesn't immediately show his true nature. In fact, I had a casual friendship with him for five years before I was able to see him for the ruthless alcoholic ideologue he is. It was when he started pounding liquor after promising to be our designated driver, then informed me he was "great at driving drunk" after I suggested he slow down, that I began to catch his stench. The odor grew stronger when he revealed mile-wide streak of social Darwinism that led him to express his belief in, among other things, leaving the disabled to die. By the end of the night his douchebag status was confirmed, and I drove home with someone else. Another one bites the dust.

I spent a quiet Sunday singing with Young Musician, a 19-year-old Sophomore who is among my newer friend group, before jettisoning Monday to yet another party, this one within sight of campus.

Weekends like this one make me wish I had been bolder earlier in my life. My entire university experience could have been like this, having great times and being comfortable in my skin as I did it. I suppose some of us need more time to learn than others.

I attended this last party, which among the three I went to over the course of the weekend was not only the largest but also the most fun, with Hungarian Guy, a young man I've grown inexplicably closer with following his breakup with my best friend Laquesha. His friend circle, like mine, is wide and eclectic, so any bash was bound to be a blast.

I saw some faces I recognized and some I didn't.

At one point a drunken Dutchman accidentally pushed me into a door, and when I told him he had to be careful because I was so much smaller than him, he reacted by seizing my hair, holding it out to its full length, and exclaiming, "Your hair is this long! It makes up for it!"

Hungarian Guy slept in Patrick's vacant bed, and the next morning I woke up to face one of the most important moments of my life: graduation.

My parents, as cold and warped and petty as usual, said scarcely a word to me during the brief ceremony, but my grandmother was there, waiting for me with her crinkled blue eyes and wide arms.

"I'm so proud of you," she said as she drew me into a hug. "I knew you could do it."

I couldn't have, not without her. But she'd never admit that.

Afterwards Laquesha joined Rowdy Cousin, my grandmother, and me for dinner in a restaurant near campus. We three family members joked about each other and Aunt Crazy while Laquesha laughed with appropriate zest, and Rowdy Cousin expressed his excitement for mine and Thomas's visit to my grandmother's house over the holiday.

I packed my room on Tuesday night. When I was done, I popped in a movie that I'd rented from the university library and ordered a pizza that I ate alone.

On Wednesday I drove away from Major University. I'd somewhat dreaded my departure from the school I called home for more than five years, but when the moment came all I felt was relief.

It's over. It's over and I can go out and build my life.

I've taken steps in that direction, but that's another post for another day. Tomorrow I'll celebrate Christmas with my family and assorted company, after which Thomas and I will depart on December 26th for four days at my grandmother's house. I have tentative New Year's Eve plans with Black Dress Girl and some friends, but beyond that I'm not really sure what's happening. It's a bit strange, this structurelessnes. With no classes left to return to, no exams left to take, I have no expectations or responsibilities save those I set for myself. I can't tell you how happy that makes me.

The End

2011-12-09T22:36:00.000-08:00

In the brief moment that was left, the corridor formed by the trees and the buildings was filled with lovely amber sunlight. That beauty was poor consolation, though, for it was obvious what was happening. The fiery orb of the sun plunged toward the horizon, a luminous ship doomed to break upon the shoals, and the sky burned cobalt blue under the weight of its inexorable fate. I could feel its bitterness, its longing, its sheer sorrow as it mourned the passing of that sinking sphere.

Across the way, the magnolia trees reached their waxen fingers into the sky in a futile effort to catch hold of the fleeting sunlight. I didn't have the heart to tell them how pointless that gesture was. Trees have never been the brightest of creatures, though, and if these could spent their last moments believing there was still some shred of hope then I was happy to let them. Still, it was hard ignore the weeping. The tears were mostly silent, rolling down bare branches and on an elegiac wind, but I heard them nonetheless as I walked past pillars and monuments that were already ruins.

The bulb in a nearby lamp post suddenly burst and I caught my breath. I heard a rumbling behind me and turned to see a significant crack wind its way down the side of the brick science building from which I'd just emerged. I cast my gaze towards the west, to the point where an entire world would perish, and knew there wasn't much time. It had already begun.

I blinked the moisture from my eyes as I strode down the groaning avenue, aware all the while that I was witnessing the last lights of a lost era. It was so cold. Standing on the threshold of destruction, I was struck with the absurd idea that I should have brought a jacket. Then, though, the scene changed.

The air around me warmed, the trees erupted in shining green, the ground bloomed emerald blades, and the skyline shrank as half its buildings simply melted away. I was walking a winding concrete path towards a group of redbrick structures oriented in a circle around a vibrant green plain. I recognized this place. I'd been here before.

On the steps in front of me sat a young--I was surprised by just how young--boy watching wistfully after a blue SUV that left a trail of brown dust in its wake as it pulled away. I wondered. The boy didn't hear me as I approached, nor did he turn when I came to a stop directly behind him. A gentle breeze blew a tendril of his long blonde hair.

I placed my hand on his shoulder.

"BB."

He turned his teenage face towards me and I was momentarily cowed by just how unfamiliar it looked. In purely physical terms there were depressingly few differences between us, but his flushed cheeks and dark green eyes held an artlessness to them that had long passed from me. His innocence, his naivete, shone off him.

"You--you're me!" he exclaimed in shock.

"Yes," I said, surveying the flourishing scene around me. "I am you. I'm you from the future. Move over."

He eyed my ponytail, nearly a foot longer than his, and nodded.

"That makes sense."

He made room and I sat down beside him, unnoticed by the throngs of young people milling about.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. He seemed astonished by my presence

"I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe completing something."

Even in such an outrageous situation, he managed to look irritated.

"Well, when are you from?"

"December 9, 2011."

His forehead wrinkled with the weight of mental labor.

"So, that would make you...like, twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three," I corrected, happy to be disabused of any illusions that my math skills had once been of a higher quality. "Gosh, you're dumb."

He scowled.

"Well, you don't look twenty-three," he said.

"Well you don't look eighteen," I shot back. "Which I'm guessing you are, by the way. What date is it here?"

"August 24, 2006."

I whistled.

The period of my life that I'd later term the Black Times, my own dark age, would begin the following day. The SUV I'd caught a glimpse of had been exactly what I'd thought: my parents riding away after they dropped me off at Major University the weekend before classes started. I could vividly recall how my eighteen-year-old heart had sunk when I watched them leave, how I'd despaired, perched on the same steps where I now sat.

"What?" he asked. "What?"

He ran a finger through his thick hair, which at this point was nearing its longest. In about two months' time, I knew, he'd cut all of it off in a failed attempt to distance himself from his own truth. Hair would hardly be the only casualty of that effort.

"It's nothing," I said. "At least, nothing I can talk about."

He looked out at the other students.

"Well that's pretty frustrating," he said. "I'd assume that the best part of being visited by your future self is getting to learn all kinds of cool stuff about what happens to you. Aren't you going to point me towards my wife or tell me to which stocks to buy or something?"

I laughed.

"Put everything you have in BP."

He started patting his pockets for a pen and I waved my hands in the air.

"Don't you dare write that down," I admonished. "I was joking. Seriously, forget I said that."

I shook my head and laughed again as his hands settled at his sides.

After several moments of silence I looked up at a sky filled with much more life than the one I'd left behind.

"I come from a world that's dying," I explained at last. "A world on the edge of passing away. I know that, before the day is up, I will see it fall."

In the Freshman Circle, in his home, everything was warm and blooming. It was not yet midday.

"Your sun is rising," I continued. "Mine is about to set. And everything else will set with it."

He blinked.

"That sounds terribly sad."

"It's not, though," I said. "When my world goes, it will yield to a brighter one. Which means, of course, that your world will yield to a brighter one. Because we are from the same world, just different ends. Your first day. My last."

I scratched my head.

"You'll be ready, anyway, when the time comes," I said. "The people you knew are mostly gone. There are new buildings now, ones I don't know. They stand alongside the older ones that I recognize."

"So..." he began. "Is that what you came to tell me? That you're old?"

I scowled.

"I guess it has something to do with what I said earlier," I went on. "Maybe it's about completing something."

He thought about it.

"The way you whistled, when I told you the date," he said. "That means something, doesn't it? I know it does. You don't have to tell me. But you know something's coming."

I looked into his face with a sudden surge of yearning. I knew that his placid visage was soon to be blackened. By the time it was over, he'd be a blackened boy. He'd never stop carrying that with him, even when, eventually, he was brightened.

"I can tell I'm different," he said. "I've always known. I don't know what it is, but I'm just...different. And I think it's going to be really hard."

I, who'd confronted the sexual and emotional truths of his "difference" in a way he was not yet prepared to, understood the horrible weight that his deviance--and the denial of it--would carry.

"It will be bad," I said. "The worst thing ever. I'd tell you to make yourself ready, but there's absolutely nothing you can do to prepare for it. It will tear you apart like nothing ever has. You'll never be the same."

He gulped.

"That's not a bad thing," I comforted. "It really isn't. It will seem like it, but it's not."

"I guess I'll just have to pray," he answered. "I know Jesus will help me."

I suddenly remembered an occasion from eight months in his past and six years in mine. It was 2005 and I was Christmas shopping with my mother. I picked out a toy for Pie, who then was only two years old, and my mother insisted that I let her pay for it.

"Well, okay," I answered, then added with total earnestness, "But you have to let me put my name on the card."

It would be nearly two years before I understood why she'd starting laughing. I asked her at the time but she just hugged me and said, "You're funny, BB."

Back on the steps I appraised my eighteen-year-old self with new appreciation. I'd forgotten how extraordinarily childlike I was at that age, how disarmingly innocent and untouched by the world. The boy in front of me was just that: a boy. I doubt any part of him believed that there was a problem he couldn't resolve through Jesus. His faith in prayer was absolute. It seemed wrong to inform him that, in the worst moments, prayer would do nothing.

"Do pray," I encouraged. "For a while it will be all you have."

"How long?" he asked.

"Years," I answered. "More than two years."

He paled a bit at that.

"You'll come close to not making it," I said. "A few times, you won't even want to make it. But if you keep pushing through, eventually it will lift. And then you will see things so beautiful, so wonderful, that you'll thank God for every minute of pain you had to wait through."

He nodded.

"Okay. Okay."

"Your last day here will be spent in warmth," I told him. "With two beautiful boys. You'll have come so far then."

His eyes went wide.

"Beautiful...boys?"

I covered my mouth, not believing what I'd just let slip.

"Oh, BB," I said. "I'm so sorry but...yes. I know you don't want it to be true. It is, though. It is."

His eyes filled with tears.

"I won't remember this," he declared. "I can't. I just can't handle it."

"I know you can't," I said. "And I know you won't. To tell you the truth, I've been wondering why I had no memories of this. It seems like the kind of thing that would stand out. I guess I blocked it. But if there's one thing you do remember, even on a subconscious level, it should be this: hang on. These next few years will eventually lead you to a great place. It's just going to take time."

I saw a familiar face staring at us from the crowd and pointed at the young woman it belonged to.

"And one day," I told my younger self, directing his gaze toward the blonde girl. "You'll meet her."

He saw her for just an instant before she melted into the mass of short-sleeved co-eds.

"Who is she?" he asked. He stood as if to search for her. "Where did she go?"

I took his arm and pulled him back down.

"Don't try to find her," I said. "She'll come to you. Trust me."

He put his head in his hands and then it was my turn to rise.

"Remember that," I told him. "When you erase all of this from your mind, just remember to hang on. It would be so horrible if you hadn't."

I looked back down the winding path and at its end saw trees too barren to belong to August.

"I have to go now," I said. "It's my time. But remember what I said."

I touched his shoulder once more and headed off down the road from which I'd come. I didn't turn to look back at him. I knew he wouldn't look at me, either.

The blonde woman appeared beside me as the air grew colder and the trees began to shed their leaves.

"You did a good job back there," Good said. "You did exactly what you should have."

"Thanks," I said.

I turned into the warm air, into the laughter and the sunshine, into the smiling young faces of people I'd since seen grow older.

"And thanks for this, for letting me see this one more time. It was nice."

"You're welcome," she said.

We paused at the boundary between times, where the air lingered at the median of hot and frigid.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

I nodded.

"I am."

She smiled and took my hand as, together, we walked down the avenue and into another epoch. I felt her strength and support as I approached my world, but when I finally emerged into the dim light of a mortally wounded sun she was gone. I was on my own.

Well, not quite.

Jorge the Statue was there, staring bravely into the retreating sun.

"Oh, Jorge," I said. He nodded his copper face at me in acknowledgement. I so admired his courage; not everyone had stayed. Across campus, the other statuary had largely abandoned their posts and were heading for wherever they imagined safety might be. As spoke with Jorge I saw a group of terra cotta children running across the quad carrying the great ceramic book that documented our athletic victories, while trailing behind them was a twisted modern art sculpture attempting to awkwardly roll away.

Bringing up the rear was a gaggle of papier mache horses trailing manes clipped from the classifieds section.

"You're so brave, Jorge," I said.

He smiled, gave me a firm salute, and stared at the collapsing sky as if daring it strike him. Now I knew, for the first time, why Jorge had been built facing the west: he'd always known this day would come.

I sighed and continued down the school's main plaza. The sunlight was so thin now, so weak. The ailing sun dipped partially behind a clump of trees and the whole row of metal lamps on either side of me groaned and shattered, their ruined bulbs raining glass upon the walkway.

I reached the Clock Tower, the center of this world, and turned to watch a civilization die.

As the coal-black trees swallowed another portion of the sun, the whole sprawling campus reverberated with a horrible scream. The spirits of the school, of paintings and sonnets and theorems and treatises and students long gone, were crying out, running in panic through doors and along corridors as the force of the sun's horrible descent pulled on them.

All their efforts were for naught, though. They were living in the illumination of embers. They were doomed.

Across from me, a tree shrieked and split in two, its pieces flying into the sky with those of a hundred others that had also broken and been rent from the ground. It was starting to pick up.

The parking deck across the street from Jorge collapsed like a plate of sodden pancakes and slid, one rubble floor after another, into the growing blackness metastasizing in the pit where the sun was succumbing.

The western wall of the library blew open in a great shower of red bricks, its millions of volumes spilling into the air and flying torn and tattered over the roofs of crumbling structures. The library itself, ancient and weathered, could bear only so much, and after a few moments of this unholy assault it crumpled in a massive heap of soot, metal and mortar.

I gasped and seized the base of the Clock Tower in time to see a group of painted benches go soaring into the melee.

Behind me the Freshman Circle, the primordial gateway through which countless generations, including my own, had been inducted, burned bright red and ground into the earth, its pulverized ash making a billowing scarlet cloud that floated across campus.

The Student Village was next. Its pillared brick residences, clinging to the edge of the horizon, detached fully intact from the ground and flew in a cacophony of grinding brick and snapping steel into the maelstrom. In Old Dorm, where I'd met some of the best friends I'd ever had, the hallways turned into deadly funnels of flying glass and enamel as windows burst and sinks flew free from their moorings.

I hadn't cried until then, but seeing that hallowed place so desecrated pushed me over the edge.

"Good," I called out

"Hang on, BB," a voice whispered back. "It'll be over soon."

She was right. Only a few slivers of sunlight remained, and with them was going the greatest of all our bulwarks.

The Central Hall moaned like a harpooned whale and shook to its foundations.

The great central staircase went first, collapsing in a sudden swooping rush. The Hall continued to shake, though.

Its famed soaring balconies had hosted presidents, dignitaries, firebrands, and pop stars; had housed one of the greatest repositories of knowledge in the world; and had witnessed the mundane joys and travails of thousands of students. Now they folded in on themselves and cascaded in a wave of spectacular destruction through the cavernous atrium. Tens of thousands of volumes were dumped in a living landfill with backpacks, computers, works of art, and fast food wrappers, the good with the bad, the great with the meaningless. All of it went together.

The white summit of the building wavered and then, like the rest of the the Hall, fell with a mighty roar.

Jorge looked back at me, then back at the ruined edifice to which he'd been sentinel for decades, and at last turned his steely eyes into the blackness that flowed over the horizon.

With a great bellow he leapt forward from his pedestal and followed the Hall's crushed remains as they flew into the vortex of dying light.

I didn't call after him. There would have been no point.

The air around me was a chaotic whirlwind of airborne stone and steel, its gales filled with the detritus of a million memories all hurtling to oblivion. Every building, every structure, every bicycle and comic book and blade of grass and disintegrating brick was rushing through the sky. Nothing was untouched. Even the metal beneath my hand sagged and screamed as if it had been lacerated.

I jumped back as the Clock Tower twisted and plunged onto the liquefying tarmac with a great shattering clang. I shuddered at the sight of its still hands frozen in eternal ruin. They had no time left to tell. And then, like everything else, they, too, were sucked into the furious sky.

That crumpled green sphere was the last thing to go. It disappeared over the edge of being with the final piteous ray of light and all at once the chorus of misery that had resounded over all creation was silenced. The sun had set on the expired age. In its wake, there was nothing left. Within a moment no hint existed of the just-murdered world. Instead there was black, endless, enveloping, formless black. It wasn't anything in particular. It was just nothing.

I stood alone in it, in the dense quiet, and realized I was no longer afraid. This wasn't, as I'd feared, the graveyard of a dead world. Instead it was the empty foundation of a world that hadn't been built yet.

I gazed up into a sky waiting to be filled. In the distance I could see a single star.

Thanksgiving and News

2011-12-03T18:57:00.000-08:00

When people speak of "the holidays" they naturally have in mind several different occasions, but in my case each individual holiday becomes multiplied. It's something I rather enjoy.

On Tuesday, November 22nd, my parents held a Thanksgiving dinner at our home in Mountain Town. This was an affair only for the immediate members of the Our Family family. As someone who has long despised the absurd conventions carried on by normal people for no apparent reason, in particular the convention that holds a person should expect miserable holiday interactions with their relatives, I was dismayed by my parents' mind-blowing emotional insensitivity and, through it, their ability to project a vaguely menacing air. Even after specifically inviting Powell home for a festival dedicated to family and thankfulness, they managed to make him feel unwelcome. They have a gift.

My brother Powell has been through a lot, and my parents are a huge contributing factor to that. He was subject, like I was, to years of unrelenting child abuse and was then ejected from the only home he'd ever known when he reacted to child abuse the way almost every child does. He went off the rails. He started to go nuts. He internalized the inferiority and the insults and responded with an unquenchable anger that they had the audacity to be confused by. He became what they made him and then they kicked him to the curb for it.

It's deeply frustrating, at times even agonizing. He is in desperate need of psychological help but is afraid, as he prepares to enlist in the Marine Corps, to seek it out lest he be deemed unfit for service. I want to tell him to put all such concerns aside but know how limited his options are. He can't seek help from home. He'll get no quarter there.

Their--specifically my mother's--determination to provide him with no substantive assistance seems unshakeable, even if such determination conflicts with prior promises: Powell has counted for months on my father's guarantee that he could come home after he enlisted, but at Thanksgiving dinner no less my mother shot the idea down.

"Mom, where am I supposed to go?" he asked. "Anne is probably moving."

My mother shook her head and sighed in an infuriating display of mock-pity.

"I guess you'll figure it out," she said.

I don't know how far my father's desire to keep his word will go, but if past events are any indication my mother's role as supreme decisionmaker will go unchallenged. It is this combination--unconscionable callousness from both of them and appalling cowardice from my father--that has made me of late seriously consider disowning them, but that's a post for another time.

Not all of the break was spent with my parents.

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving I was fortunate enough to be invited to Black Dress Girl's house, where a number of self-declared "losers," almost all in their early and mid twenties, had assembled to have Thanksgiving with friends instead of family.

Black Dress Girl has been one of my closest friends since we met while working together at Western City Movie Theater in 2008, and her own acquaintances are just as raucous as she and I are.

The evening was filled with rolling laughter, earthy humor, and a spread of food that was surprisingly good for having come out of a 23-year-old's kitchen.

When Black Dress Girl and I get together anything can happen, and I was relieved to find that her friend group is similarly degenerate. The conversation was such that at one point in the night I was able to utter the words "It's like going to Jiffy Lube: every three thousand miles you change the potato in your vagina" in a logical context.

There have also been several developments concerning mine and my family's future. For starters, this Christmas season will be our last in our current home. After purchasing our house in 2005 for just over $500,000.00 we saw its value decline to under $300,000.00 by earlier this year. My parents had been trying for months to sell it and were lucky that, when a buyer made a reasonable offer, the bank decided to absorb the loss.

A contract having now been concluded, we'll be moving sometime in February. I include myself in that "we," as, without a real job lined up, I will continue living at home with my parents for the foreseeable future despite the fact that I will graduate in some three weeks' time.

That fact is hard for me to grasp. Next week is the conclusion of non-exam sessions and thus will constitute my last week of classes an an undergraduate. That reality is a bit strange but not as sobering as one might imagine; I've been here so long that I'm really just ready to leave. The biting sadness that plagued my last week of high school, and which I can vividly remember, is not present now as even a dim shadow.

I'm glad that I'm graduating so late. Many college students, when the moment finally arrives, are reluctant to leave university, but because my tenure has been such a lengthy one I know I've gotten everything out of this place that I can. I had my first drink here. I had my first (male) kiss here. It was here that I first learned to accept myself and in the process made some of the best friends I've ever had. Many of those friends, of course, are no longer present; time has dwindled their numbers so that the last of the stragglers who arrived on this campus in 2006 are slinking out the door.

I'm glad to be one of them. I came here to learn, and I have learned much. Now it's time to go.

And while the job market has offered me no immediate gems, not all is lost; I recently learned that I've been accepted as an intern with Sentinel of the West Literary Agency. During my time at a literary agency in the City of Fate I fell in love with the profession and was thrilled to be notified of my acceptance at another agency this week.

The agency itself is in Movie State and I gather that its members rather like me as they asked me to start a special remote internship this month and then proceeded to inform me that they were granting me significantly more authority than they were giving to any of the other interns.

"So, what you're going to be doing is reading through manuscripts and telling us what you think," said the Agentess, my handler and the woman who offered me the position. "We haven't actually seen these manuscripts yet so we usually require some kind of reasoning behind an intern's decision, but I think in your case we'd just give you the power to say yes or no."

"Really?"

"You have a pretty advanced skill set," she explained. "We were very impressed with the test assessments you gave, and we feel like we can trust your judgement. I'm pretty comfortable giving you that kind of latitude."

I tried not to let my head get too big. I've been trying to figure out a way to move out to Movie State, aware as I am that securing a job at Sentinel of the West Agency will be difficult from 3,000 miles away, but absent that the Agentess has expressed hope that a remote internship will "at least give you enough experience to get hired by another agency."

So despite an outlook that in some respects is rather gloomy, I find myself quite excited and with what I think is good reason.

The last week of college starts on Monday. It's been a very long autumn.

It May Be Time for Another Hair Update

2011-12-02T10:15:00.000-08:00

Several days ago I was minding my business in the Major University Dining Hall when two very nervous-looking young women walked up to me and tapped my shoulder.

"Um, hi," the taller of them said through a slight blush.

Her comrade was so flustered that I worried she would fall over, and I wondered what I could possibly have done to so agitate these pretty Asian girls.

"Hi," I said, confusion obvious in my voice.

"We're sorry to bother you, but..."

I looked on expectantly, and finally the second girl blurted out, "You have the most beautiful hair we've ever seen!"

I hesitated.

"...Thank you."

The first girl fidgeted.

"Can we take a picture with you?"

"Sure," I said, caught off guard and half thinking it was a joke. "I mean...if you really want to."

We posed for an awkward cell phone shot in which they grinned like fiends and I tried to force a believable smile. They then skittered away, thanking me for honoring one of the weirdest requests I've ever gotten.

I went back to my dinner and, about five minutes later, started to find the whole thing irresistibly funny. I resisted the considerable urge to dramatically toss my hair and instead just picked up my tray and headed for the exit, laughing the whole way out.

The Insanity That Is Anne

2011-11-14T09:45:00.001-08:00

Even at her most subdued, my birth-mother is hardly what you'd call conventional.

The daughter of an ancient aristocratic family fallen on hard times, she has lived a varied life that's included taking powerful men for lovers, hobnobbing with celebrities, battling drug addiction, enduring wretched poverty, and dabbling from time to time in organized crime.

Occasionally echoes of this extraordinary past will pop up in her present.

To this day her lip will curl at the mention of Robert Plant--"We dated," she offers darkly--and she still chuckles knowingly if the topic turns to Madonna. No one can quite work out what's so funny, and her explanation of "she's fun" leaves much to be desired.

There is, of course, a more insidious side to Anne's early misadventures.

She once, during a routine conversation about what a pain traffic police are, shot me an appraising look and asked, "You ever flipped a car off a bridge?"

Another time I'd been spacing out through one of her stories and snapped back when I heard, "I didn't even know it was a drug deal until my friend took a gun out and shot the guy in the head."

So we ought to know to expect the unusual from her. It's a reasonable anticipation. But still.

Powell sounded more bewildered than scared when he called me the other day.

"Dude, I fucking hate it up here," said the 21-year-old brother who's been living with Anne for the last few months. "There's nothing to do and she is just nuts."

"Yeah, I know," I said, recalling my own struggles with Anne's tempestuous personality and wild flashes of temper. "She's a huge drama queen."

"No," he said. "It's not even that. I mean she's literally fucking crazy. Like, the other day, I went out to her jeep to grab my iPod. I just grabbed the keys and walked out there without asking her."

"Yeah," I said. I was waiting to hear how our birth-mother had exploded with outrage at Powell's opening her car without permission.

"So I unlock the door and sitting there in the passenger's seat is a loaded automatic AK-47."

I stood up straight.

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding."

My face scrunched up into an expression of confusion.

"Is that even legal?"

"BB, of course it's not legal," Powell sighed. "I just cannot believe how insane it is up here."

"Well, what did she say about it?"

"That's the thing," he said. "She acted like it was nothing. You should have seen it. Her face went totally blank and she said, 'Antiquing is a competitive business.'"

"'Antiquing is a competitive business?'" I repeated incredulously.

"Yeah, and then she walked out of the room."

"That's wild."

"You're telling me."

I hummed.

"Crazy. Hey, are you coming down for Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, Dad's going to pick me up on Monday."

"Alright, cool. I'll see you soon then."

"Yeah."

Selected Entries: May 2004

2011-11-10T11:55:00.000-08:00

In May of 2004 I was newly turned 16 and preoccupied with my family's impending departure from Beautiful Town, which finally took place at the end of the month. To my adolescent self the two and a half years we'd spent there seemed like an eternity and it was heart wrenching to leave the only place I'd been happy to call home.

May 5, 2004

I stayed after for Algebra today, and Dad asked if I’d actually been in detention. What? I can’t believe he doesn’t trust me! I mean, jeez, it’s not like I’m some kid who gets into trouble all the time; in two years of high school I’ve had three detentions! I don’t think that my most recent one was justified.

School was so funny today that I thought I’d collapse, especially in third mod. I should explain. In Chorus, a new student teacher is helping our regular choral director, Ms. Chorus Teacher. The student teacher’s name is Mr. Blowfish [so christened for his resemblance to the animal whenever he sang]. Oh, my gosh. Words just don’t do justice to the hilarity that man never fails to evoke.

