Posts Tagged ‘poetry

14
Feb
14

A Winter Memory

InATreeAloneThis evening I went for a walk in the snow, at dusk into the darkening night.

The world reducing to icy blue landscapes highlighted by grey shadows.

Orange house light spilling onto drifting lawns. Wooded patches reducing in detail, fading into black.

As I walked through the neighborhood, blowing sleet stinging my cheeks, icy wind whistling. I approached the edges and I remembered.

The trees.

Unbidden and in a flash, the memory that floated through my mind on the flickering shadows was of being a hidden trans girl of 12 or 13 in the little village of Marstons Mills on the sandy spit of Cape Cod.

Dressing up alone. Barricaded in my room. Bursting at my teenage seems. Desperate to be honest and out in the world. Afraid of anyone knowing.

So it was to the woods. On snowy, blustery days, much like this. The days when a timid teenage trans girl could count on all the watchful watchers staying snug and secure, away in their homes.

Carefully, in my room, I would dress underneath. A secreted skirt from stored away clothes. Stockings stolen from my mom’s dresser drawers. Whatever odd items I could acquire, awkwardly arranged.

On top of this, wet winter, cold weather clothes. Bulky layers that keep the wind out and secrets in.

I would go outside. Down the street, around the block, to the edge of the neighborhoods. To the woods by the pond.

Deep into the shadows I’d go. Just out of sight, just beyond the edges of the spilling orange light. Out through the scrub pines and the bramble.

And there I’d strip off my layers. Peeling away the winter weather androgyny. Down to the summery girl underneath.

And in those white wooded patches, snow stinging my nearly naked legs, wind biting through my too-thin dress. For a few moments I was exposed. Unhidden. Out in the world.

With only the trees for company.

I always was nervous of being caught. Or hopeful of it perhaps. Of no longer needing to hide. Of having my secret stripped away, very like those warm winter layers.

But I was clever at my lies. I was too good at hiding my secrets just beyond the edge of the woods, or in my bedroom after school.

For a few moments though, I was out of my room. Out of the house. Standing shivering in the stinging wind. Just a scared young girl, happy to be without a mask, in the shadows of the woods.

The stinging, shivering, punishing cold acceptable payment for the price I supposed I needed to pay. A manifestation of the guilt and the shame I manufactured for my imagined sins. But for all that, as well a glorious reminder of being alive. Unavoidably aware and awake to the moment.

Eventually, all too soon really, I’d begin to put the layers back on. Replace the damnable disguise. Slowly, even against the cold. Savoring the danger of being exposed. Caught out in my carefully crafted lies.

Once again, bundled up and secrets hidden, I’d trudge back out of the snowy woods. Pretend to be a boy. My secrets sufficiently safe.

The trees never told a soul.

But every so often, when the wind whips and the sleet stings. When I walk through the dusk into the darkening night. They whisper to me on the wind.

And even though I no longer hide, no longer cover my secrets in androgynous layers. Though I celebrate the woman that girl has become. The trees remember the time before.

And I do too.

SummeryGrrl

10
Dec
13

Barstool Snapshot

If you want 'top shelf' go somewhere else.Lorelei sat at the bar dreaming of past glories. Neil Young playing on the jukebox. Heart of Gold.
Harmonica blending nicely with the chatter of bar life.
She opened her ears to hear the crowd. Trying to let it all in. Distinguish voices, isolate conversations. All so she could feel connected.
The Ramones playing.
Sheena is a Punk Rocker. “So was I.” Thought Lorelei.
A 16oz, 3 dollar can of PBR sitting in front of her.
She wished desperately that someone, preferably one of the big, male bodied someones, would talk to her. Ask if they could buy her a drink.
She’d smile, say, “Of course.” Then, “Jameson’s, neat, please.”
She’d nervously play with her hair.
Not because Jane Says, but because it’s an old habit. Because despite all her vaunted confidence she doesn’t have any idea how to effectively talk to men she’s attracted to.
Typically, she’ll default to trying to make herself sound important. Talk about how many people she knows. Things she’s doing to help people. Trans stuff.
Boring herself to tears.
She won’t know how to say how nervous she is.
And she’ll blow it, like she usually does. Blame her lack of success on, “Men being scared of her.”
So she keeps drinking her PBR. The jukebox keeps spitting out tunes. And she tunes back out into the chatter of the crowd.

23
Aug
13

Catching a band called ‘Homebody’ after doing a show, filled with energy

Music. The true thing. The sound moving through me. The beat. The rhythm. The glory.

I will never understand people who stand stock still. How can you not let yourself be taken away, traveled through space by such beauty. Waves of music.

Lost in the music. A speaker crashes. Glass smashes. It feels like part of the song to me.

