My Current Path (Fall 2025)

My Current Path

By Bryan Paul

It all feels like deja vu, to be back in school-like taking a time machine back to being fifteen years old. I remember in my apartment days having dreams where I was back in high school, except I was the age I was at the time of dreaming. In my twenties I had those dreams. In my early thirties I had those dreams. At this moment, now, I am on the cusp of turning 39 (just a month and a half away) and I am at HCC-but it feels no different than high school. It all feels like I’m living one of those dreams-but I know how the story of my high school career ended and so I can’t help feeling it could all end up the exact same way.

I’m taking an introductory theater class. There is a familiar feeling sitting in the black box theater and I am reminded of my high school acting class. It was the largest class I had been in. Being in a large class like that was overwhelming, but I was learning to accept the fact that I should be taking risks. It led me to make choices despite seemingly debilitating social anxiety. 

I lived in Westfield, MA with my dad. My school was Pioneer Valley Performing Arts High School. At the time, PVPA was in Hadley, MA. PVPA had open mics during lunch period every Friday, so I shared some poetry and tried stand up and MCing at one point. I ran for student council twice, but lost. People knew me and knew my name. Within the walls of school I felt noticed and could connect with people, yet everyday I took an hour long bus ride home to where I was isolated. This was one of the biggest problems of my academic life, especially when it came to socialization-all my peers lived far away from me. My comfort zone, which was school, was far away from me. Distance stood in the way of my social life.

I had been struggling with making connections and understanding social behavior before entering high school and was diagnosed with Asperger’s, but no one knew what that meant in 2001. There were no well known representations of autism spectrum disorder in popular culture. There was no Sheldon Cooper from the Big Bang Theory yet or Abed Nadir from Community.

I felt like I made progress with coming out of my shell once I had gotten to my senior year and yet none of the friends I made were within reach of me when senior year ended and we all graduated. I was left alone and isolated in Westfield. Luckily I did have one really good friend that I was still in touch with. Although he lived in Amherst, MA we kept in close touch and a few years later found an apartment that we would share as roommates, in South Hadley, MA.

My high school experience is well chronicled in a piece of fiction I wrote and self-published, titled “Orien The Arts Scholar”. This long tome is a series of short stories and novellas about a character named Orien Sage from the fantasy world of Promythica, who attends a school called Penhaven Village school for Performing and Arts.

”Orien The Arts Scholar” ends with the novella “Orien’s Jetcar Lessons”. Orien is alone in the cottage that he shares with his father, in an isolated wooded area in the town of Hilliar. School is over and Orien tries to learn to drive a jetcar and connect with his remaining friends to put on a play, but these plans fall through. This begins Orien Sage’s period as a writer and these are the closing lines:

”He had come up with an idea for another performance and he felt very positive at the prospect, because although it might take him ages to learn the skills necessary to conduct performances, it was a simple thing to script them, because all it took was dreaming. All it took was time and solitude and letting his imagination free.”

There are days when I wake up, now, in Westfield, taking a bus to HCC, taking theater and video classes I already took in high school, that I feel like it is all leading to the same place, yet there are blanks to be filled in, such as where I will be living when I move out again and how I will support myself financially. The adult that grew up and moved to South Hadley, Massachusetts became a novelist, but that didn’t pay the bills. I was self-published and didn’t have an audience. What paid the bills was working at Friendly’s and later at local bars. It got to the point that the rent was so high I could only make ends meet by working forty-plus hours a week. We were also under-staffed (which was why I could work that number of hours) and I was overworked. The job was having an affect on my mental health and I needed to quit. In the process of quitting my job and enrolling at HCC, I had to make a sacrifice and move out of my apartment, which was my happy place and not a day goes by when I don’t miss it and wish it were still there waiting for me. 