May 6, 2004

Well, this is unexpected. You see, I was in Journal 10 yesterday. At the evening’s conclusion I calmly put the journal into a drawer underneath of my desk, but when I got home the desk was gone. The journal (along with Journals 8 and 9) has been packed away. We’re moving, you see, and quite soon. My mother got promoted so we have to relocate to Central City, Deep South State. Right now we’re leaving Beautiful Town, Native State. We’ve been here for two years, and they were some of the best times in my young life.

May 9, 2004

I received a little card from Perfect Cousin today. It was issued by her school, announcing that graduation ceremonies will be held on May 23, 2004. Enclosed were two pictures of Perfect Cousin. In one she wore her cap and gown, and in the other she is elegantly dressed and made up. I can’t believe that Perfect will graduate from high school in two weeks.

When I first met her she was only ten years old.

I mean, this is the girl who we did séances with and who acted as Perfect, Queen of Renaldi. It’s just difficult to comprehend how quickly the years are passing before they’re already gone.

Last night I think I connected with Jesus. I was sitting in the hot tub, staring up at a single bright star, thinking about Lord Jesus and about the future. In that moment I felt so comforted, as if my Savior was right there with me, and I knew that everything would be okay. Then my logic rose its head in question, and a terrible thought occurred to me: what if I was just a coincidentally formed biological product of evolution staring up at a burning ball of gas billions of miles distant, receiving assurance from a deity that wasn’t there? I told myself that it couldn’t be, and I got out of the hot tub.

May 16, 2004

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” First Twin said yesterday.

His words seemed to explain everything perfectly. We feel like we’ve known them forever, too. And it’s going to be so strange, not living in the same neighborhood, not playing tag, not ever seeing our friends again. I’m going to miss this place so much. It’s hard to imagine how everything will be.

Tonight is Mom’s last night here.

May 18, 2004

Blonde Friend and I spoke tonight. She might come over to my house on Friday afternoon, just to hang out and rehash old times. I feel like it’s something we have to do. She and I have been friends forever. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving without meeting her again.

In the same way, it’s like a hole in my heart that Lacrosse Boy and Military Boy probably won’t come over this weekend. I thought it would all go on forever. That’s really how it seemed.

May 22, 2004

My last Saturday here was a beautiful, sun-soaked day. I still can’t quite grasp that this is truly my last weekend living here. I’m thinking, “Oh, we’ll do this next weekend,” but there is no next weekend. It’s very odd. I’ve spent so many Fridays and Saturdays with all of my friends that I suppose I thought it would go on forever.

Today was a wondrous conclusion to two years of happiness and joy. What magic we had! How blessed were we to be surrounded by so many funny, intelligent, talented, incredible people! I thank God for these two years. I've been so blessed.

May 26, 2004

Today was Operation Get Your Food On, the party my friends threw for me in U.S. History. It's a memory that I’ll treasure forever. It was, across the board, a resounding success. I walked into United States History carrying Doritos, plastic cups, and root beer, while yelling, “Midwestern Pirate!” Brianna had potato chips; Anne-Marie had doughnuts; Minders had tortillas, salsa, and plates; and some kind soul thought to bring in chocolate chip cookies, Fig Newtons, and Oreos. It was all quite a going-away present.

May 28, 2004

Yesterday, May 27, 2004, was a fitting send-off from Beautiful Town High School. In first mod I had to leave Crazy English Teacher's room so as to better take my final exam (which consisted of a criticism on Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”). Second mod was Algebra with Midget Math Teacher. I didn’t even pretend to pay attention, but rather I read. Good old Midget Math Teacher, in characteristic Midget Math Teacher style, had me shut my book and she gave me a worksheet. At the end of class she suggested (as politely as possible) that I not take any other math courses. I’m inclined to agree with her, but I worry that without math I won’t get into a good college. I’ll just have to suffer through and hope to God that He’ll help me.

Third mod (Chorus), was full of yearbook signings and goodbyes. I adopted several popular songs to my own lyrics (“Oh, Baby, Baby,” “I Can Save You”) with hilarious results.

Fourth mod was la clase de espanol with non other than la Evsterooni, otherwise known as Ms. Evans. I was about ten minutes late and I suppose they thought I wasn’t going to make it because the room erupted into cheers and clapping when I entered and Brunette Girl started crying.

I went into a back room to take my final, then emerged at the very end of class, still unfinished. Evsterooni agreed to let me take it home if I used the honor code, which essentially consists of the teacher hoping that I don’t cheat and lie about it. Me being me I wouldn’t cheat. I mean, there was a Spanish-English dictionary sitting right on the desk where I was taking my exam and I didn’t even open it. Not the smartest thing that Evster’s ever done, I can say that (leaving that dictionary on the desk).

I went home and an hour later we drove out of Beautiful Town. It was two years and five months to the day.

Halloween Weekend

2011-11-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

In most ways this Halloween was completely conventional. Throughout the day on October 28th, a Friday, I dithered about what kind of costume I would wear and hadn't made a decision by the following morning. On Saturday afternoon, hours before the party I was attending, I threw together a lamentably pathetic ensemble and then on Saturday night drank entirely too much and passed out before anyone else.

All of those things were normal.

What wasn't normal, however, was the glorious surprise we received on October 29th: snow.

As I've mentioned before, Major University is particularly beautiful during the brief moment when summer is rusting into frost.

Autumns here are replete with skies of deep navy blue, grasses grown a darker green, and trees whose golden and amber ornaments glitter like dancing flames when illuminated by warm sunshine. I love these things but have long cast jealous eyes to the bloggers of the North.

This year, this one time at least, I beat them to the punch.

It wasn't a lot of snow, of course, and none of it stuck to the ground, but for October 29th in Southern State it was cause enough for celebration. I squealed with shocked happiness when I looked outside and saw the flakes coming down, then hurried out to enjoy the event.

Up until this point I'd wanted an October snow forever. I hope every year for it to happen, and occasionally I've even had dreams about it (these usually involve my frolicking with exaggerated happiness through a field of flowers that are somehow still in bloom as I am enveloped in snow that is somehow warm). When the much awaited early snow at last came, though, I had one thought that crowded out all the others: my hands are cold.

I bundled up and headed over to the Major University book store, where I bought an umbrella and gloves that I promptly lost within two days. For a few hours there, though, I felt very seasonal.

When I arrived at the dining hall I found it filled with students seeking refuge from the cold weather in warm food. I was lucky enough to run into a friend I hadn't seen in a while, and we sat sipping hot chocolate as he told me about his fiancée's bizarre family troubles and snow fell steadily outside.

Before much time had passed the snow was done coming down and I, sans Laquesha (who was apprehensive of potentially icy road conditions) was on my way with Professional Guy to the Old Dorm party. "Old Dorm" refers to a dormitory on Major University's campus, now given over to Freshmen housing, in which a large group of mutual friends lived and met between 2005 and 2008. I, as an alien 19-year-old arrival on the Old Dorm floor in 2007, was one of the last to be inducted into the circle but have always considered my random placement there one of the great fortunes of my life. Now, even years later, we refer to our far-flung brotherhood simply as "Old Dorm," and even those of us who did not occupy the hall at the same time have managed to become quite good friends.

They are a warm and off-beat group of people. I like to flatter myself that I fit in with them.

In addition to the joys of old friends and new snow, however, I took away from Halloween a valuable lesson: I cannot drink liquor. My flimsiness even when under the influence of negligible amounts of beer should have led me to this conclusion long ago, but once I had a little bit of rum in me I somehow became magically convinced that I was capable of handling more. To make a long story short, I was at more than three but not quite four mixed drinks when I all but passed out. The next morning I felt ill and saw a string of calls of which I had no memory made from my phone at three o'clock in the morning. The cell phone record was conclusive evidence that, for the first time in my life, I'd blacked out.

"I'm going back to my old rule," I told Blonde Friend the next day. "A shot or two of liquor at the start of the night and then nothing but beer the rest of the way. I don't get sick, I don't black out, I don't get hung over. It's a good arrangement."

Tomorrow I'm headed home for a weekend that will include, given my parents' absence on Saturday night, the first sleepover I've had in a good long while. I'm excited about it. There are a lot of difficulties for me right now, and in the midst of that I'm happy for weekends home and slumber parties and Halloween reunions. I'm happy I got snow in October.

Patrick

2011-10-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

You little ant
You vile bug
You imbecilic crawling slug

You craven man
You stupid bitch
I’d rather hear the words with which

You call me out
You put me down
You voice yourself, inane but proud

I’d rather that
You rant and scream
Than that you hide from little me

But you cannot
Or won’t, at least
Forthrightly come out as a beast

Instead you sulk
Inside your hole
A spineless, feckless, witless mole

I’ll dig you out
From in your pit
Your cowardice I’ll not permit

I’ll spit my words
Right in your face
I hope my laughter burns like mace

For laughter’s what
You’ll get from me
Not sorrow and not enmity

You don’t enrage
You just amuse
Pathetic, lonely, short, and used

Not Invincible

2011-10-18T14:02:00.001-07:00

My mood is linked to my appearance far more than it should be. On days when I don't look my best, my self-esteem plummets, sometimes to the point that even talking to other people is difficult. Conversely, when I'm able to pull my look together nicely I ride high on a wave of confidence.

Today was one of those days.

With my weight low (129 pounds on my 5'10" frame, which I would consider "good"); my skin clear, clean, and smooth; my long golden hair falling fluidly down my back; and my clothing relatively fashionable, I strode across campus feeling invincible.

It's funny what an illusion that is.

Even when, as today, I can muster faux swagger, the strength is never real. It's never rooted in a foundation that isn't itself the shallowest of facades. The front is always barely sustained. Don't I know that?

I should.

I walked into my therapist's office in high spirits. He's heard, often, how I love the days when my body is the way I want it to be and I can coast on self-assuredness. I wanted him to see this poised, collected BB.

The relationship between my physical attributes and my self-valuation is, of course, unhealthy, and so it followed that the intersection of those two things was one of our first topics.

"It can be really hard to be here," I said in an uncoaxed burst of honesty. "We're all so young and there are just so many guys who are so beautiful. I could never talk to one of them. I would feel unworthy."

I was probably more surprised than he was when I suddenly started crying.

What had happened? I'd been so untouchable, so strong and triumphant just an hour before. Wasn't today supposed to be my day?

The tears didn't ease, though. They grew stronger.

"Tell me what you're feeling right now," my therapist prompted. His tone was full of gentle encouragement.

"I guess..." I hesitated. "That I just want to be like them. Not just with the way they look, but the way they are. It seems like they're always laughing, like they're always having a good time. They have tons of friends. They don't have to think about everything. I would like to be like that."

I paused to collect myself.

"I'd like to be like them. But I don't think I ever will be."

"Why not?"

This brought us around to the fundamental issue of my chronically low self-esteem and the root cause of its deficiency. I told him how, whenever I attempt to feel cool or stylish or sexy, I immediately hear my parents laughing at me the way they did when I was a child of five and my unconscious projections of gay behavior provided grounds for the harshest of mocking. Whenever I want to move beyond a place where I instinctively deride myself, I become that little boy again. I'm as vulnerable, as shy, as demoralized and lost as I was back then.

"You know, when you're a little kid, your parents are the entire world," I said, waving away the tissues he offered. "When they turn on you, you feel that the whole world has turned on you. They're like gods when you're that age. If they're suddenly saying and doing all these mean things to you, you think, 'Wow, I must be an awful person.' And you don't know that that's what you're thinking, but it is. It's exactly what you're thinking."

Maybe that's why I become frustrated with my doctor. As unhealthy as anorexia is, as harmful as it can potentially be, it's something that makes it easier for me to get by. Should I be doing it? Of course not. But I'm going to take whatever kind of handhold out of this I can get, and if periodically skipping some meals helps alleviate the pain then periodically skipping some meals is what I'm going to do. If exercising on top of that gets me into a better mental place, then I don't mind. Right now, in this moment, it helps me.

I don't really know why I'm writing this down. It just seemed like I should.

When It Comes

2011-10-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

Some days are good. Hell, some weeks are good. The last two weeks have been a veritable cakewalk of self-confidence and motivation.

My therapist thought this was the result of positive thinking. I didn't tell him that it probably had more to do with me losing ten pounds in five days.

So some days are good. And then, often without warning, some days are bad. Today hit me like a truck. One minute I was walking through a store, and the next I'd caught sight of myself in a mirror and couldn't handle the ugliness, the hideousness I saw there. I was mortified. I didn't want people's eyes to fall upon my self-indicting repulsiveness.

My grandmother and I left the mall and I fought the rising nausea in my stomach as I forced myself to respond to her small talk and chirped enthusiastically at the idea of stopping at Subway for a sandwich. I ordered a twelve-inch chicken and bacon ranch sub, wondering as I gave my request to the sandwich maker if he could see the despair through my face.

The steaming chicken gleamed up at me like slime-coated entrails.

You stupid fat piece of shit, I berated myself in my mind. Why would you order a foot-long? Are you going to eat all that chicken? Look at all that chicken.

I could see myself bloating and bulging and hiding behind fabrics. I could see the scale, and the bitter shame those digital numbers would bring.

You won't eat it all, I answered. You'll only eat half of it.

Grand Ma will be angry that you're wasting food, I countered.

She won't know, came my mental retort. You can throw it away.

She'd see that when she takes out the trash.

Say you're bringing it on the road for the ride back to school. Get rid of it there. She'll never find out.

"Sir, that'll be $7.42," the young man behind the counter announced.

I smiled as I handed him the two five-dollar bills.

When we arrived home, I rushed to the guest bedroom and practically threw myself into a large green hoodie. If I covered up, if I hid myself, if I made myself less of what I was, then I'd be okay. Frantic relief surged through me as the thick cotton came over my head and the sturdy hood tugged at my hair. I was so much better this way.

I ate one half of the sub, suppressing both actual nausea and the affected nausea that would be my excuse to end my meal.

"Man, something's upsetting my stomach," I informed my grandmother with pretended confusion, grabbing my midsection through the wonderful hoodie. That blessed thing. I pushed away the potatoes she'd made for me. "I think I need to go sit down. I'm unsettled."

"Okay, honey," she said. "Put some Saran wrap over the potatoes."

I turned to the pantry and, my back to her, was nearly overwhelmed by tears.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

A pause.

I'm not really nauseous. But I do feel sick.

Another pause.

I haven't felt sick like this in a long time. It's been a while since I've cried from it, too.

She was talking about heading out to another mall to look at bedding and then grab a movie, and it took everything I had to refrain from begging her not to make me go out in public. I just couldn't bear it. I'd do anything if only I didn't have to be where they could see my face.

"That sounds good," I told her with upbeat inflection.

The doctor's words came back to me from Friday afternoon.

"Once you get into this pattern, BB, it's extremely hard to get out of it," she said. "My concern is that as it takes hold it may exacerbate existing problems. That could lead to some pretty extensive mental illness and compromise your decisionmaking ability."

My therapist had spoken with her, of course. She didn't actually repeat his verdict of body dysmorphia. I guess she didn't have to.

"Oh."

She stopped as if biting down her frustration.

"BB, if you continue to lose weight, we may need to consider an inpatient program in a hospital setting."

Good luck.

"I want you to be aiming right now for 130 pounds."

Not on your life.

"That's still under what's considered a minimum healthy weight, but at least then it would only be five pounds under."

Maybe if she understood how things are, she'd be inclined to give me a bit of leeway. Maybe if she knew how when I control food my powerlessness becomes empowerment, how my aimlessness becomes directed, how my fears are vanquished by aspiration and certainty, maybe then she'd back off some. Maybe if she knew the relief it is to look at your own reflection and for the first time in months not be overwhelmed by disgust, she would empathize.

I know I'm being unhealthy, both mentally and physically. I've actually been at an even lower weight before, but it never came about this way. This kind of behavior is new.

And even as I recognize my actions for what they are, I don't care. Instead, I love it. I love being able to see myself shirtless and not want to gag. I love knowing that I have taken charge of my body and dictated what form it will assume. I love that I can exercise self-control. I even love the disorientation, the occasional head rush, the disembodied feeling that overtakes me when a Starbucks iced coffee is coursing through my veins on top of precious little else. I love the high. I love corporeally inhabiting the searing pain that has long stalked my mind. I love all of it. I love what it does.

The other day, I showered with the lights on.

And right now, in my hoodie, away from the mirror, I feel good. I feel better. I'm calm. I don't have to go out tonight. It'll be okay.

I'm being harmful. That's a huge part of the appeal, though. I wanted to destroy something but didn't have the heart to hurt anyone else. So I just decided to destroy myself. And I look more attractive in the process. It's a win-win.

It's not, obviously. I can see that. As lost and hurt and wrong as I am, I'm not stupid. I'm aware.

That won't stop me, though. It definitely won't stop me.

Other Quote of the Week

2011-10-08T22:44:00.000-07:00

"Just don't tell anyone that I had sex with a Costa Rican beach bum."

This came, believe it or not, during a visit to Grand Ma Normal Family's house.

I feel that a more substantial post, but one that will likely be decidedly uncomfortable, both for me and for my readers, is due in the near future. In the name of honesty and a genuine picture of my life and all that other nonsense I seem to spout off, I'll likely write it despite the attendant awkwardness.

Don't judge me too much.

Quote of the Week

2011-10-05T15:35:00.000-07:00

My roommate and close friend, Patrick, strode into our dorm today with all the confidence of someone who's just made a much-needed change.

"What's gotten into you?" I asked, looking up from my computer.

He smiled with deep satisfaction.

"I've made an executive decision."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He grinned.

"I'm going to stop banging this girl Sheila and get back on track to banging my lab professor."

I sighed.

"Good for you, Patrick. Good for you."

Selected Entries: April 2004

2011-10-03T15:57:00.000-07:00

In April of 2004 I turned sixteen and was preoccupied with the passage of time that the birthday heralded. As I grew one year older my siblings and I fielded the same emotional and physical abuse we always had, and one of my brothers became a perpetrator of domestic violence when he broke my nose.

I reacted ecstatically to the material affluence brought on by our impending move to Deep South State (which signaled our arrival in the upper middle class), but my glee was tempered by the realization of all we'd be leaving behind.

April 2, 2004

At first, everything was great tonight. Then Thomas asked Dad for a cupcake and Dad said no. When Thomas asked again, Dad sent him to bed.

As Thomas started to put the cupcake away, he chewed on its wrapper, as is his habit. My father went completely crazy. He started screaming about disobedience and how the kids were running the house and he wouldn’t take it anymore. Then my father pushed Thomas to the floor. We were all very upset and so the next day Dad made pizza and bought caviar to make up for it.

April 5, 2004

Yesterday was Palm Sunday, the start of the year’s holiest week. Palm Sunday, indeed. It should be called “Fist Sunday.”

Powell and I were upstairs arguing and I shoved him. Then I began to criticize him.

Well, he punched me so hard I saw stars. I cried and he said it was an accident, but I’m not so sure. When I looked in the mirror, my nose was dented.

April 8, 2004

I went to the doctor on Monday and I was x-rayed on Tuesday. By all accounts my nose is probably broken, given that it’s crooked and it feels funny. Thankfully, they will be able to make it straight again. That won’t happen until after Easter, though, which upsets me as I’d really been looking forward to the holiday.

Lent ends this Sunday. I can’t wait. It’s been a long forty days without CDs or radio. No Kelly Clarkson, no Christina Aguilera, no rap, no R&B, no hip-hop. I’m taking a ton of CDs with me to Grand Ma’s house so that I can listen to them on Sunday.

Oh, by the way, we are officially moving to Deep South State. This came as quite a surprise as we thought we’d be going to Dirty State. My mother has to start work on May 17th. This is the day of my chorus’s Spring Concert.

I am a bit disappointed that Mom won’t see the concert, but at the same time I’m happy because I no longer have to sing a solo in front of all of those people. My Chorus teacher made me take it even though I didn't want to, and now that we'll be moving I won't have to sing! I really don’t know if I could have!

April 9, 2004

Tomorrow morning I will be sixteen years old. As of right now, I’m still fifteen. Sixteen isn’t something that I’m ready for. It seems like just yesterday that I was sitting in this very house, contemplating being fifteen. Sixteen is not something I want. And then, a year from now, I’ll be turning seventeen. Seventeen? That’s so unimaginable to me.

It seems as if things are moving so fast. In two years I’ll be getting ready to graduate. The thought scares me to death. Next year (actually, in just five months’ time) I’ll be a junior. A junior in high school. How did this happen? Well, I have a year. A year until I’m seventeen.

April 10, 2004

I am sixteen.

April 11, 2004
Easter Sunday, 2004

After Lent ended, I went to a private place this morning, and I sang there. God, it felt good. The music that had been building up inside of me and clogging my brain for forty days was let out, and my thoughts were silent, finally silent. All I heard was running water, slapping against my skin.

April 13, 2004

Well, it’s official. We are moving to Deep South State, and in less than a month. We found out over Easter vacation.

April 14, 2004

Yesterday afternoon was difficult. I got into a fight with Dad and he said that he didn’t want me to move with the rest of the family to Deep South State. He told me he’d been wanting to live in Deep South State all his life and that he wouldn’t be able to give up paradise to have to deal with me every day.

April 19, 2004

Midnight, our oldest cat, left us yesterday. She’d been here for nearly nine years, longer than Thomas’s entire life. Mom and Dad took her to the Humane Society because she had been peeing on the carpet. It seemed a bit heartless to me; Midnight was practically a member of the family. I miss her dearly. Last night I felt something on the bed and automatically assumed it to be her. It wasn’t, though, and the realization pained me.

Powell was devastated. He and Thomas both cried, but I didn't.

April 23, 2004

My parents are now, even as I write this, on an airplane destined for Native City. They're coming back from Central City, in Deep South State. My mother did put a contract on the house, and it’s incredible.

It has five bedrooms, four living rooms, an indoor swimming room, four full bathrooms, and so much more. The pool has a hot tub in the middle, raised several feet above everything else. So, when we’re hot, we can jump straight from the hot tub into the pool! I have a private bathroom adjoining my bedroom, and a door leading into the swimming room, too! The swimming room has two sun decks, but I doubt that I’ll use these very often. There is a kitchen, a dining room, and a breakfast nook. We are very blessed.

Our yard is a quarter of an acre (which, compared to what we have now, is enormous) with an eight-foot high brick wall surrounding it. In addition, there is an even more formidable wall that encompasses the entire neighborhood. A gate at the front allows for entrance. It is monitored by security guards.

Our high school is the highest rated public high school in the state. It is so huge that it has seven different buildings, and my parents described it as being like a college. Oh, and get this: it has a foot court. Like, McDonald’s, Burger King! Can you believe it? I’m so excited!

April 24, 2004

I got a haircut literally a month ago and my parents are already bugging me to get another one. I give them pretty much no trouble at all but they constantly harass me about chores and my hair. I'm an honor roll student who never does anything wrong. You'd think they'd just be thankful.

April 30, 2004

What is harsher than to be torn away?
What is worse than to be ripped apart?
From all you know, from all you are
A solemn weight upon my heart

What is worse than a wandering soul?
A tragic survivor without a home?

I saw my own land scorched and blast
I heard the bombs, I felt the crash
The buildings fell, the screams were shrill
This vibrant place lay dead and still

They descended like hawks, like hordes from the sky
And we who are left, we still wonder why
Why the loss, why the pain
Why the dead, why the maimed?
Why is our beautiful country slain?

And who could have known, who could feel?
This devastation is still surreal
The shells have fallen, the planes are gone
And still in their absence, it’s all so wrong

My thighs were these fields
My arms were these grains
My hope was these children
My body these plains
And now they are burned, lost, depraved

As much as it hurts, I just have to go
I can’t stay here, can’t live with these ghosts
I must pull away, and that kills me the most

For even the missiles raining down, the bodies piling all around
Was better than a graveyard
And to cling to what was, to desolate rocks
Won’t help me turn back the spinning clock

I wish this place would spring alive
Conceal the truth I’ve tried to hide:
Home will never be home again
Lord Jesus guide me, please

That was a poem called “Refugee.” It just struck me tonight, it really hit me, that we’re not coming back here. Second Twin, Powell, and I sat on Short Boy’s porch reflecting on when we’d first moved here. I can still remember the day that I met Lacrosse Boy. There are so many memories of happiness. It's like...it's bad.

The thought of never seeing any of these people again is like a huge cliff, right in my stomach. It’s a hole inside of me. It’s like losing your brother. I will miss them so much. When I moved from Dirty Town I had no friends, so relocation was deliverance. This place is so, so different. I want to cry. I don’t know where the tears are, but I want to cry, or…I don’t know what I want. I need God’s and Lord Jesus’s help.

A Weekend At Home

2011-09-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

I was contemplating writing this entry around four o'clock in the morning, which, in the moment, seemed a rather convenient time to do it. Lest you should think I was in the mindset I usually seem to occupy while composing very early morning posts, let me assure you that I was not drunk earlier today--unless by "drunk" you mean delirious with the fatigue of Death.

I had a rather unexpected weekend, and in several ways.

After returning to school on Monday, September 19th, I realized that I'd forgotten the bag of clean clothes and towels that had been a large part of my reason for visiting home in the first place. Irritated, I resolved to double back to Mountain Town on Wednesday night, retrieve the clothes, and be on campus again by Thursday afternoon.

"Are you leaving, dude?" Patrick (my roommate) asked as I headed out the door.

"Yeah, man."

"Are you skipping class?"

"No, I don't have class on Thursdays. I'll be back tomorrow."

Little did I know.

I arrived home with a failing voice and a persistent cough on Wednesday afternoon and began a strange twilight weekend that was ushered in by my mother suggesting I see a doctor.

"BB, why don't you go into the clinic today?" she asked by phone on Thursday morning.

"I mean, I have a cold," I said. "Do I really need to go to the doctor for a cold?"

"Well, you never know," she responded. "It would be better to be safe than sorry."

I was a bit disoriented by this changing of our roles; usually I'm the one bringing up reasonable, legitimate concerns, and she's the one shooting them down as melodrama. What happened next confused me further.

"Well, going to the doctor would cost money and I kind of need to watch it right now," I said, figuring that closed everything.

"I'll just swing by and cover the co-pay," my mother said. "Get dressed and head down there before they get crowded."

I was thoroughly mystified by this point and couldn't think of any reason not to head into town, so I threw on some clothes and hopped into my car. If anything, I thought, the doctor could give me something to help the cough pass. And that is when I got my second big surprise.

"You have pneumonia," the smiling physician informed me.

"What?" I asked.

"Mmm-hmm," she tapped my bare back with a friendly chirp. "There's definitely something rattling around in your right lung. How long have you been feeling this way?"

"About a week," I answered.

"Yeah," she said. "This could be early pneumonia or even just bronchitis, but the only real difference between bronchitis and pneumonia is time and you've been letting it marinate, so..."

She prescribed me a steroid and antibiotic treatment (which my mother inexplicably offered to pay for) and sent me on my way. In that instant my plans for the weekend changed pretty abruptly. Sicker than I'd realized and evidently contagious, I faced the prospect of either returning to school in a diseased state or blowing off classes to stay at home where it was comfortable and warm.

I think you can guess which choice I made.

Stricken with pneumonia as the leaves turned red and the sky turned grey, I happily retreated into a soft cocoon of long sweatpants and billowing hoodies, velvety blankets and cushioning pillows for a five-day weekend of recuperation. Beautiful Cousin was home from her university (she moved into the dorms this Fall at the start of her Junior Year) and between the two of us and Thomas we went through plenty popcorn and other snacks.

The dogs seemed happy to see me as well.