I think, wow, that moved through me.

A forty year old version of Mac cleans the table. Black and white two-tone wingtip Docs and everything.

HouseLights on. Awkward end of the night vibe. The music will be back soon. Now the crowd scatters.

Beat Roaches.

12
Aug
11

Silence.

The silence always unnerves me.

I feel like I always have to have some… thing, going on.

Some music playing, some voices talking.

Some distraction from being alone with my own thoughts.

Because the silence is never silent.

The reason I rarely smoke marijuana anymore is because it just makes the noise in my head louder.  My thoughts run rampant from a million directions at once.

But that’s what it’s always like in my head more or less.

I think I’m afraid that if there’s no music on, maybe the thoughts’ll get so loud that the neighbors’ll hear ‘em.

Even when it’s quiet, it’s never silent.

The outside world leaks in.  The noise on the street.

A car honking, a machine whirring.  Indistinct voices speaking in a rapid fire patter.  A cadence you can tell as not English even though you can’t hear the words.

Those even can be distraction enough.

I’m afraid to be still.

My day is full of distractions.

From the moment I wake up, I’m trying to do anything but listen to my own thoughts.

I can’t nap during the day, and if I wake up for any reason, no matter how little sleep I’ve had, I’m up for good.  Once the fog clears, my brain starts to whirring.  All of the thoughts chased away by sleep’s sweet fog come crashing in on me.

The silence means I can hear them.

Even these words are distraction.  I start typing because a thought hits me and I can’t ignore it.  But then the words themselves fill my head.

I struggle to maintain honesty and not get caught up in the cadence and the details.

All I ever want to do is tell the truth.  It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

But not truth as in 1 plus 1 equals 2.  Or I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God.

The truth of a story.  Of poetry.

The truth that rings in your heart.  A little bell that sounds, “I know that…”

I want to get up onstage and open my mouth because that’s the only place the thoughts leak out.

The floodgates open up and all those thoughts come pouring out.

And my head quiets down.

When I’m in front of a crowd is the only time I am alone and it’s silent.

 

06
May
10

Raw

I was going to write about some drama, some politics that have been going on in  the trans community recently.  But honestly, I’m a little tired of trans politics right now.  It’s spring and I’m much more interested in human life and love and everyday things like waiting for a boy to call or figuring out what your heart is saying.  What MY heart is saying.

After all, that’s why this blog is called “transproviser”.  It’s about all things trans, but it’s about life and improvising as I go along too.  I want people to see when they read this blog, that as fabulous as I can be, as big as my public image may seem sometimes, I’m a real person.  Just like any of you.  I drive myself crazy hoping the cute boy will call.  I worry about the people I love.  I question myself and cry and sometimes drink too much when I’m alone.

And this is why I even do the things I do anyway.  Why I fight for “trans rights”.  It’s not about semantics to me.  Offensive words and flickering media.  It’s about everyday life.  Having a roof over my head and food in my pantry.  A job that’ll pay the bills so I can take my girl out every so often.  So I can have cab fare home if the cute boy turns out to be a douche.  It’s about taking care of my family and taking care of my self.  And about every single other person on the planet, trans, black, white, Hispanic, muslim, geeky, poor, hungry, being able to do these same things themselves.  Take care of themselves and take care of their families.  However they may define family.

It really and truly bothers me when anyone is hurting.  When I meet a homeless man who asks me “what was the most painful experience of my life?”  I stop and think.  This is honesty.  If I take it seriously, this is a moment of real connection.  So I tell him in order for him to tell me.  I share my pain so he can share his.  At a personal level, while looking into the eyes of another human being.  It’s an intense moment.  Like all moments it passes and we both retreat back to our roles.  But for a second it was there.  That is why I fight.  That is what gets me out of bed in the morning.

I’m scared.  Jumping tracks into what I really mean to say.  Steering away from the abstract.  I’m scared.  I’m just beginning to find who I am.  To find the new me.

I have been afraid to completely step away from the old me though.  I don’t really know how.

The writing flowed like an opened vein until that moment.  Just here.  Now I am at truth and my fingers suddenly are typing through mud.  The past is threatening to revisit my now.  To come from the then to where I am in the moment.  Can I even handle that?  I deal in all these abstracts, what happens when I have to live with the reality of my ideas?  I claim to be sex-positive and kinky and poly and pan and all of these things.  I have legitimately had adventures well beyond the experience of many I meet.  Whether vanilla or kinky.  You would think I’d be free.  But still, when someone touches me I freeze.  My breathing stops.  I talk and talk and talk and you would think by my words and my confidence I was immune from the same insecurities that plague all human hearts.  But I’m here to tell you I am not.

