RFD Issue 136 Winter 2009

The

BREITENBUSH

ISSUE

4 fabulous faeries from the Summer Breitenbush ‘07 Nocturnal Glamor Deck

by Kwai, www.KwaiLam.com

RFD to many has been a way to reflect upon that beauty, in telling our stories, showing our acts ot struggle and build­ ing upon the art and culture we create to share that beauty.

It’s clear that RF D has a rich histors and has documented our vital stories but RFD also has to look tor ways to remain vital itself. So we welcome your thoughts and ideas as well as your personal energy to get involved both financially and personally in R FD ’s future. Please consider joining the collective to help work on writing, editing and laying out the magazine. Help with the website or by contributing articles, photos or art tor its pages. Let us know what you think RFD should be cover­ ing. And thanks for renewing your subscription and please ask your friends to subscribe.

Between The Lines A n o th e r jo u rn e y fo r RFD As noted in the last issue o f RFD. were in a state o f transition. New members o f the collective have met with the stalwarts who have shepherded RFD lor the last twenty years since it traveled from Running Water to Short Mountain in Tennessee back in 1988. We have decided to close the RFD office there at the end o f January 2009 and relocate the office to New’ England where many o f the newer collective members reside. In it’s many travels from Iowa to Oregon to the South­ east, from Running Water to Short Mountain, RFD has always tried to be mindful and inclusive o f the queer community. We hope that the queer community will be mindful o f RFD lor it to thrive and continue.

Sadly, with all o f the relocation plans and coming up to speed on how to move ahead, we’ve fallen a bit behind on our usual time line for sending out the magazine. We apologize and hope you enjoy this issue - as we celebrate our dearly departed and honor the living work of community, in this case the Breitenbush community organized so lovingly by Cascadia Radical Faerie Resource in the Northwest. Kudos to Pan tor all of his work in laying out the Breitenbush feature and to Kwai and Soami for getting the rest of the issue to press.

Michel and I braved post Thanksgiving air travel to come down to Liberty T N to help inventory, box and load a U-Haul with the RFD office files, archives and back issues with the help o f Sister Soami and Gabby. In the short two days we were down in Tennessee we managed to get it all done. A dedicated crew has decided for now to continue to do the mailing o f the magazine from T N as w-ell as assist the collective in dealing w'ith our long time printer in Nashville. lhanks to Keith, Syl­ van, Gabby and Soami and others from the SM S area commu­ nity for their help in getting this RFD into your hands.

I want to thank the RFD collective for reaching out and including me in the vision o f RFD as well as entrusting me and the new collective members with playing a part in carrying on it's story. I was touched by how Sister Soami worked diligently with us during our short stay in packing up what's been in so many ways a labor o f love all these many years and 1 imagined how it must have felt for previous collective members to box up and send along our dreams. As the original collective said, “no longer a fantasy, RFD exists” . For me that resonates as I, along with some new folks in New England, work to bring it along for another thirty-five years. Special thanks to Michel and Matt for joining me in that work and especially Michel for all his help in hauling, carting and sorting the huge inventory o f boxes. Special kudos to my boyfriend, Rob for greeting us that chilly morning to put things into storage. And kisses to Kokoe for letting us stay at his place in 1N while he was away.

- Bambi in snowy New England for the RFD Collective

While we unpack the hundred and eighty-five boxes o f our heritage and move ahead with R FD ’s vision, we ll work to review the survey sent out in the last issue. It is still accessible for you to respond to on R FD ’s w'ebsite - www.rfdmag.org.

One o f the first things I did once I got back to Northamp­ ton MA was to look at issue #1 from the Autumn o f 1974 produced in Iowa City, Iowa. I was a first grader at the time of R FD ’s first issue but laying before my eyes were the voices of men from the Pioneer Valley o f Western Massachusetts speaking to me about Hop Brook Farm’s gay commune or an adventurous night out listening to a lesbian band in Charlemont. Skimming to issue #7 which was produced by the Butterworth Farm Collective, also from Western Massachusetts, I saw a clear legacy o f the work that so many men put into creating a new movement focused on earth, building a network of people who shared common values across the country. It was inspiring to see places and even names that are so familiar to me being mentioned. It reminded me o f when I was six years old, I used to go with my hippy mom to a park in Springfield MA where a hill was aptly called Hippy Hill by both the cops and the folks in the head shops in town. While there one day running around playing I heard a pot dealer shout out of his Ford Pinto that he didn’t deal to “faggots”. It struck me that “faggots” must be smart people, for as I looked I saw an adorable man, smartly dressed in bright amoeba patterns shirt with flared jeans and Frye boots and flowing long brown hair. He looked like some “college hippy” to me. I asked my mom what was up and she said, “People don’t get beauty sometimes.’ Ihat memory has stuck in my head since then.

RFD’s new mailing address R F D has set up a post office box in Massachusetts so please send all snail-mail submission and subscription correspon­ dence to: RFD P.O. Box 302 Hadley MA 01035-0302 We will continue to receive mail for Brothers Behind Bars at: Brothers Behind Bars d o P.O. B O X 68 Liberty T N 37095-0068

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RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

Table of Contents

Remembrances: Wessie.....................................38 Celebratingjames Broughton as Bigjoy,

by Franklin Abbott, Jack Foley, Joel Singer, Stephen Silha, Janis Crystal Lipzin........................................ 39 -44 Prisoner Pages.......................................... 45 - 46

Between the Lines........... ......................................1 Letters and Announcements............................... 3 Remembering John Burnside,

by Robert Cronquist (Covelo) .............. 4 - 6 John Burnside Interview (Part two),

by Mountaine........................................... 7 - 9 Health Notes: Butt First,

by Mark “Middle Hubbard..............

9 Lasing the transition through music: the life o f Gary Plouff,

by Nick DeMarino..............................10 - 11

Strut Your Stu ff! Next Issues: - Faeries & Wicca, Spring - San Francisco Bay Area, Summer See the Submissions info in the inside back cover.

§ Breitenbush feature

RFD

is a reader written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, radical faerie consciousness, nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives.

RFD is produced by volunteers. We welcome your participation.

The business and general production are coordinated by a collective. The collective has a listserv for those who wish to get involved at

Emerald Forest, by Pan................................. 12 Painting by Jicim a..........................................13 Breitenbush Introduction, by Pan...............13 Gathering with Faeriemen, by Dam ien.....14 Woodblock Print, by Peppermint...............14 Breitenbush Stardome, by B B H a !..............16 I Lived a Thousand Years,

by Morgain Lessloss.................................. 16 Always Gumming Home, by B B H a !..........17 Photo...............................................................17 The History o f Money, The Faeries, and the Bush, by Uncle Markie............................. 19 Photo...............................................................19 Summer Gathering M ontage.......................22 A Myth, by jp hartsong.................................23 Springs o f Solitude (photos and text),

by Pan...................................................24-25 My Day of Hallelujah, by Stich................... 26 Queen Registrars o f Past Gatherings..........28 Winter Gathering M ontage........................ 29 Destination: Breitenbush, by Cupcake.....30 Photo ............................................................. 30 Jamshed s Coffee,

by Glittcrpuss Moonjoy...........................32 Rhoda Roadkill and her Gang,

by White Eagle and A drain.................... 33 Cradle, by Stardust....................................... 34

http://groups.google.com /group/rfd-production/ Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places. Our printer is in Nashville T N .

RFD (ISSN # 0149-709X ) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley M A 01035-0302 U SPS # 073-010-00 Periodicals postage paid at Liberty T N and additional mailing offices.

Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley M A 01035-0302 Non-profit tax exempt # 62-1723644, a function o f RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., W ood­ bury, T N 37190 RFD Cover Price: $7.75 a regualr subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. © 2008 R FD Press The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic mate­ rial associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian o f records at the following location: RFD Press, 231 Ten Penny Rd, Woodbury T N 37190

Closing the Circle, by B B H a!...................... 37 § RFD Winter 2008-0') #136

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Dear RFD. I am happy to renew my sub­ scription to RFD. I look forward to the pics, especial­ ly the erotic ones.

I like the poetry and articles too.

And I am very grateful to all the folks whose con­ tributions and hard work make it possible.

RFD - I LIKE IT! Buck Rodgers Greensburg, RA (Ed Note: Thanks Buck for the abbreviated survey response and fo r those o f you wishing to fill out the entire two page form, check it out on our website:

www. rfdmag. org) FYI About your website, three times I typed the captcha, proofread it carefully, three times it came back “ incorrect” . I sense it will never be correct. THIS TIME IT DID NOT WORK AGAIN! Julia Ditman Adamstown, MD (Ed Note: we share your frustra­ tion and are assured our volunteer web folks are attempting a fix.)

f .xx

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/fu d itd commiuy ufe ou 26 yeurd dittce dear frieud of our emeryiuy fey youtd.

Tbomad of S an ta dottom riydt. dudmitted tdid SreitendudA memory to ITffD. tden a t fRuuuiuy Ti/ater.. £ood> a t fodtn Surudcde dcaminy in tdc ccntci witd f^arry judt adove. ftyow- many otder yuyd cun you name in tdede two fzdotod from yatdcrinyd fiadt? and read on in t&ie tdio iddue for TdreitendudA today. . .

Here is the postcard picture from the very first Running Hater gathering, in I9~8. Great to be sharing the memories. Have a glorious Solstice, with fondest regards. Mikel Running Water

I am in the upper left comer. The beautiful and mysterious John Flores is cradling my head in his hand. I was 21 then. I am 57 now. Many in the photo perished in the epidemic. The ones I know who survived are full of pluck and sweet to the bone.

Franklin

This summer marked the 30th anniversary of our coming together as a queer men’s community in the South. The first Running Water gathering was in the summer of ‘78. Shortly thereafter Milo opened Short Mountain to the faeries and Faygele brought RFD from the Northwest to the Southeast. 19 years ago Raven Wolfdancer, Ron Lambe, Peter Kendrick and Roccco Patt organized the first Gay Spirit Visions Conference. I keynoted along with Andrew Ramer and Flarry Flay. James Broughton keynoted the next year. This fall was the 35th anniversary of RFD and we celebrated it at the second Atlanta Queer Literary Festival. Faeeries continue to gather all over North America. Short Mountain continues as a faerie sanctuary and there are many queer friendly communities nearby.

The Eurofaeries and the Ozfaeries have established sanctuaries and there are annual faerie gatherings in Thailand. With this winter issue #136 the RFD Collective moves to the Northeast. What a blessing we have been to each other.

Franklin Abbott, Stone Mountain, GA <lokishango@gmail.com>

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RI D Winter 2008-09 #136

Remembering John Burnside

by Robert C ron quist John Lyon Burnside III was born November 2, 1916, in Seattle and died peacefully on September 14, 2008, at home in San Francisco surrounded by the Circle o f Loving C o m ­ panions. He was recently diagnosed with glioblastoma brain cancer.

Our Candide is dead. John Burnside lived in “the best of all possible worlds,” which he viewed through the lens o f a deep and abiding faerie spirit.

John joined the Navy at 16, studied physics and mathematics at U C L A and graduated in 1945. He was an aeronautical engineer and a staff scientist at Lockheed. He resigned from that position and invented a kaleidoscope he called the Teleidoscope. It differed from previous kaleidoscopes because it created its mandala images from whatever was placed in front o f it. John started California K a­ leidoscopes and was able to run a modestly lucrative business that garnered public enthusiasm and press coverage.

He had a liberal and aesthetic personality and a wide range of in­ terests and knowledge. He studied modern dance with Bella Lcwtizky.

He was, according to Hay biographer Stuart Timmons, “inquisitive and precise” and an “attentive listener” who was as discoursive as Harry. He was raised in Seattle by a mother who, out of economic necessity, left him in an orphanage for periods of his early childhood. In his ever cheery nature, which was mischieviously called “pathologically optimistic” by his loving companions, John said it was a wonderful child­ hood full o f loving people who did their best for a little boy they hardly knew. He had an unhappy early homosexual en­ counter that made him su press his nature and married Edith Sinclair, a German immigrant. He described their childless marriage as “not unhappy” but his inner life “cursed" until he visited O N E Institute which he had heard about from some gay employees in his factory. It was then, October 6, 1963, he met 1 iarrry Hay. founder o f the Mattachine Society. John was four years younger than Harry. together John and Harry were involved in many of the gay movement’s key moments. In May of 1966 the two were part of a 15 car motorcade through downtown Los Angeles protesting the military’s exclusion of homosexuals. The event is considered one of the country’s first gay protest marches.

RH) Winter 2008-09 #136

John and Harry appeared as a gay couple on the Joe Pyne televi­ sion show in Los Angeles in 196” , two years before the Stonewall riots in New York. In 1969 they participated in the founding meet­ ings o f the Southern California Gay Liberation Front, which met in John’s teleidoscope factory.

