RFD Issue 68 Winter 1991 by RFD Magazine Gay

Winter '91

photo by Don Blackmorc

BETWEEN THE LINES Greetings, The weather swirls around us- with very little adherence to the prevailing myth of four seasons evenly rotating through the year. Our friend Kim in Minnesota writes of receiving 47 inches of snow near the begining of November, while we here at Short Moun tain have felt a hit of wintery air, but «ostly lapping up the warmth of an Indian suaaer, working on those projects which we had begun to tuck away, in our heads, for the spring. Nonetheless, we had a few days that were in the teens, but the Bathhouse pipes didn’t freeze, and we covered the greens in the garden froa the frost; the only casualty was an aloe plant accidentally left out on the porch.

Weekly wood runs, soaetiaes with four truck loads, seea just to keep the seven or eight stoves on the mountain running and some of us look with envy at the well piled stacks beside our neighbor’s homes. Others of us, who grew up in Florida, remember snowless winters and the irony of Santa Claus por trayed dashing about in a sled. But we, as gay people, are used to living with myths and legends that are not really our own. And not just living with them, but adopting them, playing with them, and learning from them. In this issue there are accounts of rituals from other cultures, as well as ones from our own (reports and a keynote speech from the second annual Gay Spirit Visions conference.) And though in some ways foreign, there is always also a part of rituals that is in some way familiar. Disguising the familiar in the foreign, in fact, is often how we tell our stor ies, or legends, our myths. And so, besides personal accounts of ’real’ rituals (where in turn, there is always an element of fiction, of a subjective view) we also have some faerie tales. Next issue will mark R F ' D ’s 69th season, and we have slated it to be a humor issue, hopefully with all the playful (and erotic) delight that that number conjures up. It’s not too late to submit stories, drawings, photo graphs, writings, poetry- whatever that you think will draw a smile to your fellow readers- so please send us what you got, so to speak. We remind you as a reader written journal it is important for us to hear from you, engage us. Have a wondrous solstice and other celebratons!

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Aubrey Beards 1ey... 44,45 John Benser........ 14 Jim Bergeson.......58 Walta Borawski.... 48 John Briggs........49 Brother Mark.......31 James Broughton.... 43 Marsh Cassady......37 Cay ne.............. 47 Agnes de Carron....l6 Terry DeLi mont.... 17 Cav in Dillard..... 5 D. Diaock.......... 48 S Charles Donovan..31,49 George Edington....13 Coat Boy........... 34 George Gott........48 Will Hubbard.......50 Hyperion.......... 18,44 Jim Jackson........34 David Kwasigroh....1,2 Jim Lovejoy........43 Jan Nathan Long.... 30-34 Portia Manson......36 Buddy May..........54 S.E. Mead..........49 MoHanon........... 40-42 Moonhawk........... 10 Blue Moor..........68 Giovanni Mucci.... 8,9 Gloria Mundi...... 28,29 M.J. Perrone...... 12 Gary Plouff....... 47 Satyr arth......... 61-67 Stephen Silha..... 41 Leo Spruell........ 18 Fred Stahl.........30 Stv............... 7 L. Russell Thomas..35 L.S. Welch.........59 L. E. Wi Ison....... 49

RFD is a reader-w ritten journal for gay men which focuses on country living and encourages alternative life-styles. A rticles often explore the building of a sense of community, radical faerie consciousness, caring for the environment, as well as sharing gay m e n ’s experiences.

VOL XVII1 no2 Issue 68

RFD (ISSN # 0149-709X) is published quarterly for per year by Short Mt. Collective, Rt 1, Box 84A, Liberty, TN 37095. Second class postage is paid at Liberty, TN and additional mailing offices. Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, PO Box 68, Liberty, TN 37095.

$18

ISSN # 0149-709X USPS # 073-010-00 N on-profit tax exem pt status under #23-7199134 as a function of Gay Community Social Services Seattle, Washington.

Member: CLMP (Council of Literary Magazines & Presses) IGLA (Int’l Gay & Lesbian Assoc.)

David Kwasigroh

RTD

a country journal for gay men everyinhere

PUBLISHER The Short Mt. C ollective

Cover and Inside Front Cover Photography by'Don Blackmore

Editorial responsibility is shared betw een the Department editors and the M anaging E ditors. The business and general production is centered at Short Mt. Sanctuary in rural middle Tennessee. Features are often prepared in various places by different groups.

INDEXED by Alternative Press Index PO Box 33109 Baltimore. MD 21218

DEPARTMENT EDITORS Book Reviews - Garland Terry. TX Brothers Behind Bars - Len Richardson, OR BBB Pen Pal - Gilson edrick, GA Gardening - Greengenes. T \ Kitchen Queen - Buddy May, GA Lunar Calendar -- Moonhawk, Ga Poetry - Steven Riel. MA Spirituality - Profess-Her Faerie. NY

A Subscription to RFD saves you money and really helps us. SUBSCRIBE TODAY!

A N N O U N C E M E N T S ftND E S S A Y S Lesbian and Gay Aging Out With the Hillbillies Seniana Santa in Jesus Maria

A R T I C L E S

B O O K B R O T H E R S

R E V I E W S

B E H I N D

5 O 1 7 1 8

Will Hubbard Terry DeLimont Leo Spruell

5 5 8

B A R S

C A R P E N T R Y Picnic Table Park Bench Combination

i a i a

John Benser

C O M I C Adventures of Rex Trade Bluford

5 8 & 8

Jim Bergeson Blue Moor

C O N T A C T

L E T T E R S

F A E R I E T ^ L E S Reconciliation A Faerie Creation Myth Jungle Faerie Havoc’s Faerie Tales Faerie Archives E A N T / ^ S Y G A R D E N I ISIG Books Trees From Seed G E N E R A L

S T O R E H U M O R Agnes Knows

3 3 3 3 3

O 1 1 2 a

3 7 1 2 1 2 1 3

Fred Stahl Brother Mark Charles Donovan Jan Nathan Falling Goat Boy Marsh Cassady M.J. Perrone George Edington

5 7 1 €>

Agnes de Garron

Q U E E N

5 a

Buddy May

C A L E N D A R

1 o

Moonhawk

3 5 a 7 ■a 8 a s a-9 a <?

L. Russell Thomas Gary Plouff George Gott Walta Borawski L.E. Wilson S.E. Mead John Briggs

2 8

Gloria Mundi

K I T C H E I M L U N A R

e i

B O E T R Y Solstice Poem Travelling Into the Light Otomo Asuka 7 Embarrassments in the Wrong Key A Song for D.S. Downtown Night Vision P O I _I T I C S Queers Fight Back R E M E M B E R I N G S P I R I T U A L I T Y Mountains and Mist The Holiness of Sexuality

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a o a 3

MoHanon James Broughton

Dear Editors,

Dear People,

I as writing to let you all at

I hope you all will print more of Giovanni Mucci's artwork in RFD. I love his art, and was disappointed when I didn't find it in my latest RFD. Wishing you all a Happy Samhain and a Happy New Year.

RFD know just how much I really enjoy getting RFD

during the short time that I have received it. The staff at RFD really does soie great work.

John Turner Louisville, KY Dear Editor, I think it's wonderful that you include NAMBLA in RFD. Speaking from when I was young --I think that for some very young men such an organization is very important and needed. I just wish I could have known about NAMBLA when I was about 12 or 13 years old. If only for the support and mentorship I'm sure that can be had as well as the sex. Dan Schafer Cleveland, OH Dearest RFD Faeries-Just received #67 and as usual it's fabulous! Chris Charles' "No Title," about standard commercial grade beauty, is especially welcome. Variety is the spice of life, yet in our formative years at school, conformity is brutally enforced by bullies and even officials who should know better. My shyness, slender build, distaste for fighting, and obvious queer ness were made into very pain ful things, so that I stayed closeted until I heard about the Stonewall riot. I read that body shame is almost universal among gay men. (In timacy between ?3en, Driggs & Finn, Dutton, 1990) . I find myself especially attracted to skinny, androgynous guys, and they're all covered up with long sleeves and extra layers of clothing and don't respond to cruising. My own body softer and hairier with matur ity, I too cover up, buy into ageism,1 and fear alienating those I feel attracted to. The Marijuana Farmer's Journal a few issues back was also much appreciated. It must have taken some courage. We really need to counter mass hysteria with truth and clari ty. Pot was never illegal before 1937. The laws against it have destroyed countless human lives, and "scientific"

studies showing pot to be harmful are funded by entities with a vested interest in keeping it illegal. Thus, a beneficial medicinalherb that relaxes stress and anger, relieves pain and stimulates appetite so sick people can nourish themselves, has been turned into a controlled sub stance, a dangerous drug, and an endangered species. A classic "crime against nature." "Bom shiva shankara, hari hari ganja. OM namo shivaya; BOM!" NAMBLA has been the subject of much debate. Such a complex issue. O how I wish I'd had a mature gay mentor when I was younger! I think a lot of men need to re-live their child hood or adolescence and the most obvious way is vicarious ly through boys who are young now. Boys need affectionate loving and mentoring, positive gay role modeling and emotion al support; so many gay kid commit suicide for lack of such support. Mass hysteria destroys the lives of boy lovers. I trust that NAMBLA does not advocate sexual ex ploitation of boys, is worthy to advertise in RFD and march in gay pride parades. (Dis claimer for my own safety: I'm not a member of NAMBLA nor am I attracted to underage boys or girls.) There's more to say, but I want to get this off to you without any further delay. Queer love all ways. Edward Camp San Francisco, CA HelloLet M. Andreas who wrote ‘A Store At Sea" know that I thought it was one of the best short stories I’ve read in a while (and I read a lot of thee!). I’d love to read sole ■ore of his writing. Matthew Skolnikoff 4

But there is a subject that I would like to talk about. In your No. 67 Fall ’91 issue, there was a gentleman who had talked about people in prison playing head games and using people on the outside. Even though I an in prison, I have to agree with hin. I have seen a lot of in»ates here at Rockview use a lot of people. I don’t mean only nen but also women. I have had a pen-pal and friend for close to two years. There are some of us that are honest and sincere. We really need a person’s friendship cause it really does help us in person on a day to day basis. I wrote this to let the brothers out there know that there are people in prison who value a person’s friendship. So keep up the great work. Take care and God bless you all. David Burger Bellefonte, PA

In my opinion, RFD could add even more to its value with the addition of a bulletin board arrangement that would annotate either land wanted to buy, or land available for sale. Many of us currently city bound who would be inter ested in a piece of land, have no way of knowing what might be out there— And perhaps some rural brothers have a bit of land they wish to sell but have no venue except realtors or a local news ad--Please consider this, it would for me help make my dreams a reality. James Patrick Martin Miami Beach, FL

Dear Country Brothers, I’ve got the shithouse blues. I need advice on how to get my outhouse composting so there is no stink. Any advice would be appreciated, Ive tried sev eral methods but still p-u. Peace brothers. Ricky of Luna Parc RD 4 Box 103 De Groat Road Montague, NJ 07827

lAtdia

SALT

AND SAGEE

A new fairie zine Salt and Sage is being published eight times a year by the Sacred Faeries of Salt Lake City. The zine has a decidedly spriritual focus with a playful bent. Write then! Salt and Sage, PO Box 252, Salt Lake City, UT 84110. NEW DIRECTION

A new nagazine for gay and les bian Morions, their relatives and friends, New Directions is now available. Subscriptions to the bi-monthly Magazine are $25 for one year, sample cop ies are $5 each. Address cor respondence to: New Direction, 3520 Selma Ave., Suite A-440, Los Angeles, CA 90028. ON WI NGS OE LEATHER

A newsletter for leather wiccans, pagans and faeries. Be a part of WINGS! Send poetry, stories, recipes, humor, rit uals x spells, experiences to: Northwind, Box 2253, Vancouver, BC V6B 3W2, CANADA. men

boots

A contact/correspondence club for men with an interest in boots and in men who wear them, Men in BOOTS is a quar terly publication. The club was founded five years ago and ■any of its over 200 members live in rural areas. Write: Box 58, 282 Parliament St., Toronto, Ontario, CANADA M5A 3A4, 416/359-0973.

EARTH R ELIG ION EARTHLV CONCERN

Are you against racial, sexual and class oppression? Are you for the defense of Mother Earth and the Web of Life, solidarity with Indigenous peo ples, social justice and de fense of Pagan spiritual rights? Read the Merrymount Messenger, in-depth articles on Pagan spiritual politics and worldview in ancient and modern times. Published quar terly by the Thomas Morton Alliance, an international net work of politically active Pa gans. $10/year-- please make checks/m.o .’s out to “cash". Send SASE for info to: TMAWest, 3605 El Camino Real, Box 27, Santa Clara, CA 95051.

A ai SLJBM I SS I ONS WANTED

EROM NOW ON

Anthology of creative writing by young gays, lesbians and bi sexuals seeks submissions. From Now On will include fic tion, poetry and short drama tic writing by writers born 1966 and later. Original and previously published work will be considered. Send submis sions with SASE and short bio by January 31, 1992 to: Michael Lowenthal, PO Box A164, Hanover, NH 03755. CALL

Survivors of trauma share their success stories. I’m looking for recovery stories and ways of dealing with after effects of trauma. The empha sis of the collection will be on thriving: not merely surviv ing. Please send an SASE if you’d like a copy of the guide lines: L.A. Ross, Box 51 2 S. 727 Rt. 59, Warrenville, IL 60555. If you would like infor mation about the book when it is published, please send me your name and address. 50

I’m collecting material for an anthology on Paganism and the lesbian and gay experience called: The Sword and the Staff, The Cup and the Cauldron: Lesbian and Gay perspectives on Paganism and the Craft. I need original and/or previously published articles, recollections, poetry, invoca tions, insights. Why are you Pagan? How do you deal with is sues of gender, balance, polar ity? Deadline for submissions April 1992. Send SASE for sub mission guidelines to: Ian Horst, PO Box 1618, New York, NY 10013. .5

EOR WORK

P h o to s:

A Phase I, Randomized Trial Exhibition organized in con junction with Visual AIDS/Day Without Art. Ready-to-use cam eras will be distributed to 50 HIV* individuals so that they can make photographs about their lives. One image by each person will be exhibited. Show will incorporate text, video, educational materials and par ticipatory section. Showing through January 26 at The Center, 602 Commonwealth Ave, Boston MA. Call: Bob Kelley for further information 617/353-0700.

Atlanta Fairy Circle 404/622-4112 Austin Area Faeries Casa de Esteban 12514-B Esplanade St. Austin TX 78723 Chicago Faerie Circle PO Box 148369 Chicago IL 60614 312/561-8909 "Feydish" Computer Bulletin Board 415/861-4221 (8-N-l) Faerie Bear Share Joe & Mike Totten-Reid 1712 Calle Poniente Santa Barbara CA 93101 805/569-1615 Fey Dirt— News and Information Line in Portland OR area 503/246-8826 Ganowungo, Western NY Jay Stratton 121 Union St. Westfield NY 14787 Gray Lady Place Kenn Wahler-Zanghi PO Box 611 Blum TX 76627 Gulf Coast Mermen/Sea Faeries c/o Crazy Bear Pensacola, FL 904/438-4963

MN Tell-a-faerie 612/334-1948 NYC Faerie Circle PO Box 1251 Canal St. Sta. NY NY 10013 Gay Switchboard 212/777-1800 Nomenus PO Box 312 Wolf Creek OR 97497 503/866-2678 (Wolf Creek) 415/626-4765 (San Francisco)

Northwestern Faeries 1510-19th Ave Seattle WA 98122 Ontario Faeries Fifis du Quebec 559 Bathurst St. Toronto ONT CANADA M5S 2P8 Ken 416/920-8607 (Toronto) David 613/231-6914 (Ottawa) Greg 514/982-9509 (Montreal) Philadelphia Faeries Earth/Sun Gay 247 S. Juniper St., Apt. 303 Philadelphia PA 19107 215/735-4249 Phoenix Phaeries House of the Dawn 2141 E. Palm Lane Phoenix, AZ 85006

Kawashaway Sanctuary 3612 Chicago Ave. So. Minneapolis MN 55407 612/823-6996

San Francisco Faeries Tel-a-Fairy 415/626-3369 Events and message tape the Bay Area Faeries

L' Affaire The Beau Monde PO Box 3036 Pineville LA 71361

Santa Cruz Fairy Line 408/335-5861 Events and incoming message tape for Santa Cruz area

Men Nurturing Men

c/o Midwest Mens Center PO Box 2547 Chicago IL 60690

Short Mountain Sanctuary Route 1 Box 84-A Liberty TN 37095 6

Urinations Capitol Faeries Raphael Sabatini 1332-15th St. NW B-4 Washington DC 20005 202/745-0414

f/ezte SLUSH EUN ! ! •

The second annual post-sol stice gathering will be held at Walnut Hill, New Hampshire from December 27 to January 1. Cost is $10/day. Contact KathyJoe Byers for more info 617350-6184. At Walnut Hill: Fritz or Mark 603-895-2437. BRE I TEENBUSH GATHERING

Sacred Faeries P0 Box 252, Salt Lake City, UT 84110. 801/531-6846.

Seattle Fairy Phone 206/784-0085 Event tape for Seattle area

Star Circle-Faerie Dish Rag P0 Box 26807, Los Angeles, CA 90026

Willow Hollow Ranch Route 1 Box 267 Purlear NC 28665 (SASE Please) 919/973-7053

Northeastern Faeries (including Blue Heron Farm) PO Box 1251 Canal St. Sta. NY NY 10013

Holy Faery Database (networking tool for faeries) c/o Harry Ugol/Michael Dreyer 850 Head Street SF, CA 94132

Leather Faeries c/o Michael Dreyer 850 Head Street SF, CA 94132

Southern California

for

The 11th annual Gathering of Fairies at the Breitenbush Hot Springs Community will be held on two weekends (your choice) February 14-17 and 21-23, 1992. For more info: Breiten bush Gathering 1992, 110 North Jackson, Eugene, OR 97402. 503345-5595 before 10:00 pm PST.

R A I N B O W

D A N C I N G

A SPIRITUAL GATHERING OF FAE MEN Memorial Day Weekend May 22 thru 25, 1992 in the piney woods of northeast Texas. Contact Lee Spruell, Rt. 3 Box 192, Linden, TX 75563, 903/7565627 or contact the Austin Fairy Circle.

SHORT* MOUNTAIN BELTANE BASH

April 24 thru May 3 are the dates for the Spring Gathering to be held at Short Mtn. Sanctuary. We will celebrate by weaving a May Pole, rituals, flawless drag and other festivities. The preGathering work week will begin on April 17, cun early and lend-a-hand. Write S.M.S. for ■ore information.

SHARING OUR VIS ION S

and Claiming our Roles A Radical Faerie gathering is being planned to coincide with the National March On Washington which is to be held on Sunday, April 25, 1993. The tentative Gathering dates are April 16-24. The gathering will be held near Washington D.C. Volunteers are needed for food, transportation, and fae rie action facilitation, as well as other activities. For further information as it be comes available send a SASE to: Faerie Gathering, 4710 Bethesda Ave., #1312, Bethesda, MD 20814.

GAV VEGETARIANS

I am seeking to put together a newsletter of gay vegetarian organizations, periodicals, communes, farms, events etc. Also, I will send a contact list of gay vegetarians to any one who wishes to be listed. If you have any information we can include, please send to: Vegetarians, c/o RFD #68.

GARDENERS CA1— 1 —

Are you itchin to do some spring planting9 Do you want to learn some gardening techques? Share some9 We’re call ing all gardeners for a late March Gardeners Gathering at S.M.S. Contact: Stv. SOETENING “ THE ST ONE

Men s Gathering and Celebra tion Memorial Day Weekend May 22-25. Come to play, teach and nurture. Workshops, sweats, mudpit! dnacing, no talent show, and more! We outreach to gay and straight men. Contact: Twin Oaks Community, Rt. 4 Box 169, Louisa, VA 23093.

VOGA RETREAT

Yoga retreat on Crete with Rob Villacari of San Francisco. May 23 to June 7 and September 12 to 27, 1992. Four hours daily Hatha Yoga and medita tion taught inside ruins of 13th Century Venetian Castle. Hiking, swimming, outdoor camp ing (free) and much more. Fairies especially welcome. For more information, brochure and registration form contact: Pat Testa, 8908 Mahan Dr., Ft. Worth, TX 76116. 817/244-5117. 7

MARCH ON WASHINGTON

If you haven’t already marked your calendars for this BIG event hoping to draw over one million queers to D.C. then do so. April 25, 1993 is the date. If you want to help with the march write: NMOW, PO Box 34607, Washington, DC 20043. note: See notice under gather ing listings for a gathering to coincide with the march.

Dear R F D

H i ! I want to thank you so much for helping me out the way y ’all did in sending me a current issue. I only wish I could now read it and select all the great guys out there that I’d like to write and make physical contact with. I’m lonely and I need a gen tle. caring, considerate man to talk with and share our in timate moments of heavenly bliss in the sweaty, heart pumping orgasmic relief of this dilemma we call life! R F D I was not allowed to have your wonderful magazineI feel defeated and hurt worse than I’ve ever been in my life. I waited so long to re ceive your wonderful journal, only to be defeated by the Oklahoma Department of Correc tions telling me I am not being allowed to have your journal. Please help me R F D ’ Are we living in the middle ages or what7 I think what they are doing to me is illegal. This is not the first time I have been wronged by the Okla homa Department of Corrections because of my being gay. Re cently I was appealing my case in court after I found out that I had been illegally sen tenced by a trial jury to mul tiple provisions of punishment for the same offense. I was ap pealing my caseand setting my self up for Federal court by exhausting all my state reme dies - when suddenly I was nabbed by the Department of Corrections and sent to their Fantasy Island (Intensive Men tal Health Unit) where I was humiliated, intimidated and told repeatedly not to appeal my case. I stayed locked down for six months because I wanted to appeal my case into Federal court.

I have never appealed my case into the Federal courts or I would be freed from prison very soon. So I remain in pri son sentenced illegally to mul tiple provisions of punishment for the same offense by a trial jury. I ask that you publish this letter - we’ve got to stand to gether for our rights as indiv iduals with a right to choose what lifestyles that are in us. Thanks. Dewitt Munn Box 260, LCC 114582 Lexington, OK 73051 p.s. Anyone wishing to involve themselves with contacting me are asked to not attack the Oklahoma Department of Correc tions directly with the issues of my being denied direct ac cess to our R F D Journal or with my being discriminated against because of me being a homosexual. This is very im portant, do not attack the De partment of Corrections be cause of what has happened to me for I am in extreme fear of my life.

Suggestions and guidelines for responding to penpal ads. The purpose for the penpal listing is to offer the commu nity at-large the opportunity to relieve the pain and loneli ness that most inmates endure. Readers should be especially wary of any requests for loans or chasing of money orders. Many in prison are experts on deception with lots of free time to conjure ways of rip ping off the uncautxous; it may seem unfair, but if one is to err, one should err in your favor. Readers should embark on a dialogue with an inmate with one expectation: giving mate. Do not entertain the fan tasy of finding a lover. RFD denies any assurance of truthfullness in the contents of such ads, and will not assume any responsibility for losses or damages. Readers are encour aged to respond to the ads, but at their own expense and risk. Inmates should submit their ads’ as short as possible to RFD, PO Box 68, Liberty, TN 37095. The coordinator re serves the right to edit ads according to his judgement and bias.

NOTES: Inmates are listed in Zip Code order: within the same Zip Code, alphabetically by last name. All inmates are supposed to be gay unless specified otherwise. W=white B=black NA=native american A=asian/ age in years/ height/ weight in pounds/ color of hair/ color of eyes: bd=blond bk=black br=brown bu=blue gn=green hz=hazel rd=red gv=gray.

OBERT GIBSON 61558\ KSY \P0B 128 5-2E-2 \Eddyville KY 42038: 28, gay and lonely. JOHNATHAN JOHNSON #32336\5-3-B-10 \ KSP\ POB 128 \Eddyvilie KY 42038: young 5'7 130 excellent health. Very lonely. Please write soon! DANNY RICE #95336\ 5-4-B-18\ KSP\ POB 128\Eddyvi11e KY 42038: 20's 5'5 130, excellent health. No one on the outside, need help in my loneliness.

