I was Caliban in our high school production of the Tempest. Or at least in the first half. (It was a senior project organized by the English teachers, so they abridged the play within an inch of its life, and divided all the roles in two so everyone in the class could be included.) I overacted the hell out of it. All furious and snarling in my green leotard.
But then there was the “beast with four legs” scene in Act 2 Scene 2 with Caliban being tormented by Trinculo under a poncho. And the English teacher took me and the girl who was playing Trinculo aside and basically told us to mime anal sex, and after the teacher left us alone, I told the girl I’d never had sex, let alone anal sex, and she said the same. So we ended up doing our best impression of sex under a tarp on stage in front of everyone’s parents.
And I just found out a friend of mine has the video. I’m pretty much terrified to see it.
A couple of years ago, I was making a big push to do something with my old photos (taken with Brigit’s old Asahi, all T-Max 3200, like some kind of epically self-involved photo journalism). I had had the best of them printed into a book by a vanity press in LA, and I was, for some reason, showing them to my mother. She stopped on a picture of Ian, because he was beautiful, and it’s a great photo of him, with a warm open smile (I’m sure he was high) instead of the wattage turned to 11. I told my mother that I thought his beauty was part of what Kate wanted out of him. (She was charismatic as fuck, but not really beautiful. Like me, her face was just too weird, though she did have that boyish model build. But showing up with an actual model on your shoulder must be a real ego boost.) But that, in the end, Ian was probably the one person I’ve met who I think is actually a sociopath.
And my mother’s response was that that’s what she’d finally realized about my father, after the charm had worn off. And, I mean, there’s a difference between being a sociopath and being a charming alcoholic asshole (a difference of degree, if nothing else). [Reminds me of someone’s quip about Dick Cheney and how people should stop calling him a sociopath, since sociopath’s need to be at least superficially charming.] But also, who thinks that’s an OK thing to say to someone about their father. I didn’t choose him as my parent, she did. And she knows how much effort I’ve put into being on good terms with him.
I get such a visceral response when I see Donate Blood signs. Like a want to start a fight with some poor volunteer. Tell them that, no, apparently they don’t want my blood. They think there’s something lurking in my blood, the next HIV or HCV, some vague untestable menace.
But I’m nice. I don’t want to pick a fight, and anyway, they don’t stick volunteers out next to the signs any more, soliciting passers by for blood.
Just found out that “Julian” from this post, is now an associate professor at The Prestigious University we got our PhDs at.
God, I feel jealous, and like a total fuck up. Screaming children and all.
I’m too tired for this shit.
Rachel, the first girl I ever lusted after was maybe the first person I was actually sexually attracted to, as opposed to the weird chaste crushes I would develop on any boy who was nice to me. And actual sexual attraction, particularly for a girl, threw me for a loop. Overnight, I decided that I was done trying to avoid the pleasures of the world. I abandoned Christian Science and God and decided that I was evil. And while I’m happy being an atheist, I’m sure it wasn’t helpful for me to spend so many years thinking of myself as bad.
Rachel was part of the nerd girl group that took me in when I was the new kid sophomore year. We had all the honors classes together and she was the GM of our role playing group. We both had long scraggly hair and were androgynous in that way where you look more like a sketchy long-haired guy than any of the normal markers of being butch. She rebuffed my probably none too subtle advances, and I ended up switching my overpowering crush to Carmen, since she was much more into romantic stuff like holding hands and letting me smell her hair.
And then, half-way through junior year, Rachel stopped talking to me. At first she would still talk to me when we were playing roll playing games, which was weird and awkward, and then she reorganized the roll playing group without me, which was probably for the best. She got a short fashionable haircut, stopped wearing her ratty old jacket covered in snarky buttons, and wore a strapless dress to prom. She almost got suspended for running away from a chorus trip to spend the night with her former councilor from music camp, a guy who was at least ten years older than her.
Carmen followed me out of the nerd girl group, and we ended up cobbling together a new group of friends.
Rachel and I hadn’t really talked in years (though there was a sort of reconciliation when the nerd girl group got back together once during college, and we all kind of decided we didn’t have much in common any more). And we’ve been FB friends for a while, in that vague disconnected way where you Like each other’s baby pictures.
And I just found out from a mutual friend that he pretty recently transitioned, and I want to send him some kind of note offering friendship and support, but that seems weird and out of the blue. And I should probably spend a little more time working out my feelings over our history.