Tag Archives: writing

Reasons to Despise Society, Pt. 1

It feels like last time I did a post we were still in the paleolithic age, smacking rocks with other rocks and chasing buffalo off high ledges. A whole lot of stuff has happened since last I took up the metaphorical pen to gift you with the machinations of my often idle mind, but rather than attempt to compact it all into a readable wad of text, I think I’m going to leave it all up to your imagination. You can imagine I was bundled away in the night by a mysterious band of rebels out to protest some awful new law and then became their leader, went on to conduct a completely underground (and successful) rebellion; or you can imagine I was stuck on the top of some distant mountain, barely surviving on bits of trail mix and granola while I waited for the authorities to come find me (while at the same time writing my masterpiece novel); or you can imagine that life has been kind of as it always has. Better, these days, but still not all that much different. I realize I’m hurtling, reluctantly, towards adulthood, and that at the end of this year my friends will be off to the bizarre guessed-at lands of life; and it is a bit daunting, to think that soon we’re all going to get tossed to the winds like so many discarded leaflets – but that’s life, it evolves and the people around you evolve, too. To remain static is impossible, and stupid if you try. You’ve got to kind of ride the waves, man.

I am imbued with some obscurity today, sorry. I think the happier I get, the sillier I get – and when I’m down or depressed I turn into a bad realistic fiction novel. I really do, I’ve read over my previous writings. I think I prefer my writing when it’s somewhere in the middle – not too obscure as to be difficult to enjoy, but not too raw that it starts to suggest the world sucks horribly and everything will be bad forever.

So with that out of the way, let’s look at reasons to despise society. I was inspired by one thing in particular, but I’ve realized since then that there are reasons all over the place, simply growing on the trees ready to pick off, and that I should maybe discuss them. Because as anyone who knows me knows, there are some aspects of society that I just can’t get past, that I feel it is my duty NOT to get past, so that you may understand them, too, and wield your new-found knowledge for the betterment of humanity. Or something; I’ll go with that for now.

What’s the thing, then? The thing is this:

asylum cover

Does it look fairly innocuous? A little creepy, but pretty much innocuous? Hold on to your hats. This is the cover for a book that I happened to see at the store, and when I saw it I felt a narrow look of uncertainty grow on my face, wondering if it was the new sequel to Ransom Riggs’ popular series about weird kids who live in Wales (it isn’t that good in my esteemed and glorious opinion.) But aha, the author is someone new – Madeleine Roux, to be exact – and, because my deductive skills rival that of the well-known fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, I was able to deduce that this Roux person is not in fact Ransom Riggs, and is in fact someone entirely different who just so happened to write a book that is eerily familiar to a certain other book which I didn’t find all that good. Am I overreacting? I’m not overreacting. Just look at the cover to Riggs’ Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children:

peculiar children cover

WHAT HO! Still not convinced? Take it upon my word then that both books use the quirk of including photographs en lieu of illustrations, for I guess a more realistic and avant garde feel. Yes, both novels feature photographs as a way to enhance their texts. There is no coincidence here. Why is there no coincidence here? Because, in the Goodreads summary of this “Asylum” book, it is written: “Asylum is a thrilling and creepy photo-novel perfect for fans of the New York Times bestseller Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children.”

THOUGHT YOU WERE CLEVER, DID YOU, SOCIETY? Well, you can’t get that past ME, deductive cynical intellectual that I am! Point goes to the Cellar Boy. Smirk.

This isn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened, naturally. I remember when Twilight was huge (remember those strange, dangerous times? I got through them by hiding in a closet with a pot on my head), a whole bunch of knock offs suddenly mysteriously appeared, with names like “Blue Moon” and I wish I had another example but I don’t. I didn’t really care about them because my opinion of Twilight and vampires in general was so low. But I have, in comparison only, a much higher esteem for Ransom Riggs’ kind-of-neat books, and it actually sincerely bothers me that other authors can publish books that are just obvious rip offs, and then make money off of them. The same thing happened with a book called “Gods of Manhattan”, which was clearly written straight off the fame of Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians. And in film, too, we can observe this annoying practice recurring – (look up Asylum Films. That is beautiful irony right there, that it should have the same name as the Ransom Riggs ripoff novel.) Why do people feel they can do this? More than that, why do they feel they can do it and then get away with it scot-free? Sometimes leeching off of other people’s ideas and success isn’t the most terrible thing (for instance look at the humorous goodness of Pigfarts), and I suppose it’s stupidly subjective of me to forgive in some cases and not in others – but I think, just in principle, that it’s a pretty slimy thing to do. There are fan fiction websites out there for a reason. Put your rip offs on there so random internet-goers can have fun reading them. But for money? Really, for money? O, the green-eyed monster, she who pulls the strings of our desperate hearts.

Now, wait, there are more reasons. Of course there are. I would never just leave you with one. The second one is perhaps even less of a big deal, but what it is is far more prominently displayed in the public light. In fact, it’s so prominently displayed that everyone and their poodle is doing it. It is so prominent that I currently cannot turn my head in any direction without seeing it. At school, it is everywhere, like some bizarre tribal brand signifying that soon the civilized world is going to be overthrown. Even the pompous Canadian politicians in their fifties on the news channel I watch religiously are doing it. It is starting to make me sincerely unhappy, simply because no one seems able to resist it. It is, of course, this.

bad hair

No, not the guy. Well, the guy too. But more specifically his hair. Good mother of all that is holy, everyone has this haircut now. Put down summer and fall of 2014 in the record books as the “Time of the Shaved-Sides Haircut”.  It’s like we’ve crashed hair-first into some Utopian  George Orwell concoction where Big Pop Star is Watching You.

big macklemore is watching you.

I think I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. Such conformism has not been seen since the Time of the Skinny Jeans, and thank Brian that one’s mostly over. It’s not the haircut itself that I dislike, you understand; back before everyone had it I thought it was kind of neat, but since then it’s gotten unnervingly prevalent. I’ve seen fads before, and fads are weird, granted – the one with the hamster teddies on wheels was basically impossible to grasp – but this one is different. It could be because I’m older, more aware, and far more cynical and angry – or it could be that it’s just seemed to hit all at once this time, and with force. I don’t understand it at all. If I see a popular figure that I really like get an interesting new haircut, then maybe I’d consider doing the same thing – if it looks good on him or her, then why not? I can understand that, sure. But you’d think – I mean you would, wouldn’t you? – that after a certain point, you would no longer want to get that haircut, after five out of the fifteen people in your class have that hair, after the goddamn Conservative fifty-year-old guy on Power and Politics has that hair. I mean, I don’t really care, but I do care. I care but I don’t care. If you have this hair, then I think no less of you; it could very well be you weren’t aware of the extent of this fad, or that maybe you just didn’t care. BUT – if you are actively aware of the popularity of this hairstyle, and then you go out and get one yourself – I must ask you why. Why? Do not be a pop star sheep. There are too many of them already, they’re clogging up the classrooms and I don’t have anywhere to sit. I’m a pretentious idiot, aren’t I. I’m just a sheep covered in rainbow paint with a little hat on its head trying to not be the same. Well, I stand by my ethics; I will not wash my wool.

New slogan for 2014.

i will not wash my wool!

Perhaps I should separate myself from Photoshop, forthwith. How silly, why would I do that? I think that’s it for this particular wad of text and bizarre pictures. I have perhaps or perhaps not officially returned from my hiatus. We will see. Do stick around; until next we meet, I am your champion of the obscure blog, he who sits among the sheep, – The Cellar Boy

 

– FIN –


Adventures in French Nowheresville (ooh la la)

We drove out to French Nowheresville today for the yearly family corn roast thing. It was a nice day, warm but not unpleasantly so, and the clouds were fantastic, big and puffy and dramatic. We turned a corner on the lonely country highway and were faced with a gigantic one that looked exactly like a penis. Now usually I seem to miss sexual innuendos, but that one was just too obvious, I couldn’t help feeling affected. I kept my eyes on the road and hoped my mom wasn’t looking up. When we passed the little Papanack Zoo, I yelped, “Hey look! Llamas!”

