inappropriate, in the scope of it.

inappropriate, in the scope of it.


julie w: "transference is thinking inappropriate thoughts about your therapist."

me: "my whole life has been an inappropriate thought."


from the beginning.
i wasn't thinking anything
but the world and everyone around me, they told me i was

told from the beginning
i was a faggot
and a girl.

i never thought about boys when i was a little kid, not that way
except for living in fear of the next belittling, beating or bullshit to come

but that was just life.

yes, i did think about listening to music versus playing with  toy train set
or wishing i had the barbie dream house, because the damn thing looked cool
thinking thoughts of a "girly boy", then.

inappropriate,
apparently.

but perfectly natural to me.

and yes, i fell in love with the divine mr. harry reems, at 8 years old
and starting renting his films at 12.

but it was based in the purity of love and longing, hope in heart, of belonging.
he was the ultimate man daddy hero angel.

to define the path forward, poetic, inside.

inappropriate.
the people renting me the porno films or me for needing Harry to gaze at, dream of, feel safe, in this world.

and there lies the beginning.
of an "inappropriate" life.
always wrong
at everything i felt, was or did

sucked at sports.
let's force him to play more!

hated having to endure the strain of not being able to talk or move at the dinner table.
damn him, let make him eat off the floor! (yeah, that helped)
i was obsessed with being perfect.
that's where i first met my lifelong companion, "Mr. O"

collars closed.
buttons tight.
cords pressed and never dirty,
and if they were, out would come my little psycho self.
my sister would beg me to get dirty.
"come on, just come out and play for a little while", she would plead, trying to tear me away from my savior, tv.

i would change my clothes and try to let go.
for awhile i could, but if i looked down  to see how dirty i was,
i would get shaky and nervous and need to go get clean.

inappropriate thoughts,
boys shouldn't care if they get dirty,
that's what a boy is supposed to do,
screwed.

who made the rules, while us children of the 1970's
were pawns and pretzels for the witness of all kind of "inappropriate" things
masked, back then, as just a part of normal reality.

time to go to grandma's house..
bored out of our minds and terrified of our grandmother's preying eyes..

"let's play bar!"
that was fun.
and the bottles of jack and vodka
they were heavy, but the thrill was just trying not to drop them.
(i never got to play the bartender part, but i made for a good patron,
swinging around in the bar stool til i was dizzy, therefore "drunk")

those playboys of grandpa's we found in their bathroom.
it's not like he worked very hard to hide them.

giggle and blush.
but damn, they were boring
who wants to look at a naked girl, like that?
besides, she'd do herself justice, look so much prettier if she just kept her clothes on, right?

then teenage land hit
and boy did i ever explode, as in break apart and implode

just a little public ousting from the crowd i enslaved myself to belong,
"oh, the pretty popular ones"...
shamed and humiliated.
and then i was gone.

from their world.
left lost and forever altered, the state of being totally and completely alone.
how i would show them
those pretty, perfect, "fit in" kids.
already fucking and groping and "slutting"
as all i got to do was watch them from the sidelines, the outside, "the wrong side"

inappropriate.

and then there was christopher.

"hey, why don't you tell your boyfriend to get me a coke"
they would yell, standing right next to me, as i checked them out at the movie theater concession stand.
"he's not my boyfriend!", i would say, exasperated and pissed.

and he wasn't, but i loved him like all heaven and the stars.
the most beautiful guy i'd ever lain my lonely geek and faggot eyes upon.

but it was just love and worship and affection and adoration.
non-sexual, even if a bit "crushed out", was i, in the beginning.

...tales of ketchup being thrown all over me, while sitting with my friends at denny's, after midnight,
by a stranger who looked at me, literally, like he wanted to beat me and kill me.
and he did it, simply because i glanced in his direction from across the room.
(i have eyes, and they are prone to looking around the room, my surroundings)

"what the fuck are you looking at, faggot" or something to that disgusted affect.
and then, just walks up with the bottle of ketchup, opens and flings it all the fuck over me.
and done, then walks away, happy day.
(fucker ruined my outfit, that's all i cared about)

was that inappropriate?

of course not.
it was my fault for looking like a total freak, back then.

"boy's don't wear makeup and lipstick",  i was often told, with a disgusted scold.

boys who hate themselves and don't want any living soul to see what they really look like underneath do.

and then there was the bar world
who was i to think i could find true love in a world of drunks, drug addicts and cock whores?
(i turned into the third, no saint was i, ok)

that was the most inappropriate thought to last a lifetime.

to find the angel in hell.
and i spent my life crawling on my knees (hey, that's inappropriate!) literally and poetically, in honor of that vision of which
i enslaved my psyche and soul to....

i could go on and on..
(and you know it, don't you?)...

bottom line. (get it?)

i will never know "normal"
and it will never know me.

(and why tatum o'neal is the the heroic goddess she is to me, see?)

lesson learned whenever i remember never being held lovingly on my father's prideful knee..

"i told you that little faggot should've been aborted!", he would scream at my mother.
leave out "little faggot" and insert various insults and put downs, or sometimes simply, just "he", now and again,
and you've got the same old tired story he would shout at her when they fought about me and my endless
inefficiencies.

inappropriate?

what do i iknow.

all i knew was that there was some good tv on, time to run, when i heard that broken record on repeat time and again.

god bless channel 36!

bad ronald
dawn, portrait of a teenage runaway
alexander, the other side of dawn

they played all the best, great, good, good shit.

(and damn, talk about "inappropriate" for kids....)
how i always felt a kinship with poor, put upon dawn, and was a bit turned on by her pimp named swan.
now . that. was, inappropriate.

but i digress
to impress
the re-dress
of success...

in finding there is nothing wrong with me.
but everything.
so to speak, or not at all.

the mind thinks all kind of thoughts.
and wouldn't you love to know what they are?

oh wait, you pretty much already do...

i'm screwed.

(and we haven't even covered all the inappropriate shit i did to get a man to "love me" back then.)

but enthused to say,
and i'll say it again.

the most inappropriate thought
i ever do think.

is the one called love
and it's my defining obsession
like the divine, from above.

never enough.
good things to praise
upon those that have touched me
and moved me, my soul
as
most don't even stop to notice or think of such things
it seems..
the tiny flickers of joy and magic, hope, heart, it brings..
in the everyday nothingness of the wheel of society, what it means.

(to deeply love and care, to behold the magic of the truly beautiful few, or the rapture inside a mystery man's
oceanic stare, melts my heart and strips me bare...)

now that is inappropriate.

time to go think of him, and not share....

thanks.



2014 / 2019 ringwald love.