GARRICK DANIELS 90-A-9428\Drawer B\ Stroraville NY 12582-0010: B 6'2 slim hanging extra long. Into TV-TS and boys 16-25. Reading, working out, wood carving, swimming, night life. Photos welcome. No inmates, please. DAVID BURGER \AJ1795 \P0B A \Bellefont PA 16823: 29 6' 198 bd/hz. Release date 3/22/95. Reading comedy and horror books, outdoor sports, cooking, cars, life itself. Seeking honest and sincere, lasting friend ships. Will answer all. STEPHEN MART IN\AJ3286 \P0B A \Bellefonte PA 16823: 22 5'11 205 rd/gn. Release 6/16/94. A T.V., enjoy cook ing, reading, movies (comedy and horror), and lift itself. Seekin sincere, honest, and lasting friendships. Will answer all. CLARENCE ALLEN #04902 U-l-S-3 \FSP \ POB 747 \Starke FL. 32091: B 28 6'5 solid 230. Understanding, positive minded. Seeking sincere, honest, and supportive person for lasting friendship. Race, looks unimportant; it is the purety in heart that counts. JOHN FERRELL 066845 \FSP \P0B 747 \ Starke FL 32091: 31 6'3 175 bd/br. Will answer a l l . JON LOUVIERE #210294 \FSP \ POB 747 (PlS17)\Starke FL 32091: 22 5'10 155 bd/bu. Open-minded, quiet, and soft spoken. Sailing, beaches, long quiet walks. ABDULLAH AL AMIN MUSTAFA #056855 \FSP P-l-S-2 \P0B 747 \Starke FL 32091: B 34 6'1. Sports, music, chess, reading, studying musical instruments. Please write! EDWARD G. ROBINSON #065734 \FSP U-2-N-5 \ POB 747 \Starke FL 32091: B 5'9 178, muscular, handsome. Music, reading, sports, laughter, pleasure... Verv lonelv, will answer all! GERALD W. NIRENBERG #B652779\OCI F216\POB 578\Crestview FL 32536: 24 5'10 162 bd/hz. Lonely, need cor respondence from caring, people. ROBERT GEISE A643873\SFRC Dorm 7B17\ POB 0 2 -8538\Miami FL 33152: 29 5'11 br/hz. Dance, tennis, running, bi cycling, 70's-80's music.

McARTHUR BAKER 893502 \P0B 30 (6-2J) \P0B 30 \Pendleton IN 46064: 35 5'10 190 br/br, extremely hairy. Seeking a friend, no sugar daddy, someone between 30 and 55, caring and understanding; no hustlers or head games--only serious need reply. RICHARD A. LUNSFORD 884341\ POB 30 (19-4R)Pendleton IN 46064: 5'9 160 bd/hz. Please write. STEVEN L. SEELEY 860084\ POB 30 (25-4D)(G.A / S )\Pendelton IN 46064: 30 long br/bu, clean-shaven, healthy body. Outdoors, music, poetry, togetherness, sharing feelings. Not into head games. Hoping to find someone who appreciates these qualities. Race, nationality not important. Soon to be free! KEVIN WHITE 852537 26-4D \POB 30 \Pendleton IN 46064: 23 5'11 170 br/bu clean shaven. Nice body, very sexy, loving, caring, sensitive. Swimming, boating, soft rock. To be free 3/8/92. Want to start a new life. Your photo gets mine. JAMES S. WILSON 16188\P0B 30 (3-3R) \Pendleton IN 46064: B 31 6 ’ 170 slim brown skin bk/br. Extremely lonely, no friends or family, in prison ten years, desperately need an understanding, open-minded friend to be a positive force in my life, as I am surrounded by so many negative things and people. Please come into my life. FREDDIE KENDRICKS 21126\IYC \ 727 Moon Rd. (P)\Piainfield IN 461289400: Seeking penpals. ROBERT H. VOSS186762\ B-206\ MCF \ 2400 S. Sheridan R d .\Muskegon MI 49442-6298: 51 5 ’6 170 br/bu. Gav and honest since 12. Your age, race okay! I'm open, sincere, inmates can write. Will answer all. KELLY RADLEY \P0B 900\ Portage VI 53901-0900: 32 5'11 173 gn/bd. Seek ing 18-28, very thing (under 120 lbs), 5'3 or less, no body or facial hair. No nude photos. ALBERT CHI CLARK 79909\CCR A-9 \LSP \Angola LA 70712: Here for the past 15 years, to be discharged in the near future, need to establish a relationship with someone before leaving this hell hole.

DERRICK L.FRAZIER #140170 \ 100 Warrior La. 1-67-T \ Bessemer AL 35023: B 37. Attractive, intel ligent, worldly, passionate, sensitive. Enjoy life to the ful lest, elegant evenings but also lazy weekends in jeans and leather.

CHRIS LEONARD 98621\ Camp C Jag 2-45 \LSP\Angola LA 70712: 28 6 ’1 173 muscular rd-br/gn smooth body. Soon to be released, seeking friends, mate, lover. Race, mentality, sex, free or in prison unimportant: eagerness and siceritv are. Peace with love!

RICK DEATON 493664\KSP \P0B 128 \ Fddiville KY 42038: 29 5'11 168 bd/ Seeking sincere and caring GM. You won't be disappointed.

ALVIN SYLVESTER 95557\ Camp J Shark 3R\LSP\Angola LA 70712: An unbear able moment can easily come to an end by writing to me.

(Ms.) JEANNE M. DRULEY \Box 314152158 \Granite OK 73547: Dominant M/F T.S. seeks bootom. Interested in learning about amateur radio and aviation. Like all kinds of music. Amateur trumpter. Like to watch all car races. Cannot write to or receive mail from inmates. MIKE KAMMERZELL \POB 514-16113 \ Granite OK 73347: 30 6'3 153 br/br. Up for parole in 1992, no home to go to. would you help me? Enjoy volley ball, horseback riding, farm life, hot sex. I can do farm work, janitor, housecleaning. CHRIS WHITESELL 12/439 \POB 9/ \HcAlester OK 74301: 36 6 ’1 1/3 br/bu-gn. Sincere, honest, loyal. Seeking that special someone to help me pull through the end of this sentence and then share good times. RONALD BALDWIN B-10329\ D-4-106-U \ POB 7300\ Crescent Citv CA 93532: looking for friends to write and to share life. Into reading, cars, arid having a great time. Sorry, can't write to other inmates. LUIS JOHNSON JR. C - 79631 \FAC A 3206\ POB 29\ Rtprcsa CA 93671 Honest young man seeks older fatherly typ« person for sincert correspondencf and guidanc In worldly matters. Will answer all DWAIN RASMUSSEN E-98206\ POB 2000, U-301\ Vacavtlli CA 93696: 41 doing 18 years' time or until I die from AIDS, need some on< to help pass the

time. TIMOTHY SUNDLEN \SJD 6998060 \0SP \2603 State St \Sal*rn OR 9/310 030>: 26 r’9 190 bu/br hairless body. Little under two years to go here. Lots oi 1ovt to give, crying tor love a rid unde rs tarid in g . DEE HAM 4 3 -4 D \ POB 30/ \Veradale WA 99037: Lonely, seeking pen-pals.

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MAR

Blessed be, I hope all of you are well and happy. It was a beautiful fall with some of the most spectacu lar sunsets and sunrises I've seen. This is because of all the volcanic ash and dust that has been thrown up into the atmosphere by those volcanoes in Japan and the Philippines. It's always a paradox how violent destruction by Mother in one part of the world can give such pleasure and beauty to another part. Hopefully we'll have some good clear weather so that we can do a lot of star gazing. Mercury, Venus and Mars will be the morning stars this winter with Saturn joining them in mid-February. Jupiter will be all alone as the evening star except for a brief period in March when it will be joined by Mercury. The new year gets off to a good start with the moon conjuncting Venus the morning of the 1st of January. The exact conjunction is at 4:17 AM EST. If you're on your way home from your New Year's revelry, take a moment to look up and see a beautiful sight. I think it's safe to say that most of us are not usually up at this hour, normally. The morning of the 3rd the moon will be in close conjunction to Mars at 5:16 AM EST. Just above them will be Mer cury slightly to the left and above it will be Venus. The 3rd is also the day the earth reaches perihelion, its closest point to the sun. it will be only 91,400,005 miles from the sun. The next day on the 4th there will be an annular eclipse of the sun. Totality will be seen only in the Pacific Ocean. The partial phase will be seen by all of western North America and Hawaii. The partial eclipse begins at 3 :30 pm PST on the west coast with the sun setting during the eclipse. The partial phase begins m Hawaii at 12:15 PM HALST and ends at J:1, pM HALST. The mornings of the 4th and 5th you 11 get to see the only meteor shower of the winter. It's the Quadrantid meteor show. It will peak about 5:00 AM EST. The meteors will be coming out of the north at a rate of 40 to 11

150 per hour. As this is the time of the new moon, you'll have no lunar light to wash this one out. The evening of the 6th you'll see the crescent new moon just above and to the left of Saturn. The morning of the 10th just before dawn, you'll get to see Mercury just above and to the left of Mars prior to their conjunction later that day. The night of the 22nd, when the moon rises, you'll see Jupiter just above and to the left of it. The morning of the 31st, just before dawn, you'll see the old crescent moon just above and to the right of Venus. The morning of the 1st of February, you'll see the moon just above and to the left of Mars with Venus above the moon. The early morning of the 6th, if you have a good telescope or strong binoculars, you'll see Uranus just above and to the right of Venus. The evening of the 18th when the full moon rises, you'll see it in conjunction with Jupiter which will be just to the right of the moon. The exact conjunction takes place at 10:14 PM EST. The next morning, on the 19th, Venus will conjunct Mars. The actual conjunction takes place about an hour after sunrise in the east. Those in the west will get to see it, though. For those of us on the east coast, Venus will be just above and left of Mars just before dawn. The morning of the 28th, Saturn will have moved out from be hind the sun to become a morning star and will be in conjunction with Venus which will be just above and right of Saturn just before dawn. The next morning, Venus will be below and left of Saturn. The evening of the 28th, Jupiter will be at its closest to the earth. This is the night to best view it with a telescope or binoculars. March begins with a spectacular show in the morning sky on the 1st. The old crescent moon will be on top with Mars below it, Saturn below Mars, and Venus below Saturn. This will be one morning well worth getting up before dawn. The morning of the 6th, Mars will be just above and right of Saturn just before dawn. the actual conjunction takes place later in the day. The evening of the 6th, the crescent new moon will be just above and left of Mercury. The evening of the 16th, the almost full moon will be just above and right of Jupiter. The morning of the 29th, the old crescent moon will be just above continued on page 27

This time of year I am inundated with plant catalogues, and if you are not, you can easily be by just having one or two sent to you. When I first started gardening almost my sole source of information was from biased catalogues. Biased because they say many plants grow and bloom successfully with large succulent fruits in my area which may or may not be true. Over the years I have learned that some people are prone to exaggeration if not lying. Garden books balance some of the misleading informa tion of catalogues. Modern day garden books often have as pretty pictures as some of the catalogues.

ber. My favorite gardening books are ones that describe weeds. The word weeds is often in the title. I think many of these books are pro duced for farmers so that they can go out in the fields and successfully eradicate all that they can identify. I have a volume on weeds of the Great lakes region, one on South Dakota and one on Arizona, plus several small generic volumes. The only practical use that comes of all this knowledge is when I had weed a flower bed I chant out the name of the plant being pulled. I identify every plant I pull. If I cannot identify it I let it grow until I can identify it. I have found very few weeds from Arizona in my Michigan yard. Part of my inter est also is because in amongst all the weeds from other lands are native plants that are being killed off, and I want to know about them.

I encourage you to buy used or previously owned gardening books. Gardening information is generally timeless and used books are less expensive. Gardening books are great gifts. My only problem is convincing others that just because they bought me one book one year that I am still in need of another book this year. Even on the same subject.

There are how-to books often for vegetable gardening. These are especially helpful in locating what to do in which month instead of waiting around and then having to rush to get things done. They aid planning plus are useful for diseases and pest treatment.

There are gardening encyclopedia. These are useful for looking up the botanical name of a plant listed in a catalogue to see if such a plant or seed only exists in the imagination of the catalogue publisher. A gardening encyclo pedia offers an unbiased opinion as to the hardiness of a plant. It is often useful as the first step in diagnosis of a disease or pest.

There are how-to books for building garden features, such as decks or fences and garden paths. But, how many times are you going to build a garden feature that it is necessary to have the book on the shelf over your bed. Some gardeners write of their experiences and knowledge. It is informative to learn from a garden philosopher/designer with so much expe rience. I have read mostly British authors such as Vita Sackville-West, Hugh Johnson, Christopher Lloyd and John Brook. They are very informative and knowledgeable about plants but the British climate is less severe than Michigan's so I always think twice about any recommendations.

There are a lot of descriptive books that deal with one group of plants such as trees, shrubs, perennials or annuals. These are useful for identification purposes with more detailed information than the encyclopedia. I am always seeing a plant and want to know its name and preferred growing conditions. Then there are the books that deal with one species of plant. You'll readily find books on roses. I read one book cover to cover, over 200 pages, on irises. It was as exciting to me as a mystery novel. I hung on every word. I learned more about irises than I'll ever be able to use or remem

Garden books are useful gifts. They are time less and can be given year after year. I have never collected enough. I want a weed book for every state in the union. 12

-- editors note: Since M.J. did not mention any titles of books, I decided to take the liberty of offering some of my favorite books and catalogues. --Stv

stuff from George Edington PLANT TAGS

The Rodale Encyclopedia of Organic Gardening published by Rodale Press, can’t be beat. At close to 1000 pages you can find an entry for nearly every question. Color Handbook of Garden Pests: by Anna Carr is an easy to use reference guide with full color illustrations identifying more than 300 garden and orchard insects. Life cycle, feeding hab its, host plants and natural controls are clearly covered. The Perennial Garden, by Patrick Lima as men tioned in the last issue is an invaluable book for cultivating perennial flowers. The New Organic Grower, by Eliot Coleman clear ly explains the whys and wherefores of an organ ic approach to gardening. The Kimberton Hills Agricultural Calendar is a guide for understanding the influence of cosmic rhythms in farming and gardening. This is a bio dynamic approach to gardening, w e ’ve used the calendar for the past two seasons and noticed the difference! some of my favorite catalogues xjohnny’s Selected Seeds, Foss Hill Road, Albion ME 04910, 207-437-9294. This is a no non sense catalogue offering a more unusual selec tion than most- this is my favorite for vegeta bles. A small scale operation. xBountiful Gardens, Ecology Action, 5798 Ridge wood R d ., Willits, CA 95490. They offer seeds grown biodynamica11y , open pollinated varie ties, and biodynamic preparations. I have been very impressed with the resulting productivity from their seeds. xShephard’s Garden Seeds, 30 Irene St., Torrington, CT 06790, 203-482-3638. While a more up scale catalogue they do offer some unusual European heirloom vegetable seed. ^Thompson and Morgan, PO Box 1308, Jackson, NJ 08527, 908-363-9356. THE definative catalogue for flowers. If you want to drool over beauti ful pictures of flowers this is the catalogue. While some wading through is necessary, you will be able to find almost any variety, shape, form and color of flowers. Necessary Trading Company, One Natures Way, New Castle, VA 24127. This catalogue offers natural pest controls, organic fertilizers, equipment and books. They are great folks to deal with and often have your order out in two days. I hope these have been of help, if you have any additional books or catalogues you would like to share let me know.

I've been experimenting with growing trees from seed for several years. Since my property is all woodland to begin with, it's purely a labor of love. First of all I gather the seeds when they are ripe— that is when they are about to fall off the tree. I select a spot where I want to plant them, dig it up some, and dig a shallow trench for each row of seeds--shallow means 1 in. deep by 2 inches wide. I fill these trenches with leaf mold and press the seeds into them. Leaf mold contains a lot of humic acid which 1 believe stimulates root growth if not germination. Larger seeds--like black walnut--require deeper trenches. I plant black walnut with the hull still on. And waituntil the spring to see what I have. For me, the easiest seeds to grow have been maples of one sort or another. I have a Japanese maple that produces sees about every other year. The tree is green, but a quarter of the seedlings come up red. Since field mice andother critters can sniff out seeds, and I happen to have only a very few seeds of some desirable species, I occasionally cover the seed bed with wire cloth or screening. Seeds don't always come up the following spring but may stay in the ground a second winter before sprouting. This is especially true of the black walnuts, but some maple seeds can also skip a year— so the seed bed is left un touched for a second year. In the spring, when the seeds sprout, I put them in pots— two or three inch pots for the small seedlings, 4 or 5 inch pots for the larger ones. I put gravel in the bottom of the pots, then soil and then put more gravel around the potted seedling. I can then plunge the pots in some out of the way spot and leave them until the next year. Potted seedlings are easier to handle; I don't have to decide im mediately where to plant them; and I can give them away as gifts.

(/)

I use sterilized, or thoroughly dried soil for potting in order to be sure there are no worm eggs in the soil. Little worms get trapped in pots and live by eating the tree roots. The gravel in the bottom and around the seedling is also to prevent worms from getting into the

Do you have a favorite gardenin 8 technlique? P hap s one th at your grandaother sh ar ed wi th yoi How about an especially tasty var ie ty o f vege ab 1e , o r a flower that would aa ke any ne ighbo; jea 1ous. Wr ite it down and send it to us here at RFD. Eve n a siaple paragraph would be fine Let ’s share the wealth!! -St v

GROWING TREES FROM SEED

0 H

J J

« U

F~OR CONTR I B UT

Since I can't remember everything I put out in the garden I tag those plants I am apt to for get. The way I make plant tags is to take an aluminum can, cut the ends off it. I then cut the resulting roll with an ordinary scissors and flatten out the small sheet of aluminum that results. This can then be cut into strips. An inkless ball point pen can be used to emboss the name of the plant onto the alum inum strip. It takes a little pressure but the resulting tag is practically indestructible and long lasting.

Pot •I

Short Mountain gardener

John Benser 421 Hoover NE Grand Rapids, Ml 49505 (616)363-7982

Thanks! and Good Building!

In the meantime build a picnic table for your patio or balcony.

But I need your help. Have you seen a good idea that you would like to build and just haven't had the time or lacked a plan to follow'? Make a rough sketch and send it to me - or if you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t draw send a magazine picture or call me and describe it. I'll work out the details.

I am putting together a collection of easy-to-build, clever wood working projects like the Picnic Table-Park Bench Combination on these pages. I hope to sell these do-it-yourself projects through lumber yards and building supply outlets.

Friends and RFD Readers,

TABLE-PARK COMBINATION

BENCH

6. U s e s c r e w s t o a t t a c h F o o t S u p p o r t s H b e t w e e n t w o Table

Lee

ASSEMBLY INSTRUCTIONS 1. Cut and shape 2 pieces o f each: Table Leg C, Bench Leg D, C ro s s Piece E, and Table S u p p o r t I as shown in LAYOUT SECTION. C a r e f u l ly position 1 /2 ' d ia m e te r holes in Table Legs and S u p p o r t s . 2. Using a 2x4 f o r alignment, place Table and Bench Legs C&D on t o p o f C ro s s Piece E, drill 6 holes 1 /4 'd ia m e te r, and b o lt Legs t o C ro s s Piece with c a r r ia g e b o lts . See ASSEMBLY DETAIL. 3. R e v e rs e o r ie n t a t io n o f Legs and r e p e a t s t e p 2 f o r second leg assembly. 4. A t t a c h 3 Table Top b o a r d s A t o 2 Table S u p p o r t s I with screw : See TABLE FRONT VIEW. 5. Join Top Assembly f r o m s t e p 5 t o Leg Assemblies fro m s t e p 2&3 with a c a r r ia g e b o l t t h r u u p p e r hole o f Table S u p p o r t s I.

MATERIALS LIST 7 pc 8' 2 ' x 6 ' Pine B o a rd s 3 pc 8' 2 ' x 4 ' Pine B o a rd s 4 pc 1 / 2 'x 3 1 / 2 ' Hex B o lts and N u ts 8 pc 1 /2 ' W a s h e rs 16pc l / 4 ' x 3 1 /2 ' C a rria g e B o lts with N u ts and W a s h e rs 45pc l / 4 ' x 2 1 / 2 ' F la t Head Wood Screw s

and tw o Bench Legs. 7. A t t a c h Bench Top b o a r d s B t o C ro ss Pieces E with screw s. 8. C e n te r Table B ra c e F un d e r Table Top and a t t a c h with screw s. 9. C e n te r Bench B ra c e G un der Bench and a t t a c h with screw s. 10. Level Table Top Assembly. Use lower hole in Table S u p p o r t I as a guide t o d rill 1 /2 ' hole in Table Leg C. Use c a r r ia g e b o lt in th is hole t o lo c k Table Top in place.

based on an original design by H a r r y S w a r tz

P ICNI C

1/2x3 1/2' Hex Head Bolts 1/4x3 1/2'^ Carriage'" Bolts

6 1/ 2 '

—

3-2

1/4'

Fiat Head /Stiews

t=; 1 /2'

3 '-2 1/4'

1 1/ 2 '

3 1/2 ' ®

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6' - 8 '

T A B L E FRDNT V I E W Sco'.e 3/4* = r

A S S E M B L Y DETAIL

8' ____

DP02

ci 2'-6'

SIZE 8. LENGTH 2'x6* 8' 0' 2*x6' 8' 0* 2'x6' 28 3/4* 2'x6* 18 3/4* 2'x4* 25 1/4' P'x4 * 15' 2'x4' 8' 2'x4* 6' 8' 2'x6* 16'

Drown

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Scale 3/4* = 1'

No Scale

17 3 /4

H- 18 3/4

Date’

—

20 June 91

1/?* ETFft 1/2* THAM DIAMETER, CENTER POINIS AS SHOWN

r- 3 DRILL 2 HOLES

1 3/4

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T A B L E ISOMETRIC

TABLE/SEAT

3/4'separation. 1'overhan

Plan *

DRILL 1 HOLE 1/2* DIAMETER. CENTER POINT 2* ALONG DIAGONAL

LAYOUT

DESCRIPTION Table Top Bench Tod Table Leq Bench Leq Cross Piece Table Brace Bench Brace Foot Support Table Support

PARTS L IS '

6 1/ 2 '

SYMBOL QTY A 3 B 2 C 2 D 2 E 2 F 1 G 1 H 2 I 2

Rabbit Drafting and Design

Align Table and Bench Legs <C) and (D) on top of Cross Piece (E) and 2x4 as shown. Drill 4 holes 1/4* dia thru j each Leg and Cross Piece for l/4*x 3 1/2* Carriage Bolts.

©. Drill 2 holes TIT ITT *TT 1/2* dia for Table Support <I) and ____ 1 hole for Table \ (T) * Leg (C). Position '— -— holes as shown in LAYOUT section.

L e g

Reverse orienta tion of Legs as shown for LEFT LEG ASSEMBLY. .

TABLE BENCH

A 5 5 e n b ly

Right

Pre-drill 1/4* dia hole-, for l/4*x2 1/2' Flat Head Wood Screws. Usescrews to attach Tatc'e Top (A) to Table Suppprt (I) and Bench Top (B) to Cross Piece .... . <E). ^ TTT? I T Pre-drill Bench and Table Legs <D) and (C) with 1/4* dia holes. Use l/4*x 2 1/2* Flat Head Voodl Screws to attach Foot Supports (H) to l egs.