There’s a poem I wrote in my late twenties that was incorporated into a one-man show I did at the old South Hadley library, that sums up my current feelings: “through a maze I walk/and I’m back here again/no way to talk/and counting to ten/on all my fingers/and loneliness lingers/around me at home/in this cage that I built/where I can’t roam”. I've been going through a creative dry spell lately because whenever I have a strong feeling or emotion I’m only reminded of poems I’ve already written. It seems like I’ve said everything I had to say. All that comes out of me now when I write is reality-reality in the form of essays like this one.

The real driving force and motivation for going to school is to network and make connections. Another reason is to get a degree and to have that on a resume-which would, hopefully, lead me to a job that better suits me. I don’t know what that job or career is though. I’m a theater major and it doesn’t feel like that could lead to a sustainable career. My inner child wanted to be a filmmaker. I already tried to be an author. To live and survive in this world you need financial means. You need to be fed and you need to be housed-but not only that, most importantly, you also need to be happy. I take care of myself and get by, but I do it all on my own. I did it before in restaurants and bars in South Hadley, but where am I going now?

***

Bryan Paul

September 2025

The Cave Boy and the Dancer

 The Cave Boy and the Dancer - A Poem

By 

Bryan Paul

PART ONE

I

From atop a hill lived a boy in a cave,
with mangy black hair and no razor to shave.
He’d sit on a rock and long for a lover.
Just like the girl on the magazine cover.

It’s lonely, you see, in a dark cave at night,
unless you find a hobby to give you light.
The boy gathers treasures from many places-
like books and papers with pictures of faces.

When he is sad at times, he lets a tear fall.
He wipes it away when he looks at his wall.
He dances to music he hears in his head,
with girls in pictures he has pinned by his bed.

But when winter comes and the wind gets too cold,
the boy feels a chill and has no one to hold.
Tears fall more often and he feels lonely still-
(hard not to be sad in a cave on a hill).

II

When spring flowers bloom to bring us elation,
The cave boy steps out of his hibernation,

He runs all the way down to breathe the fresh air,

He runs to the river and washes his hair.

It is at the river that he hears stamping,

And hammering tent poles, setting up camping.

He sneaks through the trees trying not to be seen,

He pokes out to see a girl of about sixteen.

Three girls all share laughter as they talk of tales

Then set out with two boys to explore the trails.

The cave boy curled up at the foot of the tree

Wondering how fun being normal must be.

He drifted off into dreams of dance and song,

He napped just a bit, but he dozed not too long

awakened by music and cheers of delight,

He came out in the open and caused a fright.

III

In the firelight they saw, strange thing he was,

a cave boy with matted black hair and beard fuzz.

The girls all three shrieked while the boys picked up rocks,

Till one girl said “Stop!” as she brushed her curled locks.

Said the gentle young lady, “We’ve frightened him so.” 

She walked over to him and she knelt down low,

She took him by the hand and asked, “care to dance?”

He looked in her eyes and fell into her trance.

It was hard to believe what was happening then,

They danced not just once but once more and again.

They waltzed and they tangoed as the gang joined too,

Around the campfire flame, as the heat grew.

But soon it was late and time to say goodbye,

For the boy to go back to his cave up high,

And let a tear roll on his cheek as he went,

while leaving the dancer asleep in her tent.

PART TWO

IV

Seasons changed and the sun shined brighter,

If he’d known her address-well, then he’d write her!

She was kind to him so and worth thinking of,

He couldn’t help remember she’d shown him love.

For many long nights he’d lay awake in his bed 

With memories of the music still in his head.

Always in his mind, brown hair and so pretty.

He chose to pack up and leave for the city.

He had a knapsack and gathered what he could,

put on his sweatshirt with the zipper and hood,

He trekked down the hill, through the forest by feet,

To the end of the woods, to streets of concrete.

He stuck out his thumb and he hitched for a ride,

Not one person would stop, but still the boy tried.

With thoughts of the girl who would be his lover,

just like the one on the magazine cover.

