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Trip Down Nostalgia Lane.

Field Notes In/On Transition

Collected Parties, and Crushes

So, here is a blog post written in the middle of my writing my memoir day, today. I have been wanting to post these poems as a throwback thursday thing on FB, or something. They are included in my last poetry book, which is also a memoir, my poetic memoir of the poet that Joe was, and I don't seem to be, at least yet. the poetic urge has dwindled the more prose that I write, the less poetically inclined I have become in the last six or eight years.

Right now in writing my memoir, I am knee deep in the 80's when I became a poet. One of the themes that has dominated my life is my desire for romantic love, and this youthful area has been both a joy and a pain to rediscover, through old journals, and my own very particular memories.

This suite has always been too long to perform, so I don't think I ever have, maybe just one or two, performed singly with other work. Also too, go easy on me, as this is also the work of an obviously very young poet, I was naive and full of beatnik wannabe-ness.

I needed a break from writing about the nicest turn-down I ever received, from a gal obliquely mentioned in poem #4. It's pretty difficult not to have a few eye opening experiences when sifting through your life for a memoir.

A lot of what I have now, is a history of someone not ready to be in love, who is constantly trying to get people to be in in love with them. This tactic is not terribly sound, as I have faced rejection pretty much every time I have made my interest known to anyone. people scoff at this fact, often to my face, telling me I don't know how others might have felt about me. My answer is always, "well if they never said anything how would I know." I mean, I did tell my crushes with one or two exceptions, I pled my case to each and every one, and in each and every case I misjudged. Most of my life I have been extremely bitter about this, yet I have kept trying.

In writing this memoir I have come to realize that many of those crushes were formed out of my desire to not become the Trans Women I am today, to hide it, to find a cis hetero woman to cure me, or to at least love me anyway. This might happen for some trans folks, but it has yet to happen for me, and to be honest at the moment, it brings me to tears. I cried half the night in bed over this feeling I have that I will inevitably be alone the rest of my life, like the preceding decades.

I do not believe for a second that there is someone for everyone. that is nonsense. there are millions of examples all around the world of people who never find love, and those who live lies, just to be 'normal.' 

My real hope, and I am optimistic about this, is that by finishing this memoir, writing and wrestling with things, shedding some tears, maybe talking with a few trans friends about it, (sorry cis folks but you are no help on this) that I can come to some sort of peace without having to have that romantic love that everyone around me has at least tasted. I need to keep in mind that despite my bad timing, luck or whatever else has kept me from romance,

I have done the one other thing in my life that I wanted to do, I have become the woman I never dreamed that i could be. Five years ago I was even more despondent about never being able to transition, never having the strength. Now i am confident in who I am, and even beyond that, i have spent my summer, doing my indiegogo campaign, and in doing so, become the working writer I also always knew I could be. this memoir is just the start, a stepping stone to making my living by entertaining folks with my stories.

I have always wanted three things in my life, more than anything else, 
1. to become the woman I knew I could be. 
2. to become someone who tells stories for a living, 
3. To have a real romance, a real life partner, someone who loves and desires me at least for a while at the same time as I love and desire them (I always imagined having several relationships over my life, but at this late date, I will take one sometime before I die.)

Two out of three ain't bad, as someone once said. the first two are actually more than enough, and both are in progress and real. the third however is more insurmountable now than ever, as a Trans woman of a certain age, as they say, I am pretty much undateable.

Anyhoo, that wasn't meant to be quite so dark, but screw it. enjoy the nostalgia of 80's prairie poetry below, unless of course you are one of those poetry haters, then stop :p


Last night I was at a party .(naturally)
A polka-dot woman was staring at me .
She changed her (white) dress
And her paisley panty-hose (purple)
she never saw me again .

I sat in the(partially white) kitchen near the booze . 
I drank some but not a lot .

I went into the other room .
People were dancing .
I didn't dance .
It wasn't that I couldn't .
I just didn't want to .

There were some people in there that I knew . 
None of them knew me, though .

I went back to the kitchen .
And had some homemade beer and a little sangria . 
Well, a lot of sangria .

I talked to some people who should've been (kissing)
You could see (it) in their mouths .
Their hands touched their legs .
It was depressing .
Although, nobody seemed to notice
Except me .

When we were leaving, everyone hugged and kissed .
Four of us went for coffee .
After the coffee
Two of us curled up in the backseat (going home)
It was cold outside .

When she left (the backseat) 
I was still warm .

I got home
Snug in my bed
With my feet stuckout
From under the covers .
It was cold inside .


A few days ago, Tuesday actually 
I saw a play wherein
I caught my conscience being King

After the play there was a party (naturally)

I shook some hands and kissed some cheeks .
A shy woman with nothing to drink wanted to kiss me . 
I gave her some wine .

Her lips bit my cheek lightly, leaving a bloody stain .
Her fingers cleaned away the blood: kissing my beard soft and hard .

I threw a kiss at her back .

The free beer arrived and I drank it .
I talked to different people about the same things, 
Then I talked to the same people about different things, 
As I drank .

It was a large party, but we moved it in a small car 
to my place .