I am just as starved for human touch.  I am just as insecure.  I am just as afraid of rejection and heartache.  I am terrified of hurting someone else.  Of causing another pain.

In sexual terms, I have been looking to find a top to whom I can bottom.  But I have recently discovered a sadistic side in myself.  I think it is a reaction to my fear of causing pain.  It’s a pretty extreme reaction too.  It’s a pretty intense fear.

Again though, I dance around the truth, whirling in the abstract.  Why is it so hard to simply say what I mean?

Or am I?  Can you see beyond my words into the truth of what I’m feeling?  Can you see that these are not abstracts?  That this is not just a dance but an actual example of my fear?  My fear for instance of hurting another human being manifested by my careful avoidance of names and specifics.

Well if that’s what you guessed you win the zero-dollar prize.

And the worst part of it?  The worst part for me the writer and for you the reader?  This is actual life.  Not semantics or politics or polemics.   Or even good fiction.  This is a glance inside of me.  And there is not going to be a tidy ending.  There is not a solution which through this writing will miraculously and stylishly present itself.  It is life, wonderful and painful and messy and now.  There is no summation.  No wrapping up statement that’s going to happen.  My difficulties will still be that real and present as will yours.  But maybe by my opening my wound for you we can share a moment for a second.  A bit of truth a bit of connection before this, doesn’t end so much, as simply stops.

08
Mar
10

Saturday Night At The Club

Really needed a little loud music tonight. Beautiful people sway and sweat. Youth doing what youth do. Blithely unconcerned just dancing, grinding, drinking. I seek solace myself in the overwhelming numbness of the beat, the bass. I am pushed to extremes and my mind races.  I see old solutions in new places.  Try and find myself in who I was.  The writer in the dark. I’m not much for dancing tonight just need to be washed in the energy of the crowd. I want to be recognized and remain anonymous. The writer in the night.  I wonder why I never meet cute boys at the gay bar. They’re not here to meet me they’re here to meet themselves. I’m a woman! But where do I meet a boy who can sweep me off my feet. Accept me, be attracted to me for who I am. It never seems to happen at the nightclub but that’s where I go anyway. Where is the boy who can appreciate me, not be afraid of me?

So I’m talking to a cute boy at the bar. Dangerous hot and teaches Latin!!  I’m maybe making way managing small talk forcing myself to not be shy. Then some girl takes a slow dive to the floor in front of us. Next thing I know hot boy is helping her up and he’s gone.

All I can think is, “bitch”.

I wish I knew some smooth lines or could make myself not be so fucking shy. Maybe have a few less stupid morals. Pain in the ass standards.

I just want to get fucked. Why should that be so hard?

Oh I see, not giving a fuck is apparently the trick!! Just don’t try, don’t care and maybe I’ll hook up.

The cute boy is back “whenare yougonna buy me a drink” in a hot east Boston accent.  Demanding in charge and dangerous.

I buy the drink I don’t hesitate even. Captain and Coke.

Like I said hot boy. Big muscles not short either. He asks what I do. I tell him pageant queen writer. He says he writes poetry. I ask him his favorite Latin poet. Catullus. I’ve heard of him and all the other Latin poets he names. Fave non Latin poet? Elizabeth Browning. Holy shit umm I’m floored. Like I said dangerous hot looking like the kind of Boston guy that might follow me into an alley. Masshole bent Sox cap even. Camo tshirt. But smart and forward as fuck. He asks if I want to come back to his place with the girl who’s been puppydogging him around the club. I decline. I’m feeling a little self-conscious about my body tonight. Didn’t bother with any shaving so I have a fine fuzz on my chest. Plus I’m in no mood to share this one with some little alt girl. I want this boy all to myself if I’m going to fuck him.

Let him think about me for a while. Take out my card occasionally. Think about calling me.

He drifts away into other convos and I dance with some friend’s friends. Two beautiful girls. Mocha and milk chocolate. I joke about being too hot. They encourage me to take off my sweater so I show them my new tits. Little perky and sensitve when mocha beautiful tests their tweak!  I dance and abandon.

Life is good. Apparently the only thing I need to do is simply not give fuck. Simply stop trying. Stop caring.

Huh. Whatever works.

26
Apr
09

Jesus Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.
The Apartment has been vacated.
The Complex is dry.
Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.
The Cross on Golgotha hangs empty.
There are dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.
Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.
The rent check has bounced.
The Landlord is angry.
Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.
The publicity department have all gone home.
The Television is blank.
Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.
There is a pile of unreceived mail on the doorstep.
The litter box is empty.
Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.
I have seen 13 bodies all piled to heaven.
Stacked along the road.
A blind apostle.
And a limping proletariat.
I have seen the eyes of the nation gouged out by improbable circumstance.
Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.




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