PICNIC

As I write this I am packing to ship myself West ward to the Gay Kosher experience at Camp-It-Up Sholom on the shores of Lake Malibu. This gather ing has billed itself as a break from boredom from the "same olde" fairie THING, yet they are offering us screenings of old Donna Reed Shows. These Star Circle Maybellines are encouraging an interracial event. Their flyer shows a white Barbie doll wearing an Afro wig with a noticeably brown skin tone, probably streaked skin bronzer No. 55. Thank the Goddess RPD is paying for this trip. Yes, it's true that I receive no comission for fantasizing "Aggie Knew", but my expenses are being covered for my winter trip to the West ern Hemisphere Conference for Disheveled Aquarian Fairies in Depreciation being held at Inn Heat, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. My great-great grandmere dated an Indian, so I am eligible for a native scholarship including free dog sled shut tle to and from the airport. My real ethnoamerican name is Agnosi No-rrag.

got it made. If you refuse to wait six months to see if it appears in print, then write a nasty "Letter to the Editor" threatening to cancel your subscription. Obviously, RFD doesn't have any taste and wouldn't know a masterpiece on "Rimming" if it spit a t vthem in their "I". As a final re sort write to'Brothers Behind Bars7telling every one that you are now out on parole. You are plan ning on coming to Short Mountain's Spring Gather ing and if your now epic-length poem isn't in the RFD centerfold section along with a multiple dildo border motif, you will purposely disrupt each morning circle by reading outloud your piece now entitled: "Rimming the Warden's Perculator". If that doesn't scare them, announce that you are coming with your trailer to move -o Short' Mountain as a resident free-loader. Final ly, RFD will give in and print your lovely poem in the Health and Healing section now retitled "Manholes, Arses & The Art of Inhaling Farts". If you can't stand any more of Pushy Vinnie Velour's pussy talk in NYC's Fairiegram, you can always leave the States and move to Provinces of Quebec or Ontario and begin receiving "Draghead", Amber Fox's new occasional Newsletter. Jewels and Greg Orian can't pump out this ver bally abusive and pictorial ejaculation. Write to Box 65, McDonald's C o m o r , Ontario KOG 1M0 to receive your own "Draghead".

Is it enough just to be Gay? Not for Boston's queer/lesbian hard-edged cabaret band headed by Abe Rybeck. They call them-selves "Adult Child ren of Heterosexuals". The only thing better than seeing them perform is to personally wear their logo t-shirt around your parents and rela tives. RFD doesn't have a "Hell's Full of Hints" column and if they did who would read it. If I were forced to write the column I might include this item: HOW A READER GETS HIS FIRST POEM PUBLISHED IN RFD. The first step is to get the Poetry Editor to reject your poem. (Mail in immediate ly, as it can take as long as l-£ years to re ceive your rejection letter). Now mail the same poem to the new Spirituality Editor, Profession A1 Fairy. If the poem is about rimming your lover's father on the Lunar Eclipse, then you've

With those city-bound Park Slopers of Brooklyn in urgent need of "Oxygen With A View", plans were made to retreat from Metropolis to the beave. ponds and open fields of Camp Thoreau in Pinebush, New York for All Hallow's Eve. After spending too many days sharpening eyeliner pen cils, I dyed my pumps the most disgusting shade of puce to clash with "pumpkin". But this time it was "Sorry Aggiel" Wearing Drag wasn't where it was at. This was definitely a sweat pants

continued on page

(£

T ew y

D e lim v h t

Man, oh man! Am I glad ta see all ya'll made it back out here ta Rocky Top Farm this mornin'. Have we got things ta jaw about III The ole rumor stump has jist been a buzzin' fer the last couple of months now about all the goin's on here in Northwest Arkansas. So lets haul ourselves up here onta the porch; draw up a round of hot apple cider fer each of us; and I'll tell ya all about it.

Oh; well, I was a gittin' around ta that. Some of ya has noticed that there is a major difference out here at Rocky Top Farm. Yup; Mountain Boy and his two sons have moved on ta greener pastures over the last couple of months. So the ole Rocky Top Hillbilly is a bachelor again.

Ya'll git comfortable now 'cause they is a lot ta be covered this visit. Don't ya'll jist love this painted weather we been a havin'I?I There ain't one color in Ma Nature's sewin' box what ain't a shinin' on the trees and shrubs here in these hills now. Fall is such a breath-takin' season; and here in the Ozarks it lasts right on through winter fer the most part.

Now that's enough of the personal stuff 'cause I jist been a itchin' ta git to the biggest news of all. Durin' the month of October of this year one of the biggest and best back-packin' trails in the nation was opened to the general public --- and it's right here in Northwest Arkansasl It was named the Pigeon Roost Trail and ya truly got ta see it to believe it f

Well; I guess the hottest bit a news around the ole rumor stump has been the terrible turn of events down here at Fayetteville, Arkansas. Now listen up close. A couple a years ago, I told ya'll about the multitude of good "cruisin' areas" here in Northwest Arkansas. One of the main ones I mentioned back then was Lake Fayetteville Park off Zion Road 'cause it was the most popular--has been fer years. Well; that's all changed now.

The Hobbs State Management Area off scenic High way 12 east of Rogers, Arkansas has always been known as one of the best preserved natural stands of hardwood and pine forest in the U.S. Now, it also sports the Pigeon Roost Trail; an eight mile hikin' path through Ma Nature's beautiful handiwork.

A couple a months ago, the local police force went a bargin' in there arrestin' people and takin' picturesIII They called it a'sting operation"; but it sure put a hurt on a lot of good folks. Over 40 men were hauled off over a two week period and the gate ta the park got locked and barred II ,

The Pigeon Roost Trail is perfect for the true back-packer in all of us 'cause it's equipped with a choice of routes to take. A 4.1 mile Dry Creek Loop is the shortest way ta go; but the 8.4 mile Huckeleberry Loop winds all the way down to the Van Hollow arm of big Beaver Lake before it rejoins the Dry Creek Loop to re turn to the trail head.

I, personally, ain't much of an advocate of public cruisin'; but that set of raids set this ole blood ta boilin'I Ya'll be fore-warned; the Ozarks still has it's dangers and they been real active of late. There ain't no better time ta play super safe in these hills than right now; that's guaranteed. Jist a friendly hearttug from Ole Rocky Top is all that is.

My very best friend in the whole wide world is one Hill Country Joe; the hardiest, hikin'est hunk of a man ta ever grace a trail. Well; Joe was the one what took me down the Pigeon Roost fer the first time.

continued on page 53

S E J T A N A S A N T .* IN ] E S U S - n A J tX A Nayarit, M exico

A Holy Celebration of Tlayic PfwtfXic

by Leo Spruell A year ago today, 1 was on a train from Los Mochis, Sinaloa, to Creel, Chihuahua. The famous ride travels through Mexico s Copper Canyon, a big hole in the ground that dwarfs our Grand. It was an awesomely beautiful ride. As we poked along through the mountains (literally, since the railway boasts bt tunnels), my friend Linda Moller told me of the three major'Indian groups living in the western Sierra Madre -- the Tarahumara, the Huichois, and the Coras. I had never heard of any of them. „ . , I had taken the train because I love mountains and had read about the ride in Texas Monthly magazine. When we arrived in Creel, a^ dusty little frontier town, I was introduced to the Tarahumara, whose men still wear diaperstyle loincloths, and who still live in caves, much as they have for hundreds of years. ihe Tarahumara are so naturally shy that they must get drunk on homemade corn beer to be able to interact freely with each other or even to copulate (so anthropologists tell me in books). These primitive people make excellent tightly woven baskets and rather crude clay pots. They touched me deeply. Why had I never heard of them? , . .. . . I have always been interested Native American cultures. National Geographic had even done an article on them -- "Long Distance Runners: Mexico's Tarahumaras" (May, 197b). When I returned to Texas, I began doing research and buying books about these three unique groups of indigenous people. Last Christmas I returned to Mexico with a friend from Canada. We spent two weeks together on a beach at Mita, near Q Vallarta. He flew home on December 3^» i's9, and I anxiously began my own adventure to Tarahumara country for their Matachine ceremonies. I got as far as Tepic, Nayarit, and could not get a bus north because of the

Christmas rush. My guide book said, .. nothing of interest for travelers except a bus terminal and train station. If you have to stop here^catch the next bus or train as soon as possible to Masatlan..." I did that, but the "next bus" out of town was five days away. Contrary to the guide book, I found much of interest, and Tepic has since become my favorite Mexican city. I found a city P®*}1® r teeming with more beautiful men than I ha seen in one plane. Huichol and Cora Indians were selling their crafts on the streets, and traded material and bandanas I had brought to trade with Tarahumaras. There were shops with museum-quality Huichol art works,^lovely parks, excellent museums, and several cales which served cappuccino and overlooked the main^ plaza. I made many men friends while in Tepic, including Rosendo De La Rosa, a Huichol wi whom I have become close. I also met ana spent four wonderful days with a young Cora man named Luigi. , T As soon as I got back to the States, 1 bought tickets for my return to Tepic in Aprix. Several people had told me of the homo erotic Holy Week (Semana Santa) ceremonies at a^Cora Indian village in the mountains northeast of Tepic. One book called the religious rituals "perverted." It sounded like something I would be interested in experiencing. Besides, I had discovered the public baths while in Tepic, an was eager to return to the steamy homo erotic male bonding rites I had taken part in there. On Monday, April 9, 1990, I flew from Dallas into Guadalajara, Mexico's second largest city. I spent the night on the floor of the bus station and took a U a.m. bus to Tepic. The next morning I joined the confusion in the ticket line at the little airport m Tepic. I was lucky enough to get the iast^ available seat on an old DC-3 to Jesus-Mana, the largest of the Cora villages. 18

I hadn't ridden a DC-3 since elementary school days when I flew in a TransTexas Airways plane. People in Texas jokingly called it "Tree Topper Airways" in those days. In the third grade the planes seemed huge, but now our DC-3 seemed small, fragile, and ancient. I found myself making the sign of the cross, and saying a little prayer, along with all the other passengers, as we lifted off the runway. The flight was rough, and the mountain air currents were constantly blowing the plane around. I just knew I was going to have to use the "barf bag," but I couldn't do that, because I was sitting next to a cute dentist named Sergio. At the airstrip near Jesus-Maria, we were met in a hired truck by Luis, another young doctor and a friend of Sergio's. Luis was stationed at the village while paying off his college loan. We took a four-mile roller coaster ride down a dusty mountain road into Jesus-Maria, me sitting in the bed of the truck and the locals skillfully holding on to the rim. Jesus-Maria sits on a hill overlooking the river by the same name. It is made up of numerous small rectangular, windowless houses in which the Indians live. The houses are constructed of adobe or native rock, topped with red tile roofs. Scattered throughout the village are the gaudy concrete shops and houses of the Mestizos (Mexicans of mixed origin) who have moved into the area during recent years. The Casa Grande, the government house of the Coras, overlooks the village from a nearby hilltop. At the base of the hill, near a large plaza, sits the imposing gray Presidente, the Mexican government house. The white twinspired church of Jesus-Maria Y Jose is directly across from the Presidente.

break. It didn't take me long to discover I had fallen into the company of two wonderful Mexican mariposas ("butterflies," the slang expression for gay men in Mexico.) Neither of them spoke English and my Spanish is limited, so during the next five days we pointed, pantoÂ mimed, and giggled. We changed clothes and walked into the village center for lunch at the home of Dona Effie. Her little cafe is located next to the large central plaza (an open dirt area about the size of half a football field). During* the five days I was in Jesus-Maria, I grew to love this little round, brown Cora lady, her family, and her culinary talents. Her husband is a shy little man who teaches in the local elementary school and operates a paper supply shop in another part of the house. There were always five or six little boys running around the cafe, one of whom, Julio, was Effie's youngest and "last." After a delicious bowl of chicken mole, I took out a bag of balloons and played with the boys. From then on I was greeted at the door with a chorus of "Leo, Leo -- Globos! Globos!" I love children and, in my travels, have found balloons to be a universal key to their hearts. I have also found children to be a key to the hearts of the adults. Later in the afternoon, we walked to the river, past the patio of dancing masked men. At the river we bathed naked among the boulders with two Cora men who were less modest than my two doctor friends. The Cora men were also washing their clothes and hanging them to dry on bushes along the bank. I wondered why these two very handsome men had no wives to wash their clothes. I was hoping to see, in JesusMaria, signs of sexual deviation. The best we had here was lathering together, with all of us stealing glances at each other's crotches. After a nap at the house, we returned to Dona Effie's for another feast. From there, we walked up the cobblestone path leading to the Casa Grande, the government house of the Coras. This ancient building is crafted of smooth round native stones with carved stone corners, all chinked with red adobe. At one time, there had been high windows, but they had been filled in with adobe bricks. The only door faced west. Above the door were two rectangular stones. On one was carved two snakes, on the other two iguana. Both sets of animals were nose to nose. I walked hesitantly into the dimly lit room, expecting to be ushered back out, but was soon made welcome and allowed to look around. In one corner a group of captains (leaders of the week's ceremonies) were explaining to a woman from Guadalajara why they had just confiscated her journal. One explained that, out of respect, no one was allowed to take pictures, draw, or write about the ceremonies. After that, I kept my journal hidden away and wrote in it only at the house, with the windows closed. Another captain went on to say that there would be no drinking of alcohol in the village, or swimming in the river from Thursday through Saturday. We were welcomed, though, to look around, and I did. The room was apparently used for grain storage, because the perimeters were stacked with large bags of corn. Men were sitting on top of these, eating what looked to be corn mush from plastic pickle buckets. A table in the center of the room held a collection of hats, all in a style reminiscent of old Spanish military band hats. They were made of papiermache over a cowboy hat base. The paper used

Along the river, women washed clothes, families bathed together, and children swam. Young goat herders watered their flocks. All these activities would soon stop, because during the four days of the Semana Santa (Holy Week) the river becomes sacred. As we circled into the village, I saw my first dancers, a little group of men who were shuffling back and forth on a small patio (a flat area, which we would call a yard, but without grass, in front of a house) near a brush arbor. Some of the men wore grotesque white masks and some wore hats with plumes. All were dressed in white and carried handcarved wooden swords. The truck dropped us off at the house where Luis was staying, and drove off. I would not see the truck, or any other four-wheeled vehicles, for the next four days, until it reappeared to take us back to the airstrip on Sunday morning. Luis and Sergio invited me to stay with them in the home of a local school teacher who was away at the beach during Easter

was plain lined school notebook paper. The brims of the hats had been cut off, except for a bill in front, and a string was tied to the crown to keep the bill curved upward. Plumes, cut from the same paper, were added as decora tion. I walked back out into the dusky light of the patio in front of the Casa Grande, and tried to paint its details in my mind so I could add it to my now-illegal journal. Outside, sitting on a stone wall under one of the few large trees in the neighborhood, was a beautiful man. He seemed European. He was tall, light, blond, and handsome, and wore jeans, sandals, a gauze shirt, and a farmer's straw hat. I was taken by him, and as I walked back to the house to draw and scribble in my journal, I wondered who this man was and if I'd have the courage to meet him.

C A S A GF A L P E DE COLA That night I returned to the patio in front of the Casa Grande where the dancing had already begun. It was dark, because there was no electricity in the village. I was surprised that no fires had been built near the dancers. The only light came from a lone candle burning on a table in the government house. About a hundred men shuffled back and forth to a military cadence. Most of the dancers wore masks and at certain points in the music would clack their swords together. The music was provided by one small blue drum and a reed flute, carried by two men who danced along with the other crowd of men. The haunting rhythm they played would accompany all the dancing for the following days. It was a magical moment, as I lay on the ground under the stars, watching the moon rise full above the mountains to the east, directly over the Casa Grande. The men glowed white in the darkness. My heart was filled with joyous wonder as I stumbled down the hill to the house. I knew that during this primitive rite of men I would be moved by much macho Mexican male magic. I wondered if I'd meet that hand some man. I slept soundly on my rope bed that night as the dancing continued on the hill until dawn. 20

Before leaving for Mexico, I found an article in National Geographic about the Holy Week ceremonies in a Cora village named Mesa Del Nayar. Their ceremony was nothing like what I was to experience in Jesus-Maria. The man who wrote it was a real asshole, taking pictures even after the village governor had forbidden it. The villagers threw rocks at him. He wrote the article as if the Coras were rude and unfriendly. I didn't find that to be the case at all. One day while I was in the courtyard of the church, a young man named Rito asked me if I were Catholic. I told him "No," and he answered "That's okay. Everybody is welcome in Jesus-Maria." There is very little material on the Coras. The article does contain some good background material given by the priest of Mesa Del Nayer in 1970. Coras Adapt Christianity to Old Religion The priest, a short, thin, kindly man, told me something of the history of the Cora tribe and the meaning of the Holy Week ceremo nies. "Jesuit missionaries first came in contact with the Coras in the 16th century and remained with them for 200 years," Father Pascual told me. "Then, in 1767, the Jesuits were expelled from Mexico for political reasons, and for nearly two centuries the Coras were left almost entirely to themselves until I came there two years ago. "What I found was truly amazing," he continued. "Over the decades, the Coras had preserved many Roman Catholic traditions, but they had made them uniquely their own. For example, they had come to identify Our Lord Jesus Christ with their ancient deity Tayau, the sun god. In their minds, the two became interchangeable. "They took elements from the story of Christ's Passion, death, and Resurrection and made them into a ceremony apparently designed to ensure the renewal and continuity of their community life. And yet, while they altered many rituals, others they kept intact. I was astounded to find that some Coras could recite the Mass in quite passable Latin — two hundred years after the last priest left!" Senor Hernandez now joined us to say that the governor had changed his mind and had decided to let us stay. Father Pascual seemed quite surprised. "I did not really expect them to accept you," he said. "The first year I was here they would not allow me to leave my quarters during Holy Week. I wasn't even permitted inside the church, which they used for their own rituals. "Last year, for the first time, they let me lead them in prayer at the Stations of the Cross, which in the Roman Catholic liturgy represent the successive stages in Christ's Passion. It was then I was to see how much these people had changed the ceremonies taught them by early missionaries. The arrest, perse cution, and the Crucifixion of Christ came to represent the triumph of the powers of death and darkness; the Resurrection became the renewal of life and the victory of good over e vil. "^n Passion play a young boy repre sents uhrist, but there is no Pilate; there are Apostj.es, but no Judas. And a new element has been added, a group called the 'borrados' who represent the Judeans."

water brought up in cupped hands from the sacred river. The designs were mainly stripes, but some of the boys got really creative. One even painted his entire body with hearts. The first year a boy dances (I should say "runs," because the Judios do as much running as they do dancing), at the age of 11 or 12, he is painted entirely black. The second year, he gets one stripe diagonally across his chest. The third year, he gets a second stripe in the opposite direction. The fourth year, he can do his own thing. A boy must take part in the ceremonials for five consecutive years or risk bringing bad luck on himself and his family. The captains don't wear masks, but they all wear the plumed band-style hats, as do the younger boys during their first three years. The captains wear white "peasant" pants and shirts with the symbol of their rank and au thority sewed on the front. The captains paint their exposed skin black, and paint on white Zulu lips and white circles around their eyes. After painting their bodies, the young men added black accents to their swords, masks, and hats. With the painting complete, the boys tied a woven bag, a morale, around their waist. To this, they hung the last magical touch -- a turtle rattle. When finished, the boys ran to a level spot upstream along the river where the drum and flute had already begun to sound their rhythmic tune. They lined up in two lines, pointing toward the village.

"Borrados?" I asked, surprised. The word means "erased ones" in Spanish. "You see," Senor Hernandez broke in, "centuries ago, church teachings blamed the people of Judea for the Crucifixion. You remember how Pilate 'washed his hands' of responsibility when the Judean mob refused to allow him to release Jesus and demanded that he spare Barabbas instead. When Spanish priests brought the story of Jesus into these moun tains, the Coras identified the Judeans with the forces of evil. They still do. "For three days, starting tomorrow — Holy Thursday — all authority, civil and religious, passes to a man called the Captain of the Judeans. He and his borrados — young men of the region — will darken themselves with soot and mud and thus 'erase' their own personali ties and their personal responsibility for whatever they do. "They will run around the town day and night to prove their strength and endurance, for being a borrado is not only a part of the religious observance of Holy Week but also an initiation into manhood. On Holy Thursday the borrados capture a boy who plays the role of Christ. The next day, Good Friday, they sym bolically crucify him. And on Saturday an official called the Centurion — actually the village governor — will defeat the borrados in battle, thus marking Christ's Resurrection and the triumph of good." "Mesa Del Nayar's Strange Holy Week," by Guillermo Aldana, National Geographic, Washington, D.C., June, 1971. Joy came again in the morning. I rose early, as is my habit, brushed my teeth at the pila in the backyard, and, as the village began waking up, I walked happily to the plaza. There, alone, I did my own little primitive dance of thanksgiving. All the women seemed to be in the streets throwing pails of water on the cobblestones in an effort to keep down the dust. I stopped at Effie's, but it was too early for breakfast. So I had a Coke on the porch and talked with her handsome teenage son. As we sat there, we watched a man on a white horse, with his head cast down, aimlessly riding the streets of the village. The man was dressed in a white cowboy suit, with a pink scarf around his neck, and he carried a stick with a red scarf tied to the end above his head. Effie's boy told me the man was "crazy," but I learned later he was one of the leaders of the Centurions, the men I feel must also be symbolic of the Spanish. I also learned that my young Cora friend had never taken part in the ceremonies, and longed to be an AllAmerican boy. How ironic, because my heart begged to be a part of this native mystery. At a spot on the river downstream from where I had bathed the afternoon before, I found about 200 naked boys. What an exciting sight! I sat on the boulders above the river and watched the young men get ready for their days of ritual and running. They had taken off their clothes and given them to their little brothers to carry home. The younger boys had returned to lurk above the river and watch an ancient rite they would take part in one day, when they joined the tribe as men. Most of the guys wore jockey shorts or loin cloths. The macho magic was light and gay as the boys spread black and white paint on each other's bodies with their fingertips. They mixed the dry color in holes in the rocks, with

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Once all were assembles, they began to dance in place, in a rocking two-step. The captains ran up and down between tr.e two_ .ir.fic, shouting orders. Then all of a sudden, both lines moved in formation to a patio in front o_ a house on the edge of the village. The head men formed a circle just outside the house. The others trailed off down both sides of the dirt road. The drummer and flute players marched to the head of the lines. At this time, the boys -- who were now transformed into evil spirits, Judios — began dancing a phallic dance, a dance they would repeat many times during the next two days.