Drawn by Harry’s lifelong interest in Native American culture and a shared involvement with the Indian Land and Life C om m it­ tee, in May o f 1970 they moved to San Juan Pueblo, New Mexico, where they lived, got to know every Indian dance and festival and supported themselves with Cal Kal until a fire destroyed the busi­ ness and the flag Harry’s great-uncle carried at Wounded Knee.

John picked himself up and invented a new kaleidoscopic device that could project images onto a screen and called it a Symmetricon.

In New Mexico Harry became the chief strategist for a movement that prevented the Rio Grande from being dammed by the federal government.

In 1978 Harry and John moved to Los Angeles to create the Radical Faeries with Jungian psychotherapist Mitch Wilker and Don Kilfhefner, who served in the Peace Corps, worked for S N C C and who was a leader o f the Gay Liberation Front.

In the fall o f 1978 Betty Barzan invited Hay, Walker and Kilhefner to give a workshop at the Gay Academic Union annual conference. In the workshop, “New Breakthroughs in the Nature of How We Perceive Gay Consciousness” they passed a talisman and invited people to share personal, subjective concerns. Such non-heirarchical consciousness was arising in many places, but the conference and the subsequent “call to gay brothers” to “A Spiritual Conference for Radical Faeries" at the Sri Ram Ashram in the W hite Mountains o f Arizona, was a watershed and the Radical Faeries were born.

John published a short essay in 1989 titled W ho are the Gay People that explained his views on Gay people’s role in the world.

John writes, “The crown o f Gay being is a way of loving, o f reaching to love in a way that far transcends the common mode.”

John lived with Harry in Los Angeles from 1978 until 1999, when it became apparent that they needed the support o f a com­ munity to continue to live independently. They moved to San Francisco where Harry lived fully until his death in 2002 at the age o f 90 and where John continued to live in the loving world o f the faeries and the Circle o f Loving Com panions that had formed with and around them. When I would call him on the telephone he was often “off to tea” or having some lovely faerie play the guitar at a small salon in his home.

I became aware o f John long before I ever knew his name. In 1965 Harry and John formed a group called The Circle of Loving

security guard if they had seen an 80-year old man with a grev pom tail, a pair o f large eyeglasses, a pink t-shirt, sneak­ ers and a camouflage-patterned miniskirt with lavendar trim over a pair of dungarees. “ No, sir,” was the polite response.

John came back to the hotel several hours later. He had gone off with the Faeries to a Great Circle on the Mall and had “a wonderful time with a group of beautiful faerie spirits”

Com panions. People wondered chat they could make a circle since more often than not it was a circle of two, but that never bothered these visionaries, and their foresight was proven prescient as numerous Circles of Loving Com panions now exist as a result. In 1966-19~0, as the Vietnam W ar escalated and Flower Power came into full bloom, I was a college undergraduate in the Bay Area. In the free news weeklies like The Berkeley Barb and the San Francisco Oracle were advertisements for draft counseling for 4-F homosexual exemptions from military service by a group in New Mexico called the Circle o f Loving C o m ­ panions. .Although I never needed their services, I put it in my mind to make a pilgrimage to meet them one day.

30 vears later, after I had participated in many heart circles with Harry and John and had become part of a loving circle o f faeries with them, I found out that they were the Circle o f Loving Com panions I had dreamed one day o f finding.

Throughout their eighties, Harrs and John sponsored annual eight-day retreats at a Radical Faerie Sanctuary they helped create in Wolf Creek, Oregon. At the retreats, meant bv Harry and John to be their final gift to the faeries, a small group of men would build, through the circle process as it was taught to Harry by the Hopis, a safe community of trust in which we could explore sexual rituals of healing and dis­ cover just what is that magic we as gay people bring to the larger community. Harry reasoned we wouldn’t have survived this long if we didn’t have something special to offer to the survival o f the species as a whole. Harry and John felt that assimilation was counter-intuitive, that it would lead us to just become “second class them.” Rather we will only have our place at the table when we show the larger community that they cannot get along without the special gifts we have to offer.

One o f the first films to attempt to portray the diverse lives o f gay people beyond the stereotype of the bitchy queens o f Mart Crowley’s The Boys in the Band and Radclyfte Hall’s Well o f Loneliness was Peter Adair’s 1977 Word Is Out. Tede Matthews o f our commune at 529 Castro was featured, as was an “older” couple in New Mexico. One was a stern yet gentle intellectual named Harry. In the other I saw, for the first time, a mirror image o f my idealized self. Here was this sweet, fey, endear­ ing sprite o f a man who saw magic and love all about him and who had the grace and the optimism of a true naif. Years later at the second Spiri­ tual Gathering o f Radical Faeries in the Colorado Rockies, I met the two men in the movie. They weren’t just any sweet couple, they were giants— Harry and John.

The retreats were deep, divine, delicious and difficult, to say the least. Many of us were emerging from terrible psychic wounds, and as we shed the “ugly frogskin of hetero­ imitation” as Harry would say, all hell could, and often did, break loose. Harry was capable o f rages that showered fusil­ lades o f shame on every one. His rages would make stomachs quake. John “softened” Harry. He would sit with the victims of Harry’s wrath and say, “ It is only because Harry cares so much, because he is so filled with love and vision .. 7 And he was right. On the few occasions John would blow up, instead o f fear and shame, we would try to suppress our smiles. It was so endearing seeing such a gentle man blow it.

Hosting Harry and John (njohn as he liked to be called) in New York for the 30th anniversary o f Stonewall and sharing a room with them at a subsequent March on Washington, I witnessed the depth of love Harry had for John. John would always wander off, and Harry would fret and whimper and worry about John’s safety. In Wash­ ington John had disappeared while a concerned Harry, holed up in our hotel room, sent us wandering through Goldwater’s Department Store asking every sales clerk and

Clyde Hall, a Shoshone-Metis from the Great Basin and a ceremonial leader of the “www.ncpc.info/projects dance.html Naraya: a Dance for All People, a dance of renewal for people of all races and religions to come together under the Tree of Life, was invited to participate in one of the retreats. He and Harry had wanted to meet for quite some 5

RFD Winter 2008-09 # 136

Radical Faeries and David Stewart, a 35 year-old mystic from Areata, California, known as Light FAgle. Light Eagle brought the Narava Dance to W olf Creek where Clyde invited Harry and John to be the honored guests. An enduring friendship between the Faeries and the Dance o f All Nations flourishes to this day.

time. At the age of thirteen. Harry was sent by his father to work the summer in the hay fields on his cousin’s ranch in Western Nevada, As Stuart Tim mons writes in The Trouble With Harry Hay, there Harry met a middle-aged Washoe Indian named Tom who invited him to a “fan­ dango." Harry noticed a frail old man, sitting on a raised platform of woven willow who appeared sightless. Harry was told the old man would like to speak with him. The old man told young Harry, “ We are to treat you well. We are to feed you well because someday you will be a friend.”

The old man was a medicine man named Jack Wilson, a famous Paiute Indian, better known as Wovoka.

John Burnside was the fairest o f the Faeries. Dancing na­ ked in the morning at Wolf Creek, rhapsodizing with song, sonnets and theories o f aeronautical engineering and the gay people, our Candide smiled on the world with the same love he had for those sweet people who cared for him in his youth at the orphanage. From the cojones it took to be on the front lines o f the modern gay liberation movement to the struggles oflivin gon the economic margins, to being the “ better h alf” o f a fierce giant of a warrior, John Burnside has a large and deserved place in our history. He will be remembered. His legacy will grow.

Wovoka is recorded in most Indian histories as the greatest mystic and prophet o f his people. The Ghost Dance religion, as the new faith envisioned by Wovoka became known, quickly spread to most Indian nations and proved to be a watershed in Indian history. The new nonviolent religion was interpreted by the government as a “disturbance” and directly led to the massacre at Wounded Knee two years after Wovoka’s vision. In light of the Indian-slaughtering activity o f Harry’s great-uncle Captain Francis Hardie who had carried the flag at Wounded Knee, Harry felt astonished at having been blessed by such a noted spiritual Indian as Wovoka.

May his faerie wings flutter about us, dusting us with enchantment for ever and ever.

Robert Croonquist with thanks to Stuart Tim m ons and Joey Cain, New York City, September 16, 2008 Donations in John’s honor may be made to the Harry Hay Fund, to continue the activist work o f John Burnside and Harry Hay. Donations may be sent to, The Harry Hay Fund, c/o Chas Nol, 174 Vi Hartford Street, San Francisco, C A 94114.

The week Clyde Hall spent with Harry, John and the Circle o f Loving Com panions was auspicious. At the retreat an abiding respect developed between Clyde, the

FaeP o siu m - 2nd A nnual - Fall 2 0 0 9 in San F ra n c is c o Jo in us to have those conversations we often avoid: about who we are, where we’re going, and where we’re stuck. This year’s one-day event included discussions on gender, gender politics, money as the most taboo topic, in­ sights from the recent urban faerie gathering in Portland and more.

jALftcr the smashing success of the recent first FaePosium-an afternoon and evening rich in heart felt discussion, performance and sweaty dancing-the planning circle has started visioning next year.

So mark your calendars...and, more impor­ tantly, think about how you might want to help stir the pot of faerie culture, community and politics.

D e cad e s hence where do we want to be?

H o w d o we step up, in a B IG way, to offer our gifts to a w orld that needs us m ore than ever?

W e’re looking to co-create a weekend o f faerie community and culture.

Fun - Stimulating.

Sa tisfyitig -Pro vocative.

Safe Uncomfortable.

Verbal - Kinesthetic.

Sticky Tasty.

Delightful.

Re-membering the thirty or more years or Radical Faerie gatherings, we share our stories, grounding ourselves in our rich roots...shaking off the detritus o f arguments old, deepening our bonds and co-creating in ever easier ways.

For more info go to www.rfdmag.org/faeposium, or call Kwai at 831.818.2528

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thev give to each other. So the fathers sav to the little boys, “You're going to grow up to be men like us. So number one, don’t cry. And number two, stay awav from sissies, because they do things that you should never do. So what should you do? To begin with, practice throwing balls back and forth as hard as you can. Remember that vou’ve got to know how to work together, because you've got to be on a baseball team. And vour baseball team has to be the best of the baseball teams, o f all the little league teams around you. At the same rime, you’ve got to be on the best on your team. You’ve got to learn how to do both at the same time!" They probably don’t actually say that, because they don’t want to make it seem impossible. “And my reputation is involved here, so you’ve got to make me look good” thev don’t sav that either, but the implication is very strong. And little bovs learn from all that, and do what little boys do.

Part Two of an Interview with John Burnside

By Mountaine My first exposure to the beauty that was John Burnside was seeing him on a public television documentary in the early 90s. As 1 remember it. he and Harrv Hay were seen sitting on a park bench.

Harry talked eloquently about subject-subject consciousness, and John spoke simply o f love. That memory is etched on my brain. 1 found Harry interesting, and John irresistibly fascinating. So you can imagine my excitement at meeting them both at Short Moun­ tain in May 1993.

What about the sissies themselves? A little boy goes off by himself. “ Well," he thinks, “I can see they don’t want me around.

So what else is going on?" And he notices that there’s a certain advantage to being a sissv - it gives him time for solitude. Now there’s a difference between loneliness and solitude. In solitude you can lie down under a tree, and talk to the birds and the caterpil­ lars, and look at the blue sky. So he enjoys that. Then he wonders, “What about the girls? They must talk about something. I’ll talk to them.” Now little boys know that little girls are way ahead of them - a year ahead - and the girls have already looked them over and decided they’re not very advanced. But the little girls see the little boy coming over to them, and decide to give him a chance. He asks, “Hey, what do you girls talk about?" And they say, “ Well, we talk about raising children. That’s why we play with dolls, because dolls represent babies. And we talk about cooking.” He watches people pour something into a pan, and magicically, an hour later it’s a cake - wow! That’s magical, so he stays, and maybe he’s one of the little sissies who becomes an expert in cooking!

Overall, I got to hangout with John a total of five times. The third was in the 1999 Gay Day parade in San Francisco. Harry was honored as the parades Grand Marshall, and he and John rode at the head o f the parade, right behind the famous Dykes on Bykes (and Mikes on Bikes), in a little convertible. By that time, Harry’s breathing was a challenge, and riding down Market Street hooked up to an oxygen machine, he looked very frail. John, however, was radiant. The pair had requested an entourage o f radical faer­ ies around the car, and I was one of about 40 who took them up on that. Dressed in flowing purple fabrics and scarves, I skipped through town alongside the car playing my bamboo flute. My melodies ranged from pagan chants to the Triumphal March from Verdi’s opera Aida. Whenever I launched into the Aida March, John’s eyes lit up. His hand would go up in the air (to about the level o f his grinning face), and he would turn it from left to right in time with the music, like the classic wave o f the Queen o f England. I was elated. You can imagine how many times I returned to serenade John with that melody as we traversed the many miles of the parade route. I cherish the memory as one o f the happiest days o f my life.

