I Want to Ask

I know it’s silly. I shouldn’t care about these things. But –

I can’t stop myself. I must ask.

I’m driving home. A car is in front of me. We pass the speed limit sign: 40 MPH. The driver ahead of me, now going about thirty-five, slows down to around twenty-seven. We then follow the road around a curve and up a hill where we encounter a new speed limit sign: 25 MPH.

The driver speeds up to thirty-five.

So I want to ask the driver, what’s in your head? Do you know you’re doing this? Are your actions of doing the reverse directed part of a secret organization Or do you have something mis-wired?

I almost followed the driver, a white male who looked about fifty, when he turned into the store parking lot to ask him, but I was already running late.

Have others encountered this in their areas? Does anyone know why this happens?

Help me. Please.

Fooled Again

Ah, the writer did it to me again.

Riding the thrill of yesterday’s progress, I jumped into it today with a razor of doubt hanging over me. What if yesterday was a mirage? What if what I’d written makes no sense, or that I can’t connect and continue? 

My head ached with fear about what might go wrong. Asking myself, where was I, I resumed typing. Within a few lines, the writer sprang another twist on me. Damn, I should have seen it coming.

Exuberant understanding burst upon me. Holy hell, this was the deeper truth behind the concept. Wide-eyed, I laughed at the astonishing epiphany. I’d conceptualized the novel and had started writing but had not taken the concept to its summit. Now, in writing, that’s what the writer within me finished doing.

Implications and realizations bubbled through me. A new light flashed on everything written in that novel to that point. Surreal, abstract and stunning, I considered my running joke, that a writer resided in me who actually came out and wrote, and wondered if that was the truth. At this point, it really seems to me like there is someone else in me who is the writer. He understands the novel. He has organized, outlined and plotted it, but only shares with me what I need to know when it’s being written. I’m just the poor, earthen vessel struggling to hang onto the moment.

Even now, done with my daily writing session, I struggle to fully comprehend and cope with what’s been proposed. It stuns and amazes me.

Seriously, maybe I am insane.

Maybe it’s just a side-effect of writing like crazy.

Is there a difference?

Last Night

I checked last night before going to bed: still a man. The three AM rise to pee told a different story.

I felt odder when I walked, a warning that I’d suffered the change again. I was supposedly awake and walking, going to pee, but was stumbling through a dream’s fading chaff. I wasn’t really thinking, moving in auto-mode. It wasn’t until I raised the toilet seat and lid and flicked on my Fitbit to give me light to piss that I discovered my missing pecker.

It always happens during the night, and people are always asleep. I’m black again, too, although not as black as one of the other times. I’ve been through this change enough to be angry, irritated, resigned and frustrated simultaneously. While sitting and peeing, I reflected on how long it had been since the last time (three weeks) so I had clean female clothing available. I don’t know why it makes a difference. Male and female clothing fit me differently and I feel ‘better’ wearing clothes appropriate for my sex.

Except shoes. I won’t wear heels. No way.

I have no cosmetic experience, so that’s always an interesting aspect. I go without make-up. Mom is a natural beauty and my sisters are gorgeous. I thought that gave me a chance, but no; I look like a female version of my father. My mustache and goatee automatically sheds during the change and my physical structure changes. I have a rack of floppy boobs and I’m busty as Mom. You’d think all these changes would wake you when it happens but it never wakes me.

By the way, Mom and my sisters look great as men, too. Some people have all the luck.

When I first read reports of it happening to Trump, I thought it was hilarious. That was the first I’d heard of it. It wasn’t so funny when it happened to others. There was nothing funny about it when it happened to me four days after it had happened to Trump. At least I wasn’t moved to kill myself. Many men do when they awake as a woman. The percentage of women killing themselves is much smaller than men after they suffer the change. Women seem to adjust better. The percentages of suicide drop as you experience more iterations. This is my eighth or ninth time, I think. I think. I don’t know.

No one is forthcoming about what started it. It might surprise you to know that the Internet has some theories. Some of it involves secret government activities. Some claim it’s the Russians, but female Putin vehemently denied that. Others blame Muslims, GMO food, witches, sorcerers and aliens. Some put the onus on an angry god.

I hate this erratic cycle of changes. I wish I’d stay either a man or a woman and one race or the other. It doesn’t comfort me at all that everyone in the world is going through this, no matter what age, race, culture or religion. I’m not a violent person but I swear, if I ever find those responsible, they will pay. How?

It’ll depend on whether I’m a man or a woman.

Inspirational Quote # 580

This post reminds me of all the places where writers write. I set up offices at home to write. The spaces never worked well for me. I like the process of walking and thinking as preparation to writing. But the end result, as PKD notes, is the same: a lonely way of life. Lonely, yes, but also intoxicating and rewarding.

Today, You Will Write

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