Art Class

Written on the back of the same paper as the homeless story.

Art Class

When I look back on it, it seems like such a distant memory.  Even when I think about it, it’s more difficult than it really should be.  Like the word love.  So tereotyped but usually by people who can’t find it themselves.  A stroy about real love is what we all need, like mine.

I remmeber when I was in Grade 8 art class.  I knew nobody since I was new to the school.  The students in my class were waiting around the door of the classroom when I saw him.  From that moment on, I constantly thought about him and never cared for anyone else.  It doesn’t matter what he looked like, but that I was just so mesmerized by his personality and charm, even from such a far distance.

Just then, our teacher came and opened the door for us.  Easels were set up around the room for everyone.  She told us to each take one.  I chose one at the perfect angle to him, with the sun casting a brilliant glow on his face as he smiled.  I remember her telling us to paint freely, since this was our first class.  I couldn’t think of anything but when I looked up, I knew.

Bus Boy

According to when I last modified this, I wrote this in 2009.  Contrary to what I say in the end, I don’t remember.  Hmm.

Bus Boy

I first saw him not at the video exchange but on the bus.  He sat next to the doors on the back, and I first noticed him through the spaces between the bars as I slowly walked into the interior of the vehicle.  His eyes were focused on something outside the window, as if seeking solitude, but the empty seat beside him said otherwise.  As my eyes stayed on him when I walked past, I yearned for him to look over at me, and just before passing, he did.  I can only describe him as absolutely beautiful, and I almost felt humbled in his presence.

 

I took a seat facing outside the window, perpendicular to him, so that I could observe him without being obvious.  He wore a grey-bluish t-shirt, jeans, Adidas sneakers with a backpack on his lap.  It was only when he reached up with him right hand to scratch his head that I noticed the hair on his arms and the tan on them too, slowly fading into his natural skin colour at an invisible line just below the sleeves of his t-shirt.  As he continued to stare out at the world, the fine facial hair on his cheeks down to his chin were inviting me to walk over and touch them, to spend my entire day brushing them with my face as we kissed.  He was so beautiful.

 

But then it began again.  That little voice in my head that everyone has, only mine is more pronounced than others because I listen to it.

 

“What’s the use?  He’s not going to notice you, and you’re too chicken shit to go over and talk to him, loser.  Pathetic.  Truly, pathetic.”

 

The words seeped into my mind despite my efforts to dig them out and throw them away.  It was the truth; I didn’t need a fortune teller to tell me this scene was going to play out the way it always did – with me thinking about him the entire day while I wallowed in sadness about how I had the chance but didn’t grab it.

 

Then the tears came.  But they never flow.  I didn’t allow them to, but they collected in my eyes, evidence that those hateful, truthful words meant something.

 

Suddenly, I felt a familiar stirring in my nose and sneezed.  He turned to my direction when I opened my eyes, and my mind jumped to conclusions that were beyond belief.  I wondered if he knew I was staring at him the whole time.  I could not read his face, so I assumed he was merely glancing over.

 

He finally turned his head again, but didn’t look back out the window.  He sat staring straight ahead, slightly angled in my direction, and this was all the proof my foolish, naïve mind needed to assume he had some attraction to me, or at least curiosity.  I could have smiled, but I didn’t think he would have noticed.

 

It was my stop.  I hated to leave, to leave him on that bus with that empty seat beside him, where I should have been, talking to him about recent movies, his favourite music, and where he was going.  I should have been there.  But I wasn’t.  Instead, I shouted a quick, “Thank you” to the bus driver before stepping off.  After a few paces, I looked back at the bus.  His head was turned in my direction again, but I couldn’t be certain he was looking at me.  I memorized his face like a blind man and Braille – every bump, curve, and wrinkle locked into my mind.  Still, my hopeful mind believed – believes that I will see that beautiful boy again, and that time, the empty seat next to him will be filled by me.

The Boy (a dream)

Another dream I had a long time ago.  The last time I modified it was apparently more than a year ago so it’s at least that old.

The Boy

I have to write this all out before I forget.  If the Boy happens to read what I’ve written, well, I don’t think it really matters anymore anyway.