The only downside to having pneumonia has been actually having to have pneumonia. Sleeping was and remains difficult, with the few hours of rest I've gotten over the last week or so coming from a bottle of Robitussin. The sickness seems to be waning, at least, and hopefully within a few days it will be gone. Either way, I was happy for the forced relaxation. It's the kind of thing I enjoy from time to time.

Why Running Track Sometimes Sucks

2011-09-14T11:55:00.001-07:00

The other day I was running along the side of the road in the outfit shown above, wearing my hair in the ridiculously dorky segmented ponytail that is the only style I've found capable of preventing tangles during practice.

I was nearing the end of my four miles when a truck sidled up behind me.

The young man behind the wheel slowed and rolled down his window but instead of calling out simply followed at a leisurely pace.

I looked behind my back, perplexed. Could he have been lost? It was obvious from the driver's appearance that he was a student at my school and he didn't give any indication of not knowing where he was.

I was just about to stop and ask him if he needed directions when he leaned out the window, smiled, and whistled at me. I hadn't even fully processed my shock when he and his friend drove off, roaring with self-congratulatory laughter.

In the dark, they'd mistaken me for a woman.

My cheeks simmered with embarrassment and I silently thanked God that the rest of the team had been far enough ahead of me not to witness the little incident.

I guess I should look on the bright side, though; at the very least, this means I have great thighs.

After a Decade

2011-09-11T14:25:00.000-07:00

I hope that my readers will forgive me for not writing today of my September 11th memories. It may be lazy but I think that, in terms of my own experience that day, I've already said all that needs saying. If you'd like, you can read the detailed post on the subject I wrote in 2009.

What bears more reflection on this tenth anniversary, in my view, is not the event itself but the event's implications. It is in the legacy of September 11th that the day's true significance, and true tragedy, can be found.

The simple fact of the matter is that al-Qaeda won.

For all our rhetoric about the clash of fundamentalism and freedom, for all our vast might and our overawing displays of arms in two sandy wastelands across the ocean, the small terrorist network headed by Osama bin Laden was ultimately able to get what it wanted: ten years after 9/11 U.S. power projection capabilities have been significantly diminished, the economic prosperity undergirding U.S. strength has foundered, and the dramatic slide of American politics to the far right has imperiled the Constitutional freedoms that the War on Terror was supposed to be protecting.

With three airplanes al Qaeda brought down a superpower.

Of course, September 11th in and of itself did not inflict this vast damage. Our reaction to it did.

September 11th gave George W. Bush, who on September 10th had approval ratings hovering just over 50%, the political will he needed initiate two disastrous wars, both mismanaged and one wholly unrelated the the terrorist attacks that "provoked" it. September 11th assured the president's narrow victory in 2004 and the ascendancy of ultra-conservative plutocrats whose program of radical deregulation led directly to economic collapse. An event of horrible violence perpetrated by evil men has since justified endless other events of horrible violence perpetrated by other evil men.

What is the real cost of September 11th? One must count, of course, the three thousand Americans who perished in the attacks. Add to that the seven thousand servicemembers who have subsequently died in combat. Add to that the number of Iraqi civilians, which some estimates place as high as one million, killed in the American occupation, and the millions more displaced. Add still the global economic crisis, the precipitous drop in GDP among the Western powers, the rise of fringe politicians like Sarah Palin and Rick Perry, the cavernous wealth gap, and the growing scourge of poverty that promises to perpetuate it all. Add, too, the millions of people my own age, alienated and underemployed and rapidly transforming into a lost generation. Add a United States in steep decline, vacating the stage to make room for the rising red star of China.

As inexorable as all these things now seem, we absolutely did not have to arrive at this point. In 2000, the last full year of Bill Clinton's presidency, GDP grew at a rate of 5%, unemployment was below 4%, and there was a federal budget surplus of $230 billion. When historians look back, they will likely identify the late Clinton years as the time when we were at the peak of our power. They will also, in retrospect, probably point to 9/11 as the moment it all began to unravel.

We did it to ourselves.

So Much Emo

2011-09-10T12:28:00.001-07:00

Here's the thing: I have good days and bad days. My life has always been like that. As a child, however, I was able to muster a huge degree of optimism because there were so many things I didn't understand. My comprehending many of the realities that formerly escaped me accounts for the spate of bad days I've had recently.

Still, I have to try. I can't just give up. And I'm sorry for being so damned Emo over the past couple of weeks. I guess it's all just hitting me at once, you know? I'm not going to go into the whole spiel about counting my blessings or seeing my own issues as small next to others' struggles, because that would be inauthentic; these problems are serious and this situation is awful. It sucks and there's nothing wrong with admitting that.

If I ever want to have anything, though, I have to push forward. I'm the only one who can actually make it happen.

Candidly

2011-09-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

It's time for another round of confessions:

I was once beautiful, and retain prettiness without retaining the white-hot gorgeousness of my peak.
I feel a strange kinship with Britney Spears. She, too, peaked early and high. She, too, shaved her head in a moment of madness. I was at least as desperate in October 2006 as she was in February 2007.
I shaved my head first, in case that needs to be clarified.
I am getting worse.
My paranoia increases with every day. I am so unstable.
I am drunk. This may seem to indicate inconstancy on my part, but in fact it indicates truth; were I sober, I would not be able to reveal the extent to which mental illness has devastated me.
A part of me retains logic, even as the rest of me slowly degrades. It is rather strange to know how irrational my moments of mania are even as I experience them. I'm gone.
I want to kill myself constantly.
I have gotten help. Does it help? No.
None of you know me. So I am free to die. You can't report me at all. BB is free to go crazy.
I have determined to live through this semester for some arbitrary reason that even I can barely identify anymore.
My former beauty is a constant torture. I was a god, a beacon of sexual triumph. Goodness, I was so gorgeous. How could I not have known? I was an icon and a giant. I was unsurpassed. The men who lusted for me were right to. How could I not have acted? I hate my younger self for his chastity. I hate him. I HATE him.
I am practically anorexic in my attempts to achieve that beauty once more.
The scale can entirely determine how I feel about myself. At 140 I'm a worthless pig. At 120 I'm a laudable object.
I am a worthless pig. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
Why is food such a crutch? I'd rather walk crippled.
In retrospect, I was always going to arrive at this point. Mommy and Daddy and everyone made sure. They made sure. Those bastards.
It's all reaching critical mass. Can't you see?
I think about going to law school in terms of "if I live that long."
When I drink I forget and remember at the same time.
I'm the only one who can save myself. I'm still debating whether I want to.
I'll starve to be beautiful. Absolutely.
Sushi and a sandwich is enough for a day, right? It will be.
Mommy and Daddy are irrelevant but will always remain relevant. Why didn't they love me?
They did this. If I had my revenge it would be by beating them with bloody fists.
I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay.
I have friends now, unlike before. Remember back in 2008? I wrote all those crazy poems. But I'm still loony now, even though I have friends.
This just goes back to the fact that, beyond a certain point, it was always going to happen.
Tomorrow is my junk-food day. I will eat so much, and feel so good, but at the same time I'll hate myself.
I went from 146lbs to 122lbs before and I can do it again. I don't care if I fucking die. Death is better than fatness.
I can't imagine 146lbs. I want to heckle that fat, 17-year-old BB, who even then was past his short-lived but incredible peak.
I hate myself for my weight. I want to punch myself.
Fuck Jeff. Fuck him. He rejected me like everyone else. What makes her so fucking special? Didn't I work my ass off for you? Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She's a stupid bitch.
She's better than me. Like everyone else.
I don't know what to do. I feel I've betrayed Jesus.

Selected Entries: March, 2004

2011-09-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

In March of 2004 I was fifteen years old and painfully conscious of the sixteenth birthday that was only a month away. I dreaded growing up and the impending addition of another year to my age caused me palpable anxiety, as did my academics and the domestic abuse that I was only beginning to acknowledge in a realistic way.

During this month I continued my sparse reports on the Democratic primary race and reflected on, among other things, scenic walks through our old child nation, basketball games, and my history teacher's man boobs.

March 2, 2004

We have invaded yet another country! Haiti, this time. This all took place following a massive rebellion there, and only days after President Bush assured us that the United States would not get involved!

We had off of school today for the elections. Yesterday afternoon was absolutely gorgeous and I couldn’t resist going on a long walk. I crossed the old border from Andrea into Atricia--or, what used to be Andrea and Atricia. It's been months but everyone still uses the old names just for directional purposes. It's kind of weird. People say "Atricia" the same way they would say "Highway 5" or "the old farmhouse."

I walked through what used to be the Imperial Valley, then around the lake in what used to be Gorgan. I kept coming across forts and stuff that we built way back. It was eerie. Like walking through the ruins of an ancient civilization.

I got through Cristenia, then out of Novgorod, and by that point the former Aria was behind me. I was more than a mile from my house.

After crossing the old border that doesn't actually exist anymore, I mounted a gigantic hill. From the top of this hill, one can see our entire neighborhood, and many other neighborhoods, sprawled out for miles. The first time I climbed this hill I didn’t turn around once until I got to the top. It was quite a shock. You can’t see our house from up there, because a row of townhouses blocks it, but you can see Lacrosse Boy’s house and you can see Military Boy’s court (if that’s what you’d call it). It’s so weird to be up there!

March 3, 2004

Kerry won every state but Vermont by the way, which went to Howard Dean, even though he’s not in the race! Ironically enough, it was his first victory. I took a wonderfully long shower and had the most delightful game of pretend.

March 8, 2004

I saw Passion of the Christ yesterday. It was amazing. I’m going to pray.

March 9, 2004

Passion was one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever been through, despite the fact that none of it was spoken in English. I am without words. The film graphically detailed the sacrifices made by Jesus Christ.

March 11, 2004

My hair was so straight today! It’s usually quite curly and unruly but when I woke up this morning it was so sleek and shiny and perfectly straight that I wouldn’t’ve had to comb it at all if I hadn’t wanted to! School was good today.

Dad and I had a huge argument this evening, prompted by the trouble-brewing antics of the Crazy Fat Guy [a well-meaning but obnoxious neighbor]. I was very saddened by what my father said to me. Somehow, even though it happens at least once in a while, it never really stops hurting. It made me want to go to church more.

Although I do wish that my father really loved me, I don’t kid myself into thinking that that’s the main problem. What I’m more concerned about is being at the complete and total mercy of someone who doesn’t seem to like me very much. As a matter of fact, my father often seems to be saying something negative about me.

Although I try not to think about it too much, I am quite powerless. If my father deeply loved me, this would be a desirable situation, but it is not. My father loves me when it is convenient to do so. When I achieve or when I receive attention or publicity, my father loves me.

It’s when things don’t go right that my father begins to release and treat me with the respect he thinks I deserve, which, incidentally, is none at all. He says absolutely terrible things to me, and on a few occasions he’s become violent. I’ve never really been injured in one of these episodes, but it worries me all the same.

When he’s shoved me or picked me up, or thrown me or knocked me to the stairs, I know that he wants to do more. It frightens me so much sometimes, and on so many levels. He wants to hurt me, and one day he might. I wish that I had some control over my life. I have Jesus and God, and that’s a huge, gigantic, solid comfort, a stone pillar for me to lean on. God and Jesus’s love and protection will, I know, always be there. It helps.

March 15, 2004

I have now fallen from a 60% to a 58% in Algebra. I am very concerned. In Survey I am slowly making progress, and I no longer have cause to worry about that class. I’m staying after school on Thursday to get help with Algebra. Oh, God, I’m so worried. My sixteenth birthday is the week after next. I wish it wouldn’t come.

March 17, 2004

My academic troubles have started to pervade even into my dreams. I had a terrible dream last night that I failed a huge U.S. History test. I forgot to set my alarm last night, so I didn’t wake up until 6:31a.m. It was a huge rush after I was finally out of bed. A shower was out of the question. I sped through breakfast and raced upstairs, hastily getting ready. A search for my keys, however, caused me to miss the bus (my keys, by the way, had been in my pocket the whole time).

My father got about to taking me to school sometime around 8:25a.m. The recent anxiety that has overwhelmed me seemed all too obvious to him, and he mentioned it as we left the house. While driving to school, he played his Barry White CD. My father seems to have just discovered this artist, and so for the next few days Barry White’s soothing songs will resonate non-stop throughout our house.

March 21, 2004

I got a haircut this morning. It looked so horrible that I was screaming at my father for it. [My father had forced me to have it done.] Then I messed with it a bit and now it looks good. It’s like I had it before, except about two or three inches shorter and straighter. All in all, it looks great. If feels wrong, though.

The Globe Trotters was fun yesterday. We were in the first row. I got bored and started to doze off, though. I definitely can’t tell that to my grandparents! They surprised me at Aunt Crazy’s with a birthday cake. My birthday is coming up. It’s on April 10th. I can’t believe that I’m going to be sixteen in three weeks. In a way, it’s frightening.

March 22, 2004

I have undergone an interesting vocal change in the last few weeks. My upper register has exploded, and yet my lower register seems to have lost two or three notes. So I’m singing in baritone and all the way up through to alto. Perhaps Lent has something to do with this. But I’ve actually been singing far less. How does that work out?

March 26, 2004

U.S. History was so funny today. Christian Girl and I were trading food, as usual, and U.S. History Teacher was reprimanding us for it. Anyway, I was staring blankly at him when I experienced an epiphany of sudden realization: U.S. History Teacher has breasts!

When you really look, his nipples protrude quite noticeably. I told Christian Girl, and she stared intently at U.S. History Teacher, as if searching. Then her eyes widened and she covered her mouth giggling. That’s right, she’d found them.

Christian Girl told Cindy and Alex, and the four of us were laughing all mod. At lunch I told Dan, and in Spanish today I said to him, “U.S. History Teacher tiene mucho leche!” At first he was baffled, but then he said, “Oh, I know what that means!”

Christian Girl, Alex, Lindsey, and I all laughed. This week seemed to fly by incredibly quickly.

Afterward

2011-09-03T08:31:00.000-07:00

I guess everyone has some pretty black moments, moments where they need to purge. I'm sorry if my post last night unnerved anyone. My attitude is this: I come here to say what I can't say in real life. I needed to be that brutally honest somewhere. So I did it here.

Now that I've owned openly to that awful thing, I just want to grab some food, listen to some music, and drive to Mountain Town for a long weekend at home.

Admitting your worst weaknesses is a bit like vomiting: you want to explode with pain while you're doing it, but once it's over you're relieved.

Some Things You Should Know

2011-09-02T22:13:00.001-07:00

Why the confession?

Because it makes me feel better?

I don't know.

Sometimes these days I feel like I've reached an end of some sort. But here's what's been weighing on my mind, aside all the joviality:

I was born with a devastating neurological condition. It left my social cognition unimpaired while gutting my logical comprehension, thus leaving me longing for companionship at the same time that my inability to understand basic concepts made me fodder for endless mocking.
I will never tell you what this condition is. I'm so ashamed.
My parents, rather than getting me the help I so desperately needed, criticized the manifestations of my symptoms as if they were some personal fault.
I can still remember being made fun of by the two people who were supposed to protect me because of a condition that I couldn't help. Mommy and Daddy have been my enemies for a long time.
I struggle constantly with feelings of worthlessness, due in large part to my parents' angry or demeaning reactions to my illness.
I have relied disproportionately on social relationships given that socializing is one of the few things at which I am naturally adept, one of the few things that my accursed developmental condition did not steal from me.
To this day, I will stand in front of a dirty room, stare at it for ten minutes straight, and not comprehend the first step I need to take to clean it.
My neurological condition accounts for many of my seeming shortcomings, but I will not publicly acknowledge it for fear of appearing handicapped. I'd rather have people think I'm an inconsiderate ingrate, which they surely do. They've told me so. It kills me, particularly when I try so hard. It makes my cry.
I am intelligent enough to mask my symptoms.
I run for the track team because I want to feel attractive. I want to feel attractive because I want to feel wanted. I never feel wanted. I expend an enormous amount of time and energy on something I will likely never have.
I had developed trauma-induced obsessive compulsive disorder by the time I was in my mid teens. My OCD can be directly attributed to the abuse I experienced as a child and adolescent.
I hate my parents for what they did.
I still have nightmares about my father's violence.
I still have nightmares about my mother's cruelty. It still makes me cry. I am crying now. I can't understand why someone who loved me could treat me so horribly.
I have never understood why I was made the way I was, why I was constructed as a piece unable to fit into the world's puzzle.
I feel tremendous anger at the fact that I was born with a brain that didn't function correctly. It's like I was shot in the leg at the start of life's race.
Sometimes, more often than I would care to admit, I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I am confused much of the time. Basic tasks intimidate me in a way that others would find laughable.
Many people with my condition are never able to live independent lives. I would rather die than be one of them. Through uncommon intelligence I have done more than my early physicians ever thought would be possible.
One of my best friends offered to help me if I felt disoriented. I told her she would never know. I will never tell her. The first time I make an exception for myself, I'm admitting I'm disabled.
I hate it so much. I can't even say how much I hate it. It kills me every day. Sometimes I wonder if I did something in a past life to deserve this. It would have had to have been really bad.
Sometimes I start crying and can't stop. Like now.
I'm a little boy inside. I'm as hurt as I ever was.
I lost my virginity this summer and remain humiliated at how it happened.
Between my neurological condition, obsessive compulsive disorder, and warped self-image, I have been fighting all my days to lead a normal life. I don't want to anymore. I've been fighting for 23 years. I'm so tired.
I've debated telling my parents that they need to be okay with me dying young.
I believe in God. I ask Him why this happened to me. When I want to die, I ask Him to forgive me.
What did I do? Why?
I hate this so much. I'm an exceptionally gifted writer, and even I can't properly express how much I hate this.
It's unfair. I don't care if I'm complaining. I don't care if I'm weak. Damn it, it's not fair. What did I do?
A part of me secretly suspects that everyone who's ever hated me has been right. There have been so many.
Sometimes I drink as much as I can so that I'll forget.
It never works.

I Took This Seriously

2011-09-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

Earlier this evening, an RA came to mine and Patrick's dorm asking us to fill out roommate agreements in which we were to share some basic facts about ourselves and write down our preferences with regard to quiet hours and the like.

The forms were presented as a series of questions. This is how I answered:

Roommate: BrightenedBoy Our Family

I am from: Bombay, India

My mood most of the time is: Lustful

My biggest pet peeve is: Those who reject the tenets of Keynesian economics

My idea of relaxing after being tense is: Translating The Odyssey from ancient Greek

Something that will usually cheer me up is: Ritualistic chicken sacrifice to Apollo

I have the following dietary restrictions and/or allergies: No off-white eggs (white or brown only)/allergic to sunlight

I have shared a room before: Yes

I am 23 years old.

I plan to be involved in the following activities this year: Operatic singing (2-3a.m. only)

I have a job (Yes) and it will affect my time in the room by... I am a U.S. Air Marshall

I usually eat my meals: While crying and screaming, "No one will ever love me!"

If you would like to socialize with me, please... Tap me on my thigh and wink suggestively.

Something else I'd like you to know: I am a communist*

*This is a lie

CDs/DVDs/Movies: HANNAH MONTANA

TV/DVD Player: The View

Computer and related equipment: Mac*

*Also a lie

Appliances: Easy-Bake Oven!

Furniture: Water bed

Food: My emotional crutch

If you borrow something of mine: I will declare a blood feud

Anything else others should know: Do NOT touch my dildo

PRIORITIZE THE FOLLOWING (1=Most, 3=Least)

Sleeping: 1 ∞

Studying: 0

Socializing: 1 ∞*

*If I had friends

I expect to go to bed by: The side of a beautiful woman

I expect to get up most mornings by: Animalistic shrieks

My earliest class is: 7:20p.m.

This is how I prefer my sleeping environment: Dark as Patrick [who is Hispanic] and quiet

This is how I prefer my studying environment: N/A

This is how I prefer my socializing environment: Disco ball/pulsing beat

I generally feel this way about noise: Conflicted

Guests will be allowed (circle your preferences): Anytime

Guests of the opposite gender are (circle your preferences): Okay at certain times: SwingFest 2011

Guests may spend the night (circle your preferences): Anytime

I will let you know I have a concern by: Passive-aggressive refrigerator notes

If you have a concern, please let me know by: A thoughtful but entertaining song-and-dance routine

I do not like it when others communicate their concerns to me by doing this: Punching me in the face

I was a bit disappointed to discover that Patrick had given at least semi-serious responses for some of the questions (although he was kind enough to list "my roommate" as his biggest pet peeve and "people who sing" as something he doesn't like). I had hoped the resident advisers would think we were both complete idiots instead of just thinking that about me.

A Season Will End

2011-08-29T21:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening I returned to Major University and moved my things into my dormitory, bright with excitement at the start of a new Fall semester.

It will be my last.

With every reddened leaf that floats to the ground, with every gust of ever colder wind, as the crimson of September blossoms into the orange of October and then fades into the brown of November, my higher education will be one moment closer to ending. When the white snows of December finally descend, they will cleanse the earth and in that cleansing end a chapter of my life that has proceeded now for more than five years. I don't know what I'll do.

I first came here as a Freshman in the Fall of 2006, a time that now seems impossibly long ago, and my attitude towards college has evolved much in the intervening years. As an 18-year-old first-year I despised university and dreamt only of the day when I could leave. As a Sophomore I found it tolerable if at times grating. Then my trips home started to grow fewer and farther between, and somewhere along the way I fell in love with this place, with these old buildings, and, more than anything else, with the friends who seemed to pop up around every corner. Today alone, after more than two months away, I must have had ten different encounters of the serendipitous sort that are so common on college campuses. I just can't imagine my social life being this active (or this easy) anywhere else.

Beyond that, I don't know who I am outside these walls. I arrived here six years ago as a child, and within this sphere of brick and ivy and familiarity I’ve become a young man. My time at Major University has not been without objection, and on several important counts I’ve taken issue with the school. Still, it was here that I went from an 18-year-old boy bereft of friends, self-worth, or confidence to a 23-year-old man who has all those things. That means something. This place has defined, first through fire and then through fruitfulness, who I am. Leaving it will be difficult.

So I will enjoy this Fall, my final one, and make it the best I can. I will try not to reflect on my fears or my parents, will instead throw myself into classes and sports and social engagements and all the other things that I hope will make this twilight an especially beautiful one. Track starts again on Tuesday. My first lunch with friends is on Wednesday, and my first party will probably be the weekend after next. As all this unfolds on campus I can’t help but think what will happen when I leave. I have no idea what my life will be like then, what professional opportunities will come my way or how I’ll adjust to no longer being a student after having had a backpack slung over my shoulder for twenty years. All of that is in the future, though.

For now, I’m here.

Going Home

2011-08-12T22:26:00.001-07:00

I've enjoyed my time in this city, at least to a degree. Things about it have irked me, some to the point of making it clear that I could never make this my permanent home. In other areas, though, it's been good. I've enjoyed working in an office, enjoyed knowing that I can survive in a new environment, and enjoyed the company of some of the lovely agents and interns I've met here, a few of whom I now count as friends.

I'm ready to go home, though.

My parents will arrive here tomorrow morning with Thomas and Pie and, after a day and night together in the city, we'll get into their car and drive back to Southern State.

I feel as if I'm finally lying down to rest after being tired for a very long time.

The Neverending Morn

2011-08-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

Every eve as I lay down to pray
I ask for Him to keep the dreams away
I beg for precious hours of respite
My one recourse, the fortress of true night

Where waking thoughts of hurt do not intrude
Into that silence far more black than gloom
Where I am not deemed heinous or unfit
Where memory's wings beat not even a flit

Where I can make believe I've never been
Or had to fight a war I couldn't win
Where all my hope and ugliness and pain
Is swept away off Nothing's endless plane

I like to think by not thinking at all
That eastern light will never come to call
But every day the charcoal sky is torn
My life is but a neverending morn

The Love Lost

2011-08-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, there were so many things I wanted Anne to be. In my head she was smart, beautiful, and cool, the mother who would love me like my adoptive mother never had, who would take me out of my father's abusive arms and provide me with a wonderful life in which I wouldn't have to fear.

I don't know if she ever could have been any of that. I don't know if there was ever a glimmer of any kind of substance beneath the shallow pool of absurdity and astounding self-absorption that is my birth-mother. I don't know.

In my younger years it was easy to fantasize. Anne, tellingly, was not around (which by itself should have said everything that needed saying), but being tender and naive I imbued her absence with wonderful dreams about her rather than imputing to it the callousness and neglect it implied.

Since my adolescence I've come to know her better, though, and that process has inevitably involved outrage, a huge amount of disappointment, and, increasingly, disbelief. The disappointment and disbelief kind of feed into each other. I am astounded by the scope and degree of her failures, which in turn begets more disillusionment that further lowers my opinion of her and in due course compels a wave of surrealism.

To the elementary school me, she was a giant. She was everything. But she's nothing.

She's nothing and she's done nothing.

Her visit here one week ago confirmed that and emphasized all the things about her that I find sickening. To begin with, there was a considerable chance that she wouldn't be able to make it up. She is, as she has always been, destitute, and the $100 train ticket from Decaying State was a luxury item for her. The most maddening thing about her poverty is the degree to which it is self-imposed: she won't divorce her husband, who makes six figures a year and still lets her flounder, yet she refuses to buckle down and get a real job. Instead she expends an enormous amount of time and energy scouring yard sales and thrift shops for items to sell on eBay, in search always of the one big find that will pay her bills and fill her coffers.

It's been twenty years and it hasn't happened.

Instead of recognizing defeat, though, instead of putting this away and pursuing an actual career, she pushes on in wretched want. Her refusal to seek conventional success is deeply frustrating, if for no other reason than for the sheer number of opportunities thrown her way, opportunities that are all inevitably disregarded.

In December of 2010 a wealthy friend offered to take her in and give her the assistance her husband withheld. She moved in with him for a week only to sneak out in the dead of night and return home. In the spring of 2009 she was extended a $10,000 grant to go to school in Decaying State. She turned it down because my grandmother was ill and doesn't look back into it now because that money is "probably gone." When she was nineteen years old she was awarded a full scholarship to a prestigious Southern university. She rejected it because there was "a lot going on" in the family.

Time and time again, she's proven the most extensive self-saboteur I've ever seen.

She will then survey her privation, won by the dedicated labor of her own hand, and complain endlessly about what it means to be poor. Complaining is an extreme sport for her, and always brings her conveniently to her favorite topic: herself.

Anne really is the most incredibly self-absorbed person I have ever met. Of course, everyone is prone to self-centeredness from time to time, and, as one reader pointed out in the comments section of my last post, I am no exception. My self-absorption has bounds, though. Anne's doesn't. I have literally never seen her sincerely focused on something other than herself or her own problems, and in the rare moments when she pays attention to something beyond Anne she backslides quickly into familiar territory.

An example of this came in January when I visited her for Little Christmas. I was preparing to return to school after the semester I took off for American Idol and, typically, was panicked about how to get money for tuition as my parents had once again refused to pay. Frightened and unsure, I sought Anne out for maternal reassurance and guidance. I oughtn't have.

The conversation that I continually tried to direct toward my school worries veered like a heat-seeking missile back to eBay, where Anne is convinced other users are plotting against her.

Exasperated and tired of being subtle, I finally broke in, "So, yeah, I'm pretty much scared to death."

Her response was immediate.

"I've always been scared to death," she moaned. "And I've never known what's going to happen."

All I wanted was for her to tell me that everything would be okay, even if she had no way of knowing whether it was true. That's all I wanted. Couldn't she have done that?

It's beyond her, though.

