Self-portrait with more leg hair; panel from the book I’m making for Lynda Barry’s class about starting testosterone (whatever starting means).
Four months on T
I am in an exam room, dropping my pants for a shot of testosterone. Nurse Katie has been giving me shots since the beginning, four months ago. She is down-to-business. I walk in and she says Okay, so tell me what we’re doing today.” And I say, “Well, you’re going to give me a shot of testosterone.” She already knows this, but it’s our ritual—she asks every time. Then: “Do you need paper shorts?” I hate the clinic’s paper shorts (one size fits all, or really, none) so I always wear a pair under my jeans—she knows this too, but always asks. I unpack my canvas bag. It has a hummingbird on it, kind of in an abstract way. Then I ask Nurse Katie how she is and on this particular day she tells me she “can’t wait to go to Boston for the marathon.” To run it, she means. Katie gives me my shot really quick. For her, injections are a highly developed motor skill. Not like the way I drive stick shift, stalling the car in a tiny parking lot where I’ve been driving circles for half an hour. Katie’s shots are one noiseless continuous motion.
Live from Late Night Craft Hour
‘C calls me “the reference desk” for the way I’m really good at the internet’ is what I wish I had written in my library school statement.
I often think that what I do falls somewhere between writing, librarianship, and oversharing on the Internet.
Also, I forgot to tell you about the complimentary New York Times subscription that comes with renting this place.
— The best sentence I could think to hear after signing a lease.
I read somewhere once that you can only read Wittgenstein in a hard wooden chair, no real reason, it just worked better that way, but I am reading Wittgenstein on the couch and it’s going reasonably well.
Down the street she notices a man in his yard in his undershirt standing looking up at the rain. Well not every day can be a masterpiece.
— Anne Carson, Red Doc >
Nine weeks on testosterone. I recorded myself reading a new poem, at my dear brother Huck’s suggestion. Here is my voice.