RFD Issue 19 Spring 1979

T • Manes

■Bruce Penrose

The first tree 1 remember was an old apple. It stood in our backyard with one great limb projecting out flat to the ground only a few feet in the air.

It was our "horsie" tree then. Dad would lift ray younger brother and me up to sit straddling that limb, and we would gallop off to join Indian bands or cowboys herding cattle across the plains, wherever our fancies took us. We were close in age and always together then.

It wasn't long before we could climb to our horse’s back ourselves and simply sitting peacably in a tree wasn't enough to satisfy our imaginations.

We started to roam further afield in our play. Soon we had taken over the other apples, which ranged in rows behind our house. Some were climbable, some not, and some were more rewarding than others, affording easy perches or better apples. One I sat in for hours in apple blossom time, watching the bumble bees at their work and absorbing the smell of the pale pink blossoms.

Most of the trees produced fairly normal apples; but two were different.

My favorite stood near the middle of the orchard and gave us delicate, pale yellow apples which ripened a month before any of the others. We called them snow apples. We had an apple picker, a long pole with a wire cage on one end arranged so that it could be slipped over an apple and then pulled to detach the apple from it's branch, leaving it suspended in the cage.

1 remember picking the first apples of the season from that tree when I could barely wield the picker. Apples have never tasted like that since.

The other- special apple tree was the tree with winter apples.

It stood at the back of tfie orchard, almost on the fenceline and towered above the others, taller than any apple tree had any right to be. The trunk was long and sloped back. At It's base it angled into the stump of an even larger trunk, and only at it's top did it spread into a fuii head of branches.

I tried to climb it once, straddling the trunk and hifching myself up, my brother watching from belcw, but I gave up before I reached the first branches.

It did not want to be climbed. # It awed us with it's austere weight and vAibranched trunk and also w i l u it's apples— the winter apples. All summer and fall they hung to the trees right tl»rough the frosts and first snows.

If the wind brought one down, it was hard and tasteless. Even when the leaves had yellowed and fallen, the dark red orbs remained suspended from bare branches. Mom said once that the 'apples would only be good after they had frozen and I tried one once, dig­ ging it out of the snow where it had fallen. 1 only remember it s coldness.

It was strange, a tree whose apples you didn't eat, like a sinister messen ger standing silently there on the edge of our little universe hinting to us that things might not always fit themselves to our purposes.

One other fruit tree takes a special place in my memory.

It was a pear on my grandparents farm in Connecticut. We visited there when T was very young and it may have been one of the first trees I could climb without help.

It had blown over in a hurricane and grew with it’s trunk sloping gently to a height of five or six feet. All I had to do was crawl up ft.

It's a symbol to me now of the specialness of that visit, the farm and all it's excitements, expeditions to pick berries or to visit a wondertul junfcle of boulders on a hillside forrested with immense beech trees. Most of all it represents a time with my father, walks out the long farm road to the mailbox with a stop to play in the brook, climbs in the pear tree itself with his encouragements and finally a more cryptic memory of a day he stayed in bed with a bad case of poison ivey.

I wanted to join him, to comfort him, to hug him, but I wasn't allowed.

There were six maples in the front yard which shaded the house and strings alone the fenceline beside the road in both directions. None of them

were immediately cilmbably, but my older brother had a treehouse in one, led to by a ladder fashioned from short lengths of board nailed to the tree's trunk. It was a masterpiece of engineering and clung precariously to the sloping branches which suppored it. It actually had walls a few feet high and served as a clubhouse. Permission to enter was greatly desired and sel­ dom granted.

There were a pair of special maples on the fenceline behind the orchard.

They were just the right distance apart so we could wedge ourselves between them with our backs against one and our feet against the other and hitch our­

selves up to the first set of branches. To complete the cycle a pair of branches, one above the other, hung down from one of the trees, so that by holding onto the upper branch we could walk down the lower until at the end our weight brought it almost to the ground and we could jump the remaining foot while the branch sprang back into the air with a satisfying whoosh!

That was another game I never tired of. There was magic in coming down where we hadn't gone up, especially when the route disappeared as soon as we left it. Mentally, we eluded numberless pursuers with that trick.

In the spring we tapped the maples, drilling holes with the brace and bit and pounding in the odd-shaped taps. Our buckets were empty peanut butter tubs with circus scenes on the sides. There is nothing so refreshing as a drink of cold sap straight from the bucket, clearer than water and hinting tantalizingly at the sweet of the syrup. One year we boiled down almost a gallon of syrup, but that was also the vear we steamed the wallpaper off the

kitchen ceiling and Mom decided that maple syrup was all well and good but not in her kitchen, thank you.

To me maples have always been the type tree. Every other tree exists in comparison to maples. Elms are leaner, oaks squatter, poplars softer, beech fatter and smoother. Only recenlty, returning home from a land of gracefully towering tulip poplars, have I seen how awkward maples can be, gnarled and knobby, massive stubby trunks supporting spindly limbs. Are these the kings of my boyhood? These wizened old men? They should rather be wizards.

I discovered the Basswood trees when I was about thirteen or fourteen I suppose— about the time I understood that homosexual referred to who I was.

I'd left the one-room country school and found myself in a class of town kids, where I felt out of place and unsophisticated.

I tried hard to become one of the gang but it never quite came off. There was simply a different outlook a harshness in their jokes and a competitiveness which I could not adapt to.

Though some friends and I had sexual play together, they always maintained at least the image of being attracted to girls and my isolation grew. In my attempt to enter their society, I neglected my brother's friendship and start­ ed a rift which has hurt us both.

It was a confusing time and trees provided me with some of my safe places.

Basswoods must have been designed with adolescent bodies in mind. The limbs were spaced so that by stopping out on one where it rose away from the trunk, I could just stretch a foot up to the crotch of the next.' I could get higher in them than in other trees, fifty or sixty feet from the ground, so I could see all the country around, farms and fields that I knew and in the distance the low blue outline of the Adirondack foothills .

Next to the butternut there was a triple basswood growing with three tall, straight trunks reaching up a hundred feet or more. I built my last treehouse there, by myself this time. It was elegantly simple in it s conception, 3 2x4 's nailed across the five foot span between the trunks and floored over with boards. The planned roof and sides never materialized, but this level triangular platform, fifty feet in the air out-classed any other treehouse I had known. . , , ,, , I spent my time alone there. I dissected the pear-sized seed balls of the basswood hung on little stems from the centers of snail-like leaves and I chewed on the buds and twigs which released a strange, slippery mucuous in my mouth. Sometimes I prayed. Mostly I daydreamed and almost always I jerk­ ed-off. It was a religious act for me, a form of worship.

It was the best continued

continued.

.

I had to give.

In tact, I ’ve liked jerking off in trees ever since. Being naked out in the open gives it's own thrill, the feeling of oneness with the earth and the shedding of the formalities and limits of my upbringing, but trees have special advantages.

They're more private and personal, like se­ cret rooms from which I can view all the surrounding world without fear of discovery.

I like to feel them sway under me with the wind.

It rocks me in­ to a special comfort. And beyond such ethereal considerations, climbing a tree takes me out of the range of most of the summer bugs.

Two very .different white pines figured in my life then too. A small brook just skirts our land at one point and in the field on the other side stood a large wftite pxne surrounded by prickly ash and berry brambles. The thick­ ets were nearly impenetrable, but we cut a winding secret path through them into the center where the tree had laid a thick carpet of dry, brown needles.

It was a wonderfully private place, cut off from the outside world by it's wall of thorns.

We had to cross the stream to get to it which is how the other pine comes in. It had stood beside the brook once and it must have been regal in it's height. My parents say they could see it from our house over the other trees, a quarter mile away. Then one morning they looked out and found it gone.

It's roots had been shallow in the wet soil and the wind had simply pulled them out and tipped the whole tree on it's side leaving a gash in the earth and the roots displaced into the air with some soil and moss still attached like a little piece of an odd wall. The trunk lay directly across the brook and we have used it as our bridge ever since. What could be more romantic than a log bridge? Every crossing was an adventure.

I took a friend there camping overnight once. I must have spent weeks planning it. I even flattened the top of the bridge yith an axe to make cros­ sing easier and safer. We hiked back with our packs and set up a little camp under the living pine. After supper we made ready to sleep on the soft duff, but his sleeping bag was wet. I forget why. Maybe I had spilled something on it. Anyway, we had to share mine. It held our two young bodies easily, but smugly. I lay awake for a long time, my chest to his back, feeling the warmth of his body and smelling his smell, wanting something to happen but too scared to do anything about it.

In recent years hemlocks are becoming my favorite trees. There was a stand of them near the center of our woods where, when I was quite young, a

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family of flying squirrels made their home. They were wonderful, these fur­ ry animals thht dared to fly. They'd glide from tree to tree. I longed to fly like that.

My favorite stand of hemlocks now is next to a clearing on a little hill a quarter mile behind our place. I go there almost every day when I'm home.

I usually take a turn through the clearing first. The soil is sandy and well drained with hardwood forest on one side and a cedar swamp on the other. It would be a nice site for a small house and garden, tucked away in the woods.

The length of the clearing runs to the southwest and in the winter the late afternoon sun streaks in before it sets, and tints the hemlocks at the other end a dull red. They reach above the other trees with their down swept branches like a series of ski jumps prepared to shed the winter snows and so stand guard over the clearing.

Their lowest limbs sweep down almost to the gound and close in a little private space as if sheltering a brood of seedling like a hen her chicks. I take shelter there too and absorb some of their steadfastness and peace.

These days the chickadees flit from perch to perch and the snow sifts down be­ tween the branches and I don't sit or climb but stand quietly until my toes start to chill. They are a source of fortitude for me, a kind of anchor in the swirl of life's demands and promises. They set their roots deep and meet the storms with flexible good nature. They have a lot to teach me.

These are some of the trees I have known. They gave me a place to grow in, challenged me, solace tie. It was a good education.

I learned to play in trees. I learned that building things is fun and that it's especially fun when vou can do it with someone else. In RFD //8 , the first one I ever saw, Carl says in "Golden Conversations" that the "work/ play distinction is real fine. We sort of look at work as something we have to do. Play can be hard, but work is the stuff you're supposed to do and play is the other things." It's gotten so I hardly ever work anymore. If I find myself working I just quit. If it's something I really want done, I wait until I can go back and play at it again.

As I've written about my boyhood times, I've thought about how much of the boy I've kept with me. Gay people have been told that we're stuck in our development, that we're scared to take the responsibility of growing up.

That's hetero-sexist hogwash, of course, but in a way I find I have refused to grow up. I've refused to give up a dream of living in peace with my sis­ ters and brothers. I've refused to do things simply for the sake of money and I've refused to enter my productivity into a system which spreads half it's tax money for warfare.

Being gay has helped. It has given the lie to all those praises of responsible adult life and the nuclear family. Trees have helped, too. They keep me in touch with who I have been and who I want to be. All they ask of me is time, a few minutes spent with them now and again. I hope I always have the time.

3

Randy Taylor

S' u <D

James Moore I never thought of trees being important to me until I moved to Atlanta.

The beach, yes; but not trees (or grass either for that matter.) After living a few weeks in this city of noise and concrete, I realized trees meant a great deal.

I would go to Piedmont Park and get as far from the city as possible. I was even able to pretend I wasn't in t e city except for the tall archltechture of Colony Square.

There was one tree I loved to climb. For one reason it was dark green all year round. For another, it was very easy to climb, with lots of low branch­ es. I called it my meditation tree. I would sit in it and meditate or just look out over the lake, watching the ripples of sunlight upon the water.

Other times, I would hug it, stroke it, evenkiss it.

I wouldpretend I ha a friend up in the tree with me to talk to.How canI explainhow much it meant to me? Perhaps if I said that dear tree kept me sane...or as sane as one can be in the city. Would you think I was being too corny?

I can't climb that tree anymore.

It happened on September 28, 1978. I was reading a book on bioenergetics about the need for the body to be alive and healthy.I put the book down, and looked out the window. Time to stop reading and put some of this into practice.

So I headed out to Piedmont Park. For some reason there were very few people out there (few as in few for the city.)

I smiled. Nature sank into me. First I walked and then I began to skip. Suddenly I burst out running, leaping high into the sky, flailing my arms as I used to do in childhood. I felt so joyous and silly that I began laughing. I danced, not caring who. saw me.

Look! There is a small tree I ’ve never climbed!

I scrambled up the small bent trunk and stood there. Not much to it. I hold on and stretch my body.

This all took less than two minutes. Across the water I could see cars circcling the park. Then I jumped back down.

I twirled and pretended to be superman. I began to run.

COLLECTED STATEMENTS I think/feel about this issue as a kind of "cross-pollenation," a mix of city/country; and this issue does carry us into spring. Some of us have come from rural experiences and are in Atlanta for the energy (pollen) to help facilitate our unfolding (as flowers will.)

My home was Big Stone Gap, Virginia for seven years and I "came—out" to find other men like-minded and spirited, to add colors and flavors to my conscious Self. There were times of alonenes there (as here) when RFD was such a much-needed grace and affirmation of "me" and my country pride.

Though 1 still believe most citygayfolks don't know enough about survival outside of what money can buy, I owe thanks to this envi­ ronment and brothers here who offer nurturance of another sort; it can be hard to learn about "process" when yer it!

Also, it feels good to see possible fertile merging of city/country this issue expresses, a kind of graft onto my space within that has sought outward expression. Not only have we been kept from each other (ourselves) as gays, our own "sub-culture" Infrequently allows a medium such as RFD to be real/open/nonsexist/ unstraight/unbound by images. A further step now can be to allow our differences, city or country identified as we presently are, and revel in the synergy.

I wish other Brothers, Blacks, acquaintan­ ces, lovefriends would have contributed.

I would want you to know them; together we can be so fertile in our own cross-pollenation/insemination. Though these "others" don't ap­ pear I know our creativity is inspired by their feeling in/with us, by eros, by sheer yearning— for me to have part of myself ex­ perienced by you a brother, a lover who's been and a lovefriend who will be.

David Bassett As I let the idea of working on RFD roll around in my mind, I had a lot of questions which center­ ed around my lack of conscious goals concerning the form that the project should take and becoming more visible as a gay man. On the first count I felt intimidated and uninspired, on the second I was, simply, scared. Scared to have my name appear in print for everyone to read and know my former secret - my current half secret.

As the project got under way, creakily from the first, and T participated despite mv questions, the bulk of my concern shifted to logistical prob­ lems - were we going to meet the deadline for printing? Reader contributions came in slowiy, meetings started late and didn't always attain their originally stated purposes, people with technical knowledge were not much In evidence, So...the amateurs muddled through.

Now the deadline is two days away and it looks like we will make it. Final details remain, but our task is largely completed. It probably would not have happened except for the dedication of a handfull of people, myself not included. My per­ sonal contribution was small.

It's not fair for a handful of people to have to carry the load. Allowing this to occur is a tendency in myself that I need to learn to combat more effectively.

My arablvalence/oppression ham­ pers my effectiveness throughout my life.

Nevertheless, despite all of the collective problems and individual anxieties surrounding the production of the Spring '79 issue of RFD, it looks like we have a real good issue - a comfortable mix of rurai/urban, aesthetic/informative, dreams/ confrontation.

It has been my pleasure.

ADDRESS CHANGE: save us 25< and Itell us your new address when you Imove, as the post office doesn't for(ward 2nd class mail unless gpeci:ied; they destroy that issue and we can't afford to send you a new one. Please send old and new addresses, with ZIPS! Advertising is $10/coluran in c h camera ready b & w copy.

Wholesale: bookstores j*ay $1.05 (40% discount) and distributors, 90c (48%), with full credit for complete copies returned.

fe te <$$$

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$6/year, 2nd class $9/year , 1st class $7/year, Canada and abroad Free— Prisoners' Subscription $10/year, Institutions $15/year, Sustaining Bookstores and distributors receive a 40 and 48% discount, respectively, with full credit for complete copies returned.

NAME STREET/BOX_ STATE

Frank Abbott I can't type and my coordination is poor enough to render me a danger around lay out sheets. So I wrote some stuff, read some stuff, called some meetings, came to meetings, whimpered and giggled.

But mostly I worried and I worry still as I write this. Will it get finished, will it get printed, will it get mailed? I'm almost sure that all of these will happen since all contributing parties are gentle, generous faggots with a hunger to know each other more deeply, more purely. Still I am worried. Worried about "political correctness", tone, style, racial balance, process, rip-off, hurt feelings. RFD didn't happen as I figured it would but as you read this it has happened, is happening and that says something very good about all of us, writers and readers, who are part of the process. We are in earnest dialogue defining our experience together and apart.

When I first read Steve Ginsberg's letter, I dis­ missed it. I was too high with the past events in Atlanta and the incredible energy that was being focused on RFD. I enjoyed the Sissie page in J18 and still think it is a valuable piece of writing.

It was only much later, when layout was already be­ ginning that I realized what a self-centered space I was coming from. I was thinking in terms of what 1 liked— intellectual stimulation, ideas, etc.