When I get to the Selected Entries section for June of 2004 you are literally not going to believe some of what you read. I spent a month of that summer with her and left when a collapsed lung put my grandfather in the hospital and within weeks of death. I can still remember, with the same astonishment I had then, what she said to me when I told her that I wanted to cut my time with in Decaying State short to be at my ailing grandfather's side.

"You're supposed to come help me at the flea market this week," she responded after listening with an irritated expression to my request for transport to Native State. The flea markets were how she made her pitiful income even then, and she dragged me to them whenever she could despite knowing full and well that I hated going.

"I know that, Mom," I said. "But Grand Pa is in the hospital and it doesn't look good. Grand Ma's taking it really hard. I want to be there for her."

Anne huffed, her irateness increasing.

"You sure seem to care a lot about helping her," she said. "But not so much about helping me."

I can remember staring at her for a good five seconds straight and not knowing how to respond. Even at sixteen I was blown away by the level of apathy and selfishness in that statement.

"Well," I said slowly. "Her sick husband situation is a little different from your flea market situation."

That was Anne's cue to raise her hands in the air and begin screaming "I don't care! I don't care!" over and over as loudly as she could.

It would like to say that time has moderated her behavior. It has not. And if the previous anecdote sounds unbelievable, that's because it is unbelievable; her pathological egocentrism is matched only by a level of melodrama that is baffling, angering, and at times quite scary.

The last time Powell and I spent Thanksgiving with her, in 2008, we awoke one morning to animalistic shrieks from the first floor.

"WHAT DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND!?!" came the ear-splitting wails at seven o'clock. "I'M NOT YOUR FATHER! I HAVE NO FUCKING MONEY! I HAVE NOTHING!!!"

She'd forgotten a quart of milk behind the orange juice and assumed that my brother or I had drunk it.

I don't know why her visit here brought all of this into such sharp focus.

Maybe it was the frustration of trying to have a normal conversation with her and being unable to. Maybe it was her indignant response when I asked her if we could avoid discussing eBay during our dinner outing.

"Okay, then," she said, her self-righteousness prickling. "Let's make a list of all the things we're not allowed to talk about! How about we don't talk about your internship, or your job, or what you're doing with music! How about that!"

I don't see why she can't understand her role with me. She is my parent, and therefore when we interact the focus is on me, in the same way that when I'm home I allow the focus to fall on Thomas and Pie. The discourse I have with my younger siblings is not wholly one-sided, of course, but their interests and endeavors take priority over mine. That's as it should be.

Her failure to comprehend such a simple aspect of interpersonal dynamics is really frustrating.

Like I said, many things are possibly to blame for why I found my latest encounter with Anne particularly cringeworthy. It might have been just looking at her. In her blotched, sagging, lined brown visage there is barely a shadow of the woman whose phenomenal beauty lasted well into her thirties despite her alcoholism and heroin addiction. A healthy and stable Anne likely would have endured in stunning gorgeousness for a very long time.

Of course, a healthy and stable Anne also likely would have spotted the telltale signs of what was going on in our childhood home and moved to stop it. Instead, what happened happened, and every time I gaze upon her ruined face I see a hideous living emblem of drug abuse and poverty.

It was with relief that I deposited her on the train at the end of last week, and as we parted ways I realized I did not love the woman whom I'd just kissed goodbye. I did not, and do not, love the human being who carried me for nine months and then brought me into the world. Beyond that, I don't even particularly like her. It would be safe to say that I in fact actively dislike her. Her fate, unless I should stand to benefit from it (as would be my due), is inconsequential to me. I just don't care.

Now that I've acknowledged this to myself, I'm not really sure how to handle it. I feel it would be cruel to tell her the truth (not that I wouldn't be justified) and yet it seems inauthentic to go on pretending as if things are fine between us. I will never be able to accept or love her. Would it not then be fairer to cut her out of my life, inform her of my reasons, and be on with it? I don't know why I'm holding back from that. It's certainly not because of affection. Could it be fear of the confrontation?

It's all a bit confusing.

Drunk

2011-07-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

Yet again.

Oh, bloggers. What to talk about? How about my ability to avoid typos despite intense inebriation? That's always been impressive.

How about my hair? Impressive as well. Quite long. Golden and whatnot. An admirable feature. It keeps me from looking thirteen, so all the better.

My relentless insistence on total anonymity? Impressive yet the more. The very fact that I can be this impaired and write coherently without completely giving myself away seems worthy of a gold medal or something.

I don't really know what else to say. Drunkenness is supposed to yield honestly, right? Well, here it goes:

I'm horny. It's a sad but true fact. In this City of desirable youths, of which I am unquestionably one, I am left hungry. What gives? I'm thin, I'm blonde, my hair could wrap around the Equator, and, what's more, I'm WHITE.

Have you any idea how valuable whiteness is to a young gay man? We're like the Megan Foxes of our demographic.

And nothing.

Woozie remains awesome.

Drunken links are clearly the best.

My name is BB. It's not, but it might as well be.

Fuck, am I drunk.

The City of Fate is a strange place. I wish Woozie were here. I'm really devastatingly lonely from time to time. Only from time to time. My internship helps. Work helps. Networking events, such as the one at which I got hammered tonight, help.

Sometimes I turn myself on. Is that weird?

Sometimes I look in the mirror and see that thin waist and that non-existent stomach and that fresh face and that golden hair and I just go insane. It's the height of narcissism.

Of course, I doubt I could be a true narcissist; I cannot fire myself as others can fire me. It's true.

I don't love Anne. She gave birth to me. If she died tomorrow, I wouldn't care. That may be wrong, but it's true. She's the single most selfish person I know. She was absent. If not for her colossal failures and lack of stability, my parents may not have gotten away with their crimes. I bet that heinous cunt has never thought of that, though.

Bitterness is awkward. I really don't get why I don't disown her.

Woozie just called me a boner face. We're chatting on instant messenger.

Slowly but surely, I'm building something here.

I have to go to bed. Goodnight.

The Audience

2011-07-14T09:56:00.000-07:00

It was weird to have them all here at the same time. I was well acquainted with each, of course, in some cases more happily than others, but their personalities and overall temperaments had conspired to keep them from visiting together.

I guess this was one issue where their interests converged.

"I can tell you're feeling it," the brunette standing closest to my kitchen counter smirked. Her deceptively pretty blue-green eyes gleamed from beneath her brown fringe and her lips were contorted in an expression that was more a purse than a smile.

I cast a cold glance at Cruelty, whose designer jeans and fashionably side swept bangs made her all the more contemptible to me.

"I'm not feeling anything," I pronounced.

Her smile became more savage.

"Well, that would be in keeping with what you are, wouldn't it?"

She was taunting me behind her garish makeup. Somehow, being tormented by someone who lacked the ability to properly apply eye shadow was doubly infuriating.

"Oh, honey," she winced. "You're never going to be more than this disease. I figured some time in the real world would be just the thing to show you that."

Her face now arranged itself into a picture of fake sympathy. Of course it was foolish of me to think I could have a normal life. She, who had caused the condition, was just being a good person by reluctantly informing me that I should give up. It really pained her to do so. It was just so necessary.

"Have you thought about killing yourself yet?" she asked brightly. "You know that you're forty times more likely than the average person to do that, right?"

The grin was back, as reptilian as ever. She was goading me.

"You'll remember Misery, of course," she said, gesturing with her hand to the ragged young woman who was sobbing in the corner next to my refrigerator. "I arranged your introduction the day you were born."

Misery and I had, in fact, been acquainted for as long as I could remember. I'd never seen her face, though. I didn't know if she had one. Hers was always a variation of the same pose: huddled over, her alleged visage buried in her knees, weeping.

"Why did you do it?" I asked Cruelty. I was trying to hide my emotion, for whatever front I put on for her the truth was that I had been feeling everything lately. It played heavily on my mind.

"Well," she said, once again with the air of a wise person who must explain an unfortunate fact to an inferior. "Some people just don't deserve anything but shit. And you're one of them. I could see that even then."

Her face was so animated as she spoke the toxic words that I wanted to bash her skull in.

"It was mean," I declared.

She threw back her head and cackled.

"Oh, 'mean?'" This seemed to supremely amuse her. "Was it 'mean?'"

She wiped the tears from her eyes and threw me a pitying look that did not quite conceal her vindictive pleasure. It was a funny joke that I, of course, just lacked the capacity to understand. Poor, stupid BB. In that instant she reminded me a great deal of my mother.

"You have a little boy's mind to go along with a little boy's body," she exulted. "Maybe that's why real men just aren't interested and you'll never have anybody. Unless you want to let your neighbor the pedophile have another crack at you."

"I think I'll be fine, thanks," I managed with as much dignity as I could muster.

"Oh, but you won't be fine," she smiled broadly. "That's the beauty of it. You'll never actually be fine. How long do you think you can really go on before you end it?"

She looked at the other individuals in the room.

"You see, the condition itself isn't terminal," she projected, speaking as much to them as to me. "A neat little gem I concocted. It destroys absolutely everything but can't actually kill you."

Her voice went husky as she turned with satisfaction back to me.

"I can think of no purer definition of Hell."

I looked at her in defiance.

"If Hell is measured in orders of tacky mascara, then I can think of a much purer definition," I said. "And we're in the seventh circle."

The old man standing by the sink suppressed a chuckle that Cruelty stared down with a murderous glare.

"Laugh away, Fate," she hissed. "I'll have my way with this adolescent yet and you'll help me do it."

Her fierce face turned to me.

"You are a stupid invalid who no one will ever love," she said. "Who the fuck did you think you were by coming here? Do you think you deserve any of this?"

She swept her hands in the air, indicating not only my apartment, but, I knew, my internship, my prospective job, my friends, and every bit of happiness I'd managed to achieve.

"Honestly," she continued. "Do you think you'll get to keep it?"

My chest burned as I leaned forward and sank my eyes into hers.

"Listen to me you worthless cunt," I fumed. "I don't think I'll keep it. I know. No matter what you try to throw at me, no matter how hard you make it, you will fail. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."

The teal of her irises gleamed with liquid fire as she backed away.

"And take her with you," I spat in the direction of Misery. "She has no place here."

Cruelty turned to me, her face a grimace of anger.

"I'll be back for you," she growled. "I'm taking you one way or another."

With that she turned and stalked down the hall. Misery alighted from the floor with a shriek as Cruelty's hand caught her unkempt hair and dragged her from the room.

The three of us remaining in the kitchen were deathly silent as the front door slammed and the two wretched beings stormed down the stairs. After several wordless moments Fate turned to me.

"BB, I--"

I cut him off with a raised hand.

"No," said. I could tell that my eyes were wide with fury. "No. Just leave."

Fate was rarely flummoxed and usually brushed off my admonitions for him to go, but something about me that day silenced him at once. He nodded and backed straight through a third-floor window.

There was just me and one other now, all alone.

I turned toward the west-facing window as she approached and put her hand on my shoulder. I waited for her to say that everything was going to be alright but she'd never been one to lie, and certainly not to me. Her fingers were tender on my collar. The sun was so bright.

"Do you think he'll help her?" I asked finally.

She hesitated.

"I don't know," she answered after a moment. "He might not have a choice."

I turned around and looked into her face.

"Why not?" I wanted to know. "Why can't he fight back?"

Good sighed and brushed a blonde lock away from her face. She looked wearier every time I saw her.

"Don't be too hard on Fate," she said. "He has a more difficult job than anyone realizes. You don't know how often he has to do things he hates."

"Good, I need to know something, and you have to be honest with me."

She smiled. It was her way of saying, I always have been, which she was too polite to actually say.

I took a deep breath.

"Do I have a chance?"

Her expression grew resolute.

"You have a chance," she said. "You have more than a chance. Just keep fighting. Always keep fighting."

She ran a finger down my cheek.

"And don't ever let yourself turn into her."

"I never will," I promised.

We sat there together for a very long time. I thought about how beautiful the sun was and wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

In the City of Fate

2011-07-10T19:05:00.000-07:00

I am aware that I lead a strange life in many ways.

Most people do not, for instance, pack up a bag of clothing and head out to a strange city they've only visited twice before. Most people do not, upon their arrival in that city, begin an internship at a prestigious literary agency, start work at a movie theater, embark on a search for a guitarist, and commence fielding prospective employment opportunities from advertising agencies. None of it is that weird where I'm concerned, though.

These are just the kind of things that happen to me.

One month into my stay in the City of Fate my journey has branched out in several directions, some of them unexpected. My time at Book Agency is going well, or at least I imagine it is. It's kind of hard to tell, really; Literary Agent is either more abrupt or less socially conscious than I anticipated, and his lack of feedback on assignments has been a source of frustration to me and the other intern working under him. At points I've asked specifically for clarification and on more than one occasion gotten snappy with him in response to his misinterpreting me.

While the more seasoned professionals among you may deem such conduct to be inadvisable, he seems to enjoy it on some level. One of the first things he told me when I came on was that I mustn't be afraid to push back at him.

He really had my number when he mused, "Somehow, I don't think that's going to be a problem with you."

Literary Agent continues to accept materials from me without comment, but he also continues to send me boatloads of manuscripts while burying the other intern, Sun Dress Girl, in marketing research. I am taking this, optimistically, to mean that he trusts my judgement with regard to literature. The only time he tends to voice any opinion at all is when he has a significant objection.

"Okay," he responded to a letter I recently wrote beseeching a famous actor to write a memoir and then let the Book Agency represent it. "This is way too bland. Give me specifics: why does the world need to hear this story?"

In these rare moments of criticism Literary Agent is blunt without being rude, and so at present I'm content to plug away and hope I'm moving in the right direction.

Of late, my efforts to perform well at the Book Agency have been distracted by my exertions in another profession: sweeping.

I receive a great deal of personal satisfaction from my work at the Book Agency but I do not, sadly, receive any money and so have been obliged to seek sustenance elsewhere. The effort to find work, carried out as it was in the nation's largest city, proved more difficult I imagined, and my initial inability to land a job nearly resulted in my returning to Southern State early. After about a month of searching, however, I was able to secure employment in, of all places, a movie theater.

Those of you who are longtime readers will remember that I worked in Western City Movie Theater, an establishment near Mountain Town, for nearly two years. It seemed to make sense that, when in pursuit of easy labor and quick money, I would turn here to a movie theater as well.

Mid-Island Movie Theater is populated by people of the same age as those in Western City Movie Theater, though the general hue is somewhat darker and the attitude more gregarious. That's something I've noticed since coming here: for all the good press that the South gets about its hospitality, I have found people in the North to, on the whole, be better mannered, more courteous, and more familiar with the basic rules of civility than their Southern counterparts. The people here are nicer.

One excellent way to gauge this is to examine how those individuals in a socially superior position treat those in a socially inferior position. During my time at Western City Movie Theater I experienced some truly audacious handling from patrons who knew no demographic commonality; from semi-literate rednecks to insufferable nouveau riche professionals, each group seemed to have a set of representatives united only in their entitlement and rudeness. By contrast, most of the people I've seen here have demonstrated a surprising amount of maturity.

If there is a line, they wait in it. They don't berate some helpless underage employee with their idiotic whining, because they know that the staff are working their hardest and that complaining won't speed anything up. When they are helped, they express gratitude. When asked how they are doing, they engage (as opposed to simply ignoring the greeting and intoning the name of the movie they're seeing, which is how I once got "Drag Me to Hell" in response to "How are you?").

All of this leads me to believe that we've overindulged Middle America. Everyone, from elected officials to movie studios to television networks to pop singers, has pandered to these people, and the objects of the fawning have become the cultural equivalent of spoiled children as a result. I've never been one for corporal punishment, but if it were up to me we would correct these infants with a heavy hand.

Whether the customers I interact with are courteous or not, the money I'm receiving from the Mid-Island Movie Theater should prove helpful in paying my rent, which I became responsible for on June 15th.

After two weeks of sleeping on Gay Writer's couch, I moved my things in the middle of June to the apartment one floor down that had been vacated when its owners embarked on a six-month trip to Africa.

I knew the place was nice by City of Fate standards, but didn't become aware of just how true that was until I hosted a friend this afternoon.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed when she walked through the door. "This is huge!"

"Really?" I laughed. I had no basis for comparison.

"Yeah," she said. "How much is the rent?"

The actual rent is $2,500.00, but what I'm paying, thanks to a deal negotiated by Gay Writer, is $600.00.

I like it well enough.

I have a spacious living room (with eminent furnishings that have given me an unearned reputation for good taste), a full kitchen, a bathroom, a master bedroom with perhaps the softest bed that has ever existed, a washer and dryer for convenient laundry, and a guest room for when I host.

At first, lonely in a new city and intimidated by having so much space to myself, I was loath to leave my neighbors' couch. Almost immediately upon moving into my new quarters, however, I began to appreciate the benefits that solitary living offered. For one thing, the perennial feeling of awkwardness I'd had upstairs was gone; the Runner and Gay Writer welcomed me into their home without reservation, but when you don't go out because you have no friends you begin to feel like a third wheel in a married couple's house. Another plus is my ability to make my own schedule. Up until the move, I was cautious at night, timidly quiet lest I should wake anyone. Now I stay up until all hours, typing away on my keyboard, watching movies, making food, and even occasionally doing vocal exercises (something I indulged in several nights ago at the strident time of 2:30a.m.).

My departure is probably for the best on several counts. Gay Writer got a bit too friendly for comfort one night, attempting to make a move on me while his husband lay asleep down the hall. He then justified the conduct by telling me I was "just a boy," informed me that there was a "difference between love and sex," and explained that while he might be gay he was "still a man."

It was all quite charming.

In the meantime, this apartment will be mine until the middle of August and possibly even longer.

Before I wrote professional opportunities off during my job application blitz I sent in materials to an advertising agency. I dismissed the possibility of employment there when I didn't hear back from them for several weeks, but about a month following my initial e-mail, after I'd already started at Mid-Island Movie Theater, I received a message from the company inviting me to call them. When I did, the greeting given me was enthusiastic.

"Hey, I was really impressed by your samples and cover letter," a company official told me. "We're looking for someone to serve as a full-time copywriter and we'd be pretty negotiable on giving you a salary that's enough to live off of in the City of Fate."

My interview is on Tuesday. Depending on how that goes, I might not be leaving in August after all.

You Have Seen Nothing

2011-07-04T11:29:00.000-07:00

You have seen nothing until you've seen a homeless man ask a subway passenger for change and then indignantly bang on the wall beside the passenger's head when he realized the man was asleep.

You have seen nothing until you've seen this same homeless man, with an air of supreme entitlement, request money from the startled passenger.

You have seen nothing until you've seen the homeless man's irritation, as if the passenger had been wasting his time by daring to sleep when the homeless man was petitioning for funds.

You have seen nothing until you've seen a homeless man, angry that he could not reap the fruits of someone else's labor, exit the train in a huff.

Selected Entries: February, 2004

2011-06-30T20:36:00.000-07:00

I know this is a poor substitute for a regular post, but time constrains me. In February of 2004 I was two months away from my sixteenth birthday and three months away from leaving Native State forever. During this time I made observations on a disfigured classmate, heaped praise upon my sister, recounted an interview for an aborted attempt at going to Russia as an exchange student (my parents shot that down out of the gate), included scant notes on political developments in the U.S., and first began to recognize my own moral relativism in the aftermath of a failed prank.

February 1, 2004

Scarred Boy looks drastically different since we last met. I once remembered that his skin was pure white and unusually smooth, like a baby’s, one might venture to say. Now, though…well, skin grafts can only do so much. Scarred Boy’s cheeks are rough, corrugated, and deeply scarred. Have you ever seen that furled, billowy icing on cakes? That’s what his cheeks and arms and throat and hands look like. Except that his face is now a collage of the deepest reds, purples, and pinks. His face is bloated, as if two fleshy sacks were hanging off the side of his head. They look like if you touched them they’d burst.

I would not have had the courage to come back to school after that. Scarred Boy’s laugh, once pleasant and bouncy, is now scratchy, and, if truth be told, downright diabolical. Once my enemy, once my friend, I can’t begin to imagine what Scarred Boy’s been through. And I don’t know where he pulled all that bravery from, but it’s honestly more than I could do. I know people say that all the time to be sentimental and make themselves look deep, but I mean it; I wouldn’t have come back to school.

Today is Super Bowl Sunday. Naturally, we’ve stocked up on snacks. Pie can crawl backwards now! And, on top of that, she’s starting to make sounds with letters! God, I love her so much. I hope that my daughter can be like her. My mother is a bit concerned because Pie is in the bottom 10% of weight and bottom 25% of height for her age (7-8 months). Pie is healthy, however, so I conclude that she’s just petite.

She’s quite chubby, so she’s healthy. The doctors say so, too. Anyway, her small size underscores her big soul; in addition to being unusually tiny, Pie is unusually spirited!

February 5, 2004

The woman who interviewed me was a nice, polite British lady. They do, however, have to be extremely careful with who they allow to do things like this, and once the questioning began, she absolutely grilled me. I haven’t been so nervous in a long while.

She pounded me on what I’d do if pressured to drink or smoke. Almost everyone in Russia drinks and quite nearly the entire population smokes. Honestly, I’d be fine around the smoke, but I couldn’t do it myself (smoke, that is), and I certainly couldn’t drink. In fact, I was so nervous that I’m now worried that the interview didn’t go well.

And all of a sudden, Russia has become a very popular destination, so much so that new spots have had to have been opened up. It is becoming very competitive, and we have to get my application in as soon as possible. I’m going to pray.

February 7, 2004

Pie is crawling now. She’s such a little explorer. It’s remarkable how quickly she’s learning! Just days ago she could only crawl backwards and now she can move forwards, too. And now even two weeks past she couldn’t crawl at all, but instead merely hold herself up. She’s been sick these last few days, though, and so of course is a bit frumpy.

Mom and Dad went out to dinner tonight, and so Babysitter Woman came over to watch the baby. Babysitter Woman is about twenty years old, and she works at Pie’s daycare (her mother runs it) and is very nice, in addition to being extremely good with the baby. The two seem to be on a wavelength.

Babysitter Woman and I were discussing this, and we feel that besides my parents, we are the baby’s favorites. No one, of course, can hold a candle to Mom, but we still feel that we have deep, meaningful connections with Pie.

February 12, 2004

Well, an injustice was allowed to take place today. Powell, my brother, abandoned a pair of shoes about a year ago, leaving them under my bed. Today when he saw me wearing them, he tried to take them. When I wouldn’t give them back, he took a very expensive book and threw it so hard that the binding broke. More tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Friday!

February 13, 2004

I read the rest of The Crucible today. The ending was so sad that I was crying. I wasn’t sobbing, but tears welled in my eyes. It was extremely emotional.

Mom did not, much to her disappointment, get the job. This comes as a bit of a shock; Mom scarcely ever fails. Mom doubts that she’ll apply for the other Deep South State position, so we’ll probably not be moving. I’m not really sure how to feel about this.

February 15, 2004

Mom is making her chicken noodle soup today. Oh, I can’t wait for it. Last night was great. We got in the hot tub at eleven o’clock at night (Powell and I) and looked at the stars. It was very beautiful.

February 17, 2004

A precedent today. More tomorrow. Kerry pushes on.

February 22, 2004

My parents delighted and excelled in draconian punishments, which is why I was caught so off guard by their reaction when I was discovered perpetrating an act of mild vandalism. I presumed my actions would provide them the excuse they needed to implement the kind of radical sentences I'd long anticipated, but instead they did almost nothing. What I regarded at the time as a lucky break served in retrospect only to reinforce their inconsistency and general lack of maturity.

Last night was so fun! We had an awesome time. And if we had been able to leave it at that, I would’ve gotten away with all of it. Last night, we ding-dong-ditched everywhere, even a policeman’s house. It was so fun. We threw newspapers at people’s houses, and ice, too. What a rush!

And then we threw newspapers into the Fat Guy’s backyard. And we got away with it. But then this morning, we had to admire our handiwork. Newspapers covered Fat Guy’s yard. Laughing, Blonde Cousin and I threw more over. And that’s when the Fat Guy came out. We tried to get away, but he saw us, and the man’s had problems with me before so he recognized me.

Anyway, one of the idiots, either Blonde Cousin or Powell, told Dad that the Fat Guy caught me. Blonde Cousin, you see, got successfully away. The Fat Guy climbed over the neighbor’s fence to reach us. Then I picked up his yard for him (this didn’t take very long at all; I’d say a minute) and proceeded to walk with him to my trashcan. And then Dad came outside.

The Fat Guy himself actually was very nice about everything. I think I misunderstood him. Apparently he works in the public school system. He’s very nice. I feel bad about what we did and I would even if the punishment were lifted. I have to write a three-page essay about society. That was the Fat Guy’s idea. Quite frankly, given his past actions, I can’t believe that he didn’t call the cops outright.

Dad seemed more upset than the man himself was, but he’s since seemed to cool off with it. He now doesn’t seem angry at all. He told me that I had been very irresponsible, but then Powell and I mentioned a story that he regaled us with earlier. While building play sets in his late thirties, my father used to defecate into boxes and leave the boxes in front of mail boxes in wealthy neighborhoods. We all laughed at this, and it weakened Dad’s argument a bit.

My punishment is uncharacteristically mild; I have to go to bed at nine o’clock and I only use my computer for homework. I have to stay mostly in my room, and this is for a week. And that’s it! I am relieved to say the least. And yet, I feel soiled somehow, and, ashamed as I am to admit it, it is because I got caught that I feel bad. I’m going to pray and go to bed.

February 28, 2004

We have off of school this coming Tuesday. That’s because it’s “Super Tuesday.” On that day, ten states, including this one, are holding primaries or caucuses. John Kerry is expected to win all of them.

February 29, 2004

Today is another stunningly gorgeous day.

Oh, how we awaited winter
How we craved that Arctic blast
Oh, how we awaited winter
But now its time has passed

Oh, how we awaited sledding
Oh, how we awaited snow
Oh, how we awaited winter
But now it’s time to go

The Earth is roused from its longer slumber
The sunshine streams now through the clouds
The ground, devoid, now blooms its wonders
The birds, alive, renew their sounds

And as we shed our heavy skins
Baring what’s been deep within
Our hearts and souls they seem to spin

How it feels to know the breeze again
Caressing my uncovered arms
How it feels to know the sun again
That warmth for so many months barred

How it feels to watch the birds take flight
Basking in a shower of light

And as the Earth begins to come alive
I’m feeling what I can’t describe

A hope, a wish, a dream, a prayer
A song I sing, a love I share

The Great Fast is ending
Lent fades away
Easter approaches
That glorious day
A saving of souls
A righteous new way

The people with the Earth did hunger
As winter waged its icy plunder

And now the people all rejoice
Jesus saved us with His choice

And as God rose Him to new birth
So now He resurrects the Earth

That was a poem that I’ll call “Spring.”

I've Been Around

2011-06-29T20:15:00.000-07:00

Seeing as it's been nearly two weeks since my last post, I figured I'd check in to let everyone know I haven't checked out. I will be coming at you with a full update soon, but that can't happen tonight.

The City of Fate is busy. I suppose it makes sense that I'm busy, too.

Beneath an Arch

2011-06-17T17:46:00.000-07:00

I was pretty sure it was her.

Wielding a camera, she swung onto the stone bowl of the fountain to take pictures of the people frolicking within, giving me a brief glimpse of a soft face framed by shoulder-length auburn and gray hair.

I approached from behind and a skinny young man with unruly brown curls pulled back into a very long ponytail cast an expectant look my way. I'd read about him for years, of course, though I didn't know his name and he didn't know mine.

