Wednesday, May 26


While the lovely Jen is confident enough again to wear tucked-in tshirts (no comment), I'm back in hiding.

Hello sweatshirts, long-sleeved shirts, just big t-shirts, and lots and lots of layers. Don't forget about the part where I'm really, really careful not to stretch or move in a way that would reveal more than I want to (ribs, anyone?).

It's one thing to be chilly in an air-conditioned house, it's another to wrap myself in blankets in the 90+ degree barn or lay out in the sun in jeans and a sweatshirt and pray the warmth will make it through the first layer of skin without being swallowed by the cold.

He still says nothing, but he's started to take me out to eat again, and during the day he's always cooking up something, running for cigarettes and "do you want a candy bar?" or "maybe you should start drinking Ensures again."

Drip-drop, drip-drop, I'm only happy when it rains.

Sunday, May 23


I just got my first weird-ass hit from a search engine.

I get a lot of hits from foreign Google (apparently "ily" means something to Swedes) and plenty of "Journey" and "just died in your arms tonight."

But boy twin deviant gay brothers??? What the fucking hell? And with the 'boy twin gay brothers' implication, isn't 'deviant' a little redundant? (Now that I think about it, it's all pretty redundant -- gay twins would probably suffice, since gay is usually used to describe men and not women.)

Gross. Gross. Gross.

While we're on deviance, another old guy hit on me today, but this one was way beyond creepy. He was the kind of creepy where you start to wonder if he is mentally retarded (or whatever PC term we are using these days). He kissed my hand. Very unnecessary. I wanted to tell him to fuck off and die, but the customer is always right. I gave the table to someone else.

Friday, May 21


and miles to go before i sleep // something i wrote recently. the ending might need reworking, and it hasn't really been edited...and i'll keep making excuses for the terribleness of it all day if i don't stop myself...

and i know i hate xanga like no other, but it's the only thing i could think of that would just automatically accept Word's formatting without me having to go and manually html-in all the italics, paragraph indents, etc.

Wednesday, May 19


Some quick (ha, don't I always say that?) stuff:

I'm maintaining at 101-102 lbs right now. Eating every few days. No one's really bothering me about it, but they know when I suck in air it's because my heart hurts and I see the looks they give each other. They think I'll start eating again soon, and maybe I will.

A bunch of people are coming over Friday for Chinese food and swimming. I'm already arguing with myself about how much I'll eat, but the real problem is how naked I will get. It'll be fun, though: a friend is bringing another Julian, she says he's a lot like me. I've heard that before, haven't I?

-

We're building another barn. Hopefully it'll be finished by mid-July. We'll be able to hold another 20-30 horses with it.

-

My answers to "the questions":

Who am I?

Marlboro reds in a box
Piebalds and little space boys
Picking them up and putting them down
with miles and miles to go
How shall I live?

Faithfully.
With hope and a pinch of salt
Always striving, marching on ahead for...better
With words and pictures on my hands & tongue
What, in the end, is really important?

Loving, learning, laughing
Forgetting to shave because there are more important things to do
Gaining knowledge from my children
Not taking anything to my grave
Letting love be like a plague
Knowing myself intensely
Knowing someone else intensely
Needless to say, I was in a rather strange, half-awake mood when the questions were asked.

-

Who has influenced me in this life? My mother, even though I never knew her. The prophets. People who changed history. People who changed anything, however small. The women I've loved and the men I haven't. People who said good words.

-

And, finally, the teasing question asked by the girl with orange hair: "So, are you a virgin?"

No.

I can say it without an explanation.

And, "I heard......is it true?"

Yes.

Things are weighing heavily on my mind lately. He and I stay up late at night, hands flying, faces painted with exaggerated expression. It takes me many days to translate the hand-thoughts to written English, so intense is the connection between his mind and mine, our hands as the firing synapses that turn abstract thought into language. I am like the Hive Queen, searching long and hard (yet without much interest) to tell you the memories from my head, but spoken language is found wanting when compared to this mind-speak.

This leads pretty quickly into my thought process, which has come under scrutiny in the public eye lately. Who are you? is Luke’s question, and when I answer with vague allusions and the pictures I get in my head when I think of myself, the physical manifestations of me, the class snickers. Luke and I sign back and forth briefly (he says, “It made sense to me”). One of the kids wants to know what the hell is wrong with me. What’s wrong with you, I say, that you answered with your name? I certainly hope you’re more as a person than that.

I come upon the same problem when I meet new people. My standard request is, “Tell me about yourself,” and most answer “there’s nothing to tell” or “ask me specific questions.” Part of the test is what you choose to say—if the first thing you tell me the size of your dick (9 inches? Yeah right), what kind of car you drive, your body fat percent, that tells me something about priorities in your life. So, why am I a freak for responding with poetry and books and love and my connection with horses and other people? That makes me strange, that the things that make up the core of my being tend to be non-material.