I was totally forgetting that RFD, while being done by urban gay men is for rural gay men. think that in the future, urban groups who put RFD out, should seriously think about this point and work in terms of service, not self-expression.

Now Ideas are not bad. Male/sexist condition­ ing are in the head whether that head lives in the city or the country. But I think top priority should always go to practical information on survi­ val in the country. Second to that should come creative writing with rural-emphasis. Only after that, should come politics and philosophy.

On the other hand, (and this is where the two subjects over-lap) we cannot print what we do not have. Honestly, we printed just about everything we received that had rural content. We hated to turn down anything and usually ended up printing something from every contributor. And there was Mikel.

■*v simply not enough to fill up even a few pages.

So we got out our pens and started writing. Now I could take space here telling you about how it seriously, what are urban men going to write about?

Is to live with a magazine in your tiny apartment.

And even if we were not urban-centered, five or Instead I would like to take this space to talk six men cannot fill up a magazine and give it the about RFD as an open communications medium. flavor and practicality that RFD should have.

To me RFD is a communication network wherein, For RFD to become a 100% rural magazine, a lot gay men of all types and aspirations can come more of the readers are going to have to become ■together and be exposed to each others ideals and involved; and my only question is, why haven't you realities.

(1 am pleased with all the personal already? statements in this issue.)

I realize the need for Perhaps you are intimidated by the idea of people to speak their mind about differences in writing an article, don't think of yourself as a opinion. However, 1 would like to see us all get writer, etc. Well, you can write letters, can't to a more accepting space with each other. As the you? You can tell us about your day, an experience magazine moves around, you will be experiencing negative or positive with your neighbors, some­ new methods of expression in evefy issue. Please be accepting of everyones trip. We are all different thing you do to make life a little easier. Write it first as a letter and then re-write it, leaving I may be gay but l have a difficult time relating off the "Dear RFD" and voila! you have yourself an to gay men (be they butch, sissy, rural, urban, article for publication and we are all the richer celibate, or sexy.)

1 have found that I am „ for it. queerer than 1 originally thought when I came out.

Then again, perhaps you have contributed in the I continue to come out every day. Queerer than past and been rejected. Your feelings are hurt or queers.

I am spilling myself out on this page maybe you just don't want to go to the bother for so that you will hear me when I say 'You don't nothing. Well, why was it rejected? Was it 25 have to live someone's philosophies or politics pages long???? Was it hard to read? Were words Just be able to say 'yes' that is a good space to misspelled in every sentence? Really, you have no cotne from. ' idea how sloppy some of the submissions were (and Frankly, I feel this issue was more personally some of the worst offenders where people who should involved with me than I had originally intended. know better.) Don't put the shit-work off on us!

If a novice like me can get this lay-out mess Clean up your writing yourself! People are doing together and out to you I assure you that any of RFD in their spare time and don't neecf energy drains you may be next on the list of prospective RFD such as making sense out of a hopelessly incoherent publisher. hand-written lengthy essay.

I would also like to use this space to solicit Then again, maybe you would just rather complain letters from all of you about Running Water, than do something to make the magazine better. i would like to hear from anyone about possible Maybe you are the kind of person that likes to dump involvement with Running Water Farm.

It is my everything on everyone else, instead of taking re­ home.

I look forward to being back there. I sponsibility for what's going on. Well, if so then need others there also. Let me hear from you. may I suggest that their are plenty of magazines in existence that operate from that space (passive Please enjoy. Moving toward higher times, readership). RFD is not one of those magazines logether.

73 Spruce St.,n.e. and you wouldn't like it if it were.

Atl. Ga. 30307 Hey folks, I'm in love with this little mag and until 6-10-79 then I've only seen less than five issues of it. Please Rt. 1 box 127-E don't tear it down.

BakersviUe, N.C. 28705

mm 4

IRFD is published four times a year by RFD, Rt. 1, jBox 92E, Efland, N.C., 27243. Second class post­ age paid at Efiand, N.C., 27243. Copyright C RFD 1978. RFD is a non-profit corporation. Donations |tax deductible.

TOWN

James L. Moore I would like to write about two things which more or less over-lap. The first is directed to future groups in charge of putting out RFD and the second is to the general readership. Basically, both have to do with the direction that RFD is

ZIP

Faygele ben Miriam Well, another issue and we're established in the southeast! The next issue will be done in the mountains of Tennessee, and the one after that will come from New England. We are financially solvent, somewhat, having paid off the printer for the last two issues, and already have some of the money to pay for this issue. However, this is in part be­ cause the staff (me, and my mother, when I can press her into service) is still unpaid. For any­ one interested in working on the next issue, please write to: Milo, Rt. 1, Box 98A, Gassaway, TN 37095 (no phone).

For all of you who send notes and letters to RFD that are not necessarily for publication, 1 apolo­ gize for not answering promptly unless there is a specific request (and even then, there's an un­ pardonable delay!). . .the burden of doing all the work previously shared by an entire collective is too great. Please bear with.

We have continued to get angry letters from read­ ers to cancel their subscriptions because they don't like this or that (the major complaint seems to be anything relating to the so-called "sissybutch struggle."). While that is certainly anyone's one's prerogative, I do want to point out that our pages are open for any and all sides on varied topics, and if you feel your viewpoint is not being properly presented, it's probably because nothing other than a short angry letter of cancellation has been submitted on that topic. We're always on

the lookout for articles of special interest to rural, folk, especially on how to survive emotional­ ly and economically outside the main urban gay ghettos.

Back issues: available at present are all except 1,3,4,5,8 , & 9 at $1.25 each.

There is information elsewhere in this issue about the 4th annual Southeastern Conference for Lesbians and Gay Men. Three of us who are on the co-ordinating group for that recently travelled to Philadelphia for a national conference to plan a "national" gay march on Washington, DC. As this magazine is aimed at "hinterlands" folk, you might be interested to know that those of us who attend­ ed and felt the conference to be dominated by the New York/San Francisco axis felt it necessary to help form a hinterlands caucus, representing not only rural and small town folk, but even those from big cities other than N.Y. and S.F. While we sup­ ported the march in principle, we felt that repre­ sentatives from those cities are arrogantly trying to chart a time-table for activity that many of us in the hinterlands feel is unreasonable.

There will be, over the next few months, meetings set up in six regions of the country to gain additional input for the march and to help coordinate. The march is tentatively scheduled for the weekend of October 6 , 1979. For further information, or how to get involved in your area, contact Coalition for Lesbian and Gay Rights, 156 Fifth Ave., #505, New York, NY 10010, (212) 924-2970.

R

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I am finishing another cycle in the city. With the next full moon a new year begins. 1 am feeling the urge to be back with the healing energies of Roan Mountain.

A recent dream has me once again feeling as though Running Water is the home I should be at.

It was winter in the dream. Three of us had arrived on the mountain and were wandering through the snowy woods, collecting twigs and listening to hear the voice of the stones. Despite the coldness (temp­ erature-wise) all of us were quite warm and comfor­ table.

Gradually we arrived at the cabin.

It was one of those extremely clear blue days, when at high ele­ vations, such as this one, the air sparkles bright­ ly. The other two people in the party remained on the porch, enjoying the day. As I ventured inside, perhaps to build a fire, although we were all still quite comfortable.

The inside of the cabin was not it's usual self Everything was neat and tidy, very simple furnish­ ings and there was no need for fire as the whole place was throbbing with a bright white light that was emanating from some unseen energy source.

Running Water Cabin has always been fairly white inside. White walls, white stove, white sink, white window shades, etc. But the whole interior was alive with this brightness.

It felt very heal­ ing. The energy coming from there was clean, pure and as crisp as the blue-blue sky outside.

The rest of the dream concerned two neighbors who had come into the yard wanting to cut down a large tree on the front property line. Even if there had been as large a tree as they said, I’d have never let them cut it down. Sometimes, as pro­ tector of land, one has to deal with these strange intrusions.

As of now I've been gone from Running Water for almost eight months. There has been nobody there.

It is the longest I have left my supposed home to itself since I first moved there. I am starting now to channel energy back up to the Roan. My con­

FATHERS "Let them not seek to discover who I was from all that I have done and said...

An obstacle was there that transformed the deeds and the manner of my life.

L 3ter, in the more perfect society, sci -ly some other person created like me . .l .f;pear and act freely."

— Cavafy, 1908

Constantine wrote for over 50 years but left his heirs only 150 of these jewels Where are our hidden treasures? those unwrought urns those encapsulated novae -that you swallowed like a mother animal who eats her babies in a famine so she, giver of life, will live "only from my most imperceptible deeds and my most covert writings" have we found you, my half limned father Constantine That society is here!

T am that individual! but he can't hear or know dead in Alexandria at the end of a civil servant's life He lives only in these few flesh jewels that did not die aborted When I was younger I was Jesse's lover and Jesse had been Ernie's lover and Ernie was lover to Alfred Lord Douglas and he was Oscar's lover My lover Oscar who had been coveted by every salon in London and died an exile's lonely death spent his last years wasting witticisms on Paris street boys who were wondering how much they could get from the old queer My lover Oscar

tracts and finances will keep me in Atlanta until the summer solstice, I will be ready to be there by then.

The more I learn about healing and earth energies the more I am convinced that Running Water is a place where many of these Important energies come together to form a strong space for people to get the energies they need to continue as whole/happy beings.

The running waters themselves are a strong force of cleaness and change. I have already spoken to the Roan Water Deva about a hot spring. I will re­ sume my work with that as soon as I am back to the presence.

Just recently I've heard much about the enduring and patient power of the rocks and stones. They are by far the oldest energies on the earth. Running Water is the gathering place of many stones and boulders. They are there for us to learn from.

Learning to listen to their slow energies will be a course of action (or inaction) all to itself.

This issue has trees as one of it's focuses.

I've met many of the trees personally there and spent many windy nights listening to them talk loudly of how it is to BE on the mountain.

And of course the huge powerful and endearing powers of the Roan Mountain itself. They are con­ stant and too heavy to be ignored even by the most dense. Many people that have been to Running Water have been absolutely scared by the huge force that the mountain exerts on a person staying on the side of it.

I'm glad to be talking about the mountain again.

My existence has been a wreck ever since I abandon­ ed it last time. I'm going back.

I'm looking tor support for the Running Water Healing Center. Sup­ port comes in thousands of ways. Just the thoughts you've had while reading this have already homed-in on the Roan and are now manifesting in a stone or else tumbling towards the sea in the Running Water.

For all of my life, though given as just a mortal man, I've felt to be a unicorn.

Never really like the rest, but set apart, somehow, Though there never was a test.

I've found myself in bar rooms, in mid-day crowds Searching stranger's eyes for any kind of sign, Of greener pastures and another unicorn.

Here in my life, I have travelled The realm of men, and out so far.

I sought out Bethlehem, to no avail, Unlit by David's star.

But I never met a wise man who didn't have to say That unicorns were rare enough In these torn and labored days.

And so, who am I here: blessed or cursed?

And who can tell me which is worse: To be the last or be the first.

There are the highs and the solo lows, But a unicorn travels planes No mete of measure knows.

And sometimes late at night, I am drawn to an open window By sounds, like so many questions, sifting through a troubled world.

Sounds like a unicorn, somewhere.

Searching, for a unicorn.

Michael Mason 31 MAY 78

Happy Exquinox Mikel Running Water

celebrated the wedding of his future to my past in 70 years of mingled semen. we sang the body electric in meadows in beds in cells In palaces in secret in haste in the open in tearooms in sleepy Brooklyn in farmboy New Jersey in backrooms in darkrooms in forests in baths on ships in Midwest tern homes in Manhattan efficiencies in mansions with taste of true love in first love with gusto in no love in marriageless sins of the flesh n sacred shaman holy rites with bike boys wit i leather toys with Mayan myths emerging in Cardinal's robes My lover Oscar the world loves you now but you always will have been a broken ex-con released from Reading Gaol on your way to a loveless lonely exile's death

Years ago our Mother cut off her right breast so she could draw a bow and offed her boy babies and gave herself to no man but they raped her back to Athens let her out once a year for Dionysis made her brood mare of princes, breeder of priests breeder of those who apologized and justified and denied us who poisened Socrates because he knew who in efficient modern ovens burned a quarter of a million of our lovers who sliced and shot and stomped to death countless unknown old queers who were found guilty by no jury and punished by no judge who denied final rites to our fathers, their brothers excommnicant as they entwined them with kindling at the feet ot witches and named us FAGGOT

5

So when Anita says: Do you know why God hates homosexuals? Because they eat sperm and that is life. they are actually eating life. . , l can't laugh anymore and pretend it s not me talking about THE CHURCH HAS BURNED ENOUGH ^ O T S IT'S TIME FAGGOTS BURNED DOWN THE CHURCH My quarter million fathers what would my life be like if you had risen up angry and smashed your Nazi murderers or even said I am gay and am not putting up with this shit How much freer would I be? .

How much shit would I have escaped if you had taken just a bit more for me?

But you went silent to your ovens and your sons/your lovers are paying your dues again paying our dues again and again every generation alone and confused How could you do it to me?

How could you let it happen to yourselves?

And my sons my millions of beautiful unborn sons sleeping under California beaches waiting in massive African tree trunks rising in steam over Asian jungles some are playing with other children and wondering Why am I so different? so strange.

Why do people hate me? What will they do to me if they find out?

My brothers my lovers my many other Selves My many facets of the perfect jewel that is Us Why can't I smash this conspiracy of silence and say You are beautiful as you are and I love you perhaps someday in a more perfect society Gil Robison

Dear RFD: Hello!

We are between 10-30 gay people from Sweden who plan to visit the U.S.A. in the middle of June to the middle of July.

We will visit N.Y. City, maybe New England area, Washington D.C., Florida, Louisiana, Texas (Houston area), California, L.A. and S.F. area and Illinois, Chicago area.

Are there someone who want write to us? Some of will gladly corres­ pondence with you. We are all be­ tween 25 to about 30 yrs. old. Most of us are boys.

1^, you want to visit Sweden and •Stockholm so please write to us and we will take care of you and help you.

Write in English to: Mr. Jan Berggren Klippatan 19B 1110.G. s-116 35 Stockholm, Sweden

Dear RFD: Gay Christian male, active mem­ ber of Metropolitan Community Church age 38 years, 5'7", 200 lbs, working as gas station attendent seeks gay Christian male as life partner who is interested in living in a mono­ gamous relationship and willing to move to Tucson, Arizona.

I am not perfect and looks aren't great but I try to live a life of gentleness (non-violence), caring, understanding, love and would ex­ pect such qualities from one who would be my life partner. To me, love in one's heart for another overcomes what one may lack in out­ ward appearances. •„ At present I live with a lesbian couple in a two bedroom house where we share household expenses, who are also Christians and members of M.C.C. 1 pray what I have shared thus far will interest someone who is also looking for a life partner.

Please write, share of yourself openly— honestly and let's see what God has in "store" for us. All let­ ters will be prompty answered.

Lovingly,

Stephen D. Pfeiffer P.0. Box 1745 Tucson, Ariz.

85702

Is there anywhere an all-male, adult, clean-shaven commune who also cut their hair?

I'm very into music and books and can teach organ work as future income.

Please write to: Jim Lawbaugh Andreion Mai mo N.E. 68040 Dear RFD: I am writing to request sub­ scription to the RFD magazine and to introduce myself and the Sirius research group. We are a small, rural-wilderness living arrangement dedicated to a balance of self-suf­ ficiency and a modern-western life style. Our research direction is in the area of esoteric-psychology culture-pathing, experimental com­ munications and the traditional ancient mystery-mythologies. We a are a group of people from a wide field of study only a small nucleaus live on the thirty acre retreat en­ vironment in Zoar valley. Our af­ filiates are city and suburb dwel­ lers. This experimental, informal educational experiment was started seven years ago by David Kazmeirczak and Myself who have been in an open marriage for eight years and four others from different backgrounds.

Since, the experiment has undergone many changes and different people and I hope this trend of transforma­ tion will continue.

We would like tp extend to the RFD community and anyone else who share similar intellectual and phil. orientation an open-ended offer to help, share information, expertise, •visits, friendship and community.

Also to anyone who would be inter­ ested in participating in this sort of an alternative community are most welcome to enquire, write, visit. As most of this sort of group experience is embryonic and is in a state of development and i in need of pioneer developers.

Bob De Barr 3750 N. Country Club #3 Tucson, Az. 85716

One of the wonderful things my lover brought me was your Fall is­ sue. I'd not seen an issue since I left Santa Cruz in August 1978.

Since arriving I have searched the island for RFD, but to no avail.

What joy! I'm very happy you still exist.

Over the years I cannot recall having ever seen any writings in RFD from Hawaii. Comming to Hawaii from a large and active gay commun­ ity such as Santa Cruz has not been easy. Only my preseverance has kept my gay-man's identity shining, with­ in, if not without.

There have been many painful compromises.

There are many new obstacles, as well as the traditional ones, to-t the gay men of Hawaii in their ef­ forts to find solidarity and bro­ therhood. The mix of ethnic and cultural traditions from all over the world and a benign political consciousness are two which come quickly to mind.

