Once upon a time I used to just write. Let the words flow from my fingers regardless of sense or form or even merit. The words themselves were the purpose. There was little correction and if there was, it was crossing out. I wrote by the line. My thoughts conforming to the shape and width and style of the page and the pen.
Now, there are pixels and lines that never end. I never have to cram a word into an unanticipatedly short space before the edge of the page. Never mind margins. Margins are for people who give a fuck. Not writers.
But constraints can be creative. Constraints can be what spurs us to creativity.
So, I start typing. Writing words just for the sake of it. Not caring what people think. Or at least trying not to. Not too much.
There are so many things I want to write about and yet when I sit down in front of my computer the ideas seem truant. The really good ones are hiding in the bathroom sneaking a cigarette.
My nose runs. I have a cold I find inconvenient.
But then aren’t all colds inconvenient?
I have things I want to do. Socialization. I need to charge my battery. Yet even the long practiced art of making small talk with strangers properly eludes me. I see my opportunity and the words somehow come out wrong. I’m planted at the bar. I’m ready and in need. Yet, my mouth fails me.
Cape Cod, Hyannis at the Sam Diego’s back bar. I know these people, more or less. And I’m from this place. Of this place even, in my own way. But I don’t think I belong here. I have no earthly idea why I keep coming back to this place. I always forget how weird Cape Cod is in the middle of the winter. Not that it changes.
There used to be a gay bar here. For years and years. Now closed.
Why? Did all the gay people leave? Did they get rights and integrate? Where the fuck did my people go?
I’m relatively sure there must be some gay and Trans and just even weird old punks. But where the fuck do they go??? Even the very few places that where here when I was are gone and don’t seem to have been replaced.
There’s not even a decent independent coffee shop I can find. Just bars. With basically the same sorts of people in them.
Good gods. So why am I here? What am I waiting for?
Take a break to scan Facefuck. Click a buzzbait link and immediately click away when I come to my senses. Try to focus on the words before me. Write instead of feeding more good hours to the clickbait beast.
But again, what to write about?
I could write about anything, my fingers flying across the touchscreen keyboard. So what to do, what to do.
Maybe I should start my story.
It begins with pain. My earliest memory is of waking up my mom in the middle of the night. I have a hernia. She tries to make me laugh, because that’s all she can think of to do, to make me feel better. The laughter is pain, the pain brings tears. The tears mix with laughter and love.
A pattern is set for my life.
TransProviser 