In my head I’m arguing with myself over Oralism vs. Manualism in the deaf world. I read Deaf Like Me and am disgusted beyond belief. It’s written by the father of a deaf child and chronicles their journey with Lynn from conception to the age of seven. They provided a strictly oral environment; no “gestures,” only speaking. Lynn is expected to learn to lipread and speak simply by watching everyone around her. At the age of five, when most children are irritating their parents with endless chatter, Lynn could lipread five words (like “ball,” “shoe,” “jump,” “run,” and “no”) and half-way speak her brother’s name. Throughout the book, the father is complaining of his and his wife’s frustration at not being able to communicate with their child—she throws tantrums; they don’t know what she wants. They don’t know what she wants for her birthday. They don’t know that she understands what a birthday is. She doesn’t even know her own name. All the while, they are expecting her to begin speaking at any time—hopefully by the time she is twelve, or they will have to send her off to the state residential school, where all the worthless deaf children go.

He is complaining that he can’t communicate with his child, but what is keeping him from doing so? This is not the case of a mentally challenged child, a child with autism who will never learn to communicate because he doesn’t have the cognitive ability to do so, this is a child with a perfectly healthy mind who is just unable to hear. Lynn is a bright child (as you learn later on in the story), but the parents are choosing to have her spend her entire childhood with adults repeating such drudgery as “ball, ball, ball,” until she finally says it. “Find the ball, Lynn,” and if she picks up the right object she is rewarded with…what? Verbal praise, which is so effective when Lynn has no idea what “verbal” or “praise” means, when she can’t understand a word coming out of your mouth—except “ball.”

Last I checked, those “gestures” her father so condemned would do a pretty damn good job allowing the parents to communicate with their child, but they are so busy being embarrassed of her “disability” that they can’t face the idea that she might be different and therefore—gasp!—require different treatment than your average hearing child.

By the way, when the parents finally caught on to this amazing thing (I believe Lynn was nearing her 6th birthday), Lynn learned sign faster than the parents could teach her. It took her three days to understand what they were trying to do, and at that point she swallowed every bit of knowledge she could find.

The most touching part of the book? Two of them. One occurs at the dinner table. The parents teach Lynn the sign for “name,” and Lynn immediately starts pointing at the things she doesn’t know signs or words for (salt, plates, table, food) and signs, “Name? Name? Name?” over and over, but of course her parents don’t know how to say “I’m sorry, love, I don’t know the name for that, but when I do I’ll definitely tell you.”

Moment number two: the parents visit the only deaf friends they have, the first deaf people Lynn has met. She meets them; they sign to each other; Lynn turns to her father and signs, “Deaf like me?” as if she didn’t know such a thing exists. No, you aren’t alone.




So, because of this book I am full of thoughts about my deafness, slowly accepting the fact that it's not that big of a deal. That it's ok for people to know. It's not so bad to be stared at in public because my hands are flying and maybe my laughter is a little loud. Maybe I'm finally accepting it, and it's too hard to breathe anymore faking everything.

And, of course, the unthinkable (to Oralists, anyway) is happening--Toby is turning Deaf. (Don't confuse deaf and Deaf; Deaf with a capital D refers to culturally deaf, which means you "act" deaf with or without actually being deaf. The same applies to hearing vs. Hearing.) His face is too expressive, his voice is in remission, signs come out earlier than words. If he doesn't care, why should I?

Tuesday, May 18


A quick word about the whole Blogger upgrade, and stuff:

I'm still dealing with all these exciting changes (what? it actually occurred to them how much easier it would be to have the comments/permalinks/etc come directly from them instead of some third party? Praise Jesus!), and by "dealing with" I mean I'm looking at my index, thinking "shit I need to fix that," and then going back to playing Spider Solitaire because I'm a lazy bum. Basically, I'll get around to switching the comments over to the Blogger ones instead of Haloscan, which will hopefully be easier and better for everyone. I already took a big step and put the permalink code back in my page (which I screwed up before 'cause, well, I'm dumb, and I was confused about what the hell I was doing...just started deleting things in the template. That's how men work, right? Don't read the directions, just do stuff and hope it doesn't blow up?).

That's not such a quick word. It's a lot of words. I'm done now. Have a good night.

10:29 is way past my bedtime.

ily ily, baby.

Your Generic "About" Post


The Weblog Review has this thing about "about" posts, and though I've made it a habit of never really bothering to tell anyone who I am anytime I write something on here (most of the time even when I talk to people), I guess I'll have to break down and write something that tells you who I am.

All right. Here we go.

Name? James (Jamison, the occassional hated Jamie), JD, Julian (Jules), Nick (Nicholas, Nikolai), Zeke, Ezra, Whit...I know I missed some but I can't think of the others right now. If you want to be simple, just go with James.

Age? Nick White, 21. Nick Black, 30. Julian, 17. (Catch the allusion and you get a gold star.)

Hobbies? Horses, books, Marlboro Reds in a box.

Favorite books? Ender's Game (and series -- actually my favorite is Xenocide), anything by Palahniuk except Lullaby.

Favorite play? "Batboy" (Lawrence O'Keefe did the music; I don't recall the others who wrote the script)

Favorite movie? "The Emporer's New Groove," "Fight Club," "Holes," "Dead Poet's Society," and yeah, I might've jumped on the "Pirates" bandwagon...