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around the village. During the afternoon, as the Judios ran through the village and danced, other ceremo nies were being held at the church. The pews had been pushed back against the walls. All of the statues, including the main altar, had been shrouded in muslin material. When I arrived on Wednesday, all the crosses and the altar had been covered with palm fronds, but today all of that had been removed. A large rectangular piece of muslin covered the floor in front of the altar. The cloth was covered with offer ings of fruit, flowers, food, candles, and copal incenses. A crowd of Indians, mainly women, knelt around these gifts to the ancient gods. Behind them, also kneeling, was a young boy of about 12, dressed in a burlap tunic with a band of braided palm around his head. He was flanked by 12 other boys holding candles in

The dance was a series of different sug gestive body movements. At the end of every variation, the boys would clack their swords together. The first steps were a simple mili tary marching in place. In the second step, they placed their swords tip down on the ground and balanced on them, hiking first one leg in the air and then the other, very much like a dog urinating on a fire hydrant. For the third step, these agile spirits would jump around their swords as if copulating with them, and thrust their pelvises at the swords. After this, all pandemonium broke out as the boys grabbed each other to pantomime anal inter course, hopping and yelling as they held each other crotch to ass. Then they'd very calmly knock their swords together and begin again. I still don't know what all of this means. It has been suggested that the swords are symbolic of the Spanish and, as they dance, the Coras are saying, "The Spanish screwed us, screw the Spanish -- we're still Indians." I know also this is a fertility rite, but I know that nothing grows from this form of intercourse. The part of the ritual that followed was even more fascinating and confounding. In the main circle, the men danced individually. They'd jump wildly into the center of the circle as the drum and flute played, and would dance the phallic dance alone. Each of these some 30 men started out with the sword copulating dance, but with much more vigor and suggestiveness, writhing and pumping their pelvises. Some of the men ripped down their loin cloths to expose their bouncing little (none of them seemed to be overly endowed) erect penises. Many of the men mooned the crowd, pulling their ass cheeks apart to reveal their sphincters. Others would shake their bare butts in the crotches of the other men around the circle. One man even dropped to his knees and buried his face in the crotch of another man, pantomiming giving head. Most of the men around the circle had erections. I can assure you the three queens with me did. There were many women and children in the mob of on lookers, but none of them seemed shocked and took everything with great good humor. The men would not dance so overtly again, but would continue to do their sodomitic dance over and over throughout the next two days. With all this done, the Judios pulled out of the patio (it just occurred to me that the men had formed one large penis as they individ ually danced their phallic dance), and ran in formation, like soldiers at boot camp, to the center of the village. Once there, the two lines began to snake through the village in different directions. For hours, these two running ribbons of moaning naked men trotted in criss-cross formations, their turtle rattles keeping beat with their feet. I was amazed that none of them seemed winded, although they wore their masks as they ran in the heat. This went on for a couple of hours, and then they settled down, on the main plaza, to their standard military shuffle. At the plaza, the captains sent out par ties to bring back supplies, honey and water. For this Cora village, the energizing drug of choice was honey. The article I read about the Coras in National Geographic said the men in Mesa Del Nayar did peyote and drank corn beer during their ceremonials. Not so in JesusMaria. While the Judios danced on the plaza, things began to get rowdy as the boys took off in small raiding parties to make mischief

their left hands and faggots of sticks in their right. Garlands of laurel leaves encircled their heads. In the loft of the church, an orchestra of small homemade violins, flutes and triangles played a haunting melody. As I stood there in this rainbow of scents and sensations, a steward of the church, carry ing a stick about five feet long with two circles carved around the top, came over and spoke to me in Spanish. I explained that I speak very little Spanish. He walked back to a group of men, all with similar sticks, near the front door. After a short discussion, another man approached me, and in perfect English said, "You who speaks very little Spanish please go outside." He said it politely and I did as he requested. It is difficult to blend into an Indian village when you are white, six feet tall, blond, bearded, and have a sunburned, tomato-red face. But I had done more gawking in the church than I had done praying. After that, when I entered the church, I would find a spot and sit reverently. When I stepped from the coolness of the church into the dry heat of the Mexican sun, I 22

saw a new commotion on the plaza. The captains had ordered the Judios into two lines, and were running around, brandishing their swords and giving orders. Their plumes fluttered in the breeze as they ran. The Judios trudged in formation to the Presidente, where they were joined by two lines of six Centurions. These men were dressed as simple country people. Each carried a cane pole a little longer than a fishing pole. For some unknown reason the head Centurion, on the white horse, led these two groups off toward the river. They headed south, and I headed back to the house to record the day's events and take a restless, sweaty nap. When I returned to the plaza about an hour later, I found the Judios in the smaller plaza. They were in their two lines, on the ground, groaning and rolling in the dirt. One of the runners went back and forth, pretending to whip them. Through this undulating trail of dirty dancers walked the Jesus boy, followed by the 12 young apostles who were led by the cane-carrying Centurions and the white-clad horseman on foot. When Jesus reached the head of the lines, the Judios jumped up and escorted him back to the church. Then the Judios returned to the smaller plaza where food was distributed from pickle buckets. The men shared a feast of beans, corn mush, squash, tortillas, honey, and bananas. True to Cora tradition, the boys sent plastic bags of food back home to other family members. Carl Lumholtz, in his book Unknown Mexico. told of visiting Jesus-Maria in the mid-1890s. The village elders prepared a feast for him. before anybody ate, the wives carried food home in pottery jars. When they had provided suffi cient food for their families, the men ate. Lumholtz was surprised to have the Indians serve him on tables, complete with benches. He stated that all other Indian groups he had visited ate on the ground, but not the Coras. I found furniture like Lumholtz described still in use today, under the brush arbor in the smaller plaza.

In the late afternoon, most of the boys continued to dance in the main plaza, but some of the Judios lived up to their "evil" name, and ran in raiding parties, causing happy havoc around the village. Near sundown, they began to herd all the people, myself included, into the large courtyard in front of the church, where they sat on the surrounding adobe wall and begged cigarettes. I got a lot of atten tion because I had American Marlboros. As I stood there in the dusk, one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen floated out of the church on a cloud of copal smoke. He was wearing a monk's brown robe. Our eyes met. He whipped around, extended his hand, and asked, "Where are you from?" "Texas!" He smiled. His eyes were filled with love, tenderness, compassion. Mine were filled with passion as we stood there talking, my hand still cupped in his. I learned that he was a 23

Franciscan, that he came from a small village near Guadalajara and had been stationed in Jesus-Maria for eight years. He had lived in San Diego for three years and spoke a wonderful broken English. I was weak. I felt I was in the presence of a truly holy man. Brother Silvano shook my hand and walked into the priests' quarters. Standing there in a daze, I was pushed out of the way as a life-size statue of Christ carrying a cross emerged from the candlelit church. One of the stewards ran ahead of the statue and made a large circle in the dirt with what I believe was holy water. The other stewards placed the Christ statue in the cir cle. From the Presidente came the Centurions, led by the man on the white horse. He clopped down the rock steps at the churchyard gate, and passed the stone cross in the center of this holy place, as he cleared a path for the cane carrying guards. The Centurions encircled the statue, running around it and touching the tips of their canes together above it as they ran. As they did this, the Judios stood on the wall, moaned loudly, and shook their turtle rattles. On the roof of the church, a mar. ran back arc forth swinging a clacker (two boards on the end of a rope). The church bells would r.ot ring again until Sunday. Then the horseman led the Centurions out into the village night. Christ was carried by four church stewards and the boy Jesus trailed behind, followed by the disci ples. The townspeople followed behind, flanked by the Judios who continued to shake their rattles and moan. The flute player played a somber melody as we circled the village in the dark. When we arrived back at the church, Christ was deposited in his vault. I walked back to the house to write and sleep. The Judios headed to tne smaller plaza for their all-night vigil. Back at the house, I sprayed the porch down with water and sat in its damp coolness. I couldn't help but think back over the day's events -- about Jesus-Maria and how it seemed to be designed for this or.e big yearly theatrical production. I was taking part in a play with no director, a show that had been going on for centuries, a pageant for which the "doing" of it was all-important. As I fell asleep that night, I could hear the Judios dancing in the dark of the plaza. The village dogs and cocks sang all night long. Occasionally I'd awake from a damp restless sleep to the magic sounds of turtle rattles as the Judios ran through the streets. Early the next day, before sunrise, I stumbled outside to urinate, but sometime during the night a Cora family had set up camp on the back porch and was sleeping on cardboard spread out on the dirt floor. So I grabbed a bucket of water from under the pila drain and headed to the bano to do my morning's duty. I dressed, cleaned up a little, and followed a tired stream of young Judios to the river. As I walked through the early morning streets, I saw another man on horseback, this one dressed very handsomely in black, with a red scarf around his neck. He was carrying a long staff, about eight feet long, with a black triangle on top. Just below the triangle was a white square which seemed to have writing on it. The stick was criss-crossed with black and red ribbons. Just like the man on Thursday, he rode slowly, aimlessly, through the village. As I walked past the area where the feast had been held the nirht. before (the Last

Supper), women were still grinding corn and making tortillas. Many Huichols were camped out in the area. They had come from their villages in the east to join their Cora cousins in celebration. What a colorful sight, all the women dressed in bright floral print skirts! Copper pots filled with food were simmering over a number of large fires. At the brush arbor on the patio, where I had first seen the dancing men, I found the Centurions painting their cane poles with red and black stripes. They included two yellow stripes, one near the top and one at the level where they held it. They added black arrow heads to the top of the poles, some with cross-

with any of the participants in the ceremonies, I did not know what all of the symbolism was. Maybe the Judios, when they painted stripes on their bodies, were personifying the ancient Cora god Chulavete, the Morning Star. Carl Lumholtz tells a story related to him by a Cora shaman in Jesus-Maria, almost a hundred years before I came on the scene. Story of the Morning Star

0 (~........ . C E N T u R ion S T A F F S

es just below them. From there I walked the dry dusty path that led to the river. Already the day had turned warm, and I paused under a large oak tree to put on my head rag. A flock of goats was staked out in the shade. A little barefoot boy carried buckets of water from the river to fill ancient drinking vessels that had been carved out of rocks. At the river, I found a joyous sight — a rainbow of young naked men. Today (Friday), the Judios (which I just recently learned is the Spanish word for Jew) came to the river to paint each other's bodies with bright colors -colors only Mexicans could create, colors which in the States we might call "day glow." And glow they did, in the high, dry Mexican moun tain sunrise. I found a comfortable spot on the rock cliffs above the river, took out my needlework (an embroidered pillow of Huichol design), and began stitching. I attracted only a little attention as the boys would stop, look, and smile, then zig-zag their way down to the river like tropical mountain goats. As they had done the day before, the young men painted each other with their fingertips. They hadn't washed off the former day's black and white, but, for the most part, it had been sweated off. I couldn't help thinking, as I sat there watching a handsome young pink, pur ple, and green man piss a yellow stream down on the rocks, that these guys could make a fortune selling their jockey shorts in the Advocate. What a rich, musky smell they must have de veloped after two days of sweaty running and dancing. How colorfully stained they were! I thought that not even a poor Indian mother would attempt to wash them, and these precious artifacts of the rites of men would be tossed in some corner to be rooted up by pigs. What a waste! The young men mixed the colors on the rocks and smeared it on each other. They also painted their hats, swords, masks, and turtle rattles. As a substitute for spray paint (although I did see a couple of pump sprayers used, like the ones my grandmother often used to do battle with flies and ants), the boys would suck up a mouth full of colored liquid and spew it all over their hats and masks. The results were a lot of gaily colored tongues and lips. Because I was unable to talk intelligently 24

The Coras of the canon are not always in summer in accord with Father Sun, because he is fierce, producing sickness and killing men and animals. Chulavete, the Morning Star, who is the protecting genius of the Coras, has con stantly to watch the Sun lest he should harm the people. In ancient times, when the Sun first appeared, the Morning Star, who is cool and disliked heat, shot him in the middle of the breast, just as he had journeyed nearly half across the sky. The Sun fell down on earth, but an old man brought him to life again, so that he could tramp back and make a fresh start. The Morning Star is the principal great god of the Coras. In the small hours of the morning they frequently go to some spring and wash themselves by his light. He is their brother, a young Indian with bow and arrow, who intercedes with the other gods to help the people in their troubles. At their dances they first call him to be present, and tell their wants to him, that he may report them to the Sun and the Moon and the rest of the gods. A pathetic story of the modern adventures of this, their great hero-god graphically sets forth the Indian's conception of the condition in which he finds himself after the arrival of the white man. Chulavete was poor, and the rich people did not like him. But afterward they took to him, because they found that he was a nice man, and they asked him to come and eat with them. He went to their houses dressed like the "neighbors." But once when they invited him he came like an Indian boy, almost naked. He stopped outside of the house, and the host came out with a torch of pinewood to see who it was. He did not recognize Chula vete, and called out to him: "Get away, you Indian pig! What are you doing here?" And with his torch he burned stripes down the arms and legs of the shrieking Chulavete. Next day Chulavete received another invitation to eat with the "neighbors." This time he made him self into a big bearded fellow, with the com plexion of a man half white, and he put on the clothes in which they knew him. He came on a good horse, had a nice blanket over his shoul der, wore a sombrero and a good sabre. They met him at the door and led him into the house. "Here I am at your service, to see what I can do for you," he said to them. "Oh, no!" they said. "We invited you because we like you, not because we want any thing of you. Sit down and eat." He sat down to the table, which was loaded with all the good things rich people eat. He put a roll of bread on his plate, and then began to make stripes with it on his arms and legs. "Why do you do that?" they asked him. "We invited you to eat what we eat." Chulavete replied: "You do not wish that my heart may eat, but my dress. Look here! Last night it was I who was outside of your door. The man who came to see me burned me

with his pine torch, and said to me, 'You Indian pig, what do you want here?'" "Was that you?" they asked. "Yes, gentlemen, it was I who came then. As you did not give me anything yesterday, I see that you do not want to give the food to me, but to my clothes. Therefore, I had better give it to them." He took the chocolate and the coffee and poured it over himself as if it were water, and he broke the bread into pieces and rubbed it all over his dress. The sweet ened rice, and boiled hen with rice, sweet atole, minced meat with chile, rice pudding, and beef soup, all this he poured over himself. The rich people were frightened and said that they had not recognized him. "You burned me yesterday because I was an Indian," he said. "God put me in the world as an Indian. But you do not care for the Indi ans, because they are naked and ugly." He took the rest of the food, and smeared it over his saddle and his horse, and went away.

house on the edge of the village. There we drank warm beer in the shade of what looked like a mimosa tree, but wasn't, because it had long seed pods hanging from its limbs. Ramon crawled into the tree and retrieved some of the pods. I bounced around on the ground, catching them and doing my best cheetah imitation, all of which was very amusing to the men huddled around the courtyard. From his vantage point in the tree, Ramon saw another crowd of parading peasants. At the thought of trailing behind Brother Silvano one more time, we both jumped over the rock wall surrounding the yard, and took off down the road, leaving behind our beer, pods, and pals. The man on horseback, followed by the horseman from the day before, turned the corner near the house where I was staying. Behind them was the Jesus statue, carried on the shoulders of the church men who were flanked by the Centurions. The bound Jesus boy followed the statue, and behind him was the beautiful Silvano, accompanied by the incense-swinging altar boy. Another young man carried a crack ling PA system over which Silvano read a nove na. Ramon and I pushed our way through the colorful line of accompanying Judio 3 and fell in behind the object of our adoration — Silvano. The man-magic was vibrant in that all-male procession. Ramon and I got to know each other as we walked the back streets of Jesus-Maria. We shared the fact that we were both captivated by this Franciscan monk. I told him of an ancient group of Peruvian people, the Moche, and their homosexual priesthood. I also told him I had recently learned of a tribe there (the Akaramas) that still practices ritual homosexual magic. We made a vow to each other to explore Peru together someday. The holy parade led to the brush arbor in the smaller plaza. The mood became surrealis tic as we turned the corner into the plaza. The women were singing, and the Judios were running in circling double lines around us. The women of the village had brought a statue of Mary, the mother of God, out of the church, and were waiting with her under the shaded arbor. There Christ was presented to the women for burial. After holy words and songs, the women, carrying the statue of Mary, led Christ back to the church. This was the only part of the week's ceremonies in which the women took an active part. Back at the church, the statue was placed in its guarded crypt, and a wire casket, decorated with beads, ribbons, mirrors, holy medals (melagros), and paper flowers, was moved into a place of honor. Outside the church, I met Cata (Catherin Finerty), a lay Catholic worker who has been among the Huichols and Coras for many years. She is very knowledgeable about the Indians. I discovered she had even translated one of Ramon Mata Torres' books about the art of the Huichols. She was holding court, sitting like the queen mother on the wall in front of the priest's quarters. I introduced myself to her, and told her I was a friend of John Koruga, a man who has visited Jesus-Maria many times. As I talked to her, Cora women came up to rever ently shake her hand, and she'd relate their story. As I was standing there with this delightful woman, Brother Silvano came out of the church. He shook hands with Cata and her gringo companions. As he shook my hand, our eyes met and sparkled in what I felt was a "knowing glance." As he talked to Cata and her

I left the river to walk back to the village and have breakfast with my friends. As I walked, I saw a man kneeling, as if praying, before the man on the black horse. Soon after breakfast, the men came running in two bright lines into the village. They lined up outside the gate of the church yard. The Judios' captain gave the steward of the church a small sum of money, and the steward handed over the Jesus boy, who now was wearing a gold tin-foilcovered cardboard crown. As the boy walked through the lines of Judios, they fell on the ground, writhing and moaning. Once at the end of the lines, the boy took off running. The Judios took out after him, but they soon re turned to the church without the boy king. For the rest of the morning, the young Judios ran tirelessly around the village, and looked for Jesus. As the boys ran, I walked back to the house, hoping to take a shower, but the Cora family (who never acknowledged my presence) was still on the back veranda. Since none of the village houses had indoor plumbing, baths were taken in the river or backyard. I felt selfconscious about bathing in front of these people, even doing it Mexican-style with my clothes on, so I recorded the morning's events in my journal and drew two naked natives. As I was sitting at the kitchen table, I heard a mob outside in the street. With a great flurry, I hid the journal under a 50—lb. bag of corn and threw open the window. The Judios had found Jesus at the stone cross on the street corner, which I took to be a station of the cross. The evil spirits grabbed the boy, bound his hands, and dragged him off to the church. Finally I met the handsome stranger I had seen on the hill. I was at the house alone when Sergio and Luis burst in. He was with them — that tall handsome man I had first seen near the Casa Grande. I stood and introduced myself. He spoke English with a European accent — no Speedy Gonzales here. I learned he was a commercial artist from Guadalajara. He was "family." He seemed to be fascinated by Luis. My spirit wanted to cry out, "Me! Me! I'm the interesting one!" But I didn't. I did try to impress him with my artistic ability by showing him the drawings in my journal, and also the needlework I had stuffed in my bag. I knew at once that I wanted to be fiends with this man. The four of us decided to have a beer at a 25

cheap Mexican cigarettes called "Ases." The atmosphere on the plaza was charged. Naked rainbow boys ran wild, and children scurried out of their way like chickens. I tried to be unobtrusive, and circled the out side edge of the plaza through a gentle group of Huichols who were calmly taking in all this Cora madness. Suddenly I got caught. I was surrounded by about 15 yelling, masked boys gently jabbing me with their swords. They ushered me into the center of the plaza where I was handed a sword as they shouted "Bilar! Bilar!" (Dance! Dance!). The drummer and flute player stood near me and played the melody I had heard so many times. I felt honored as I danced the phallic dance — the dance that had mesmerized me when I first saw it, the dance I had practiced in private, the dance that had visited me in my dreams and would for a long time after. I jumped around, feigning embarrassment. When it came to the sodomitic pantomime, I was grabbed by the young naked man I had most lusted after — the cute—assed, long-haired, loin—clothed, purple and pink one, wearing a dick—nose mask. Him! All the boys were whooping and hollering. My young painted man friend wrapped his arms around my waist and pumped his erect little penis into the seat of my pants. We were joined by six or seven more undulating Judios, forming a humping chain of male madness. The music stopped and the boys crowded around me for cigarettes. I handed out all I had, suck ing in the sweaty aroma of my Meso-American amigos. I then broke for the safety of the churchyard. There, panting breathlessly, grinning ear to ear, I offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the camaraderie of men. My spirit was bright and light. Ramon came out of the church, and we talked eagerly in the shade of the rock wall surrounding the church yard on the north and west. He was excited about my experience, but had had an equally fulfilling one. He had spent 30 minutes talking with Brother Silvano. /ie were both smitten by this man of love. He told me Silvano had entered the ministry after the death of his wife. "Wife?" "Wife! Oh veil, that was years ago and besides, he's a F ranci scan." Ramon told me that Silvano said the people of the village had gotten upset when the Fran ciscans painted blue and orange accents on the church. (I would have been upset too, because it was really tacky.) Shortly after the redec orating, job, a sickness broke out among the children of the village, and the people blamed it on the changes made on the church. I told him about the stained glass window my friend Linda Moller is making for the round opening above the front door of the church. We both wondered what the people's reaction would be to that change. We agreed, though, that the window would be beautiful, and decided to come back next year when it's installed, if for no other reason than to work beside Silvano. As dusk began to fade into dark, the casket was again brought out of the church, where it was met by the Centurions. We fol lowed it in a slow creep through the streets of the village. I felt so at peace, so at home trudging behind the symbolic body of this man Jesus, whose life and death we had all come together to celebrate. Back at the church, the casket was placed lovingly in front of the main altar. From the loft above the front door, the musicians played a light, happy, sprightly

friends, he continued to clasp my hand in his. Finally, he politely excused himself and disap peared into his quarters. Just before he closed the door, he looked back over his shoul der and our smiles met. My heart was weak and warm. In a glow, I walked back to the house where I wrote and napped. I was awakened by the sound of sword fighting outside my window. Soon afterward, my new friends Sergio, Luis, and now Ramon burst into the house. Sergio grabbed the camera and secretly started taking pictures through a crack in a window. By this time, we were all out with each other and spent the rest of the afternoon in "girl talk" — all talking at once as if we understood the other, pantomiming when we didn't, and giggling a lot. We took turns practicing the Judios phallic dance, with an old sword Sergio had been given. Exhausted, we curled up together around the room for a peaceful rest. We were awakened by the sound of shuffling feet and low moaning. Ramon and I joined yet another procession, this time silently behind the gaily decorated wire casket. The people snaked with it through the village, and then deposited the casket on its rickety bier back at the church. Ramon and I went in search of some new place to eat. We found Berta's, where Linda had suggested I stay. We ate shrimp soup (don't ask me how they got fresh shrimp up there) and bread pudding with a rainbow of colored candy sprinkles on top. Berta has a nice little posada (country inn) with rooms off a central patio. The patio is a jungle of tropical blooming plants totally unlike the dry barren terrain surrounding Jesus-Maria. She also trades with the Huichols and Coras. She showed us into her private quarters which were stacked with Indian art and artifacts. I wanted everything, but ended up buying a won derful fuchsia and green morale (a woven shoul der bag) .

Feeling a little guilty, we walked back to Dona Effie's house, where we ate fresh tortixlas and drank warm cokes. Afterwards, we sat on her porch and watched the Judios marce war on large balloons dropped from Effie's neighbor's house by a couple of the captains. Everybody was in a festive mood. The boys were coming to me, chumpping me for cigarettes. I ran out, but one of the boys didn't believe me and ran his hands through my pockets to make sure. ^ loved it! I walked to a little store to buy 26

melody, and the church glowed yellow in the candlelight. The air was rich with the smell of flowers and incense. Tears swelled up from my happy heart and snaked in their own proces sion down my cheeks. I dried my eyes with a bandana and stepped back into the starlit night — happy head and happy heart. Back at the house, I lay down calmly, only to be jolted back to reality when Luis came running into the house, searching for the hidden camera. He and Sergio had talked a small group of Cora boys into letting us take their pictures. They had bribed the boys with a large bottle of Presidente Tequila, but they wanted more. So Luis took up a collection among the four mariposas to buy a case of beer. Ramon and I talked with the boys. We asked if any gay men lived in the village. They said there were three or four, but they weren't around now. One was in the States. The beer arrived and we crouched on the back porch, taking several pictures of ourselves with the boys. That night I slept sound and easy, waking only occasionally as the drummer and flute player passed the house. The next morning I had one last breakfast at Dona Effie's, and gave her some material I had bought to trade with the Huichols. Already men were beginning to take down the brush arbors. Semana Santa was coming to an end. The Coras seemed unconcerned with the risen Christ, only his passion and death. At the river, the Judios had gathered again, but this time in family units. They had stripped and were bathing naked in the river, their sins washed away. Some threw their swords and masks into the river, as is tradition. Most held on to them or sold them to the few tourists who were left in the village. The next morning I left. At 6 a.m. the truck that had dropped us off five days before arrived to carry us back to the airstrip. The plane, which was to have arrived at 7 a.m., touched down out of the skies at 12:30 p.m., five and a half hours late. Nobody seemed surprised, however. After all, this was Mexico, where waiting is part of the natural order. We flew out in the same antiquated DC-3 that had delivered us to this magical mountain valley. Back in Tepic, I took the bus to the zocolo (city center), and checked into the Hotel St. Jeorge, but not until after a dramat ic discussion with the manager over whether she was going to take my traveler's checks. Final ly, I placed my bags on the floor of the lobby just in front of the check-in counter, stretched out across them, and said "This is where I'll have to sleep until the banks open on Monday." They took my checks. I settled into my room and took a shower — my first real bath in five days. Clean and happy, I headed to the plaza where I soon found Moises, a young Tepic street boy I had met in January. He was pleased to see me. We went back to my room where we showered (I know, but this time was for fun). Afterwards, we lay naked across the bed, under the cool of the ceiling fan, and I presented him with treasures I had brought for him. We spent the rest of the afternoon in bed watching HBO (in English), and actualizing the magical ^Mexican man-mysteries I had seen pantomimed so many times in the previous days. Jesus-Maria was now but a dream.