Fucking modern culture got to me, I guess.

Anyway, we turned some more remote corners and got to my uncle’s place, a cottage out in the tamed, farm-covered lands slightly east of the city, and voila! The corn roast faces me down, armed with its various ranks of half-known uncles and aunts. All of them are French, and not just a little French, very French. And the language of Quebec is different, full of slang and weird pronunciations – that on top of the fact that French in general is tough to speak with competence when it’s your second language. So I end up sitting there, understanding most of what’s being said but also terrified to try to speak it myself. My usual strategy is just to say “Bon, merci” when the relatives ask how I’ve been and hope that satisfies them. Rarely does anyone try to engage me in conversation, outside of the small circle of people I like, and who like me back, I imagine – but when they do I get along with short answers and lots of smiling and nodding. I thought that was only a thing in bad TV shows but you know, it isn’t; you can smile and nod your way through lots of real-life things.

The corn roast was long and fraught with mosquitoes, but otherwise it was nice. Everyone was friendly. I’m not sure to what extent the family knows of my LUBR (Large Uncomfortable Boy Revelation) and I’m also not sure how the future will go, as I duke it out with backwoods Quebec. Honestly it unnerves me, to imagine how they’ll face the fact that I’m going to grow up and become a man, not a woman. I’m not exactly front and center in the family, I imagine my place is off to the side somewhere, a floating speck of no particular importance, nice and quiet and inoffensive – so I guess they could all just ignore it and let it be. Everyone has always seemed basically nice, and have never been rude to me; the opposite, they’ve always been friendly and I hope I’m a positive figure in their minds. But they’re also conservative and traditional, excepting a few of the younger aunts, uncles, and cousins, and excepting my grandma. And it’s hard for anyone to accept the thing I have, even people like my English grandparents, who have always been kind and intelligent and progressive. I’m worried about when the hormones I’m taking really kick in and nobody can imagine away the fact that I have a thing and it’s actually going to affect them, in whatever small way. For instance I literally can’t even begin to imagine a certain great-aunt I have ever doing the pronoun switch, not even when I have sideburns and a deep voice. And that is going to be extremely difficult, when it happens, because I’m so sure she won’t switch. I just don’t want to be alienated. I like these people, even if I only see them once in a blue moon; I really do like some of them, and I’m happy that I can go to the corn roasts and be accepted and everything. I never want that to end, I appreciate it and I appreciate them.

But that, as well as many other things, I’m learning, is out of my control. I can send everybody LGBT leaflets – every obscure aunt and uncle from here to the northern end of Ontario – but in the end how they react is up to them. I guess all I can do in the meantime is worry about myself and my immediate friends and family, and hope it works out without me.

You know I think I’ve talked about this before, but I want to go over it again – the thing about sexuality, how it’s not related to gender, but how everyone thinks it is. First everyone thought I was a lesbian because of how I dressed. Then, coming out as transgender, people slowly began to assume that I really did like girls after all, being a boy. Now I have to explain to them that I don’t, in fact, explicitly like girls, but in fact just sort of like who I like, with no real preference. I bring it up because of a thing that has happened recently: it’s that one of my friends (take note, he was the one who told me he had a crush on me in grade five) sent me a cat emoticon with a heart over its head in a Facebook message after we had a conversation about me being transgender. (He asked me slyly about it after I sent him a story I’d written.) Now, before you shake your head (I see you beginning to think about shaking it, or perhaps you already have), let me tell you that no, I don’t put much store in cat emoticons. I think they’re pretty cute, but that’s not relevant, is it. It’s just that of ALL the cat emoticons, why the one with the heart over its head? Sure, you could say it’s an expression of support, of caring (by the way I had a small heart attack of relief after he said he was utterly fine with my big revelation), but could you not also come to the conclusion that it is an expression of liking? Well? You know, I hope it is. I’ve had an on-off liking of him for years. And I’m tired of Zuko being my pretend boyfriend, a real one would be great. A real girlfriend would be great, too. I kind of maybe have briefly entertained fantasies about the ridiculously cool girl at the video game store downtown who looks like she jumped right out of Scott Pilgrim v.s the World. If she doesn’t seem like she’s maybe twenty or so, and if I was less Asperger’s, I would ask her out in a jiffy. Then we would play Zelda Twilight Princess and watch artsy movies together all day. That would be great.

And also, wouldn’t you know, school approaches. Oh yes, indeed, she does, upon her chariot of death, eyes aflame, wielding the scythe of misery in one cruel hand! Cower before this demon – all ye children hide yourselves, ‘fore she sweeps upon you and steals you away, to suck the lifeblood from your lovely veins and deposit your creaking bones ‘pon the bed of heartless society. That was a bit over the top. I think school is more like a wolf, and we are sheep, running blindly from its snapping heels and losing ourselves in the wilderness of vapid education. Although last year’s English class wasn’t so bad – I happened upon a pretty great teacher, not one of those badly-constructed androids that seem so common. Anyway yes indeed, I’m headed back to school in nine days, although my brain won’t process that reality quite yet, and I’ll be trying for my last English credit and my first arts credit. Should be anxiety-ridden and horrible as always, but at least I’ll see my friends.

Anything else? I’m pretty tired now, it’s almost midnight and the corn roast sucked most of the life out of me. I wrote all this on my last 10% or so. I apologize for not doing any posts for the last couple of months – sometimes life is very hard to fit into a 1000-some blog post that a handful of people may or may not read, and besides that I get lazy and overwhelmed. I’ll try to write more often again, but no promises – in fact when I make promises like that, more often than not they just make doing it harder. I do write stories, as ever, although most of them I end up abandoning for one reason or another – and I’ve also been doing some stuff on my music blog, darksideoftheroom, if you happen to be interested in that, and if you’ve been reading this far. Oh and also, I made an album on my Bandcamp, you can buy it if you want, or you can ask me if I can send you the link to it for free so you don’t have to pay, which I’ll do. Is that it? That’s it. Do come again, and thanks as always for taking the time to read this large mess of words.

moiatcornroast

(Psst: I don’t always wear sunglasses, but when I do, they’re rainbowy sunglasses.)

– Brynn


A Story For You. Yes, For You. “Sasha”

I haven’t been able to write a blog post thing in over two months, because I’ve been busy saving the world and making out with the unbelievably cute and Scott Pilgrim-ish girl who works at the game store (in my imagination. I’m fairly sure I didn’t have to clarify that.) The point is a lot of stuff is going on, and has been going on since around the last time I wrote anything on here, when I was in the forest with those deer being called Frodo by a drunk fellow – and even now, in a moment of respite, I can’t dredge up the energy or the willingness to do a post, so I’m going to just put the beginning of the story I’ve been writing, as a stand-in. And while you’re reading that, I’ll be flying a super cool airship over the alternative Victorian version of England with the game store girl at my side while elegantly sporting the most amazing sideburns you’ve ever seen. So here you are. And it’s weird, just to let you know in advance. 

 

“SASHA” – first chapter

 

The carriage creaked away into the darkness, leaving Sasha alone in front of the gates, holding his suitcase in one hand and leaning on his cane. He reached into his pocket, letting the cane rest against his leg, and took out the small slip of paper they’d given him—and unfolding it, he read by the light of the lamp hanging from the gate, 667 Errant Street.

He looked at the plaque on the gate.