Some of the sissies go to the apex - to the grandmothers. The grandmothers are the mothers who no longer have to raise children, so they have some time to spare. They are women who have learned a lot, and the sissy sees this is useful knowledge. The grandmothers expect all the little kids to come around and get acquainted with them. Most of the boys are too busy playing baseball, but the sissy goes there and finds loads o f unclaimed love. So they tell him about life.

The last time I saw John, in June 2 0 0 4 ,1 interviewed him for this magazine. He touched on many topics in the three glorious hours that passed during our visit, and much o f that interview was published in the Autumn 2004 RFD, Issue #119. Here are some more gems that didn’t fit: SISSIES A N D LEA R N IN G In my life, I’ve studied all the different ways I could find o f thinking and learning. School gives you index knowledge - where to go to find out things you want to know. If you got really interested in mushrooms, you could find a book to learn the various species, etc. But you’d have to find a book by someone who really loves mushrooms!

And then there are other kinds o f learning...

My grandmother said to me: Johnnie, that bunch out there, they never know who does them good. They poisoned Socrates, and they crucified Jesus Christ on the cross, and they burnt Joan of Arc at the stake. That bunch out there represents the majority of humanity who arc very conform­ ist, and whose ideas arc gained from authorities, which they eagerly accept.

I was a lower class kid. You know, they play unsupervised, with whatever is available.

Imagine a group of boys play­ ing, and their fathers come by.

They want to give the kids guid­ ance, because usually the only guidance the kids get is what

Now later on, when I found out that 1 was homosexual, I saw the daggers pointing at me from “that bunch”. And I got such wonderful useful knowledge from my grandmother, because o f course it meant that I didn’t go 7

RFD Winter 2Q08-09 #136

had been told it wasn’t right, but we’d go inside and lock the door, knowing we wouldn’t be disturbed. Sodomy is obvious to little kids.

I don’t know why, but I just loved to suck his cute little cock, and he liked to have it sucked.

through as much self-hatred as I might have. I didn't care as much what others might say.

The little sissy is going to grow up like you and me, among those who question, who think, who examine. This is a small minority of human beings, because human beings think they need conformity.

But the little sissv belongs to the kind of people who don’t find it all that strange to question something. In fact, the grandmothers probably encourage the growth of the gay boys in particular; they encourage experimentation with thoughts and feelings, and the vari­ ous ways to question what people have told you to believe.

Well, we were caught. Robert got sick, and his mother called the doctor. The doctor talked to him and for some reason he revealed all. There at the door of his apartment was Robert’s mother with my mother, and I thought, ohhhh... That was the last I saw of Robert.

My mother had recently converted to Catholicism, and we lived near St. Joseph’s Church. The church director, Father Gerrigan, was the one to deal with moral questions, so it was felt that I should talk to him. He was very young, and he tried to question me about it, but all he’d ever learned was the strong commandment in Ecclesiastes, that if a man lie with another man as with a woman, this is an abomination, and they should be destroyed. That’s all he had been taught, so that’s all he could tell me. Then he tried another tactic. He told me to join him in another room. Then he put his finger in my fly, and I must have gotten an erection.

He said when that happens, say two “our father’s and 3 “hail mary”s, and go to confession right away. This was back in 1921 or so. Then he said he could give me confession. All that made such a powerful impression on me that I was prevented from any satisfying sexual expression until my middle age, when I met Harry.

GAMES WITH REPERCUSSIONS So our little sissy has been a little kid, unsupervised. And he’s already learned as much as he can comprehend about sex. Soon he can get on to what Mr. Clinton has called “oral intercourse” - he

M ENTORING FROM A PEDOPHILE When the little sissy hits puberty, the gonads and the hormones come into action, and suddenly the world is flooded with a wonderful possibility - oh wow, he looks around at the other little boys and the men, and oh gee...

When I was 14-16,1 had this wonder­ ful relationship with a pedophile. He had been a superintendent of schools in Il­ linois. I would visit with him on Monday nights, and every Friday night we went to the library together. He undertook to guide my reading, to show me the way.

He introduced me to books by famous au­ thors, but he liked the books they weren’t famous for. For example, he told me about Rudyard Kipling’s book The Light That Failed. It was so unlike The Jungle Stories and so on; this was the story of an artist whose inspiration failed him in the middle of life. He opened my eyes to a lot of books that the school considered unsuitable.

discovers that he and his friends can give each other pleasure by these means. Although it’s been made clear by their fathers that it’s wrong, there’s still the joyousness o f early childhood. Maybe the sissies who don’t do it haven’t found out yet, because they’ve been supervised.

Things changed with the Kinsey report in 1948. It told about how we had been lied to. Kinsey showed that whereas exclusively homosexual people were about 6% of the population, 37% had homosexual relations at least one time to the point of orgasm. So I thought, oh, this not as unusual as I believed. But I still knew there were daggers pointed at us. We used to say “he’s that way” to cover it up.

Now with me, when 1was 3, Robert and I were thrown together.

We played a lot of games, and then we got around to sex. 1was 5 and Robert was 3 - yes, sex is there from the very beginning. Even little infants have erections, as a consciousness emerges, with the capability of visualizing and appreciating the world around you.

Robert and I were certainly not the first to discover that! So we put it into practice. There was a butcher shop in the old part of Seattle that had once been fashionable - it had no bathroom inside, and they had a public bathroom outside that was kept locked with the key inside the shop, probably so that both sexes could use it. We RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

MEETING HARRY I met Harry when he was 51 and I was 47. I had been married for 20 years, but had finally come to realize that this was a mistake.

8

I had found O N E, Incorporated and read their O N I magazine about a vear before I met Harry. I went down to their office and found these wonderful people, so 1 began to go to meetings and help bundle up the magazine for mailing. There was a man there who offered university-type courses for gay people, so I took one of these. He taught us the sociology and history of homosexuality. I kept thinking there must be sex involved in all of this somewhere, and that eventually I would find somebody there. Ihen one day H am dropped bv. And what happened was that 1 found him and he found me.

health

notes

BUTT F IR S T

by Mark ‘middle’ Hubbard Last week, as 1 sat through a day and a half o f CDC-sponsored expert consultation on anti-HIV therapy and transmission risk, listening to data on things like the biology o f sexual transmission, pharmacology in the genital tract, viral loads and semen, and viral loads and vaginal secretions, the butt-cheeks o f bias were spread before me and the gaping hole o f neglect revealed.

It was 10 vears since he had established the Mattachine society in the early 50s. His message had been that gay people should know thev are good people, and that we could stake our claims on the 14th amendment o f the Constitution, which guaranteed the “privileges" o f all citizens. Harry had been with one young man for 11 years, but he was miserable, and they had separated. Harry had decided that he’d trv again to establish the gay community (he thought he had failed with Mattachine), and he hoped that in this work he would have an ideal companion. Well, I had no experience in the gay com­ munity at all, except the wonderful experience with these activist people.

It’s not like 1 didn’t know this already. 1 subscribe and contribute to lifelube.org. I’m a member o f the International Rectal Microbicide Advocates (IRMA), and I’m an active member o f CHAM P’s Prevention Research Advocacy Working Group (PRAWG). But frankly my ass is chapped. Hearing one presen­ ter casually refer to anal intercourse as having a twenty-fold higher transmission risk than vaginal intercourse and others repeatedly quip that there is little or no corresponding data regarding rectal / anal anything, 1 had a barely resistible urge to bend over and moon the podium, screaming.

It’s laughable (but not really). It’s ridiculous. It’s uncon­ scionable and it’s criminal. 55 years after the Kinsey reports, nearly three decades into the AIDS pandemic, we are still grasp­ ing for reliable data about concepts as fundamental as rates of anal sex in heterosexual populations. As far as w e’ve come, as much as we’ve spent, our knowledge o f the rectum and anal sex is still inferior to that o f the penis or vagina and what fundamen­ talists consider normal sex.

Harry was talking to the leader o f the O N E Inc education insti­ tute, who was hoping to set up a university for homosexuals, and he heard my laughter from a nearby room. He told me much later that when he first saw me, it was the “flower-faced youth” in me that so appealed to him. And that’s where my heart went. He was a giant scholar, with a powerful mind, but feeling is more than mentality, and these deep feelings in us will claim us. Apparently that’s what happened to him.

Given that, wouldn't the rational, logical thing to do be to invert priorities until that knowledge is equalized? What would it take to turn this around? 1don't know . l or now, rational thinking and logic are up shit's creek. I'm grateful that there are talented indi­ viduals all over the globe who care and who are doing right things. I'm thankful for the scientists that have made this a pri­ ority. But methinks it's the right time for some intentioned mis­ behavior. This week, I'm fantasizing about a massive demon­ stration at the next major research conference.

I told Harry that I was working on a platform for a little perfor­ mance we were planning to give at O N E Inc, so he offered to come around and help the following morning. When he arrived, he had squeezed himself into a really beautiful cashmere sweater. He was 6’4” and a skilled tennis player, and I was 5 feet and a half, and never cared much for sports. I liked to hike and swim, and I squeezed my butt into these nice little red swimming tights, this perfectly marvel­ ous red t-shirt, which would emphasize this “flower-faced boy”.

Well, that day we found that we were made for each other, there was no doubt o f that. But I said, the performance comes up in a couple o f weeks, and I’d better keep my mind clear so that I don’t forget my lines. So he said okay. And he wrote me some poems...

We could start by entering the opening plenary en masse, back­ wards - butt first (chaps owners to the front o f the line!) - settling our tushes into reversed chairs to observe the proceedings through hand mirrors. How’s that as an apt metaphor for the way an imbalanced and incomplete scientific agenda has hobbled real understanding o f HIV transmission and hindered real progress towards effective prevention?

Harry was wonderful at courting. He came from the upper middle class in England. His father was a famous engineer, and his mother had social prominence, so they had the manners of the upper class. O f course, Harry was in revolt against that, but still, he had learned about courting. The work he had done for the gay people, to help us recognize one another and to see the value that we had, had gone underground and spread there - the inspiration, the love, the basic freedom and liberty. For himself though, Harry was discouraged about love. But he was still hopeful. Even though both o f us were at the age where you know a lot, you know how to communicate with people, you have all these powers and qualities at what I call the majestic age, there we were courting each other like 20-year olds: “What can I do to look good, what can I do to look cute?” Nevertheless, nature had her way, and finally the time came for us to come together physically. Then for 37 years, until his death over 90, we were completely, wonderfully, delightfully joined.

I’m daydreaming o f picketers carrying signs proclaiming, “ Butt First!’’ I’m imagining whoopee cushions in every banquet chair, visualizing all o f our global allies dressed in t-shirts, buttons and hats plastered w ith images o f asses and anuses, hearing audi­ ences making farting sounds instead o f clapping. 1 can see between-sessions hallways populated with folks Hashing those fake booties you see at Mardi Gras and I can picture a huge inflatable ass parked outside o f the entrance of the host hotel.

Maybe it can never happen. It’s probably not strategically cor­ rect. Someone smarter than l should choose the optimum time and place. But it should happen and soon. In the mean time, 1 know I'll be joining the global ranks of activists who ask every time transmission is discussed: “ What do we know about the rectal transmission?...what do we know about the rectal com­ partment? ...and why the hell not?!?!

9

RED Winter 2008-09 H 136

using hot water from the stove. The people there believed farming itself was a form o f spiritual devotion, an idea with which Plouff empathized; “Living with the cycles of the sun and moon made sense to me. I didn’t want to participate with the rest o f the world.” But his enchantment with the group soon waned. “The group didn’t respect nature and the environment to the extent I’d been lead to believe,” he says.

Easing the transition through music: the life of Gary Plouff

By Nick DeMarino Music thanatoiogists don’t normally take requests. When a specially trained musician performs for a dying patient, a process called a musical vigil, pieces are chosen in tandem with the physical, mental, and spiritual condition o f the patient. The music is supposed to be unfamiliar to the patient, so as to not inhibit the unbinding process by stirring up memories associated with particular songs. But when the son of a comatose patient asked Gary Plouff to play Bach’s “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring,” he did a double take— he’d been practicing that very piece on a the harp for a performance with an ensemble. As he played the woman’s favorite song, he began to feel her spirit surface. She opened her eyes.

Over the next few years Plouff wandered from intentional community to intentional community, living off the grid, but never really feeling at home. He was getting older, less able and willing to put up with backbreaking labor every day.

Eventually he moved in w'ith a friend in Eugene, Oregon. “ I wasn’t sure what I was doing in Eugene, so I bided my time and waited for a direction to be revealed,” he recalls.

That’s when he read the article about music thanatologv.

The Chalice of Repose Project, which pioneered the first school o f music thanatology, defines the field thusly: “its sole focus is the physical and spiritual care o f the dying with prescriptive music, it is also a pastoral art which takes the words o f the Gospel seriously, and turns toward the face o f suffering without reserve. Certified music-thanatologists live a life of vocation/profession, and their work manifests in a synthesis o f clinical acuity, musical artistry, and ongoing inner development.”