AGNES KNOWS CONTINUED

and jockstrap affair. There were Asher Eden's daily yoga contortions, followed by David Finkelstein's three hour Dance Marathon individually worshiping each of the twenty-six goddesses and lesser deities. Finally I had time to doll up for the wrestling workshop only to discover that it was being performed in the nude without make up on floor mats. Flawed, my occasionally mon ogamous lover, had run off to the wrestling ses sion without me. By the time I had arrived Flawed had started his own series of frottage exercising on any nude tummy that he could push his Rod against. Then Flawed mistakenly started humping Mo Hanen's missing toupee before I could pull the hairs away from Flawed's crotch. Since Mo was in the middle of his day long Vow of Ver bal Silence, he was unable, for once, to voice any objection. Singer-composer Denny Hall of Toronto saw Broadway Mo's muteness as the best opportunity to sit at the piano and impress the fairies with his originally composed Gay ditties. Not to be outdone by yet another Canadian, Endora, the Red Hen, Quickly grabbed her "Carmen" aria tape, threw it into the nearest disco-blaster as she ran around the Ballroom. As Endora scr eamed, her own petticoats spun her into an un controllable whirling Dervish. Endora's passion ate bellows in 'Faksetto Forte' begin telling of the deep anguish of Carmen's soul as she repeat edly sang out in Spanish: "Merda di Toro I". (The shit of the Bull)

l_UNAR CALENDAR CONTINUED

and left of Saturn. The next morning on the 30th, the moon will be just above and left of Mars. The best planting days for above ground crops in January are 5, 9, 10, 13, 14, 15, and 18. The best days for planting below ground crops are 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, and 31. The best days in February for above ground crops are 5, 6, 10, 11, 12, 14, and 15. The best days for below ground crops are 1, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 27, 28, and 29. The best above ground crop days for March are 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 14, and 17. The best days for below ground crops are 3, 19, 20, 21, 22, 25, 26, 27, 30, and 31. Here's a little side note to those of you who cut and heat/cook with wood. If you cut your wood between the new and full moon, it will not dry out and you'll have water boiling out of it when you burn it. Wait till after the full moon and before the new moon to cut your wood and it will dry very nicely. When the moon is turning down is also the time to shingle a roof. If you do it when the moon is turning up, so will your shingles. Well, I guess it's time to say so long for now. Take care of yourselves, stay warm, and may love the be the wind beneath your wings.

QuecMVationalists confront Cracker Barrel b.xotry

M AINE

Need we say more.

Occasion.

In the summer I home town of I President Bush.lu^ over 1500 ActUpers and others from all over the Northeast marched to protest Bush's lame and deadly "go the extra mile to no where" AIDS policy. A group of feys received a Ritual send off from the folks at the Blue Heron Radical Faerie Gathering in up state New York before setting off to attend the demo.

TENNESSEE bonnet^

ACT-UP presents list of of demands.

and

Following a rally at the Parthenon in Nashville, Tenn, 150 dykes and faggots caravanned to the Cracker Barrel Inc. headquarters town of Lebanon, Tenn (a mere 30 miles from RFD headquarters) to stage a picket and Dine-ln at the chain’s restaurant there. Cracker Barrel has been firing queers after issuing a policy stating that Gays and Lesbians do not fit in with the corporations “family values'. An ongoing boycott is in effect Joining queers from the Nashville area at I the action were 80 ; members of Queer • Nation Atlanta and ‘ a group from Short Mountain Sanctuary.

QuecMVationalists confront Cracker Barrel b.xotry

M AINE

Need we say more.

Occasion.

TENNESSEE bonnet^

ACT-UP presents list of of demands.

and

by sacrificing a beautiful turbed Friede deeply.

Once upon a time, in a beautiful country by the sea, lived a very happy people. They were blessed by a deep harbor which was visited by ships from all over the world and life in that country was very, very jolly.

Bu t F r iede be!i eved tha;t all living be ing s co u Id get along just fin e if only they c ou 1d f ind a way for the p ower of love to flow beThe dreigon was indeed a li ving tween them. be ing,, so Friede set out to find a way to 1ove he r . She determined to experience just what: th e d 1ragon was like.

One bright summer morning, the ships set sail as usual. But this morning, just outside the harbor, a monstrous dragon rose up out of the sea right in front of them. Her thrashing tail nearly capsized the ships and the fire of her breath was hotter than twenty noon-day suns. The ships turned and fled back into port. Fortunately, only two of them were lost.

As Friede towed her .Tittle boat out into the harbor, she sang a beautiful melody that echoed Her song was a prayer for over the water, reconcili at ion.

The sailors who had seen the dragon became very popular. They told the story again and again until everyone had heard every detail. The dragon had scales of gold and eyes like emer alds and teeth of diamonds. If one could cap ture and tame her, or even slay her, he would be rich indeedl

The dragon was very excited to hear Friede's voice. She remembered the delicious virgins she had devoured in the past. What tender sweetness lightly spiced with the adrenalin of fear. But this one didn't sound like the ones from the past. As the dragon surfaced, Friede smartly headed her bov' right into the waves and then jumping from her boat, swam to the dragon's neck. She grabbed on to the scaly neck and held her breath and closed her eyes as the dragon dived under the water.

Every day in the marketplace, and every night around the fire, the dragon was the preferred subject. Many nights the good people went to sleep with their ears full of the fearful tales and they dreamed the most fantastic dreams about the dragon. In fact, the dragon became so familiar to everyone, that they began to imagine that they had reconciled themselves with her. She didn't seem to threaten them any more. Yes, she was still in the harbor. No, ships had not dared to leave for a long time. The dragon was just a part of life and had to be accepted as such.

How swiftly they swam! But, how strange? Friede didn't feel like she was under water at all. She could breathe just as if she was on dry land. She opened her eyes, and saw the water all around them, but the firey breath of the dragon created a path of air thru the water and they were flying.

So the people had a big festival and celebrated their accomplishment. They had learned to live with the dragon. True, the harbor was closed, and the power and riches of the dragon bene fited only their imaginations, but they had learned to be content and the festival was very, very nice.

The many other wonders and marvels that the dragon showed Friede that day are their secret. Friede's heart nearly burst with the gratitude and love she felt for the powerful dragon. Finally, the dragon brought Friede back to the shore. Friede begged the dragon to stay with her, and in that instant the dragon was trans formed into a beautiful worian. Because they were so much alike and made each other so hap py, Friede named her Freude, and they lived together, happily ever after. (0

Now, in that same country lived a beautiful virgin named Friede. She loved to read books, and had, in fact, read stories of other coun tries that had been threatened by dragons. Friede remembered that often, the people of 30

In the beginning there was only Divinity, the supreme Knower. Being the only existing thing, however, Divinity had nothing of which to be aware. Divinity found itself a subject without an object to contemplate, and It was unful filled. "Let us know Ourself," Divinity de clared, and It created the material universe out of Itself. Now It could know the sun and the moon, the stars and the Earth. But Divini ty was still not fulfilled. It wished not only to know, but to be known. Thus Divinity mani fested Itself in a dual form, and appeared on the Earth as the god Phallos, and the goddess Vulvos, each of which was capable of knowing the other and being known. Divinity invited the god and goddess to make love to each other, and in this union Divinity experienced the great joy of knowing Itself, of being both the Knower and the Known. And It was good. Being satisfied with their lovemaking, Phallos and Vulvos parted and went to rest on opposite banks of a lake which Divinity had created on the Earth. As he walked, Phallos noticed his reflection in the still surface of the water and became absorbed in the beauty of the image. Wishing to know Itself in all Its aspects, Divinity invited Phallos to make love to the male image. Similarly did Vulvos see her image and was caused to make love with it. Thus did Divinity come to know Itself in the grandeur of all Its fullness and majesty. And it was good. So pleased was Divinity with Its experience of Itself that It declared that Phallos and Vulvos should beget children of human form, that It might know and enjoy Itself perpetually. "Be fruitful and multiply," It said, "and fill the

Earth with your children that I may experience the joy of knowing Myself through their lovemaking." But Divinity was reminded of the beauty of Its experience on the banks of the lake and, wishing not to be limited in Its joy, declared, "Nine children shall you have which shall know Me as did Phallos and Vulvos through their union, but the tenth child will be special to Me and will know the beauty and joy of Me through uniting with another of its kind; male uniting with male, and female with female. And thus parents bear children throughout time, so that I will always know and enjoy Myself in all My aspects and be fulfilled." And so it has been, and will continue to be. Amen.

cke/'l/'VC' I grew up in Peru, South America, in the jungle on a tributary of the Amazon River. I loved the primitive life down there and the indians. We had cannibals. They shot (with six-footlong arrows) one of our men and ate him. A missionary went into the jungle and captured four of them, a middle-aged man (Cupai (Koopeye)), a young man (Shintigi (Sheen-tee-gee)), and old woman (Puri (Pooh-ree) ) , and a young woman (name unknown), and brought them into camp. They were in great physical shape, had never seen white men or machines or any aspect of civilization, and were very wary and curious. They had long hair, shaved on their foreheads and around their ears to keep hair out of their eyes and to hear more clearly in the jungle. The men didn't have facial hair for beards, but did have thin mustaches. The women had handwoven bedding cloths wrapped around their waists; the men wore only a string tied loosely around their penises, just behind the head, dangling a few inches. When they arrived in camp a missionary woman brought some underwear to the men. They took them, looked at them from several angles, then put them on their heads and pushed the fabric to the front to shield their eyes from the sun. 31

When they came intoour house (my father was camp leader), they squatted on thefloor. Another missionary lady went close to take a photo, and the young man lifted her skirt to see if she was a man or woman. He had a mis chievous streak, and it was he who had shot our workman a few days earlier, bragging to the older man that he could kill him with one ar row. They said, through a translator-guide from a related tribe, that his flesh was ten der, tasty, and sweet. On my wall hangs an oil painting my mother did of them. I have the crude skirt the old woman wore and three palm-leaf baskets they made. I was awed by them, and still respect and admire them and other indians (mostly friendly) who lived in Peru. ^

aerte

a a o c s

At&A'h'

L ' 0 /h " ÂŁ

H avoc's Faerie Tales is an illustrated collection of tribal stories.

Some o f us are bom neither male nor female. Some land on earth, draining circles and spinning lik f rain. Some count backward, unite backward, speak, backward Some are placing their hands fa r beyond their bodies. Some are unable to stand. Some sec only single colors; some are quick, some are still. Some takf pebbles on the side o f the road and throw them in the river. Some bum their legs in the cold water collecting stones just to put them baefon the road again. Some are neither the this nor the that. Some just carry on lik f trees. Some are just lik f you, only very different. Some are around you right now. This is how we put things together. . .

It tells of tribes that in one sense seem com pletely fictional and in another sense seem to be w ithin our culture. H ere are some of the stories an d grahpics from the book.

SUNGWE Most people have never heard of the Sungwe, and of those who lave, many would say that they do not really exist. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you could find someone who would claim to know something about them. The information though would be vague, inconclusive, and mostly from the imagination. Of the few that actually believe in the Sungwe, there are many different factions. Each has their own story as to why the Sungwe are so secretive, so unknown. Some believe that they used to exist and that there are probably none of them alive today. Some say that the Sungwe were chased for so long that they went into hiding, sharing a secret code and set of symbols, vowing never to reveal them to anyone. Others say the Sungwe went into the great woods. They discovered that they were happier being alone together in the forest. They then slowly became the gardeners of trees. Still others say that the Sungwe have disappeared in spirit, that since they have so thoroughly mingled with others they have lost all sense of being their own people. They say that there is so little history left in them that it is not enough to keep them together. Other factions say that the Sungwe are rich in history, but they just keep it to themselves. They say that the Sungwe would just as soon lie about themselves as tell the truth, and that is why we do not know about them. They claim that the Sungwe took interest in arts that no one else took interest in learning. And that is why they are unnoticed, why they are left alone. And one boy I talked to said that he believed all these people were right. That the Sungwe, in order to protect themselves do not even know if they are a part of their own tribe. In this way they can never be discovered, never be captured, nor forced to reveal their secrets. This way they can keep their heritage. And so, the boy said, you or even I could be one of them.

In this way they can never be discovered, never be captured, nor forced to reveal th e ir secrets. This way they can keep th e ir heritage. And so, the boy said, you o r even I could be one o f them.cC

m ‘ TAHKET

A group of very large folks live by ■themselves in the woods of Capi. They are known ,as the Tahket, which means “ large ones." They ; were named this by a trader who was amazed by their size when he came upon them in the woods. Whenever the Tahket greet each other ■they say something like "Good morning, large :one" and then they laugh a little to themselves, y because of course, to each other they do not look ' large at all. Every Tahket originally comes from a tribe^ r of the countryside surrounding the forest. This is / *how they come together: Some children in the neighboring villages| find that they grow very fast, much faster and [larger than the other children. At first the “ growing is just inside, but eventually their bodied \ begin to become very large as well. It slowly

NADLEEHS

The Nadleehs live in the desert. They know that there are many other things that live there too. They know that life there, in order to survive, has learned to hide well in the desert. 1 The Nadleehs have learned that the m longer they live in the desert, the more life they ’l l see. And so they figure there is probably life in every grain of sand, but they are just not able to see it yet. Each grain may be its own world, with millions of living creatures on it. Believing this has lead them to realize that they probably destroy thousands o f lives, thousands of worlds, w ith each footstep. |E This has not stopped the Nadleehs from > moving from one place to another, though it has ^ made them think more about each step they JjJg take. And sometimes at night they wonder, as p , they lay their blankets on the sand, which night * 4 someone much larger than they will come along 2? and flatten their world in order to sleep. W

■becomes clear, at least to them, that they are [somehow different from their family, from the lothers around them. Often they try to hide this. They play ‘ w ith the other kids, they watch closely how they jact, but they still do not feel right. Some hide because they are afraid of what others w ill think if they tell them that they are growing so large, that they are growing so differently. Others ignore their size because they like their families, they do not want to go out and find a new tribe. Many of these children have never heard of the Tahket, and so they believe that they are completely alone, that no one else is growing like them. But others know that there are people like them and that they must go out and find them. Not many villagers talk about the Tahket though there are stories about them. Villagers say that the Tahket steal their children from them because the Tahket have no children of their own.

H O 'V A

But this is not true. Rather, it is the children who realize that they are of a different tribe, a tribe that is not linked by parents or family or name. And most of these children go to the forest on their own to join the Tahket. Sometimes villagers see the large children walking out of town with all their belongings. The villagers often do not understand the tribe of the Tahket so they will stop and ask where the children are going. Some of the children lie. They say that they are simply renouncing all their belongings and are going to bury them or that they are going to hunt in the forest. Others even say they are going to find the Tahket, in order to spy on them, or to scare them. But some children will be unbothered by the question, and looking into the face of the villager say simply. "I am going into the woods to live with my people, the Tahket." Go

The Ho'va have what might even be thought of as a tribal desire to fly. They had invented what some would call primitive airplanes, long before other cultures had even settled down and developed farming. And they have had gliders that they have flown with for as long as people can recall. But their desire to fly goes way beyond these simple inventions, these moments of free fall. They want wings of their own, want to fly just as they are. They have heard of other cultures who have desired similar things: reports of people in south amerika who have sprouted wings; of people from africa who, after being enslaved and taken away, have escaped and flown back to their homeland; of wee folks on the island of great britain who have had wings of their own and who have flown into the forest, going far away from city people. It is in these ways the Ho'va want to fly. One of their ideas was to eat the wings of moths, butterflies, and flying bugs so that slowly they would grow similar wings for themselves. Another idea was to live in the trees watching the motions of baby birds from the time they hatched, to see how they learned to fly . Some of the Ho'va placed themselves in situations of great danger, hoping that the fear of the moment would cause them to suddenly leap -to fly - in order to save themselves. And others devised ways of ffying without leaving the ground.Co

For a copy of H a v o c ’s Faerie Tales (40 pages) send $4.00 to JanNathan Long Rt. 1, Box 84-A, Liberty, TN 37095

Paepie Here is a thought provoking tale from an cient Europe. It tells of what befalls Bro thers, unresolved in theirdifferences, in the shadow of a common enemy has a Goat in it too, Baaa..

•||The r Sacrifice In the center of a great plain, two great armiefe lay encamped facing each other. These two armies had joined forces to do battle with a ravaging horde from out of the north ern hills. Above one army floated bright pink flags, and above the other, bright lav ender. It was sunrise and the naked blades of the warriors glittered like serpents about their legs. Between the two armies was an open space and an altar upon which smoked a dull fire. Just as the sun rose, two aged men with snowy beards advanced, each from his own army, to opposite sides of the low altar. Another approached from the rear dragging a bleating goat. The venerable priest from the army of the pink flags lifted up his voice and said,"My brother, let us sacrifice to the gods of battle, praying that this day our swords may run red with the blood of our enemy. BEHOLD!, here is the GOAT! Behold, also, the great sacrificial knife which for centuries has slain our offerings to the gods. Hold you the Holy vessel so that the precious blood of the goat may not be sprinkled on the earth." "Venerable brother," said the high priest from the army of the lavender banners,"Be hold in me the chosen priest of the gods! behold here in my hand the ONLY true sword of sacrifice! Mine is the duty and the priv ilege of offering this goat to the eternal gods. Bring therfore, the beast before ME and do you hold the sacred dish to catch its blood."

With cries of rage,the two priests advanced against each other, while the third, rushing forward to preventthe shedding either's blood,let loose the goat,and the frightend animal fled,bleating away between the armies that looked on. Then rose up on all sides the roaring of angry men. Banners bobbed as warriors jost led them,steel crashed on steel, groans and cries and shoutingsrose like yellow mists against the sun. The ground grew slippery with red blood and men tumbled down in heaps cursing each other as they died. Then out of the north came the cohorts of the ravaging horde like a flying cloud. There was lightning in its folds and the rolling of its wheels was a thundering that shook the earth. "Shall we slay them now?", asked a soldier of the chieftain of the enemy. "Nay," said he, "Why dull our swords on such a cause? Behold, how they do our work for us, slaying each other with curses on their lips!" That night the stars rose across the bloody field. Two men of all the mighty warriors remained alive. The high priests who had gone forth at dawn to pray and to sacrif ice. "Brother," said one, "I fear. There is a noise of something creeping in on us from the left." "You speak truly," whispered the other. "Pray quickly to the gods and I will do like wise ." And as the two aged priests prayed,rais ing their sickly hands to the eternal stars, the goat came upon them, nibbling the long grass at their feet.

"BITCH!", cried the priest ofthe army of the pink flags. "You defile the altar where you stand. The gods fro«n upon you! Stand back from the stone of sacrifice!" "OLD COW!", cried the other priest, "What have the gods to do with you? Stand back yourself before I slay you with this sword!"I

I would enjoy any contributions of pre1940s material from our readers. Send to Goatboy c/o RFD. (copies please' Materials cannot be returned) 34

HOMO, SAPPY, YEN J i OR A FORE THE HOLIDAY ~ by

L. Russell Thom as

For a tnonth before Solstice, Auntie Chrys and her mass Of good fairies and tomboys Were all working like slaves. Every tom in her toolshop Made her power tools sing, flaking all of those queer things Each young fag and dyke craves. They made shiny new dump trucks, And toy soldiers, and trains To bring round for the solstice And put under the tree. They had so many more things That remained on their list: A new dollhouse for Justin; A baton for Henri. Jo said she wanted ice skates. And a new baseball bat Was what Tabitha wanted. There is still much to do! Auntie Chrys, in the meantime, Flitted round, making sure All was well in the toolshop, And in Woodworking too. While in the machine shop, Watching dykes building trucks, Someone asked from behind him, Would he please go to Parts To get bicycle sprockets And those new two-toned horns And a box of reflectors Like the ones on the carts. While there he assisted With a large box of stars For the bulls making badges And the fariy-wand crew. Now, with fairy wand waving, He made one final check. Being sure all went well, Out the side door he flew. On his stop in the woodshop, He was able to help Make a unicorn prancing Using hobby-horse plans. As he watched, a grand palace, With its turrets and spires, Came to life from a pile Of old wood and tin cans. To the nursery he flitted With his wand still in hand, Just to play with the puppies, Bunnies, kittens, and bird. But he couldn't remain there, For now time really flew, And the Solstice grew nearer: It was December third. As he danced down the hallway, Leading back to the stairs, He could smell sweet aromas From the kitchen above Where a big flock of fairies Was, he knew, hard at work, Baking things in the ovens That they tended with love. Then he pranced up the staircase, Seeming almost to float Through the door to the kitchen Past some queens icing cake.

All the fairies just twittered While they worked making tarts And all sorts of confections, That they soon were to take

it ■ ■

He was putting hot cocoa (And some sandwiches too) In the trucks for the faries And the dykes who would be

On their trip to the houses And apartments where live All the good little faggots And young lesbians who

Making sure every household With a young dyke or fag Got a visit from homos Leaving gifts by the tree.

Were all eagerly waiting For the night to arrive When the homos would visit, Making young dreams come true.

With a clamorous flourish All the doors opened wide, And a relay of boxes Quickly filled all the trucks.

All the candies and cookies And the other good things That the fairies were making Would soon be on their way.

With their sides fairly bulging, So their doors barely closed, They took on the appearance Of well-stuffed, roasted ducks. While the dykes revved their engines All the fairies checked twice, Making sure all the names matched With the cargoes on board.

Auntie Chrys, realizing He had just ten days left, Grabbed his hems and went flying Down the hall to the bay

As they finally got started, On their globe-circling ride, Auntie Chrys made each truck stop Just before they all soared.

Where more femnec and more butcher;, Working all at top speed, Did the big job of sewing All the capes on the list.

To blow everyone kisses, And remind all concerned "Just remember, as homos, You've got all that you need

While others were sewing Baseballs and baseball mitts Seven queen made corsages (They were most for the wris t) . All the crowns and tiaras With their sparkling stones, Got their final inspection By three queens and three kings

To cross mountains and deserts. All the oceans and swamps With the ease of a dreamer, And the eagle's great speed.

By now only a few days Still remained for the tasks Of the wrapping and trimming With bright ribbons and things,

You've got full diesel power And, I'm sure you're aware, Once the diesels get working It means All Ahead Full.

So dear Auntie Chrys massed with A loud trill on his flute All the fruits and the veggies So they all could join in.

Through the sands of the desert And the swamp's sticky mud-Even snows in the Arctic, Are no match for a bull.

With the wrapping and tying Now all nearly complete, All the packing and loading Onto trucks could begin.

You've got pure pansy power-All the real fairies have-Just to flutter and hover Till they float like a breeze

All at once a Top Sergeant In her loud, barking voice, Yelled, "OK all you fairies And you dykes, listen up!

Just a few glowing inches Over water and land. Really more than is needed To cross mountains and seas.

Let's get started with loading All the stuff on the trucks. Some goes in the cab with us, Like those fish--and that pup.

Put these forces together To accomplish your task And there's nothing can stop you, Nothing stands in your way!"

Keep it in the right order: Europe's here— Asia's there-This is Africa's section-Aussie stuff goes right here.

Then the diesels and fairies Shouted all their good-byes, Saying, "We'll be back with you By the first break of day."

The Americas' piles Are those two over there— If you all pay attention, Then we haven't a fear."

Auntie Chrys watched them circle As in many times past. Then at speeds of a lazer In the fairy-dust glow,

While they got their assignments To each part of the world Both the femmes and the butches Thought of only one thing: All those dear little homos Kith their hopes and their dreams And how much they all loved them; And what joy they would bring. Auntie Chrys, in the meantime, Was out back at the docks, Where the trucks were all waiting To be loaded and leave

f it *

Looking more like a starburst Than a convoy of trucks. They went every direction. It was really some show! Auntie Chrys then retired, To await their return, To his room in the turret Where he watched through the night, Dreaming, just like the children Being visited now, Of the bright, shiny boxes That they'd find at first light.

with their cargoes of presents For their trip round the world, Bringing joy to young homos On this long Solstice eve.

ri 35

P k . \ L T ji

s \ ^H

As I came out of the dentist's office, past the receptionist's desk, I saw him sitting there, filling out a new patient form— a beautiful man, masculine-looking, with dark brown hair, just beginning to thin. Because he was sitting down, it was hard to judge his height, but I'd guess five-eleven or six feet. He wore grey slacks and a blue short sleeve dress shirt.