I hope with this letter to intro­ duce Hawaii's rural gay men to the RFD community if it hasn't been done already. All of us here do not live in the highrise glitter of Waikiki. Many of us live next to the earth.

Maluhia (Peace of spirit) Donald McGaffin P.0. Box 22626 Honolulu, Hawaii P.S. I would deeply appreciate re­ sponses from the mainland and my gay hawaiian brothers.

With affinity, Frank J. Capatch Jr. 7110 Zoar Valley Rd. Springville, NY 14141 716-5924520

Sirs: I am writing to find information on communes.

I am gay. Alone.

And feel out of step with the rest of the world. I want so much to f fit in but society will not let me.

I need to find a society that will take me and accept me. I have no talents or skills except nursing and drama. Drama is my biggest ta­ lent.

I'm good. But what can I do with it? Please send me info on communes that might be interested in a social misfit.

Hello RFD!

Dear Friends: I am a 21 year old Capricorn presently living in NYC, spending a lot of time upstate.

I am going to be traveling around the U.S. (or so) for sever­ al months. I hope to visit some friends, old and new, meet some RFD'ers here and there. I'll be making long and short stops, spending time in the Nation­ al Parks and generally riding the wind.

I'm looking to hear from people who might be doing the same thing this summer or whenever and could share part of the trip anywhere. I'm also try­ ing to get more contacts of gay men living In rural areas, especially in col­ lective situations.

I'll be in NYC until May 15. Hope to hear from you.

Geoffrey Blatt 21 East 2nd Street NYC, NYC 10003

by an imposed system; I'm not only choosing but creating alternative choices.

What this means in terms of bi­ sexuality and community is that my friends and I envision an alterna­ tive multi-adult family structure, open to all sexual identities, with the fidelity and stability of a suc­ cessful marriage. The advantages to bisexuals like me are obvious, but many heterosexual or gay people might also welcome the chance for a more diverse intimacy. And gay people could participate equally in parenting children privileged with varied role-models. As we see it, the benefits are -countless and the difficulties few and fairly easily reconciled.

The core of the community as a whole and the bond uniting members of various families is a highly de­ veloped verbal communication process aiming towards complete openness and honesty, promoting the formation of ideal-based friendships, and leading to personal growth and change.

Other ideals related to this process are equality, co-operation, and optimism. Other goals are high levels of art and learning, an and living in harmony with the en­ vironment .

We're committed to country living and presently located in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin with our major land asset a beautiful 160 acre organic dairy farm. The operation is only a year old but is thriving: 21 milking Guernseys plus 14 dry or immature. The dairy is shorthanded right now, so anyone who shared our ideals and also likes cows would be especially welcome.

Of course, community members may work other places than on the farm.

Furthermore, we're trying to stay open to the possibility of moving during the next year or so in case we discover another place or other people more advantageous to build­ ing community. Our only requirement is a good-sized piece of land suit­ able for self-sufficiency and energy efficient housing.

So let us hear your response to our ideas, especially if you share many of them and see the possibili­ ty of joining forces. Write for more information. Let's not hold back, but keep working for the best situation we can imagine.

In Utopian Spirit, Charles Munch Rt. 5, Sturgeon Bay Wisconsin 54235

Dear Reader: In my dream of returning to a simpler lifestyle, I have come to a point where I can no longer run a ranch by myself. I am in my late 20's and I seek an honest, country-oriented human being and desire this person to be more than just a caretaker. I have a remote mountain home and need someone to share the good and bad of it all. I will correspond with anyone, so do not hesitate to write.

Dave P.0. Box 3089 Eureka, California

Besides saying how good I felt a about the new Ramblings From Dixie, I want to introduce myself and tell other readers about the community my friends and I are in the process of building.

I'm a bisexual man, married 8 years, just beginning to clarify the relationship between my ideals, my goals, and my desires— just be­ ginning to realize that I'm respon­ sible for making exactly what I wa want out of my life. Up until re­ cently I'd assumed the choices were few, and that if some people didn't fit into the structures available, tough luck! But now I've stepped past the feeling of being limited

95501

SPACEFiJ SUPPORT 2>J>M I credit one of my teachers, Pat de Sercey, for first showing me space through meditation and in Buddhist art. Space before had been invisible. My eyes had gone immediately to the formal, to detail, to shape. Seeing spaces in my world has taken time and practice. Feeling my own interior spaces has taken longer and has often come through pain's pro­ vocation. Today I'm hurting, home-sick. My 40 hour plus work week leaves me tired and chores and rela­ tionships often take precedent over alone time. My usual pattern is to do as much as possible and grant time to my being only when I'm ill. So today I'm 'feeling flu-full and staying home, hanging out with my oldest friend— me. My ill feelings diminish in proportion to the space I need and allow for my healing.

Space is a "feminine" or yin principle. Yang or "masculine" energy is creative and formative. Yin energy is receptive, open, empty. My childhood in­ doctrination to manliness always valued acting, mov­ ing, doing. Naps became obsolete and play-time turned into school time, friends into competitors.

The balance was damanged and the discomfort, the dis­ ease, grew. Pain was buried for there was no time for healing.

Recently I heard Patricia Sun, a healer from the West Coast. She began her talk by saying that her words were unimportant, that what she was communica­ ting was most accessible through the space she was creating by being fully present and opening up her heart. In being there Patricia provided permission for others to simply be there too and granted pro­ tection in the safety of her love for other hearts to open also.

The next weekend I found another safe space to open myself to love and loving. Gaymen from Atlanta and the Southeast gathered not far from where I live to spend a weekend together. We were anxious at the challenge of creating a supportive space for ourselves in the city. What I appreciated most that weekend were the silences that fell as we sat together in circles. In those silences I experienc­ ed again the permission and protection I needed to be still and present and to open myself to the out­ pouring of affection. In quietly being togethet, we were healing ourselves and healing each other. The dis-ease we often feel from isolation/competition/ imbalance was reduced leaving us space to explore new possibilities of being together.

Creating support for space in the city’needs to be deliberate but scant. Out of fear/conditioning we tend toward over-structuring and under-allowing.

The city-country analysis that gaymen in the South­ east are developing appears to recognize the need for balancing the formal and the spacious.

Hie country focus, the space and anarchy of the Running Water experiences, and the deliberate setting aside of space by urban gaymen's support circles were both essential in the unfolding of the Atlanta week­ end.

I am increasingly aware of my responsibility for my own healing and nurturance. I can no longer rely on old parameters to tell me how I feel. In the spaces that I save for myself, alone and with my brothers, I experience my wholeness: my healing in concert with that of my companions. Competition slowly fades in the circle of loving arms and open hearts.

Flowers in the city need sweet rain falling on rich earth need sky-fulls of light need loving hands to tend them

Atlantis

It is some days now.

The week slips away slowly, like a landmass viewed from a departing ship, subtending a progressively smaller angle, till only the hazy outlines of a few peaks remain.

A chronology begins to emerge and a philosophy, the party line to explain the present deprivations.

But here and there your reality surfaces, and i drift with the breeze of the helmsman's dreams.

a ►. o otf

E

a> o

At the International Cooperation Council’s 14th Annual World Celebration, "The Rainbow Rose Festi­ val," held in California at the Pasadena Convention Center January 20-27, 1979, a panel discussion Jan­ uary 23rd was devoted to the topic "Synergy and Com­ munity" and featured: Peter Caddy (Founder of the iindhorn Community in Scotland), Norman Creamer (Founder of the Solar Community in Michigan), Ceorge Emery (listed in the program as from the Emissary Community), Ken Keyes (Founder of the Living Love Center in Berkely, California), Pir Vilayet Khen (Head of the Sufi Order in the West), and moderated

by Kathryn Breese-Whiting (President of the ICC).

During the question-and-answer period near the end of the panel discussion, I asked a question from the audience. The panel was tape-recorded by AudioStats Educational Services, and I was able to buy -a copy of the panel discussion.

Bruce Penrose

Kathryn Breese-Whiting: I've seen two hands down here. This one? OK. Grant Lloyd: My name is Grant Lloyd. As a gay per­ son— a homosexual— who is into the higher conscious­ ness trip, I'm disappointed that I don't seem to be reading in your publications about any gay people being there. And I think, "Are they in the closet or what?" The publications are about heterosexual men having problems with their women, and women with their men, with their children, and marriages being performed and births happening. And I just wonder, you know, what about the gay people in your com­ munities?

In the Woods, Greene Maine

You make me hard like trees and rocks.

You make my blood waterfall ,pounding.

You wild animal make me confused about you man.

Gary Gilman 200 W. Valentine St I Westbrook, Maine 04092

Kathryn Breese-Whiting: (speak to that?

Nornlan Creamer: lit?

Would anybody like to

This is a pressure cooker, isn't

Kathryn Breet»e-WhLting:

Pardon?

Norman Creamer: I was just kidding.

X think every­ body in the community is gayl And Joyful. (laugh­ ter, "Yeaf" applause, "All right!") I'm not an­ swering your question, obviously. . . Number one, I'll give you. . .we're only seven years of age and we've had one. . .

Kathryn Breese-Whiting:

Not old enough yet.

Norman Creamer: Well, that's when It starts!

I'd like to be more serious about It, if L could.

I.t'8 a delicate problem in society along with many other social problems that we have not yet evidently reached the state of illumination to work with ef­ fectively. We've had only one person come to the community. And this person visited for a weekend.

He was very kind and very nice. A very beautiful soul. And he said "I'm gay." And he stayed for the weekend. He had no interest in living at Solar.

We have only one black person at Solar, and that is a Nigerian. But It's not because w e ’ve turned them down. It's because they haven't come. I don't know what we would do in a situation like that. I really don't know. I'll be very frank with you be­ cause I don't have an answer in that area. But I'm sympathetic with the problem.

I feel that a million to two, three million years from now, if we can

many hands many flowers

vision, there will emerge an androgenous man or wo­ man who has. , .

Frank Abbott

TH~.

Kathryn Breese-Whiting: or woman.

a

ARSON*W0LF CREEK*ARSON*W0LF CREEK*ARSON____ Aftfir numerous hassles and harassment, which In­ cluded knocking over the mail box repeatedly and r ramming a visitors car; on the morning of the 12th of January the Magdalen farm was fire-bombed. Thank god the two boys were sleeping in the camper shell near by. Jamal Redwing, ran to the neighbors who teiephoned the sheriff. He excused himself in the fact that he got stuck in the creek for 45 minutes.

During that time he didn’t phone the rural fire department who claimed that they could have saved the adjourning cool house and some of the contents of the household. When Sheriff Scott was asked why he didn t phone in the alarm, he said, "it is not my responsibility." Later on when the farm members asked the police if there were any leads they retorted by saying, "It was probably one of your boy™ nd8* A1/ Possessions were lost, among them the RFD archive library and issues C/13, 14, 15. ^nationsjnay be sent to Box 98 Wolf Creek, Ore.

T

Then there won't be a man

.

that's what I mean. They'll have the properties.

I think right now we're dealing with gay on the le­ vel of physical attraction rather than dealing with it„on the real attraction which it is which is the masculine and feminine polarity coming together and developing a marriage. (applause) Kathryn Breese-Whiting: There was another question down here. Just a moment, Peter would like to speak to that.

Peter Caddy: At 1indhorn we have heterosexual people, homosexual people, homosexual women, homo­ sexual men, bisexual. . But I think what we're most working on, each one, is to develop the balance be­ tween the male and the female within us during this time of transition.

Kathryn Breese-Whiting: Without .any judgement of either. But simply recognize that eacl^ one is a soul. And each one has the freedom to be whichever or whatever they personally choose to be. And it's their responsibility.

Grant Lloyd, Jim Clatfelter 646 Corwin Avenue Glendale, CA 91206

HOMOSEXUALITY IN CHINA In RFD No. 18 appeared a second-hand account of an article claiming that there is tolerance of homo­ sexuality in the People*a Republic of China. The article referred to is apparently one by Robert Friend, which was first published in the Hong Kong magazine Eastern Horizon, and was reprinted in the newsletter of the U,S.-China People's Friendship Association.

There were some disturbing statements in the ar­ ticle which were not quoted in the RFD summary. The five "Chinese specialists" on whom Friend relied (mostly doctors) had had "difficulty recalling any actual bona fide (I) cases of homosexuality.

"In all my years of practice," one said, "l cannot say that I ever encountered a single case of which I could be absolutely certain." how many straight doctors in America, one might wonder, are aware of how many gay patients they have? In China, homo­ sexuality is at least as taboo as it was in America until a decade ago. How much less likely are doc­ tors in China to recognize our brothers and sisters there!

China Is a poor agricultural country. Like most such places, people give a high priority to having many sons as a form of old-age Insurance. Although the Chinese authorities do not condone it, this out­ moded, sexist notion dies hard. So Friend is half correct when he delicately states that "the high value Chinese people place on the protection and continuity of the family would tend to move a homo­ sexual into heterosexuality for the socially ap­ proved purpose of marrying and raising a family."

Actually, of course, our sexual orientation is rare­ ly if ever determined by such pressures, which only serve to make people miserable.

So the "specialists" are surely misguided when they say that homosexuality "is not a widespread or even a relatively important problem in China."

They simply do not understand homosexuality. We must be bona I!de, rac-Jt we? If we exist, we are a 'problem?" (Ihe word appears in the article sev­ eral times.) We may believe what we will, so long as we engage in no "overt actions" pursuant to these beliefs? There are no laws on the subject, but a "homosexuaI, (like a Catholic,) is protected from discrimination but may not extend his or her sexual preference to soliciting, proselytizing or other acts harmful lo individuals or society and pro­ hibited by law." The double-talk continues. "No special category exists for homosexuals.

In housing for instance, they therefore would undoubtedly not apply for an apartment on that basis," Read: stay deep enough in the closet, and with a little luck you and your secret lover might: be able to see each other occasionally.

Indeed, if the article is read carefully, the truth about homosexuality in China comes through, the author's intentions notwithstanding.

"The Chi­ nese Consider that homosexuality is far more pre­ valent in those so- i •; ies (where) the moral fabric is changing too lap.Jly or disintegrating, sexual habits and attitudes are changing correspondingly, sex and sex acts (including pornography) are con­ stantly publicized in the media, and sexual freedom is permitted to the point of promiscuity.

In the Chinese view, these societies also usually contain a built-in economic and social frustration for many people that results in individual rebellion. This often takes the form of asocial, "way-out" behavior, of which homosexuality is occasionally a part...Homo­ sexuality appears to be an insignificant phenomen in China."

So much for gay liberation.

Presumably, there are proportionally about as many gays In China as elsewhere, but the self-styled "friends of China" do not want us to know about them. Before, visiting China last summer, my group was given a (compulsory) briefing by a representa­ tive of the U.S.-China People's Friendship Associa­ tion. Although the briefing was generally excel­ lent, I was struck bv the strong advice not to ask any questions in China about such a "private" mat­ ter as homosexuality.

I decided to obey the injunc­ tion (though l came out to my fellow travellers.)

After all, friendship between the world's largest, nation and the world’s most powerful nation is in­ deed more important than gay liberation.

(Many people have died tv.> wars generated by hostility between them.; But it says a lot about China and our own society that the subject remains taboo.

What can we learn about our fellow gays in China?

Not much, but a little information is available.

The November 3 and 24 issues of the Far Eastern Eco­ nomic Review contained briei discussions of the sub­ ject. (Apparently, homophobia is particularly strong among the Cantonese in Southern China.)

I have also seen reports in the Chinese press of people executed after being convicted of sodomy.

(A book by former prisoner Bao Juo-wang contains a particularly sickening account of the killing of his fellow prisoner who was gay.) But the main story is probably more prosaic than all thta. Most Chinese gays doubtless lead secret, unfulfilled lives, not adequately understanding themselves, nor aware of how many others there are like them.

Ihe Chinese People have become liberated from some forms of oppression. Someday they will be liberated from homophobia, but that day has not yet arrived.

Jim Seymour P.0. Box 1212 New York, N.Y.

Conferences

Ascent, Lament and Admonition waking up the next morning the dirt of Roan Mountain still on my feet 1 let go of one long sigh not of relief but resignation to the fact 1 am back I lay in my bed allowing the city to soften and fade away beneath my closing eyes hastening my return up the moonlit mother mountain up through honeysuckle-scented, star-silvered hems of clouds to a morning of running water, birdsong and a bright sun clinging to its solstice

there will my brothers hold me turn me loose, set me free there will I be heard, listen and in concert sing to.the opening of hearts and the laying down of burdens the telephone rings I have no charm to stop it and so I am dispatched to walk the city streets expected to be the same but I am now a better lover my gentleness refined, aligned and dangerous Frank Abbott 6/27/78

The Fourth Southeastern Conference for Lesbians and Gay Men will be held in Chapel Hill, North Carolina beginning at noon April 6 and continuing to April 8 . Information on rides, housing, regis­ tration can be obtained through CGA, Box 39, Caro­ lina Union, Chapel Hill, NC 27514. Write for in­ formation as soon as possible. Pre-registration is ^8 for regular income people and $4 for those with limited incomes. If you can't afford the $4 you can still attend. Donations are also needed.

