Thye're making tootsie rolls smaller these days. I know these things. I know candy. I once laughed for about thirty minutes about tootsie rolls...

Lady Gaga isn't my main diety.

She is part of the trinity though...

Why is it that people assume I want to lose weight when I say I'm on a diet? Yes, I do have some excess fat, but actually, I'm trying to simply be healthier. I am also trying to gain muscle mass, so I think I may actually gain weight to reach my ideal.
Also, everyone is technically on a diet. A diet of fast food perhaps, or perhaps a starvation one. But a diet. Sort of like the weather. There is always weather. Even if it isn't raining or windy etc, it is still there. Existing.

Wow, strange rant.

(in light of the previous post... This is very rough and instantaneous. Don't judge.)

Nothing could prepare him for zero gravity. Sure, he’d heard everyone talk about it. How it was cool, how it was hard to get used to. The disorientation. The nausea. How at least half of them had thrown up the first time. And often the second time as well. Masks were provided, because no one wanted to be in zero gravity with free vomit.

He watched the video attentively, understanding that it wasn’t like watching the flight attendants on an airplane explaining seat belts. If that had to be explained, people would be better off on the ground. But this video gave pointers. Like if/when nausea hits, close your eyes. Orient down to your seat, the one your body is tightly strapped into. That’s where gravity will return. Hold onto the armrests, floating arms can cause more disorientation.

And then they helped him strap in. The zero-grav jet was much like an airliner in interior appearances. But the seat belts were elaborate. They didn’t just cross over your lap like usual. Thick, padded straps hugged everyone’s chests and even came across thighs.

Then the tremendous pressure of acceleration. He figured that they should warn people of increased gravity just as much as decreased. Then, suddenly it seemed all force was turned off. There was no sense of movement at all, yet his stomach kept its course. It did a little flip, making him feel much the same as he had during his first kiss. Tingly and sick, and amazing and free.

After the first flip, his stomach seemed to settle in and he opened his eyes to observe. He could tell who was used to these trips and who wasn’t by whether they had their eyes open or not. Some people even looked a little bored while others clung to their seats.

He still very much felt his own center of gravity and had no problem feeling that his butt and feet were down. He directed his gaze out the nearest portal, and that’s when some disorientation crept in. Because he had assumed the planet was behind him, not to his left. And the motionless feeling was instantly proved to be false because of the rate the planet was shrinking.

“Why are we traveling sideways?” He thought, trying to calm his brief panic; trying to reorient. He had to close his eyes for a bit. When he looked again, the planet had shrunk more.

“Prepare for deceleration” The captain’s voice said over the intercom.

And the forces hit him hard again. Down was once again , firmly in the seat.

He'd arrived at the moon.

I watched a clip of the Apollo astronauts falling on the moon. It's not something often seen. It was amusing to be sure. They generally show the graceful bounding and ecstatic thumbs-ups. This clip brought to life exactly how awkward and foreign the moon really is. I'm sure everyone knew that the gravity was low, but surely nothing can actually properly prepare you for that.

Still, I think I'd love to have a go at moon gravity.

Concentration suspended.
Eyes fixed; vacant.

My head's been overactive lately. Usually I retreat to my journal or into some senseless movie or video game. But I realize that I need to write. I need to put it out here. Not just because I said I would, but because writing for an audience is actually great therapy.

The thing I've been overthinking is the fact that I'm not who I want to be. Not yet. I don't even know exactly who I want to be. I know that I'm closer than I was, but that I'm not where I need to be.

I've made a lot of progress these last few years. Mostly in the respect that I'm far more comfortable in my own body than ever before. Sure, it's costing me a deal of money and some slight heartache with regards to my family and some old friends. But I am far more confident now, and comfortable.

I think I need to start switching my focus soon though. These past couple of years I haven't made any other sorts of progress except for on the trans front. Now I need to find a job that I actually like doing. I need to develop other aspects of my life. I need to remember my friends.

Writing really is a big help for me. But it also makes me a bit sad. Because I know that I won't really be able to do anything worthwhile by writing. I don't really want to be published, because that means that I cannot really write for myself, but only for others. Even if it does mean money. Much of the fun of things goes away when one is expected to do them for money. Like enjoying animals for instance.