667 Errant Street.

For a while he and the letters on the plaque fought a silent battle of wills, as he tried to mentally force it to change, and the plaque simply sat there and refused. Eventually he put the paper back in his pocket, and took up his cane again. He knocked it against the bars as a very reluctant greeting. Nothing stirred; he pushed on the gate, and it swung in with a gentle creak. He stepped in slowly, and looked up the length of the house. It was tall and dark, with arched windows that stared blankly like a whole lot of unfriendly eyes. Large, ragged trees grouped around the entrance, like the triangular heads of monsters sitting beneath the ground. On the top window of the house, set into the roof, a single light glowed; Sasha wondered how many people were in there. He knew about his uncle, but were there servants? Did he have a family? He knew almost nothing.

Slowly, after pushing the gate closed, (it clanged with a note of unnerving finality, as if there could be no escaping) he made his way down the short garden path. He went up the set of creaky front stairs, and hesitantly pushed the doorbell in. It felt cold and unpleasant against his finger, and he wiped it off on his jacket, not quite sure why he felt the need. The house creaked slightly; there was a suggestion of disease and unhealthiness, and he hadn’t even gone inside yet.

He was almost afraid of what might come to the door to let him in—but when it opened, there was only a very normal-looking girl standing there, holding a candle in one hand and looking at him under a veil of messy blond hair. She wore a light white dress, maybe the kind girls slept in, and also, Sasha noticed, had a stake sticking out of her pocket.

She took him in, unhurriedly. She was in her bare feet, and Sasha wondered if she was cold; it was a chilly night, and just standing out on the step he was getting goose bumps. Or maybe that had nothing to do with the cold at all.

“We don’t take vampires,” the girl said finally, making to shut the door.

“Wait,” said Sasha.

“Sorry, I don’t wait,” she said, going to shut it again. He stuck his foot in at the last moment, and she almost broke his toes. He gasped slightly, and wincing said, “Hold on! I’m Mr. Sadness’s nephew. Sasha.”

She cocked her head slightly, and put the candle closer to his face. He blinked in the watery light. The girl studied him with strange violet-colored eyes—they were the slightly unreal and transparent color of marbles—and she said, “Hm. I was told to expect some sort of relative.”

Sasha nodded. After he was inside he was going to take off his shoe and check to see all his nails were still attached. The girl went on, after another moment of consideration, “I suppose I’ll let you in. Notice I have a stake in my pocket. Please come in.”

She stepped back, and Sasha, thanking her, stepped in. He looked around anxiously as she shut the door, cutting off the fresh air. Immediately he noticed the air in here was stifling; it smelled like dust, old wood, and something unwholesome that he couldn’t put a name to, and was sort of glad he couldn’t. The entryway was low and dark, and there was a staircase visible in the gloom, leading up into the blue. Portraits hung on the walls, which were half green and white striped wallpaper, and half wood. Stools with dead-looking plants sat here and there along them—there were two doors facing each other across the hallway, each looking more unfriendly than the other.

“Should I take off my shoes?” he asked, and his voice did a funny thing when it left his mouth—first it seemed to echo, but then suddenly it was swallowed up, as if the hallway had taken a bite out of it. He stared into the gloom, afraid. He’d been living with his aunt for years, and she was pretty horrible, but at least she hadn’t been a bizarre old house that ate his voice when he talked. He looked at the girl, who was the one normal thing, only to find that she was pulling some hair away from a pair of very real horns, which stuck out from her head, sharp and gently gnarled, a shade of olive.

“You can take off your shoes,” she said, either ignoring or not noticing the fact that his eyes had locked themselves on her horns, “but if you do the Shoething will eat them as soon as you turn around. I would leave them on.”

“Oh,” said Sasha, and he looked down.

“Do you want to see Mr. Sadness? He’s upstairs,” said the girl, and moved towards the stairs. Her candle cast a cloud of soft whiteness all around, which Sasha suddenly had a fervent desire to place himself in. He hurried to catch up with her, his cane tapping against the floor, and then followed her as she began up the stairs. The bannister was thick and ancient, and had a slightly unfriendly appearance—he would’ve liked to hold onto it for balance but something told him not to.

“Mind the stair goblins,” said the girl, vaguely, as they went up.

“The what?” said Sasha, and something grabbed his ankle.

He fell hard into the stairs, jamming his chin against the wooden edge, and lay dazed for a moment, speechless with pain and surprise. The girl turned to look down at him.

“Hm,” she said. “Saw that coming.”

“Where are they?” Sasha said, getting painfully to his feet and staring at the stairs. He realized they were the kind that didn’t have backs.

“I’ll be damned if anyone ever told me,” said the girl. “Do you want to see Mr. Sadness or not?”

“I do,” he said.

She turned around to keep going, and he followed, his eyes locked on the stairs. Two floors passed by, and then they had reached a very narrow set that rose up into pure darkness. There was no railing, and the stairs, although this time having backs, seemed distorted and uneven. Sasha stared up at them, until they were lost in the darkness, and couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to get up those. He turned to the girl to ask for help, but she was gone out of thin air—or maybe he’d just been distracted by the stairs. The only light now came from an old light bulb flickering from the ceiling, which seemed in danger of going out. He looked side to side, and then over his shoulder, but there was nothing but darkness and stairs in every direction. Slowly he turned to face the challenge before him, and decided if he was going to go up, he was going to have to go on his hands and knees, and that meant leaving his cane and suitcase behind, or if not, then somehow dragging them along with him. Either way it was going to be strenuous and extremely difficult.

He was undoing his jacket when he noticed someone at his side, and almost jumped right out of his skin.

“I’m sorry if we scared you,” said the person, who was a very short, stumpy-looking man. He wore a dinner jacket and a pair of gardening gloves, from which dangled a pocket flashlight that was shooting dim yellow light around in the darkness. He had big features, except that his eyes were very small, and his hair stuck up in all directions.

Sasha’s heart was just settling when a second face leaned in next to the little man’s—he jumped again, and the second face said, “I’m sorry if we scared you, again.”

For a moment Sasha thought the man had two heads—but then the second head’s body appeared, which was much taller and thinner. It belonged to a scarecrow-like man in a plaid suit. They were both watching him nervously.

“That’s fine,” he said, trying to get his wits back. He was absolutely hating everything about this house so far, right down to its weird dark-hallway surprises. He said, “Where did the girl go?”

“She got us,” said the little man.

“We’re the Attic Stair Squad,” said the skinny man. “We’re here to help you get up the stairs.”

“Really?” said Sasha, impressed. “That’s very nice of you.”

“Well, it’s what we’re for,” said the little man, sounding a bit embarrassed.

“In fact it’s all we’re for,” said the skinny man.

“Yeah. Well, let’s get the ball rolling, huh? Put on your light.”

The skinny man’s hand went to his head, and he flicked on a light that was attached to his hat. It shone strongly into Sasha’s eyes, and he squinted. Then the two began to move, and somehow Sasha was being half-pulled, half-pushed up the stairs as if it was no great endeavor; even though he was lame and weighed a hundred and forty pounds last time he’d checked. The stair squad, as they were apparently called, got him up the stairs in no time at all, as it turned out—and by the time he was at the top, standing with his cane and suitcase in his hands, he was feeling giddy because he had no idea how any of it had really happened. The two strange men tipped their hats, and he thanked them, and they disappeared down the stairs again, climbing with ease. They’d given him a little flashlight, and he flicked it on to guide himself through the darkness. He was now in a low hallway, and the walls were made of old, dull wood—more portraits hung here, and Sasha shone his flashlight over them as he went down the creaky floor. None were very interesting; they were all long-dead members of the family, men and women with dark hair and eyes, wearing various expressions, though most of them carried some hint of sadness or disdain.

At the end of the hallway was a door, and from beneath this door came a soft orange light. Sasha paused, and then knocked—a long moment passed in the dark stillness, and then a muffled voice replied, “Yes?”

“It’s Sasha,” he called back, uncertainly putting his hand on the doorknob.

A deep silence; then, finally, “Enter!”