In demonstrating support for the ERA boycott, the sponsoring group and regional planners are making efforts to minimize the economic impact of the con­ ference.

Dandelion Community is hosting a series of three conferences on communal living.

There will be a variety of workshops for participants to attend.

One of the workshops will deal with being gay in community and being gay in mainstream society.

The conferences will be— June 24-30 (Walden II week), July 23-August 7 (Walden II Experience), August 3-6 (3rd Annual Conference on Communal Liv­ ing.)

Contact Jeff for more information and please state if you would be into heading a discussion at the gay workshops, with some information on what your discussion would deal with.

Jeff Dandelion Community Co-op Rural Route One Enterprise, Ontario Canada KOK 120

SPIRITUAL GAYS? Constraints Sitting on the couch beside you listening to Tom talk 1 want so bad to slip my feet beneath your thighs.

Bruce Penrose

It furthers one to make the journey to the West Swami Dayanand— Bill Haines welcomes gay brothers and sisters as Ashrama residents and guests. Co­ operative living and a study of spiritual paths will be pursued so that you can be your own teacher and finally become your own inner guru.

The Ashram. exists

10025

it is for you to create this new space.

Guide. Bill Harines "Bapuji" Swami Dayanand Stop thinking and talking about it— Come live with us and be.

Write or call today: The Sri Ram Ashrama Desert Sanctuary Foundation Drawer AR, Benson, Arizona 85602 (602) 586-3834

He entered this level of perception known as human existence more than 24 years ago in the electro-magnetic field known as Coastal Georgia. Sky above him, ocean to the east and open road to the west— born of the earth, sanctified to Official Religion and hidden away in the bossom of warm bed and routine kindness, he was nurtured with the comfort of Divine Commands and wayward readings.

He built a world of fantasy for a refuge and rarely left his yard. He was lonely but afraid to risk his security, for he knew he was "different" for there was a yin spirit that radiated from his self. No taatter that it was a beautiful radiance, magnetic and that many people enjoyed his presence — for it was the "wrong" light that shone from his eyes. And his fear came from the boys he felt attracted to and his fear came from the open road and the faces he could not see behind the wheels of those burning rubber cars.

He was born here/he returns.

Something from the marsh calls him. Something in the salty breeze whis­ pers in his ears. He wanders, drawn by unknown powers. He hears voices that seem to be distorted, that seem to be saying two or more things at once. Off-sync, the film fumbles and he is left terrified.

He runs/he returns.

He left a part of himself on the beach in the form of shattered shells, phosphorus sparkles in the waves, white foam disintegrating on the shore, words spoken long ago and evaparated into time. No matter where he goes

With the coming of Spring, some local fresh vegies will finally appear on the dinner plate.

The first harbingers of Spring, the mustards, are already getting big enough to go out and collect here in Georgia. Steamed or boiled (in a small amount of water) briefly, a 'mess' of mustard greens can give your system that first charge of spring fever. Some folks prefer theirs lightly sauteed in butter. The addition of some salt and a squeeze of lemon will enhance this harbinger of spring.

It will be time soon to start thinking about a change in diet. With the warmer temperatures your body will need lighter foods to make it feel ( good. Just start from wherever you're at and find out what you could change in your diet to make for a fresher, complete summer diet.

Try a violet salad. Yellow, purple and white violet flowers with some light dressing are high in Vitamin C and an absolute joy to eat. (Please be sure to thank the flower fairies for the violets that you pick.)

there is the smell of sea salt and the cry of gulls.

Deep within hin^, like a secret treasure, lie thoughts of unity ignited by the water's horizon crowned with the rising sun.

He is/here.

The sun rose and wind whipped around his body wrapped in a friend's over­ sized blue shirt. A peace settled over him and he was not disturbed with the gentle realization that in his movie he was a woman. And he enjoyed the feel of his long hair blowing in the wind and his yin spirit alive and sing­ ing. And softer than the sea-spray comes Crazy Boy's footsteps— soothing and coaxing.

He remembere/he returns.

Like a zombie he walked the streets asking, "why? why?" Not understand­ ing the busy street producing no sound, not understanding the body heat com­ pressed by the juice of magickal mushrooms, not understanding the aching in his head, not understanding the desire rising up from him that he recognized in his smell. He was Sunlight. And Crazy Boy was Wind. They were together in another dimension beyond his accursed body, beyond.his illusion of reali­ ty— only colours of Red and Orange and Yellow.

He desires release/still.

And now they are all gone except in his memory. Their tenderness, their evasiveness, their ruthless tormenting. He draws strength from where he can and smiles doing so.

Let it go/Arrive.

James Moore

RECIPES FROM LODESTAR BAR AND GRILL SQUASH CASSEROLE FOR SIX

[c 5 ) G y w e c n ,

1) Wash and cut in halves eight medium-sized sum­ mer squash Peel and quarter four medium-sized onions Dice one bhll pepper, two cloves of garlic Wash and slice ^ lb. of mushrooms Steam squash and onions until slightly underdone Sautee bell pepper, garlic, and mushrooms

(s5

W H ftT

oo

you

WANT

TO

SA Y

2) L Steam l^j cups of rice in 3 cups of water and add: 1 TB of butter 1 TB of salt 1 TB of celery seed 1*5 TB of curry powder 3) Sauce: Melt h lb. butter and add 2 TB's of flour to make a roux. When flour is lightly browned, add 1 cup of sour cream or yoghurt.

Blend and gradually add 1 cup of grated Swiss cheese. Blend until smooth.

4) In a buttered casserole dish spoon out rice, ar­ range vegetables on top of rice, pour sauce over vegetables, top with sunflower nuts/breadcnumbs, heat in moderate oven until bubbly.

BANANA BLENDER MIRACLE As Above...

Freeze those nearly terminal bananas for use in smoothies. Per banana add 1 cup liquid (coconut milk, apple juice, pineapple juice all work well) and 1 cup of chopped fruit. Add a little ice, transform in blender to satiney, frothy mixture.

A good fast food.

Across the aqua sky Looms an angry duck— It's white wings reared And it's beak frowning west, Sailing the sky In picture screen size.

On the silky bank below We laze in moss green Absorbing the vista Adorned by pine boughs. ...So Below

I Tread Lightly I tread lightly on the land.

My toes wriggle in the earth and green life springs up all around me.

I tread lightly in the city.

My toes tight and curled, hurling me into small spaces of light and letting me fly.

I tread lightly with my lovers.

My toes graps and feel, sparks fly as I slip across flesh receive and take.

I tread lightly in the world.

My toes are soft and strong.

I leave an impression and move on.

Rippling from wheat shirt to skin I caress his brawny warm back, Fingers flowing over Shoulders and spine, Kneading the slight buttery Flesh at his waist.

Once arguing and contending We now murmer together dulcetly Awakening him to wonder "There is so much I want with you— And so much I dread; But .1 am trying for what I want."

Above us the duck has dissipated Absorbed in ambiguous white mass; And yet still sails high And vast and hopeful...

Dave Bryant/Fall 1974

R C * L (.y To

TH E

A police car zoomed into my path, barely missing me. A red-haired angry policeman jumped out of the car in a fury that would be comical if I were watching it on teevee. '’Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I'm running."

"Do you always climb trees?"

"Yes." "Do you want to go to jail for climbing trees?"

"Sir?" "I said do you want to go to jail for climbihg trees?" His voice was harsh, mean, no nonsense, no "coddling the criminals," pure teevee, mechani cal storm-trooper, "Cause if you do I can arrange it."

In his eyes I was a punk. He was angry. At me? At life? It was hard to tell. But an irrational anger was there.

He pushed me on the hood of his car and very roughly kicked my right ankle to spread my feet wide. Then he kicked my left ankle. It hurt.

"Don't move!" he shouted.

Inside the car, a policewoman munched down on some junk-food potato chips, watching boredly. Surely she must see this macho display a joke.

I looked at her, pleading with my eyes. She stuffed another potato chip in her mouth The cop continued to berate me, tugging his best and rocking on his heels like the last cowboy. He searched me for guns.

I told him I didn't know it was against the law to climb trees. "you never see anyone else do it, do you?" , He read me my rights. I had violated code number blah-blah-blah.

"Now that I ’ve got the nice legal stuff out of the way, ne t e U y o ^ you'd better be in court tomorrow morning at nine or I v ± U put o for your arrest. And I ’ll come personally to your house and kick your door ^ ’(Attention all units:

WOMEN WISDOM

The rule is: You get more warm fuzzies by giving away all your own warm fuzzies.

Keeping your warm fuzzies to yourself results in a large accumulation of cold prickles

Be on the look-out for deranged homosexual tree-

climber. May be armed. Shoot to kill.)

"Does this make sense to you?" he demanded.

Not It doetm't Bake sense. It's ridiculous!

, .

It's psychotic!

Y are You are

pathetic and abusive.

All "this still spread eagle over the hood. Cars g i v i n g by and drivers looking over wondering what dangerous criminal Is being gl third degree. * "Do you have any questions?

he asked.

"Yes." "What?" l U ^ f a c e closed i n t ^ a mask. Behind him the policewoman is still munchm g in ier c £ £ T . not angry." he denied, the anger obvious in his face. in his eyes, in his legs, in his clenched fists, "This is only a professional attitude." „ Well, the citation he gave me stated that I was to be and appear in court which meant that if I showed up lnvisiable it wouldn't count.

Court was an educational experience. The judge suspended sentence after finding me guilty. He Ignored my defense that it was selective enforcement, saying, "You were the one that, got caught."

(The same ordinance also denies people the right to change shirts in the park and at least four other daily activities.)

So today when 1 go to Piedmont Park, 1 look sadly and longingly at my meditation tree, missing it, yet too afraid to climb back-up in it. Who knov ; wh»t they do to second offendero?????

from:

The:Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions text by Larry Mitchell, drawings by Ned Asta Calamus Books/323 N. Geneva St./Ithaca, NY 14850

GERSHOM IN MAINE Or, The Dream of the Lumberjack for J.S.F. When he and a pal planned their move, down east, to Maine, for the quiet, the sea, and the muse, they often and nervously laughed at the thought that there, there'd be no one to cruise: No leather numbers, no preppy types, no hippies that sleep both ways, no free-floating gnetlemen who come for a nightand end up— remain for some days.

But between them a joke— reassurance— arose that they'd surely find outlets for lust (though previous tries had taught Not with each other), and most probably right there, sub rosa:

Some lobsterman, maybe...a potato farmer, perhaps... or a priest in his hot Sunday black... but dearest of all to this cerebral sex was the dream of a gay lumberjack.

So a Siamese and a Scottie, two libraries, dreams, all got hauled off to alien dunes where Gershom and chum set their roots in the sand and returned to more usual routines.

Though adventure were many, and lacked no detail and Maine's trees did indeed harbour jacks, our guys nev6r found one who spoke well of Dante, or who knew to pick up his own socks.

In despair one departed... trekking out to the continent's other end leaving Gershom to scour Arostock alone, with a dream and a cat but no friend.

D. 3. Kreitzberg 288 State St. Portland, Me. 04101

EULOGY TO HARVEY MILK Gerald Gerash, Gay Jews of Denver December 3, 1978 Delivered to an inter-denominational Memorial (Service for Harvey Milk and George Moscone | I cannot tell you a great deal about Harvey Milk.

I have read about him for several years in our Gay newspapers, and have come to know him— as we all know other Gays, we» who are Gay; and as we all know all other Jews, we who are Jews. He ran as an openly Gay candidate for several offices, never winning, never expecting to win, but wanting to use the opportunity to educate.

Thus, in losing, he won— we won (that was the best we could do back then).

As I read about him in these earlier days, I don't remember consciously not­ ing that he gave me courage, but looking back now, I realize he did. We who are activists fortify each other and every effort in dealing with the closet helps us to continue our work.

Last year he finally won. He was elected to the Board of Supervisors of San Francisco which is like our City Council. His victory was a victorv for the Gay people of San Francisco.

It was a victory for us too, for as a largely closeted or underground people, it encouraged us to confront the im­ prisonment of our closets. Yes, a prison, this closet. Not a prison under­ stood by others, but one which we too well know; one which we have done bat­ tle with from the first day of the discover of our "difference" and will con­ tinue to battle with for the rest of our lives.

The battle against the closet is the battle for our freedom, not merely for the usual freedoms as­ sumed by heterosexual Americans, such as the freedom to speak our thoughts and opinions, advocate our rights, associate with our own whenever and where­ ver we choose, but all those rights so basic and assumed that they were not even necessary to enumerate In the Bill of Rights. Those rights reserved in the people— the right to love and to live with that person of one's choosing.

On November 17, 1977, shortly after Harvey was elected, a friend recorded a conversation with him. Harvey said: (the reference to the phone call from Altuna, Pennsylvania, was from a Gay teenager) "I know that when a person is assassinated after they have achieved victory, there are several tendencies. One is to have people go crazy in the streets, angry and frustrated and the other is to have a big show or splash, a great service. Naturally, I want neither. 1 cannot prevent anyone Trom getting mad or angry or frustrated.

I can only hope that they will turn that anger, frustration and madness into something positive so that 2, 3, 4, 5, hundreds will step forward— so the Gay doctors come out, the Gay lawyers, the Gay judges, Gay bankers, Gay architects.

I hope every gay professional will just say "Enough!", come forward, tell everybody, wear a sign, let the world know. Maybe that will help. These are my requests. These are my strong requests, knowing that it could happen, hoping it, doesn't.

And if it does, I think I've already achieved something.

I think that it has been worth it. I got that phone call from Altuna, Pen­ nsylvania and there is at least one person out there who at least has hope, and after all, that is what it's all about."

In talking to my San Francisco friends, I was told 40,000 and 50,000 people gathered for his memorial services and for the candlelight march. His .statement in anticipation of assassination was read along with some of Har­ vey's speeches.

I was told that the mood was one of anger, frustration, grief and that it is dangerous to be Gay, but that it is indeed worth it.

The mood is one of increased resolve and involvement in the struggle. Harvey wanted us to learn from every development in the history of Gay people so we can learn, progress, go forward - including learning from his death.

Through Harvey’s efforts, a strong Gay Civil Rights law was passed by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. However, he knew that laws and rights intended to protect and free us, in fact do not protect and free us so long as the myths, fears, and hatreds continue. Homophobia. That is the weapon of fear and hatred used to deny our freedom— through assaults, beatings, in- * suits, taunts, jokes, the law, shock therapy, therapy, threats on the job, family ostracism— in short, homophobia is the weapon that imposes upon us our status as "the less than human."

Harvey fought homophobia with every word he spoke for each word of every open Gay destroys those cherished notions of what a queer is. Harvey went beyond dispelling notions of queemess. He and the Gays who put him in of­ fice shoved that we have the potential to attain power— power to survive the institutions that bear down upon us and to organize to turn those institu­ tions around for our own use and advantages; the power to control our lives, our communities. Only when we attain and exercise this power will we be free, have self-respect. And when we have self-respect that is when our community will be respected.

Harvey understood that to achieve freedom, we must understand the rule of divide and conquer. As a Jew, he knew how antl-semitism (the view of the Jew as a "the less than human") prevented Jew and non-Jew from achieving solutions of coianon suffering and oppression. Thus, he was quick to see that the Gay people which includes women, Third World and Jews is especially sub­ ject to divide and conquer. He saw that the tools historically used to pre­ vent people from working together and blaming one group's woes on the next, were an extremely divisive force among Gays. He was co-founded of "The United Fund", an organization to collect money to defeat the Briggs Initia­ tive and to distribute it among the various groups working against the Briggs Initiative.

It was 4 women and ^ men and of the total, 1/3 were Third World.

He knew that an effective movement can only be achieved by dispelling the myths we were taught about women, Blacks, Chicanos, Aslans, Jews, Latinos,* and other minorities. And to go beyond the dispelling of myths by detoxify­ ing ourselves from the poisons of sexism and racism and supporting the liber­ ation of women and minorities.

If only for our own self-interest, this is a political necessity for the simple reason that women and minorities will not continue with us to achieve Gay civil rights seeing that they will remain op­ pressed as women, Chicanos, and Blacks after Gay rights have been won. And we cannot win without them! Harvey Milk did not work to achieve Gay freedom with the expectation that upon that achievement his status as Jew would re­ main unchanged.

Only by working on our own phobias that we have about women, Blacks, Chi­ canos, and Jews, can we build a powerful and effective united front against Homophobia. We, in the process, will become fuller human beings because we liberate ourselves from sexism and racism.

In struggling for the freedom of Lesbians as women and for the freedom of the minorities of our Gay community, we are Gay brothers and sisters.

We Gays and Lesbians are in a unique historical position. Out of our necessity to survive, we have the potential to lead all Americans to a unity always asked for and heretofore never foreseeable. We are the cutting edge of personal and sexual liberation and we are in the front lines for the pos­ sibility of a newly liberated human being.