I also have a problem with plotlines if I'm writing fiction. I seem to do well enough with description and decent with characters, but I'm crap at actually coming up with a storyline. Perhaps I just have a negative attitude.

I'll work on that too.

I have been writing in my notebook. Except for yesterday.

I don't wanna write.

The dogs don't bite. Not if you kick them first. He'd heard that some people kept dogs as friends, in their homes and fed them. But here, they just shredded trash and fought among themselves. They also loved to transfer bad things to people. Sometimes it was something fairly normal like fleas or lice, but occasionally it was rabies from a bite. Manuel had seen it before. Usually, when a rabid dog was noticed, the mayor of the village was notified. He was the only one with a gun. But once a rabid dog bit a little girl. Her mother was worried, but didn't know what to do. The girl's leg healed, but several months later, she got sick and Manuel had heard rumors that she'd died grotesquely. Death was normal to him though. Two of his own younger siblings had not lived to one year old. This was so common as to be almost expected, therefore neither of them had been named.

Manuel remembered one of them, the other had only been two years younger than himself and he'd heard about him from Tiwe, his older sister. The one he remembered was a girl, she'd been very vocal and active at the beginning, but had become sick from water. She then just wasted away silently. The smell is what he remembered most. Diarrhea. Death. He'd tried to spend most of his time out of doors, helping father in the field.

The corn was life. They ate it. They sold it. And they drank it. Without corn, nearly every small Raramuri village in the Copper Canyon would disappear. Only those along the railway would survive, due to tourism.

Manuel helped his father by building up berms of rocky soil against the newly sprouted corn. water was directed into the channel between these berms, if there was water. Some years the small creek all but dried up and they had to hope and pray for rain. Some years they went hungry.


I could keep writing about the basic life of the Tarahumara/Raramuri, but I feel it's a bit redundant. I'll return to Manuel at a later date. If you want to read more about them I can send you an essay I wrote in college.

Today I've been nostalgic about Mexico, and so I wrote several snippets about it, centering around a Tarahumara character I created some years ago.

The footpath traced a tenuous trail along the canyon about a hundred yeards below its rim. It was steep on either side, but not completely impassible. The trail wound around towering yucca stalks, their foliage reavealing inch long points. Red barked trees oozed their roots over and around and even through the copper-coloured granite.

Manuel was making his way briskly along the trail, almost running, surefooted in his huraches*. He kept glancing to his left, down the canyon slope to the green tinted water below. He knew the trail would not take him there, and he wanted to find a decent spot to descend the treacherous scree.

He finally found it, a break in the yuccas that seemed to lead almost directly to the river. His feet slid in the loose, dry rock, but he was careful not the grab any plants to stop his fall. The yucca leaves would easily slice his hands to the bone and the spiny trees were no better. Only firm rock and the occasional surdy root could safely stablize him.

His rough brown hands found the appropriate holds to keep his downward momentum in check, and within a few moments he was at the bottom of the canyon, perched on a boulder at the water's edge.

The normally sluggish water was swift in this place, bottlenecked by the boulder on which he stood. Upstream though, the backup caused a slow, deep pool. With no futher hesitation, Manuel plunged in fully clothed. The water was only a few feet deep, his head never went under, yet he couldn't breathe for several seconds. The river was pure snow melt. Even in mid-June it was icy.

Refreshed and breathless, Manuel slithered back onto the rock and stood, dripping. Drops fell like crystals from his shirt and shattered on the rock.

He began to scramble back up the way he'd come.

Going up was difficult, but at least he'd cooled his body for the trek. Again avoiding yuccas and other plants, he hauled himself upward. His pants were soon muddied and he could feel the grit between his toes. He left a slimy trail behind him. He made it up to the level of the trail, then crossed it in one step and continued upward toward the canyon rim.

The sun was now just west of center, beating down mercilessly on his back. His shirt was dry before he reached the ridge.

At the top, he stopped to catch his breath and survey the land, getting his bearings. Behind him the ground dropped away, but ahead of him it sloped gently into a plain before being inturrupted by more cliffs.

He'd come from the south, upstream, along the trail and now, he could see another trail, skirting the edges of the plain before him. Another creek ran through the area and it was surrounded on all sides by fields of vibrant foot tall corn.

*sandals made from tire and leather cords.