Here is a blub I wrote during my timed writing assignment at my writing circle.
We are waiting for spring to plant trees. Joey ordered over $1,000 worth. Plums, apples, pears and more exotic fruits of which I forget the names. We also ordered regular trees from the DEC’s yearly sale. Basically we will be planting many, many trees.
I like to imagine my future life as a tree planter. I imagine my arms will get stronger from digging and hauling dirt. I will probably be covered in dirt a lot, so I’ll have to wear outfits i don’t mind getting dirty.
Another thing we are waiting to do is plant crops. It will be tangible physical work and I like that. It seems more natural and human than other jobs I’ve had, such as sitting behind a computer or sorting things in a warehouse.
I’ve been nervous about spring- worried I won’t be good enough, or that I’ll lose my enthusiasm. But now, writing this, I’m feeling excited. There will be sunlight again and we’ll be out in it often.
Another project will be building the rabbit hutch and enclosure. This has been making me nervous because I want to be absolutely sure it’s secure from predators. I also worry I won’t be any help with the construction and will hate the work and just get in the way. I’ve never built something before.
Still, why the defeatist attitude? This will be a chance to learn something new. And it will be a new experience to write about.
I wrote this one looking at a picture of me from 5 years ago...lol.
Too skinny and pale, bespectacled boy, reading in the Mission, San Francisco Queer Open Mic. A trans boy voice, that was my shtick. Gay, also: that was the kicker! What an ass! What powerful words! Glory be the trans boy writer in his Levis and black sweater with his perfectly styled pompadour. Looks like he belongs in a poster of an 80’s new wave band. James Dean vibes. Who is he? So sad and serious, so lost and mysterious! Who is that boy?
I wrote this one tonight at the writers’ circle.
When the danger passed… some met their shadows. Some were greeted with fresh air. But all were forever changed. They gathered and had nights of feasts and dancing. People strummed guitars and beat on drums. Someone played a flute. They had roaring bonfires at night, and around them, they kissed and embraced and snuggled up with one another. Nothing like this had happened before the danger.
But some did meet their shadows. They were solemn, unable to join in the festivities. I was one of them. Maybe it was the sudden change, after all that time alone. I couldn’t throw myself into it. I still felt like I was grieving. Grieving something which, at the core, I was glad to be free. Like the death of an abusive parent. But still, I was mourning.
By the third day, as the others were starting to tire, I was hit with waves of joy. The freedom became real! The music was more relaxed and quiet, but that suited me fine. Often times I just sang to myself. The bonfires got smaller, but more intimate. We shared poetry by ourselves and others, and dreamed up a new world now that the danger had passed.
And here is one last blurb taken from a blurb I wrote this evening. Writing to Heal is the name of the writing class.
Can writing help me to heal? I don’t doubt that it helped people like Maya Angelou. It’s helped me in the past. Just right now I need to keep my writing and art kind of light. Not shallow or glib, but not dark and heart-wrenching, for my mental health. Maybe “writing to heal” doesnt’ have to mean writing about trauma. Maybe there is something inherently soothing and healing in just writing about life. Yes, I like that thought.
“Elliott DeLine’s work in the 2020’s was positive and full of hope. He often alluded to times of great pain, but did not dwell.” Ha…