Others, before Harvey MiJk, have fallen as victims of homophiba— early deaths from alcoholism and suicide; bearings, stabbings, and shootings by heterosexual «nen, the victims of a frolic called "Queer Bashing." However, harvey was not a fallen victim, he was a soldier felled In the line of battle.

In running for office, he had made the conscious decision to risk a shorter life, but a life out of the closet, and, as an elected official, one that would increase the probability of freedom from the closet for others, for us.

He died at age 47. In one of his desk drawers at his office a poem was found: "I can be killed with ease.

I can be struck down, But I can never fall back into my closet.

I have grown.

I am not by myself.

I am too many.

For

A man out there Wishing to be loved Although he curbs it aside

Slow dance of vapors Like an ethereal tog from a formaldehyde bottle.

1 have dreamed Interminable summer nights, Their hot winds and their stiff sheets, A ghostly sterility in a cinderblock house, Like a proud obelisk, Eaten at the base by termites now fallen, I have begged the question once too often.

Barely needs beholding In total affection To yield with the ardent tide Dave Bryant

1 once lay like a whore With a lover of ashes and smoke.

His member stiff beside mine, His dreams swirling through my brain, Tossing and turning, Enveloped in a haze of rum and coke, Ihat cleared, with the first gush of our viscous mixer: A heady foam, lubricating our muscles, And easing our arms from our bellies, into iTmbrace.

Stargazing (for David) A lone.

On this rock in this ocean I don't need my loving Feelings.

Like wool sweaters and mittens I will keep them safely Sheltered In a box in my closet Until the red stars flash Again.

Donald McGaffin Honolulu

Inside of me is a little boy who likes to be hugged Inside of me is a Daddy who likes to hug

Inside of me is a loneliness that wants to be loved

1 dreamed white knight princes lay in shattered shrouds where their brothers pierced them long ago and white stains showed their footprints to the future where stories, myths and half told tales made them covert inspirations to little boys playing with other children but not with other children like the Child they were— and later, much later when clones fuck clones they fall asleep and dream of white stained white knight princes who lie in shattered shrouds

Inside of me is me.

Gil Rob*son

"A Gift"

Inside of me is a scare that likes to be soothed

i send you this finely wrought mirror, let your face rise above its horizon, a moon of good omen,

Inside of me is a laugh that likes to be tickled

so that you may know your own loveliness and perhaps be kinder toward the passion that consumes me. however elusive the image, it may well be more constant than you, gentler, more inclined to the fulfillment of promises.

Andy Wicher

John Groening 313 Read St., Sante Fe, 87501

Inside of me is a love that wants to burn

Crazy Owl

2/9/79

Hello!

I've been a regular reader of RFD for some time now and look forward to getting each issue in your distinctive brown envelopes. There's nothing quite like it here.

I'm planning a trip to USA in June and will be staying mainly in California with a visit to New York before 1 fly back.

It would be good to meet some RFD readers and maybe visit some rural gays.

If you could publish this in your next issue I may be able to make contact with people and fix something up.

Dear RFD: Hello, My name is Jeff and I live in a rural Walden Two community north of Kingston, Ontario.

I have only recently accepted the gayness within my­ self. I realized that I was gay at about age four­ teen and my gayness at that age and level of com­ mitment was very low.

(Probably because 1 could not deal with the fact that I was not acceptable if I let my gayness grow.) Now I have had happy gay relationships and positive role models instead of the stereotyped effeminate or aggressive gay male so often portrayed. I came out and accepted that gay is creative.

The community where I live is the place of my dream— a society (world, but we will start small) where gays and hetereosexuals can live without tear of or in contempt of the other and also be a viable alternative to the oppressive socio-economic struc ture of the outside world. A society where punish­ ment would be replaced with positive reinforcement, where competition would be replaced with cooperation, where violence would be replaced by people settling problems in a non-violenct constructive way, where sexism would be replaced by equality. Does this sound like Utopia to you? Well, it does to me.

Now being a person who is almost, always In touch with reality, I realize that the environment I have lust described is not within our grasps, but if we all start coming together and joining or forming communities, then we can start to change the present social structures that are oppressing all oi us.

The biggest commitment I have about being gay and in conmunity is not separating myself from he­ terosexuals.

(Although I don’t hold people who live in or believe in seperatist gay or heterosexual com­ munities in contempt because those who live in sep­ aratist gay communities are doing what they believe in plus helping both the gay movement by living as a gay collective and forcing the public to recognize 'our existence, and they are helping the communal movement by living as a community or collective and letting others see that there are alternatives to the oppressive family structure. And heterosexuals who live in seperatist communities from gays, but

j

Love and sunshine, Roger Southern 1 Cambridge Street Hebden Bridge West Yorkshire HX7 6LN England

Dear RFD Readers:

not necessarily against gays, help to destroy the role plays and stereotypes caused by the nuclear family.

At the moment I am the only gay male here. I would definately like to recruit more gays into this lifestyle, so if any of you reading this like what you read or have similar dreams feel free to con­ tact me. i would not have written this or accepted my gayness (for awhile anyway) had I not been intro­ duced to a warm environment for gays in a hetero­ sexual community. If you would like to live in or see for yourself a culture that is not all gay, but now hostile towards us either, write or call in ad­ vance and your visit will be set according to your time table or convienence. We support ourselves through cottage industries.

The NOLA collection LASIS is willing to take on the responsibility for the Winter Solstice 1979 issue. Please send us any feedback/critical analysis of issue #18.

Any submissions that are winter-related may be .sent at any time for possible inclusion. Some "themes" suggested are "grandfathers or grand­ parents," solidarity with working class, Lesbian/ Wymyn's, Third World and all other disenfranchised peoples. We may have it together to do "Winter Solstice" issue with descriptions of our ritual/ celebration/majiks around the various new year's and lunar and astrological cycles, the differences in seasons, severity and introversity of the time, connections with "traditional" celebrations: family and isolation, etc. We will all help each other as much as we help ourselves. Submit/subscribe. If you would like to come to help us here in NOLA, this will give plenty of time to arrange things in advance.

In love and struggle,

Jeff R.R. 1 Enterprise, Ontario Canada KOK 120 (613)-358-2304

Aurora Corona for LASIS Box 51012, New Orleans, La.

70151

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As is often the case, the smallest or most subtle of factors have a profound effect on our lives. The atom, m we know it, t# a basic build­ ing block of our reality of matter.

This very simple unit of energy holds the complex and mys­ terious threads oi our existence. Even further, as we watch our lives In relationship to our en­ vironment, to each other, the smallest or simplest of things as a word, an attitude or perhaps a thought unspoken can profoundly affect us. In dealing with health or it's opposite, disease, the same holds true.

This Is what Dr. Edward Bach discovered about fifty years ago when he first began his search for a system of healing that would be simple yet get at the source of the many and varied maladies of modern life. This search took him out of a lucra­ tive Loudon practice into the woods of Wales where in nature he found his powerful "Little Healers, the Bach Flower Remedies.

These potenized flower tinctures* are not only powerful as healers, their relevancy comes during a time in which there is au undercurrent in our society surfacing to challenge such assumptions as: we can't take care of ourselves, that adequate health care presupposes the need of costly insur­ ance premiums, that dis-ease is primarily sympto­ matic, that drugs or doctors heal you.

The gestalt here, the shift, is away from all of that. Here the challenge is to focus back on you as the healer and to bring to conscious play in a person-(persouality)centered process those factors causing imbalance. Dr. Bach described this in terms that, "...it is our tears, our cares, our anxieties and such like that open the path to the invasion of illness."

Mental or emotional imbalance help to create those factors leading to what allopathic doctors treat as symptons. "Take no notice of the dis­ ease," Dr. Bach wrote, "Think only of the outlook on life of the one in distress." Symptons are the crvstalization of factors, perhaps long pre­ sent, contributing to illness. Conversly, lack of symptoms do not necessarily indicate perfect health. A heart attack could be an individual's first and last symptom.

Of course, this shift oan throw us off; we're not used to it for one thing.

But even if the shift is being made toward seeing the healing process as a power within our Self, I understand the difficulty of seeing how the "virtues" of flowers can help facilitate this process. Yet, can we know in essence how an asprin works or an acupuncture needle, an herbal tea, or how a heal­ er's hands work either?

Having used the remedies for about three years, I can only share my experience of them and feed­ back from friends. We've seen that "mustard dis­ pells gloom, "Star of Bethlehem" disolves the ef­ fect of shock, "Pine" deviates self reproach.

"Vervain" helps those judgemental or critical to be more tolerant of others, "Honeysuckle" brings the mind's focus back to the present and so on.

(There are 38 remedies all together.) What is more, I've watched their effect on animals and plants.

I

There is one more thing to add; this system of healing requires no believing and I'm not solicit­ ing for the remedies. Yet, I do dream, and part of the vision is being in touch of who we are, to share that, and to love; that give and take that we know and t e d as right. The remedies feel right also and I'm glad to share an experience of Holistic Healing I have been fortunate enough to have. Perhaps the good Doctor was right as well in his prediction that: "This method of treat­ ment Is the medicine of the future, and it will spread through the world."

Anyone of you wishing to share your own ex­ periences with Bach Flower Remedies or comments may write to me at this address: Russell 1422 Iverson St. N.E. Atlanta, Ga. 30307

Healthy Living

*(footnote) The remedies are derived through a process called solarization.

Flower blossoms placed in a glass bowl of water. This container is sat on the ground in the open air for a period of about three hours. In this way all four ele­ ments— earth, air, fire and water are incorpora­ ted in the process. ****Joy in Health****

initiation

after four months of staring in your eyes — from across the room we met, on that beach front parking lot, late june. me, leaning over the stick shift, you, moaning for more. david hubley

6/77

14

* (j

WE ARE EVERYWHERE!!!

A recent Associated Press news story in our local mass-media paper finally reported something of in­ terest. To those of us who are trying to re-Cover the Inter-connected-ness of our Universal Experience it is one more sign that we are coming close to the Quick. The by-line was Panipat, India and told of a 3 week gathering in Northern India of over 2,000 male "hijiras" or "sexless ones." The "eunuchs," as they were referred to in the article, consist of two main groups— biological hermaphrodites called "zananas" and castrated males.

They planned to "pray together,' sing together, dance together and not talk politics," said one of the organizers who identified himself as Prem.

The article went on to tell of how in No. India they are invited into the homes of new-born male children to dispel evil spirits and to chant, "May your children never be a eunuch like us." They were also quoted as saying, "Hijiras revere both god and the devil." How's that for a sign???

As can be expected in another patriarchal cul­ ture, (One which practices "suttee:" the culturally induced self-sacrificing of a widow upon the funeral ?yre of her husband) the hijiras are held in con­ tempt by most "straight" people.

Chaman Lai, a Local peanut vendor said, "They're perverts. We should have nothing to do with them. They should be run out of town." Sound familiar???

Rukhsans Sultana, 33, a New Delhi social worker and acquaintance of several of the castrated eunuchs, said they supplement their Incomes as wandering en­ tertainers, by selling their sexual favors to prac­ ticing homosexuals. There seems to be a class dif­ ference between the two groups in that, says Ms. Sultana, The zananas are often very cultural, refined and able to recite Urdu-language poetry." and look down upon the eunuchs.

If there's anyone out there who has friends or contacts in New Dehli, we'd be most interested in trying to correspond with our kindred souls in In­ dia through Rukhsana Sultana.

(All the information we have on her is above.) Please send us any names and addresses or write your friend and let us know if anything happens.

Dimid for LASIS Box 51012, New Orleans, LA

70151

"Yes?" Henry says. "Can you hire me?"

"Sure. Come on in the back and I'll show you the ropes. Where you stayin'?"

"I don't know."

"You can sleep in the back room," Bud says. "I got a place myself, but it’s small."

Out of season in the small resort on coast, things move slowly, people are ill-tempered, dogs bite, the water in the yacht basin is murky, nothing works properly, the year-round residents do strange and uncommon things, things they would not think of doing in season, many of the younger people scrounge for day work, anything to sustain them until the tourists come, and the tourists surely do stream in, as is evidenced by the large and cur­ rently empty hotels, the darkened convenience stores, the shuttered bou­ tiques.

And Bud Johnson sits in front of his service .station and watches a few old cars pass, all local people driving, and they need little gasoline, few repairs. There is no place to go even if the residents could afford it.

They make good money in the season but they spend it all before the summer is gone. Bud Johnson sits there in his old, wooden chair in front of the office of his station and wonders how he will pay his bills. He has had to let his mechanic and another boy go, but now, feeling low, not really him­ self, he thinks, he believes he will hire a boy to pump gas for the few cars that do come in. He is not married and he is feeling lonesome and a bit out-of-sorts and Bud Johnson knows he wants to have a boy around. He doesn't know how he will pay him, but he thinkshe will worry about that later, after he finds and hires a boy. He hopes he can find a nice-looking boy about sixteen.

Bud Johnson is full of desire for forbidden fruit and he knows this, freely admits it to himself, but only to himself, forbidden fruit, he thinks, overripe and taboo bananas, and he smiles. Them bananas is the best, he thinks, he says to himself.

I like the girlies all right, but these are girlies are too easy, don't put up no kind of fight. Bud knows he has to be careful about getting a boy, to work for him or not work for him.

People talk in the town, especially in off-season, and Bud does not want his privacy and vice invaded in any way, his aberration discovered by anyone, however discreetly it would be talked about. He is looked up to in the com­ munity. He has a reputation to uphold, a decent reputation. He has to be able to drink beer and shoot pool with the fellows down at Maude s Place.

Bud Johnson has to be cautious and vigilant. He usually is, but he is pre­ sently off-form, cross and sullen.

Into this ripe situation comes Henry. Henry, fifteen-years-old, goodnatured, and a runaway, has just arrived in the town, and he is looking for work and he passes by Bud Johnson's station, walks up and says, "Can I have a drink of water?"

Bud, who has been watching Henry approach, gets up before he knows what he's doing, and then sits down again."' "There's the fountain," he says to H e n ^ ^ "hut the water's warm and a mite salty. The drink machine's inside."

"I ain't got no money," Henry says.

"Flat broke, eh?" Bud says, with a chuckle. "Join the party, son.

"I could use a job," Henry says bashfully.

Bud looks at Henry and likes what he sees. The boy is tall and lanky and good-looking. He is wearing cut-off jeans and a tee shirt and his hair is black and his eyes are green.

"Where you from?" Bud asks, getting the boy a soft drink.

"Thanks. Nowhere." The*boy gulps the drink down.

"Nowhere. Good a place as any. Beats this place," Bud laughs uproari­ ously and feels very much better.

"Can you use me in your station?"

Bud stands up now after sitting for only a few seconds and walks around

shorts, undecided. Then he turns his back to Bud and takes off the shorts and hangs them with the shirt. He walks into the tiny bathroom and turns on the shower.

"Only cold water!" Bud calls.

The boy stands in the bathroom and then sticks his foot in the shower spray. The water is icy and the room is cold and he shivers. He comes back out and starts to get his shorts but Bud is holding them now, dangling them.

"Can I have my shorts?"

"What for? Why don't you just put on your jeans?"

"Where are they?" the boy asks, looking at the floor.

"I couldn't say," Bud says, looking over the boy.

"I need my shorts," Henry says. "Would you give them to me?"

"Later," Bud says. "What's the rush? We can have a little fun now." He reaches over and barely touches the tip of the boy's long but limp penis and the boy stands back a little. "You got a pretty pecker," Bud says.

The boy puts his hands in front of him and turns around. the other side of you," Bud says. "I ain't no freak. )(I don't want to," Henry says. "What do you want to do?"

"Ain't you been around, sonny?"

Turn around.

"The back rood's fine," Henry says. "When can I start?"

"In a hurry, are you? Right now you can start. Come on with me."

In the back room, which served mostly as storage, there was a cot and Bud pulled it out and wiped it off with a wet towel. "It ain't much but it's O.K. right?"

"Right," Henry says, putting his small case down, then pushing it under the cot with his foot. "What kind of work do I do?"

"I'll show you later. Pump gas, mostly."

"I know how to do that."

"Who don't? What else do you know how to do?"

"Like what?" the boy asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Bud says, rubbing his chin. "You want a shower? The bathroom ain't much but it's in there."

"I guess later."

"Take one now, why don't you?" Bud says.

"Well, I could get some dirt off, 1 &uess."

"Go ahead and do it.” .

The boy looks at Bud, who is now sitt ing on th* cot and Ughtfhg a ciga­ rette. The boy takes off his shoes, then his tee shirt, hangs the shirt on a nail, and then he slips out of his jeans and stands there in tight, white "A little. You want to do. . .that?"

"That." , ..

Henry Is trapped and the expression on his face says so. He can t get his clothes. He Is naked, broke, hungry. He Is also full of sexuaj desire, and this becomes apparent to Bud as Henry turns around and Bud sees that Henry a penis is now erect and fairly Jumping, Henry is no longer shivering and he walks over to Bud and stands a foot in front of him. "O.K., Mister, go ahead I hope you do it good."

and stretches and watches the boy.

"Well now," he says, looking the boy up and down, "I can't pay much, but I just might use you. Things are slow, you know, this time of year. But I make exceptions.