You know how it is. You sometimes see that one certain person and you can't get him out of your mind. I lingered in the doorway, hoping he'd look up, we'd make eye contact. But no such luck. It was early, just before 9 AM, and sunlight through the sheer curtains at the window, sof tened his features. He had a craggy face, muscular arms. He wore reading glasses, so I'd judge he was at least in his forties. Isn't that when most people are forced to admit they're starting to deteriorate just a little? Yet he certainly didn't look like he was dete riorating. I wished I could take him home in my pocket, sneak him into the house and keep him there. Harmless daydreams, I suppose; fantasy. I'm a widower with two teenagers living at home. So how could I explain him? I walked to the parking lot in back, the air already warmer than when I'd arrived. Then it had been cloudy, with intermittent light rain. A Bach sonata played on the radio, KPBS. I pulled into traffic, signaled for the left lane to turn onto the freeway. The light changed, and I started up the on ramp. His voice made me jump. "I saw you looking," he said. He sat beside me, hands spread on his knees. Sun through the window glistened on the hair on his arms. "What—

How did you--"

He chuckled, the sound a rumble in his chest. "I thought we both deserved a change." I glanced guickly toward him and back at the road. The freeway was still crowded, cars heading west toward San Diego.

"This can't be happening," I said. real."

"It's not

"Reality is as we perceive it," he said. "If you think I'm real, then, of course, I am. To you." He chuckled again. "I'm certainly real to me." He reached for my hand on the wheel, stroked the back of it, pried my fingers loose, took my hand in his. "As Shakespeare said, 'this too, too solid flesh.'" He placed my hand back on the wheel, patted it a couple of time. "Not too solid, actually, just right." He shrugged. "Consider that maybe you're my fantasy, too." "How could that be?

How could you— "

"I think it was destined to be." "I've gone totally mad." "Don't take it that way." I glanced at him again. His face showed concern, sympathy. "I'll help you in whatever way that I can. You believe that, don't you?" "How did you get in my car? and then suddenly you were."

You weren't here

"Last night I had this dream." He looked at me quickly, a penetrating glance. "I've learned to believe in my dreams. Heed them." Here I sat, behind the wheel of my Ford Tempo, driving home from the dentist's office where I'd just had a tooth crowned. I should be thinking about the class I'd teach tonight. I should be planning my lecture. But instead, this man suddenly appears beside me, a man who fulfills my best fantasies. Everything I've always wanted, or so it seems. I consider stopping at the nearest phone booth and calling a doctor. "Did I simply conjure you up?" I asked. He threw back his head and laughed. I think my children would object."

"Hardly.

"Children." "Two b oys and a girl, Doing well. Debbie's

all in t h e i r twenties. a veterinarian, Paul a

"Jogging, Swimming."

tennis

when

can

fit

in.

"You like to swim?" I asked, as if he were really there, and I wasn't simply having delu sions. "I do too. Maybe we can find a place— Actually, there's a Y near my house. They have a great pool. I've been thinking of jogging." "You've pretty well accepted me then. The idea that I'll be around." He looked at me once more. "Love at first sight?" "You're pretty direct, aren't you?" "Isn't that what you'd expect a fantasy to be?" violinist with the New York Philharmonic, Cindy a chemist, working with liquid crystals. So you see, I couldn't possibly be a— what is it they usually say? A figment of the imagina tion. Strange word, figment. I've never heard it used in any other context, have you?"

We'd been traveling west on Interstate 8, had just crossed Route 15 and were heading toward 805 North, my turn off. I lived in Sierra Mesa, above Jack Murphy Stadium. What would happen when I reached home? Would the man beside me vanish in a puff of fairy dust?

Suddenly, I laughed till tears came to my eyes. Here the two of us were, or at least one crazy driver was, and we were talking about the con text and meaning of words. Highly unlikely, even for a fantasy.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"What's the joke?" he asked.

"And then— "

I explained what I'd been thinking and saw a smile play around the corners of his mouth. "You see," he said to me, "I dreamed last night that when I'd go to the dentist's office this morning, my greatest fantasies would be fulfilled."

"Play it by ear; see what happens."

"What I'm going to do with you." "Invite me in for a cup of coffee?"

"Listen," real — "

I said,

"if you

insist on being

"Your fantasies!"

"Hey, now," he said, and I detected a note of anger, "I accept you. Why won't you accept me."

"Why not?"

"What do you mean you accept me?"

"But you're my fantasy! You're everything I ever imagined— " Seeing his face turn red, I broke off. Then I grinned. "I'm sorry it embarrasses you," I said, "But it's the truth."

"You're my fantasy come true; apparently I'm yours. I needed someone. I separated from my wife to live with this man. He ditched me. Now that's pretty hard to take; pretty hard even to talk about."

"All right then." He stretched out his legs, leaning back, hands clasped behind his head. "Consider that I've always been attracted to the masculine type. And you certainly qualify. That blond hair, blue eyes, sparkling white teeth— " He glanced at me. "And, of course, that new crown," he kidded, "certainly set you apart. Should I go on?"

Immediately, I was sorry for-For doubting him? But certainly I'd doubt him. Anyone would when someone suddenly appeared beside them in a car leaving a dentist's office. "I'm sorry," I said. "It sounds rough." "I know things have been rough for you too. Your wife's dying, raising the kids yourself, and because of that not able to do with your life as you'd like."

I didn't respond. "I will then. You're trim, wear your clothes well, have a nice build though you're not a fanatic about it, with overdeveloped muscles."

"What!" I was so startled I nearly missed the turn. "How do you know all that?"

"Me?" I said. "No way. I have more important things to do than work out. Oh, I walk some, play a little basketball in the park by my house. But no, my body and how it looks is not one of the major considerations of my life." I reached over and patted his knee. "You look in pretty good shape yourself."

"Have you ever followed any of the studies concerned with dreams? I mean, it's pretty much been proved that you can remember your dreams, even control them." He spread his hands. "With me, it's even more than that. It's a sort of clairvoyance, I guess. Or maybe a kind of telepathy where I can hone in on certain people."

"Are you talking about me?" We were headed up the hill now. I'd need to get off at the first exit. But then what? How would I explain this man's presence? "Listen, forget that for a moment. I don't even know your name."

"In that sense, yes. But even if you dreamed about me, how could you suddenly appear beside me in my car?"

"Sorry," he said. "I know yours. Lon Ferris, right?" I nodded. "Mine's Russ Dunlap." He held out a hand. His grip was firm as we shook.

"You did this in a dream! You're telling me I'm part of your dream or whatever?"

"I wanted to, that's all.

So I did."

"About this dream thing," I said.

"That's not what I mean. Not at all." He took on an impish grin. "Dreamboat, yes. Part»of a dream, no."

"Yes?"

I laughed.

"I'd like to hear more."

"Isn't it?"

"What can I tell you? I've always been inter ested in the subject. I've done a lot of in vestigating, experimented with controlling the dreams."

"Well, this is where I turn off," I said. "I know.

"You're my fantasy, right? I told you that. You're exactly the kind of man I want. In fact, you are the man I want." "Okay, for the sake of what you want to say, I'll accept that. Though how I can be anyone's fantasy— "

For a time I worried about my kids, my house, my job. Then I gave it up and turned to the man beside me. Dreams? What are they but projections of the subconscious? And so I began to daydream, to visualize: As clearly as though it were playing out before me, I saw myself come out of the dentist's office, get into my car, head west on Route 8, plan lecture notes in my head, turn north on 805, get off at Phyllis Place, drive to my house, park—

He put his hand on my arm. "Hold on now. You said you'd accept it for the sake of my explanation." "I did."

"Okay then. But just so you know, think I'm worthy of being anyone's either."

Go ahead; I'm with you."

No matter how hard I turned the wheel, the car went straight ahead, up on past Phyllis Place where I should turn, on past Mesa College Drive, on past Route 163. I took my hands from the wheels; the car held steady, steering it self around slower moving vehicles, heading north toward L.A., toward San Francisco, toward Eugene.

"What do you mean by controlling?"

I shrugged.

"The whole thing is absurd."

I don't fantasy

As if of one mind, Russ and I pushed back the seats as far as they'd go, placed them into a reclining position, pulled the shades on the side windows of the car and reached out for each other.

We were close to the turnoff now. Most of the cars pulled into the left lanes. I stayed at the extreme right. "You were saying?" I said. "About the dreams? Well, dreams are a kind of reality too, aren't they? I mean they actually occur, and that makes them real, agreed?"

Other cars whizzed past. Up above two cops in a traffic control helicopter saw us, smiled and waved. Still as if of one mind, Russ and I waved back.

Mountains & Mist by Mohanan Hello everyone. I just want to make a few brief words of introduction to this issue's Spirituality feature. A reader has beer, generous enough to share his reflections on the recent Second Annual Celebrating Gay Spirit Visions Conference. The ProfessHer was lucky enough to attend last year's conference, but she has been so busy with mail from readers of RFD that she could not make it down to the lovely mountains of North Carolina for this year's event. The 1991 conference, entitled "Invoking The Muses to Celebrate the Erotic Godbody" took place September 20-22 at The Mountain Conference Center near Highlands, North Carolina. This conference is intended to provide a place for the exploration of gay male spirituality. As the organizers of the conference 3tate in this year's program/schedule: "We hope to set a stage where we can share our discoveries and explorations. We adhere to the concept that all of our views, concerns, and visions are important in gaining insight to our larger truths. Consult your inner voice and speak from your heart. This is a participatory experience." If after you read "Mountains and Mist" you think you might be interested in more information on next year's conference, tentatively set for Sept-ember 1720, 1992, write to:

Friday, late a m. Carolina's majestic old peaks, aglow beneath a royal September sky,flank us, four faenes folding flyers as we drive along, juggling inserts, assembling the brochure, 'Gay Spirit Visions' goes outside, 'Saturday Morning Schedule' goes inside (mustn't confuse the registrants by folding wrong side out, wrong faerie foot forward), until a stack of one hundred and twenty nestles tidily in Peter's lap as we begin the ascent passing gilded name exclusive country clubs (Faenes disdain the gates but dig the grillwork), up the waterfall canyon, past Highlands town, past Bn dal Veil falls, till the sign proclaims "The Mountain" .W e twist a few more turns along the driveway & reach the top, cloud-wrapped Gone (for now) that clearbuoyant late summer blue, gone the sun & scenery, & from the high perching terrace we stare at nothing but a few trees on the slope below, & beyond, a great grey blur of chilly nothing. Peter & Rocco & Buddy & 1disperse to our rooms, unpack, make beds, do lunch, grab naps. N e w arrivals crunch the gravel as afternoon wears on. By 3 there are all these m e n on the terrace' Is itthey w h o â&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve burned the clouds away, brought forth sun to undrape the luscious vista of range upon range of green clad hills & winding shaded valleys soanng & dipping without one human structure as far as eye can see? What other concealed glories will become manifest this weekend?

The Conference Committee c/o Ron Lambe 104 Trotter Place Asheville, NC 28806

Afternoon passes with shout & hug & chat as veterans of last year’s conference meet again, southern & northern men connect, musicians find each other & the hillsides begin to echo with sound of synth, voice, drum, celestial blendings. Dinner at 6:30, with welcomes from the organizers & The Mountain's friendly staff, all anticipating a weekend of joy, co operation & discovery, a birth that begins that same evening as all of us assemble in the Great Lodge above the terrace with ever grinning, gleamy-eyed Ron Lambe calling the circle & uncorking the spiral of names, points of origin, & Stephen Silha

assorted voluntary data W e then count off, dividing into eight grouplets of thirteen men apiece, who meet to choose a name, totem, clan color, & what our offering will be to the group as a whole

This is a gathenng with a difference, structured & organized more than most, and as the clans return, now with names like Birds of Paradise, Gay Lillies, and Phucking Phauns, the offerings, be they dance, song, perpetual hug, or invocation, reveal the range & depth & delight of who we are, what we value, how we share. The evening ends with chuckle prophet James Broughton, accompanied by collaborator/life partner Joel Singer, introducing their films, a cornucopia of images flowing with gaudy wit & zesty eros, time gilded mementos of gatherings & gaylife gone by, trifles of profundity, archives of play. Eastward above the silvery valleys, the moon waxing full applauds

Andrew, Franklin, Charlie, and James

to the mythic dawning of our tribe Great Mother falling into a sleep & dreaming a race whose imagination leapt across the boundaries that till then could not be crossed

Saturday opens with a heart clear sky, lighting lovely tatters of mist that nestle in the valleys & give the Smokies their name Ancient hills & ephemeral fog, lasting forever, gone in a moment, poles of Always & Now' for faerie spirit to bounce between. Morning bnghtens further with the presentation of tw'o keynote speakers: James Broughton (now in his guise of poet & faene elder) & Andrew' Ramer James begins with a blessing (actually he is one), reminds us not to expect rational arguments from a poet, & states his theme: Thene is only one temple, the human body, from which hub radiates a garland of spokes, like: You don’t have to renounce anything but misery, i d rather be kissed than stamped with approval, & this helpful hint for a time of plague: Love the living as well as the dying His being no less than his w'ords, proclaims that divinity & mirth, sex & spirit are one, & our heritage is the raising of bridges & the dancing across them.

Upon that note we all cross a boundary together, improvising a procession to the Amphitheater Being outdoors reminds us again of the greater Reality we are immersed in Some of the surrounding trees, we heard last night, are 500 years old, "older than this country,” & the region itself owes much of its lushness to being "the place the glacier missed" -seeds were safely stored here that went forth to re green the continent when ice at last retreated A metaphor7 No ice now, indeed the strengthening sun tugs at our clothes (though some succumb more readily than others), warming a panel discussion (James & Andrew joined by Charlie Murphy & Franklin Abbott) of How We Express Our Spirituality Franklin, in a straw fedora with horns "emerging” from the forehead, truly puts the Fan in panel The focus of this panel spills quickly through the whole assembled group of us, & by extension to the world at large, as two issues rouse the many minds our connection to the "men's movement" as symbolized by Robert Bly & Iron John, a phenomenon that seems to stir equal doses of gratitude & resentment, and the tnals of holding fast to an idealistic vision of humankind's destiny in the face of the last decade of retro repression There is no right or wrong here, though there be many viewpoints, voices of disagreement, fierce energy of concern, & the varied sparkling gems whose joining makes the mosaic of Faene wisdom

Connecting touching bridgeing are Andrew's themes, as well, as with fluid presence he tells his tales of the Walks Between People, we who make a virtue of not fitting in, tales ranging from his own childhood (waiting for the Good Humor Man’s twilight bell, the thrill of his touch as he passed the frozen treasure to Andrew’s doting hand, passing too, unspoken secrets with a glance that whispered, Brother, we are the same) 41

But even the deepest wizards need fuel, so we break for lunch, sauntering arm in arm in arm, by twos or threes or more, to the dining hall, before fragmenting further for the afternoon’s multiple workshop sessions How to choose among the options? Flower Oils or Chakra Balancing? Gay Warriors or Relationships? What about a stop at the Video Booth for an on camera interview, short but pithy? Or a hike along the mountain trail? Or a giggle & a cuddle off the agenda altogether? Not to mention finding time to rehearse for the evening Celebration of the Muses, hosted by Charlie Murphy & featuring his own rousing songs as well as some ditties by yours truly Mohanan, plus poetry, stories, & the epic appearance of the Sisters of the House of Chenille, among them Jessye Norman Chenille & Julia Child Chenille, plugging the new best seller Curling Iron John. Yet even this sublime entertainment faces competition from the simultaneous Body Flectric session, so by the time we all com e together again, for chants & drumming & dancing around the bonfire beneath the moon, there are spirits among us who welcome nothing so much as bed, & the dreams that a hundred lovers can dream as one.

There is much support for the idea of establishing an emotional first aid station, manned throughout the next gathering by volunteers prepared to offer hugs, hearts & ears to brothers in need Names are suggested for possible keynote speakers. One man, a quiet presence throughout the weekend, announces that he is straight, married, and has com e to develop his capacity to be close with gay men. Controversy swirls, positions form. Finally, there is nothing left but benediction. Franklin Abbott invites us to circulate through the Lodge, making eye contact & offering appreciation (but non-verbally) to w'hoever has moved or delighted us this weekend. Smiles become grins, hugs embraces, nods sighs, & soon the space is a sea of moans & murmurs, whispers of the heart. Franklin's measured, soothing tones invite us to sink floorward in a tarigle of touch & contemplate with closed eyes the Lavendar Light glowing within and around us, the tender power connecting us over the days & months to come, across the miles. One more spiral dance, one more Broughton poem, & we disperse to the mundane tasks of stripping beds, loading cars, tidying cabins. Far beyond the terrace, the last wisps of mist are vanishing into the sun’s blaze The mountains remain.

Sunday morning comes, & not even its radiance can dispel the certainty of our coming dispersal So we breakfast slowly & with deliberation, taking in the hum of voices, the buzz of color, with every mouthful, then repainng to the closing at the Lodge with that bittersweet blend of anticipation & regret that stamps every gathering’s final circle We meet with our clans again before assembling to compare notes on things we’d like to change for next year's re convening: happily the most repeated suggestion is, We want an extra day!

I want to say a special thank-you to Mohanan for his wonderful reflections on the conference, and a special thanks to both Mohanan and Stephen Silha for the photographs. And remember, if you have any comments or contributions, send them to me:

the whole gang at the 1991 conference 42

Keynote Address for the 2nd Gay Spirit Visions Conference 21 September 1991 at The Mountain, Highlands NC

By James ‘B roughton

because its inheritance permeates the thinking of our entire society: our laws, education, government, and social attitudes. Churches exist to make you feel miserable. And ashamed. And unacceptable to the tyrannies of conformi ty . This prompts repressive measures, funda mentalist fear of the body, and homophobia. True religion, unlike the church, is the prac tice of sexual loving. Historically the church has denounced pleasure seekers of all kinds: not only lovers but artists, performers, magicians, mystics. Even orthodox Buddhism is unfriendly toward human pleasure. Buddha himself insisted that life is suffering and that in order not to suffer everyone should get rid of desire. Buddha was very down on desire. Broughton is very up on desire. Zen and Taoism are practical philosophies, not religions. They assert the matter of fact as true enlightenment. .\'o gods, no theology. Zen says Everything is. Tao say Everything flows. Only Hinduism beholds the world sensu ally, seeing everything as divine, praising the sexual organs, celebrating sexual desire as an impulse of the gods, striving toward what is called the Great Delight. Let fundamentalists feel threatened by any manifestation of naked joy. To a gay spirit pleasure is a great moral good. Life is a happy valley as well as a vale of tears. Life

I am here as a spokesman for gaiety of spirit and glory of the flesh. My text for this happy sermon is a statement from Novalis: "There is only one temple in the world, and that is the human body." Persuade yourself of this truth and let it radiate through you. Dissuade yourself of any notion that Spirit is something that only hangs around churches or is something fuzzy flitting over your head. Recognize that your body is a divinity you inhabit.

"Buddha was very down on desire. Broughton is very up on desire." I am not here to convert you to any body of doctrine. I am here to convince you of the holiness in your own body. The moral religions -- Christianity, Judaism, Islam -- have insist ed that this precious and beautiful world we inhabit is the domain of Satan. Therefore its sensual pleasures must be avoided so that one will not end up in damnation. To the orthodox the body is a sewer not a temple. To them the wondrous natural activities of the body — eating, farting, shitting, fucking, even spit ting and yawning and dancing, to say nothing of gambling and gamboling — are disgusting and unacceptable to the Holy Spirit. I harp on the curse of church doctrine 43

is a densely mixed blessing: a painful joy, a dance of opposites, a warring peace, an ecstat ic agony. It is the playing field of the Divine. So let us live fully in our temples with respect for their wonders. I ask you now to experience your body as a sacred place. A temple is a place to sing hymns of praise. From your tiptoe to your topknot you are throbbingly alive. Feel your glow. Feel it sing. Know that you partake of the divine, that you are lived by the divine, that you are divine. You embody the mystery of life. For a moment place both hands over your genitals. Not to conceal them, but to cherish, and to praise. This is the creative core of your godbody, the place of instinct, impulse, and transformation. Concentrate on your phal lic glory. The penis is the exposed tip of the heart. The penis is a wand of the soul. Whatever its shape, size or shame, it is your holy birthright. Praise it. Give thanks for its awesome powers. Its energies permeate every corner of your temple, connect all the chakras, the highest to the lowest. Phallus, perineum and anus form the trinity at the root of your torso's experience. I use the Latin terms to dignify these centers, to make them sound like Roman gods. In the holy balls in your scrotum the treasure of your semen is kept. This is the monstrance for the consecrated Host of your temple. Did you know that the one part of you that never grows old is your semen? An anato mist told me. You can lose your mind, have heart failure, suffer intestinal collapse: your semen will remain forever young. Doesn't that suggest that you will possess plenty of spirit to the end of your days?

They are shining substance of my own godbody flesh. I am not interested in their armors, nor the games of their egos. I am not eager to ridicule or stab in the back. For this affec tionate attitude I endured humiliating punish ments. But in the end I am proud to assert my natural nature and my dedication to loving mankind. "Reach/Touch/Connect" is one of ray mot toes. I have difficulty keeping my hands off my fellow men. I want to touch their hearts and souls. "The beauty of man is my hope and my sorrow." I long to embrace and caress, lie close, share my words and my songs, confide the secrets of my longing. Perhaps I was naive in the dear old days of the Turkish Baths. I moved fondly past the cubicles and entered each one just to touch and to kiss the holy icon of each body on each cot. I would be astonished when a body would jump up, slam the door and try to rape me. That was not the idea at all. I was simply performing my holy rounds, my Stations of the Cross. Each cock was a bead of my rosary.

"Visit one another's temples." when it comes to spiritual enlightenment, it would be better if you did lose your mind. I he mind is a secondary organ that thinks it is smarter than all the rest of you. It is stutted with critical opinions and inherited prejudices. lor instance, don't let your mind try to castrate you because of some misguided feminist notion that your maleness is something shameful, some kind of despoiling weapon. Genital aggression for intimidation and domi nance is a perversion that desecrates the temple. Perverse greed for power is the mind's ugly doing. The mind is the worst pervert in the world. Your sexuality in its natural force does not destroy. It proliferates. You don't have to renounce anything in order to be spiritual. Renounce only your continuing misery. Renounce making judgments and putting up barriers. Be kind to your instincts. In the goddess sanctuaries of antiquity, her priests castrated themselves as acts of total surrender. But that is ultimate submission to the Great Mother. Becoming a eunuch will not solve your erotic problems, your heartache or your loneliness. On the contrary let sexual enthusiasm radiate throughout your body — through your bloodstream, your guts, your heartbeat. Always take hold of your sex with love. The proper activity in a temple is worship. Share your holiness. /isit one another's temples. I was born a lover. I was born to love my lellowmen. I don't wish to compete with them,* outmaneuver them, trick, trip or trounce them, i don t think of them as objects to acquire.

Now place your left hand on your phallus and your right hand over your left breast. You are touching the Opposites in your Body: your

masculine phallus and your feminine breast which holds your heart inside it. This is a way to affirm the wholeness of your being. Inner unity is the wedding of these opposites, creating the Divine Androgyne, the hermaphrodeity you were born with. Your birthright was double-sexed: half from the mother, half from the father. Don't create other divisions, this one is sufficient.

