Wow, Great Re-blog from owningitlog


In junior high sex ed, we were asked to come in with anonymous questions written down for the next class. What should I ask? My head was spinning. If I asked it right, maybe I would spot another one. But that would be wrong. The questions couldn’t identify me. I had to be general, but specific. I was tempted to work it out on paper, but that was too dangerous. I had to hold it in my head and quickly scribbled it just before class in the hallway.

I had it in my pocket, tightly folded. The teacher stood at the door with a shoe box. My hand reached for my note. I tried to make it look like it wasn’t important. When I dropped it in the box there was no going back. The box precariously sat on his desk, guarded by him, but easily knocked over.

I wondered where it would be for the next week. If he figured out it was my question, would he call me in? Would he tell anybody? If there were others, would he let me know who they were? Maybe another one had a better question than mine and I’d find out more!

The week passed, the answer session began. Half way through the clock became a vice squeezing probability into possibility, unlikely, bell. He didn’t answer it. The class bell rang. We were dismissed. I didn’t know if two boys could be in love.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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2 Responses to Wow, Great Re-blog from owningitlog

  1. owningitlog says:

    Thank you for sharing this.


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