I sat on the sofa with my legs on a friend . 
Her legs were between mine .
We peeled off each other's socks and 
Exposed our naked feet .

Her fingers kissed my feet, sometimes soft, sometimes hard . 
I tried to do the same,
Resisting the urge to eat her toes .
She fell asleep with her toes this close to my hungry teeth 
And my toes touching her breast .
I slept     for awhile

When I woke, some one was screaming at the shower, it was cold .

It took us all an hour to get from the floor to the door .

We had breakfast at a Sals
It wasn't much fun
I wanted some toes with my toast .

I went home to my bed without cleaning up the mess . 
My feet stuckout from under the covers kissing the cold .
The cold never threw any kisses back .


Saturday night I saw a play (again) (again)
I mouthed the words with my hands . 
Coincidentally, I was sitting next to a poet .

After the play there was a party (naturally)

The poet drove: wild and fast as poets sometimes do . 
We got there first .

The party was downtown and upstairs .
On the walls
Clown faces
Bled awful smiles
My way .

There were a lot of women (and their sisters)
Dressed in black .
Their icy teeth, pressed
Their strawberry kiss – ers .
One of them spoke to me, she said:"The bathroom is over
There" .

I wasn't getting drunk
But I was drinking
A lot .(I hate it when that happens)

A friend came in, she was late .
Asked me: "What's the matter?"
I said: "Dunno" .
She took her hand from my shoulder . and
Talked to someone else .

We all drank to(o) late .
When we left we
Went to my place (again)

When I arrived
Everyone was waiting for me; as they sometimes do . 
I got there last .

My roommate was sick . and
Sat up: watching wrestling .
There was nothing to drink (out of)
Except a sugar bowl .

The poet left early: as poets sometimes do .

Yesterday there was a play . (the same one) 
I didn't go . I could've
I just didn't want to .

At the time
I was writing a poem . (again)(again)(again)
When the poem was over
Therewas aparty . (naturally)

But first .
I walked .(to the theatre)
My tongue was cold until
The snow kissed through my socks
To my warm(white)mouth .

I got there
When the play was over
I used my tools(actors)
To dis – mantle the set .

An actor lost part of his face
As the stage became
Naked and scar(r)ed . (white)
The theatre was empty
When, everyone left .

At the party
I drank quickly: to catch up .
Tequila(     )
A friend of mine was dressed in black
Except for her(white) skirt .
She thought she made me sad,
But I set her straight .

Tequila(     ) 
Then .

A moist woman was staring at me with her lips .
She wanted a closer look .
So did I .
We exchanged glances
For a long time .

She said:"You're a good kisser ." With her eyes .
I blinked in agreement .
We rubbed noses, then mingled   separately
Until we felt the urge to stare at one another .
Again .

She left .
Drunk .
I was .

A man I didn't recognize
Without his beard
And five other people (including me)
Got into a car and went nowhere
We all shared acigarette and laughed
A lot

Back inside things went from hazy to obscure . 
For a little while, until
We were all leaving . (at once)

I found myself in another car .

Someone got in the front seat (I was in the back)
My lips ventured forward and discovered
This woman eating my tongue .
Her tongue tasted like beer, I liked it .
On the way home I wanted more .
I got the occasional mouthful (of mouth)
I was happy – I promised to make her chicken .
She promised to eat it .
I was happy .

After the party was over
There was a poem . (naturally)


I've been to a lot of parties
Recently .
But I haven't been
Writing them down (again)
Now .

I waited with some apprehension
The poet was coming(late) to
Give me a lift .

We had just got going
When this station wagon
Ran us off the road .
The poet's door was broken in the crash .
The poet was pissed off but calm .
Poets are like that .

It was cold, so we went and bought some beer: The poet,the mad thinker,and me .

At the party there were some familiar faces, and an unfamiliar one .
The party started off kind of slow .
I drifted around, sitting here and there, asking women about their friends .
Mostly I sat(stood) in the kitchen . (again)

The kitchen was small but it was a big party .
Some people came and went but I didn't know them .
In one corner, two sopranos wrote a poem .
In another corner some people I know were jammin'.
In a third corner the stereo blasted, but I couldn't hear it
I sat in a last corner discussing my ancestry (with)
A woman with soft black legs and long red hair (those freaky eyes)

Back in the kitchen, sitting on a tiny red chair;
I brushed my cheek with the short,' black and softly grey hair
Of my good friend Carole .
She held my hand and told me about herself .
When she left, I saw a gift someone had bought for her .

Later, our hostess needed some sleep so the rest of us went to a Sals .
We wanted breakfast, but they had no milkshakes .
So we sang some songs about pickles, it seemed to be the thing to do .
The poet, the mad thinker and Dee left without me, so
I got a ride    with a starship superstar .
When I got home I was content to sleep . 
I didn't mind that my feet stuckout 
From under the covers .
It wasn't cold outside .
I don't think I mind the cold any more 
Any way .
The End .

- © Josie Boyce (nee Joe Boyce Burgess) 
- Black Hole Theatre Season Parties 1989-90


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