He turned the doorknob, and opened the door carefully. The orange light washed softly over him—he found himself looking into a very agreeable-looking bedroom, agreeable because it was so very normal at first glance. The ceiling was sloped upwards, meeting in the middle, and raftered with wooden beams; an arched window looked out on the nighttime world. There were books everywhere, shelves full of them, and every surface had a stack piled on—there was a comfortable bed in a corner, a few armchairs near the window, and a fireplace, from which the welcoming light glowed. Sasha liked the room; it felt cozy and good. He looked around for the source of the voice, and had to do a few look-overs before he realized that it was actually empty.

“Hello?” he said, worried.

“Hello,” the voice replied.

Slowly he limped further into the room, and took another look around, just to be sure. “Uncle… Sadness?”

“Yes, here. Behind this door.”

Sasha looked. There was a narrow, desperately unwelcoming-looking door set into a wall between two bookshelves, painted black, with a padlock. He didn’t want to get close to that; he stood on the soft rug, wondering what sort of world this was where everything had to be weird, and then the voice said, “Do not be alarmed, Sasha. I am behind this door.”

“Are you Uncle S—,”

“Yes. And you are my nephew Sasha.” A thoughtful pause. “I wonder what you look like. You see that they never put eyeholes in this door. From how you sound, I imagine you look a lot like my brother—do you look a lot like my brother?”

“My dad? I don’t know,” said Sasha. He tried to remember old pictures of his father. “We both have… black hair.”

“As I thought. And do you have black eyes?”

“No, they’re blue.”

“Blue!” Uncle Sadness took a moment to think about that. Eventually he said, “Well, I must say I don’t really know what to think about that. Nobody in the family has ever had blue eyes as far as I’m aware. Who’s your mother?”

“She’s dead.”

“Past tense, then. Who was your mother?”

“She was… just my mother. Why?” Sasha felt uncomfortable, and leaned heavily on his cane.

“Because she must be who you got your eyes from. Now we move to business. I was told that you would be coming to live with me, because I am your last living relative—either that, or you would be sent to an orphanage, and I once read Oliver Twist, so I couldn’t make you go there. No, Sasha, you’re lucky—you get to live here with us instead.”

“Us,” Sasha repeated, to himself. “Who’s the girl, if you don’t mind me asking? Is she your daughter?”

“The what? Oh, her. No, there’s no relation. Her name is Morris, and I found her in the forest one time. As well as her, there is also the dog, the bird, the cook, the thing that lives down the well, and Benny. I’m sure you will find the atmosphere most agreeable. There are certain house rules to remember—,”

“Just a moment,” Sasha said, hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“It’s just about all the stairs.”

“Oh, yes—the stair goblins are no fun at all, but we’ve learned to live with them.”

“No, not the goblins. Well—yes, that too, but anyway, the thing is I’ve got a bad leg, Uncle Sadness. I was wondering if I could have a room on the first floor, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“Well, of course you can stay on the first floor, nephew. In fact that’s where your room is already.”

“Really? Thank you very much,” said Sasha, relieved.

“Just ask Morris or Benny how to find it. Now, I’m sure it’s late and you want to get to bed, so I’ll be quick about the house rules.” There was a pause as the voice behind the door cleared its throat. “First, meals are taken three times a day, that’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner; at eight o’clock, noon, and six o’clock, respectively. Breakfast is in the dining room, lunch is in the dining room, and dinner is also in the dining room, except when it’s in the backyard. Which is always.”

“Which is—,”

“Yes. The horsemen may join us when they feel sociable. It is to be noted, and this is very important: every night, regardless of weather, you must empty half your portion down the well or we’ll all be dead by morning. Other things to note: the bird only comes back at night to sleep, and its cage, located in the old ballroom, must be cleaned once a week or he will be very mad at us. The dog, which is under Benny’s care, is an amiable sort, but she’s very sensitive to sound. In other words, refrain from yelling loudly in her ears. You must also never enter the basement—that is an undertaking meant only for Benny and Morris. Often they will bring the dog, and the pinafore. Under no circumstances, Sasha, are you permitted to go down there.”

“All right,” said Sasha, faintly.

“Not even if someone tells you to. If it is a matter of dying or going to the basement, choose the former. Also, you will want to stay on the good side of the black beetles—and if you leave your shoes lying around the Shoething will find them. I believe that is all. Do you have questions?”

Sasha had many questions, but for the moment he just wanted to go to sleep. He’d had a long day of traveling, and his leg was hurting him. He said, “Thank you for letting me stay with you, Uncle Sadness.”

“It does not trouble me at all. I’m sure we’ll see each other in a few weeks, Sasha, and when we do we can get properly acquainted. Goodbye.”

 

Sasha leaned in to look around the parlor, which seemed empty. A single, pale yellow candle sat like a solid tear of light on the mantle of the fireplace, casting ghostly shadows; the furniture here was all very old, very flowery, and very overstuffed. A bear’s head glowered on the wall—thick curtains were pulled over the arched windows. He glanced over his shoulder, and when he looked back into the room, found the girl with the horns, Morris, standing directly in front of him, a candle in her hand.

He jumped, and she said, “What is it?”

“The Stair Squad told me to go find you,” Sasha said, his voice slightly uneven as his heart tried to settle itself. It had been jumping all over the place since he’d gotten here. He went on, “They told me you’d be in the parlor. I’m just looking for my room.”

“Follow me,” said Morris, walking past him, holding her candle up to light the way. He followed after her, limping quickly to keep up.

She opened one of the unfriendly-looking doors, and Sasha found it led down a long, narrow, high corridor. Empty, dusty bottles sat in alcoves in the walls—he glanced at each one as they passed. There was a low humming in the air, like something electric; he wondered what it was, but was almost afraid to ask. Morris didn’t speak as she led him down the old, musty-smelling carpet, which occasionally breathed out whispers of dust under their feet.

“Is it lonely here?” Sasha asked her. His voice was swallowed up instantly as it left his mouth, and then he thought he heard it echo, far away down the hall.

“Not really,” Morris replied. She looked ghostly with the candle’s light spread over her white dress and pale hair.

“Who’s Benny?”

“The handyman.”

She didn’t seem very forthcoming, he realized. He was wondering about asking another question when Morris suddenly stopped, standing next to what he thought at first was a shaft of moonlight. But there were no windows here, and anyways, moonlight had never been so colorful and twitchy. As he looked closer, he saw it was like a hole in the air, about five feet tall, and not quite touching the floor—it rippled and shook and looked somehow dangerous, as if it shouldn’t be disturbed. Staring inside, Sasha could just get a glimpse of the same hallway, but cast in different light. He turned to Morris for an explanation, and found that she had one foot through the hole. She glanced at him wordlessly, her expression inviting him to follow, and disappeared straight through. He stared for a moment, suddenly alone in the corridor, and then hurriedly leaned over to check behind the strange phenomenon—but she wasn’t there. He leaned his head in close, trying to see more of what was on the other side—and then a hand reached through, got him by his collar, and nudged him impatiently. He thought about it for a long moment, and then held his breath and stepped inside.

Not a whole lot really changed, except that the corridor got somewhat brighter. Now it had windows—a line of narrow ones looking out on a dark country road, half-lit by moonlight. He looked at Morris, who looked back at him under her pale hair.

“Was that supposed to be there?” he asked.

She nodded, and silently reached out to open a door. “Here’s your room.”

Sasha looked in at a nice, spacious bedroom. It looked relatively empty, but comfortable, with a bed, a good-sized rug, a fireplace, a bookshelf, a closet, a dresser, and a nice big window with the curtains drawn across. He said, “Is this a different world?”

“It’s just a different version of the house.”

“But what’s that road?” he said, pointing at a window.

Morris looked. “A different version of the countryside. Are we good here? I’ve got to go feed the bird.”

“How do I get back to the real house?”

“You step through the convenient doorway.” She stood with her candle, looking ready to leave, but waiting half-politely for him to say the word.