I do that if I like someone.

Bud Johnson sits in front of his service station and watches a few cars pass. Then he gets up and walks to the back room and looks through the dusty and sandy window and sees Henry sleeping soundly, a sheet pulled to his wa st.

Henry is sleeping on his back and the sheet Just below his waist is a little tent. Bud stares at Henry, wipes the window off with an oily rag, loo s closer, and his breath comes fast. Henry, he sees now, is in a very excited sexual state. The little tent is throbbing ever so lightly. His sexual ap­ petite has not been satisfied.

It has not: even been tested.

Bud Johnson always comes close, but just so close to doing what he wants to do. He has had many chances to seduce boys. Some boys have even tried to seduce him, but something, at the last moment, always stops him trum tuitil­ ling his forbidden desires. He is not sure what, and not sure he wants to know what. He has lured many boys to the back room of his station, but he has never really touched, fondled any of them. He supposes this is why there 1. no ward about him being queer, but he doesn't think too much about thi.^ As far as he knows, or wants to know, people do not talk about hi. “ “ e has been able, so far, to live with this. He doesn't think h. ever will touch boy. He feels sad about this, strangely Incompetent and dismal, but thinks: maybe it's the best that way. Just maybe it is. And what I'm going to do now, he thinks, maybe that's best, too. I was seen this morning, he thinks.

I know I was. Someone saw me and Henry go into the room. Some­ one may have seen me before go into that room with a boy, I don't know. But today someone did. I was too careless.

It's the season, he thinks, the crazy off-season. People do dumb things.

He takes one more long look at Henry sleeping on the cot, then he abruptly turns around and walks away from his station. He walks a block to the water­ front and looks for a while at the large and now-covered pleasure boats.

Well, Bud Johnson thinks, soon enough those tarpaulins will come off and the boats's owners will be coming in to the station to buy fuel, gas for their cars, diesel for their boats. But 1 won’t be there to pump gas for them, he thinks. Maybe the new owner of the station will take on that boy.

He walks through the yacht basin to the edge of the dock and jumps into the water and makes himself go under. But Bud Johnson keeps popping to the surface. He is trying to drwo surface. He is trying to drown himself but he cannot do it. He swins out farther into the water, beyond all boats, beyond all possible things that could be anchors, and goes under water again, and again, but he cannot bring himself to breathe there and keeps rising to the surface. Finally, like a tanker riding low, loaded with contrabnat liquids, perhaps some exotic fuel, energy for some secret power station, Bud Johnson pushes, pushes through the water, knows he is fated to live and fight, and now tries to reach some haven where a terrible and explosive burden can be unloaded.

George W. Smyth 1045 Shook-141 San Antonio, Texas 78212

<% > 15

"COME ON, Brian," Jeff stood to leave— "It's getting cold outside, so put on my jacket 'n we'll start walking."

K«>vin and Lanny were left alone. Each had another beer, Lanny chain

Kandi Kane's fake leopard-skin tights and Ann-Margaret wig— Foxie Roxie, black queen supreme, dancing in regal drag with as cute a little blond as ever grew in Georgia, and— God!— was there hugging and kissing going on in the corner. Men standing along the dim bar, sitting around little tables, dancing, shooting pool. Butch or nellle, chicken or sugar daddy. From white socks to huarache sandals, from dungarees to Cardin. Litdit meat, dark meat drag or leather— a smorgasboard of perverse cruisine.

"Honey, it's like a fruit-stand tonight"— an accent that out-O'Haraed Scarlett— "Just look at all the good things to eat! And not one bit of it's fattening!"— a quick glance around the bar— "Reckon we ought to send out for Crisco?"

"Huh?" Lanny glanced up. .

"For the corner, honey— the corner looks like a Crisco Party in the making."

Lanny just smiled, nodded a bit. , . .

"What are you ON, Baby? Talking is one of the few things people do in this place that's not illegal OR immoral."

H "I’m sorry— but I haven't ever been in a bar before "IN one?" The boy laughed, "Stick around this.joint for a while and you’ll "My "It leave,

be CROSSING one!" name's Lanny— " . „ He got up to probably is, but my trainer's license JUST expired then patted Lanny's behind— "Just look around, Cutle, 'n let unnature

take his course— " Stools along Lanny just sat there. The room was almost claustrophobic, both sides of a narrow bar, pinball machine, pool table. Plastic beer ad­ vertisement-lit dust. The smallest stage Lanny'd ever seen, and ten round tables clustered along the wall.

It would take about forty people to pack the joint. All forty were there.

Lanny reached for a cigarette. Bought this afternoon Just as he got in­ to Atlanta. His first ones. The Rudwiser clock showed eleven when he d or­ dered a beer, then another, and yet another. He must have listened to every­ thing from Charlie Daniels to Patsy Cline on the blaring country jukebox in the corner as the cans accumulated. The same everything he listened to on t the LaGrange radio station back home.

Back where he'd been raised— reared, his parents would have said— under the checkered shadow of God. Where he walked Main Street, Dixie Style, and had his hate and heaven served up South ern Fried. Back with that farmhouse his parents had left him, complete with the fields he planted and the order in his life. Steepled-skyline order everything pointing upward. Not outward, not even inward. Just progress, work, good common sense.

But maybe something new— like cigarettes could hap­ pen here. Something unpredictable” Something other than going to bed, get­ ting up and working.

And doing it all alone.

"Awlul lonesome up here at the bar," said the blond who’d been dancing with Roxie, "Why don't you come over here with the rest of us girlsi Nine cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon— empty, and a cigarette stub collection.

Why not, Lanny thought. „ "I'm Kevin," said the blond, '"n that’s Randy, Jeff and Brian — pointing toward each of his companions.

Brian was tail, thin, well-dressed, holding a cigarette in a Long holder.

Jeff looked like a high school athlete— letter jacket, tee shirt, jeans, barely eighteen. He was handsome, dark.

Randy was about thirty, nervous, married, it turned out. With children, yet! But the pick was Kevin. He was tanned, muscles flexed under his red-and-white checkered shirt. He wore white jeans and boots. A devastating smile and vivid green eyes seemed al­ most independently alive. .

"I'm glad you came over here, man," Jeff said, You looked like a box lunch sitting up there, 'n 1 didn't think Kevin could hold out much longer!

"Yeah," Brian said, "She was just sitting here daring one of these queens to get to you before she got up the nerve to."

Lanny smiled, told them his name, then while he didn t exactly sit down n it, he did at least end up in a chair.

But then, a little drunk by that time wasn't peculiar— everyone in the Dolphin was!

"Let's dance, Lanny," Kevin smiled.

"I can’t do it very well, Kevin— " Not really sure he even wanted to.

"I don't care— we'll do it slow— " "You in the mood to hold me up?" Lanny laughed a little.

Kevin's face fixed on Lanny's— "I'm in the mood to hold you," he said, "and if that means up, well— " t Both boys wobbled a bit as they helped each other onto the floor. Kevin s arms clung tightly around Lanny's waist, his head resting softly on^his should shoulder, Lanny’s silky black hair laying against his cheek. Kevin's body moved against Lanny's, and Lanny began to feel the swelling that could only lead t.o pleasure. He was awkward at first, but soon enough, Lanny was hold­ ing onto Kevin with the same force he felt around his own body.

Budwiser said it was three, and almost all the Dolphin’s customers had paired off. Jeff and Brian were holding hands, one occasionally kissing the other. The bartender took another can to anyone who could stand it, and ap­ parently all inhibitions were gone.

"I think maybe we'd better sit down," Kevin smiled, "Neither os uf can take much more of this— " Each adjusting his pants a bit, Kevin leaned into Lanny— stood on tiptoes and kissed him.

Just a quick kiss— being SURE they were standing on mutual ground. They were, for before Kevin could turn away, Lanny put a hand on each side of his face and returned the kiss, lips parting, tongues exploring.

"We were going to sit down, I think— " Lanny looked away.

They clung together, shuffling more than walking back to the table.

"We thought you two were going to make it on the dance floor, Briai laughed.

"Don't laugh, old man," Jeff said, "If I'd had you out there, we wouxd have!"

"Cheap whores, the both of you," Kevin turned to Lanny— "Don't pay any at­ tention to these two, Lanny.

If we could ever get them out of circulation, they could take VD off the epidemic list!"

"Y'all can stay here," Jeff said, "but Brian'n I are going home."

"Going home? I can just SEE your Mother now," Kevin giggled, "She'd go into cardiac arrest if she saw her all-American straight stud walk in with Miss Blue Dolphin over here!"

"Not to MY home, stupid— to Brian's. Mama’s all-American straight stud son is going to spend the night getting fucked by Miss Blue Dolphin over here, honey— " "Trashy," Brian laughed. "I enjoyed meeting you, Lanny," he said, "maybe you'll be here again sometime— "

smoking, Kevin holding his hand.

"I want you to go home with me tonight, Lanny"— Kevin looked through him — "But everything I think of to say sounds like the lyrics of a bad song," he smiled, "Maybe I'm not very original."

Silence— Kevin beginning to think maybe Lanny wouldn't say anything at all.

"I'll try," Lanny's gaze met Kevin's— "I'll try very hard— " "You're a virgin, Lanny?" Kevin looked surprised.

"Yeah."

Bud said Four o'clock, and almost everyone was gone. A couple making love in the corner, a man out cold in the floor, one last brave couple try­ ing to dance.

"Let's go, Kevin— I want to go with you."

Fog impenetrable, tumble-walking out of the Blue Dolphin, dawn yet a couple of hours away.

A dingy two-room walk-up. Lanny didn't see it clearly that night, though, for the only light was the lamp beside Kevin's unmade bed. They sat, holding hands. Then each watched as the other's body came into view, excited by the prospect. Kevin's tanned body was the more rigidly defined, Lanny's tall, gangling, curiously sexual. Each ran his hands over the other, feeling.

Kevin gentle, Lanny learning. Kevin fell back on the bed, pulling Lanny on top of him. Into the dawn they exhausted themselves into each other, and even as they slept together, their excitement never slowed. Lanny lay on his side, Kevin's back curved against his chest, buttocks fitting naturally into his groin. Lanny's arms circled his lover, Kevin's hands clutching them to his chest.

It was almost noon when Lanny awakened, still reeling, slung in all the legendary throes of hangover. He licked Kevin's salty shoulder, and Kevin, •eyes still closed, smiled, clasping Lanny still closer. Lanny pulled away, finally and started to get up— "Leaving?" Kevin rubbed his eyes.

"Guess so," Lanny answered, "it'll take a while to hitchhike back home— " "Had the thrill you came for and now you're going back to Jesus country, huh?"

"Maybe I did— " A little sharply, dressing to leave.

"I enjoyed having you, Lanny," Kevin was wide awake now, "Will I ever see you again?"

"No," Lanny said, then softened some, "I haven't ever been quite so hap­ py," he added, "but no."

"Just my luck," Kevin turned away, "find something good and loose it quick — a queer who can't get what he wants— that's the story of MY life." Kevin buried his head in the pillow, "Goodbye," he said, muffled, "shut the door when you leave— " Lanny was soon proped against a sign pointing to Newman, hitching a ride.

It wasn't far to Indian Wells, but the Sunday traffic was light, and his rip took most of the afternoon.

The sun was going behind Blackjack Mountain by the time Lanny walked into Indian Wells. The town was dusty grey, streetlights already burning, most folks gone to church. Hymns were filtering into Main Street, but all Lanny could hear was the country jukebox in his head.

Streetlights were blinding — Lanny felt spotlighted, every house with someone watching from behind the curtains. He imagined everyone knowing where he'd been, what h e ’d done— he could hear them talking, whispering, giggling. Giggling. The pathetic lit­ tle words of temporary endearment, the franctic gay-bar games. The Dolphin.

"Amazing Grace." The congregation at the Baptist Church was singing.

Lanny's pace slowed, his mind captive of the pastiche of past and present— Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound "Honey, it's like a fruit-stand tonight.1* " **"' That saved a wretch like me.

"Stay in here a while longer and you'll be CROSSING one!"

I once was lost, but now am found.

"Come over here with the rest of us girls."

Was blind, but now I see.

"Let unnature take his course."

Thro’ many dangers, toils, and snares "Send out for Crisco?"

I have already come "Cheap whores, the both of you."

Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far "I'm in the mood to hold you."

And grace will lead me home.

"Ill try— " "Had your thrill?"

"Shut the door."

He walked on, seeing Kevin's body turned from him, that blond head buried in the pillow, sad. Indian Wells High School.

Running track, running to classes, running down the steps from Kevin's apartment, down the street to­ ward the highway— He reached for the last forbidden cigarette, then for matches. THE BLUE DOLPHIN BAR AND GRILL— ashtrays overflowing, smoke circling dim lights, Kevin.

Unlocking the door of the clapboard farmhouse, turning on the lights, Lanny sat dejectedly at the buttermilk-white table, his head in his hands.

"No," he had said, "I've never been quite so happy, but no." Lanny shook his head, as if trying to clear away the last of last night's dreams.

The light off, he started up the dark stairs. Feeling for the rail, re­ membering Kevin's arm around him as he'd climbed the stairs the night before.

A trail of clothes down the dark ball, naked climbing into bed, tired.

"1 enjoyed naving you, Lanny"— and he could see those intense magical eyes of Kevin's.

"And I told him no," he said to himself, "I loved him and I told him no — Lanny began to cry. , ^, "Just a queer who hasn't got the guts to TAKE what he wants, Kevin, that s the story of MY life!" Lanny lay on his side, a pillow along his stomach, his arm around it as it had been around Kevin.

"No was all I could have said— I'm not sure how I made it home THIS time I could never make it again— " Reached for the nightstand, turned the radio to LaGrange, set the clock for rive-thirty, and lay back. "Nothing i ever think hurts me," he mumbled, "only feeling it hurts." And Lanny slept.

THE END Kermis Milton Frost 2601 Western Parkway Orlando, Florida 32803

Little dark-haired brother, promiscuous lover casting yourself upon the wind and any man's hand who can feel your pain.

I love you so.

Angel-slut brought tears to stranger's eyes who held but could not touch you.

In you shines the white light the blue waves the cry of freedom startled by life.

I am respectful of your many positions though disturbing they may be.

Your eyes were given to love and now you grope down dark alleys searching for love with blinded eyes.

Let me tell your story.

It so charms me.

I perceive great delight in your figure.

I love you Little Brother.

James Moore

i am a part of all i have touched and touches me having no existence save what i give it becomes other than itself mixing with what i then was,

7&//V&5

L(Ke

%

* * * “ ■?

ft B O O T

m y s e l f

:

/. and is now still otherwise having fused with what i now am which is itself a cumulation of what i have been becoming Andy Wicker AELIAN:

THE DOLPHIN OF IASSOS

as told by Aelian in the second century A.D.

A dolphin's love for a beautiful boy at lassos: a famous story: here it is lassos' gymnasium is near the sea after running and wrestling all afternoon the boys went down there and washed a custom from way back when one day a dolphin fell in love with the loveliest boy of the time at first when he paddled near the beach the boy ran away in fear but soon by staying close by and being kind the dolphin taught the boy to love they were inseparable they played games swam side by side raced sometimes the boy would get up on top and ride the dolphin like a horse he was so proud his lover carried him around on his back so were the townspeople visitors were amazed

the dolphin used to take his sweetheart out to sea far as he liked then turn around back to the beach say goodbye and return to the sea the boy went home when school was out there'd be the dolphin waiting which made the boy so happy everyone loved to look at him he was so handsome men and women even (and that was the best part) the dumb animals for he was the loveliest flower of boy ever was

but envy destroyed their love one day the boy played too hard tired he threw himself down belly first on the dolphin's back whose back spike happened to be pointing straight up it stuck him in the navel veins split blood spilled the boy died the dolphin felt him riding heavier than usual (the dead boy couldn't lighten himself by breathing) saw the sea turning purple from blood knowing what had happened he chose to throw himself on their beach by the gymnasium like a ship rushing through the waves carrying the boy's body with him they both lay there in the sand one dead the other gasping out life's breath lassos built them both a tomb to requite their great love they also set up a statue which shows a boy riding a dolphin and put out silver and bronze coins stamped with the story of their love death on the beach they honor Eros the god who lead boy and dolphins here

Bob Sigmon PINK TRIANGLES a well protected life but night when older worlds converge with this I dream and dream: pink triangles imbeded in tay flesh pink triangles scraping bomcutting sinew and worse behind my eyes gnawing gnawing thoughts memories amazements pink triangles plot my death yes, me like all the others clubbed senseless shot dead burned at the stake cooked in the ovens overdosed beaten, raped driven apart driven alone driven mad pink triangles I am afraid I live a well protected life and I am afraid of something small as a matchbook a piece of paper• colored pink with three equal sides Frank Abbott

CITYC0W7T RYCITYCOUNTRYCITY COUNT RYCI TY COUNT RY C1TY COUNT RY CITY COUNTRY CITY COUNT RYCITY GOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTKYCITYCOUNTRYCITYOOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOU NTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITY COUNTRYCITYCOUNT RYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYC OUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNT RYCIT Y COUNT RYCITYCOUNT RY CITY COU NTRYCITYCOUNTRY CITY COUN TRY CITYCOUN TRYCITYCOUNTRYC ITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTKYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTY YCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCO UN TYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNT RYCITYCOUNTRYCITY COUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOU NTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYC OUNTRYCITYC©UNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYCITYCOUNTRYClfYCOUNTRY Scott Luscorabe 4211 Cayler Rd. Truxton, N.Y. 13158 I was dancing with a lover of mine in a gay bar in San Francisco last win­ ter when a mutual friend of ours and a former lover of his came over to me and asked, "Do you think of yourself as being gay?" I smugly and quickly replied "No." Since that night I have seen the lie I told him, struggling with his sexual identity and to myself struggling with mine.