Death isn’t something most twenty-somethings think about every day, but amidst the New York A ID S epidemic o f the 1980s it virtually surrounded Plouff. “People wasted away to skeletons; they were the walking dead,” he says matter-of-factly. Not much was known about the disease at that time. It was still widely believed it could be transmitted by kissing. Despite late nights in the dark room working on his photography degree at N Y U and his part time job at a restaurant, Plouff wanted to make a difference. After learning about alternative medicine he started a healing circle. “At first it was just five frightened gay men, but we knew we needed to do something,” he recalls. They practiced reiki and other modalities on friends and strangers from the community. At its peak the group had about 200 members. After graduating in 1984, Plouff decided to stay in New York.

Plouff remembers his reaction to the piece well, gesturing widely with his hands— “ I burst into tears and felt energy pass through my body. I instantly knew what I needed to do.” T ie following year, brimming with enthusiasm and confidence that can only come from a life-calling, he headed to Missoula, Montana, the site o f the Chalice o f Repose Project’s School of Music Thanatology.

During the next four years he stayed in the city, living with a friend and attending the circle. “ It was a fast track to spiritual awakening, a foot on the accelerator,” says Plouff, his voice soft but powerful. “ But the streets were becoming harsher as I was becoming more sensitive.” He nods solemnly as he recounts visiting friends in the hospital. The emotional toll began to add up— Plouff began to have trouble interacting with the rest o f the world. His life became a haze. He stayed in his apartment for weeks until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Music has always been a part o f Plouff’s life. The child o f two vocalists, he learned to perform duets with his father at age seven. He learned to play the guitar and accordion at age ten, and became the organist for the family’s church at fifteen.

Before heading to N Y U , he’d been training as a vocalist at the University o f Massachusetts at Amherst.

But the music he learned at the School o f Music Thanatology was different. Music thanatologists play thematic and amorphous pieces, that primarily draw on Gregorian Chant from the Middle Ages. “It’s music that doesn’t have a beat: it contracts and expands, facilitating the unbinding process,” says Plouff. Notes, chords, silence, all o f these change with a patient’s vitals, respirations, and even temperature.

He decided to leave.

Plouff and his partner headed to a woody area o f Massachusetts. They cut wood, carried water in buckets, and started a greenhouse. The simple lifestyle helped Plouff recenter, but it was slow going. Just as the shell shock began to fade, he and his partner split up. Shortly after that America entered the Persian G u lf War. All of it was just too much. “ I was so sensitive, so open. Things stopped making sense at that point.” he recalls. So he headed to an intentional community in Pennsylvania, a place more rustic than a house in the woods. It was so rustic that the cooperative’s wheel burrows had stone wheels and its members bathed in a giant saucer KID Winter 2008-09 #136

In Missoula he held his first music vigil for a local woman. As he sang he knelt by her bed, looked across her body, and noticed the beautiful meadow full o f wildflowers just outside the window, as well as the mountains in the distance. “ While I sang to her she died. I felt her spirit leave her body and expand into the room, the meadow, and the 10

creates a striking irony about the possibility of a musical vigil for his own death. “I’m going to know all the music— 1 don’t know if it's going to work." he says with a hearty laugh.

mountains.” Around the same time he had a dream in which he was shot and killed. “I knew that I was dead, but that I was still there. I needed to change mediums, so I dove into the earth. Everything was molecules— molecules spread out everywhere— just like with the woman. 1 felt my body disperse, no longer in this container, but still aware,” he says, pantomiming every motion.

Despite plaving music all day. Plouft often returns home from work to record and produce his own harp music. He released his first solo album, The Wayfaring Pilgrim, in 2005.

His newest album, Blue River Ballads, will be released this fall and explores the darker side of life. He also experienced as a coproducer and music director on “ Loom of Love” and “ From the Deep Earth,” both o f which include music performed by himself and other music-thanatologists from the Pacific Northwest. “That’s where he really lives, doing music,” says lane Franz, fellow musician and coordinator of Strings of Com passion at Sacred Heart. Plouft s harp and voice are more than instruments; they are extensions of his body, mind, and soul. “ I’m very lucky that I found this work, thankful, it’s nurturing,” he says.

After graduating in the Chalice ol Repose Project’s second coterie o f musicians in 1996, Plouff opened his own music thanatology practice, Sacred Harmonies in Seattle.

Washington with Jeri Howe. But after four years, it still didn’t feel like home. “Seattle was not friendly for me,” says Plouft. He moved to Portland, Oregon to join the non-profit music thanatology collective SacredFlight, which eventually lead him back to Eugene. Today he is one of three music thanatologists in Strings of Com passion at Sacred Heart Medical Center, the largest employer o f music thanatologists in the world.

The request to play “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring,” stands out in Plouft s mind amongst the myriad musical vigils he's held. As he played the song, he became aware of her spirit surfacing— that’s when her eyes opened. She was fully awake and wanted to speak with her children, who were also in the room. They talked for two hours, amends were made, quarrels put to rest, and loving goodbyes offered. She slipped back into the coma and died shortly after.

After 12 years, Plouft is still sensitive when he plays lor the dying. The room is often charged with energy. “ It can be overwhelming, being there amidst final goodbyes. I'm nakedly receptive to the experience.” He still cries, sometimes while playing. “ The music is my permeable shield. It’s the container.” It allows him to be a witness to the experience yet still be able to do his work..

Gary’s (known as Zeke on the west coast) first gathering was at SM S in 1989 while he was living in Western Massachusetts. He has frolicked in the woods at Blue Heron, enjoyed the waters at Breitenbush and walked the labyrinth at Wolf Creek. His photographs were featured in the Spring 1990 issues of RED as well as other issues. He now lives and works in Eugene, Oregon.

The most significant death in his own life was that ol his mother. “Losing someone close to you, it’s excruciating, like suddenly something is ripped from inside you. I don’t think you can ever be prepared for the death o f a parent,” he says. Plouft arrived at the hospital, borrowed harp in tow, and played for her before she passed. At the moment of her death though, he set down his instrument and was at her side. Face streaming with tears, he returned to the harp. “ It was hard. There was no separation. I was just in a state of grief while I was playing.” His blue eyes still tear up when he recalls this event.

For more information: http://hom e.earthlink. net/~harpweaver (G ary’s website) www.peacehealth.org/oregon/ careers/tour/StringsO fC. htm (Sacred H earts Strings of Com passion websi te)

Plouft’s thoughts about his own mortality are surprisingly normal.

“I think about my body breaking down, the pain it might bring,” he says. This leads to a discussion o f the effects o f morphine on hospital patients and many families’ choice between allowing a loved one to be comfortable and unresponsive or present and in pain. His life’s work

Nick DeMarino is a graduate of Obcrlin College. His articles have appeared in alternative weeklies, regional and national magazines.

He is also assistant editor of UK based magazine, Bad Acid. He is currently working on his M A in magazine journalism at the University o f Oregon in Eugene.

11

RID Winter 200K-09 #136

Radical Faeries who Gather at Breitenbush Hot Springs RM) Winter 2008-09 #136

12

Background photo: “Emerald Forest Trail” by Pan. Oppostie: Painting byjicima

The

This issue of RFD

is in commemoration of the 28th winter gathering of Radical Faeries at Breitenbush Hot Springs. For more than 40 summers and winters, men hairy and smooth, young and old, in high drag and low, have found their way into the foothills of the Cascade Mountain Range. At this sacred place, where lithium-enriched waters bubble out of the ground at 180 degrees fahrenheit, men have learned to frolic with their brothers, lay with their lovers, and be in community with each other.

A month after the Winter Gathering, I will turn 28 years old. As I walk this world, I remind myself that I stand as a living, physical testament representing an era of the Breitenbush gathering. Though I only stumbled upon the Radical Faeries a lew years ago, I hold this tribe close to my heart. Just as the deep volcanic core of nearby Mt. Jefferson heats the bubbling juices that fill the hot springs, I know that my con­ nection with faeries runs deep in my veins and soul. I have found my home.

-Pan, Breitenbush RFD Coordinator/Designer 13

KID Winter 200X-09 ÂŤ136

Gathering with the

aenemen

by Damien

In a lodge in a forest off a glacier-plated mountain, we’d wrapped my first know/talent show, and I could still feel laughter pealing Woodblock by Peppermint

Damien met Pepper­ mint at his first Winter ( lathering at Breitenbush, and they have been loving partners ever since, living in Portland, ( )regon.

through my head. The North Wing had cleared, though you could still feel the heat.

1 stood there, soaking in it. To my right, a flutter couldn’t let the music go, so they sang around the old upright. To my left, some sweaty puppies fucked and giggled in the glow. Ahead, a chatting cluster spanning twenty up to sixty and beyond wove sex, love, death, and metaphysics in a Pan/Socratic tapestry.

Snow was falling. Someone saw my face, whispered “welcome home”, and I felt my heart explode.

Men? Some looked like nothing I’d known growing in Montana (save the

Rf I) Winter 2008-09 ft 136

14

purple one), but had personality to drive any pickup truck. Others could have slid down from a freight cab (to my face), yet held forth eloquence not much found in eighteen-wheelers. Still others cross-wired any reference I’d yet registered. These men were supple. Unwilling to fit molds my mind tried on them. Unable, really. Too big for my too-small thoughts o f manhood. Beard in a skirt. Shotgun pansy. Three piece princess.

Rock on boys, it's party-time ...

Dancing through this playground watching man-loving men step through makeup, shawls, condoms, chaps, skirts, jocks, and other skins in search of self in

other eyes, and deep within their own, left me breathless.

Panting. Feeling my skin peel back. Wanting more of this ... spaciousness, so very not like the world I d left outside this few days’ breadth of air.

It’s easy to forget we walk down different paths to circle. To me, men are gravity. To me, men are nutrition.

To me, men arc passion. To me, gatherings are forest rolls, stretching roots in the soil, and weaving branches cross the sun and moon lit mountains of our lives. Pan, Herne, Cernunnos. Odin, Zeus, Apollo. Raven, Hermes, Thoth. Father of Us All. To me.

Thunder, and it's done. We pledged, promised, swore we’d take it to the world. This raw freedom couldn’t be locked in so small a box as any gathering. We'd surge forth smearing rebel love juice through the galaxy, spurting seeds to watch them root, bloom, die, and compost.

Pump holes full o f love. Then with our bond deeply felt we slipped back from the pile. Stood tall one last time in circle. Unbroken ... but open ... then walked back through our gates.

Time has also taught me the measure of this path I walk to find my view by watching others stroll different landscapes, each unique if sometimes similarly bent (not always). Good hard lessons rise when, mistaking mine for another’s, I should all over the scenery. Such a mess.

My men. Full house in the hand. Shelby, the gold-hearted rocker dude who taught me to love Ihe Scorpions - there's no one like you . John, the well-traveled bookseller who delighted dropping dharma through an altar boy’s mind. Dad, the immigrant vintner’s son who plowed wit, love, and laughter into a business big enough to pay the bills yet send him home to dinner every night at five. Brad, who taught me to suck cock, jack, and probe the mystery o f ass.

His brothers, who set hippie cowboy archetypes which still get my zipper stiff. Mr. Robinson, renegade catholic high school teacher who knew boys could use some Zappa. Darren, who argued the meaning of art until burning the book was a better choice than watching it rot. Ryan, who ... too bad these men are (mostly) dead. We all compost eventually. And, eventually that’s okay.

Pop the bubble. Smell the diesel. Hear them barking in the lake-side store. Look at him, handsome lug, standing past an acre of counter-top, ringing the register sullen, hot, and hard.

How does your laugh sound, man? Guarded eyes say that doesn’t happen much. Not for you, bud, you look sorta queer. Instinct knows wrong moves are dangerous. So I smile big anyhow, open eyes well-practiced in recent days.

It passes through some chink and echoes back a shy grin.

Surprise!

Nothing more.

Plenty. Hope someone loves him good. It’s sweet in there.

“Such content. The word m a n h o o d earns cynical projections these days.

So much wrong done in its name; and right, for those who see it”

A few dozen gatherings and a decade or so later, that moment still bears symbol of my hopes in this tribe called “radical faerie”. Men opening our baggage without spilling the content.

Such content. The word manhood earns cynical projections these days. So much wrong done in its name; and right, for those who see it. War, destruction, endless oppression. Art, construction, boundless compassion.

Siddhartha was a man. Jesus was a man. Arjuna was a man. Oscar Wilde was a man. Harvey Milk was a man.

All this walks into my gatherings, and is stitched deep in my skirt. I love men. And this love for men who love men and the many ways we do it keeps me gathering with the faerie men, all while knowing there are many different paths around this mountain. As many as our wings, at least two each. Mine is mine, and I’m grateful for those I stroll with.

So are radical faeries men* We rush to the shelter of we’re all self-defining, rejecting hard conceptions from the bad men in our lives. Then my gaze falls over the shapes, sizes, and colors scattered through my stack of RFD, the chronicle of our tribe, and they look like men to me. Are looks deceiving? Am I just projecting? Is man a word we faeries cannot own?

Wefaeries are self-defining, there's no authority but our heart...

15

RI D Winter 2008-09 #136

Breitenbush Stardome

A Poem by BBHa!

