Here I am, sitting on the bowsprit with the jib on my lap and I look over at the cathead and holler up to the foremast: We get a new stopper for the starboard anchor? Yeah, comes the call down, it's about a fathom longer.
Home for the weekend I excuse myself to go to the head, chide a friend for shortening it to a brig - we're a brigantine, it's entirely different. I've learned many things, such as how to sleep on a moving surface. Near dusk and just woken up for dinner and dog watch I skip dinner to help put sails away. We're braced hard round and the wind's picking up, and I'm balanced on a rope and a yard and watching the stars turn up all shy and twinkling.
Last week a lovely Scottish man took a lot of notes while I remembered those quizzes we did in computer class learning how to wrangle with the internet: is your brain a boy brain or a girl brain? And I'd be embarrassed but proud when my computer told me I was a boy. I'd hide the screen but do the quiz again just to see that result. Have I always been this way or am I re-remembering my past to make it seem that I have? I took a photo on the weekend where I look how I'd like to look; a friend's gay friend reacted with 'love' and I want to know if he knows it's me. Does he know I'm a fake boy, not-yet-a-boy, waiting-to-be-medically-approved-to-be-a-boy?
I sent a story off to be published. I've never done that before. It's not really about anything, and I thought I was being very clever and fun using the language I used to write it but now that it's gone I think it's very silly and overly convoluted. I've always been shocking at writing short stories; barely worse at reading them.
Tonight I made a terrible excuse for a cake and am watching The Expanse. Am stressed watching The Expanse. Space is so big and black and we invent things to fill it, and I am bothered. I am enjoying it immensely.