I can now admit to myself, "I am gay" not just bisexual as I had formerly resolved it in my It sort of scares me, this gayness of mine.

It was always in the darkest corners of my mind and surfaced when I was in San Francisco, never around here. I fear for my parents finding out and my friends who know me here but not as being gay.

It's probably no big deal to anyonebut me, but this is me so it's a big deal. Each year I grow more comfortable with my gayness and more aware of how our society represses it. So along with a gain in my per­ sonal freedom I see the chains of society bearing down on us all.

My committment to a rural existance has been with me since childhood.

1 always wanted to be a farmer. "But Intelligent, middle-class men don t be­ come farmers." That was the unspoken message I got from society and parents.

I never even considered taking agriculture courses in high school.

It still amazes me. I wanted to be a farmer but not like the farmers (mostly dairy) that I saw around me. I guess in that sense I was lucky.

Dairy farm­ ing is not what I am interested in and it would have been hard to learn or­ ganic or biodynamic farming methods in high school.

After four years of college, in a socially acceptable area of forestry/ botany, and a year and a half of traveling, I began a systematic move to the country.

I joined an environmental group who organized a collective garden in the country and I got involved in things other than gardening.

Community building, land trust ethic and alternative energy systems were all parts of the same'dream.

From the surrounding urban community I learned of other new ideas. Feminism, collective living and work, and a men’s consciousness all

Febuary 1978 in San Francisco Bus Station: I am very sad, near tears, except I couldn't cry in the bus station.

I'm in San Francisco, but not really, I'm headed back home but my heart is here right now. Usually it's the city and my friends that pull me back, tonight it's one man who came into my life a few weeks ago and who made a difference in my life.

I’m not sure when we met but I liked him immediately. Strong physically, but quiet. Into gardening, plants, dope. He has time, time to spend with me, doing things; planting a garden, wallcing in the arboretum, playing frisbee, giving massage, dancing, making love!

The intensity wasn't there for a while. Not being a pushy person, I just hung around him, sharing my time. We talked, he opened up and was safe.

Time spent with him is golden. He Isn't really directed to doing anything in particular but he is gentle and loving. Monday night is his first massage class and we scheduled a time to go dancing after his class. I'm late but h e ’s there. We go in and dance...dance...dance. Drink some, rest some, dance...dance...dance. We get out and head to Van Ness for a bus. It's cold and the busses aren't running very often. We're on the bus and I say I'd better stay at his house 'cause I don't have a key to where I ’m staying and it's late.

(A clever move, I think.) He says ok. Then he offers a massage to show what he learned (his clever move.) It's a great massage.

I'm lying nude on my stomach keeping it from being sexual. Musk oil and strong hands.

Rubbing and kneading. Different motions, lots of ass massage, then my legs.

It feels good because of all the dancing. Some light brushes to end the mas­ sage and then his touch changes. Lightly stroking my skin he gives me goose bumps and my penis starts to harden. This is too good to be real. We touch and kiss and rub and suck and make wonderful love. He makes a bed on the living room floor and we curl up together and go to sleep. In the morning people are getting up for work but we sleep through. Soon it's quiet again.

I sleep. When I wake he's still magic, still kind and loving. We go up­ stairs and continue making love. Then we get up and shower and he fixes breakfast and I wash the dishes.

I left for some reason and the magic was gone, but I won't ever forget that night.

became part of me.

During this time there were yearly winter visits to San trancisco, to e cape the worst of winter, to vacation during the lull in gardening activities, to keep the friendships I had found there during my post-college wanderings and to taste again that sunny, easy-going magic that is California.

On returning from San Francisco one spring by bus J. started my first con­ scious gay relationship. A man moving back to the ease of San Francisco.

The next winter found me with him at times and meeting another gay man to be That spring when I came back East, I made my move to the country. A mem­ ber of our environmental community group got impatient with meetings and bought a large piece of land. The possibility to put to practice all our dreams was here.

I made a partial move actually that first year, half time gardening in the country and half time earning a living and working in my former urban community. The weaning process was painful, lonely, scary, but necessary. Traveling forty miles between homes was not practical.

Another winter Journey to the West found me involved with yet another man.

It was a strong ana Beautiful relationship, the hardest one I've had to leave to continue my rural committment.

Now through RFD I find gay support for my rural life. Admittedly there is a San Francisco tinge to even RFD, That's OK with me since San Irancisco is still a part of me and my yearly cycle.

Febuary 1978— On the Bus:

What a warm person he is, but how depressed he could get, feeling helpless and unmotivated. Quite like me. Why does it happen? Is it the necessary opposite to the happy highs of our lives? I wonder about the successful people in the world. How they keep going, keep motivated, growing, learning.

The secret. I need to know it. Thinking about splitting back to San Francisco to do ray trip there. I'm sure after being back East, I'll feel better about the decision, but now I'm not sure, of anything, except my head aches, my stomach aches and my heart aches. I think I'll take a nap.

I wish my conviction with life would keep me high like it used to. I get so easily depressed, feeling that all my efforts are futile.

I try to avoid "the system" but end up working for people who work in the system.

I guess that kind of purity is impossible. Then there are times when I think I'll sell my time to the highest bidder, do work I don't care about to earn money to do things in my spare time that I care about.

It's all so confusing.

I really live in the country now. My schizophrenic lifestyle of the pre­ vious summer was changed by my finding work only eleven miles from the farm in a smaller city. Sleeping each night in my bed made the farm my home.

And as I plan another winter voyage to the sun and warmth (and ruin?) of the West Coast, I have more of a gay sense to my life here than ever beforeT* A new lover found in RFD is only 38 miles away. He too is seeking a rural life, t o m as I am between the city and the country.

I hope he can find his niche.

It’s a hard struggle to resolve all aspects of human life.

It's better now for me, but not perfect by any means.

I'm doing what feels right and what I believe in and trying to keep my outlook positive and constructive.

■Ksoners MEN AGAINST SEXISM

People Qf RFD;

*

Men Against Sexism is an amazing group of gay prisoners at the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla who have organized themselves into the only gay prisoners organization in the country.

Theirs is important and courageous work. The conditions which gay men have to live under in pri­ son are Incredibly oppressive. This group Is in a constant struggle for its existence.

One of the ways they survive is by doing sewing.

They make quilts to sell and do patching of prison­ ers' clothes. They need many things to keep on doing this work. if you can donate supplies it would help a great deal. They need the following: needles, thread, scissors, bobbins, material, and a sewing machine.

Please send donations to their sponsor:

My name is Robert L. Hollins and I am incarcerated here in Lorton Virginia.

I am a gay male of 31 years of age. A friend of mine in Oregon sent me your address telling me that you put out some type of publication. I'm more than willing to exchange mail with anyone. Being that I have so very much time to really do nothing.

I am most sincere.

I now know what true loneliness is.

I remain sincerely, Rqbert L. Hollins Box 25 Lorton, Virginia

156-218 22079

Rev. Robert F. Beh 333 G m v e Street, #23 Walla Walla, WA 99362 or to MAS at: Men against Sexism Box 520 Walla Walla, WA 99362

January 17, 1979

Dear Friends:

Young male, straight, college student, 25, 6 ' 170 lbs, handsome, social science major, physical in­ structor. Wish to correspond with some one.

Yours, Mr. John Squire P.0. Box pmb 98058 Atlanta, Ga. 30315

18

White gay male prisoner seeks correspondence. Will •be released on 3-25-81 and will need a place to stay.

Please reply and send stamp so that I can communi­ cate with you. Mark Behring, Box 911, c/o South Dakota State Penitentiary, Sioux Falls, S.D. 57101

Gay white male desires correspondence.

I am 6 '8" I have been in since August 5, 1977 and have 26% months yet to serve. Hobbies include numismatics (coins) and phi­ lately (stamps).

I am interested in starting a gay book collection. I am in need of financial aid.

All contributions acknowledged and repaid. For more info or place to send finances, please contact: Sioux Empire Gay Coalition Box 220 Sioux Falls, S.D. 57101 Attn: Book Fund.

Your help is urgently needed and gratefully apprecaited.

Most Respectfully, Mark Behring Box 9111 Sioux Falls, S.D. 57101

210 lbs, black hair and blue eyes.

Dear RFD, I have really enjoyed RFD since I have been receiving it. It is really great to know there are other gays and bi's on the outside that really do care about people in prison.

The prison here in Idaho has had one gay put a lot of heat on the yard. This person has already gotten 10-14 people put in the hole and there might be more than one charged with the white slave act which carries 50 years on each count. We are going into court in July, or August, and maybe in Septenker. We aren't sure yet which month it'll be yet. We are fighting the fact of discrimination here at the prison, and the unfair treatment of gay and bi's as well as the straights.

We need all the support we can get. The lawyer and all cost money, and the sooner we can get the $600 up to start in court we will. If there are any readers out there that could send $1 and up we^ d all be very grateful. Please send your money orders payable to the fiscal officer for Roy Barker^ // 13910. Checks will be sent back as we can t receive them here.

The faster we can get the $600, the faster we can get into court. We are also having prob­ lems with the food and dirty silverware. There is no soap to wash the silver, plates, cups, and we are all getting sick from it. This will also be brought up in court. We know it can't all be .done at once but to get the ball rolling will really need help. So come on everyone out there.

We need your help, and the help on the funds. Any­ one that wants to write so we can take the letters into court, please do. Send letters to Ray Barker #13910 or Wilford Seek #14845, P. 0. Box 14-9-6, Boise, Idaho, 83707. Money orders to the same address as above.

Wilford Seek and I will be married one year May 6th, 1979. We were united together here at the prison in May of 1978 and are very happy.

Since then two others have done the same.

In gay love and pride, Ray Barker Wilford Seek

Dear RFD, I dig femininity in a man, but effeminence, ferget it — I dig masculinity in a man, but the macho-butch types, ferget it too. City people who wish they were in the country give me the creeps almost as much as country people who wish they were in the city. I dig my friends to be off-the-wall, but I don't dig them to try to be anything.

In other words, I dig people (men, women and other animals) who see themselves and dig what they see.

Can you dig this? /M e

Much love, Dear RFD and its readers: Issue # 18 has arrived, along with a note on the envelope saying "Your subscription ends with this issue!" I do not care to renew.

Since RFD is such a "personal" publication and a reader-written one for the most part at that, I feel that I owe you the explanation of why 1 no longer wish to receive the journal. The reasons are many but boil down to one basic .fact: I can no longer identify with the publication.

During 1978, I must have responded to a dozen surveys and questionaires directed to gay people in the U.S. in well-meaning attempts to find out who we are and where. There were the James Spada survey and the one conducted by Karla Jay and Allen Young, and there was yours, of course.

I cannot now remember if I responded to your survey or not, but I do know that I am represented therein, if only vicariously.

You see, I am the one "bisexual" mentioned. The presence of quotation marks around that word connotes, if I'm not mistaken, a disbelief or uneasiness on your part where bisexuality is concerned.

(It needn't be hyphenated, either, incidently.) You seem to go along with Gore Vidal's opinion that "There are no bisexuals; there are only uncommitted homosexuals."

Both Vidal and your staff are mistaken.

We do exist, us "bi-sexuals," and our time will come. Your prejudice stems from standard gay liberationist dogma from the late 1960s when Carl Wittman, in an essay entitled "Refuges From Araerika: A Gay Manifesto," observed that "Bisexuality is good; it is the capacity to love people of either sex. The reason is because society made such a big stink about homosexuality that we got forced into seeing ourselves as either straight or nonstraight. Also, many gays got turned off to the ways men are supposed to relate to women and vice-versa, which is pretty fucked up Gays will begin to get turned onto women when 1) it's something that we do because we want to, and not because we should; 2) when women s liber­ ation has changed the nature of heterosexual relationships.

We continue to call ourselves homosexuals rather than bisexuals even if we do make it with the opposite sex also, because saying, Oh, 1 m bi" is a cop-out for a gay. We get told it's okay to sleep with guys as long as we sleep with women too, and that's still putting homosexuality down. We'll be gay until everyone has forgotten that it's an issue. Then we'll begin to be com­ plete people."

Such was the rhetoric of the Vietnam-Flower Power Era. I believe in calling a spade a spade.

If one Is attracted to persons of both sexes, one is bisexual, and it is not a cop out to proclaim that orientation because, as Martin Duberman observed in a New Times essay on The Bisexual Debate," "It's~easier , I believe, for exclusive heterosexuals to tolerate (and that's the word) exclusive homosexuals than those who, rejecting^ exclusivity, sleep with people not genders.

It's easier because in the Cartesian West we ve long been taught to think in either/or categories, to believe that one is male or female, boss or worker, teacher or student, child or adult, gay or straight. To suggest, as practicing bisexuals do, that each of us may contain within ourselves all those supposed diametric opposites we ve been tauaht to divide humanity into is to suggest that we might not know ourselves as well as we like to pretend."

The problem is, far too many exclusive homo­ sexuals do not know themselves as well as they would like to pretend. Bisexuals learn to keep their heterosexual aspect hidden from gays because they know all too well the prejudice one encounters in such circles. Let me give you just one example.

Via a Canadian avant-garde publication called File, I struck up a correspondence with a former member of the RFD Wolf Creek commune who seemed interested in many of the things I am. Having things in common, we decided to exchange letters, photos, et cetera. In my second or third letter to him, I mentioned that I am bisexual - and married at that. He quit writing me. It is a terrible irony that the bisexual must hide in a closet while engaged in interpersonal relationships with gays.

Second, I do not care for your new attitude of what might be called Sissie-ism. Some of us experienced a great deal of pain as children when we were called sissies. We have no desire to relive it.

Third, I am moving back to the ghettoed cities The rural life is a lonely, difficult one. I miss those things about city life that you would no doubt lable "Oppressive": bars and baths, porn stores, tea rooms and so on.

Best wishes, nevertheless, Jim, Pleasant Valley, Vermont

Dan the Jan Box 284 Arroyo Hondo, NM 87513

to 10 Lha) o U

• M

“+ J

a) o ‘T3 i-1 U-l - H 1

Dec. 2, 1978

Dear RFD: So much change in us all. Everyone moving.

Rick and I have moved from the countryside back into town. We have now lived in town since the middle of June. And for the time being, I find it enjoyable.

I've come to the realization that home­ steading is a state of mind, not a state of place.

I spent more time in my garden in town than I could in the country. Cutting out the hour or more on the road going back and forth to work makes a hell of a difference.

Just as importantly we have people just a few blocks away.

It is important to me to have queers around.

It is important to me to have a community.

This was impossible while living in our country home. In the winter months we were lucky to see people (outside of work) once a month. Not enough.

I'm not saying I'll live in town forever. But it will be a while before I can afford the country.

It is cheaper in town with a good garden.

Anyway, I've moved. So has the mag. Good? Who knows, but change is inevitable, no?

Don Tevel 628 2nd Ave. Iowa City, la.

A Fig- 75-

Garden tools

52240 •

Dear People of RFD,

..

Rough pigw eed

Well, I would like to continue writing but the propane heater went out again! It's a sunny morn­ ing and work on the shelter must begin, Please drop a line.

We just got the Winter Solstice issue yesterday.

We like it alot, especially the articles about nukes and Tsusiat Point. Generally I like the whole is­ sue. The only bitch I have is the lack of contact 1Sincerely, letters— is it because you aren't receiving any? Or lack of space? It's good to see a collective coming Kim Brettingen Libra for together out of the gatherings.

GLACIAL CLIFF CO-OPERATIVE We would like to have been part of those gather­ Kim Grittner Taurus ings and future gatherings but we have J ust Funded Tony Young— arriving Feb. 1st. here finally after a long struggle (that will con­ Star Rt. 1 Box 3257 tinue). We don't have the funds or energy to leave.

Ely, Minn.

55731 We arrived here on Sunday a week ago. After living VISITORS WELCOME-ALL RACES in Mpls. Mn. too long, a very oppressive city. We The following is an excerpt from a very lengthy let­ didn't get a small loan of course because we have ter from Kim Grittner of the GLACIAL CLIFF CO-OPERA­ no Kredit and no middle-class families to get help TIVE that we are printing as a very beautifully writfrom. We worked the last 2 months 18 hrs a day (share wages) and managed to get enough together for-tt,n "slice-of-life pi ece. a small 12x12 shelter. So here we are— two faggots This morning i woke up— (4:00 A.M.) It was one freezing our buns off (last nite it got down to 1 have only a wood cook-stove so i -30 F!) living in an old panel truck with a propane of those days. can't stoke it all nite. i had one of those feel-^ heater, eating WWII soup. Finally got the road ings something was about to fuck up. The cat wasn t plowed on Thursday so we could get materials to the in the bag with me so it couldn't be top cold, i site. Building the shelter has been slow, but pick­ watch my breath carefully.