“Okay,” he said, accepting it. “Thanks.”

She nodded briefly, and then stepped through the doorway, into the other, darker corridor. Sasha leaned over to watch her walk away, and then an idea struck him. He limped quickly down the hall until he got to the door that led onto the entryway; he opened it slowly, leaning around the edge, and jumped a little when he saw a man in overalls and a hat sweeping the floor with a broom, whistling to himself.

“Hi,” said the man, glancing at him.

Sasha flinched back slightly, and then, holding onto the side of the door, “Uh—are you the handyman?”

“No. I’m sweeping the floor.”

“Right… is there another Uncle Sadness and another Morris around here or something?”

“Don’t know what you mean there, buddy boy, but I can tell you the house is a hundred percent empty,” said the man, sweeping some dust into a corner.

“Well… I’m just staying in the bedroom down here now. Is that all right?”

“That’s all right by me, long as Madeleine knows. Hmm, now the house is let’s see maybe ninety-something empty. Depends how much of a percent you take up. I’ll think about that. My name’s George.”

“Hi, George,” Sasha said, holding out his hand. They shook. “I’m Sasha.”

The man got back to sweeping and Sasha closed the door, limping back to his bedroom. He was about halfway there when he stopped, and quickly limped back to the door—he opened it, and George looked up from his sweeping. Sasha said, “Sorry to bother you again. Who’s Madeleine?”

George leaned on his broom and gave Sasha a long look under the brim of his discolored baseball hat. He said after a while, “Madeleine? The Great and Powerful Landlord. …No?”

“No,” Sasha replied, worried.

“Ah, well. Doesn’t matter. Good night.” He began to whistle again, sweeping the floor with his dusty straw broom. Sasha stood for a few more moments, and then let it go, closing the door again and limping back to his bedroom.

*

Getting ready for bed was the usual tiresome sequence of chores, except this time without brushing his teeth or washing his face, since he wasn’t sure where the bathroom was and was a little nervous about going outside again unless he had to. Once he was in his pajamas and had put away his clothes in the dresser and hung his jacket in the closet, he levered himself gratefully into bed, and sank beneath the covers, resting his cheek on a cold, soft pillow that smelled faintly of must. The room was very dark except for a single candle he’d left burning on the bedside table; he watched its flame flicker and wave in the quiet air, casting shadows across the ceiling. His leg started to hurt, and he rolled onto his back, looking tiredly up at the ceiling.

He was exhausted from everything that had happened. First his grandfather’s death, and then three months stuck with his aunt before she died, too—this time of old age, not zombies. After that he’d been sure they were going to put him in a foster home or an orphanage, but it turned out there was another relative, his father’s brother, Uncle Sadness. He lived in a big old house in the countryside. He was Sasha’s other grandfather’s son, so that meant he was part vampire, too.

Sasha yawned, and turned his head to the side, finding it difficult to get comfortable. His new bedroom was a little eerie. The shifting shadows on the ceiling made it worse, but the darkness would’ve been too frightening—it was better to have the candle burning. He closed his eyes, telling himself to fall asleep, and that tomorrow would be better.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping Sasha witnessed a subtitled shadow puppet play on the bedroom ceiling.

First, a rabbit hopped into view. It was clearly just someone’s hand with two fingers sticking up, rudimentary. It turned side to side. Oh no! I think I’m lost.

Then a fox or a dog or some sort of four-legged animal slid across the ceiling, stopping next to the rabbit. Its mouth, which was just somebody’s thumb, wagged as it spoke. I can show you how to get back home. Follow me!
As the rabbit hopped after the animal, it turned into a very detailed shadow-rabbit, with two large ears, eyes, moving legs and a tail. Sasha privately thought it was pretty much a perfect recreation of the real thing. The other animal, meanwhile, became a fox—it turned its head around to check on the rabbit, its ears flicking.

Not too far now, the words read.

In that a burrow? the rabbit asked.

But that doesn’t look like MY burrow.

The fox said nothing.

They came up to the burrow, which rose from the ground, the hole yawning like a mouth. The fox turned around, its tail sliding around its back legs. It seemed almost to smile. You first.

Okay, said the rabbit.

“Oh no,” said Sasha, wishing he could tell the rabbit not to go.

Just in here, the fox prompted.

Then the rabbit’s mouth spread wide, impossibly so, and it swallowed the fox in one bite. The tail came last, twitching wildly—the rabbit paused, and then hopped away. The burrow mound disappeared.

Fin.

Sasha jerked into a sitting position, his heart beating hard, feeling sweaty and panicked. Without really thinking, he tore off the covers and swung his legs out, remembering too late that his leg couldn’t move like that. A flash of sickening pain jolted up his leg and into his stomach, and he gasped, fumbling for his cane, which he remembered putting against the bedside table. He grabbed it, more for comfort than anything, and waited for the pain to ebb away. While he was catching his breath, the image of the eaten fox vivid in his mind, there was a sharp tap at the bedroom door.

He blinked in the darkness. Fear trickled up his spine. The candle was still burning, but it had almost gone down the whole way, and was beginning to drown in its own wax. He considered who or what might be at his door—he hoped it was just Morris, coming back to tell him something. He didn’t dare call out. He waited on his bed, sweating and scared, and then the door opened and a light blinked on, momentarily blinding him.

“Morris?” he called out, his voice breaking.

There was no answer. A shadow crossed the wall—the light dimmed slightly, and it seemed George was standing there, holding a lantern, looking worriedly at Sasha from under his discolored baseball hat. He said, “You okay, buddy boy?”

“I’m fine,” Sasha rasped, but it was a bit of a stretch to say so. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Sorry for breaking in like this,” said George. He reached into his pocket, and took something small out. He shuffled forward, and held it out. “Here. You need this to sleep in old Madeleine’s house. I forgot. Sorry.”

Sasha took it, holding it up to get a closer look. It was just a card of some kind, like a playing card, except he didn’t recognize the suit and the picture was of a little boy in a white dressing gown holding a bright candle in his hand.

“Yep, you need that,” George repeated.

“What does it do?”

“Keeps the stupid shadows from doing their stuff,” he replied. “And other things. Keep it on you so you don’t lose it, or something. Okay. Well, I’d better leave you alone.” He turned around.

“Hey, do you sleep in the house?” Sasha asked.
“Yeah. Top floor,” said George. He smiled slightly, and a crooked tooth became visible. “It’s a weird place, isn’t it?”

“Oh God, yes,” Sasha agreed, feeling relief pour through him.

“Thought it was just you? Yeah, I’ve been there. Come get me if things get weird again.” He pointed upwards at the ceiling. “Top floor.”
“Great,” said Sasha. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” He waved a hand, and left the room. He closed the door quietly, and Sasha heard his footsteps going down the hall.

He sank back into the bed, and pulled the covers up over his head, stuffing the card safely under his pillow. Exhaustion grabbed him and threw him into a deep, welcome sleep.

 


In the Forest

The forest next to our condominium goes much farther in than I thought it did. It still isn’t much, and it’s surrounded on all sides by the lonely looping streets of the suburbs, but I’m pleased to have discovered that from one end to the other, it takes about twenty five minutes to walk. Today I went out to explore it again. The last time I did, I saw this:

photo (32)

I was walking home from the library and decided to get there through the forest, just for fun. Then I saw the family of deer. There were five or six of them, lingering between the trees, lovely and silent – when I saw them I stopped, and crouched down on the leaves to stare. I inched closer. One deer wandered by, saw me, and raised her head to look at me – her baby, the one in the picture up there, came up to her, and gave me a look, too, seeming unbothered. The mom licked the baby’s head absently, and then after a while she drifted away, leaving the little deer standing there, about twenty feet away from me. She looked at me. I looked back, trying to be as silent and still as possible. My legs ached. The deer started to inch towards me, very slowly, ducking her head a little bit as if she was trying to get a better look at this strange forest-invader all in black. The closest she got was maybe fifteen feet – and then, figuring out I was actually pretty boring, she quietly headed off after her mom.