The woman was right in front of me now, and I reached out a hand and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hey," I said, breaking into a smile.

She looked confused for a fraction of a second, and then her kindly eyes lit up.

"Oh, hi!"

Though I now live in the City of Fate, Jo(e) knows more about this metropolis than I and so it was she who picked our meeting place. The park is an auspicious location, a tree-ringed circle whose northern gateway is a 77-foot-tall marble arch. The focal point of all this is a fountain into which visitors freely roam.

Plunked in the middle of the Island's famed artistic district and packed with everyone from foreign tourists to musicians to beggars, the park is ideal for ambling about.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Jo(e) said. "This is my son, -----."

"Shaggy Hair Boy," he said, acknowledging his pseudonym with a roll of his eyes as he shook my hand.

"You know, I think it's actually weirder meeting you than it is meeting her," I said to him. "I've been hearing about you for years without ever actually talking to you. Does that weird you out at all? That thousands of people around the world read about you all the time?"

He shrugged.

"You kind of get used to it."

For those of you who are unfamiliar, Jo(e) publishes a compelling and deservedly popular blog in which she recounts her life as a professor, mother, citizen, and thinking human being in the Snowstorm region of Northern State. Jo(e)'s family and friends, along with other members of her community, play a pivotal role in her story but are protected by pseudonyms and strategically discreet (i.e., faceless) photos.

If the tactic seems familiar, it probably should: I stole the method from her when she inducted me into Blogger more than three years ago.

We've been having an ongoing conversation, first through correspondence and then through blogging, since I was nineteen years old, and for a moment I was concerned that after nearly half a decade of writing we'd have nothing to talk about. I needn't have worried.

Jo(e), like me, is an insatiable chatterbox.

"So, you have to tell me about American Idol," she gushed as we strolled through the park.

"Oh, that," I said. "That was such a weird experience."

"I knew what you were really talking about when you wrote that post," she said. "It killed me not to say anything."

"Yeah, I know," I acknowledged. "But they made me sign a confidentiality agreement and I kind of didn't have a choice."

"So," she looked up hopefully. "Can you talk about it now?"

I laughed.

"I guess I could tell you a little."

Then it came to me.

"Okay. Here's something really insane, but you can't repeat it to anyone ever."

Her eyes widened as I began and she gasped with suitable dramatic flair at all the right moments until the story had carried us around the park and to the exit.

"Wow," she said. "I can't believe it works that way."

I shook my head.

"I was on the show and I kind of can't, either."

After our walk through the park it was off to find somewhere to eat. This proved to be a bit more of an adventure than we had intended.

Jo(e)'s method of navigating a city, you see, is not like most people's. While someone else might do something crazy like consult a map, she prefers to wander around musing about where she might be.

"I think we're on Canal Street," she said at one point. "Or maybe it's Broadway. I don't know. If we keep going in this direction we'll eventually hit Chinatown."

When after a number of detours we finally did reach the part of the city known for its Asian cuisine, the question of which restaurant to patronize drew considerable debate. At least from one of us.

"What do you guys think about this place?" Jo(e) asked.

"It's fine with me," Shaggy Hair Boy responded.

"I'm down for whatever you two are down for," I chimed in.

"I don't know. How about that other one across the street?"

"Sure," Shaggy Hair Boy said.

"Definitely," I chorused.

"No," Jo(e) concluded. "Maybe this one..."

After twenty minutes or so of intense one-way disagreement as to where we ought to dine, Jo(e) decided that her parents should be called in to resolve the dispute.

"Do you have them?" she asked as Shaggy Hair Boy held his cell phone to his ear. She turned to me. "My parents love this place called Joe's. Or John's. It's something like that. They'll tell us how to get there."

Shaggy Hair Boy looked over.

"Mom, they're saying not to go to John's. They hate that place."

"What? Where are we supposed to eat?"

"Grand Pa said to just follow the Chinese people."

After all of the deliberation and the calling of relatives for advice the establishment we eventually chose was selected, like most things that day, completely at random.

"Hey," I noted. "This place looks good."

Jo(e) nodded.

"Okay."

We sat down, managed to convey our orders to a staff that barely spoke English, and then spent the next hour or so discussing everything from our summer plans to our family histories to, of course, our blogs.

When you meet an anonymous blogger for the first time and all the pseudonyms slip away, it's a bit like completing a jigsaw puzzle. For years you've slowly deciphered the meanings behind people and places, but much of the truth remains unsolved, many of the pieces frustratingly hard to place until the blogger slides them into their proper positions.

"So that's why you call him With-a-Why," I said, the answer now obvious as Jo(e) explained to me the pseudonym she employed for her youngest child. "It makes sense. And Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter is..."

"My beautiful, smart, wonderful daughter," Jo(e) returned with a smile. "It sounds a little ridiculous but that really is what I call her."

"Same thing with my sister," I said. "We do refer to her as Pie."

"What's her real name?" Jo(e) asked.

"------," I answered.

She smiled again.

"That's pretty."

Shaggy Hair Boy, Jo(e)'s friendly 20-year-old son, proved how spot-on his code name was when the conversation turned to it.

"You know, I think your hair is actually longer than mine," I observed.

"When it's wet it's really long," he said, twirling a strand of it in his fingers. "Some parts of it are nearly down to my waist."

"Do you ever think about cutting it?" I asked. "Mine is just so long now that I don't really know what to do with it."

He shook his head.

"I don't ever want to cut it. Ever. I've actually had nightmares where it gets caught in something and I have to cut it."

Jo(e) nodded in affirmation.

"It's probably been about six or seven years now since you've had a haircut."

Returning to the park once we'd finished our Chinese food proved to be a journey of nearly Columbian scope.

"It's around four o'clock, we're downtown, and traffic is running this way," Jo(e) said. "Which means that we should head down Canal Street."

"No, that can't be right," I contested. "The park is to our north and the sun sets in the west. We should go this way."

"How can you tell that the sun is in the west?"

"It's afternoon. The sun is always in the west in the afternoon. And look, the shadows are being cast that way."

"What are we, navigating by the stars?"

"Um, you guys?" Shaggy Hair Boy interrupted. "We have a map."

He figured out the way back within five minutes, and, of course, Jo(e) and I had both been wrong. Go figure.

When we at last did arrive at the arch and fountain, Jo(e) wanted pictures of us posing in front of the water.

"You both have such gorgeous hair," she effused. "This will look great, the dark curls next to the blonde waves."

Shaggy Hair Boy and I were perched perilously on the lip of the fountain when Jo(e) called out, "Strike a pose! Act like you're balancing!"

Shaggy Hair rolled his eyes.

"How are we supposed to act like we're balancing?"

"Put your arms out or something!"

He gave me a knowing look.

"Classic blog photo," he said.

After a little while Shaggy Hair tired of standing still and took a great leap into the fountain.

I considered for a moment, then strode over to Jo(e) and emptied my pockets.

"Can I leave my stuff in your purse?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "We're going to get some great pictures out of this."

I laughed.

"There sure seems to be a whole lot of artifice going into capturing this authentic moment."

She chuckled but didn't dispute my claim as I bounded into the fountain to join Shaggy Hair Boy. He was conscious neither of me tip-toeing around nor of his mother calling out for the two of us to dance, his eyes instead focused with shark-like intensity on the stone floor beneath our feet. In an instant something glinted from under the water and his hand shot out like a torpedo.

He looked up and saw me.

"Come here, come here!" he shouted.

I walked over, taking care not to get sprayed (he had no such compunctions and was soaked completely through), and stared at the coin in his hand.

"What year were you born?" he asked.

"In '88," I answered.

"Oh," he replied. "I need to find a '91."

The specie before us was dated 1994.

"I think it's cooler that it's foreign," I put forward.

He looked around as if we were conspirators in some great heist.

"Well, I'm keeping it," he said, and with a single movement the pilfered cash was stowed away in his pocket.

This was in line with his tradition, apparently endorsed by family and friends, of bringing home from the city things found on the street en lieu of store-bought presents. Just before we jumped in the fountain he'd done a quick inventory with his mother.

"Mom, do you have the rubber bands?"

"Yes."

"What about the hair ties?"

"Yes."

"But the paper clips. Did you remember the paper clips?"

She looked at me, her eyes holding more amusement than exasperation.

"I think I'd draw the line at dirty syringes."

When we were out of the fountain and Shaggy Hair Boy was comfortably air-drying in the weak sun, there was one more picture to take.

"We'll stand in front of the arch," Jo(e) declared. She gathered my long blonde locks into her hands and released them behind my shoulders.

"There," she pronounced. "Now your hair will all be going down your back."

Shaggy Hair Boy was about to snap the photo when Jo(e) abruptly removed her arm from around my shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, you're probably right," I noted. "I'm way taller than you."

"That's not it," she said as I extended my left arm across her back. "I just didn't want to block your hair."

I couldn't help smirking.

"You are absolutely ridiculous."

After five hours of talking and eating and wandering around, it was time to part.

Jo(e) and Shaggy Hair Boy walked with me to the intersection of Fourth and Grove.

"It was so great meeting you," Jo(e) said as she pulled me into a hug.

"Me?" I asked. "Please. I wanted to meet you more than anyone. You got me started."

She smiled.

"You'd be welcome to come stay with us in Snowstorm City. Any time."

"Oh, thanks," I said. "I don't know when I'd ever be up there, but I'll let you know. We have to do this again."

"Definitely," she said.

"Alright," I responded. "I guess I'll talk to your later."

We shared one last hug, and then they went their way and I went mine.

I Have to Remember

2011-06-10T18:31:00.000-07:00

Now, more than ever, I have to remind myself that everything is going to be okay. It's not that I've been hurt here. It's just that this city is so big, its humanity so vast, and in that impersonal expanse I've gotten a sense of a world that is overwhelming. There is so much out there, so much more than anyone could ever fully know, and it seems that it would be so easy to get lost in the hugeness of it all and find that you've somehow become separated from yourself.

That's all.

My life was unsettled when I started this blog, but the immediate future has become even more unstable since then. I will graduate in six months. I can't tell you where I'll be in seven.

I've been conscious of this uncertainty for some time, but now I've brought it with me to this volatile metropolis of raw humanity where people are constantly pressed together but talk surprisingly little. You'd think that they'd talk more. Squeezed against each other in underground trains, compressed on street corners and in grocery stores, it really is odd that they don't acknowledge each other or make some effort to reach out. I guess I've always felt that way, though.

Whenever I am too awed by all the possibilities that lay before me--by prospective peaks of success and lurking pits of failure--I remind myself that I am doing the best thing I could possibly be doing. Interning here was a wise move and the experience I am receiving under Literary Agent a valuable asset.

The internship is going well, by the way.

Since starting it several weeks ago (via computer in Southern State) I've solidly confirmed my suspicions that publishing is likely the only industry where I'd be able to find professional satisfaction. I never achieved that in journalism, even though I have quite a knack for reporting.

A good contrast between this job and the others I've held is to look at my work ethic. For the longest time I thought I was just lazy.

As a journalist I'd be chronically careless with deadlines, unresponsive to superiors' comments and requests, unreachable by phone for days at a time (which in the world of online news is essentially a request for unemployment), and notoriously bad at responding to e-mails. If I'm being honest about it I probably should have been fired several times over this year alone and likely only kept my position as an editor because of a skill level that far surpassed my peers'.

That's another thing that bothered me about journalism: I put in astonishingly little effort but always managed to coast on talent. It made me feel like less of a person.

My work in publishing has served to redeem me in my own eyes.

Certainly, natural ability plays a part--as Literary Agent told me when we first started out, "You either have the instincts or you don't"--but now that ability is going hand in hand with genuine dedication.

"Literary Agent," I said in an e-mail sent around midnight last night. "I just finished the manuscript you gave me. I'm attaching a reader's report with my notes. Since I have Monday off and my schedule on Wednesday is going to be restricted, I'd appreciate your giving me some things to work on over the weekend. Thanks."

That was me, requesting extra work for the weekend. That's insane. If my boss at Student Website had asked me to put in more hours on a Saturday I would have given him a tongue-lashing followed by a lecture on the virtues of boundaries.

This morning Literary Agent called me with news that my weekend might not be as productive as I would have liked.

"Listen, BB," he said. "I think it's great that you're working so hard, but we honestly only account for you being available a few days a week. I literally don't have any assignments for you."

When several hours later he e-mailed me a manuscript he'd forgotten about, I was actually happy.

Of course, not everything has been daisies and sunshine. Literary Agent has a propensity for brusqueness online that, whether borne of an unfamiliarity with Internet etiquette or a sincere lack of caring, can be disarming. Today, per my request for more work (which I still can't believe happened), he told me to send him links to pictures of furniture for our new office. When I quipped (jokingly) that I was a horrible interior designer, he told me that I "wouldn't make it in publishing" if I was only willing to do the things I loved and refused to "chip in" on more mundane tasks.

I can be pretty chilly when I want to, and the message I sent back was succinct: "Literary Agent: I assume that any assignment you give me is important. You gave me this assignment. I will send the links."

Another minor annoyance is Self-Important, a literary agent at Book Agency who doesn't look a day older than our youngest intern. Everyone knows a person like this. In her twenties, with ironic black-rimmed glasses, a hugely annoying up-do, and a permanent scowl on her face, Self Important has decided that as a recent college graduate with a marginally prestigious job she and everything she does is of such significance that anything outside of it is simply not worth her time.

It's all very serious.

We interns learned this last week, when Self Important sent one of our number, a young woman, to the post office with a package bound for Serbia. Just in case you've never seen it, the post office in the City of Fate is gigantic, a great marble and bronze colossus inside of which could comfortably fit any other city's largest museum.

When the intern, inevitably, given the incomplete instructions Self Important provided, sent the item using the wrong priority, the four-eyed twit was quick to express her annoyance.

"That's why I told you to ask if you had any questions," she said, not looking directly at the girl but employing a tone of voice that implied the intern's error was an incredible act of stupidity.

"Self Important, no," said another agent, one just as young but apparently not infected with the inflated ego that is endemic in professional youth. "That's not even a question you would think to ask. That wasn't her fault at all."

So at least the others aren't blind to it.

Any slight negatives aside, I love the job and the more I learn about it the truer that love becomes. Did you know that a huge portion of our professional energy is spent getting editors tanked while asking them to buy books? How awesome is that? Any occupation where you get to read manuscripts all day and go out for regular dinner dates is a winner in my book.

In light of our need to wine and dine, Self Important's apparent displeasure at the socializing in the office seems misplaced. Does she not get that we're cultivating important skills?

My biggest remaining concerns are finding friends, finding a job, and finding a gig, and I believe that the first will come with the last two.

I have a busy few days ahead of me; tomorrow I'll read a manuscript, Sunday I'll head to an audition, and Wednesday I'll have a job interview. Those things, along with what this household is like, can all be detailed later, though, as this post has been long enough.

This is the city I now call home. Hopefully by the time I leave it will feel that way in more than just name.

Tonight

2011-06-02T20:37:00.001-07:00

Tonight I lay my head down in Southern State. Tomorrow it will come to rest in the City of Fate.

I am happy and afraid.

Northward Bound

2011-05-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

I thought for sure that I was doomed to failure.

I'd been scanning Craigslist for days, trying to find the elusive apartment that fit within my price range but was also located in a neighborhood where I wasn't likely to get stabbed on a grocery run. The City of Fate is an expensive place, and $500.00 a month is roughly worth an unfurnished four-by-ten-foot bedroom on the second floor of a crack house.

At least that's what I thought.

I had just come across an apartment that was only $700.00 a month (a bit more expensive than I would have liked, but still workable) and was asking Gay Writer for advice when my situation suddenly changed.

"Hey, do you know if this is in a good part of the city?" I asked in a Facebook message in which I included the address.

"The Land of Empresses?" he responded. "No."

He seemed to take pity on me, the clueless 23-year-old from Southern State, because several minutes later another e-mail came through.

"Look," he said. "Worst case scenario, you can just live with us."

"Seriously?" I asked. "How much would you need for rent?"

Gay Writer is thirty years old and the son of one of my father's best friends. His successes as a magazine contributor and small business owner have given him the financial wherewithal to live on the Island, the exclusive and upscale center of the City of Fate. The Island is an icon of American innovation, a powerhouse of economic might, a nexus of fashion and taste and art and entertainment.

As of June 3rd I will, for the price of $600.00 a month, call it home.

"You're only paying $600.00 to live on the Island?" Beautiful Cousin asked. "I can't believe that."

"I know, right?"

"That wouldn't even be a lot for an apartment here."

"Their place is gorgeous, too. They're super gay, so it kind of figures."

When I arrive in the City of Fate in a little more than a week, I will be the guest not only of Gay Writer but also of his husband.

The idea of two men being married (and, what's more, of their marriage being legally recognized) is still a bit strange for me, not because I have any objections to it (obviously) but because I've simply never seen it before. I just hope that my presence in the home of a married couple isn't awkward.

I would like to be out a good deal of the time on weekends, but I know nobody in the City of Fate save Beautiful Singer, whom I met last year while on the set of a television show.

Speaking of which, now is probably as good a time as any to confess that I did not have an exclusive audience with a record company last September. The truth, just as unlikely, is that I was a contestant on American Idol.

Now, I know that I deceived you. I know I was dishonest. My only defense is that I was pretty much compelled to lie. I went to the audition with every intention of blogging about it, but I held off because I didn't want everyone to get excited only to be let down if I were rejected. Once I made it past the first round I should have been clear to celebrate all over the blogosphere, but I'd scarcely taped that plastic number to my stomach before they had me locked in a confidentiality agreement so tight that I could have practically been sued for saying the words "American" and "Idol" together in public.

I still wanted to share my experience with you, though, and so I thought of a plausible deception of roughly equivalent significance.

I'm sorry.

Anyway, Beautiful Singer and I met at the first audition and stayed in contact until we were both eliminated in the fourth round. Just in case you're thinking of rewinding to earlier this season and looking for a massive head of blonde hair, don't waste your time; I never appeared on television (though my father, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, did). What goes on behind the scenes is much different than what is seen on the screen and many of the contestants are not featured on air at all. I'll have to dedicate a post to it some time.

So, hopefully in Beautiful Singer I'll have a friend. Literary Agent also assures me that there will be plenty of interns for me to mingle with and I'm looking forward to that as well.

That's pretty much where I am right now.

Thomas and I are leaving for Grand Ma Normal Family's home in Native State tomorrow that I may take advantage of the one likely opportunity I'll have this summer to visit with her. We'll return to Southern State on Sunday or Monday, and then next Friday I'll board a train and head for a world different than any I've ever known.

It's something I await with great excitement.

Between North and South

2011-05-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

Not knowing where you're going to be living in several weeks' time can make life invigorating.

I thought about that yesterday evening as I packed what remained in my dorm room and prepared to leave Major University for a summer whose trajectory remains uncertain.

"So," said Patrick, who's been my roommate since I returned to Student Town in February. "When are you going to be in the City of Fate? I'll have to try to come up and see you."

Patrick and I have grown closer than I've ever been with any other roommate, a fact reflected in our decision to continue living together next year. I'd be happy to see him over the summer, but I'm not sure that any reunion will take place in the metropolis he mentioned.

"I don't really know if I'm going to be there," I answered. "But if I am, it would be from June to August."

He rolled his eyes.

"Well, let me know," he said. "We can meet up in the city or at your parents' house."

"The city or [my] parents' house" pretty aptly sums up the two radically different paths my life could take over the next several months.

The road upon which this unique fork sits began, as so many things concerning me do, with anxiety.

You see, I happen to be a very good journalist. I also, as fate would have it, happen to despise journalism.

Back in 2008, bereft of any concrete career aspirations and gnawingly aware of the slow march toward graduation, I made the decision to add a journalism minor to my degree and actively pursue employment in a field where my writing ability was a huge asset. In many ways this strategy proved wise.

I quickly accumulated both experience and praise, beginning as a lowly reporter at Major University's student newspaper before moving up to the senior correspondent position at the school's political news site one semester later. In 2009 I was made an assistant editor at Student Newspaper and this year became an editor in my own right at Student News Website. Along the way I interned in a public relations department and a newspaper and freelanced for another newspaper and a website, winning accolades from my superiors at each step.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could be hired as a reporter tomorrow if I so chose. That is not what I choose, though.

Interview-based journalism would seem like a natural fit for me. It's writing- and people-intensive, its foundations built on two areas in which I thrive. Yet as any laborer will tell you, doing a job well does not mean doing a job happily.

I am quite good at journalism. I just don't like it.

The harried pace, coarse realism, and base mundaneness of it has never appealed to me, nor has the meager pay that, in a field to which my heart was dedicated, I would probably be willing to accept.

Once I came to that realization, I was tasked with finding another goal to work towards. Somewhere in the search for a career that would allow me to combine my knack for writing with my love for creativity, I stumbled across the idea of entering the publishing industry. Naturally, none of the professors, academic advisers, or career counselors at Major University, all of whom are supposed to guide students towards viable post-college lives, thought to mention to me a job that involves reading books all day and then selling those books for obscene amounts of money (the closest anyone came to it was when a faculty member advised me to remember that I was unlikely to get paid for "being creative").

Major University, which extorts thousands of dollars from me every year, proved similarly useless at helping me make any connections once I decided to seek out an internship with a literary agency. It would be almost comical if they weren't robbing me blind.

One of my professors actually suggested that I take a summer internship class, which, once I signed up for it, would guarantee me a spot of some sort in public relations. The fact that this (conveniently) involved my spending about $1,000 in tuition money without being placed in my desired position did not seem to dampen his ardor for the idea.

In the end it was Google, and a little bit of a luck, that led me to one of the publishing industry's jealously guarded gateways. If there's one thing I've learned about publishing houses and literary agencies throughout this process it's that they're exclusive. They don't advertise openings because they don't have to; people come to them.

The first person I came to was the president of a small agency based in Marble City. Her company, she said, did not have room for an intern, but she referred me a man, Literary Agent, whom she believed could help.

I sent Literary Agent an e-mail and he directed me to the internship coordinator for the Book Agency, which is where he works. I spoke with the coordinator and was very pleased with what I heard; the Book Agency allowed its interns to work under individual agents and would tailor the students' time at the company toward specific genres. After a few enthusiastic exchanges I completed the Book Agency's extensive application and sent it in.

About a month passed and, preoccupied with another application, I didn't think about the Book Agency as much. When I was rejected by a different house, however, I sent an e-mail to the Book Agency's internship overseer to inquire as to my status. She never got back to me. I contacted her on three separate occasions, waiting to hear one way or the other, and I didn't receive so much as a peep in reply.

"Dude, if they're not e-mailing you back then you didn't get it," Patrick said. "Let it go."

"Oh, I know I didn't get it," I said. "But damn it, I am going to make them tell me no. I refuse to accept their just not responding. I'll be a pain if I have to be."

"Whatever, man. I think you're being dumb."

When yet another missive to the internship woman went unanswered I once again contacted Literary Agent.

"Literary Agent," my e-mail began. "This is BrightenedBoy, the student from Major University. You may remember that I contacted you earlier in the spring regarding a possible summer internship. I have not yet heard back from Ms. Doesn't Answer and was wondering if you knew when internship decisions would be announced. The Book Agency remains my first choice for this summer and I would be thrilled to be selected. As the school year draws to a close, however, I must make a decision so that I can set up living arrangements, employment, etc. BB."

Literary Agent responded to me within fifteen minutes, asking that I re-send my resume and cover letter. Twenty minutes after that I had my internship.

"You can intern directly under me!" he said.

His tone indicated that he was conferring some kind of privilege on me, and so I looked him up on Google to see just exactly who I'd be entrusting my professional life to this summer.

What I found genuinely shocked me.

Literary Agent wasn't just a reader at the Book Agency; he was the president. And the Book Agency wasn't just an upstart company; it was a major industry presence, one with New York Times bestsellers on its current roster of represented works.

Through persistence and my inability to take a hint, I've secured for myself a truly amazing opportunity.

Almost right after I got it, though, I was faced with a significant decision. The Book Agency is based, as most such agencies are, in the City of Fate. Literary Agent, however, by a ridiculous twist of fortune, owns a home in Southern State about twenty minutes away from me and divides his week between the two locations.

"It honestly doesn't matter where you work," he said. "If you want to stay in Southern State you could do that, and if you wanted to go to the City of Fate you'd be welcome to do that. I'll find something for you to do wherever you are."

The logical side of me echoed what my parents were saying: that I should stay home, remain where things were familiar and safe and where I could save huge amounts of money while still doing the exact same internship.

The other part of me, though, the one that houses my passions and my dreams, knows that foresaking a chance to live in the City of Fate would be unthinkable. It's a place of magic and mystery and opportunity, a cosmopolitan island of the fantastic and the impossible, a beacon of the Northern life to which my Southern heart has always been drawn. If I can go, I must. If I don't go, I fear I will regret it the rest of my days.

So I'm trying.

Another lazy Southern summer is on the horizon, but for the first time in my life I may miss it. I'm striking out as best I can, and the fear that causes tells me it's the right thing to do.

So Drunk

2011-05-06T00:11:00.000-07:00

Because I am.

I so want to bang my Chinese roommate...and he so is 18, and so not fucked as I am.

But I am...yipee...

So gone right now...

Love you to death...

Bye bloggers.

So obliterated.

Love you, too.

(Even fucked beyond my limit, I insist on being grammatically correct)

Friends are calling...

Bye, fuckers.

Love you.

What's my real name?

Just kidding...BB.

Selected Entries: January, 2004

2011-05-05T18:22:00.000-07:00

In January of 2004 I was fifteen years old and, though I did not know it, embarking on a year that would profoundly change my life.

As Christmas Break ended and classes resumed I began to learn about my birth-mother's ancestry, demonstrated the germ of what would become a deep interest in politics, continued to obsess over grades, and documented a week of epic snow.

I also hinted for the first time that we might be moving to Deep South State, and, accordingly, contemplated with fear all the mysteries of the future.

January 1, 2004

Another year has passed. It seems like just yesterday that I was standing in this very house ringing in 2003 and wondering what the year would bring. It’s incredibly difficult to imagine that twelve months have passed since then. 2004 seems unimaginable to me. I wonder if I’ll be here again to welcome 2005? I hope not.

January 3, 2004

The Bush Administration continues to press its fascist legislation onto Congress. Bush, who campaigned on a pledge to support states’ rights, is now the subject of a headline that reads, “Bush, allies, continue anti-states’ rights push.”

I wish that everyone could’ve seen that headline in September of 2000. Well, now it’s 2004, so we have a chance to boot the lying double-crosser out of office.

Surprisingly, Howard Dean seems to be the most viable candidate for the Democratic nomination.

It’s now nearly noon, and so the U.S. unmanned spacecraft “Spirit” should have by now landed on Mars. Hopefully it didn’t crash. I have some homework to do. My United States History teacher gave us some.

January 4, 2004

Well, tomorrow we go back to school. Although it’s been more than two weeks since I set foot in BTHS, I’m still not too eager to go back.

Personally, I could do with another two weeks of winter vacation. These last sixteen days of no school and no worries have been pretty darn fun. If it were up to me, we’d get off December 15th and not come back until January 15th. [I was clearly anticipating university attitudes on this subject.]

January 14, 2004

Today I began considering trying to get a scholarship from the Sons of the American Revolution. My great-great-great-great-great grandfather was Revolutionary Ancestor, an aide-de-camp to General Washington, who would become our nation’s first president.