Is this a planetarium in some steamy realm of fire?

A cocoon of wild work and precious play?

Flames surround flamers dancing round a vortex: Connecting Mother Earth and Father Sky Connecting with each others shadows Connecting and disconnecting with self-love and self-hatred Flaying possibilities at Devil’s Fiole Horizon honing while centering in Heart Circle Unfurling fabulousness with Moulin Bush fashions Integraaaaating Goat Boys and thigh slaps Breathing rituals and spontaneous tears Walking meditations and sexual yoga Dances with Real Estate Saleswomen Hikes in the wild brambly wilderness of high drag and scary aloneness Oozing in faerie oneness And seeing in this Circle more stars than ever Wondering why they -- it -- me -- we -- suddenly become visible In the Breitenbush Stardome

I Lived a Thousand Years A Poem by By Morgain Lessloss I went away and lived a 1,000 years.

1 vowed my love for them and me.

I cried my tears for lost and gained.

I danced and loved, and grew and healed.

I saw the moon and sat with stars, flew with the birds and faerie folk.

I was birthed again by earth’s warm waters, touched to the depths of my soul.

I went away and lived a 1,000 years...

I revelled in my kindred’s touch and recoiled at their truth.

RKl) Winter 2008-09 #136

...And returned to the world but five days hence.

16

Always Cumming Fiome

by BB Fla!

Ever wonder

how you can bring the magic o f a faerie gathering home, to better merge “faerie space” with amy space” ?

One bit o f advice for “re-entry with integrity” : don’t expect to be able to bring home the precise magic of a gathering. People are in some kind of

altered space in any given Faerie forcefield, and often when you get together outside the gathering, you have to “start over.’ IFtere are ways to do that — to have heart circles (even with just two people), to wear drag, to paint each others nails. But don’t expect the “same” magic to be present...it never is.

Nonetheless, gatherings are our portal to the other world. (In the Dagara tribe ol Africa, the “walks between peoples gathering is considered essential to the whole tribe’s survival. Nobody is allowed to disturb it.) What we learn and experience there can feed us lor months and years to come. Or, we can forget about what that magical new territory felt like and slip back into old fearful habits.

So how do we create and keep a sustainable Faerie lifestyle, operating from a place of abundance and love.''

Hmmm. It’s obviously up to each faerie. But our circles (both formal and informal) at Breitenbush can offer some helpful advice:

after a gathering, to see if anyone at work notices. Others get their hair shaved off at a gathering, which constantly reminds them and their friends that something’s different.

The spirit of this path is being true to yourself. What can you do to be more true to the whole you? (Wear that silky underwear? Speak your truth?)

What would it look like to model subject-subject consciousness in conflict situations? To forgive more easily, to let go, to be slightly detached and not so invested in male or bitchy ego?

Cum Home with Integrity.

Ihat is, honor yourself and fellow faeries. See the faerie in others. (What? Faedar?) Ride home with faeries so you can recount favorite moments and “decompress” together.

Some faeries like to take a day off by themselves, just to reflect on a gathering, to process what happened, to rest (in ones own bed after those horrific bunks!). Others get (and give!) massage - Body Electric or otherwise to reconnect with the mind/spirit/body wholeness o f a gathering.

Still others hold mini-reentry gatherings or “gatherettes” to look at photos or videos, and keep fae spirit alive, flhese usually happen in Portland the night the gathering ends, and in Seattle the next week.)

Heart-circle awareness.

A few faeries have tried using a talisman at work meetings, with great success. They don’t call them heart circles, but the talisman gives people a focus for speaking their truth and listening more closely.

Others speak of practicing “beauty and random acts of kindness.” When in doubt, decorate! Try a little tenderness in times when there seems to be none around. Celebrate with other queer pagans. Listen to inner meanings.

Altared consciousness.

Creating an altar (if you don’t already have one), or adding some faerie fru-fru to your altar or windowsill could help you remember your faebulousness on a regular basis. Many faeries meditate before these altars, and call on their special faerie goddesses and gods.

Others find themselves with big mood swings after a gathering. “Why can’t the world be like it was at Breitcnbush, with Luscious Love Lounges and gorgeous faeries all around?” (But remember the high highs and low lows of the gathering, too?) Be open to emotions; try some soul-swinging.

Public faerie events.

Some faeries have organized performances (creations sometimes begun at No-Talent Shows) o f faerie music or dancing, coffee get-togethers, hikes, dinners when traveling faeries are in town. Others have done political actions (kiss-ins in shopping malls for AIDS awareness), pagan rituals (like Solstice fires), marched with faerie wings in gay-pride parades, even held talent shows as fundraisers for individual faeries or faerie projects (like scholarship funds or land-searches).

Most o f all, as faeries have “come out” as faeries to themselves and their friends, their lives have just opened to include more loving fae energy. And just when you think you know what “faerie” is, it changes!

Fae Pride.

Rather than relegating faerie space to gatherings, talk about faeries to friends. (Except, of course, what’s spoken in those sacrosanct heart circles.) The idea of Subject-Subject consciousness is totally fascinating to people, as is the faerie concept of “askance.”

Some faeries love to keep jewelry or nail polish on

K M ) W inter 2008-09 #136

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The History of Money, The Faeries, and The Bush Remembrances from Uncle Markie with lots of help from MoonSong.

I went to the organizing meeting for all the wrong reasons. Or were they the right reasons - a cute 18-yearold boy. I was 22 at the time. 1 had hair; long hair and a motorcycle. It was the fall o f 1981 and it was the planning meeting for the first Radical Faerie Gathering in the Northwest. MoonSong was the driving force behind the meeting, my ex, Jeff, was there, and, of course, the cute 18-year-old. My memories are of baked treats in the living room overlooking OfFut Lake outside Olympia, Washington where we had all gone to college.

The first gathering cost $65 with a pre-registration fee of $15. We (well, really MoonSong) worked out a deal with the Breitenbush community for lower rates in exchange from sweat equity in the form of labor parties over the weekend. Think washing dishes, digging ditches, and moving lumber. It was a moderate success, the labor part - but at each Heart Circle we had to pass the hat because our pay-as-much-as-you-can or no-one-turnedaway-for-lack-of-funds policy wasn’t enough to cover our even reduced bill.

This was the first time that the Breitenbush Community had ever hosted a winter group, and only half the cabins had heat in them. Luckily we were also a much smaller group than today - 50-60 people. The lights went out at 10pm because o f the age of the generator; the fire was doused as well because of fire worries.

Year Two the price of the gathering went up, and we still had our labor exchange deal with the community in place. This year the labor portion totally fell apart. Not enough volunteers. Still, the hat came out at each circle

because we were short of funds. And still, the lights went out at 10pm.

As the years went on we added new money making opportunities such as the auction, but the pay-asmuch-as-you-can policy was still leaving us short. Many discussions, but not much movement or change -- the joys o f consensus.

Our tribe’s financial situation was so bad that in 1984 the Q R had to write a personal check for the remaining $600 to Breitenbush because we didn’t raise enough money in Heart Circle.

With 1985 came a new policy - send us the money up front so we can repay the 1984 debt and slow down the hat in the Circle.

With the 1990 gathering, the Saturn’s (Chip and Seth) started a new policy. The concept of the Faerie Fee Fund was begun. You could apply for a whole or partial faerie funding if you couldn’t afford the whole gathering fee.

Two of the main reasons for this change were: 1) our tribe was tired o f getting hit up for more money at every 1leart Circle, and 2) we were selling out the camp winter after winter.

And speaking of selling out the winter gathering, there were several years in the late 80s when we as a tribe experimented with having the Winter Gathering over two weekends to accommodate all the faeries who wanted to attend. Ihe first weekend would be the traditional weekend of four nights followed by a break of

The History of Money: continued on page 20 19

RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

Historically there are the lower attendance numbers for the talent and auctions if done on separate evenings as faeries opt out of dressing up or shopping for bargains.

My heart goes out to our dear RiverSong who year after year deals with the tedious process of recording bids and collecting money.

There are QRs who think that those who receive a whole or partial faerie funding from the Faerie Fee Fund should be expected to do extra service at the gathering, be it a workshop, helping clean up after, just a little something extra.

To bring up Spiral again (my dear friend who I don’t see enough of), prior to his first gathering in 1997 (that would have been my twentieth or so), Spiral called in to Dan Savage’s radio talk show with the question, “ I'm going to this gathering in the woods next week and because I’m on whole or partial faerie funding they are asking that I do something extra and 1 was thinking o f bringing body paints - what sort o f paints are non-toxic?”. I love Dan’s response: “So, you’re going to the faerie gathering (which Spiral didn’t mention) so it might get a little messy. Check out anything labeled for face painting as I’m sure it will work for dick painting as well.”

That radio question made me seek out Spiral and get to know _______________ him. Opinions vary on whether that request of our whole or partial faerie funding recipients “do a little extra” is demeaning - for me, that little extra means that I do a little extra, even though I’ve paid in full. What goes around, comes around.

We have decisions to make as a tribe. One of the fundamental reasons for purchasing Wolf Creek was to end our dependence on a third party (even a socially responsible one such as the Breitenbush community).

The land (Wolf Creek) works for some, and is too rustic for others. I admit that I fall into the latter camp - that and some bad juju vibes I got from the land when I was there 20 years ago. Who knows how much sage-ing over the years might have changed that vibe. Those with health or mobility issues just can’t do gatherings at Wolf Creek as it exists today.

Breitenbush has gone from $65 dollars and labor to over $300 and no work (unless you think about the work that it took to get that $300) over the quarter century plus that the faeries have gathered in their woods. Ultimately it is up the Queen Registrar for each gathering to make

a couple of days followed by a three night gathering over the following weekend. Unlike today’s winter gathering, the early gatherings could only accommodate 90-100 people in the winter between the capacity of the kitchen and the number of heated cabins.

Through the 90s and into the new century the Faerie Fee Fund prospered and built up a balance that allowed for more and more whole or partial faerie funding to be offered. Queen Registrar’s went back and forth about whether we should request a minimum o f $50 towards the registration fee. Ihe two camps: those wedded to the concept that no one should be turned away for lack of funds, now that we had a little money in the bank, and those who found out in practice you have those who get a full whole or partial faerie funding and then fail to show up, or even bother to cancel, depriving another faerie of the chance to attend the gathering.

1 fall into the latter o f those camps. No financial commitment means nothing lost if you suddenly have a hot date for that Saturday. My position comes from having been the Queen for several gatherings (Winter 2001 and with Whitewater Summer J of 2007), helped dozens o f other QRs with mailing, registration, the call (including the early years since I worked in a print shop and probably a dozen more in later years when I had a bunch of digital equipment at my disposal), or maybe it’s just because I’ve only missed one gathering (SnowBear’s 1997 Summer Gathering - again, SnowBear, my apologies, I thought it was more important for Spiral to experience a EuroFaerie gathering). When 1 say missed one gathering, this includes doing both weekends of those two ancient winter gatherings in the late 80s which didn’t really work and were the birth of the first summer gathering in 1992.

My attachment to the gathering at Breitenbush borders on the compulsive.

Which brings us to the auction to raise money for the Faerie Fee Fund - which isn't even the correct term according to the IRS, but I’ll use it because it’s the term we all know. Ihere are QRs that dislike the auction that act of hitting up people for more money after they have already paid a lot for the long weekend. Better than having to pass the hat at Heart Circle is my answer.

My preference is for the EuroFaerie version of a Talent/ Auction/Fashion Show combination over two nights so that there is enough time for all the talent without a show running until 2am (which they have in the past).

“Mv attachment to the gathering at Breitenbush borders on the compulsive.”

RFl) Winter 2(K)8-(.W #136

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those decisions around the money issue.

Talking about money is not something that comes easily to most people, and in my opinion, faeries even less. I do so at the risk ot being labeled (again) one ot those bourgeois faux-faeries. Having a gathering at Breitenbush is an expensive proposition over which we have little control over the cost. We have a cash cushion

at the moment, but mv fear is of hats being passed around Heart Circle.

That cute boy from the beginning of the story? He is now known as Fluffernutter and it took him 20 years to get his ass to a gathering after being involved in planning the first Breitenbush Gathering. He has been coming back as work allows. Welcome Home.

From our www.radfae.org website, our official position this week is:“NORACTAFLOF” Tradition We maintain a tradition that no one registered and confirmed will be turned away for lack of funds (“NO RACTAFLOF”). This tradition is critical to sustaining our community and ensuring our diversity, regardless of age, income, or ability.

This tradition requires confirmed registration, because Breitenbush Hot Springs has less capacity than we generally have registrations (especially in Winter). This tradition is also expensive to maintain for our community, relative to some radical faerie gatherings, because Breitenbush Hot Springs provides a level of physical support sufficient for most elderly, healthchallenged, and other-abled faeries to safely and comfortably participate.