Boys are taught to be stiff and hard, brittle and dry. Taught to be cruel, ruthless, unfeeling. Example: the boot camp for Marines in the movie "Full Metal Jacket". Instead of being trained to kill one another, instead of bashing one another on a football field, couldn't boys be taught to dance together? Instead of going out and making trouble devote one hour a day to making love. It's a ravishing form of meditation. Put lovemaking before moneymaking and troublemaking. Teach lovemaking in every school. Make loving a national endeavor. Install Love Officers Training Corps in high schools. Instruct youth in every aspect of the art of love. Clasp, kiss and connect. Relish differ ences and similarities. Rub against fellow creatures of all stripes, shapes, scents and sweats, all textures, tints and tastes. How else will we end the civil wars of the world? You must love even if it hurts. It will hurt more if you don't love. Can you make a holy habit of sexual love? Can you make a sexual habit of holy love? Can you dump your qualms and excuses, your taboos and allergies? Think of it: if you devoted to the practice of love as much energy as you expend on triviali ties and cruel schemes, you might change the world. To make connection -- shaking or holding a hand is a start. But let's go farther. Leo Buscaglia campaigns for hugging, which affirms trust and respect. When you hug, put your whole body into it. I would add kissing. Kissing is head on connecting. It is life restoring. It resuscitates. Besides it tastes interesting. Practice life-saving on your neighbors. At San Francisco State University I started kissing all my colleagues in the Crea tive Arts Department as a regular daily greet ing. It seemed to cheer them up.

And from this vantage point you can open your temple to love. If you love your godbody well, you are better able to love others. To paraphrase a great poet and lover of men who was born in Bethlehem: "All you need to know in life is to love yourself so that you can love those around you. Love the Godbody in them with all your heart and soul and mind. On these two principles hang all the meanings of religion." So, share your holiness. Reach out to your neighbor and go together into the kingdom. In the sauna I sat sweating among the sweat of others and the sweat was weeping from the deep ache in those bodies. It wept from their armpits, from their groins, from their brows — weeping of unspoken desire, the desire for love seeping from their hearts in mutual sweat. Be not shy of the love you share with other men. Be unafraid of its splendor. It marries Hermes to Aphrodite within you, takes you on a quest with a Twin Hero. Fear of love is fear of the sublime. Deny it at your peril. Love is the only remedy for the plagues of the world. Love is a radiant energy wave. You occupy love as you occupy space. You breathe love as you breathe air. Its force operates the universe. Love one another! Love one another! Is this too difficult for intelli gence to allow? To love is the major goal of life. To be a lover is to practice the major art of life. Said the wonderful Chinese sage, Lao-Tzu:

"Kissing is head on connecting. It resuscitates. Besides, it tastes interesting." But what about much deeper connecting? What about fully loving your neighbor as your self, and affirming mutual divinity? Whatever happened to friendship? Keats said: "Friend ship is the holy emotion." In an earlier age the highest expression of civilization was the supreme tenderness one man could manifest for another. In that chivalric time these devo tions contained intense emotional feeling. Their deep commitment obliged a man to go to bat for his bosom friend, no matter what the risk, as well as to share his friend's achieve ment as his own. In Shakespeare we often observe these noble sharings and their declarations of valor ous love. The sturdiest feeling in Hamlet's life is for Horatio. Michel Foucault has pointed out how, in the 17th and 18th cen turies, these heroic passions began to be criticized. When personal friendships triumph, bureaucracies and political constructs do not function well. In education, in religious orders, in the armed forces, group ethos is more valued than individual loyalties. In order to subjugate fraternity of feeling, the justice system in the 18th century made deep friendship unacceptable, declaring love between men to be a sexual perversion. Thus, natural affection and mutual devotion turned into social problem and political crime.

Men are by nature born soft and supple. Dead, they are stiff and hard. Plants are born tender and pliant. Dead they are brittle and dry. Thus, whoever is stiff and inflexible is a disciple of death. Whoever is soft and yielding is a disciple of life. The hard and the stiff will be broken, the soft and the supple will prevail. 45

Stop thinking of yourselves as outcasts. You are meridian persons at the core of truth. You are not slaves to the breeding machinery. You are not swallowed by the consumer collec tive. You are raising consciousness, not babies. You are advocates of divine merriment You could be innovators of a new way of life. Buddha said, "The world is on fire, and every solution short of liberation is like trying to whitewash a burning house." Let yourself be believed by your angels. Open your orifices to dominions and powers. Pledge your valor and irradiate your temple. The holiness of sexuality gives every man his chance to be a genius.

To patriotic ears E.M. Forster's vow during World War II sounds traitorous: "If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I would have the strength to betray my country." That puts the emphasis on human values rather than on the abstraction of the body politic wherein one is expected to function without feeling. Nowadays a friend is someone you can use to get ahead or borrow money from, someone to drive you to the airport or the hospital. You don't set off together like knights errant to explore a new land, found a city, bring back a boon to enrich the souls of your fellow men. Nowadays the therapist, the lawyer, the doctor, the stock broker become those you rely upon. However, you have to pay for their sympathetic aid and can merely hope the investment will prove worth the expense. Love is the meaning of life, the only meaning it has. A soldier's hands are wasted cocking guns. Love is the only solution to every problem, the only salvation that has never been implemented. It has been talked about, but never tried. The truth always ends up being Love for nothing really works well without it. Love is the only scientific phi losophy. An unlovable attitude is bad busi ness. Even vultures exercise tenderness in springtime. Could I persuade you to become passionate missionaries? Would you take on the mission of spreading love? I do not see you as an isolat ed self-centered clan. I behold you as propa gators of the Faith, faith in the loving as pects of man's nature. You have shown sterling compassion in tending the doomed and the dying. Do not forget to tend the needs of the living, those who need desperately to be wakened to life before they too begin to perish. Souls are sick all around us in this crass and violent time. Bring them love. Massage their hearts. Become ministers of compassion and wisdom, like many affectionate Dalai Lamas. Could you become a secret order, devoted to spreading the love of mankind, like Jesus and his band of camerados? They were "outside the mainstream" of society. Because they were in the mainstream of wisdom. They were thought of as lunatic fringe, an annoying minority. But they were actually at the heart of the matter. They believed in the eros that could be aroused in every man.

James Broughton is a San Francisco poet, author of many books and plays, and a widely respected pioneer in the realm of avant-garde cinema. He is, in fact, the only established American poet who has been consistently engaged in filmmaking as a form of poetic statement. In 1975 he received Film Culture's Twelfth Independent Film Award for his outstanding work of thirty years and was cited as "the grand classic master of Independent Cinema."

Erotic Fitness Program

Behold the cock you love Love the cock you hold Open your crotch- to be quarried Open your crock of gold Open your minds to your cocks Open your hearts to your holes Enlarge your spirits with organ play Enrich your souls with semen song Sex is the hygiene of love Los e is the exercise of life

Be firm jn daj|y devotion Do sexercising religiously •&-

Eat more lust for lunch and get plenty of ecstacy

T>AVc(<h$

4ht9 tl$At

for Kim bv Garv Plouff

It is night now inside the hill the cave lit bv firelight mv heart varms to the flames as I find the source returning to the inside of things to the light of moons to the fireflies; Beacons to this voyager now ascending the stone walls the ancient chambers rich with care layer upon laver echoes of half-remembered songs cool air against rv cheek as T kneel to receive a hlessinr. How lone must I wait to stop loving vou? Fhould T take a trio on a train crochet a ouilt string some beads make some notions find someone new write a song or a noem of forgett

â&#x2013; jN * '

When I remember who we were... There was a oromiseâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; "things would get onlv better" vou said, "it's onlv the beginning." When T go back much farther an ancient door opens and we flv right through straight and clean with our breasts flvir.g. Those were the davs of two happv-eo-lucVy healers-1overs in the night, hands held tight together as we mingled our laser-like tones to a single healing interval, mending bone and skin and eves. Those shining Atlantean davs. Todav I fall back into mvself, mv longing, mv biding nlace. I fall and rise rbvthmically keening time to an inner nulse A voice within whisners words incantations of warning, of death and awakening.

Mv body heeds the timbre, the u r g e n c y of the vibration. A chant arises from my throat, a cobalt blue chant: I am a power man life man tree man. I am a ran of the leaves of the sorrows of the winds. I am a man who knows the inside oe things. The man of the snake o f the sea of the wing of the feather.I

Cayne

I am a man on his wav home. 47

a song for d.s. bv L.F. Wilson tall man you melt my heart so easilv and smile at vour victory then smile and turn awav dark man vou licht a hidden fire in me I follow vou so willinglv but vou won't let me stay handsome man I I wonder what you want from me to nass me hv so heartlessly with no more words to sav tall man dark man handsome man vou melt my heart so easilv I know I love you foolishly but vour smile nulls a tide in me drowninn me in honestv tall man dark man handsome man! T ache for love's simolicitv I ache for davlipht claritv but you burn me with duolicitv and mv heart won't let he be

downtown

S. Charles Donovan

hv S.F. v,ead

night vision

Trains & crickets, the snace velvet enouph for a guitar S Flvis singinp soft low... The nivht's poinp slow here, slow as a naked back movinp gentlv to the touch.

by John Brigps rrom blocks awav I see vour windows lighted and I almost turn around. I'd planned to drop off one last ooem, but now rehearse an ad-lihbed scrint of casual indifference. T'm takinp a vacation soon. T'n seeine someone now. The steps approachine vour front door have not been cleared of snow. The window to vour livinr room is unshuttered and unshaded, and at vour door I stand with unrloved hand lonp enouph to see you almost naked on the couch with some blond woman, so hypnotized Kv loncint? she does not detect me at the untouched hell. I think that she is strikinelv good-looking. I never realized vour calves and thiphs were nuite that hard. T turn awav and stuff mv poem under the windshield winer cf your car.

Teach un a little, feel £ mess the hair, taste distance so smoke-close it's a face heine named like streets as vou near them, slinoine into a dream of fadirp cinemas, of silver rain on the wind, headinp east, now west, this maze takes form, an envelope's navigation to where it helonps, or could, de livered by a kiss of so much sweet spit £ sweat. Find, find the address, arm around arm, over neon fields £ damn fraerance dense in the shadows. locked strines.

We are that package, its inter We are those rooming house woods.

DECONSTRUCTING CLOSETS IN RURAL AMERICA:

Will Hubbard Blacksburg, VA INTRODUCTIONS "Will, you're a Gerontologist and a gay man, so tell me, I never notice any old lesbians and gay men in San Francisco. Where have they gone?" Having left rural Virginia for San Francisco this past Summer to teach a course in Rural Gerontology, this question was asked of me by a 39 year old gay male friend who has been living in San Francisco for about 20 years. Approximately 8% to 10% of the population of the Unites States is lesbian/gay (Kehoe, 1991). in San Francisco, a lesbian/gay mecca with a total population of about 700,000, one-third of whom are lesbian/gay, it is estimated that there are 24,000 lesbians and gay men age 65 years and older (Gay and Lesbian Outreach to Elders, 1991). If you live, as my friend does, in the Castro district, long recognized as the heart ot San Francisco's gay/lesbian community, one would expect to notice with regularity our lesbian/gay elders. To my friend, and to most people - lesbian/gay and nonlesbian/gay - old lesbians and gay men remain invisible. While little research has been done in rural areas, many believe that the threat of invisibility grows as we get further away from our urban lesbian/gay communities. Invisibility may not sound like the worst of all possible crosses to bear, but it can threaten our well being in innumerable ways that are not always evident. Heading this list is a daily challenge to the maintenance of our self-esteem.

beautiful. This usage was adopted by the lesbian community at a recent Old Lesbian Conference (Kehoe, 1991). I use the terms lesbian and gay instead of homosexual in the belief that the term homosexual fails to capture much more than the sexual piece of our identities. Most lesbians prefer the term lesbian over gay woman (Lipman, 1984) . Like Monika Kehoe, author of Lesbians Over Sixty Speak for Themselves (1989), I use the term nonlesbian/gay instead of "straight". The use of "nonlesbian/gay" can help us to reclaim some of the power that has so long been denied us.

CENTRAL FOCUS In this article, I will introduce you to some current Gerontological knowledge about old lesbians and gay men. It is my hope that this information will be useful in exposing and deconstructing some commonly held negative beliefs about getting older as lesbians and gay men. With our myths exposed, we can begin to construct positive and useful images of lesbian and gay aging. SOME HISTORY Fortunately, there is a considerable body of lesbian and gay Gerontological research and practice to draw from as we undertake this task. Before the arrival of the lesbian/gay liberation movement in 1969, Gerontologists had, for the most part, ignored lesbian/gay issues of aging (Raphael & Robinson, 1981). Fueled by a poststonewall climate of activism, pride, and an increased sense of safety around being out personally and professionally, a group of Gerontologists, mostly self-identified lesbian and gay men, began searching for our lesbian

SOME VOCABULARY Gerontology is a social science discipline concerned with the study of human longevity. The use of the word "old" instead of euphemisms such as older, aging, etc. is used in the belief that old is 50

and gay men of migration to rural areas. Little research has focused on such migration among old lesbians and gay men. Undoubtedly, some "settlers" come in search of a more relaxed lifestyle. Others come in search of lower living costs. Many lesbians and gay men have come in search of and found or formed lesbian/gay-identified rural collectives and intentional communities. Whatever their motivation, settlers find themselves among "native" lesbians and gay men who have lived in these rural areas all or most of their lives. Silverstein (1980) reports that among gay male couples in rural areas, natives and settlers seldom socialize. Cultural differences and fears of being outed are often to blame.

communities would be hard pressed to develop lesbian/gay sponsored and identified social service programs specifically for old lesbians and gay men. So, what can be done in rural areas? Service providers can create safe environments for the disclosure of lesbian and gay identities. If you suspect that your client is lesbian/gay, don't force him or her out. Instead, as Meyer (1991) suggests, the best thing for you to do if you are lesbian or gay is to come out. If you are not lesbian or gay, you might consider stocking your visible and accessible book shelves with lesbian/gay positive literature. For the lesbian or gay man who wants to remain in rural America, Moses and Buckner (1980) suggest finding ways to help individuals go beyond tolerating their situations to celebrating their rural lives. For some, this may simply mean finding ways to be more open about their identities.

'Problems of physical and mental health go untreated"

One way of accomplishing is simply reaching out to others. In our own communities, we can think about starting discussion groups and organizing social events. The numbers in attendance needn't be large. Meaningful contact can be made through the mail and by telephone. Examples may include finding lesbian/gay pen pals, placing and/or responding to a "personals ad", subscribing and submitting work to lesbian/gay publications, volunteering with lesbian/gay groups, subscribing to lesbian/gay organization newsletters, or contacting the nearest lesbian/gay helpline.

RURAL CHALLENGES Moses and Buckner assert that the fear of discovery experienced by rural lesbians and gay men may be so generalized that all social exchanges become difficult to manage (1980). This problem seems to be greater for old lesbians and gay men who have spent a lifetime in hiding. We may lessen or avoid contact with nonlesbians/gays fearing that we will out ourselves. We may avoid contact with other lesbians and gays, fearing that such associations will force us out. Many of us, as we strive to maintain our independence in later life, find it necessary to call on our networks of social support. In rural areas, our networks are likely to be smaller and harder to access. Rural lesbian and gay communities are likely to consist almost entirely of small, isolated, and exclusive groups (Moses and Buckner, 1980).

Old lesbians and gay men are currently and will continue to live in rural areas. our numbers are increasing. As the baby boom generation reaches old age and begins to seek new ways of being lesbian and gay and old, many will undoubtedly choose rural living. In the final analysis, the responsibility for makincr it safe to be openly lesbian and gay and grow old with dignity in rural America rests with each of us. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Will Hubbard, MA, PhD (cand.) is currently an instructor in the Gerontology Programs at San Francisco State University and in the Department of Family & Child Development at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and state University and a Gerontologist in private practice specializing in lesbian and gay issues. Will is embarking on a study of what it is like to be a gay man in small towns in the American South.

Most rural areas are lacking in organizations and services that can be considered to be lesbian/gay friendly (Breeze, 1985). We know that old lesbians and gay men in urban areas, fearing discrimination, remain very reluctant to seek needed help. Most believe that this problem is greater in rural localities. As a result, many old lesbians and gay are likely to let problems of physical and mental health go untreated.

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REFERENCE LIST Berger, R.M. (1982). Gay and Grays: The Older Homosexual Man. Champaign, IL: University of Illinois Press. Berger, R.M. & Kelly, j.j. (1986). Working wiLh homosexuals of the older population. gocial Casework. 67(4/April(, 203-210. Breeze (1985). Social service needs in rural communities. In Hidalgo, H. Peterson, T.L., & Woodman, N.J. (Eds.) Lesbian__and Gay Issues: A Resource Manual-- for Social Workers. Silver Spring, MD: National Association of Social Workers.43-48.

OUR RURAL FUTURES San Francisco and New York are currently the only cities in the United States with agencies targeting the needs of old lesbians and gay men (GLOE in San Francisco and SAGE in New York). These agencies have found outreach to old lesbians and gay men to be very challenging. For example, GLOE, in existence since 1982, can identify only about 500 old lesbians and gay men in a city with an estimated 24,000 gays and lesbians age 65 and older. Most rural 52

CHEESE BREAD

Scald: 1-1/2 c. milk

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In a large bowl, dissolve for 3 to 5 minutes: 2 packages active dry yeast in 1/2 c. 105-115F water

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Stir in the cooled milk mixture. Add and beat until smooth: 1 well-beaten egg 1-1/2 c. shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (1 t. powdered thyme) (1/2 teaspoon powdered marjoram) (1/2 c. finely chopped pimiento) Beat in well: 3 c. sifted flour

G f t e e v N G S

Add, and then continue beating and stirring until the dough begins to leave the sides of the bowl, about: 3 c. sifted flour

-----------------------------

Knead the dough about 10 minutes. Allow to rise once in the bowl and once in the pans, covered, until doubled in bulk. Brush the loaves with: (melted butter)

Hope all of you are doing ok. It was a most beautiful fall. Mother outdid herself, as usual. The weather was good and the season's colors were spectacular. Now that winter has arrived, it's time to move indoors and think about doing some baking. This time I've chosen some recipes I think you'll enjoy. First is a recipe for a delicious cake made with fresh apples. Next, is a recipe for some great cookies that are chocolate filled. Your friends will love these. Finally, there's a recipe for a wonderful herbed cheese bread that will impress that new man in your life the next time you have him over for dinner.

Bake in a preheated 375F oven about 30 minutes.

I hope you'll give these recipes a try and enjoy them. Home-baked goodies are always so much better than something that comes out of a box. I'm sure you'll agree. Well, I guess I'll close for now. All of you take care of yourselves and each other. We're all we've got. Stay well and I'll see you in the spring. 3/4 c. Crisco 1/2 c. sugar 1/4 c. packed brown sugar 1 egg 2 t. vanilla 1-3/4 c. unsifted flour 1/2 t. baking powder 1/2 t. salt 1/2 c. very finely chopped or ground blanched almonds or pecans 3-1/2 to 4 dozen milk chocolate kisses

APPLE CAKE Sift

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3 c. flour 1 t. salt 1 t. soda 1/4 t . nutmeg

3 1 11

eggs c. oil t. lemon juice t. vanilla

Add

Preheat oven to 350F. Using electric mixer, cream Crisco, sugars, till fluffy. Add egg, extract; beat well. Add flour, baking powder, salt, nuts; mix until blended. Form dough into 1-inch balls. Press each ball around a kiss so kiss is completely enclosed like a chocolate covered cherry. Bake 12 minutes on ungreased cookie sheet. (Do not overbake!) Cool on wire racks. Frost/decorate as desired. 3-1/2 to 4 dozen cookies.

2 c. sugar 3 c. chopped apples 1 c. nuts 3/4 c, raisins Beat egg mixture, add all other ingredients and mix well. Bake in well-greased and floured tube pan approx. 1-1/4 hours at 350F. 54

Close To 'The Knives is an impressionistic, fluid collection of the thoughts of a gay man with AIDS; sometimes it’s in the form of an essay, other times it flows out in pure stream of consciousness writing. I nere is a strong cinematic quality to Wojnarowicz's writing as he scans a landscape be it the vast emptiness of the American Southwest or the streets and crumbling piers of New York City— sucking in the splinters and fragments of what we fleetingly call “reality.”

trial, they knew well the clanger of touching, of sex, and especially of gay sex. Since they could not be explicit, their poetry has a dreamy, wistful quality about it.

Wojnarowicz s vision of life on this planet in the late twentieth century is of a surreal, mindbending, shattering nature. At times the vision is informed by drugs and the mystical, otherworldly state that lies just beyond our habitual existence. In this, Wojnarowicz shares with other writers like Baudelaire, William Burroughs, Paul Bowles, Aldous Huxley, the urge to escape the logical, ordered (read sanitized, i 6 un^.nizec*and bureaucratized) world for places dreamed about and longed for only in our imaginations.

Both Edmund John and Cuthbert Wright wrote in a more formal style than many Uranians. They were greatly impressed by the mystery and beauty of the High Church, but often saw choirboys and Acolytes as pagan gods. Edmund John writes: And a young priest, who saw thee, clutched his beads And grew all pale as from the organ reeds Pealed once the poignant pipes of Pan.

Even with one foot probing the eerie, sensual, often bizarre world around him, the author’s other foot is tied to the reality of being a gay man with AIDS in a culture whose homophobia and rage against iversity-—be it sexual, social, or political— take new and ugly twists almost daily. New York is perhaps the best microcosm of the American brand of decay and rot Wojnarowicz experiences— a city ridden with homelessness, a deteriorating infrastructure overwhelmed by human need, people and babies with AIDS, drug addicts, squalid housing, phoney, self-serving politicians and religious leaders—all this amidst the gleaming towers of wealth and privilege and power.

Much of John’s work is about death, perhaps a premonition of his own tragic death in the appalling carnage of the first world war. Some are very sad: O let me lay my lips On your closed eyes again, And touch your wild, dark hair, To feed my pain. The heros of Wright s five poems and John’s seven are quasi-mythic beings separated from their admirers by clouds of holy smoke. They are often parts of magnificent processions rather than being close and available. Cuthbert Wright writes:

Wojnarowicz takes aim at the myth of what he calls the “One Tribe ation, that constantly preached and advertised notion of a homogenous, “preinvented world” which is white, rich, powerful, unceasingly heterosexual, "all-American.” Whenever an attempt is made to publicly challenge the One Tribe hegemony by, for example, gays and lesbians, who have tried to turn private lives into an open celebration of non-heterosexual identity, the powers that be rush in to squelch, censor, outlaw, forbid. Witness the consistent attempts (and unfortunate successes) around the country to rescind gay rights laws; or worse, outright bans on even discussing homosexuality in public

And then the shout of boyish beauty sends Its innocent and glad soprano high. As pass the little choirboys two by two. In contrast, the boys of Philebus’s twenty-five poems are present and real. His style is faster, sometimes camp and clever, often coy. There is humor and life in his work. A Boy Scout, with the most bewitching knees And smiling eyes to match...

~ ^rves, nnauy, as a telling chronicle of with 80s Keaganism has wrought on the nation. It shows unequivocally that the Emperor has no clothes, that the world o f George O rw ell’s doublespeak in 1984, is, in fact, the world we inhabit. Wojnarowicz sees little hope in salvaging much good out of this current state of affairs. At the end of his book, he writes about attending a bullfight with is lover in Mexico and he finds, in the bloody cruelty of the bullfight, the perfect metaphor of our brutal age:

In his poem, Moorings, he interchanges the word boy with buoy: May l moor up, little boy?” Philebus also has a great amount of unique imagination. In “The Swimming Bath,” he ponders how it would feel to be a swimming pool in which a group of naked boys were swimming and diving. In other works he is the floor of a dormitory at a bov’s school after lights out, and a field of grass at different seasons. And who are the Blue Boys? Philebus wrote two “ Blue Boys” poems after contemplating Gainsborough’s painting, “ Blue Boy.” What was the Blue Boy” really like? Philebus endeavors to make him live: But, tho’ larking with a gal Sticks for friendship to a pal And, despite the ‘manly’ pan Is a simple boy at heart.

Meat. Blood. Memory. War. We rise to greet the State, to confront the State. Smell the flowers while you can. iTic-c. I .ii -',, ivj l i l t S t I A U U W : ------- --

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In the last poem of his section, “Sucks,” Philebus reminds potential critics that the objects of his affection are entirely safe with him. Thus following a conventional Platonic relationship w ith the young middlec ass youth, he reserves physical activity for young men of a lower class, perhaps paid for the purpose, and perhaps overseas where thev are legal, cheap, and pretty.