It was this ancestor's suggestion to cross the Delaware River. This gives me such a feeling of pride; without my family it is quite possible that there would be no United States of America.

My grandmother was delighted that I was interested in this and referred me to some things to read. I did read some, and I learned that my ancestors on Anne's side were complexly intertwined with the Revolution. Knowing this makes me happy. That’s so cool! Someone in my family got to hang out with George Washington!

January 16, 2004

We spent second period in the computer lab due to testing. The juniors and seniors in that class can be surprisingly nice. A junior boy told me all about the different parties he goes to. We both spoke extensively about our parents, parties, different styles (aka, my hair), sexual relations, and a multitude of different things.

Teenagers are uncannily open with one another. I can’t believe how many people I’ve known or know who’ve had sex! Lacrosse Boy even tried marijuana once, and First Twin's mother caught him, but didn’t tell his mother. I’ve never had sex or done drugs…but, secretly, deep down…there’s a part of me that’s excited by wild, dangerous parties. I wouldn’t ever actually do anything, though; there’s too much at risk.

I found out today that I made Select Choir (so did another boy I know) and that I’m ranked in the top 25% of my class. I’m so excited! I start work tomorrow.

January 20, 2004

The president’s State of the Union Address is this evening. I plan to be watching (and, from what I hear, I’ll be one of sixty million to do so. It’s absolutely frigid outside, 19F I’d wager. In a shocker, Kerry won the Iowa Caucus! I wonder how he’ll do in New Hampshire? Hopefully well.

January 22, 2004

Today was the last day of the semester, and, for me, the last day to attend three of my classes. Now, only United States History and Chorus II remain left as constants.

As far as the final exams/midterms go, I got an A in Business Law, an A in Biology, an A in U.S. History, and not an A in Geometry. I’m not exactly sure what grade I’ll be receiving in Geometry, but it can’t be too good; I’d be downright shocked if I pulled a C on my final.

I came dangerously close to a nine-week average of 89% for Business Law, but today I turned in a load of work that raised my grade from an 89% to a 90% and it raised my final grade from a 90% to a 91%. I got a C on my U.S. History midterm, but that really wasn’t entirely my fault.

January 24, 2004

It’s snowing like crazy outside! It’s been doing so since a few hours ago, or, in other words, late last night. The weather forecasters called for only a small bit of snow today, but I suppose they were wrong. Their track record hasn’t been all that impressive of late anyway. The last major snow storm that we were supposed to get left us with a whopping 2” of snow.

It really is pretty outside, though; what I would call “snoe.” Well, now, I’m going to pray. I find it incredible that I can speak directly with the Creator and Master of the Universe.

Later

The snow continued much longer than expected. Its lightest flurries had not entirely disappeared until sometime, I’d guess, in the early afternoon.

Powell was assigned to shovel the driveway, and I the walk, but he did such a poor job that I went back over his sporadic, uninspired work. I think that I did it quite nicely. As a matter of fact, Mom was later so furious with him for it that she paid me ten dollars and bought me a Starbucks frappuccino.

Well, I thought that we got some snow today! Tomorrow evening and into Monday morning Beautiful County is expecting more than eight inches of accumulation, followed by, at approximately 7:00a.m. on Monday, a nice coating of sleet. And all of this means…no school on Monday! I’m treating tomorrow just like a Saturday!

January 25, 2004

Mom is making her delicious chicken noodle soup today. It’s perfect for winter days like this, though I wouldn’t fancy it during the summer. Well then, I guess we won’t be having it too often if we move. Oh, that’s right, I haven’t told you yet. We could possibly be moving to Deep South State within the next few months.

Mom was promoted last week and now she’s been recommended for a job there. If she gets the position it is highly likely that we'd be moving before my sixteenth birthday, which is only in April! We won’t know for a little bit whether or not she’s been accepted to fulfill the position, but I must say it looks very good for her. We were originally supposed to move to New England State, but we kind of did an about face, I guess.

I’m naturally excited that we might be moving; I mean, what a change! Dad said our house there will be much bigger, with a hot tub and a pool built in standard. He’s also discussed the idea of hiring a Spanish nanny. At first I thought that this sounded unrealistic, but given how much Mom and Dad will be working when we first move, it’s actually highly feasible.

I can’t believe that this is all even happening! Things have changed so much since my childhood! In my view, I have the perfect life, anything I could ever want and more. I mean, I do well in school, I have many friends, and I come home every day to a beautiful home and a wonderful family. I have a job, but I’m sheltered and supported. If I were to live like this forever, I really don’t think I’d mind. I only wish that this great existence hadn’t started so late (high school), because soon it will all be over.

In two years I’ll be a senior! I swear, there are some days when I wish with all my heart that I could have this life but reverse my age to that of a seventh-grader. I mean, I’m still sheltered now; it’s just that that period is coming to a close. And I’m sure that in January of 2006 I’ll be looking back two years and wishing I could be a tenth-grader again. I thank the Lord for the time that remains.

January 26, 2004

Well, as expected, no school today. I heard it on my alarm radio this morning. And Mom and Dad expect that we won’t have school tomorrow either. It’s supposed to be raining sleet and an inch of ice this evening. Added, my best friend Lacrosse Boy says that we’re supposed to get more snow as well. I hadn’t heard that one.

Just because we had off of school today doesn’t mean that we were spared any work, though. Oh, no. Powell and I trooped out into the balmy 18F weather to shovel the foot of snow that had accumulated in our driveway overnight. By the time that we had finished (and, given the conditions and our haste to be done, it wasn’t a very good job) all that I could feel of my feet was an icy, cringe-inducing unpleasantness.

I won’t say that it was painful (at least not too painful), because it wasn’t. It was just a very uncomfortable sensation. You know the feeling that you get when you hear someone scratching their nails against a chalkboard? If you could feel that in your feet, that’s what it was like.

As soon as I was inside I fled to the bathroom, where I took a nice, hot shower. Because my feet and hands were so cold when I got in, the water, which felt normal to the rest of my body, seemed scalding to them. That type of hot, though, the sort of comparative hot that seems hot only because you’re so freezing, doesn’t really hurt. You feel like you’re showering in boiling water and that it should be very painful, but it’s not.

I hope that we’ll have off of school again tomorrow! After all, we are supposed to get an inch of ice! However, I’m just not completely sure it’ll happen. Once again, I hope. I’ll have to get a good look at the weather this evening.

January 27, 2004

There was no school today either. I must say, this is awesome. And, we’re supposed to get four to eight inches of additional snow (and ice) later today. All of this is something I’ll miss desperately if we move to Deep South State, where it’s normally 70F in January. Oh, boy. I sure can’t wait for that!...not. I will really miss winter.

January 28, 2004

We had off of school again today, but it is almost certain that we’ll be in school tomorrow.

January 29, 2004

Today was wonderful. Excluding Algebra II, I love my classes, and the change is nice. Survey of American Literature and Composition (or Survey and Comp., as it is called) is a wonderful class. The teacher, Fat English Teacher, is absolutely crazy, but in a good way. He’s very hyper, and especially for such a large, middle-aged man. He makes strange noises and is very quirky.

By the way, we had a two-hour delay today.

My Algebra II teacher is a freakishly tiny woman; Thomas is about 4’5” and she can’t be too much taller than that. She comes to below my chest cavity, and I have to look nearly straight down when talking to her. Her size is misleading, though; Short Math Teacher is a tough little midget.

Caught in the Act

2011-05-04T18:55:00.000-07:00

The bathrooms in Major University's student dining hall are designed in such a way that a person walking in cannot see the people who may or may not be standing at the urinals about five feet ahead of him.

Because of that unique (and, in retrospect, ill-advised) feature, the young man who entered just as I was finishing up had no idea he wasn't alone in the room.

I pulled the flushing handle and walked around to the sink to wash my hands, whereupon I found myself face to face with a student a year or two younger than me who had his shirt pulled up to his chin and was clearly examining the profile of his own abdomen in the mirror.

His eyes went as wide as a raccoon's and the white cotton tee was pulled down so quickly that his torso became a flesh-colored flash.

I started laughing and he shrugged with embarrassment.

"Hey, I gotta check myself out," he said as we passed each other. "I just ate and I feel like I'm fatter."

"No judgement," I said from the doorway.

I looked back and smiled.

"I thought I was the only one who did that."

In the Family

2011-05-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon I found myself in the unusual position of methodically identifying all of my own university's flaws and discussing them before an audience of prospective students.

"This is my favorite school so far," came the enthused proclamation. "I like this way better than Famous Southern State University."

"Famous Southern State has a better social atmosphere, though," I cautioned. "A lot of people here commute."

"Man, this dorm is so nice!"

"You'd be an underclassman, though. The area where you'd be staying is way crappier."

"Whoa, is that any astronomy tower?"

"You're not even majoring in astronomy."

"BB, do you not want me to come here?"

I looked over at him.

"Thomas, of course I want you to come here," I assured him. "I just don't want you to rush into anything."

At quarter after nine on Saturday morning my fifteen-year-old brother and I hauled ourselves out of bed, hopped into my car, and drove the hour and a half southeast to the Goldlands campus of Major University.

Thomas is only in tenth grade but has toured two other colleges already, and I figured that now was as good a time as any to show this possible music major around a state university that happens to have a respected music program.

Of course, the lofty academic goals of the trip were at some points obscured.

"You know everyone is going to think you're on this tour, right?" my brother asked me as we walked into the admissions office.

I shot him a severe gaze.

"That's not true," I replied shortly. "That's just ridiculous."

He smirked as we approached the desk.

"Are you here for the tour?" chirped a receptionist before I'd opened my mouth.

Thomas made ready to laugh at me, but I cut him off.

"He is," I jerked my thumb at my brother. "Just him."

"Okay," the receptionist smiled. "Last name?"

I gave her our surname and, after consulting her computer, she pointed back towards the doorway through which we'd come.

"Okay, great," the woman beamed. She turned to Thomas and handed him a small green bag. "You get this free Major University tote, and you guys can just wait out in the hallway. The tour will start in about twenty minutes."

We thanked her and took our leave, Thomas peering over the balcony.

"So," he turned to me, a dirty grin on his face. "No one's going to think you're on the tour, huh?"

My expression would've growled if it had had a voice.

"That was one person," I said. "And that was only because we walked in there together."

His expression of smugness was almost unbearable.

"Sure it was."

At around eleven-thirty an admissions coordinator came out to lead us to the school's movie theater, from which the tour would officially begin.

We'd not yet reached the stairs when she turned to me and asked, "Honey, did you get a bag?"

After a briefing that ran for about a half hour, the admissions coordinator turned us over to a student guide.

The Freshman was adorable, a petite, rosy-cheeked eighteen-year-old who talked about "boys' floors and girls' floors" in student housing, expressed her happiness that the gym was located across from the dining hall, and assured the parents of potential students that she'd learned a lot because she'd been on campus "almost a whole year."

Thomas saw a lot that he liked on our inspection of the school, and my obvious efforts to temper his enthusiasm seemed to confuse him.

"Dude, I like it," he said at one point. "If I like it right away and decide it's my favorite right away, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," I replied. "I'm thrilled that you want to go here. I just think you should consider many different schools. This was my first choice and I got in on early admission, so I never applied anywhere else or even toured anywhere else. As much as I like it here, I regret not looking around more."

A lot of this came out of my not wanting to unduly influence him in favor of Major University. Still, all my exhortations to caution aside, I was just tickled at the impression the school seemed to have on him.

After our guided look-through had ended we met Laquesha and another friend of mine for a late lunch in the student dining hall. Once we'd finished eating, Laquesha and I showed Thomas the Student Website offices, the primary Freshman housing area (where I lived in 2006), an on-campus diner, one of the gyms, my dormitory, Laquesha's dormitory, and a university cafe.

"This is awesome," Thomas commented as we looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows in Laquesha's fourth-floor dormitory and took in the whole campus. "The view alone is worth it."

"Well, trust me, she pays for it," I put in.

Laqeusha nodded.

"I try not to think about it," she told him. "It's like three thousand dollars a semester."

Thomas looked at me.

"You think there's any way Mom and Dad would pay that for me?" he asked.

It was the kind of question that needed no reply save the laughter I gave it.

On our way back to my car Thomas and I swung by the art building, which is where he'd be spending a good deal of his time if he entered as a Freshman music major.

We'd arrived at Major University at eleven o'clock in the morning and didn't leave until nearly seven o'clock at night, but after eight hours on his feet Thomas was still excited about all he'd seen, if a bit tired to boot.

This is not by any means a done deal; Thomas has two years of high school left, and I've encouraged him to sample potential universities widely in that time. Even if by his Senior Year he still sees Major University as his top choice, though, other obstacles will remain.

Major University is, for example, one of the best post-secondary institutions in the U.S. for certain fields of study, and its competitive entrance standards reflect that status.

Then there's the problem of cost: when he shared how much he liked the school with my parents and I asked them where else he should visit, my mother responded, "Western County Community College."

Their aversion to financing higher education does not appear to have relaxed with regard to Thomas, but that will likely be an issue no matter where he decides to go.

The important thing is that this is doable. Major University may be hard to get in to, but Thomas already has a sibling there and his grades are good enough that, with hard work, he could graduate high school boasting a solid GPA.

The money will be there, too, somehow. I also struggled with parents whose abundant ability but near total unwillingness to pay my tuition made college a constant fight.

I hope Thomas will never experience the nasty double vise of parents who refuse to help even as their high income makes him ineligible for government aid. Maybe our mother and father will have learned better by then. If not, he'll have loans and Grand Ma Normal Family, who's saved for all of her grandchildren. Assuming I've done well enough, he might even have me.

There's still plenty of time until then, of course.

Yesterday may one day be looked back on as my brother's first step toward university. For now, though, until those important decisions are made, it was just a nice Saturday.

The Old Man

2011-04-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

He appeared in my window, an elderly man with white-gray hair and a slight paunch. I'd been trying to pour my problems into the moon, and the next thing I knew he was there.

I drew back, startled.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. I didn't mean to sound rude, but he and I had a checkered history; in the past, his visits had not often been pleasant.

"It's lovely to see you, too" he said gruffly. His wispy helpers wheeled around him, shining and insubstantial. "We need to talk."

"I'm not in the mood for talking," I countered. "Do you know what time it is?"

His face was expressionless.

"Time is an illusion," he answered stoically. "As you know."

"Right," I said with a roll of my eyes. "Well, I'm pretty sure the ten-thirty class I have tomorrow actually isn't an illusion."

"Since when do you suddenly care about going to class?" he asked.

I scowled but he waved my irritation away.

"Beside the point," he continued. "Issues of a pressing nature have arisen and will soon arise. We must discuss them."

"No," I answered. "No, we won't. You and I have nothing to discuss anymore."

I scoffed at his absurd cross-legged posture.

"You realize I'm on the third floor, right?" I asked. "You look ridiculous."

He surveyed the night air around him and seemed for the first time to take stock of the fact that he was floating nearly forty feet in the air on the outside of my dormitory building.

His gaze returned to me with some irritation in it.

"Once again, beside the point," he said.

"How?" I asked incredulously. "Someone's going to see you."

His stare yielded nothing.

"In order for someone to see me they would have to be paying a great deal more attention than most are apt to do," he offered. "But this is all periphery. We must return to the matter at hand."

"No," I insisted. I jumped off the bed and my bare feet hit coarse carpeting. "You and I said our last words to each other back in '09. Leave me alone."

He assessed me.

"I've always judged you to be a bright young man," he said calmly. "And as my judgement by definition cannot be in error, I feel confident in asserting that you never truly imagined our relationship to be concluded."

I gave him the angriest stare I could.

"You should go," I said. I was trying not to shake. "I want you to go."

"I can't," he said simply. "You of all people should know that a man cannot escape his fate."

"I don't believe in fate," I came back immediately.

"No," he declared. His voice was stern now. "You don't want to believe in fate. That's quite different from not believing in it."

I huffed.

"Well, that's your perspective."

He leveled that scourging gaze at me again.

"In your moments alone, all the doubt fades away," he said with disconcerting authority. "When you walk home in twilight and cannot shield yourself from the scrutiny of the setting sun; when you stand in the shower and hold your own arms, always with the lights out; when you find yourself lying awake in bed on nights like tonight, you know. It is your constant terror."

I tried to glare but failed. The expression came off as weak and frightened, and the eyes I'd hoped to make huge with anger were just big with fear and sadness.

"Oh, BB," he sighed, and in that moment I believed he really pitied me. "My dear, sweet boy. Did you really think you could escape? Be normal?"

There was no sneer in the last word, no hint of mocking. I appreciated that but wouldn't tell him.

"I..." I began. "I don't know. I don't know what I thought. Maybe I believed it. For a little while at least."

"And it's not as if credit isn't due," he assured me. "Really, you've done a fine job of it. Even the most perceptive of those around you are aware on only the dimmest of levels that something is a bit...off."

He reached through the window and patted my shoulder.

"A finely engineered facade," he commended. "But a facade nonetheless."

I looked away, my silence the most damning admission I could give.

"You see the truth in what I'm saying," he went on. "It's obvious."

I brought my hand to my forehead and rubbed my eyebrow.

"You're right," I said. "I just don't understand..."

"What?" he prompted. His face held a look of such sincerity that I opened up even though I didn't want to.

"It's just..." I began. "There seems to be this undercurrent of tragedy."

"Ooh, 'tragedy,'" came the helium voice of one of the helpers. "A bright one, boss."

"Yeah, he doesn't miss a thing," said another.

"Quick, hide the drugs!" a third piped in.

"Enough," the old man pronounced. "That is neither necessary nor helpful."

His servants buzzed off into the night and careened into a few trees across the courtyard. The man suppressed an urge to grumble under his breath, then turned back to me.

"Everyone's destiny holds both positive and negative elements," he said. "Yours is unique in several respects, but that does not make it inherently worse than anyone else's. In fact, it's quite better than normal in some respects."

"I know," I said. I was still looking down. "But sometimes I wonder..."

I looked up at him and saw the guileless compassion in his eyes. I decided to take a shot.

"How will it end?" I asked.

"That will be up on you," he said. A subtle grimace shaped his face. "To a degree."

I sent him a quizzical look.

"No matter how well you do," he explained. "There is a chance that it will all end quite badly."

"How badly?" I asked.

He inhaled.

"Appallingly," came his answer. "Appallingly. It's one of those things I regret but can't change."

I swallowed.

"Why?" I wanted to know. "Even if I do well..."

His eyes narrowed.

"When you were a child, were you particularly cruel?" he asked.

I was confused.

"Not at all," I replied. "In fact, I was weirdly kind, all things considered."

"And did that for a moment stop people from hurting you?" he asked.

I understood his reasoning, then.

"Ah," I said. "Right."

"You can at least rest assured that it won't be mediocre," he said. He shook his head in disgust. "In truth, there's a sort of a hellish grandeur to it."

I shuddered at the idea of something that, for him, had already happened. Or could have happened. Or might happen. Things with him were always complicated.

"But that, even should it come, is far away," he continued. "And there will be great brightness in between, regardless of whether the conclusion is pleasing or not."

The old man smiled.

"And, of course, the ultimate conclusion will be quite joyous where you are concerned," he said. "No matter how you are dispatched to it."

I tried to feign resolution.

"Okay," I said. "I guess I'll just have to be strong."

He smiled again.

"You will be."

He started to float away, but I called after him.

"Wait!" I exclaimed.

He descended to my level once more.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But have you seen Good?"

He shook his head.

"But fleetingly," he said. "It is an unfortunate fact that our paths do not cross nearly often enough."

"I figured as much," I admitted. "But Fate?"

"Yes, BB?"

"The next time you run into her, please tell her I said hi," I requested. "I miss her. I need her help now."

"Of course, BB."

"Okay. Thanks, Fate."

He nodded humbly.

"It is the least I could do."

My Birthday

2011-04-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

Norwegian stood in my bedroom, her soft face carrying a concerned expression.

"Drink this," she said, pushing a delicious mocha coffee my way. "You need it."

"Thanks," I said, gratefully sipping from the plastic cup.

"I don't get how you're still going," she noted. "I would be balling my eyes out."

"I'm kind of going back and forth," I admitted. "Every once in a while it'll really hit me and then I start crying, but I've been trying really hard not to do that."

She nodded.

Today was not the birthday I expected it to be. No one has died or is seriously ill or injured, but it was a very trying experience. I'll write a fuller post on it, when I have the energy. I haven't slept in more than a day.

"Yeah," I said. "I kept thinking it was the worst birthday ever because of everything that happened, but then this afternoon I looked on my Facebook page and saw how many people had written to wish me a happy birthday or just ask if I was okay. And then there were all the voicemails on my phone from people checking in to make sure I was alright."

The tears started welling in spite of me.

"I kind of realized that a lot of people love me," I said. My words were halting. "A lot of people really care about me. So I guess...it was a pretty good birthday."

Norwegian's blue eyes started to water.

"I think you need a hug," she said.

"I think so, too," I seconded.

She wrapped her arms tightly around me and I didn't fight it at all.

There, my face against her shoulder, it was okay to weep.

Three Years On

2011-04-07T20:16:00.000-07:00

Today marks the third anniversary of my debut on Blogger, an event that, encouraged by a generous mentor and driven by my own relentless need to share, would prove to have a major impact on me. Blogging marked a shift in the way I viewed my life and consequently in the way I lived it; in a way that mere journaling could not, it forced me examine myself in a critical, accountable manner.

Most of this was because I had an audience.

A diarist may pour his heart and soul into his writings, but generally speaking those writings are seen by no one but himself and whatever progress he derives from them comes exclusively by way of reflection.

A blogger, however, benefits from many voices. Those voices add to one he puts forth, shape his narrative arc with support, advice, and, when needed, gentle criticism.

I have been routinely touched and amazed by the number of people who take the time to read what I say and then share thoughts of their own. I am often surprised to look at my statistics page and see that I've received visitors from all across the United States and from as far away as Malaysia, Australia, France, Germany, and Britain. That is deeply heartening.

Both longtime friends and more recent ones have been a valued part of this experience. Your input helped me understand when I was doing something wrong. It also helped me realize truths I needed to see: that being gay was nothing to be ashamed of, that self-acceptance was beautiful, that the abuse perpetrated on me during my childhood was completely wrong and utterly inexcusable.

Thank you for that.

As always, no commemoration of this day would be complete without my acknowledging the debt I owe to Jo(e).

This phenomenal woman is a testament to what good parenting and good living can and should be. I first encountered her when I was a nineteen-year-old college sophomore just beginning to work through serious emotional problems, and our correspondence not only led directly to my establishing this blog but also constituted a major revelation.

Before I met Jo(e), I'd experienced precious little in the way of wisdom, kindness, or understanding from my elders. Most of them had earned nothing but my contempt. Then along came this intelligent, giving English professor filled to bursting with empathy, this person who showed me what a real grown-up was supposed to look like. She was a successful professional, a lovely writer, and managed to be a wonderful mother to her children while still nurturing herself.

Her example gave me something to aspire to. It gave me hope.

And for that, I will always hold her in the highest regard I am able to convey.

Thanks as always, Jo(e). You played a bigger part in my turnaround than I think you realize.

For a turnaround indeed occurred.

If there's one thing this blog has chronicled, it is a path of immense change. The nineteen-year-old boy who opened his first post by marking himself blackened has gone away, a phantom of misery and suffering that I doubt I'd be able to recognize today. I have progress left to make, but the life I lead now is defined by laughter, by smiles and affection and plenty. It's a good life, one I strive to make better.

So, for those of you who don't know (or perhaps would like to be reacquainted), my name is BrightenedBoy, but you can call me BB. BrightenedBoy was my second pseudonym, one I adopted when I discarded the initial moniker BlackenedBoy. For a long time I felt that this shift to the lighter BB was a natural one that was good for me to make, but as I've reflected on it I've come to believe that I should have remained BlackenedBoy. I am not a one-dimensional creature composed solely of happiness, for the trauma of what I endured still forms the mold of everything I am, even in my times of joy. That's not a bad thing, either. I have been BrightenedBoy for a long time now, though, and BrightenedBoy I will remain.

I am twenty-two years old, and currently a college student at a major university in the American South, where I'm studying political science and journalism. For a variety of reasons I will graduate in December of 2011, a year and a half later than originally intended. That can be mostly attributed to my adding a minor to my degree in 2009 and taking a semester off from school in 2010 to pursue an opportunity with a major record label.

When I'm not in school, I live with my parents, David and Marie (not actual names). They also reside in Southern State, along with two of my three siblings: Thomas (aged 15), and Pie (my sister, aged 7). My cousin, Beautiful Cousin (aged 20), attends a university close to my parents' home and stays with us so she can commute. They are all about an hour and a half away from my university’s campus, where they live in Mountain Town, a rural and isolated community remarkably cut-off from the extremely affluent area immediately to its east (the Goldlands).

Another brother, Powell (aged 21) now lives in Western City as he works through the consequences of some very bad decisions.

My profile picture for 2011 was taken last summer, when I went to visit a fellow blogger in Marble City. It shows me as I like to be, in shorts and a tee-shirt, with soft heat on my shoulders and a golden sun illuminating my flaxen hair. I'd like to think that it will be a fitting symbol for the next twelve months.

And now, a year in review:

April, 2010: I turned twenty-two years old and was presented by my friends with a poster bearing the name of then Republican National Committee chairman Michael Steele.

May, 2010: I left Local Records. I also concluded my spring semester at Major University. Though I did not know it, it would be the last time I was enrolled until the following January.

June, 2010: I began a public relations internship at Major University and also started work at the Mountain Town Book Shop.

July, 2010: I wiled away countless days with Laquesha and Norwegian, two close friends from Major University who happened to be in the Mountain Town area for the summer.

August, 2010: Suddenly and very unexpectedly, I was presented with a huge opportunity from a major record label that was considering extending me a recording contract.

September, 2010: At the very end of the month, I was informed that the record executives who'd been considering me and with whom I'd met had decided not to offer me a deal.

October, 2010: Major domestic discord and a violent incident with my mother led me to essentially stop speaking to my parents. During this time I was happy to get away to Major University, where I made several weekend trips to party with my friends.

November, 2010: I registered for spring classes at Major University.

January, 2011: I resumed classes at Major University.

February, 2011: I moved onto campus after commuting from Mountain Town for nearly a month, and was lucky to find a genuine friend in Patrick, my new roommate.

March, 2011: I began searching for literary agency internships in the Goldlands region for the summer.

Thank you for being here for me, whether it's been for three years or only a few weeks, and thank you for allowing me to be here for you. For what you share, on your sites and on mine, I am very grateful.

Being a member of your community has been a privilege.

Sometimes She Astounds Me

2011-04-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

Sunday evening was a stormy one in Mountain Town.

Coal-colored clouds rolled across an already-black sky, rumbling with umbrage and occasionally igniting in brilliant sparks of light. My parents and Beautiful Cousin were watching a movie in the living room, and even over the din of the television I could hear the groan of thunder outside.

The house shook slightly, but no one else was unnerved by it.

"Where's Pie?" I asked.

During our romantic comedy viewings my 7-year-old sister often retreats to the second floor to see the Nickelodeon shows she loves, and I figured she may have done so now.

"She's upstairs," my mother said. "I think she has the Kids' Choice Awards on."

The house creaked again and I had an image of my second-grade sibling flying through an open hole in the ceiling.

"I'll go check on her," I announced.

When I walked into my parents' room, Pie was sitting on the bed avidly watching some unseemly game show wherein contestants competing for various prizes were doused in green sludge as the host and audience members laughed uproariously.

