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Posts Tagged ‘journal’

Well, such momentum couldn’t last forever without effort.  It’s been hard for me to come to this blog recently.  I’ve had things to write, but I just didn’t feel like writing them.  Yet again, however, I am determined not to let this endevor fail.  I will continue this blog.

Part of the problem is the video games.  Another part is the depression I’m starting to feel.  It’s just a cycle, and this should be a relatively mild one considering things are going well in my life.

I’ve quit my job (Tuesday is my last shift), I like my new job, I’m supposedly going to be mentoring a boy, and I’ve been seeing a lot of my friends.

The other problem is that I’m reading again.  How does Stephen King do it?  In On Writing he recommends writing and reading every day, but how?  If I like what I’m reading, then that story consumes me.  I just can’t…  I can, but it’s difficult to write even a journal when I’m reading a book.  (Dark Tower III.  I love Jake Chambers!)

While time with friends is great, I wonder if it contributes to my depression as well as softening it.  Every time I’m with The Boys or My Friend On The Facebook, I kind of want to tell them my secret.  But I know how they feel about pedophiles.  Obviously the idea is that I could change their minds, since they would have to reconcile their friendship with me, a known individual, with their hatred of a faceless demographic.  But while they could (and I think would) choose me, the possibilities exist that they’d do the opposite, or fail to make a decision at all and just reject that part of me.  Not all my friends will react the way The King did.  I was fortunate that he already suspected the answer and had, for the most part, come to accept it.  He still had (and has) questions, but they don’t have a bearing in his acceptance of who I am.

I think I need to at least tell My Friend On The Facebook.  For friendship to truly grow, there must be truth.

Maybe Jess too.

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It’s about 5:00 now.  The island was very beautiful.  I certainly wouldn’t mind living there.  If only I had a couple million dollars.  As gorgeous a place as it is, however, it doesn’t compare to the boys walking all over it, and running shirtless over this ship.  As we made way from the port, my father and I stood at the stern and watched the port fade away.  As we did, a boy about 12 stood six feet off to my side and watched as well.  Not typical 12-year-old behavior.  Watching the land fall away that slowly seems too sedate and activity for most children, even that old.  Especially when there’s a water slide behind them.  He also seemed to be listening in on my and my father’s conversation.  I’d like to think that he wanted to be a part of our conversation, share our experience, as much as I wanted it.

And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think that.  Quite clearly he has more patience and mature interests than most his age.  It is very possible that his father wouldn’t be interested in sharing a moment with his son like that.  If he even has a father.  One never knows these days.  Point is, he could very well be looking for someone to share his uncommon interests with.  He could easily be one of those fabled “lonely boys” seeking to relate to someone.

I’d have loved to have been that someone.  To say to him, “See that boat up there?  That’s waiting to puck up the harbor pilot after he gets the ship out of the shipping lane.”  To tell him about the red and green buoys, and coment to him how the water changed from green to a blue so deep it almost looks purple.

Then I’d put my arm around his shoulders and give him a squeeze and we’d just watch the land slip away in companionalbe silence, him knowing I cared about him, me knowing he appreciated the attention.

Perhaps a bit idilic, but not an unreasonable fantasy.  I do care about him.  Isn’t that crazy?  I saw him for a few minutes out of the corner of my eye, both of us trying not to get caught looking (him by me and me by my father) and I already care about him.  I won’t be so cheezy and sentamental as to say I love him.  I don’t.  I don’t know him.  But I do wish him nothing but “puppies and sunshine” to quote Boy Wonder.

Two things prevented this fantasy from becoming history.  One.  My father was there, obviously.  How can I chat up a 12yo in front of my father?  He already is too close to the truth.  (Ever since 15.)  The other thing is my unending cowardace.  I’d just be too damned chicken to try it.

But what’s the worst that could happen?  He ignores me?  I feel awkward and walk away, ever to see him again?  I need to get over this.

I wrote this entry on the port side wind deck looking out over bluest infinity, with flying fish skimming the water beneath me.

And my father now knows I journal.  He visited me mid-entry.

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As mentioned previously, many entries to this blog will be adaptations of my journal entries.  That means that the events of feelings depicted are not necessarily current or even recent.

Oh, and by adaptation, I simply mean that I remove or change the names of locations and individuals and edit for length and understandability.  My journal is pretty stream of consciousness sometimes.  So, with no further a-do, my first entry:

I feel…off.  I don’t really understand what I feel.  Naming my truly important feelings has always been impossible.  Recently, I’ve noticed a change in the way animals react to me.  They used to love me.  And not too long ago either.  Some still do.  But my neighbor’s dog…  That was the first time I noticed.

Now, I don’t consider my neighbor’s dog to be any kind of reliable judge of character, but a little while ago–maybe two months?–my neighbor came over to introduce her pit bulls to me.  The female had just had puppies and wasn’t much interested in anything.  The male, though, took one sniff and backed away, growling.  Then, last Sunday I saw a stray cat.  I reached my hand out for her to sniff.  She also pulled back after getting my scent.  And then a little later, I let another pit bull sniff my hand as its owner was walking it.  It tried to bite my hand off.

What about my scent has changed?  Have I become the villain that I always joked I had the potential to be?  I spoke to Jess, my fellow potential villain, and she just laughed at me.  It is ridiculous.  I’m judging myself based on the reactions of a dog bread for it’s aggressiveness and bad attitude and a cat who digs through dumpsters.  Of COURSE they’re not going to want to be friendly.