This support includes heated cabins, organic vegetarian meals served ontime three times daily from a health department certified and professionally staffed kitchen, refrigeration for meds, wheelchair access, smooth’ish semilighted trails (bring a flashlight), and 24 hour trained emergency medical assistance, all maintained by an

egalitarian community of about 50 sensitive, respectful resident workers paid fair sustainable wages, plus benefits including housing and quality medical coverage. We get what we pay for. We feel good about the 25+ years of mutual support between our communities, and feel wealthy for the diversity our attention to supporting physical needs brings our gatherings. Frankly, many actually find our gatherings inexpensive, cheap in fact, relative to all we share and receive.

Your generosity, in whatever amount you can afford to share - hopefully the full basic cost as shown in The Call to each gathering, and maybe a bit more by donation or the auction we often hold - is vital to sustaining our gatherings. A thoughtful balance between everyone offering generously from all we have - time, labor, art, money, skill, compassion, talent - and everyone asking for only what we truly need, allows our gatherings to thrive.

Thank you for joining us in the spirit of this vital tradition.

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KFD Winter 2008-(W #136

KI D Winter 2008-09 #136

by jp hartsong

The faeries have gathered for years together with purpose.

We come together to share our stories and ourselves. The following is a myth inspired by the following prophecy which speaks o f the coming ot a tribe of rainbow warriors...

When the Earth is ravaged and the animals are dying, there will come unto the earth a new tribe oi people, from all colors, classes and creeds. By their actions and their deeds they will make the earth mother bloom green again. They will be called the warriors of the rainbow. *first nation prophecy Earth sensed the humans disconnect.

She felt her energy draining. It was being used up. Consumed. Before, they would always give back and add to her. Ihe pool of life essence was always constant. Her essence was enriched as humans danced upon her.

Then it started to change. Some of them forgot. Visitors started coming, ones who had never been here and didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know the ways. We started to separate.

Why are they so detached, she wondered.

She had felt them separate, and as the chasm grew, they began to attack the very thing that gave them life, her. They took without returning. They devoured needlessly and endlessly. The pool of life essence that was her spirit began to wane. The visitors found the natives, and would not tolerate their lives in harmony with her. They dominated and forced them to become like them. Now you are like us, they said. We are all the same.

She had sensed the visitors here, wearing the skins of her humans, from different places, from different planes. 1hey must have forgotten, she thought. They came, enjoyed, but didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t give back. There was no exchange.

They thought everything was theirs and free.

As a result, she began to grow weak.

She prayed for guidance. She called out to her allies. Most of them, the pieces of her, were under attack as well. The humans were becoming dominators of the earth plane.

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She reached out to beyond herself.

Help! she cried! I hey are forgetting. 1hey are losing their connection and forgettinghow to live; they dominate, destroy, and seek to accelerate their deaths. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand what was happening, but felt concern. If they continued their acceleration towards death, they would surely destroy themselves, and possibly change her irrevocably. Her life pool was shrinking as she circled the sun.

She heard a whisper of reply, from within and from stars far different. We are coming, some said. We will follow, said others.

We will come and build places inbetween the worlds. We will remember our sacred natures, our connection to the pool, our connection to ourselves. We will be of mixed lineages - o f the blood of the original inhabitants and the spirit of the star nations.

We will come to this plane, and thru the gate forget what we know, dhru their program, become something alien.

But there will be guideposts. Ihere will be signs.

There will be our place, our circle, where our magic enters the plane. It is here we will gather, and find our family, lhere are many coming, and there are many here. We will aid the earth. We will embrace symbiosis before dominion.

It is here we gather and share stories.

Those that came before with those who have come now. We remember our magic and our mission. We remember our promise to her, our promise to aid. We remember the covenant of stewardship between us and all life, and with those who inherit her next.

We are the warriors of the rainbow. We rejuvenate the life pool for all.

KI D Winter 2008-09 #136

Photos by Pan These photographs represent m y wanderings throughout the hot springs of Breitenbush.

In seeking my own solitude, I found myself intrigued by the men sitting alone, eyes closed and contemplating. I saw something in the si­ lence and stillness that 1 wanted to capture and share. Using a Holga Camera, these images are the culmination of my numerous trips to the Medicine Wheel and the Meadow Pools.

KID Winter 2008-09 #136

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RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

Photos by Pan These photographs represent m y wanderings throughout the hot springs of Breitenbush.

In seeking my own solitude, I found myself intrigued by the men sitting alone, eyes closed and contemplating. I saw something in the si­ lence and stillness that 1 wanted to capture and share. Using a Holga Camera, these images are the culmination of my numerous trips to the Medicine Wheel and the Meadow Pools.

KID Winter 2008-09 #136

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RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

My Day of Hallelujah

by Stitch Stitch is a faerie living in Vancouver BC .

It needs to be stated that I iallelujah was originally conceived by Ironard Cohen.

Ihis version was transc ribed from three 'You lube’ performance of KI ) Lang.

KM) Winter 2008-09 # 136

It was the second morning of Winter Camp. Although at the time I wouldn't have been able to tell you that, as time melts away at Faerie Camp and yes the wonderful image of Salvadors melting clocks springs to mind.

Only after being home can I say that it was the second morning. This was to be my Hallelujah Day. I was sitting at the new round tables in the dining hall of the Breitenbush lodge enjoying my breakfast o f granola, sliced fruit, and hard boiled eggs. I had the pleasant company of a table full of Faeries, among them two of my close intimates. Conversation meandered around until Morgain Lessloss paused and said he couldn’t get K D Langs Hallelujah out of his head. It was a quick comment released into the room and could have been easily forgotten.

Conversation continued until dear Pansy Wyldefyre turned to Moragin and gently threatened him with an easeful death for putting that song in his head, thus usurping whatever lovely melody was present in his mind, dhere was a chorus of chuckles and more ribbing and it could have easily been forgotten.

I finished my breakfast, took any dirty plates, bowls, and cutlery that had been set aside on our cozy round table to the plastic bins that would be the temporary home of the soiled utensils until they would be cleaned by the handy and helpful staff.

Soon I was nestled snuggly between two beautiful men on the rattan sofa in the general meeting area of the lodge. I engaged in some wonderful touch with a Faerie I hadn’t had the delight of meeting before. As our hands began to explore each other’s bodies, it soon escalated into our mouths exploring each other’s mouths. This exchange moved on into 26

his cabin where we exhausted the morning with touching, kissing, and talking. It was during one of the talking moments that this wonderful floral Faerie said to me, “I have a Faerie name for you.” Out o f the blue... just like that this botanical nymph was inspired to gift me with a Faerie name.

Now 1 did have a Faerie name, one that few Faerie’s could pronounce. It even fell out of usage with me. There were a careful handful o f dear Faes who had continued to use it, but once they heard the new name, they would smile and say “O f course!” Then we’d give a knowing nod, like ‘Why didn’t WE think of it earlier’. But nope, it had to come to me on my Hallelujah Day. After lunch I was back in the common area with Faeries draped over, on, and around the rattan furniture. Another Faerie that I had recently met whisked me off to the library for a quick cuddle before a massage that I had booked. We made our way into the room and a familiar tune was radiating from the upright in the corner. A Faerie was sitting at the piano playing Hallelujah. We snuggled on the carpeted floor, the music floating about us. This could have been easily forgotten.

That evening the Faeries congregated in the North Wing for the Talent/No Talent show. I was decked out in my butch finery; black leather chaps, kick-ass biker boots, white cloth jock-strap and this exquisite purple Indian knee length vest that sparkled with gold threads and reflective bits. I was sitting with a man I was acquainted with; in fact we had come to our first gathering in the same winter three years prior. We were comfortably entwined leaning on our jackbacks taking in the spectacle of the show.

Our host Cupcake led us through the first

Hallelujah

Song by Leonard Cohen

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord That David played, and it pleased the Lord But you don't really care for music, do ya?

It goes like this, the fourth, the filth The minor fall, the major lift A baffled king composing Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Well your faith was strong but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya Well she tied you to a kitchen chair She broke your throne, and cut your hair And from your lips she drew a Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Baby I’ve been here before I've seen this room, IVe walked this floor I used to live alone before I knew ya But I saw your flag on the marbled arch Our love is not a victory march It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Maybe there’s a god above But all I’ve ever learned from love Was how to shoot somebody who out drew ya And it’s not a cry that you hear at night It’s not someone who’s seen the light.

It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah 27

act of the Talent No Talent show with wit, case, grace, and surprising speed.

After intermission the show started with the conclusion of a two part cliffhanger that had been set up at the inception of the show. Ihen this beautiful Faerie made his way to the stage with his guitar and proceeded to sing two songs. I had been enduring a headache after my afternoon massage work and a good cry was w hat 1 needed to release the last of the tension from my body. It came the moment Keer strummed the first bars of Hallelujah.

1 couldn't believe it actually. 1 craned my neck to see if 1 could find Morgain in the crowd, but 1 settled back in and let the tears flow. The words washed over and through me as the beautiful man sitting next to me held me, tears and mucus flowing. This could not have been easily forgotten.

But, since my Hallelujah day began at breakfast it is fitting that it ended the following morning in the upper meadow hot springs before our third breakfast. 1 awoke with the sun, put on my cozy PJs and oversized black terry-cloth robe, and made my way to the steaming hot pools.

There were several Faeries basking or basting themselves in the rocky basin.

I stripped and scurried to the warmth of the healing waters. I settled myself beside Morgain and the water rose up to meet a scar stitched into my guts at birth. I told him he had good magik in conjuring up Hallelujah at breakfast the morning before. There was more talking and banter amongst the Faeries in the rocky tub. Ihen it was pointed out that Morgain and I had begun to hum the fated song. We burst into laughter and I came up with a remedy to wash away I lallelujah from our minds. I was able to draw on my own magik and with the Faeries present encouraging me, the Faerie newly named Stitch, sang not one, but two songs from The Sound of Music.

Kt I) Winter 2008-09 #136

Queen Registars of past gatherings 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989

Winter #1 Winter #2 Winter #3 Winter #4 Winter #5 Winter #6 Winter #7 Winter #8

1990 Winter #9 1991 Winter #10 1992 Winter #11 1992 Summer #1 1993 Winter #12 1994 Winter #13 1994 Summer #2 1995 Winter #14

1995 Summer #3 1996 Winter #15 1996 Summer #4 1997 Winter #16 1997 Summer #5 1998 Winter #17 RFD Winter 2008-09 # 136

1998 Summer #6 Peppermint 1999 Winter #18 Elderberry (ffka Fonda

Moonsong Moonsong Moonsong Moonsong Moonsong Gidget Cyan “Scarf Clan’’ Lalayh / Brian Fairbrother C. and S. Saturn Moonsong Sunlight Elderberry Riversong Riversong justplainBill (ffka RavOn Sistrwomn) Gina FalloffaBrigitta (ffka Lotta LittleBear) and Snowbear Aaron T. Loka Wolf and Lupin Katie Eagle Singer Lupin and Jacynth Astarin Snowbear Rainbowman and Rosemary for Rememberance

1999 Summer #7 2000 2000 2001 2001 2002

Winter #19 Summer #8 Winter #20 Summer #9 Winter #21

2002 2003 2003 2004 2004 2003 2005 2006 2006 2007

Summer #10 Winter #22 Summer #11 Winter #23 Summer #12 Winter #24 Summer #13 Winter #25 Summer #14 Winter #26

2007 Summer #15 2008 Winter #27 2008 Summer #16 28

Butts) and Swamp Lily Strange’ (that’s French you know ...)

Banyan Crow and Tag Snowbear Uncle Markie Whitewater Stardust and Rosemary for Remembrance "Fag and Banyan Crow Damien Riversong and Snowbear Aster Dancing Lightly Full Circle Dancing Bear Periwinkle and Otter Andre and Lambchop Orlando and Nipplicious Uncle Markie and Whitewater Faun Scruffy Rumbler and Brightheart o f the Rockies Marcus (ffka Sprout)

INTER GATHERING 29

Rf I) Winter 2008-09 #136

Destination: i3reitenbush A travelogue o f getting to faerie space

by Cupcake

“ S ix ”

“That’s what I was thinking.

No more than six.”

“That’s enough, without being too much.”

“There’s always the roof.”

“Yes.” So went a playful discussion with a friend about packing for my upcoming Breitenbush gathering. A few minutes later as I hang up the phone, 1 reflect I haven’t always had the luxury of bringing six boxes of drag to Breitenbush.

Getting to Breitenbush has become part RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

of my Breitenbush experience. I would fly into Portland to attend many of my early Breitenbush gatherings. I’d arrange for a place to stay the night before and a ride to and from. One year Peaches drove me and suggested I pay attention to a particular stretch of Interstate 5. I looked out and saw the Terwilliger exit as the highway climbed and turned heading south from Portland. What kind of word was Terwilliger? Hmmm.

Another gathering, I met Diamond Heart and Ssssnake when we, strangers in person and yet familiar through community, shared the cost of a rental and the joy of the short two hour drive from Portland to east of Detroit, Oregon.