So last night, I had a series of dreams, most of which I don’t remember, but there was one that I did.  Like most of my dreams, I don’t remember how exactly it began.  I do remember that I had dreamed a little before this all happened.  I was standing in line for something and talking to this girl while holding an umbrella.  We were arguing about something, and I remember saying to her, “Well, then you’d be screwed!”  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him behind me.  Like what I would’ve done in real life, I pretended I didn’t see him because I didn’t know what to say to him.  Still standing in line, I finally reached the front of the line.  I was let in, then turned around and looked at him.

“Hey, it’s you,” I said casually.  He smiled at me and replied, “It’s you.”  We continued walking and I guess we were in some kind of museum because there were all these artsy things around (not paintings, but 3D art stuff).  We began talking to each other and even though we were on opposite sides of the exhibits (which probably means something) we were able to see each other because the art was transparent.  We talked for a bit (i don’t remember about what) and then he asked me if I wanted to really meet him later, at 7:00 after his school finished and I could walk him to Broadway St. and talk to him on the way there.  So I agreed, obviously because it was always a lot of fun talking to him about anything, really.  We finalized our plan and then he started leaving in this weird little rocket car thing, and I had to shout at him so that he could hear me.  He told me not to worry if I couldn’t find him, because he knew my address.  (NOTE:  I don’t know if I’m allowed to say it here, but IT’S NOT MY REAL HOUSE!  I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THAT IS!  He told me I lived on 59th and Inverness (which in real life I don’t and have never lived there)  and he told me that he, if I failed to find him, would find me there.

NOTE:  I have never been associated with anything on 59th Ave.  It seems like a random number, if you as me.  Inverness refers to the street on which my friend lived for a few months.

Anyway, fast forward to 5:00.  I was at home, and panicking because like a lot of details in my dreams, I tend to forget things.  I couldn’t remember if it was 5:00 that I was supposed to meet him or 7:00.  I remember really going crazy and getting upset because I had really been looking forward to it.

Fast forward again, to 7:00.  I’m waiting on a street.  A bus drives by and I see him on the bus, so I get on.  I find it weird that he was a large tatoo running down his left arm, but I don’t care.  I go over to him and – I’m a little embarassed to admit this part – start making out with him.  I can tell that this guy is a lot older, and it isn’t him, but he looks like the Boy.  The camera switches points of view and now pivots to another bus, passing the opposite direction.  In that bus is the real Boy, who is looking surprised and a little upset.  But here’s the weird thing: he’s with his boyfriend, who looks so similar to him that they could be twins, and begins making out with him, as if to spite me.  That’s all I remember.

So yeah… I’m so glad I managed to type all that out quickly.  I think I know what this dream means, but I’m not going to say.  Again, the Boy (whom I actually met here) may read this, but whatever.  I’m sure nothing will happen.

Prodigal Boy

And now to counter the crappy poems I wrote before with something more recent and much better.

Prodigal Boy

Who was the boy
that simply blinked away loneliness
with eyes gleaming like stars? Orion would be jealous.
Red lights he’d obey
A rare breed of clever young man.

Who was the boy
that waited for love?
Patient as a star-gazer
Only to have love come and leave a crater in his mind
spawning a darkness within him
a planet on a wobbly orbit.

Who is the man
That walks away from a foreign doorstep?
Gagging on the stench of yet another man’s body on his skin
He gets so close to the shore as the tides of lust drag him back into the murky ocean
Guilt creating confusion and white noise, static in his head
while he scrambles frantically to tune into a familiar channel.

Who was that boy and
when will he return?
The man begs to know when resilience will save him.

For the Boy On the Bus

Story of my life.  Sigh.

For the Boy On the Bus

10 minutes ago,
I saw a boy on the bus
blush-cheeked,
tinny music pouring into his ears.
my sight sniffing out stimulating nuggets to not break the ice,
but to set foot on the glassy surface.
insipid questions forming from a burning mind,
building precariously leaning towers of delusion
seeping past the filters I’d installed long ago.

My eyes, bloodshot passion, a drunkard’s
and I look to his for a similar affliction
but there is simply stern neutrality – a flatter-lipped Mona Lisa.

A good guess, albeit a stupid one:
one glance does not tip the scales.

His image, frozen in memory,
more vibrant and destructive than a photograph.
because moments from now,
the only way you’ll pan through the mud for the words to say
is by writing ones he’ll never see.