V

On the road the boy walked and kept on going,

No truck seemed to notice, no car was slowing,

Till then came a bus quite occupied but large,

“ride free today, son,” said the driver, “no charge.”

And so the bus took him, to the big city,

through districts bustling with much activity.

It went down long streets till it came to a stop,

“I’ll let you off right here at the barber shop.”

The boy stood and thought, ‘what a place I’ve been led!’

With a pole by the entrance with stripes of red.

He’d never had a haircut, never before,

He walked up the front steps and opened the door.

The barber looked twice at the hair on his head,

He gave a pondering look and then he said,

“seems as if you must’ve been raised by a bear,”

(which he indeed was, just so that you’re aware).

VI

The boy looked by his feet, where clumps of hair lay

as the barber snipped and clipped and shaved away.

There’d be no more curtains trailing past his knee,

just a breeze up top where it all used to be.

And the worried boy had no money to pay

But the barber, he said, in a kindly way

“I can see by your state you must be quite poor,

I’ll call it even if you help sweep this floor.”

When all was done, said the barber to the boy,

“If looking for work, I’m looking to employ,”

The boy got a job, being useful with a broom,

A place to stay, too, in a small cellar room.

He bought sharp-looking clothes and dressed up real neat,

he went out at night to walk along the street,

but he’d never forget why he left his cave-

for a dancer’s love and the kindness she gave.

PART THREE

VII

For a cave boy who never set foot there before,

The city was full of great things to explore,

But wandering through crowds as the lampposts shone,

Still he felt so small and still so much alone.

He’d line up at the clubs, every one he spied,

But every time he did, he’d always be denied.

“Sorry, no entrance, you’re far too much a runt,”

Said every bouncer once he got to the front.

In sadness, the boy would sit outside and mope,

‘They’ll never let me in,’ he thought without hope-

‘til he spotted a way to sneak in the back,

Found a window that was open just a crack.

He opened it more and he climbed up the wall,

And fell with a crash into a bathroom stall.

But he made it-by gosh, how he took a chance!

Next thing to do was find a lady and dance.

VIII

Out in the open while music was blaring,

Several heads were turned, several more were staring.

He didn’t understand-he thought he looked neat.

He found a stool at the bar and took a seat.

A lady sat sipping wine, red, like a rose,

Her eyes looked him over and up at his clothes

-at his bowtie and jacket with colors clashin’,

And she said, “boy, who taught you about fashion?”

He turned and said, “you look lovely tonight, miss.”

He leaned in to her cheek and gave it a kiss.

Then with a slap his face was red as can be.

Then the bartender said, “Do you have I.D.?”

He was asked to leave and was escorted out-

To sulk and walk back to his cellar to pout.

To shed a tear for his lost dreams of romance

For love he can’t find and no lady to dance.

IX

For a cave boy, the city’s no place to roam,

He packed up and left for the woods he called home.

He said bye to his boss at the barber shop,

And stood outside waiting for the bus to stop.

He rode the bus, followed a trail through the trees,

and settled back in his cave to catch some zees.

Come morning he went to the river to swim,

And he found a brunette teen looking at him.

She stood as he swam to reach her at the shore,

And she took his hand so they could dance once more.

“but I’m ugly,“ he said, “and scrawny don’t you see?”

Said the dancer to the cave boy, “not to me.”

Ms. Eighth Grade English (AKA This Essay Needs a Title)

Ms. Eighth Grade English (AKA This Essay Needs a Title)

The public school system failed me in eighth grade. It wasn’t any one person’s fault, really. It wasn’t the fault of the teacher for shutting the door on a student. It wasn’t the fault of the student for listening to his ego. The fault was in the structure of the system itself.

    To put you in my place at age 14, I’d like to paint a little picture in your head. An adolescent (me) who’s older siblings no longer lived at home and whose parents were separated. At the time of this story, I believe my mom had the house and my dad lived with my Uncle. This would later change and my dad would have the house. I’m fuzzy on some details because this happened so long ago-but those details aren’t as important as is the fact that I was mostly alone, in my own world.