Occupation? Nick Black & Julian breed horses. Nick White manages a boarding stable.

Major malfunction? Afore-mentioned Marlboro Reds in a box (blame Toby!). Anorexia nervosa, type II (bulimarexic), chronic depression, hypothyroidism.

Sexual orientation? A resounding, "None of your fucking business" (but Julian might say it a little nicer, and Mr. Black's got kids around so maybe he'd skip out on the cursing as well). It's not so much that it's none of your business, but more like I (we? what?) believe in the Kinsey scale...except I'm not so good with numbers.

Education? The Nicks dropped out of high school. Julian's homeschooled and going to a junior college next year.

What exactly is this blog about? Nothing. And sex.

What does the name mean? ILY -- home sign meaning, "I love you." My favorite part of "I Am Sam" is when he's saying to his daughter, "I love you I love you I love you, like the song."

What the fuck is a home sign? Referring to sign language, home signs are kind of like the dialect of a certain family/group of friends, signs that these people make up and are only understood between them. Usually used for names.

Uh...sign language? Nick White is profoundly deaf; Julian is hearing impaired.

Is there anything else I'm supposed to put here? Leave me a comment, I guess, and I'll add it in. Blech.


He makes me come three times with hands and mouth in the shower, and then we wrap ourselves up in flannel pjs and a blanket to watch Law & Order.

Monday, May 17


Art fucking sucks hard on the ninth package of ramen noodle soup (yeah, i'm binging again) and I've got this terrible song drifting through my thoughts, his smile and "shit, emo is boring" and "this shit sounds like the Monkees."

My eyes and hair are bloodshot from a drug of another kind, I write bad poetry to keep my thoughts under control and talk to people who turn me into a child again, "mmm you are soo cute." It's all I can do to keep the rest of the world entertained and aroused, because you know that's my job here.

I revisit Nick Black's list and wonder what all these markings mean, I know they meant something when I wrote it down, but I can't remember, I still make lists like I'm afraid someone else will decipher them because my unconscious is still hiding a lot from everyone.

We don't have sex anymore and he just breathes nicely across my neck until I fall asleep, the cold metal of his ears pressing against my shoulder.

In the barn we are singing, save a horse ride a cowboy, the new baby licks my elbow like a salt block while his mother searches my pockets for treats. "I don't have anything," I say, and her eyes say, Don't lie to me. You're a bad person. Damn you.

On TV the twitchy guy solves a crime very nicely but I'm bored to death. Criminal intent my ass. Let's talk about my own criminal mind, that Toby and I both walk into a store and assess how easy it would be to steal a carful of stuff, but we never do it. It's too easy. It's too easy to be charming like Leo and walk out with pockets full of binge food.

I have a movie night with a friend. We cook hotdogs over an open fire and go to bed at 10. The next morning we wake up and watch Peter Pan flirt with the girl with the huge teeth, and we decide that we'd definitely shoot down the Wendy bird and kidnap Peter all for ourselves. My friend bites my fingers and says I'm the only guy she thinks is sexy. I ask her to move in. She says, "Maybe. I'll definitely buy your car though."

Zing, zing.

Thursday, May 13


It's fuckin early.

Another long night. A good night, but a long night, and I need to stop this before I die from exhaustion.

Wearing my Royals shirt because we've actually won twice and therefore it's a little less shameful. I'm not a fair-weather fan, I promise, I just prefer not to be laughed at on the streets, considering our pitiful record.

I think I'm writing run-on sentences. It's 6:56 though so shut up. If you went to bed at 3 and woke up at 6 you wouldn't make any sense either.

I'm looking for a horse. If you've got one, please give it to me because I don't have any money. I will write you a sonnet for payment.

Dubya sucks.

Tuesday, May 11


in the quiet world my hands
say ages and timeless thumps you
never heard right, but your hands
never learned
and all your words are used up.

when i am convenient you
mumble, trying to stay under the radar,
you mumble that you love me
more.
you love me outloud, if you could
but...

most of the time i say
I LOVE YOU 32 1/3 times
and you breathe the air
that belongs to you and
someone else, my long-
distance lover i wrote about
so much and so little

one day a month from now
i will only have five left
at the end of the day,
but instead of saying
ILY 1 1/3 times,

i will say very
loud: "you used up
your words." and
mine will be
bullets that rip
through vulnerable
flesh

i hang up the phone
so you won't hear my breath
ragged and wet.

Monday, May 3


Reverend Sonny Snyder and Sister Maggie's Jesusism(tm) of the day:

When you touch yourself in that dirty way, not only are you defiling God, not only are you touching yourself in a private place not meant for these kinds of pleasures, no, son, you are touching the very penis of Satan! Can I get an 'Amen'!

Saturday, May 1


We make love three times, and we sleep through the sunrise for the first time in months. I wake up aching and exhausted with his arms around me. "You all right?" he asks, and I smile. In the mirror I see he's left his mark, dark bruises the shape of his mouth. "Ily," he says, and sneaks by me in black jeans.