"Hey, Pie," I said, plopping down on the bed. "Whatchya doing?"

"BB, leave me alone," she muttered. "I'm trying to watch this."

She scooted to the other side of the bed and I rolled over to her, whereupon she hopped off the blankets and onto the floor. I decided not to follow her and gazed toward the window instead. I could just make out flashes of bright light from behind the blinds.

"Hey, Pie," I said. "Come watch the lightning."

She got up, grousing the whole time, and trudged to the window. I thought for sure I was about to lose her to the show, but then a huge trident of white-blue flame cracked through the sky like a gleaming serpent of electricity and her whole demeanor changed.

"Whoa!" she exclaimed. "BB, did you see that?"

"I did," I answered. "Quick, go grab the lights."

She hurried to the other side of the room, flicked the switch, and was back to the window within moments.

The glass through which we stared reflected the television screen, upon which a distasteful individual had shed his dignity in mucous-colored slime as the maniacally grinning judge urged him on towards some laudable reward.

"Pie, turn that off," I petitioned.

"No," she remonstrated.

Another lightning strike zigzagged down from the clouds and her will was broken.

She slammed the power button on the set and I breathed a sigh of immense satisfaction. I'd defeated the television.

We sat there for about twenty minutes, watching as truly spectacular wires of lightning wound their way out into the sky in angular patterns of magnificent luminescence.

From miles away we could see the low clouds over the mountains charging with energy that they then spewed into the valleys below. Rather than manifesting itself in single bolts, this lightning took the form of rolling waves, hurtling from one side of the landscape to another like an impossibly fast sun.

"Wow," Pie whispered.

I was pretty taken with it myself.

"Hey, BB," she began. "Do you think there could ever be a lightning bolt big enough for the whole world to see?"

I pondered the question.

"Well," I answered. "The world is round, so I'm not sure how the people on the other side would be able to see a lightning bolt that happened here."

"But could it happen?" she asked.

"I guess," I said. "But any lightning bolt that big would probably incinerate the whole planet."

"Will the planet ever incinerate?"

I weighed what my answer would be. Pie poses uncomfortable questions sometimes, but my general policy is to be as honest as is good for her and I decided to do so in this instance.

"Yes, sweetheart," I told her. "Eventually, it will."

"How will it happen?" she asked.

She was very calm.

"One day, we'll fall into the sun," I replied.

That's not entirely truthful; the sun will actually explode outward and envelop us, but the end result is the same anyway.

She looked right into my eyes.

"Is that going to happen when I'm grown up?"

"No, honey," I said. "You'll be long gone by then."

She turned to the window and was suddenly lost in contemplation. It was like I wasn't even there.

"I don't know myself," she murmured.

"What do you mean, Der-Der?" I asked.

"I don't know myself," she repeated. "I don't know why He made this world. What would it be like if this world weren't here? It is here, though. I don't know why."

Not for the first time, I was blown away by the depth that exists within this little girl, a little girl whose peers probably grapple with no question more difficult than what their favorite nighttime snack is.

"Pie," I said again. "What do you mean, honey? When you say you don't know yourself? What do you mean?"

"I..." she struggled with the words, a 7-year-old child trying to articulate concepts so much bigger than most 7-year-old children ever touch upon. "I can't explain it. But I don't know myself. I don't really know anyone. Sometimes when I'm at school I'll just look at the ground and wonder why we're here, and I don't know. I don't get the point."

She inhaled.

"The world is not to know yourself, though," she said. "The world is for you to be here."

I was hoping by this time that she hadn't registered my total dumbfounded shock.

She turned to me with the earnest eyes of an elementary-schooler.

"BB," she asked. "Do you think Santa knows why God made the world?"

I sighed, weirdly relieved but a bit sad as well. Maybe that sadness comes from knowing that, with a mind like hers, the delightful combination of mystery and certainty that comprises childhood will be neither mysterious nor certain before long.

"No, sweetheart, he doesn't know," I answered. "No one knows."

Her face fell and her shoulders visibly sagged.

The sound of the Country Music Awards coming from downstairs quickly lifted her out of her funk, though.

"BB, come on, come on!" she exclaimed, racing for the staircase. Mortality and higher meaning and all their implications were forgotten. "Carrie Underwood is singing!"

I stared out at the clouds for a moment longer, slowly rose to my feet, and followed my sister down the stairs.

Censored

2011-03-28T12:26:00.000-07:00

Last night, I found for the first time in my journalism career that my speech was being suppressed.

This all began on Friday afternoon, when I received a telephone call from the editor-in-chief of Major University's Student Newspaper.

"BB!" she chirped when I answered my phone. "This is Editor-in-Chief!"

"Hey, Chief," I said in surprise.

Given that I'd ceased working under her a year ago (I now write and edit for Student News Site), I was a bit unsure why she was calling me.

"Do you remember last year when we did an April Fools' Day issue?" she asked.

I immediately broke into a smile.

Last spring I'd relished the opportunity to contribute to an Onion-style printing of Student Newspaper.

"Of course I remember," I answered. "Gosh, that was so much fun."

"Well, we're doing it again, and I wanted to know if you'd like to write us some articles," she said. "The stuff you gave us last year was easily the best material from anyone on staff."

Flattered at her praise and thrilled with the opportunity to compose more satire pieces, I told her I'd send a few things along that weekend.

On Sunday evening my cell phone rang again.

"BB," said Editor-in-Chief when I picked up my phone. Her voice was shaking with laughter. "BB, I just read your articles. We just finished the one about the serial killer. This is fucking hilarious but there's no way I can print it as it is. The part about...holy shit, 'sodomizing with a broom handle?'"

For a moment she was overcome with giggles.

"Yeah, they'd kill me if I ran that story. It's freaking amazing, though."

Editor-in-Chief gave me the option to revise two of the pieces I'd submitted, but I told her I couldn't in good conscience set about intentionally degrading the quality of my own work. This morning, de-clawed versions of the faux news stories debuted in Student Newspaper, and I grimaced at the damage the alterations did.

There is one place, however, where I can post whatever I wish. Here, without further adieu, are the articles that Student Newspaper considered too controversial for publication:

BOA Members Burst Into Laughter After Raising Tuition

All 20 members of the Major University Board of Administrators burst into raucous and sustained laughter on March 7 after voting to raise tuition for the 2011-2012 year, meeting attendees reported.

“This $700 tuition hike constitutes an increase of eight percent!” howled Rector Emile Vinitz as tears of mirth poured down his face. “And the students are powerless to stop us! Utterly, utterly powerless!”

Vinitz then exclaimed, “My ribs!” before falling into a puddle of his own urine and shrieking at the top of his voice.

Other BOA officials were similarly overcome by the underlying hilarity of their shamelessly gouging the students whose interests they are appointed to look after.

“This decision is one that we made only after careful and considered debate,” board member Teresa Berne gasped while visibly fighting the urge to claw her silk blouse and cackle maniacally at the ceiling. “Aw, who the hell am I kidding? We just jacked tuition up by more than four times the rate of inflation! Fuck the students!”

Some BOA members, such as Daniel Carter, were particularly tickled by the fact that, while tuition jumped nearly 10 percent, the amount of financial aid awarded remained unchanged.

“Their Stafford loans aren’t even enough to cover their housing costs!” cried Carter as fellow board member Drusilla King tore off her clothing and drenched her naked body in champagne. “If we keep going, we’ll soon make Major University completely unaffordable. And this is a state school!”

Major University president Aaron Miller praised the BOA’s move, saying that it upheld the proud Major University tradition of “building a world-class university that nobody can attend.”

The meeting thereupon degenerated into a drunken fracas in which board members threw chairs through windows, defaced a wall with profane graffiti, and sexually violated both of the board’s student representatives.

“I am the supreme maharajah of India!” proclaimed a stupendously trashed Emile Vinitz as he mounted Danica Mitchell, one of the students.

When reached for comment on the incident, Vinitz said that he felt his conquest of Mitchell was “only appropriate.”

“Given that Ms. Mitchell is a student representative, I actually thought it was quite fitting,” Vinitz mused. “After all, we’re essentially doing the same thing to all of her classmates.”

As of press time, the BOA had voted to increase its members’ salaries by 25 percent.

Serial Killer a Really Nice Guy

Goldlands resident and computer technician Thomas Lanney, 42, is a totally nice guy despite his carnal taste for human blood, friends and acquaintances reported Monday.

“Tom is just really decent,” reported neighbor Eli Quinn, 37, who is unaware that Lanney ritualistically dismembered 24-year-old jogger Stephanie D’Alino after brutally raping her in the alley between his and Quinn’s townhouses last weekend. “Very easy to get along with.”

Others echoed Quinn’s sentiments, praising Lanney’s courtesy, respectful nature, and unusual devotion to cleanliness.

“Some of the residents are really bad about maintaining a neat appearance for their property,” said neighborhood denizen and homeowners association president Laurie Baker, 52. “Not Tom, though. It seems like he can never do enough to keep his house and yard in impeccable condition. Sometimes I’ll even see him in the driveway frantically scrubbing the insides of his trashcans in the middle of the night.”

Neighbors were not alone in mistaking Lanney’s sociopathic isolation for politeness.

“Tom is really quiet, but that’s just because he’s such a gentleman,” said co-worker Melinda Harris, 30, whom Lanney regularly fantasizes about sodomizing with a broom handle and beheading.

Added Harris, to whose imagined shrieks for mercy Lanney has achieved sexual release on 17 separate occasions, “I think he’s just lonely. He doesn’t have a lot of friends, but he’s honestly a sweetheart.”

Upon hearing of his friends’ kind words, Lanney displayed the indicators of happiness that he has learned to accurately mimic.

“It’s so wonderful to be trusted,” Lanney said with a rigid smile. “I mean, liked. It’s so wonderful to be liked.”

Selected Entries: December, 2003

2011-03-25T12:44:00.000-07:00

A note: Those readers who are sensitive or easily upset should avoid reading this post. In December of 2003 I was fifteen years old and halfway through my Sophomore Year of high school. The abuse I'd suffered for years at my parents' hands continued to play out, and, in a traumatizing incident early in the month, escalated.

Towards the end of December it would turn out that not even Christmas was safe from my father's misguided notions of "discipline."

True to the sunny and childlike nature I maintained in the face of this emotional and physical violence, I sought to downplay the injustices visited upon me and emphasize those things that made me happy. It would be several years before I learned to reject the falsehood of forced optimism.

When I shared with my roommate, who is a psychology major, some of the events told here, he said he could not believe I hadn't developed a serious mental illness.

December 3, 2003

The news that Lacross Boy greeted me with this morning shocked and saddened me. His sister’s friend, Megan, died yesterday afternoon in a car crash in Beautiful Town. Her twin brother was driving the car that they were in when a man tried to pass about five cars. He hit the car in front of them, which flew into their vehicle, in turn sending the siblings into oncoming traffic. A mini-van rammed straight into the passenger’s side, killing seventeen-year-old Megan instantly. She’s in Heaven now. Ours was a school in mourning, tears streaking in every hallway, hugs shared in every room. I don’t want to think about that, though.

December 4, 2003

Snow! It’s snowing!

December 7, 2003

Note: This journal entry is deliberately vague, namely because I could not bring myself at the time to recount in writing the awful events that had transpired the day before. What you are about to read is the immediate aftermath of an explosive and deeply unsettling incident wherein my father, touched off by an inconsequential non-offense that I can no longer remember, verbally berated and physically attacked me.

At one point he tackled me, pinned me to my bed, and spat in my face while screaming homosexual slurs.

My parents effectively made it unacceptable for me to be gay and then, as I strove to deny my natural instincts, used my latent sexuality as a constant weapon. Because being homosexual terrified me, the prospect of homosexuality was invoked whenever my mother and father hoped to inflict real damage. They were successful.

Today is the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, but for me December 6th will forever be the day of infamy. Yesterday has been scarred, burned into my mind. Yesterday my very soul was shaken to its foundations and I begged God for death. Every view that I had of myself was shattered and I was left to pick up the pieces, left to engineer the reconstruction of my disoriented spirit.

The one responsible for this (Dad, of course) has my forgiveness, but now matter how hard I try, I cannot forget. Last night I lay down in my bed, the same bed where earlier that morning the monster pinned me down as I screamed my hatred, and I tried to numb the pain through prayer and blissful unconsciousness.

And then I woke. And it all came back.

The fighting, the screaming, the physical attacks. But most of all, what he said. That struck deeper and will have more severe repercussions than any of the physical blows. When it ended, I was a complete, hysterical wreck. My brother, Powell, consoled me and helped me, though he couldn’t stay long. Meanwhile, I took all of the money from my hat (roughly $90.00), put it into a wallet, and put the wallet into my pocket. I grabbed a bank statement, my school I.D., and a duffel bag. I shoved some random clothes into the bag and prepared to leave.

I knew where I was going [my father had threatened to send me to live in squalor with Anne, who at the time was effectively homeless], and it wasn’t pretty. And then, I never went. Rather, for five hours (excepting once to eat), I remained imprisoned in my own bedroom, far too frightened to come out.

December 9, 2003

The following poem was written about my sister, who was then six months old.

When I stare into her eyes light emerald
The world unfurls without a care
The forests, hills, thick life, abundance, all are nestled in her hair
When she smiles, the globe explodes, a symphony of sensation

Her joy encloses all the Earth, euphoria not needing reason
And when she sings, when that voice rings, there ends all pain and suffering
Angelically high, her song underlines, her innocence and purity
And as I see her face alight, I see all nature without plight

And as I probe her endless soul, I find a heart that’s made of gold
And Lord I love her, beyond words
The hope of all the Universe

December 12, 2003

Today was Powell’s fourteenth birthday. A pleasant day. I’m going to read my Bible and pray.

December 14, 2003

The news that my mother woke me with this morning is still surreal, and Powell and I both agree that even now, after four o’clock in the afternoon, we still can’t believe it. Saddam Hussein was captured alive today. We’ve all assumed him dead for so long that the astonishment at learning this was quadrupled. Seeing the video of his body inspection was indescribably weird. There he was, this dangerous tyrant, now exposed as nothing more than a short, pudgy, elderly man. He just stood there submissively as they looked at his arms, under his beard, even as they took a saliva sample. This was the same man who vowed that every last Iraqi would fight to the death rather than be taken. Well, I guess not.

December 25, 2003
Christmas, 2003

This has been one of the worst Christmases that I can remember. I have neither the energy nor the lighting to go into it now, though. I’ll write more tomorrow.

December 27, 2003

The reason that Christmas was so terrible had nothing to do with presents. I got a video game that I actually liked! A video game! Can you imagine? It’s rather hard, though, and I don’t play it too much.

No, the trouble this Christmas involved my parents, in particular my father. My mother, you see, has a fake laugh that she often uses. It sounds a bit like “her, her!” or “hur, hur!” So when she did it, I said, in an exaggerated voice, “Oh, that was funny, hur, hur!”

Although we children found it perfectly funny, my mother wasn’t quite as amused. So she sent me to my room. Well, that was fine. But then my father found out. It was just the excuse he needed.

“You can go to your room and go to bed,” he said at 7:30p.m. Despite my mother’s pleas that I get out (after all, she reasoned, it was Christmas), my father was immoveable. And it wasn’t even to him that it happened. He just needed a reason. The very next morning (after I endured four hours of the torture that comes from inactive isolation) he awoke sick as a dog with the flu. It’s particularly potent this year. I think that perhaps his sickness is reprisal for his actions on Christmas.

He began to get better today, but the mindless punishments have continued. Mom unplugged my computer on Christmas and has yet to restore my access to it. We went to bed at nine o’clock last night. Tonight we will go to bed again at nine o’clock, for the reason that we have to leave at ten o’clock tomorrow. This is, of course, not a real reason, and it now doesn’t appear that she’ll follow through on it.

They’ve now stopped. Still, the leverage that they hold is frightening. They have the ultimate weapon. We are very excited about going with Anne. I know that she bought me a video camera. She told me that the people next door to her are Egyptians, but that they’re also Russian Orthodox.

December 31, 2003

Today is the last day of the year. Tomorrow will be 2004. It’s really hard to believe.

Problems With Powell

2011-03-14T11:26:00.000-07:00

As it seems is always the case, there have been issues lately with my brother Powell. Many of you will remember that the sibling who is closest to me in age has also had the most troubled personal history.

This twenty-one-year-old's checkered relationship with my parents entered a new chapter last month when he reached the end of a probation that was imposed upon him for an underage drinking incident that happened on Christmas Day, 2009.

Powell, who graduated high school nearly three years ago and hasn't done much of anything since, had been promising my parents for months that as soon as his probationary period concluded he would join either the Navy or the Coast Guard.

When he first completed high school without gaining admission to a four-year university, I was opposed to his signing up for the military. At the time I told him that he should make that commitment only out of sincere zeal to serve and not because he felt he had nowhere else to go.

Powell has since shown little inclination to utilize other options, however, and with his life stuck in an aimless limbo I advised him recently to enlist.

He reiterated that he would once his probation had ended.

In the meantime, he used his impending induction as an excuse to do absolutely nothing.

"I just don't see the point in getting a job," he repeated all winter. "When I'm going to sign up for the Navy in February anyway."

February came, though, and with it a series of reasons why Powell could not, at that moment, take action that would advance his life in any meaningful way.

"Here's the thing," he told me recently. "I have to get all of the paper work together saying I completed my probation and paid a few tickets I had. Plus, I still have THC in my system."

For those who don't know, THC is shorthand for tetrahydrocannobinol, the main chemical component of marijuana and the one most frequently searched for in drug tests. That, of course, brings me to another important fact: Powell is no longer living with us.

My mother, in large part to prevent Thomas from following the same path Powell went down, recently instituted regular drug tests for my fifteen-year-old sibling and has generally tried to maintain a home environment that is rigorously free of substance abuse.

One element of this program has been a requirement that Powell remain clean.

When he told our mother that he was "not smoking" but probably still had cannabis residue in his system, she kicked him out.

I don't blame her.

Powell, of course, as breathtakingly arrogant as he is averse to accepting responsibility, absolutely blames her, and on this issue as on others I find I cannot agree with him.

Take, for instance, his reasoning as regards marijuana.

Powell has smoked since he was about Thomas's age, and that habit has not abated even in the face of academic failure, court sentences, unemployment, repeated ejections from the house, and, now, the need to pass a drug test for the purposes of entering the armed forces.

"You don't get it, BB," he told me. "If you fail a drug test one time, you are kicked out of the military and you can't ever re-enlist. I can't take that risk. I just have to wait until the THC is gone."

"But Powell," I asked. "If you knew that you had this deadline coming up, why wouldn't you have quit doing weed far enough ahead of time to be able to pass a drug test now?"

As always, he had no satisfactory answer.

In the years since childhood's protective shield was withdrawn from him, Powell has increasingly come to resemble a member of my birth-mother's family: lazy, unemployed, entitled, full of flimsy excuses, and perennially low on cash.

His monetary deficit comes from a mind-blowing ability to plough through whatever funds he's given, another trait that I believe he inherited from Weird Family, a group of people whose financial misadventures are today confined to shady drug deals and unpaid bills but who once had both the resources and the ineptness to make a major dent in the world's largest economy.

Powell hasn't managed to squander monies on quite as epic a scale as some of his forebears (our great-grandfather was particularly infamous for an incident in which he lost in excess of $100 million), but proportionally speaking he's done a pretty good job of mucking things up for himself.

Last week, for example, after a long stretch without any real infusion of cash, Powell received $400.00 from the sale of a car he'd purchased with my father. Seven days later Beautiful Cousin and I were taking him bags of food because he'd spent every last penny he had and was left with no way to feed himself.

The friends with whom he's living apparently did not feel compelled to help him.

"Powell," I questioned him in exasperation. "What could you have possibly spent $400.00 on in less than two weeks?"

"Some of it was groceries," he said, then perhaps realized how implausible an explanation that was given the purpose of our visit. "I'll be honest, some of it was for beer. We went out to dinner a couple of times, too. Plus, I bought concert tickets."

"Powell, why would you buy concert tickets when you have no job?"

My brother, even when he goes months without a paycheck, always manages to find money for partying.

On top of that, he has an uncanny ability to take already awful situations and make them demonstrably worse, often on the basis of hideously flawed logic.

"Mom and Dad have made it so that I can't join the military," he informed me recently. "They've put me in the financial situation where I literally can't."

"Powell, that makes no sense," I said. "You get a bonus when you sign up."

"Yeah, but you don't get it right away," he objected. "Mom and Dad have made it so that my only option is to sell drugs or get a job."

"Powell, why the hell wouldn't you get a job?" I asked in frustration. "Why in the world would you think you needed to sell drugs?"

"BB, I have no money," he answered.

"Couldn't you enlist and then work in the meantime?" I questioned.

"Oh, I don't know," was his mumbled reply.

His outlook also embraces wild conspiracy theories (his favorite topics of discussion in that area are the Illuminati and the unconstitutionality of the federal government levying taxes) and a sense of superiority that his circumstances render unspeakably pitiful.

I can't help but thinking he might be mentally ill.

With each day I see him becoming more and more like Anne, throwing away every opportunity put in front of him and always having a perfect reason for why he must do so.

I don't know what will happen to Powell, but if he fails (and I earnestly hope he doesn't), it won't be because he lacks talent or intelligence. That, too, sadly, is a hallmark of Anne's family: wasted potential.

In any case, the experience of Powell has completely recalibrated the attitude of the adults in our family toward the youth.

My grandmother perfectly illustrates how this has played out.

When Powell was eighteen and I twenty, my father's mother gave us access to multiple bank accounts, saved for us since our births, that in total provided us with about $14,000.00 each.

Within a year, the entirety of his money was gone, whereas three years later I've managed to save a large portion of mine. For the rest of the grandchildren, saving or splurging will not be an option; when Rowdy Cousin and Tall Cousin, both seventeen, graduate high school this June, they will receive not account numbers but checks made out to their respective universities.

"I just don't even know who Powell is anymore," I told my father today. He'd walked into the kitchen when I was halfway through writing this post to tell me how worried he was about my brother.

As a teenager, Powell was funny, strong, charismatic, and confident. He was the good-looking athlete who got all the girls, who had big plans for his life and was going to follow them with a gladiator's stride. The sad, pathetic man I see today is a decrepit shadow of that vibrant adolescent.

I just don't know how it happened.

I wonder, quite often, what Powell's fourteen-year-old self would think if he could see what he would become by age twenty-one, and invariably I imagine him filled with revulsion.

I wonder equally often if anything could have been done to prevent all of this, and if so, what it might have been.

Still more do I wonder if Powell might yet set things right.

I hope so. I really do.

Why Is This My Life?

2011-03-09T07:21:00.001-08:00

It's been two weeks since I've written, which is probably my longest lag in the entire time I've been blogging.

It's midterms right now, though, and midterms are always a distressed time for any college student.

I'll have plenty of topics to write about during my nine-day Spring Break, which starts on Friday.

Until then, though, you'll just have to take it on good faith that I'm still alive.

Whoops

2011-02-24T11:03:00.000-08:00

Anne's family apparently has a more widespread (and more nefarious) reputation than I realized.

I should probably explain.

My birth-mother and her relations, for all their current squalor, come from an extravagantly aristocratic background and until a fairly short time ago, historically speaking, were major players on the international stage.

Because I was raised apart from Anne, this is a heritage that I've only discovered recently, and my feelings toward it are somewhat conflicted.

To make a long story short, Anne's line is the product of two major royal houses, several prominent noble dynasties, and a smorgasbord of the upper echelon of American society.

Beyond scholars of obscure naval and colonial history, I've encountered few Americans who have appreciated the import of my mother's family or even recognized her surname. Evidently, however, we had a rather more pronounced impact on the other side of the Atlantic.

I came to this realization by way of Major University's dining hall manager, who is an immigrant from Ireland.

Yesterday while standing in line to enter the cafeteria, I heard the girl in front of me discussing a certain Irish city with him.

"Oh, yes, I've been there!" Irish Man exclaimed with gusto. "It's a beautiful place. A beautiful place indeed!"

He was still chuckling when I got to him, and so I thought I'd bring up my own connection to Ireland.

"Hey," I began. "Do you know where Anne's Ancestral Seat is?"

His face clouded.

"Well, of course I do," he said. "Yes, I know it."

"That's my family's, uh...place."

Calling the castle fortress and surrounding region our "place" seemed the most polite way of putting it; Anne's family were actually English aristocrats with no Irish blood at all, and their relationship with the Emerald Isle was fraught.

Towards the end of the 17th Century a branch of the dynasty just hopped across the Irish Sea, carved out a piece of Ireland, declared their ownership over it, and stayed there for a few hundred years.

We were like house guests. With guns.

It was only after I'd said the town's name that the inadvisability of so identifying myself to a native Irishman occurred to me.

"Oh," he said. "You're one of them."

He called out to the other students in line.

"We have one of Them right here!"

The students smiled uncertainly, none of them having recognized the name.

"Well," he said to me. "You must be a very wealthy young man. A multi-millionaire."

"No," I answered. "No, no, no."

What's especially funny about this is that Anne and most of the people related to her are now in advanced states of destitution. People tend to remember history, though.

"Are you kidding?" he asked. "You people owned half of Ireland!"

I felt a vague sense of guilt.

For all the good that Anne's family has undeniably done, they've also had a series of rather unpleasant incidents that has included leading entire nations to war (more than once, though mostly in Europe), establishing monolithic and exploitative corporate entities (mostly in this country), helping to perpetuate the institution of slavery (also mostly in this country), and, on one truly regrettable occasion in Jamaica, committing a crime against humanity.

In perspective, our comparatively brief conquest of just one part of Ireland wasn't that bad. But still.

"I don't think it was quite half," I mumbled awkwardly.

Irish Man smiled at me. He'd only been teasing.

"Enjoy your meal," he said with a laugh.

I took my ticket, waited until Laquesha had passed through the line, and then went to find a table.

Selected Entries: November, 2003

2011-02-19T14:40:00.000-08:00

It's been since December that I last did one of these.

In November of 2003 I was fifteen years old and a bit closer to the childhood side of the child/adult continuum that is adolescence.

That month I ruminated over what it meant to stop Trick-or-Treating, wrote a poem inspired by domestic violence, and chronicled the spectacular implosion of Aria, the child nation, founded in October of 2001, that has figured prominently in my journals from this period.

November 2, 2003

This Halloween was very fun. Since I’ve stopped Trick-or-Treating, the holiday has taken on an entire new meaning for me. Before, the excitement circling the occasion involved finding the right costume and the most fruitful collection of homes from which to collect. Now it involves thrilling the Trick-or-Treaters and scaring myself and my family and friends.

On Friday afternoon Blonde Cousin and Thomas were carving pumpkins. I went with Dad to pick up Pie and to get a movie. We got Wrong Turn.

I came home and called Blonde Friend [a girl] on the telephone. We talked about Rich Boy’s party (Rich Boy is a wealthy boy who goes to our school). Blonde Friend said that she really wanted to go to this party but that she hadn’t been invited. I told her that barely anyone going had actually been invited, so she needn’t worry herself with it.

Rich Boy has a large home within a forest, and his parties are known as breeding grounds for intoxication. It’s common knowledge that scarcely anybody likes Rich Boy at all, but they use him for the extravagant (well, okay, not extravagant)—scratch extravagant—large, alcohol- and drug-oriented parties that his parents’ money can provide. This is, in my mind, pathetic of him.