It was amazing. I knew that there were deer in the forest, but I didn’t think I’d ever get so close to them, or that it would make me feel like I did. There was something about the little deer, edging closer and closer to me, that really struck something emotional – I don’t know. It was pretty cool.

So today I went for a walk again, and saw no deer, but I did see an ancient Coca-Cola machine, sitting in a pool of water, completely rusted through. I kicked it with my shoe and it felt crumbly and light. The thing had a 60s feel about it; and there were other old bits of metal, what looked like a car bumper, and an unidentifiable box, and a weird thing that had curlicues like the headboard of a bed. I have no idea why people chuck large metal objects into forests. I guess it must have struck them as a good idea at the time. I also clambered through some thorny bushes, which hurt, and wandered around near the stream, which snakes through the forest, until it disappears towards the Green Belt, and probably joins up with the river. A duck flew in a circle above me – it was trying to get away, I think, when I came crashing through the trees, but it did a really unnecessary and amusing loop before it flapped away over the rooftops. I walked along at the side of the fence, which separates the forest and the new development that’s just behind our condominium – and there was a nice beat-down path, so I decided to jog along it for a little bit, with the cool hiking stick I’d found in one hand. As I ran, I heard someone shout, like a bark; looking around, I saw people on their back porch, maybe turned in my direction. I couldn’t quite tell, it was far away, and they were blurry. Anyway, I turned away and kept going, and a man shouted something else. I’m not sure, but it sounded like “HEY, FRODO!”

So that’s great. Because I didn’t have enough self esteem issues already, without random assholes on their back porches yelling at me just for running through a forest.

I hate the world. I get shitted on for doing absolutely nothing. I’m not hurting anyone, running around in a forest – in fact that’s a pretty innocuous way to spend my day, I’m just exploring, I’m not hunting or chopping down trees or planning out future housing developments – in fact you could say it’s good for me, being outside in the fresh air, getting exercise. I spent a year of my life basically unable to leave the house, I don’t need any more reasons to go back to that.

My mom is frustrated with me. I don’t exactly know why this time. I don’t really want to say I’m sorry because I have no idea what I did. I probably did something – almost definitely, I did something. I just wish she’d actually tell me, so I don’t feel like the worst person who ever lived, not knowing the true extent of it. But whatever. It’s spring, you know, and that’s supposed to be a good thing. No, it is a good thing. And if I’m Frodo, then so be it. I’m Frodo.


My dad has a new apartment, and he’s going to move in this Saturday, and I can stay there whenever I want. It’s in the basement of an extremely old building, weathered red brick with some new additions on the front and a picture of the handsome Prince Rupert on the lobby wall. It’s two stories tall, in the middle of the city’s rich downtown neighborhood, about a five minute walk from the canal. The basement smells like death. It’s kind of one of the shittiest places I’ve ever seen. There are two rooms, plus a bathroom; one is the kitchen and dining room, it’s all white with a window looking out at street level, with a latch that’s about a centimeter too far for me to reach, even standing on the foot stool that you need to stand on, no matter how tall you are. I’m five foot six. I should really be able to reach the freaking window latch on a foot stool. The bedroom-living room is nicer, with a wooden floor and a little closet, and another window that I can’t reach, looking out on the street. We have a fridge and an oven already there, and yesterday my grandma and my dad and I went to Ikea (the monstrously huge, three-story Ikea that looms like a blue and yellow space station out in the west end) and we bought a shelf thing to put boxes in to hold our clothes and two chairs for the kitchen table, which is a fold-in slab of wood attached to the wall. My grandma and grandpa will bring their old futon and we’ll get another mattress. I’m thinking about bringing either my record player or my stereo; my dad wants me to bring my Van Gogh print to put up on the wall. He’s been really into Van Gogh lately, ever since I showed him some paintings online – we’re going to be doing a painting class together starting this Thursday, and I’m looking forward to it. I want to spend more time with my dad and besides the thing itself actually does sound kind of fun.

So the apartment is pretty bad, really small, and with its high ceilings it kind of feels like a prison – but I don’t care all that much, and I’m actually looking forward to staying there, because it means I can get away from my mom’s house and be closer to my friends, who all live in my dad’s neighborhood. It’s not as if I don’t like being at my mom’s – of all the people in my family, it’s her I get along best with, even if we argue half of the time and sometimes it feels like she’s got me in a vice grip of parental over-attention. – That’s the reason I want to have some days away, how I feel like she’s always hovering over me. She probably isn’t. It just feels like she is. All of her hovering is well-meaning, but holy shit does it get under my skin sometimes. And I love spending time with her (we’ve watched four seasons of Lost in the past two months or so, and it’s been great), but I NEED TIME BY MYSELF. Holy shit, do I ever need time by myself.

Today I went to that Yu-gi-oh tournament with my friends. It was kind of nice, surprisingly. I haven’t spent much time with them since I left school again in March, and it’s great to know we still get along and everything (like we wouldn’t, for some reason?) I still haven’t told them about the transgender thing. I have to do that. It feels so bizarre to hear them refer to me with girl pronouns, since everyone else in my life is switching, and I myself have long since switched. It also makes me uncomfortable and frustrated, but I can’t possibly fault them. Because… I haven’t fucking told them yet. I need to. I just have no idea how – as always. At the Yu-gi-oh tournament most people seemed to accept my boyness but one guy called me “her”, but he sort of looked familiar so he might have seen me some other time at another tournament when I looked like an X. I felt pretty good at the tournament, in terms of self-esteem; a little shaky, it’s true, when I had to talk, but mostly all right. I lost four times and won once. Another time it was pretty close, though. Although I dare not suggest I’m actually very good at Yu-gi-oh – which is sad because I’ve been playing it since I was six or seven. I think part of it is that everyone else is so good – these tournament guys are pretty serious, and more often than not they really study the strategies, to the point that you literally can’t get a move in before they win the match. So it might not be that I suck, really. I’ll tell myself it isn’t, anyway.

I told my friends about my dad’s new apartment and then Devin asked to come over and play music sometime. (We used to have a band. Nope, I will not disclose the link to our Youtube thing, I personally quarantined it forever.) I was happy to see he still has enthusiasm about the band, and that he wants to hang out with me. I’m a bit embarrassed about the apartment, but it’s not like it’s my dad’s fault, really – he just doesn’t have the money, and besides this was the closest one to the house where my sister lives with my step-mother. I think I’ll try to stay at the apartment at least half the week, and especially when school starts up again because it’s so incredibly close by – just a twenty minute walk, or a five minute bike ride. (As opposed to going to school from my mom’s house, which is across the city.) When I mentioned to my mom that I want to stay there sometimes, she said “Maybe every Friday you can give it a try”, and I think that spells danger. Probably she just wants me to be comfortable, but another part could be that she doesn’t want me at my dad’s house because she doesn’t think he’ll take care of me as well. My dad loves me and I love him, and he would never not take care of me, but it’s true that he would let me stay up, sleep in, and drink pop later than five o’clock (all things my mom doesn’t let me do. I don’t always listen; if I always listened I’d have to kick myself.) My mom and my dad have different styles, drastically different; my mom is the one who gets things done, she’s set up all my hospital appointments that have to do with my transitioning stuff, and she deals just about 100% with the school and everything – and my dad doesn’t do that stuff. He would try, and he would if I asked him to, but he could never be as ruthless and amazingly persistent as my mom is. So I can see why my mom doesn’t want me to stay with him for half the week like I used to. Maybe she also understands the completely fucked-up situation that my dad is in right now, and wants me to be away from that. I want to be away from that, too – but I’ve been talking with my dad about it a bit, and so I’m kind of in the loop already. He told me that my step mom cheated on him. He probably shouldn’t have told me that, it was probably selfish of him to put all that on my shoulders, but I don’t really care, and I want to help him. My mom would say that it’s selfish of him, I am positive about that. And I wasn’t surprised that my step mom cheated on him. She kept going away at night and didn’t want him to come, and also she’s a troubled sort of person, to put it extremely mildly. She psychologically and verbally abused me for about seven years; she’s been abusive to my dad, too. I’ve seen it – I’ve heard it at least a few times. He finally left, I guess her cheating on him was the last straw, and now I hope he stays away. I have no control, obviously, it’s not my life or my problem – but I would encourage him to stay away, if he asked me. For everybody’s sake, his and mine, and my sister’s too, so their problems don’t get in the way of her life, like they did to mine.