In those days, I’d fly in with maximum baggage, including one small bag o f boy 30

Cupcake has lost some o f the safety he first felt in faerie space since moving to Portland. He continues his search for great wigs and colorful pantsuits. He has a giant wish for justice as we put the Bush regime in to history.

men showed me how uncomplicated a hot fuck can be.

Like so many faeries, fae space helped heal the wounds of growing up a sissy boy. My youth of being harassed and pounded by the alpha straight boys was mended by walking into a circle ot loving men. I’d always had the sense, as I drifted through mainstream gay culture, that there was a tribe to be found. I had no idea how it would change my life.

drag. I have a bag called the Black Hole that never seems to run out of space or go over 50 pounds. 1 can throw its huge volume on my back and shoulder the other bags as 1 get to the ticket counter. 1 wasn't a faerie brave enough to travel in my biggest drag. It stayed in the bags in public, even as glitter, eyeliner and nail polish lingered on the trip home. In an airplane bathroom, I noticed a healthy line of blue paint on my scalp. In a Dennys, I looked at the water glass in my hands to see that I still had ten colors o f nail polish.

To be honest, even after years of explosive growth and healing in the faerie community, I'm still not brave or fierce enough to bring my drag to strangers in strange lands. Painted nails? Yes. Wig and heels? No.

My first car ride to Breitenbush was an unfolding.

From the sameness of 1-5, to the strange highway in rural Oregon, to again familiar forest roads passing small, malignant dams we made our way. My anticipation grew as we curved and climbed into the coniferous Cascades.

Someone in the car knew the landmarks and soon we Hell, it took me many years to venture into faerie were crossing the Breitenbush River and slowing down space at all. What I wanted the most— men— was also on the dirt road. Then, deep in tall trees, we made a frightening, overwhelming, and somehow threatening. I left turn and passed through a protecting gate. From knew this angst wasn’t about coming out. It was about the roaring blur of the interstate, we'd transitioned to a desire, anger, fear, sadness, wounding, and unnamed quiet, bumpy glide dictated by the road and the intimacy emotions from the spirit and soul. The thought of all of the landscape. The slowness of the vehicle built my male sacred space scared me as much as the thought of anticipation as we rounded a gentle bend. Even many years later, I feel this anticipation as I arrive at the Bush. going to a gay bar did when I was 16.

What fun, spectacular chaos at the front gate. Usually I’d shielded myself from what men represented with women. Through my 20s and 30s, my best friends were someone from the Breitenbush staff is nearby, used to women. We hung out, talked about life and went to gay our antics and yet revealing a little concern around their bars together. Talking or dancing with women was easier brow. In winter, most of the excitement was in the eyes of the men welcoming us home. In the summer, than facing my insecurity around the cute guys.

When I was ready to face my fears and entered all costumed or stripped down men motion, move and spin male space, I was grateful that it existed. I dove in, full of providing directions and instructions. 7he goal is to get fear and excitement. The first call I got was for the Spirit the carpools of men sufficiently packed in the slightly and Sexuality gathering. Among the scattered phrases remote gravel parking lot. Our cars, cuddled together, was Praying and Fucking. Wow. How could I pass that hold space while we enter sacred space.

One summer I was on a long backpacking trip that up? My intrigue and curiosity helped convince me that the time was right, even more so when I read that the passed Breitenbush, and my pre-arranged ride from the gathering would be drug and alcohol free. As I entered trail had fallen victim to mobile phone static. I found myself rounding that same gentle bend in the truck of my fear, I sensed safety created by the container.

I thought entering this world of like-minded men a long-lost uncle who lived near my exit point for the would mean leaving all my female allies behind. Instead, I gathering. As the trees closed in, my anticipation was found many more allies: allies who would be around after focused on wondering what this worldly, but nevertheless they got boyfriends; allies who knew how my heart sang rural-Orcgon dwelling, straight man might think.

On that warm, sunny day I saw Cleara as we pulled and cried; and allies I could fall in love with. I walked into a world of greater understanding, easier communication into the lot, naked and sweaty under her clear plasticand much, much more fun. The thousands of moments wedding dress shining as she spun, Sufi-like; Dancing with hundreds of men taught me acceptance, respect Sage was in big black boots and tiny, tight trunks that and patience, and showed me joy, wonder and ease. Bart said “ass and basket;' somebody was painted in a dress; reminds me that I have a heart. Tommy helped me leap over a bonfire. David gave me reason to giggle. So many Destination: continued on page 36 31

KH) Winter 2008-09 tt 136

Jamsheds Coffee A Breitenbush early morning ritual

by Glitterpuss Moonjoy I wake early when the sky is still a faint gray and try to jump down from the top bunk quietly so I don’t wake the snuggling couple and snoring single below. I slip my skirt over my flannel pajama bottoms, put on my Wellies and my jacket and jewels and head out onto the path. Ihe snow on either side is up to my waist and the world is sparkling white and quiet. Ihe only sound is the rhythmic crunch beneath my boots. Most of my brothers are still sleeping from the night’s merrymaking.

The footpath 1 follow fades at the end o f the cabin rows. But just beyond a snow bank and a clump of fir trees I can make out the curl of smoke and the slope of a familiar trailer roof. 1 climb through to the ramshackle shed that looks like a straggler from a gypsy caravan.

The handmade timber porch is already full of boots. 1 take mine off, push open the small wooden door and go inside.

Crossing the threshold, my chilly body is caressed by the warm, steamy air and the boisterous laughter and excited chatter of a half dozen faeries. To my right is the wee kitchen already full of men in leather and flannel and beaded silks fussing over an ancient coffee press and pots of boiling water like midwives on an emergency delivery.

A small round table holds an assortment of mismatched cups and spoons, milk, honey, and brown sugar.

“Glitterpuss, my beloved!’’ greets our host in a voice as mellow and rich as the coffee now brewing in the kitchen.

1 turn and there before me is the leader of this earlymorning magical coffee klatch- Black Elk, or Jamshed as his Sufi brothers know him. He is an elder-faerie brother with thick spectacles and a wispy grey goatee and a smile as wide and deep and welcoming as a randy farm boy. He is a tiny elf-like man but when he wraps his arms around me I surrender to the unbounded universe of his energy.

We grab our coffees and as we walk into the main part of his hideaway the company of men welcomes us into the circle now assembling on throw pillows and spindle chairs and a wellworn floral couch. We slip into a How of kisses and hugs and squeals of delight as men meet and reconnect after a season’s absence. Long-time couples mix with lovers made the night before and old and young men gathering at this familiar way station on the faerie journey. dbe morning light now gleams in through the windows and sparkles on the faerie mobiles and crystals and silver framed photos of Ram Dass and other friends and companions. Everywhere up the walls there are books- well worn ears and cracked spines that tell the eclectic tale of our tribe, our liberation,

“As we thumb the pages of these books we also turn the pages in our own hearts.”

Rl I) Winter 2008-09 #136

32

our exploration, our spirit dancing.

Some of these tomes have been piled together in the center o f the Boor and as we settle in together our eyes fall on their titles. The gaiety and Humadiddle o f James Broughton dances over the Mortal Love ot Franklin Abbot. He in turn is stilled by a whisper from Shams of Tabriz who is in the corner licking up the sweet ecstasies of Hafiz shot while twirling in the embrace ot our mystical faerie brother Rumi.

Like the words o f these poets and authors which stream forth as we open the pages of these books and read aloud from random passages, our own conversations run together, tumbling out in sublime chaos between sips of coffee, laughter, and quiet tears. A story o f the goddess found in an heirloom garden on Saltspring stirs memories of a frightened queer boy in a Dutch town under Nazi occupation. Caring for a frail mother in Portland reminds another o f sitting at the barricade with radical grannies fighting the corporate giant of BC Hydro.

As we thumb the pages of these books we also turn the pages in our own hearts. In tales shared while sipping coffee, and cuddling on the couch, we bridge thousands

o f miles and dozens of centuries and weave a common story of brothers loving brothers.

Delicious sexcapades mix with bittersweet memories of loss and passage to brew a healing balm that lightens all our hearts.

Slowly, the coffee pot empties, though this communion flows on and on. Ihe longing to remain in this enchantment is strong, but then we hear a bell ring- the gentle reminder that our other brothers are now waking and it is time to hurry back to shower before the hot water is gone. To have breakfast or take that last morning soak in the warm pools before folding back into the energies of time and this winter gathering.

The washing up of cups begins as does the awkward dance of many men hugging and bundling up, slipping into boots, and departing through a narrow doorway.

Through the day that follows we will see each other or not as the faeries lead through heart circles and no talent shows and ecstatic dancing. But the slow-roasted taste of coffee and intimacy lingers on our lips and in our spirits and it will draw us back again down the trail and through the woods to grandmother's house we go...

Rhoda Roadkill and her gang

Photo by White Eagle and Adrain from Winter Gathering â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;07

33

KM) Winter 2008-09 #1 36

Cradle

An excerpt from a novel, tentatively titled Trance Legends

by Stardust

In rhis first volume o f the Trance Missions Trilogy, we ex­ perience highlights of African civilization through the stories conveyed by storytellers of five different epochs: a clan vision­ ary from the cradle of human evolution in cast Africa, a scribe of the Nubian pharaohs of the 25th dynasty of I'-gypt, the wandering storytellers of the Wagadu, Mali, and Songhay empires of west Africa, the obalao channeling orishas and the talking drums of the vibrant Yoruba and Benin Kingdom cultures o f central Africa, as well as the storytell­ ers of the Cheat Zimbabwe and Kongo empires o f central and southern Africa.

f ind out more about Trance l egends at h 11 p://www. trancelegends.com

RI D Winter 2008-09 #136

Cauldron o f changes Blossom of Bone Arc o f infinity Hole in the stone — Ritual Chant I hum softly while I gather the green spiny herb and the golden leafy lichen in the forest, searching for one near the base of small tree trunks and snipping the other off the trees' branches. Once I have enough of both, 1 carry them carefully to the ceremonial boulder where 1 have prepared previous rituals.

Pouch and pounding stick in hand, I clamber up the boulder. 1 stand feet astride a smooth depression in the flat surface.

I lean over to place an herb from my pouch in the hollow of the boulder. Chanting the herbs name - “so’a, so’a” -- I stand and raise the pounding stick in both arms above my head. The stick pauses for a moment at the top of my swing, then falls hard. Thonk!

Birds scatter from the bushes raising alarms.

I raise the stick and it falls again. Thonk! I smash sprigs o f the herb. TBonk! The impact echoes across the meadow. Thonk! Crushed residue dribbles onto the rock. Thonk! I touch a forefinger to my nose. Thonk! The pungent leaves overwhelm me. Thonk! 1 remember other times... Thonk! I have prepared this...

Thonk! Ceremony for the... Thonk! Moving of... I honk! The clan. Thonk!

1 drop the stick and kneel on the boulder.

1avoid touching the powerful fluid that seeps from the leaves. I want to prevent the oozy red rash that once marred my jet-black skin.

The golden lichen I roll between my hands to soften as I chant its name — “hus, hus” — then cut it into small pieces with a sharpened stone. These lichen pieces I mix slowly into the herb mash. I take up the stick 34

and smash it on the boulder once again.

I scoop this mixture into the wellpolished skull o f my teacher, which I carry for the rituals.

Finally, I pull from my pouch a small bundle of dried yellowish roots. I obtained the magical ibo by uprooting the shiny greenleaf shrubs with their hanging yellow fruit.

They grow in a far-away place known only to me and my teacher’s lineage. As I crumble the precious ibo root, flakes fall into the mix.

I sing aloud the name of the potion —“tkoo, tkoo, tkoo.” When the liquid sloshing in the skull turns cloudy white and smells woodsy and clean, I know the potion is safe to the touch and ready for the ritual.

Appreciating that Nana is caring for Uma and the other children in a separate camp far away, I am ready for the clan’s ceremony to begin. * I breathe deeply the warm flowers of the fig trees surrounding the earthy clearing, the boulder still at my side.

Across the small open meadow, Ausi rests on his haunches. I walk over and circle my open hand up and away, then down and back to my heart to signal readiness. My hand pulses with quickening heartbeats. He yells loudly and the clan picks up his call. Distant hyenas mimic our howls.

We all circle next to the boulder. Holding hands we stand, coming to silence.

I wait for the moment when I hear the spirits’ call. Grasping the skull firmly, 1 raise it to the sky. I call out long and loud —“ Iiiisaaaay” —my teacher’s name, and then the names of each teacher before her as far back as I can remember. The first stars gleam in the darkening void above the orange-red haze on the horizon.

1 recite the spell to invite the spirits and

raise their hands and yell warnings to someone running in the dust cloud stirred by the herd on the shore. But it’s too late. A panicked hippo charges toward the water and knocks the body aside, tossed up and crashing down to the muddy ground like a windblown leaf.

Shock and surprise... 1 run from the grassy plain through bushes that tear at my face and arms. 1 hurry to the shore to check the body, to see if 1 can heal it.

