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Sticky Post: Where Do I Start Reading?
I’ve just found your work and there’s a lot of it, where do I start? Welcome to my website! First off, my name is Johannes (Yo-Han-Ehz) T. Evans. I’m a gay, disabled, transgender man originally from Chepstow in the South of Wales, and I now live in Bradford in West Yorkshire, though for several years before now I lived in Galway, in the west of the Irish Republic. I’ve been writing for years, and you might actually already be familiar with my work – I’ve been on Tumblr under various URLs (before using my own name, JohannesTEvans, I was at…
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Transgender Diaries: Hormone Therapy Day #28
Documented my changes and progress having been on testosterone as a transgender man for 28 days today. Warnings in this for discussion of (positively discussed) weight gain, chest-centred dysphoria, and then some mentions of sex drive and bottom growth. A month ago, I wrote an article on Day #1 of my testosterone journey, where I detailed the difficulty in getting hold of the testosterone I was prescribed, and how beyond the moon I was to finally be on it. A disclaimer — your own responses to testosterone will pretty much always be decided by your own genetics and stuff like that, and…
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The Lighthouse
Johannes Evans © 2019 Routine was the most important thing. He’d maintained the lighthouse for years upon years now, and had grown comfortable in his habits. It made things easier, simpler. The lighthouse was his life. Mornings were simple. Before breakfast he would check the lighthouse, turn off the bulb as the morning sun grew brighter. From there it was simple bit of cleaning up, dusting the room and tidying. They had a fancy set up in the engines below, a diesel set that powered the whole tower and had to be fed new oil everyday. Breakfast was a simple affair.…
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The Shepherd
© Johannes Evans 2019 “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.” It is late. It seems it has been late for a very long time — but then, is time stretched when one is lost? Are not all people lost, at one time or another? And when one is lost, does time pass slower, or has the warm summer sun truly been just below the horizon for hours upon hours, bathing the sky in its rosy hue? No. Not rosy. To be rosy is a pleasant thing, charming, calming — la vie en rose is to see all things as lovely. This dusk, this strange parody…
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Transgender Diaries: Testosterone Day #1
I was going to start this article as more of just a vague tweet thread, but then I was like… No, no, I think it would be better if I kind of went into it in more of a blog/article format, because I have a lot of feelings about how my physical transition is going to be going, and I just want to sort of get my feelings on paper. I’ve been out as a transgender dude for about seven or eight years, since I was approximately fifteen, and even before then I was very much a boyish child, had…
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A Beginner’s Approach to Natural History
A bee collecting pollen from an osteospermum. Makrygialos, Crete. © Johannes Evans 2019 One of the exciting things about becoming an amateur naturalist — a student of natural history, and a keen observer of animal and plant life around oneself — is that the world suddenly seems to become much larger. When you go for a walk, not knowing their names, all you see is birds. Sure, you recognise your standard pigeons and crows, but that’s about it. They might be different sizes and loiter in different places, they might have different feathers, but that’s all they are: birds. But once you learn their names?…
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The Photographer
© Johannes Evans 2019 He had seen much, in his time. He had seen a million sunsets, a hundred thousand ancient oaks, pretty women uncountible, and so much more. And, of course, he had captured each on film. He liked boats. He always had: he loved the slight rock of one in the water, loved the glint of the sea, and the scent of the ocean. When he felt homesick — and those times were truly rare — it was that scent he longed for most of all. The smell of salt and sea hanging in the air. He loved the moon. He waited for…
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The Grand Prize
A long-time thief steals his most ambitious trophy yet. Photo by Анна Рыжкова on Pexel. As the sun began to set, Tor dressed for the night’s work. Over the black fabric of his blouse, which was laced to the collar, the strings pulled tight and folded against his neck to keep them from catching on anything, he pulled his harness on, feeling the weight of the enchantment carved into each fortified leather panel settle on his shoulders. The leather was tightly fitted against the curve of each of his shoulders, fastened with a loop just above his elbow on each side. They…
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The Tunnel
Written 29/09/2017. Photo credit Lee McGrath. In the Tintern valley,cut into the very side of thoserolling hills,there is a dark hole.Neatly bordered on its rounded edgeswith weathered grey bricks,the arch beckons,as if begging one to walk within. I stand on the half-rememberedghost of a railway track,my feet upon its broad plank,and I stare.The sun beams greyly down,the birds sing, the leaves dance;Behind me, across the river, is the old church,boarded up like an abandoned house. A breeze whistles,echoing down like a distant moan,or the memory of a train whistle. If I walked under the arch,took steps into the dark,the sounds ringing, the darkness…
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Garlic
Written 28/09/2017. Go to the woods in late spring.Follow your noseand stand admist that great, green carpet.Take into your lungsand nose and mouththat cloud of cleansing comfort. Feel the garlic hazeso strong it might well sting your eyesand smilebecause it means you are alive. (Pick a half a dozen leaves.Take them home.Eat what is offered you.)
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The Boat
Written 28/09/2017. If you walk past the bandstand,with its too-white paintand curling iron detail,an island on a manicured lawn,you might take the riverside path. Past the old inn,the pubs, the tapas bar,and the overfull car parkin miniature. It drops down to the very edgeof the water,lapping at the path’s sideat high tideand leaving the trodden dirtdamp, as mud. The traffic bridge towers over youas the clifftop mansions look down, and there is a great corpse. I never learned her name. She stands tall in filtered light,red and rusted,beached beneath the passing carslike some unfortunate fish,or better,a whale. A thousand times I’ve…
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My Grandfather’s Greenhouse
Written 27/09/2017.For Terry C.R. Evans, 1937–2007. It is at times like theseI am reminded of my grandfather’s greenhouse. Stepping over the thresholdand feeling the warmth,Feeling the sun filter intothat cramped, glass room — if there was sun, that is.And if there was light(There almost never was.)It came through the remnants of vinestill atop the roof, The lingering evidence ofthe old man’s try at grapes.(We called it “growing raisins”.) And the smell!What a smell it was: The mulchy, heavy scentof heated compost,The ozone smell-taste of the heat iself,and supporting the rest,The florid, green powerof the leaves themselves,All growing together. Tomatoes and cucumbers grew up high,Clinging to…