But what if something about my scent HAS changed?  What did I do to change it?  How can I go back?  If I look at what’s changed about my lifestyle…  I need to simplify, I think.  I’ve become too…adult.  Focused on earning money, making a living.  At the same time, I’ve taken laziness to a new personal level.  Maybe this journal will help.  Help me focus my thoughts, force me to think more clearly.

I need to reconnect.  De-isolate myself.  Being unemployed so long, I haven’t had anywhere to go, anyone to see, or even any money to do something if I DID have somewhere to go.  But I even have had more hermit like tendencies when I DID have people around, things to do, places to be.  That needs to stop.  Maybe work will help with that.  Force me to interact with people.  Get over that insulatory instinct.  I really think I’ve pulled away from human contact since graduation, and that my friends have noticed my withdrawal and responded in kind.

Music, boys, books.  These have always been my focus.  They really still are, but I feel on some level that the way I focus on them has changed.  It’s less passionate and more mechanical.  More out of habit.

I need to change.  If I haven’t changed, then I need to now.  If I have changed, then I need to again.  But this time, the change must be positive.

I’m going to do the dishes.  Then maybe I’ll eat something healthy, for a change.

(In rereading that while I typed it up, I’m almost reluctant to post it.  I was being such a diva!  For one thing, that dog attacks anybody and anything that it can get at.  I have heard many screams of terror from people as it escapes the house to chase down them, or their smaller dog.  It’s jumped through their window before to chase something down, right through the glass.  But it’s how I felt, and there’s some truth to what I wrote.  That is what journalling is really about.  You write and you write and eventually something true ends up on paper.  As you get more experienced, it becomes easier to be truly honest.  So, I hope you’ll forgive the drama.  It’ll get better, I swear.)

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I am not old.  Most people would still consider me little more than a kid.  I am old enough to drink, but my generation is still viewed, not as children, but as “kids.”  Still, I’m old enough to think about my childhood as something that is over, and will not return.  And I have been, recently.  And–holy crap!–everyone was right.  I’m NOT going to be able to remember everything forever.  I’m already starting to forget stuff!

That’s unfortunate.

So, I decided it’s time to start writing things down.  I started a journal.  The journal serves two main purposes for me.  I’m using it to stop the dribble of old memories from running out my ear while I sleep and getting washed out of my pillowcase when I do the laundry, never to be seen again.  I’ll write old memories down which I think were significant in forming who I am and memories that are just too pleasant to risk forgetting.

The second purpose is what most people use a journal for.  To record my memories, my “story,” as they happen.  To structure my thoughts.  Studies show, journalling improves long term memory, blah blah blah…

It’s also practice writing, and as someone who aspires to write creatively, that’s always time well spent.

But that’s my journal, and this is my blog, so what does that have to do with this?  Well, as I was writing I kept thinking about how it would be received by a person not me.  I think–though perhaps it’s pure hubris–that it could be interesting to a third party.  So, you may love it, you may hate it, or most likely of all, you won’t ever even read it, but I’ve decided to adapt parts of my journal into blog entries.

Why would it be interesting?  (Or controversial, as the title claims)  What could I, an early 20 something guy, possibly have going on that is worth reading about?  I’ll tell you.  (Even as I prepare to type it out on the screen in the privacy of my room, where I can delete it without a soul seeing, without having to speak a word aloud, my heart is pounding and my hands starting to shake.  NEVER think that it is easy to reveal this sort of thing to anyone.  Not to one’s mother, one’s best friend, the purportedly anonymous internet at large.)

I am a boylover.  A pedophile, if you must.  Palsambleu that’s hard.  Before you reach for that “report” button or navigate away, or before you become angry at me for using the two terms as though they were interchangeable (I don’t believe them to be), let me explain to you what I intend here, and how I see myself and those words.

This blog is not going to be about boys.  It’s not going to be filled with “pro-pedophilia activism” or accounts of illicit liaisons with “lily-lad” but rather, as I said above, it is going to be an adaptation of my journal entries.  It’s going to talk about things like tiresome jobs, maxed out credit cards, a fun night out with friends, recently viewed movies, my neighbor’s annoying dog (which hates me right back), troubles with computer viruses and maybe even the occasional discussion of foot fungus.

That said, the blog is not going to be devoid of mention of boys either.  Boys are an important part of my life.  I think about them, perhaps not all the time, but quite often.  The most insignificant of encounters can turn a bad day into a good one.  A distant sighting of a particularly beautiful specimen of boyhood can distract me totally.  But my talking about boys will be in the context of my life, which is much bigger than my sexuality.

As to the difference between boylover and pedophile…  Every boylover–probably every human, for that matter–likely has a different way of defining these words.  To me, they’re like squares and rectangles.  All squares are rectangles (being a parallelogram having four right angles) but not all rectangles are squares (being a parallelogram having four right angles and all sides of equal length).  Pedophile is simply a generic term synonymous with pedosexual.  A person who is sexually attracted to minors.  (We could go more in depth and define separately pedophilia, hebephilia and ephebophilia, but if you’re really that interested, you can refer to the lies on wikipedia.)  A boylover is, oddly enough, attracted to boys.  It is a refinement of the broader group.  But as a term adopted by a community of people to define themselves, it has further connotations beyond the physical attraction, such as a genuine interest in the happiness and well-being of the boy, even at the expense of the boylover’s own happiness and well-being.  But like I said, this is how I think of these terms.  Others may, and will, disagree.

So there you have it.  Blog about the regular every day life of a boylover, no matter how unexceptional that may sometimes be.

Thanks for reading,

Louie Singer

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