    I built a clubhouse of sorts in my bedroom closet. It had a TV, stacks of books on shelves and a portable CD player. Stephen King was my first entry into reading adult fiction with ‘Carrie’ and ‘The Shining’. As far as adult poetry though, all I had was a CD titled ‘An American Prayer’. The album featured spoken word poetry by Jim Morrison of the 1960’s band ‘The Doors’ and was accompanied by music from the band. It was done as a tribute, after the singer’s death.

    I didn’t understand a word of what Jim Morrison was saying, but the combination of words and music reverberated in my head. The words had a rhythm. They had a beat. It was just short statements without rhyme. This is how I chose to write, when I would sit in my closet with a red spiral bound notebook.

I wrote:

Time.

it passes slowly when you wait.

you wait

you wait

you wait

how long has it been with silence?

The style of writing I discovered was free writing and it didn’t rhyme.

In elementary and middle school you are taught the same type of poetry, over and over. Most of the time it rhymes, but you’re almost never taught about the poems that don’t rhyme.  

I don’t remember the examples my teacher gave us the week we studied poetry. Whatever they were, they didn’t stick in my memory the way Emily Dickensen would later in life (I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?). I remember the project. It was to create a poetry portfolio which would include a motion poem, a shape poem, a five senses poem and a haiku.

I approached the teacher after class on the day she assigned the project. I got out of my chair, just like the rest of the class, but instead of walking to the door, I walked over to Ms. Eighth Grade English, unzipped my backpack and took out my red spiral bound notebook (my personal notebook) to show her and I said, “would it be okay for me to use some of my own poems. I do very serious poetry. My poetry is very personal.” 

She looked at my ‘time’ poem and said, “Oh, I can see that you do…” in the type of voice you would use when you are an adult talking down to a child. She continued, “well, this could be a poem about something that moves, like time moves, metaphorically…” 

It sounded in that moment like the teacher was going to give my poetry consideration. Unfortunately a week later when I got the project back, I opened up the first page and in the red pencil of Ms. Eighth Grade English were the words: This isn’t a movement poem. My shape poem also wasn’t a shape poem. I tried to mold one of my poems into a shape and print and paste it over a drawing. Her comment: ‘this is an illustration not a shape poem’.

This was not very encouraging for someone who was using the written word as a voice to express their inner thoughts and emotions. I was angry because my voice wasn’t heard. My inner voice was yelling at Ms. Eighth Grade English to read the poems! Not to just look at the framework of the project and say: “You didn’t follow the directions”.

I was fortunate to have a better experience in high school at PVPA (Pioneer Valley Performing Arts), but because of this early interaction there was still a wall separating me, as a student, from my teachers, even the ones who were genuinely trying to educate me.

When I would get assignments in high school with specific instructions, my inner brat came out, screaming and stomping his feet. I would hear Ms. Eighth Grade English (who sounded a lot like a particular teacher in the Harry Potter series named Professor Umbridge): “you must have an introductory paragraph, three body paragraphs and a conclusion. Make sure your essay has a title and is in MLA format.”

I am in community college now as a 37 year old. Looking back at this memory, I’m ready to let go of the inner brat and do the homework-but there is a part of me that will always struggle with the rigid format of regular assignments, because I would rather be judged on the content of my words and not on whether I used an outline or prewrite sheet.

When I have these thoughts, I take a step back and remember that we are all adults and that my teacher is just doing her job. I’ve learned that and will continue to do the work I am assigned, as much as I would rather not do certain things.

One last thing I’d like to say in regards to why the system failed both me and my teacher is that the teacher was not equipped to deal with an exceptional, possibly gifted student. This was because she was taught to follow a curriculum and lesson plan-as her bible. There was nothing in the rulebooks to help her help me to be a better student.