Tuesday, February 21, 2017

The girl in the red pants

So there’s this girl.

There’s always a girl – isn’t there? – though God knows why, at this point.

This girl wears red pants. Every other Friday, the red pants. Like clockwork, which is a ridiculous simile, clockwork having no need for pants.

Why did I say that? I will delete it, surely, before I post this.

This girl – this woman, really – wears the pants to highlight what she believes to be her best attribute, but she is wrong. Her best attribute has nothing to do with pants because her best attribute is her nose. An Aztec nose, I believe, with hardly a break in its slope down from the forehead for the tiny divot between the eyes.

I talk with her sometimes, though never on a Friday of the Red Pants.

I try to view her in profile but this proves surprisingly difficult and involves much pointing at distant objects.

She was born on the day I graduated high school and if I had three hundred pictures of her, I would make her into one of my blog characters.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Thursday, February 9, 2017


It is always the same. On one day and only on one day each week, this happens:

I sit in an impossibly tiny office. The office is underground, beneath the Harris County Law Library. If I fail, at least once every two minutes, to wave my hands about me in the air, then the office lights shut off.

On this one day each week, people come down underground to see me and to talk to me. The people ask me questions about how they might go about doing legal actions on their own. They lack what we call “representation”, you see, because they are too poor or too stubborn or too demanding.

This is how the people find me: They go to court, trying to, say, get a divorce, or trying to get their kids back from a husband or a lover, and the judge says, “No. No, you’ve mucked this all up by trying to do it yourself.”

The judge says, “Now go across the street and talk to the man sitting in the dark beneath the law library and he will tell you how to un-muck this. If it can be un-mucked.”

This is my job.

Or this is one-fifth of my job, at any rate, which is quite a lot if you add all the time up together.

When the people come down to see me, I say, “Hello there. How are you doing?” while I wave my hands about me in the air. The people probably believe I am waving hello at them but I am not. I am trying to turn the lights back on. You know this.

They usually respond by crying. Maybe they say, “Awful. I am doing awful.”

I say, “No one ever comes down here to see me when they are happy.”

Sometimes – well, not anymore, obviously, but before last week, sometimes – when no one was down to see me I would sit and I would think about my secret identities and what Adri, Katy, and Nasreen might be up to just then.

I don’t have secret identities anymore. You could say I killed them.

I don’t even have a writing voice anymore. This is not a writing voice.

Not yet.

Soon I will find my writing voice, however, and again we will have great adventures together, even from all the way down here, underground, waving our hands about us in the dark. 

Saturday, February 4, 2017

Deep breath

I wish I knew what to say. Hello there? Pleased to meet you? Hiya, perhaps? I’ll just get on with it:

For ten years, I was different people.

At first – not at my first, naturally, but at first when I’d started in as the different people – I was Adri. 2006 to 2010. Adri was reckless. Probably amoral. A hyper-sexual ginger who’d get in and out of troubles with her old friend, Harry.

But even in those days, I was not a reckless, probably amoral, hyper-sexual ginger.

Next I was Katy. 2011-2015. Of Katy, I will now list a few characteristics, just as I did with Adri. Katy was an intermittently homeless lesbian. What else? She was unfortunate, even to an extreme degree, I suppose. A co-worker, Harry, helped her to even the score at times.

If there was a score.

Either way, I was not an unfortunate, intermittently homeless lesbian.

Finally, I was Nasreen. This was in 2016, mostly. Nasreen was a pretty American Muslim who talked of little things and loved her family most of all. A man named Harry got mixed up in all of it somehow, as tended to happen with the people I was.

But I was not a pretty American Muslim who talked of little things and loved my family most of all. I was Harry.

I’m Harry.

This is the story of my rise and fall.