1 can't see it. Still ing up. We have 2-3 dollars left collectively. e i lie awake— waiting. of us must go to Mpls later.

The blue flame of the propane heater raurmers and Besides the cold and the lack of food and space, gasps In a brighter flame. FWUNKl It's out. No our energy is high. A third person (faggot) will more gas—heat. No wood is cut and the chainsaw be joining us on Feb. 1st 79 (Tony Young). He s isn't working, i have no gas or oil anyway. Soo. coming from Calif.— a little climate shock. The en­ The truck has less than a gallon of gas in it. i. vironment here is beautiful, remote, virtually un­ have little food. (i am alone with kitty for a touched wilderness (one of the last.) We wi a community. We are lonely and tired of having to couple days.) i have no money. I feel a nagging live as a Kouple, although we don't have a lot of cold, trying. The water is frozen soon.

Surprisingly none of these things really upsets Hetero behavior.

We've been writing to members of the Federation me. "Yuck it's Sunday," i say to myself and hop of Egaltarian communities— checking out the possi out of bed to a floor that freezes my foot-sweat in­ bilities of joining. We are very interested in the stantly.

As I hand saw wood, alone in the beautiful woods, Sissie Network forming an eagle circles.

It is so peaceful. The saw makes little noise.

Dear RFD & C o .: I have no desire to change the world by join­ ing the gay radical revolutionary war marching thru the barnyards or down main streets waving political banners (except Gay Freedom Day parades) nor do I wish to knock on doors trying to explain sissieism, ageism, classism, or any other kind of ism. Besides, I don't even know what they mean (nothing).

I look to the country for peace and beauty of singing birds, tall trees, open skies, running brooks, the smell of wild grass after a rain, squir­ rels, cows, pigs, crowing roosters, burning wood In the fireplace, sweat running down my brow, crunchy vegetables, fresh bread, warm cookies . . . the list is endless.

I only wish to share a few experiences about gay men living in rural areas across the United States, all 50 states and Canada. I am hoping RFD will provide more information of such experi­ ences .

I was b o m and grew up in East Tennessee near North Carolina.

I lived in San Francisco for ten years. Two.years ago I moved to Santa Rosa (50 miles north of San Francisco) for a country type experiment raising chickens, ducks, geese, rab­ bits and gardening. It has been great! Unlike most rural areas (Santa Rosa is quickly becoming a city) there's gay people everywhere. They're on the side­ walks, in the streets, at the grocery store, down near the river . . . everywhere. But gay men into rural living????

1 love San Francisco and its vast gay forces.

I love the inviting mild climate of California and the liberal thinking of its people, but my Idea of country is not a dude ranch in the woods for $150,000. So many of us are being priced out of California.

If you are moving this way for land, better bring plenty of green paper. Surely it's only a myth of witchhunt against queers in other parts of the country, or have I been in California too long! Nevertheless, we'll be in your area soon, maybe Arkansas, Tennessee or North Carolina.

An area offering a more realistic opportunity for self sufficiency.

1 do not believe I am alone in my search for a different lifestyle. I look forward to much more inspirational material in RFD for all of us planning to move to the country, and for those who have not yet discovered the country. -Your last edition (#17) was certainly an inprovement over past issues. Keep pushing, brothers...

We are on the move everywhere...

Goodwill toward gay men, Larry D. Norris 795 Hunter Lane Santa Rosa, CA

95404

n

"World War II was our last great phallic war. And we won it.

It was a thoroughly pleasurable war. You might say that for the last time in our history— we had a ball.

Bsllt" Years have pas­ sed, but the word can still provoke me to anger and despair. "Ball one!" When I was a kid, we lived across the street from one of the city parks in Malden, Massachusetts and, from March until October, you proved your manhood in this park. And you did it with a ball. "Ball two!" Every aspect of the game was phallic and every failure was a sexual failure. I knew this in every fiber of my being, but I couldn't express it. I was a near-sighted runt who stuttered and as the ball came whizzing toward me I fanned, fanned, fanned— fanned out! can still remember how the bat was thrown into the air before the game and th then grasped at the top by the team captains. This is how sides were chosen. I was always chosen last. "Him? We don’t want him! Why don't you take him?" "Ball three!

Not only was I a failure at the plate, I couldn’t throw. "Look at him! He throws like a girl!

I couldn’t peg it in front right field, and since I was always sent to the right field I was humiliated each time I played. "Ball four!"If y' can't hit it, kid, take the walk! Next batter?"

---A kid's riddle: Q. What does a man have between his legs? A. Two balls and a bat.

Q. How about a woman? A. A catcher's mitt.

Jtyfather, who had played semi-pro ball before he was married, said, "I'll teach the kid.

He 8< T ^ lln ut0 “ake thC effort» 1,11 teach him- Then they won’t call him sissy anymore." was willing, because nothing was worse than being called a sissy, and for endless hours we practiced after he came home from his dead-end job. We would both get bored, then angry, then disgusted We both wished we could be doing something— anything!— else, but we could never say it. This tedious, repetitious ritual had to be suffered through, evening after evening, in a kind of grim silence broken only by, 'Bum it in to me, boy!" And "It’s no good unless it hurtsT When he finally succeeded in breaking my finger, I cried, but it was out of relief, 1 k?ew that wlth a broken finger I would no longer be forced to toss a ball back and forth with this sadistic man, my father. Later, with my finger in a cast, I could even express my o p i nion^ the game from the sidelines-silently, of course, using the ancient, universal symbol of contempt.

"Well, if you can't play, you can watch!" my father said. So he took me to Brave's Field, where we sat in the bleachers under a broiling sun. The boredom was as thick as cheese because baseball is a boring game. Boredom is built into the structure of the thing.

I talked to a woman sitting beside me, who was as bored as I was.

Later, my father complained to my mother, "All he did was yammer at some woman in the seat beside him. A woman! I'll never take him to another ball game again." And he never did. But it was unpatriotic to hate baseball. Didn t I know there was a war on? Did I want the Germans to win? What was was wrong with me anyway?

'Song: "Hitler had only one big ball!

Goering had two but they were small!

Himmler— well, his were sim'lar But Go Balls had no balls at all!"

Well, in order not to throw like a girl, you pivot on the ail of your right foot. You keep your arm stiff. You throw overhand and stiff-armedas you come down on the ball of your left foot.

1 discovered that all on my own. Practiced it on my own in the cellar dur­ ing the winter of my fourteenth year. Emerged that spring able to throw! I could now get it from right field. Oh, I wasn't terrifically accurate, but I could get it in there. Suddenly I belonged, for the first time in my life, but it only lasted a little while. Onlya little while— because it was already too late. s® had beCn desPised for so years were now interesting (to everyone but me , an t ey even played ball with the guys. Their weird way of throwing was O.K. too, because it.made their boobs bounce up and down in an interesting way. Most games didn't g eyon the fifth or sixth inning now though, because everyone (except me) took off for the woods or the tall grass to fool around. I was left to watch the equipment.

I had no in-

could

t

w

competitor!

al» V n ® n6W ^3meS being Played in the deeP *ra8S‘ "Sissy" was about to become fag\ 3nd queer’ father bought me my own bat, since I had proved to him that l' throw the ball now, but I smashed thatbat against the concrete blocks that he!* ^p our

r i ^ t o dTit t!ie,WO?d K?lint^ red 3nd iC cracked in tworight to do it. I don t blame him. Baseball had been his or it in the only way available to me.

A MEDITATION ON THE WORD

My father beat me for that. He was game and I had expressed my hatred

I had an older brother Jim, who suffered from none of my inhibitions.

I remember how he burst into my bedroom at five o'clock one morning, glowing like an apple tree in full blossom after a spring rain storm.

"Hey, hey, hey! I— balled— Marl oriel" he said.

They got married. They had two kids. Life goes on. . .When I think back on those years, I remember the endless, repetitive drone of TV sets in bars on summer afternoons. Always, the bali game is on. The doors are open onto an industrial street (factory, parking lot, rail­ road tracks)and as you look in you see the backs of men. Their shoulders are hunched over the bar and their eyes are on the flickering images on the screen. They have the day off or an afternoon tokill or they have been laid off at the shoe factory or they are on strike. My father and my brother are with them, but I am excluded. It is a fraternity and the rituals center around the mystery of the baseball. I failed at my initiation. So, all on my own, I seek answers. Why baseball? Because base­ ball is mechanical. Baseball is the mill. Baseball is the wife and kids.

Baseball is the marriage bed. Baseball is monogamy. Baseball is safe.

Baseball is the gloss over the dead-end, over nullity, over the sudden absence of possibility, over sexual despair. Baseball is— Malden.

Then one day I realized that I no longer cared. I had learn­ ed to read and to write.

And suddenly it seemed to me that all those years in right field had led to one thing: the ability to toss words around and make them connect. Look at me! I can burn a metaphor right across the plate!

I can knock a simile right out of the park. I could speak and make my­ self understood! I could— to borrow a phrase from Basic Training— sound off as if I had a pair! I had teeth, tongue, vocal cords, and I could use them. I had fingers which could tap out words on a page, words which I could smash into line drives which would burn right through you. Throw the word "homo" at me and you'll get it back between your teeth! Lob "fag" at me and I'll smash it into the left field stands! My words hurt, bite and sting. I have my phallic bat— and it's a Parker pen I bought ten years ago marked down to $9.98.

(I started writing when I was twelve years old but it had to be kept secret (for writing was sissy stuff, along with everything else which did not involve chopping at a ball with a wooden club); only girls liked to write. But true po­ tency is the Word. Language is control, mastery, po­ wer. For instance, consider the energy in the word "ball!" It fueled this essay.

One day I packed my rage and left Malden for good— seeing myself now as a strong, a gutsy a ballsy guy, scoring the winning run in the last half of the ninth and doing it en­ tirely with vowels, consonants and syllables. Yeah, you sons o' bitches! Me! A real man! A • real Listen to me! I'm talking to you. Am I coming through? Loud and clear?

Good!

"World War II was our last great phallic war. And we won it.

It was a thoroughly pleasurable war. You might say that for the last time in our history— we had a ball.

Bsllt" Years have pas­ sed, but the word can still provoke me to anger and despair. "Ball one!" When I was a kid, we lived across the street from one of the city parks in Malden, Massachusetts and, from March until October, you proved your manhood in this park. And you did it with a ball. "Ball two!" Every aspect of the game was phallic and every failure was a sexual failure. I knew this in every fiber of my being, but I couldn't express it. I was a near-sighted runt who stuttered and as the ball came whizzing toward me I fanned, fanned, fanned— fanned out! can still remember how the bat was thrown into the air before the game and th then grasped at the top by the team captains. This is how sides were chosen. I was always chosen last. "Him? We don’t want him! Why don't you take him?" "Ball three!

Not only was I a failure at the plate, I couldn’t throw. "Look at him! He throws like a girl!

I couldn’t peg it in front right field, and since I was always sent to the right field I was humiliated each time I played. "Ball four!"If y' can't hit it, kid, take the walk! Next batter?"

---A kid's riddle: Q. What does a man have between his legs? A. Two balls and a bat.

Q. How about a woman? A. A catcher's mitt.

Jtyfather, who had played semi-pro ball before he was married, said, "I'll teach the kid.

He 8< T ^ lln ut0 “ake thC effort» 1,11 teach him- Then they won’t call him sissy anymore." was willing, because nothing was worse than being called a sissy, and for endless hours we practiced after he came home from his dead-end job. We would both get bored, then angry, then disgusted We both wished we could be doing something— anything!— else, but we could never say it. This tedious, repetitious ritual had to be suffered through, evening after evening, in a kind of grim silence broken only by, 'Bum it in to me, boy!" And "It’s no good unless it hurtsT When he finally succeeded in breaking my finger, I cried, but it was out of relief, 1 k?ew that wlth a broken finger I would no longer be forced to toss a ball back and forth with this sadistic man, my father. Later, with my finger in a cast, I could even express my o p i nion^ the game from the sidelines-silently, of course, using the ancient, universal symbol of contempt.

"Well, if you can't play, you can watch!" my father said. So he took me to Brave's Field, where we sat in the bleachers under a broiling sun. The boredom was as thick as cheese because baseball is a boring game. Boredom is built into the structure of the thing.

I talked to a woman sitting beside me, who was as bored as I was.

Later, my father complained to my mother, "All he did was yammer at some woman in the seat beside him. A woman! I'll never take him to another ball game again." And he never did. But it was unpatriotic to hate baseball. Didn t I know there was a war on? Did I want the Germans to win? What was was wrong with me anyway?

'Song: "Hitler had only one big ball!

Goering had two but they were small!

Himmler— well, his were sim'lar But Go Balls had no balls at all!"

Well, in order not to throw like a girl, you pivot on the ail of your right foot. You keep your arm stiff. You throw overhand and stiff-armedas you come down on the ball of your left foot.

1 discovered that all on my own. Practiced it on my own in the cellar dur­ ing the winter of my fourteenth year. Emerged that spring able to throw! I could now get it from right field. Oh, I wasn't terrifically accurate, but I could get it in there. Suddenly I belonged, for the first time in my life, but it only lasted a little while. Onlya little while— because it was already too late. s® had beCn desPised for so years were now interesting (to everyone but me , an t ey even played ball with the guys. Their weird way of throwing was O.K. too, because it.made their boobs bounce up and down in an interesting way. Most games didn't g eyon the fifth or sixth inning now though, because everyone (except me) took off for the woods or the tall grass to fool around. I was left to watch the equipment.

I had no in-

could

t

w

competitor!

al» V n ® n6W ^3meS being Played in the deeP *ra8S‘ "Sissy" was about to become fag\ 3nd queer’ father bought me my own bat, since I had proved to him that l' throw the ball now, but I smashed thatbat against the concrete blocks that he!* ^p our

r i ^ t o dTit t!ie,WO?d K?lint^ red 3nd iC cracked in tworight to do it. I don t blame him. Baseball had been his or it in the only way available to me.

A MEDITATION ON THE WORD

My father beat me for that. He was game and I had expressed my hatred

I had an older brother Jim, who suffered from none of my inhibitions.

I remember how he burst into my bedroom at five o'clock one morning, glowing like an apple tree in full blossom after a spring rain storm.

"Hey, hey, hey! I— balled— Marl oriel" he said.

They got married. They had two kids. Life goes on. . .When I think back on those years, I remember the endless, repetitive drone of TV sets in bars on summer afternoons. Always, the bali game is on. The doors are open onto an industrial street (factory, parking lot, rail­ road tracks)and as you look in you see the backs of men. Their shoulders are hunched over the bar and their eyes are on the flickering images on the screen. They have the day off or an afternoon tokill or they have been laid off at the shoe factory or they are on strike. My father and my brother are with them, but I am excluded. It is a fraternity and the rituals center around the mystery of the baseball. I failed at my initiation. So, all on my own, I seek answers. Why baseball? Because base­ ball is mechanical. Baseball is the mill. Baseball is the wife and kids.

Baseball is the marriage bed. Baseball is monogamy. Baseball is safe.

Baseball is the gloss over the dead-end, over nullity, over the sudden absence of possibility, over sexual despair. Baseball is— Malden.

Then one day I realized that I no longer cared. I had learn­ ed to read and to write.

And suddenly it seemed to me that all those years in right field had led to one thing: the ability to toss words around and make them connect. Look at me! I can burn a metaphor right across the plate!

I can knock a simile right out of the park. I could speak and make my­ self understood! I could— to borrow a phrase from Basic Training— sound off as if I had a pair! I had teeth, tongue, vocal cords, and I could use them. I had fingers which could tap out words on a page, words which I could smash into line drives which would burn right through you. Throw the word "homo" at me and you'll get it back between your teeth! Lob "fag" at me and I'll smash it into the left field stands! My words hurt, bite and sting. I have my phallic bat— and it's a Parker pen I bought ten years ago marked down to $9.98.

(I started writing when I was twelve years old but it had to be kept secret (for writing was sissy stuff, along with everything else which did not involve chopping at a ball with a wooden club); only girls liked to write. But true po­ tency is the Word. Language is control, mastery, po­ wer. For instance, consider the energy in the word "ball!" It fueled this essay.

One day I packed my rage and left Malden for good— seeing myself now as a strong, a gutsy a ballsy guy, scoring the winning run in the last half of the ninth and doing it en­ tirely with vowels, consonants and syllables. Yeah, you sons o' bitches! Me! A real man! A • real Listen to me! I'm talking to you. Am I coming through? Loud and clear?

Good!

A

COUNTRYJOURNAL FOR GAY MEN #19 SPRING 1979 $2.0