Blonde Friend then told me that was going with her mother, brother, and her brother’s girlfriend to see the new version of The Texas Chainsaw Massacres. One of the scariest things about that movie is that it’s based on a true story.

While I was talking to Blonde Friend on the phone, Thomas was at the hospital with Dad. While we were gone he tried to show off with the knife and he cut his finger. He quickly stopped trying to act like a teenager as he was too busy screaming and crying.

He asked me to guess how many stitches he had to get and I said “Three,” which actually turned out to be right.

In Geometry earlier that day I had guessed the answer to a complicated coordinate graph question.

November 4, 2003

On November 4th, my father and I had an argument that concluded with his hurling a football at me. He threw it across the living room and into the kitchen with so much force that it shattered the glass I'd been holding in my hand. Unfortunately, these types of incidents were quite common. I wrote the following poem immediately afterward.

What is it?
Who is it?
Where is it from?
Should I suppress it, or let it go on?

Is this thing healthy?
Was I right all along?
Or have I been
Terribly, terribly wrong?

Their words pierce like knives
Their fists, supreme, reign
My soul screams through the night
My heart, fiery, flames

My mind burns with anguish
My being with the blows
Harboring anger
That nobody knows

I must keep it inside
I must not let it show
Though it hurts me down deep
Though it scars me so

I must maintain the silence
Taciturnly alert
Or worse will rain down
The torrent of hurt

I can’t let it be
Can’t let it be seen
Can’t reveal the horror
Befalling me

Resistance is death
A shot with a rose
A soul being murdered
Amidst hails of their words

Just take it, accept it
Inferiority
Your killers ordained it
For eternity

Let them hack you to pieces
Strike you down with the sword
And they all say nothing
It goes as a norm

But why take it this way?
Why not try to fight?
Well, those orthodox bastards
Would get quite a fright

An outcast you’d be
For daring defy
Ostracized, isolated
By all despised

But no
Might it just not be so?

To Hell with their thoughts
To the gutter their wishes
To ashes acceptance
For their attacks vicious

I will cry from the hills
I will scream out my pain
I will proclaim against it,
“My heart will not be maimed!”

I will fight it with fire
With a passion untouched
They can never erase
My loving to love

November 9, 2003

Much happened this weekend. First of all, I failed another Geometry test on Friday. This is becoming a serious and disturbing problem for me. I received my report card on Friday, and, to my delight, it was my best-case scenario that played out. I already knew this, but seeing it on the report card made it so much better. The teachers’ comments did not print, though.

You see, our school’s computer system crashes periodically throughout the school week, going down on average probably about three times a week. Last week there was a particularly bad malfunction (“Attention teachers,” an administrator had announced dramatically. “We have a critical situation in the Network.”), and, as a result, teachers’ comments did not print on report cards.

Friday was great. First of all, five minutes before we were to be dismissed to go home, the fire alarm rang. Someone came over the announcements and said that we would have to evacuate.

Despite having been explicitly told on former occasions to leave our things in the event of evacuation, we all took them anyway. On the way down the stairs, many people reported having seen and smelled smoke. I thought that I had smelled it, although I did not see any of it.

So, we had been standing there for less than a minute when we were told to return to our classrooms. For me that meant a trek up three floors. I had not even reached my classroom (I was just outside of it) when the bell rang and we were told to dismiss.

My father was delighted with my report card, as was my mother. So, I convinced my parents to take us to Pizza Hut. My father wouldn’t go, though, saying that he felt too sick.

Mom quarreled with him because of this, saying that the medications that he is taking are making him depressed and withdrawn. She says that he hates everyone (including his family) because he wants to be young again and can’t take the pressures of running a family.

Powell wanted to stay home and play football, so just Thomas, Mom, Pie, and I ventured out to Pizza Hut. We had several appetizers, and the pizza itself was good. We drove home, full and content. We stopped ay Blockbuster on the way home and rented Eight Crazy Nights, which I didn’t see, Legally Blonde II, which was very stupid (much less appealing than its predecessor), and Spongebob Squarepants Season I, which, of course, Thomas loved.

I spoke briefly with Greg, a peer of mine who works there.

When we got home there was a package for me. I assumed that it was from Grand Ma Weird Family but wondered why it was so small; it bounced around its outer box every time that I picked it up. I tore open the larger box and there was a ring case. I said aloud, “Well, that’s odd, why would Grand Ma send me a…”

I knew what it was before I finished the sentence. I quickly opened the case and screamed my delight. My class ring was here. It was even more beautiful than I thought it would be. It’s silver all over, with my name and graduation date on the side (2006). The ACADEMIC and GOVERNMENT symbols also affixed to both sides look magnificent, and the large faux diamond on the ring’s top sparkles wondrously. Around the faux diamond wind the words: “Beautiful Town High School.” Dad loved my ring, as did Mom. I went outside and got into the hot tub. That was nice. I came back inside and Mom went to bed shortly thereafter.

My alarm clock went off at 5:30a.m. on Saturday morning. Pie woke a little while later, honoring me with her presence a little bit after six. She’s such a cheerful little baby, and especially in the mornings. I got ready, and around nine o’clock I rode through downtown Beautiful Town with Mom to the building that houses Charity Grocery Store.

There was a rather uncertain woman there who didn’t seem to know too well what she was doing; she goes once a month, and she hasn’t been able to make it since March or so. Much to my embarrassment, a woman who came in thought I was a girl! I didn’t correct her, but another person (a man) thought so, too (he, however, recovered from his mistake quickly). I managed to contain my mortification and I went on as if it hadn’t happened.

At noon Dad was waiting for me outside in the van, quite contrary to last week, when he didn’t come at all and tried to force me to walk home. Blonde Friend’s mother came to the rescue, though, answering my phone call from downtown and quite willingly coming to get me. Not all parents would do that. We went home, me with a “Dr. Bob” (cherry soda). When I got home I made some soup for lunch, and then Anne called and I spoke with her. I’m going to go to bed and pray now.

November 13, 2003

Snow!!! Glorious, pure, white snow! The Heavens opened up and rained it over us today. I’ll write more about it tomorrow.

November 27, 2003

My hair is getting long.

November 29, 2003

Truly shocking news out of [the child nation of] Aria.

First Twin, [the President of Aria] said today that he will not run for a third term next month, even though practically everyone loves him and in the last election he won more than 90% of the vote. Even the children in Andrea voted for him! [First Twin was from Atricia, with which Andrea had a long and bitter rivalry]

With First Twin not running I really have no idea who will be president and neither does anyone else. I guess Short Boy might run again.

Powell [the constitutional monarch of Aria] is really worried about it. A lot of people don’t really like him but they do like First Twin, so having First Twin as president makes Powell easier for people to deal with.

Some people have even said that Powell should abdicate but he says he won’t and for once I agree with him. Powell might be a bad Czar (okay, a really bad Czar) but if he gives up the throne then Thomas is next in line and Thomas is only eight. That would be crazy. Plus, Thomas is kind of bratty.

The Constitution was signed two years ago today. That's strange.

November 30, 2003

Everything is moving so fast that I can’t believe it. First Twin resigned as president this afternoon and Powell called an emergency meeting of his cabinet.

My parents wanted to know why so many children were crammed into our basement but we told them they were playing video games.

Nobody was sure what to do. Some people (like Lacrosse Boy) were saying that we should have a new presidential election right away, but other people thought we just shouldn’t have a president anymore and the Czar should rule on his own like back in the old days.

Everyone in the provinces was going crazy and the phone was ringing every few seconds. Thank goodness Mom and Dad went to the store. That would have been hard to explain. A lot of the people calling were kings and queens from the provinces asking what was going to happen, and many of them said they were dealing with unrest.

Andrea was completely berserk the whole day. We could hear them cheering and chanting from inside our house. A couple of kids even came up to the door wanting to talk to Powell but we didn’t let them in.

Short Boy [the king of Andrea] walked over to help Powell figure out what they would do next, but then they got into a huge argument. They made up, though.

Finally around 7:30p.m. Powell decided that he would abdicate.

Since Thomas is so young, Powell just granted independence to all of the provinces rather than pass the whole empire to our youngest brother. So now there are seven separate countries where this morning there was just one, and Powell isn’t Czar anymore. I guess there is no Czar, actually. Wow. That’s such a wild thought.

I’m relieved by it.

I’m very tired and am going to bed.

An Update

2011-02-15T17:56:00.000-08:00

This seemed like an appropriate time for a general update given all that's been going on in my life. Isn't that always the way with me, though?

Crises and golden moments abound, although most of what's happened lately has been on the good side of things.

To start with, my place of residence has changed.

At the commencement of the spring semester I started commuting five days a week from Mountain Town to Major University. That drive, an hour and a half each way, is an arduous one, and before the first week was out I was wondering how I'd done it all of Junior Year.

Up until last Wednesday, my entire schedule revolved around a ridiculous daily hike.

In order to make a nine o'clock morning class on Mondays and Wednesdays I had to rise by seven (at the latest), which in turn entailed going to bed at ten or eleven the night before. Any college student will tell you that retiring early is difficult (staying up is literally ingrained into our neurological makeup), and, unable to make myself turn in before my tenth-grade brother, I soon began suffering sleep deprivation and found myself constantly tired.

Coming home each night was also ponderous; the Goldlands, known for its hellish traffic, turns into a gridlocked nexus of metal around five in the evening and stays that way for hours. Rather than sit in the mess, I would withdraw to the computer lab each day after class and stay there until seven, at which point I would leave school (with the roads still moderately full) and arrive home at around nine.

All of this was taking its toll on me, so you can imagine my relief when, two Fridays ago, I was offered a spot on campus.

It was with glee that I packed my things and moved back into the Student Town complex last Wednesday.

The young man sharing my room, Short Roommate, has thus far proven himself amiable, and has further worked himself into my good graces by undertaking a certain athletic venture with me. That, of course, brings me to the next development.

The above picture, by the way, is (likely) the closest that I will ever come to participating in anything resembling Jo(e)'s naked photo sessions, so enjoy.

The photograph is a representation of what I look like right now; tall and thin but with no muscle definition nor anything to keep me from looking, as Thomas recently said, like "a twig with a mane."

To remedy that situation, I've signed up with Short Roommate for the Major University Running Team. I did so for several reasons.

To begin with, I've been of the opinion for quite some time that the track and cross country athletes at my school are some of the most beautiful male specimens on campus. Furthermore I'm not sure, given my build, of a sport that I could possibly be better suited to than track, so track it is.

"With running you don't really want to bulk up a lot," one of the team coaches (who are also students) told me. "The goal is to build lean muscle."

Since lean muscle is the only type I'm ever likely to acquire, this seems like a good deal to me, and after an abortive attempt at athletic running this summer I'm eager to embrace the structure the team will provide.

The club, a recreational group that is separate from the official Major University track team, only meets twice a week for now, so to supplement Short Roommate (who did track in high school) and I are tacking on an additional three days a week.

I'll have to let you know how this goes.

Though I've not yet actually started, I think I'm doing the best thing for my body type.

In another bit of news, Beautiful Cousin has returned to us.

"Whore Bag!" I exclaimed happily as I climbed the stairs for breakfast on Sunday morning.

This girl, who turned twenty yesterday, moved back in with us on Friday after three months of living with her boyfriend. Her commute proved a bit too much for her, so she's returned, to my approbation (if not Thomas's).

It's just nice to have another person around my own age living under our roof. There are now seven of us in the Our Family house: my father, who is 47; my mother, who is 37; Powell, who is 21; Beautiful Cousin, who is 20; Thomas, who is 15; Pie, who is 7; and me, age 22.

A full house is much more fun.

This weekend, though, an empty house promises more in the way of pleasurable diversions; my parents are headed with Thomas and Pie to Mountain Resort, and I'm thinking about going home to enjoy their absence.

The Beautiful Boy (Is Not Me)

2011-02-08T11:15:00.001-08:00

Every time I see you
Is a spark of light
Illuminating my inadequacy
Showing me, in starkest glare
All that I can never be

That is why I love to look upon your face
Yet why my eyes burn to do it
Stung as they are by the radiant vision
Of a beauty
Greater than what I even hope

For myself

It's unfair
To you
To project the burden of my pain
And my abounding tragedy
Onto your shoulders

It's not your fault
Nor your concern
For all you ever did was shine
Like a lily in morning sunlight, like a shimmering green sky in florid July
Like the realization of every mournful dream that's ever been tied to the moon or yearned for in the stars

You are everything I could ever wish
But never actually inhabit
The embodiment of what
Even at my height
I was but a crude shadow of

A blazing bright day with
Dirt under bare feet
And heat on
Shirtless arms

You will continue to beam
A pendant of virtue--real virtue, virtue that needs no declaration--and loveliness that in distress is still undimmed
While I will continue to wake
Each day
To the terror that is me

I love you
Or at least love what you are
I hate you
Or at least hate what I am
And I don't know what any of it will come to

Brilliance

2011-02-06T13:42:00.000-08:00

My seven-year-old sister and I were sitting on the kitchen floor this morning, watching as our three dogs horsed around.

Raven, the seven-month-old German shepherd, now dwarfs the two Dachshunds, and her conduct with three-year-old Minnie was growing a little rougher than I liked.

"Raven!" I called. "Raven, stop!"

Our newest pet completely ignored me.

"Raven!" I repeated.

Before I could issue another command, our six-year-old Dachshund, Millie, rose to her feet and brought the larger dog to the ground with a single bark.

I laughed.

"I can't believe Raven listens to Millie," I said to my sister.

"That's because Millie is the queen," Pie remarked, then clarified, "Only of the dogs, though, not of the family."

She smiled confidently.

"Dad is the queen of the family."

Hair Update

2011-01-31T14:55:00.000-08:00

It's been more than five months since I've done one of these, so I figure I'm overdue.

For those readers unfamiliar with the tradition, I've been growing my hair for a bit over four years and back in 2008 started making a habit of posting pictures of it each month.

I mentioned in a recent entry that my locks, which many of you seem rather fond of, have reached quite an absurd length lately, but until today there's been no visual evidence to back up my claims.

You'll find below all the proof you need. This is what my hair looks like now:

This is by far the longest I've ever had it, and I've been rather flattered of late by the number of people, many of them random strangers, who come up to me and tell me that they find my hair to be quite beautiful.

Of course, the long blonde waves tumbling halfway down my back can, in conjunction with my slight frame, fair complexion, and smooth skin, lead to occasional confusion regarding my gender.

"Dude, is that a guy or a girl?" a young man gestured toward me at a recent party.

In his defense (and mine), he was a bit drunk.

When his friend squinted at me curiously, I ended their uncertainty with a quick declaration.

"Guy," I announced. "I am definitely a guy."

About a month ago I was waiting in a restaurant to order my lunch when a member of the staff walked up to me and asked, "What would you like, miss?"

I laughed and tried not to blush.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not a 'miss,'" I answered, fighting my embarrassment.

An older woman behind me looked up in surprise.

"Well no you're not," she smiled and turned to the waiter. "He's not a girl. He's just a young boy with very lovely hair."

Periodic speculation concerning my genitalia aside, I'm not planning on getting a haircut anytime soon.

I like it long.

Plus, the onset in a few months of summer and the attendant light clothing it brings should leave no one in doubt about my sex; however androgynous I may sometimes look, there is no girl out there blessed enough to have my thighs nor cursed enough to have my chest.

Snow Day

2011-01-29T15:33:00.001-08:00

I think it says something about college students as a group that, three days into the semester, we were all wildly excited at the prospect of getting out of school for snow.

Campus seemed strangely subdued Wednesday afternoon as we waited for the weather event to begin, and there were few cars on the road when I left Major University several hours early to avoid the storm that was slated to hit just before rush hour.

As it turns out, I was smart to head out when I did; I was still on the road when the heavy rains turned into thick snow, and the furious system chasing me home left the highways in an ungodly state of gridlock until nearly midnight.

The snow was coming down at a torrid pace when I arrived at my house, piling up at the rate of two inches an hour.

"This is crazy," I told Powell when we went out for a grocery store run around five.

"I know," my brother responded. "You literally can't see to the end of the street."

Armed with ice cream, potato chips, chocolates, and chicken bouillon, we walked out of the supermarket and headed to the side parking lot where I'd left my car.

The snowfall was heavier than any I'd ever seen, and in the twenty minutes we'd been inside shopping my windshield and rear window had been totally covered in accumulation.

I wiped the fresh snow from atop my Oldsmobile and then, doing well under the 25-mile-per-hour speed limit, drove home through a town that was disappearing into the swirling hurricane of white.

The sky was the color of iron and fat snowflakes rushed down from it in an alabaster haze, raining down upon Mountain Town like paratroopers from an invading winter army.

I couldn't believe the intensity of the storm. The snow was so thick that it obscured nearby buildings as it blew sideways, and its component drops raced toward the ground.

Usually, at least around here, snow tends to float gracefully on the wind. This snow, though, moved like stones shot out of the sky.

"I wonder if this is what it's like to live up north?" I thought aloud.

When Powell and I walked through the front door we found my mother in the kitchen, conjuring up a huge pot of her renowned chicken noodle soup to fortify our household against the cold deluge outside.

Her efforts were very much appreciated, not only by her four children but by the cohort of young associates ambling about our house: Black Boy and Younger Neighbor, 19- and 18-year-old brothers who live next door and are close friends with Thomas; and Coffee-Shop Girl, a 17-year-old high school Senior who has dated both Thomas and Powell.

Our kitchen table was crowded as eight people drew up chairs and helped themselves to full bowls of the delicious steaming soup.

"BB, don't take pictures of me," my mother admonished.

"I'm not," I said. "I'm taking pictures of the food."

My mother sighed and Pie, with a straightforward look, informed me matter-of-factly, "You're weird."

The next day we slept late, then bundled up to go sledding.

At first I was quite irritated at being pulled away from my books and warm couch to shepherd Pie and Mischievous Boy, our six-year-old neighbor, to the site, but after we actually got there and started racing down the incline on our inner tubes and plastic toboggans I forgot my initial reluctance to go.

It was all great fun, and we were really very fortunate that the couple whose house happened to sit on one of the best sledding hills in the neighborhood had no trouble with a bunch of random children--and one 22-year-old--occupying their backyard.

It was a nice way to spend a Thursday off from school.

After two hours hurling ourselves head-first, backwards, and sideways down the steep mound we hitched a ride home with my mother.

I ate until I thought I would explode, then slept like a baby through a bitterly cold night.

The Star

2011-01-24T21:57:00.001-08:00

Note: I am well aware that the subject matter of this poem may cause concern for my wellbeing. I would assure my readers that the piece was an exercise in venting pent-up anxiety and nothing more.

I am so sorry
That I could not be
The things that You hoped for
That You gave to me

I am so sorry
That I fell so short
My voyage was wayward
And soon will abort

It's not that I'm thankless
For soul-shaking flights
For glorious sunshine
And probing starlight

It's just that those diamonds
Made me search within
And witness a struggle
I'm never to win

The truth that they showed me
Was too much to bear
So stark and unsettling
In their gorgeous glare

I am a dark hole in
A sky filled with white
I'll not shine and glimmer
Though so hard I fight

I don't understand why
You set me apart
Perhaps I am weaker
And fainter of heart

Much ligher than You thought
More craven as well
With more mournful sorrow
Than I've words to tell

I'm sorry to do this
I'm sorry to go
But each day erodes me
And carries me low

I wanted to join with
The rest of your stars
And glow the way they do
So bright from afar

Do you know what it's like
How it makes me cry
To look like no other
You've put in the sky?

I wish for but one thing
To be as they are
Undamaged and normal
An ordinary star

It's all that's worth having
It's all I can't have
The star that's denied it
Is bound to go bad

I know that I'm awful
But I can no more
Endure all this sadness
All this hurt ignore

I ask Your forgiveness
Your mercy and might
As a single black star
Burns out in the night

Moving Ahead

2011-01-15T17:44:00.001-08:00

"Now, BB, you're going to need to pace yourself here."

I looked over at the man from behind a tall microphone.

"Seriously," he said. "These next couple of tracks aren't meant to be keepers. You still have a lot of singing to do tonight and you don't want to blow your voice out."

"Alright," I answered. "I'll take it easy."

I have not been entirely inactive on the music front, though the dearth of information I've posted regarding the topic of late might give that impression.

After I returned in October from an unsuccessful meeting with record executives in Largest City, I fought off a surge of melancholy and, as is my manner, pushed ahead even though I didn't really feel up to it.

Failure is never easy to deal with. Failure on really quite a large scale, regardless of whatever success accompanies it, is doubly hard.

Still, I knew that there would come a time when I'd be raring to strike out again and decided to lay some groundwork that I might be in a good position once my high spirits returned to me.

That groundwork consisted of finding a band (Indie Pop Band), allowing them to compose instrumental parts to my original songs, and locking down a studio where I could record a demo at a reasonable cost.

We had two numbers done by the middle of December and were originally scheduled to go into the studio on December 17th, but a spate of irresponsibility and bad luck intervened.

On the afternoon of our first demo date, our guitarist (an otherwise upstanding individual) showed up for practice drunk. His impairment was explained away as flu to the studio owner and we rescheduled for January 3rd.

The same guitarist had a mishap on Christmas Eve, however, falling down the stairs and breaking his hand ten days before our booked session and three weeks before Indie Pop Band was to leave for an East Coast tour.

With only a bit more than a fortnight left until the onset of a tour and searching for an interim guitarist, the members of Indie Pop Band showed their true decency of character by insisting on honoring their commitment to me despite a significant time crunch.

Their bassist learned one of my songs in five days while simultaneously helping out the new guitarist, and on January 10th we were at last in the studio.

Once behind the mic we moved a lot more quickly than anyone anticipated.

Three run-throughs were all that was needed to get acceptable bass, guitar, and drum tracks, and I did only four vocal takes before the somewhat surprised owner declared we had enough material.

"I think we're done," he said in an almost-puzzled manner. He looked at his seventeen-year-old son, who was serving as our engineer, like he wanted confirmation.

"I'd say so," the boy answered. "Everything sounds good."

"Wow," the studio owner noted. "We got through that entire thing in an hour. You guys sounded awesome."

The musicians nodded politely but I felt I should clarify as to who exactly was responsible for the positive showing.

"You know," I declared, lifting my hands in an expression of bravado. "When you have a good frontman, everything else just sort of falls into place."

"Oh, yeah," the band members guffawed, gently ribbing me as we prepared to leave.

The owner placed the headphones over his ears and took in a bit more of the preliminary track.

"This is going to be a really, really solid demo," he said. He seemed like he hadn't expected that. "It won't be radio ready, but it will definitely be good."

The track is still being mixed and mastered, and will be completed in about a week's time.

I'm quite excited.

My considerable vanity makes me want to post the song here but my considerable fear of identification has led me to refrain.

I'm facing now the same issue I've been facing for roughly a year: on the one hand, I want success and want my readers to hear about it, but on the other I want to keep my anonymity.

These conflicting desires drove me to distraction last fall; the major record label I was in talks with would have begun promotional activity for me immediately if they'd decided to bring me on, and that would have put me right in the center of the public glare.

The company took a pass on me, but the issue remains the same: if I were to ever achieve substantial success in music and then be linked back to this site, embarrassingly intimate details of my private life could become common knowledge.

Picking me out would not be hard, of course. My hair alone would be enough to out me to my readers, but while this struggle I'm engaged in may eventually prove unwinnable I've decided I'm at least not going to make it easy by posting my song titles (my hair, by the way, is just ridiculously long now; I'll have to do an update soon).

For now, at least, I'm safely unknown. For now.

I'm hoping that the song I recently recorded may have the potential to change that and perk the interest of some record companies.

I don't mean to sound immodest, but I'm really an excellent songwriter. Breakup Song, which I so recently laid down, is cathartic, guitar-driven, and filled with a series of strategically timed hooks that get the tune spinning around and around in your head long after it's stopped playing.

"BB, that's really good," my brother Powell (who once called the idea my being a profitable recording artist "the most ridiculous thing [he'd] ever heard") told me yesterday. "I can see it being on the radio. It's catchy as hell."

I beamed. Given my commercial goals, being told that one of my songs is "catchy" is pretty much the highest compliment I can receive.

He added, with trepidation, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but one thing I think might help you is that you're willing to write the kind of music that radio wants to play."

I blinked.

"Why is that a bad thing?"

He shrugged.

"Well, you know, a lot of times that music just isn't very good or very authentic."

"Oh," I said. "That's not really the point, though."

My attitude toward music has been a source of amusement for my friends, all of whom seem to be struck by the corporate way I've approached this task.

The truth is that I see my music career partially in terms of artistic expression but primarily as a business venture. I am making and packaging a total product that includes my own crafted image and a series of enjoyable sing-along singles with the ultimate goal of selling records.

This straightforward mentality was off-putting to Local Records, which had Indie aspirations, but I think it will serve me well in the arena I wish to enter.

Response to the Breakup Song has thus far been mostly positive.

"BB, I'm so proud of you!" Black Dress Girl exclaimed after hearing it a first time and then insisting on listening to it once more. "This is really good!"

She bound forward, hugged me, and exclaimed, "You're famous!", drawing the stares of nearby patrons in the bookstore where we'd decided to meet up.

"So, you don't think I should have been offended by what Powell said?" I asked.

"No," she answered. "I mean, unless you were trying to do something new or innovative."

"Nope," I shook my head. "Not at all."

I have tried to disabuse myself as much as possible of any fantastic notions I might have concerning all this: I'm a good vocalist without being great, and am passably good-looking but in a way that is markedly boyish. There are plenty who are more talented and more beautiful than me.

Many of those people will not ever make it into the spotlight, though, and that's where I feel I stand out: I may have been given less than some but what I have is certainly sufficient, and I'm willing to wager that I put my lot to better use than those who might otherwise be more deserving.

I have a photo shoot scheduled for next week so that I can send out promotional images with my music. Wish me luck.

I Depart on Christmas Eve

2011-01-06T10:45:00.000-08:00

It's actually true, although I don't have the time just now to explain how.

I'm leaving for Anne's house, where I'll visit with my birth-mother for the next two days.

We're planning on having a Merry Christmas together.

A Question for Father

2011-01-03T19:51:00.000-08:00

Note: After a reader raised concerns regarding the content of this poem, I feel compelled to note that the piece is meant to be a statement on my father's specific relationship with my mother and not in any way an overall indictment of women.

I admire and respect many fellow bloggers, most of them women, and hope that respect is not at all obscured by this post.

How is it as a woman?
Please tell me, is it fun?
I hope this wisdom you'll impart
Dear father, to your son

Do you ever find it odd
To go while sitting down?
Do you your face admire much
When no one is around?

Does it feel most airy there
That gap between your legs?
Where we men have an instrument
That our attention begs

And what of breasts upon your front?
Of that you surely know
When yours so shapely and so firm
Through thickest garments show

How is to be so weak
So smitten with a man
That you indulge his every whim
Obey his each command?

You're rather ugly for a dame
But it won't get you blue
For there's in sad and quick defeat
No truer dame than you

Do you shudder with delight
When Mother comes to bed?
And does she take you from the front
Or from your other end?

Do you pretend at modesty
And motion to decline
When she over your protests deigns
To have you from behind?

I love you father but I won't
Adopt what you hold dear
Your flaming girlish posture is
Too shameful for a queer

Unlike you I am a man
I stand strong as a rock
While in your dress lie folds and lace
In my pants is a cock

Happy New Year

2011-01-01T11:11:00.000-08:00

A Happy New Year to you all. A real post will be forthcoming, but this deserved to be said.