Posts Tagged ‘writing


Fragments from a bar on Cape Cod

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.




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.

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