More on The Realm of Possibility

If my earlier post on David Levithan's The Realm of Possibility hadn't already convinced you to go out and buy, and then read it, here's a taste of what you're missing out on:

"Writing" (p140-144)

I've always put thoughts in the margins. Some pages are all margins--just the words thrown down and recorded wherever they land. I have spent most of my time in high school doing this. Sometimes a word or two from the teacher will break through. But not often. Instead I just think through the pen. Whatever comes. I won't ever try to explain it. There is no need to explain it. Some people like to doodle cartoon animals and other people write notes to other people. Fine for them. I've never been like that. It is always raining in my head. The closest thing I have to order is the way the lines are set on the pages. But even those I disregard. And then one day I jump right off. Instead of turning the page I just start writing on the desk. All that open surface. Right there. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. The words just start to fall there. And I feel some satisfaction from that. I've never written just for myself. And I've never written for anyone else. I write for the release of it. For finding out what will be there when I am done. The desk in the dull yellow that can only be found in school furniture. My ink is the blue that can be found anywhere. I don't even give thought to what I am writing. THERE IS NO MEASURE TO VOLATILITY. I write it again and again. No idea where it's coming from. The appeal is that one word. VOLATILITY. Next period that is all I write. VOLATILITY. Carved so hard I almost break my pen. Stains the side of my hand. Nobody notices. But I know the people who come in the following periods will have to notice. Will have to think about it. Even if they are just going to dismiss it. The next day words the same way. I get a sentence. COMMISERATE WITH THE COMMON. And then I pare it down to a word. COMMISERATE. This time someone notices. This guy named Daniel leans over and asks "What's That? I tell him I have no idea. He nods as if that makes sense. The girl in English isn't as cool. She says You Know You Really Shouldn't Be Doing That. So I write YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. She looks like she wants to tattle. But she doesn't want to be that uncool. Something about the YOU ARE grabs me. The next day I write YOU ARE HAPPY EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT. And it makes sense. Because how many times have I heard everyone complaining and complaining and complaining? As if sitting back and acknowledging that things aren't all that bad is somehow wrong. Then I write YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. Nobody wipes off the previous days' messages. They accumulate like skid marks. Sometimes they intersect like answers in a crossword puzzle. It gets crowded. I start writing on wall. I KNOW THIS IS NOT A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE THING TO DO. I start in the bathrooms because it is more hidden there. Sneaking into the stall. Avoiding the blow job notices and the anonymous insults. YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. That one gets to me. I sit there on the toilet and stare at it long enough to miss the late bell. I try to convince myself that I don't believe in who I am. Even though I know that itself is a belief. I take the phrase outside. Hit the hallways when everyone else is in class. Write small. People start to notice. There is a mystery to it. I think people will know right away that it is me. The desks haven't been cleaned off. The evidence is right there. But I think at first people like that it's a mystery. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS. It would be easy to simply baffle them with jibberish--The Walrus Walks At Midnight. But that's not what the margins have been about. I want to make sense. One day all I can write is the word PLEASE. Over and over again. Above mirrors. Besides fire extinguishers. PLEASE. I have to be careful now. Teachers are starting to frown on it. The janitors clean off the desks. They try to erase the walls. YOU SHOULD NOT HIDE, I write. Those are the words that come. Are they addressing me or everyone else? I just put them up and walk away. People start to become uneasy. I don't know how to describe it. I walk in between classes and see people gathered and staring. GIVE HER A CHANCE. And the bizarre thing is that I can see some people are finding meaning in it. Like I'm posting bulletins from the truth. YOU SHOULD NOT WALK AWAY QUITE YET. Like the trick of flipping the coin. When what you're really doing is seeing if you agree or disagree with the outcome. Or the fortune teller's wisdom. Knowing the vague is the universal. Know that we all have these things in common. The word PLEASE means something to us all. We are all so damn insecure. With unease comes hostility. People start to cross me out. The Principal makes an announcement. Daniel asks It's You, Isn't It? But I know he won't tell. He is intrigued. PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT. It's that girl. I know it is. Amber something. The next day's announcement is for me and me alone. So I go down to the office. But not before stopping around the corner. Pen ready. The first word: LIVE. The second word: UP. The third: TO. The fourth: YOURSELF. The Principal doesn't care what I've been writing. He says it's where I've been writing it. I am to clean every last word. Erase every last thought. Strange, I don't mind. I know I've only been borrowing the walls. I know the thoughts have grown old. So I sponge. And I whitewash. The next day I am back with my notebook. COWARDICE, I write. This time I know it's directed at me. Perhaps directed by me as well. I cannot push the words back in the margins. So I start to write on my jeans. DESPAIR IS NOT THE ANSWER. People look at me strangely. A few ask me what it's about. And I tell them I don't know. Some tell me to keep going. Others tell me to stop. Not nicely. I find the words will not come out in the wash. Across the inside of my arm I write YOU ARE IMPLICATED. People stop me in the hall. They stare. One girl actually grabs my wrist. Reads my arm. Asks me Why Are You Doing This? Who Do You Think You Are? I can feel her hinges loosening. I don't know what it means. We are so used to releasing words. We don't know what to do with them if they stay. Not on the walls. I'm not talking about the walls. I'm talking about what happens when they stay with us. No matter how many times we let them go, they come back. The words that matter always stay.