The whole situation is fucked, and it’s not fair that we all have to deal with it. But we have to, and at least it’s moving in the right direction, finally. Now I can spend time with my dad on a regular basis, and see my sister more, too. I’ll be back in my old neighborhood, near my friends, and I can get to school way more easily in the morning, and play music with Devin. He already set a date, which is funny – he said Next Wednesday? And I said no, the one after that, because my dad isn’t moving in until this Saturday. It’s awesome how eager Devin is. So if all goes right we’ll be playing music in my dad’s high-ceilinged, nice-acoustics apartment by the Wednesday after next.

Meanwhile, on Tuesday I’m getting my (hopefully last) Lupron injection. But I don’t think I see the endocrinology doctor til the 12th, as I may have said before. And I don’t know how fast I can get my MBDs, for that matter. I want at least two months on the MBDs before September, when I’m thrown back into the world of other people and social situations – enough time for changes to actually happen. I will never again enter a Yu-gi-oh tournament being embarrassed about my voice.

So, time marches past, and life continues. In other news, it’s spring. For real this time.

photo (30)

 


Scam Phone Call Conversations, Basketball, etc.

On Saturday I’m going to a Yu-gi-oh tournament, and I’m sorry to have to admit that’s the second most exciting thing I’m looking forward to at this moment. It’s a rainy, grey afternoon, and the air tastes a little bit humid; it’s ten degrees out, going up to fourteen it looks like, and while that might sound pathetic to those who live in warm climates, up here in the domain of the ice dragons it’s actually pretty nice. I was thinking about going up to the basketball court to play sadly by myself for a while, but I don’t want it to rain on me. And I continue to lack a good sweater. The one I have on right now has been worn steadily since the ninth grade, that’s almost four years now, and before that it was my dad’s – and it’s probably going to disintegrate next time a strong wind blows. When I visited my friends yesterday Josh said that each time he sees me there’s less of my sweater, and he’s right. I don’t know where all the fabric that used to be over my arm went, but it’s certainly not there anymore.

It’s the twenty-second of April already, and I think it’s the twenty eighth where I go to the hospital to get my last Lupron shot, and then a blood test right afterwards so that they can check how well it’s been working or whatever. Then I hope I’ll get to talk to the endocrinology gender clinic blah blah doctor, the one I saw once before, and ask her to finally get me my MBDs, before I go crazy. Now that I know what testosterone can do, and now that my conscience allows me to envision how awesome I’ll feel when it starts to work, I’m almost sick with impatience. I’m very used to waiting at this point – most of my life in fact seems to have been spent waiting – but the thing about that is it never gets any easier. It’s always completely maddening and frustrating to the extreme. When I saw my friends yesterday and we were playing Yu-gi-oh and video games and the RPG board game that I made, I was just thinking about how unfair and ridiculous it is that in order to be what they already are I have to stick a needle in myself once every two weeks for the rest of my life. They don’t know how lucky they are, to actually be all right with their bodies, and to feel good in them. They don’t know. And they don’t need needles and medication and anxiety pills because they can’t deal with how it feels. Everyone who feels comfortable as the gender they are takes that comfort for granted; I wish I was like them. It makes me so upset I can barely express myself. So April twenty eighth had better get here soon, and I’d better get those MBDs pretty fucking fast.

So the Yu-gi-oh tournament, as sad as it sounds (yeah, it’s just as sad as it sounds), is the second best thing in my immediate future. The best thing is of course getting those hormones. I don’t really like Yu-gi-oh all that much anymore, I’m sure I’ve said this before, and I only go along with it because I can see my friends more that way. The tournaments are held in this little toy store out in the suburbs, I’ve been there a few times before; what happens is about twenty boys between the ages of let’s say eight and twenty stuff themselves in to the nerdy confines of that place and play for prizes. I pretty much do badly every time, but I’m not hopeless – I’m just not as desperately into the game as some other people are. If I cared more I’d probably do better, at least I hope. But I don’t care. Because Yu-gi-oh is actually stupid, although my friends would argue otherwise.

I like collecting things, and I think that’s what got me into Yu-gi-oh in the first place. It was grade one, a long time ago in the fuzzy far reaches of my early childhood, and I saw some boys showing off their cards at recess. I think I asked one of them if I could have a card, or maybe I was just lingering next to him staring and he wanted to make me stop – so he shuffled through his cards, found one that wasn’t all that good, and said, “You can have this one. It’s a girl.”

I still remember which one it was. Rogue Doll, 1600 attack points – somewhat useless card, given to my six year old self because I was a girl and so was the card. By grade four, at my new school, me and Josh were playing Yu-gi-oh at recess, sitting on the gravelly pavement beneath the looming brick walls of the building, sometimes attracting small groups of like-minded recess-goers. I wish I could go back to those recesses sometimes; they were great.

*

The other day another one of those scam artists from India called our house, and called me ma’am. That’s the second time that’s happened. That time, it must’ve pissed me off quite a bit – the conversation went a bit like this:

“Hello,” said a man’s voice, from a noisy-sounding place.

“Hello…”

“How are you today?”

“Fine.”

A pause here, because he was waiting for me to ask him the same thing, and I never did. Because I didn’t actually care. He said, “Ma’am, we’re offering a cleaning service now for a short time good price mumble mumble something something, how many bedrooms do you have in your house?”

“Thank you,” I began, “but I’m not interested. Also I’m not a ma’am, I’m a boy. Have a nice day.”

Then I felt bad, but sort of proud of myself. I’m really tired of those scam guys calling me ma’am, assuming I’m some kind of housewife. They have no way of knowing, of course, but Jesus, it makes me crazy. I can’t wait for the Magic Boy Drugs so when the scammers call me, I can go “Hi again, India – I dare you to call me ma’am again.”

At least the last scam call wasn’t as bad as the first call, when the guy was talking about some computer virus thing, and he called me “honey.” Hanging up on him mid-sentence felt nice.

Right now it’s raining, but the sky is bright – I like when that happens. Maybe it’ll clear up soon, I really wouldn’t mind going up to play basketball. Part of me is hoping somebody will want to play with me if I go, and I’ll make a friend – it happened once before, some guy on roller skates drifted up and we had a brief conversation, but then he had to go and I never saw him again. I remember feeling desperately self-conscious, because that was before I wore my boa constrictor, and I was all sweaty, and my voice was too high, and there I was just wanting to talk to a guy who was interested in playing with me but it was made more complicated by not exactly knowing what he thought I was, or if he could even tell in the dimness. Now at least one of those problems is fixed – I’ve got my boa constrictor, and that is so much fucking better, even though I get anxious sometimes wearing it while I’m exercising and worrying I’ll pass out. I hear that’s a danger with boa constrictors (otherwise known as binders.) But what am I supposed to do? Not wear it when I exercise? No way. I really need it then, too. It’s just another thing to be anxious about. Just throw it onto the pile, I guess.