Reviewed by Larry Paul One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” — Carl Gustav Jung Jung s remark aptly sums up the aim of this provocative new anthology, comprised entirely of sixty-five essays, and divided into ten sections. Meeting the Shadow focuses on the need of every individual to face his/her shadow or disowned self. Among the many contributors who help define what the shadow is and shed light on its multi-faceted aspects are Audre Lorde, Robert Bly, Maggie Scarf, Joseph Campbell, Marsha Sinetar, and Ken Wilder. According to the editors’ introduction, the purpose of the meeting’ is “to develop an ongoing relationship with it [the shadow] to expand our sense of self by balancing the one-sidedness of our conscious attitudes with our unconscious depths.” When we acknowledge this relationship and begin what Zweig and Abrams have termed shadow-work,’ we are able to “achieve a more genuine self acceptance, diffuse negative emotions that erupt unexpectedly in our daily lives, and recognize the projections that color our opinions of others.”

Hie Gay Mens Press has announced that this is the third and final collection of Uranian Verse that they will publish. It is easy to wish for more.

CLOSE TO THE KSINES: A Memoir of Disintegration. By D avid Wojnarowicz. 1991, Vintage Books. 276 pgs. $11.00 soft.

Reviewed by Craig Machado “Hell is a place on Earth. Heaven is a place in your head.” The cover illustration of this book shows buffalo careening over a cliff and tumbling down to meet certain death. Done by the author himself, the picture is a succinct rendering of Wojnarowicz’s feeling of worldly doom; a planet, a nation, horribly out of control, bereft of compassion, decency, bent on stifling diversity, replete with moral hypocrisy, hatred, murder. 3

While most of the essays deal with unsettling subjects, the overall tone of the anthology is positive and instructional. The diverse manifestations of the shadow are explored in separate sections that examine its influence in, 56

...Stephane ordered the boy to strip and show himself. As peasants must obey their masters Rigord did as he was told. I ached with envy at the manifestation of such absolute power. We watched the boy take off his clothes. He had a pert young body, slim and lithe, with skinny muscular arms and a smooth lean belly, and a bush of curly black hair above a tasty prick; his arse was round and firm; his thighs hairy and strong. There was no one there who did not gaze his fill.”

tor example, personal relationships, the disowned body, and the dark side of work and achievement. The editors include the standard recommendation of psychotherapy for healing, but go beyond this to recognize art, storytelling, and ritual as equally valid tools for attaining self-integration. Of particular interest to meditators from any tradition is the section entitled “Meeting Darkness on the Path: The Hidden Sides of Religion and Spirituality.” A few samples from this section are Katy Butler’s “Encountering the Shadow in Buddhist America,” George Feuerstein’s “The Shadow of the Enlightened Guru,” and Brother David SteindlRast’s “The Shadow in Christianity.” After reading these essays no reader will close the book without appreciating Suzanne W agner’s observation that “a spiritual life can’t save you from shadow suffering.” Though Meeting the Shadow requires more study than the typical selfhelp book, no potential reader should feel intimidated by its vast subject. Each article is concise and clearly written, rendering the information accessible for both professionals and lay persons. Like confronting the shadow itself, careful reading of small doses of this book will take the reader one step further toward realizing that underneath the darkness of the shadow, its essence is, as Jung said, “pure gold.”

The story is told in successive parts as seen through the eyes of different protagonists making it, in effect, a series of closely related tales. Through their stories we can vicariously share the medieval experiences of a peddler on the road, a fallen monk, a boy, an innkeeper, and plenty of raw lust. The characters are very well drawn. The history appears to be well researched. The adventures are developed realistically and with a larae am ount o f h u m o r anrl charm It is a v crv cn io va h lc hook.

COMMON SONS. B y R. L. D onaghe. Edward-W illiam Publishing Co. (Banned Books), No. 292, P.O. 33280, Austin, TX 78764. $8.95 soft, $1.50 postage. Reviewed by Plum Nelly Well, here is a book I would say most of you have never heard of or seen in your local bookstore. I learned of it through corresponding with its author. My suggestion is to write to the publisher and order a copy now! Common Sons is the story of two teenage boys and their 1965 summer of coming out in the small Southwest town of Common, New Mexico. But is is much more than that. It is a story about families and friends, about parents and peers, about loving and hating, about life and death. I found myself immediately caught up in the personal lives of these two teenagers. Wanting to know what would happen next. The characters are real and my heart went out to them. 1 look forward to other works from the author, and maybe even being able to find a copy in a local bookstore.

The RFD GENERAL STORE was created as a bulletin board for R F D readers to offer a skill, craft, or service to other readers, for barter or sale or.... It was set up as a way for people who live on the ’edge’ to enhance their ability to get by, and to network with other like winded folks. If you have sowething to offer, write a brief description of what it is and send it to us here at the General Store.

THORN APPLE. B y Chris H unt. 1989, Gay Mens Press Ltd., P.O. 247, London N I7 9QR, England, (available from Alyson Publications, 40 Plympton St., Boston, MA 02118) 324 pgs. $10.95 soft. Reviewed by Walking Rain “No one will come in,” he assured m e... “He was always eager to take off his clothes—a most attractive weakness— and I was able to glut myself upon that slim young body to my heart’s content, remaining dressed for a quick getaway. His mother’s silks and furs caressed his naked skin, vying with my lips that feasted hungrily on that rich fare. I could taste coriander as I licked his nipples, guessing that he overlaced his baths with herbs. He was almost like a child- so clearly pleased to give such pleasure, thrusting how his jutting prick and now his rounded arse for my delight, half disappearing in the ropes of fur and swathes of silk, to reemerge laughing

FOR S A L E

110 acres with unfinished 2 bedroom hoae in Alexandria, TN (about 15 ailes froa Short Mt. Sanctuary). For More inforaation contact Terri at 615/2972069.

It was quite a while after I finished reading Thornapple that I began to read other books again. Some books are like that. The stories, the themes, the lust, the humor, continued to run through my mind long after the book was Finished.

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Thornapple is set in the early 13th century England, and a little bit Normandy. It was a time when the Christian Normans ruled England, the lower classes were pagan; they worshipped the Goddess. Their gatherings were often at night and in power places. Christians tried, sometimes crudely, to convert them. It was a time much different from ours. Opulent wealth existed next to abject poverty. Life station was inherited. Social and sexual mores were greatly different from our modem values. “Justice” was what the local ruling class wanted to make m The nobility had the power of life and death over the low classes and uiey received strict obedience from the peasantry.

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RFD prints contact letters free of charge. We also provide a free forwarding service for readers who prefer not to publish their address. Donations, however, are greatly appreciated. We ask that your letters be brief (under 200 words) and positive in stating your preferences. Saying NO to a particular trait or characteristic may unnecessarily offend a brother. We reserve the right to correct spelling and to edit as we see fit. Feel free to include a black and white photo for printing with your letter, and we will try to include it. RFD assumes no responsibility for claims made in the letters, and we urge correspondents to exercise caution, especially with any financial dealings.

Brothers of the Earth,

Dear Sacred Brothers,

I am seeking to compile a list of gay Native American organ izations, newsletters, confer ences, events, gatherings, periodicals, books, etc. Anyone sending me information will receive a copy of the complete info received by me. Also anyone wanting "their name" to be included in a "contact list" on the printout should let me know. Peace, Native c/o RFD/68 Spirit Brothers, I am looking to bring about a spiritual gay communal clan based upon the Traditional Hopi "Indian" pacifistic life style, in the Painted Desert of Arizona. I have worked for the Traditional Hopi "Elders" (Chiefs and Reapers of Hopi Prophecy), for 15 years, as a researcher and networker. I seek a future with a non-homophobic support system of gay men and extended family and friends, who are truly non violent, pacifistic conscien tious objectors to the use of force in any and all conflictual situations. Hopi means "the Peaceful People." This lifestyle will be based upon a belief in the Creator "Great Spirit" and the "lifeplan" laid down for "this World," which is about to be "puri fied" so that a new world may rise into an age of Peace on Earth. Clan members would be educated in Hopi Teachings and Prophecies. This lifestyle would include self-sufficient organic gardening, vegetarian

kitchen (original Traditional Hopi staples of corn, beans, squash, etc.), Native herbal medicines and wholistic heal ing. Sweats, detoxification and purification, underground Kiva for meditation, prayer, drumming, dancing and singing. Traditional hand-cut rock dwellings. We will have ac cess to learning the tradi tional arts of weaving, pot tery, basketry and moccasin making. This letter is the scatterings of seeds into the hearts of pacifistic gay brothers. If a seed takes root within you, please write a self-descriptive/background letter to TRADITIONS c/o RFD/68 Buddies— G W M , 39, in NY City, seeks others, free or not, to write, and/or call. Lonely, seek friends, all types, but same race only. Named Danny. Write me, and describe your self. Everyone loves me. Answer all.

I am an artist/photographer living in South Jersey, near the Philadelphia metropolitan area in search of men of kin dred spirit who wish to help me explore the nature of spir itual connection through zen and bodywork techniques. If you live in the area and would like to be photographed, please contact me. I can be described as a goodlooking, 43 (look 30), 140 lb., blue eyed, bearded, dark haired professor who also loves to garden, create, cook, read, and listen to music which inspires me. I am looking for friends and brothers who understand my journey and wish to be a part of it. Please reply to: H. Joel Silverman 201 W. Hickstown Rd. Pine Hill, NJ 08021

Dear Folks, I will be relocating to Lake Placid, New York, on January 3, 1992. Moving to the coun try is the beginning of an old dream of mine. I would very much like to connect with other gay people anywhere in the area. Some of my inter ests are meditation, alterna tive healing, backpacking, and hiking but I would welcome hearing from anyone. Please write. My mail will be for warded to me and I will answer everyone. Thanks. Seth Modelson 103 MacDougal St. #136 New York, NY 10012

Danny c/o RFD/68

Fellow

RFD

Readers,

I am a GWM living in the southwestern area of Virginia. I am discreet, loyal, honest and caring. Seeking a one on one friendship and possible relationship. Would love to hear from anyone. E. of Southwest Virginia c/o RFD/68 I am a healthy, adventurous, 47 year old GWM, 5'11", 175#, graying brown hair, living on a 90 acre southern WV farm. I live rather isolated in an owner built pole house filled with windows in the edge of the woods overlooking a small pasture. There is also a mobile home on the farm about 1/4 mile away. I enjoy non resort foreign travel a great deal. In 1989, I took a 22,000 mile trip around South America in a '76 VW Beetle. The only bad thing was that I had to do it alone. I also enjoy travel within the US, photography, gardening and weaving. I ride my mountain bike when weather permits, or when my weight gets to 180. Ideally, I seem a man my own age, perhaps slimmer or shorter then I, a moustache or a beard would be a plus; mechanical or building skills helpful; hardworker, respon sible and honest, who would want to relocate here and live as my partner, to share life and the work on this small hill farm. In reality I would welcome a helper if someone wished his own house and space. Sometimes I've thought that being in rural WV, the only chance I would have of meeting another gay man would be if he were an airline pilot and crash landed on my hill side, and my phone was the nearest one to use to call for help. Dreams... to be a tour guide for a trip through Pata gonia for four friends in a VW bus; go to Germany with my partner, rent a car and drive through eastern Europe; wouldn't mind having some farm animals to supply fresh eggs and milk, a horse to eat the meadow, and maybe raise a llama— if i had a partner to share the responsibility. Even though I feel that the chances of locating a partner via the mail are astronomical ly small, it only take one— what about you? Photo appre ciated— will reciprocate. Gardener

Rt. 2, Box 280 Hurricane, WV 22526

I am GWM and like so many other gay men I am lonely and desire to correspond with other men regardless of their race or location or desire. I welcome all so write and begin a friendship that may develop into something else. I love garden, music, and country life. Will answer all who write. John P.0. Box 180 Peterstown, WV 24963

Queer for Quayle? Do you (like me) have a thing for the current Vice President of the United States? Hate his politics but love that tush? Do you fantasize about doing to him what Bush is doing to the country? You are not alone. 450 hairy faerie bear wants to hear from you! Pour your heart out! We're made about the boy! Paul P.O. Box 38032 Greensboro, NC 27438 63

Dear

Brothers,

I have been told that in order to attract something or some one into my life, I should affirm it as if it has already happened. So my contact let ter is in the form of an af firmation, -and gratitude. If the shoe fits. . .write! Dear Universal Power, I know that you already sense my great happiness and grati tude for the deep and intense love I am experiencing with a man who fulfills all of my needs, while I fulfill his so perfectly. It is exciting to finally meet someone who shares so many of the same ideas, interests, and goals, like his love for all life and his enthusiasm for helping to create a better home planet for all. I like his sense of adventure and his healthy curiosity about how and why things work (like life). I admire his great sense of humor, his ability to step back from the details and see "the big picture," and that he believes in creating win/win solutions. It's great that he, like myself, also enjoys taking initiative, both in bed and in daily activities. The fact that he is also versatile and enjoys cuddling as much as being cuddled has heightened our intimacy and very passion ate lovemaking. It's nice that he doesn't smoke or have any addictive/obsessive/compulsive behavior patterns. I also appreciate the fact that he's trim, health conscious, and in good physical shape, as we enjoy working out together in our warm, tropical environ ment. I am thankful that he's so totally open and honest with himself, with me, and that he doesn't live in fear of anyone finding out he's gay. He has a loving and supportive attitude toward his parents, siblings, former partners, and friends. We're having great fun exploring life with our traveling, camp ing, hiking, scuba diving, boating, swimming with dol phins, and telepathy. His love for music gives me sup port and encouragement for my composing as well as my video projects. The possibilities for happiness and growth seem to be limitless. Thank you for bringing us together. Much love, Don D. Chapman P.O. Box 487 Haines City, FL 33845

Brothers,

Welcome to the beautiful, sunny great Southwest! When considering your vacation or relocation think of Arizona. Tucson has a very low cost of living with a lot of natural beauty. This is really a great place to live. I am looking for fellow travelers through life that are on a spiritual path or trying to get on one. Just to have the moments to touch and look into each others eyes and smile is sometimes enough. I am also looking for a friend, rela tionship or business partner, in any combination. I am an attractive, slender, healthy, Greek/German sensual, 30-some thing Aries masculine uncut male, born on a farm in Minne sota. I am a professional wholistic health practitioner, specializing in massage, nu trition, aromatherapy, vision training, and men's spiritu al-erotic workshops. I have many unique talents: photo grapher, artist, sculptor, new age insight, magical, writer, teacher, public speaker with many other resources. My love goes out to you all. Write or call, (602) 881-4582. Warmly, Marque Haberman P.0. Box 40504 Tucson, AZ 85717 Dear Folks: The Refuge, a self-sufficient rural healing sanctuary for men, is now forming. We're looking for core members seri ously interested in long-term community, a simpler life style, and eco-sanity. We aim to be not a commune, but a community, our members living on adjoining lots or in sepa rate areas on land held in trust, developing a group mentorship structure for our selves and those clients coming to us for nurture, rest, and support. Since we aim to fill niche that neither the urban gay scene nor the Radical Faerie Movement are filling, we have very specific member requirements. (1) You must be 40 or older. (2) You *ust have established habits of kindness, quiet, tolerance, dependability, self-reliance, hard work, admitting when you are in error, and keeping your word. (3 ) you must be willing to work on honest heart-con nections with men, even men You are not sexually attracted and you must be willing to accept the possibility that

you will not find a lover at The Refuge. (If you have a lover already, he must be as committed to our work as you are.) (4) You must be sober, drug-free, sexually non-com pulsive, and you must not be a sexual, physical, or emotional abuse perpetrator. (5) You must be actively interested in rural life and uncomfortable in the urban gay partying scene. (6) You must possess a practical or marketable skill to contribute to the communi ty, particularly organic farm ing, appropriate energy con struction, financial manage ment, utilitarian craftwork, desk-top publishing, bodywork, counseling, alternative heal ing, cooking, medicine, law, wildlands management, or man ual labor. The Refuge is presently in the planning stages, operating out of my rented house and backyard in Santa Fe, New Mexico (though New Mexico is not necessarily the place where The Refuge will end up long-term). There are three of us so far: Donald, a jack-of-all trades and eco-activist who saw my letter about community in RFD #65; Moon-Pie, my blind highly empathetic husky-wolf hybrid and dog pound refugee; and me: a part-time published writer and a full-time professional psychic with a nationwide clientele. We've got a lot of sensibly visionary ideas, a little land, a little money, and a determination to make The Refuge work whether any body joins us or not. This may be what you've been look ing for, guys, so let us hear from you today. Rand B. Lee P.0. Box 22232 Santa Fe, NM 87502-2232

Dear Friends, I would like to begin a dia logue with anyone interested in simple and monastic life (without denomination). I have land (in either Yosemite or Appalachia) that would be shared with loving brothers or sisters who are looking for quiet, peace, and self-ful fillment through the divine nature (in whatever under standing) . Modest work can be offered of plant care, animal care, some clean artistic and business activities, et cetera. There will be much time alone, and/or alone with other friends. I request there not be an overt sexual vibe, and absolute sobriety is a must. Essentially, I am looking to extend my family beyond my five cats, in a supportive and nurturing natu ral environment focused on beauty, peace and truth, and will welcome those who are appreciative of the same. No dogma, just an open heart. In light, Gavin Dillard 8306 Wilshire Blvd., #2656 Beverly Hills, CA 90211

This "Pro Writer" started out as a country boy (northern Maine, near the Canadian border) and my rural values have kept me going; from Europe, Asia and, for the past decade, here on the slopes of Diamond Head. My 12+ year "marriage" ended positively last year and I'm looking for someone to share a serene life; visitors are welcome, a permanent relationship pos sible. "Typical" day: a long morning walk in the mountains, the afternoon swimming, medi tation and a sunset picnic at the beach with close friends. I'm a "Blonde City Bear" (43, 5'10", 170#, considered mascu line & goodlooking), seeking a "Country Cub." A stable "den"/loving home is offered for a young partner (an affec tionate, long-haired bottom of any race who's short, smooth and loves to cuddle). I'm "clean" (HIV-), don't use drugs or alcohol, and have a strong spiritual foundation. A long letter/photo gets same. Erick Hughes 3027 Pualei Circle #206 Honolulu, HI 96815

Dear Brothers, Greetings. I am looking for a companion. He is a slim to muscular, long haired warrior, 18 to 25, who enjoys hiking and adventures of all kinds, appreciates being admired, and is open to new ideas. I would like to find a fellow who loves life, is a radical (or at lease leans to the left) and is kind. Since I live in Alaska, a love of the outdoors and a willingness to consider a move is important. Of course this is only my inner image, it's all subject to change. This godson of Merlin is 29, 6'6", 225 lbs. My dark hair is long and thinning on top, beard is soft, eyes are deep blue. I'm considered good looking by generous friends. A philosophical anarchist, my interests in clude Green politics, litera ture and art, mythology, and gentle wizardry. I've traveled to India twice, Nepal, Greece, Turkey, and other places. Always alone. I need someone fearless to accompany me. I am inexperi enced, but no fool. Have my master's degree, but try not to let that get in the way of the real learning. Eventually would like to build a retreat/ sanctuary/commune and am in terested in hearing from all with similar dreams (penpals welcome). Please send photo and a descriptive letter and I'll try to answer all re sponses. I can help the right person relocate if things work out. Peace T. Y. c/o RFD/68I

I am 41, 6-1, 190 lbs, have brown hair, blue eyes, beard/ moustache and one-half Native American. I am seeking to find a rural living situation with someone amiable. I am particularly interested in finding other Native Ameri cans. i know they are out there. I have a good many skills including, gardening, horticulture, cooking/baking, small structure construction, computers, desktop publishing, photography and such. I have lived in rural settings most °f my life, but eventually ended up moving to the city due to a breakup of the last household. I grew up on a farm in Ohio and have always had a garden until about three

years ago. I love that sort of life and it does teach one to persevere through all sorts of situations and hardships. A good bit of my life has been spent doing "subsistence" farming and doing much of the work involved in self-suffi ciency. I have lived in vari ous group situations from two to six persons (and in various situations from no electricity/no running water, to tech nologically innovative). At present, I have Chronic Fa tigue Syndrome, a sometimes debilitating fatigue, that is not contagious. While I am waiting to qualify for Social Security disability, I am drawing GAU, so I have a very modest income. I let very few things stand in my way of getting things done. I enjoy 67

working and seeing things grow. I have a good many interests that include Native American cultures, Geology, Anthropology, motorcycles, reading (usually non-fiction), graphic arts, herbs, Hindu/ Buddhist philosophy, yoga and so forth. I tend to use li braries quite a bit and usual ly will investigate anything that catches my interest. I am currently living with my two elderly cats on the fringe of Olympia, but would defi nitely consider relocating. I would be willing to explore any situation from anyone that would be interested. I wel come any and all questions. Dave Wells 821 Kaiser Road NW, 6-A Olympia, WA 98502

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Mail all correspondence (advertising, subscriptions, business, submissions or letters) to RFD, P.O. Box 6 8 , Liberty, TN 3 7 0 9 5 . Contributors and editors can be reached through this address also. We welcome advertising - especially from gay-owned enterprises. Please write for our ad rate card. Sample copies of the most recent issues are $5.00(postpaid). Back issues are $4.00 if less than one year old. Back issues older than one year are $2.00 each. (We are out of issues #1-4. 6-8. 24. 30. 32, 36. 53). Please add postage of $1.00 for four issues and for each additional four thereof. RFD itself is not copyrighted.

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However, each accredited contribution (written material, photo, artwork) remains the property of those contributors, and nothing of theirs may be republished in any form without their permission. All non-credited material may be republished freely. Mention of the source would be appreciated.

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D ue d a te s for submissions to receive full consideration are:

SPRING 1992 Issue #69 January 15. 1992 SUMMER 1992 Issue #70 April 15. 1992 AUTUMN 1992 Issue #71 July 15. 1992 WINTER 1992 Issue #72 October 15, 1992 ’w

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RFD is published quarterly and is delivered around the Solstice and the

Equinox. Second class mail may take up to three to four weeks. If you don’t receive your copy within a month of the publishing date, please check with us. The number of your last issue is on the mailing label. Second class mail will not be forwarded, so you must let us know if you move.

We print the names of all contributors, but not their addresses (except for contact letters). Contributors can be reached through RFD. We do n o t give out th e a d d r e sse s o f subscribers, however. RFD will forward mail to them. - ' '»,~i ,■vv\u> > ►■ .-vy ' •''«•* v\iV,'""v ^ W RITTEN - Please share your knowledge and vision through RFD. This is a r e a d e r w r it t e n journal, so it is your forum. If possible, send in your -K contribution typed and double-spaced. RFD prefers to wield the editorial pencil lightly, so please send your submission to us as close to the way you •>*>v. would have it appear. We do correct (hopefully) spelling and punctuation, ■ •:''••'<\ v • ’•Vy'.*«>‘v3 v.ri.v unless you note otherwise. l. TV• ARTWORK - We always need more graphics and photos than we have. If you are • •■-.*’v.Uik*

an artist or a photographer (You don't have to be a professional .Just talented). Send us a portfolio. Xeroxes when the quality is good rather than original art is advisable. PHOTOS - If you have a choice, black and whites reproduce better than color.

However, if you have a gem of a color photo, send it to us. If you would like special treatment of your work or want it returned, please be specific. No negatives, please. DRAWINGS - It is difficult for us to get good quality reproductions from color

drawings and light pencil drawings. Light blue is invisible to the camera and red photographs as black. (Try using red color pencil instead of graphite sometime.) Again, if you want special handling, be specific. We will report to you as soon as possible if your submission is selected for publication, but we sometimes hold material over for future issues, and it may be some time before actual publication. Please bear with us. A self-addressed, self-stamped envelope will insure the return of your originals. RFD w ill se n d co n trib u to rs on e (1) co p y o f th e issu e in w h ich th e ir work appears as paym ent. Second copy upon request.