When I went to college I had no idea what I wanted to do. I didn’t really have any interests or passions. I played football in high school but wasn’t very good. I had a few close friends and was part of a slightly larger social circle of people who never seemed to like me very much. I was alone a lot, I liked being alone, I still do. That being said, when I got to school I had no idea what I wanted to study so I studied beer and pizza until one day I had an idea. I thought, if I could write a tight sonnet and bench press a Buick, some day some girl just might take her top off for me.
It was a strictly pragmatic plan. I had no real interest in bodybuilding or reading but I did have an interest in getting laid and since I seemed to lack whatever “it factor” was required to get the job done I thought a specific plan would serve me well.
The lifting came naturally. I started to get bigger quickly and I found all the bodybuilding magazines motivating. I would look at the fitness models and lift for them. The school part took a little longer to stick. For a few semesters I was toiling in required classes. I was just learning how to study. Eventually I got to my third year of school when it was time to enter my major classes.
I was about 285lbs. I’m 6’6′ tall and my pants were a 38. Most of the people reading this have never seen me under 300lbs but I was young and doing a shit ton of cardio 
. In hindsight I know I looked pretty lean. I was always a fat kid and even during periods of my life when I was “peaking” I felt shame. I’m sure that is why I was always so comfortable alone. When you are by yourself you don’t have to wear a t-shirt in the swimming pool.
I sat in class the first day and everybody was looking at me. I was getting the vibe of “what the fuck is this jock doing here”. I had become a lit major and there I was being rejected by the rejects. I was the outcast of the outcasts. You would think that kind of thing would thrust me back towards the center, but it didn’t. It pushed me farther outside, farther from people, farther from the comforts of friendship or love or even social interaction.
Back to the gym. I was getting bigger. I was training like you would think, preacher curls and pec decks with the full rack, benching 4 plates without technique or anything other than shame and rage to fuel me. It was the only time in my life when the gym was really my sanctuary. It was all I had. I told myself it was all I wanted, but I was lying.
I was on the edge of earning a spot in the English honor society. My grades were going up every semester. I had a few friends in Englishville/burgh/land now and my spirits were generally up.
One day one of my professors was on the elliptical in the gym. Here she was, on my turf, in my house, this was my chance to show her I was somebody. In her class I was a midcarder, here though, in my gym, I was the main event. I was the champion.
I walked up and said hello, she shooed me away without hesitation. I was crushed. Everything changed.
I went home and assessed my plan. It was time for an adjustment. It was time for something new.
I rejected the English Honor Society. Bunch of fucking grammar pushers! I was starting my own EHS at my loft, fueled by cheap gallons of wine from the Hartford’s Supermarket, tiny joints, crappy lighting and Bitches Brew.
We would start every meeting with a poem I wrote about sunflowers. It was awful. We started that was because I wanted everyone to know that it was ok to suck. Being talented or gifted was not the point of being a poet. The point of being a poet is to spend your time being a poet. Every moment, every day, you have to feel everything. Even if it drives you mad. Even if it costs you everything. What do you do with your day? You poet, period.
The turnouts were always good. People would read there own stuff, or stuff that others had written. Some of it was funny bad and some of it was amazing. Until I started with these gatherings I had never entertained the idea that others could be more talented than me. I had always thought it was a matter of effort or education, a matter of acquired skill. Dani proved me wrong. She was gifted, she was better. That was cool. She was a better writer but when she couldn’t finish a piece she would call me. I got to be a muse. I never thought that was a role I could play in life, it’s amazing how your world can find you.
One day, the prettiest girl in school came to the loft. She was flirty and sweet. She read a poem she wrote about hanging white cotton panties on the clothesline in the Carolina summertime. I can still remember it, the tightness of the line, the clothespins, her fingertips. For the life of me I can’t remember her name but I can still remember the way she sat with her ankles crossed.
Life was good.
The weirdest thing had happened. My plan, my plans, had stopped being pragmatic and had become true. I was no longer trying to get laid by making myself more formidable. I had changed. I loved lifting, I loved writing. I loved digging and searching for ways to get better. I loved trying to help people get better. I loved trying to inspire even though I knew I was not the best or the most talented. I loved poeting and stronging and rulebreaking and not caring about the opinions of people who chose not to know me.
My confidence started to rise. I felt magnetic. I still spent most of my time alone but this time it felt different. This time I had a choice. I was not lonely, I did not feel ashamed. I had found a way to be honest with myself and I became free.
I still was not the best writer, not even the best writer in my group of friends. It was not from lack of effort so it didn’t bother me. I was, and am, still writing. Still trying to get better. Still poeting every day regardless of the tool.
It does not matter if people don’t understand or like or care or want to know. Keep going, keep going, keep going. You do not have to roll with the herd. Fuck the herd!
There is a whole universe out there for us to taste.
Climb on up there and lick the hottest brightest star you can find!
kettle,