I wanted to play sports this year, but that’s also complicated at this point. I don’t want to ever play hockey on the downtown team again, because I know all those guys and they all know I’m supposed to be a girl. I don’t want explanations and I don’t want more awkwardness and anxiety. Also there is no possible way I’m ever playing girls’ softball again, like I did last summer. I kind of didn’t like that very much, anyway. People were nice, but I didn’t fit in there, and felt that usual outsider thing whenever I’m with a group of girls. But I don’t think I would want to play boys’ softball or baseball, not right now anyway, not before the MBDs. I wish I could’ve done that this year, but I guess I’ll have to wait for next year.

Do you get bored, always reading about my transgender stuff? Sorry if you do. It’s just, needless to say, the biggest thing in my life these days (always has been, sort of). It probably always will be. I need to get this stuff out of my mind so it doesn’t drive me insane by staying in there.  But what’s tomorrow? Tomorrow is Wednesday or something. At the moment I still have six days before my next injection, and I don’t know exactly how long before the first testosterone one. I’ll write about that when it happens, of course. And the stupid Yu-gi-oh tournament.

See you later; thanks for getting through all them words.

 


Graveyards, Long Dark Cloaks, and Pretty Flowers

I biked about half an hour in the misty rain today, up a hill, down a hill, and then up a hill again until I got to coast down the last slope to the old strip mall that’s just down the street from my grandparents’ house. I was feeling a great need to procure myself a long dark cloak – and I went in to the Salvation Army (ah, thrift stores, for a would-be actor, thine junk is shimmering treasure to me) and I actually found one, even though I wasn’t really expecting to. It’s great. It goes down to around my knees, and the sleeves are gigantic, and there’s a collar that can be flipped up so it juts out, vampiresque. It was just twenty dollars, and it’s really a great coat – not just good as a costume, but also for rain and stuff. It’s warm, too. When I got home, my mom was busy at her computer; I sidled up to her, waiting for her to notice my wardrobe, and eventually had to say, “Hey. Check out my Vaudeville coat.”

She glanced. Then she said there was dirt on the back, I should clean that up, and also that she wouldn’t be comfortable with me wearing it out in public because I might be mistaken for a terrorist or someone who carries around shotguns. Long dark cloaks are scary, she said. I don’t disagree, but –

Here’s where fiction is so much better than real life.

A couple of years ago, when my depression and anxiety was really bad and I wasn’t going outside, I wrote a book called Vaudeville. It’s about a mean teenage gravekeeper who smokes cigars and Gordon Lightfoot, who’s kind of his sidekick, or just his companion. The main character Vaudeville is pretty nasty indeed, and I think he’s some sort of materialization of all the issues I was having back then. In the end he gets better, and makes friends with another gravekeeper named Etta who drips water on dead people’s heads to get back at them if they were bad people while they were alive (in Vaudeville dead people can come back to life, if they so choose.) So, today when my mom and I went to get lunch, we talked about a possible Vaudeville movie. She suggested I do it in short installments and put it up on Youtube. I thought that would be cool, even though there’s a definite shortage of actors (the cast would be one teenage boy, one teenage girl, one old man who can sing and play guitar, a large number of zombies, a middle-aged man, and a woman who runs a corner store). I don’t know anybody who would want to be in a movie of mine. Nobody gets as excited by this stuff as I do. If I did somehow get the thing set up, I’d play Vaudeville – even though I’m sure there’s some guy out there who could play him way better than I ever could (even though I wrote him.) It makes sense because I’m the only person I know who comes close to what Vaudeville is supposed to be like.

So, I got that long dark cloak at the thrift store, to wear if ever I get the movie set up. (Because in the book he’s always wearing it.) And my mom says it would make me look like a terrorist. Me, though? I’d understand that more if I had a wild beard, a baseball hat pulled low over my eyes, and a big backpack slung over my shoulders – but I’m pretty innocuous-looking, I always thought. It kind of makes me feel bad because I was looking forward to wearing the coat around, and I was excited by the prospect of play-acting a character I loved writing so much. I guess I still can, but only during the movie that will probably never actually get made. I don’t know. Like, I go through life kind of not being able to stand who I am – mostly the “girl” part of it – and it’s better to not be me, sometimes. Maybe that sounds really stupid and bad. I can’t tell. I’m just looking for a way to be more comfortable, and damn, I like that cloak I found. I really like it.

It makes me wonder how much longer I’ll have to listen to my mom. I know that often she’s right about things, and I don’t really mind listening to her, because she’s my mom and that’s the way it is; but eventually I think I should get more say. Although this is different a bit because she said that she won’t be comfortable walking around with me if I’m wearing that coat, and there’s no way I would make her uncomfortable. My grandma said she liked my coat – and so did the lady at the Salvation Army. I don’t know – I don’t look at people in dark coats and think, ‘Ah yes, there goes a terrorist.’ Maybe other people do.

Maybe I’m overthinking this, and I should just hang the coat up and never wear it. But I spent twenty dollars on it. And it’s cool. This is all pretty trivial, I guess.

We also visited the graveyard today, which is what got us talking about the Vaudeville movie. For no particular reason; just because. We both agreed it was a weird thing to do, but we had fun looking at the old graves and finding the weird names. Among the weird names was this doozy of a weird name:

photo (27)

And of course, Joy Oy.

 

photo (28)

 

My mom and I were talking about how it’s a bit weird that graveyards are a thing, that when you die you get put in a box in the ground with a stone above you that says who you were. I think it’s definitely weird, but I get why it comforts people – you don’t want the world to forget about someone, and everyone’s afraid of that happening. Having your name set in stone to sit there for hundreds of years like a stubborn cry against the irrelevancy that death brings is a comfort. I understand.

Meanwhile, believe it or not, it’s actually spring. We had a lot of rain yesterday, and some today – most of the snow has disappeared, receding back into the trees, leaving wide swaths of damp, bleached grass. My grandma’s garden has a little group of snowdrops, sitting with their white heads bowed. There are iris shoots behind them, and the magnolia bush is full of buds. The little birds have returned – the twitchy brown ones are everywhere, and the other day when I was sitting out on the front step the forest was full of birdsong, probably ten or more different kinds singing discordantly. The sun stays longer and the wind has gotten warm.

On the twenty-fifth (or twenty-seventh?) of this month I’m supposed to go to a Yu-gi-oh tournament with my friends. It’ll be the first time I see them in a couple months; I talked with Josh for a little while a few days ago, and he admitted he’d been trying to call me but had been busy or shy – I told him I’d been in the same situation, (just minus the busyness.) It probably won’t be fun – a couple hours sitting stuffed into a small toy shop in the suburbs with twenty-odd other people, all unnervingly similar to me and my friends – but at least I’ll see my friends again. I really miss them. It really helps, psychologically, seeing your friends. It’s like the difference between a sunny day and a cloudy one. In the meantime, I’ll persist with this annoying transitioning business. So far, Lupron has knocked off a good deal of my girl-curves, and my voice seems to have actually lowered a tiny bit, enough so that I’m able to notice when I listen to old recordings of myself versus the new ones. I don’t know how much of that is just in my head, though. I’ve been kind of checking out those STP things (that would basically allow me to use the guys’ bathroom) but they look really finicky and I’m not sure if I’d have enough courage to try and get one to work. Never mind how I’d get one in the first place. I figure my mom, being as helpfully smart as she is, will figure out that I want one eventually – for right now I’ll just continue my lifelong tradition of avoiding all bathrooms, always.

But fuck, imagine how it would feel to walk into a bathroom and feel like you belong? Well, maybe you can’t. But if you can, then imagine it, let the wonderfulness of it sink in. You just walk in, do your stuff, and walk out again, and don’t feel any crushing anxiety or anger or fear. It’s just simple, how it’s supposed to work. Never mind that I’d be going to the bathroom with a plastic thing.

Whatever. I think I’ll probably just muddle through like always, and things will be all right. For now I’ll enjoy my graveyards, long cloaks, and pretty flowers.