Somehow I know he is a man, and 1 know I’m too late to help. I look into his face and see only a swirling vortex of spirit. As 1 watch, the flesh falls off his bones, eaten by creatures crawling from the earth. Green shoots sprout rapidly from his bones —budding, flowering, and going to seed in seconds before my eyes.

I hear the grunts of a large pig barely escaping anot her stampeding hippo. Most of them are already swimming in the shallow lake. Eyes aligned between their nostrils and ears, the hippos poke up periodically from the water to breathe and monitor the banks.

My shoulders shake and my head pounds. A clan member died, and the cycle of death and life goes on. I strain to catch my breath.

With only a rare slow blink or an occasional soft splash to betray its stance, a crocodile grins calmly in reply to my car-splitting cries from the opposite shore.

ancestors to join us. As I chant each part o f the spell, those in the circle around me repeat my words. 1 hear brawny Oni and slender Toso at first distinct from the others, but soon they all fall in with one voice. We all shout the names of the spirits and ancestors, calling them to us. We gesture in unison, plunge our arms toward the earth, then around and beyond the circle, and finally raise our arms and look toward the sky.

I lower my arms. Their arms drop. Ihe clan falls silent and still. A stiff breeze briefly rustles the trees. Ihe spirits and ancestors have joined us.

The clan watches raptly. I sip the cloudy potion from the part o f the skull where it had joined the back o f Isay’s neck.

I carry the skull to each clan member. Under the close observance o f the entire clan, each in turn swallows a small sip, Oni greedily drinking a bit more than his share. After the last sip, I set the skull down, upright in the bowl of the boulder.

From behind the boulder, Ausi reaches for a bark palette bearing ocher and kohl pigments gathered from a rocky ravine. He paints jagged lines on my face first, then on the faces o f the rest o f the clan.

The spirits rise in me now and awaken our ancestral story. As I recite where we are from and where we are going, the story flows like the blood pumping through our bodies. Fast-paced breath, we stomp on the soil, skin streaked with sweat. As I chant to the spirits and ancestors for guidance to our new home - ne’oh badani sochek o’oso — the clan casts its chaotic voice to the spirits. The circle peaks at a feverish pitch. Climax spawns transcendence and —we tumble to the ground.

Eyes shut, the visions rise among us.

*

“Aieeeeeeeeee... aieeeeeeee....’’

I wake to my own screams, drenched in sweat, lying naked in dirt and gravel on a grassy field. The sun peers from where earth and sky meet as if undecided whether to rise. I stifle my screams. I focus on my training to commit vision to memory.

Yes, now I remember. I screamed because a hippopotamus — scared by members of the clan — had charged toward the safety of the lake and rammed one of us caught between her and the water. That one of us is no longer with the clan... or will no longer be with the clan, according to this vision.

Gravel scrapes my skin. Shaken, I stand and brush sharp bits of rock off my elbows. On the branches of a bush near the opposite side of the meadow, 1 spot my clothes. How did they get over there? And how did they separate from me? 1walkover and notice they are shredded and torn. I don the tattered buckskins anyway.

I repeat the vision story to myself twice more to make sure I remember. Now I know how much the clan will have to sacrifice for our new home. 1 retreat from where the lake would be to search for where the rest of the clan actually is. My chest hollow and aching, I crave Uma’s touch.

*

I stare at Isay’s skull and bright fire shines from her eye sockets. Her fire-sight starts narrow but grows so large she encompasses me and everything around me. I am falling, yet protected, in a dark sky cocoon. Suddenly, bolts of amethyst lightning shoot from emerald clouds.

I spot a face in each cloud, spirit faces. The ancestors’ presence glows in the lightning that sparks from the clouds to the earth far below.

A bolt strikes me and carries me instantly down to the earth where I land, tumbling roughly in a grassy meadow near a forest. Ih e little hairs on my forearms tingle and stand on end. Members o f the clan gather blood-red berries from the prickly bushes at the edge of the forest.

Hearing loud grunts, then screams, I turn to see what I already know will happen -- a hippopotamus herd lumbers toward a nearby lake. The clan members 35

RH) Winter 2008-09 # 136

CONTACT INFO 1Dates for Upcoming Breitenbush Gatherings

1

S u m m e r G ath e rin g

W in te r G a th e rin g

August 12-16, 2009 August 18-22, 2010

February 12-16, 2009 February 18-22, 2010

Registration is still open for the 2009 Winter Gathering.

To download T H E CALL go to http://www.radfae.org/breitenbush/thecall.htm

B re ite n b u sh H o t S p rin g s

C .R F .R .

R e tre at a n d C o n fe re n c e C e n te r

(Cascadia Radical Faerie Resource)

Reservations and Info: 503.854.3320 Monday thru Saturday 9am -4pm office@breitenbush.com

For more information go to: http:// www. rad fae.o rg/ cascad ia/

and bukkake evenings in community. I met Darlene, the Ambassador’s Wife; Queercus, a quiet man with a fierce name, DD, now Allison, channeling Velveeta then and Precious now; and, of course, Terwilliger Curves, Supermodel o f the 1-5 Corridor.

Destination: continued from page 31 bejeweled nipples and cocks glinted. Someone in a suit and tie rounded out the scene. Having already expressed my thanks and gratitude, I quickly said, “You can just drop me here. I’ll grab my pack and you can be off.”

I now live in Portland, and I’m happy to have beds for travelers. My house is the convergence space for friends as they transition to and from the summer and winter gatherings. Some take the MAX from the airport and walk to my place. Some insist that I pick them up at the airport. Ihere’s usually not enough room in my car for all who stay at my place to travel together to Breitenbush, so we keep our piles distinct. The bedding, luggage, special foods, and whatever else it is that faeries bring is in piles because sometimes, if someone has six boxes of drag and four other passengers, somebody’s pile might end up in a different car. And it all works out because the drag doesn’t really matter.

Now my journey to Breitenbush starts in the middle of others’ journeys. When the time comes, 1.5 hours before the earliest moment we are supposed to arrive on the land, and the house is locked for the last time, I pull into the street and smile. I feel the weight o f five men in my car, and I can’t see out the back window. I’m going back to Breitenbush.

Less than 5 years earlier, I had been treading water in the gay world. I had no idea what steady footing I would find when 1 set down at that first mid-winter weekend that promised praying and fucking. I experienced naked, playful rituals, along with acceptance of the fear in my heart and the range of who 1 am. I’d finally found men I could open up to; men who admitted to relating to my worries and joys; men who wanted to know my soul; men who were passionate and alive; and men who helped me accept my body.

It was at my first Breitenbush gathering that 1 came to know the cuddly warmth, camaraderie, and stresses that result from packing big personalities, lots of drag, and new family in a tiny cabin with remote toilets. I learned about the Meadow Pools, the Medicine Wheel, visiting the footbridge when I arrive and depart, the Devil’s Hole, dressing for meals, and the North Wing.

1 came alive through rituals, workshops, circle jerks, RFl) Winter 2008-09 #136

36

C losing the Circle Breitenbush Winter Gathering, February 20, 2006. North Wing.

A poem by BBHA! This This This This

is is is is

While Gorgonzola eats cookie And Baby eats Baby...

It really, really It Breitenbush Winter 2006 fucking cold

This is faerie alchemy: When heart circles Forge paths to healing And feathers of Belonging fly hom e...

This is faeries finding deeper soul: Moving through horrid pasts And clicking with inner divinity

This is faerie poetry: Bells tinkling__ Sauna singing__ Masks unmasking__ Love Lounge licking__ Ahhhhhhhhhh!!

This is subject-subject consciousness: When you get off watching Cleera get off On a neon-blazing version of her fetish This is ancestor-honoring: When the ashes of luscious Lupin And beautiful Bruce Swirl lovingly down the Breitenbush River ... And their magic lives o n ...

This is faerie resonance: New soulmates Ahaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s that pop up months later...

Intentions become reality...!'

This is faerie magick: 5 days of challenges - changes stretching â&#x20AC;&#x201D;listening surprises - tears silliness - soaking farts and fears ...

This is faerie symmetry: When the S& M workshop Coincides in time and space With the session on overcoming anxiety

This is really really really It Our time to make the change...

Our time to make the change...

Our time to make the change...

This is faerie askance: Leathermen and cowboys tumble and crumble

37

RI D Winter 2008-09 #136

i to ser-u* Ljou this beau.ti.fw.1 eulogy of a ra d ic a l Fflerle fro^vusou. Frau^isco wessie.i didn't wessie. but this eulogy n^adc *ue wish that t had. love, lady b

swami and we’re going to levitate in purity and serenity all the way to Malibu leaving a stinky trail of nag champa behind."

Instead w;e rode to the gathering in his immaculate Dodge van and talked about all the practicalities and gritty realities of politics, economics, health care, the AIDS crises. He was no swami. In fact he wasn’t even spiritual. Come to find out, there was no one, but NO ONE who was more irreverent, more anti-religious and unspiritual than Wessie.

It was the beginning of a great friendship.

Over time, I learned never to ask Wessie about religion.

Whenever I did slip and ask about his Catholic school days, his eyes would spark, you could tell his pulse was pounding and he’d belt out something pithy and venomous. He’d pull back at the last minute embarrassed by his own vitriol and then say, “ Don’t get me started.” But he couldn’t help himself.

He’d start in anyway, “ Did I ever tell you about Sister Mary Evil Bitch?” I sat in horror listening to his tales o f how the nuns had scarred him at any early age.

W C S & l c by T>avld

c (iiv ^ o rt

And yet when we went for our early morning swims at Garfield pool, Wes would take advantage of the cave-like acoustics of the Here’s a photo I shot of Wessie in 1997 (I think) and a piece that 1 shower and locker room and start singing Catholic masses he had wrote for Wessie’s memorial that didn’t make the final cut. learned as a kid. 1 quizzed him about this in the van on the way Thought I’d share it anyway... home. “ Wessie, I thought you hated the church, how come you were singing a Kyrie in the shower?” “ Well just because I hated I always think o f Wessie when I’m making my bed. I know it’s not them didn’t mean I didn't like the music.” a very glamorous or grandiose way to remember someone whom I considered part of my extended family. Still, 1 do think of him 1 loved the contrast of Wessie: He looked like a wizard but was every time I put clean sheets on the bed and 1 always will. Let me more like a gremlin. He looked like your grandfather but was more explain... like your grandkid. He was a banker and a radical faerie. He was a vegan and cooked meat for Richard. He looked like a guru but was If you knew Wessie, you knew he had systems. Oh boy did he have decidedly fallible...

SYSTEM! Systems for everything filing, accounting, cleaning house, cooking, and of course for making the bed. One afternoon I Once Wessie was making dinner for a small group of us in Sea watched him reset the upstairs apartment for incoming guests. He Ranch - after we had spent the day eating magic mushrooms on showed me his system for making up the bed, demonstrating his the coast. He was in the kitchen whipping up something yummy technique for rolling on an inside-out pillowcase. No wrinkles, no when he was offered some marijuana. He took several big puffs pillow jammed in sideways with a floppy end. and then stood in the middle of the kitchen. I asked him, “ How can you cook when you’re stoned? I lose my sense of timing and can’t Wessie then whirled about the edges of the bed, thrusting the cor­ do it.” “ Oh, no,” he replied, “ I have a system. I do it all the time. ners of the mattress into the air one by one and whacking sheets Don’t worry. It’s easy.” Of course he had a system. I trusted that all under to make the hospital corners — something I’ve never been would be fine and I went off to the hot tub and came back in to the able to do. I stood watching a master, mesmerized by his pride in smell of smoke. He had burned the dinner. producing a perfect bed. “ What happened?” I asked him as he fanned a smoking casserole Of course, while Wessie was hoisting the mattress, whacking dish. “ Well maybe I was too stoned to cook.” We both laughed say­ sheets and crisping up comers, he was muttering and sputtering ing we could just scrape off the black parts. about his work as a nursing assistant at the AIDS hospice. He gig­ gled and told me how he could actually change the sheets on a bed Wessie once told me a story that, like his pillowcase rolling, has while someone was IN it! It was his specialty gently rolling the stuck with me forever. It was the winter solstice party at Marti’s guy over on his side and peeling up the sheets around him until 14th Street house - known for their massive, naked bacchanalias. miraculously in about 5 minutes the patient was sitting pretty in a Wessie had been tripping on mushrooms and was lying in front of spanking new set of sheets. Telling the story, he stopped for a the fire watching legions o f young men prancing around like pan, moment and sighed, wiggling his beard at me. The sigh I interpret­ drumming and dancing. Well, apparently Joseph Kramer (of Body ed was his way o f expressing his grief at the carnage he saw at the Electric fame) approached him lying on the floor and held him and hospice. stroked his hair massaging him into an ecstatic state. The mush­ rooms had taken Wessie to a very distant and beautiful place. After Wes was a great study in contrasts. 1 had seen the little bearded guy what seemed like millennia for Wessie, Joe brought his touch to a at 1 aerie gatherings but never really met him until 1 needed a ride close and whispered a simple blessing in Wessie’s ear before leav­ to the California Men’s Gathering in Malibu. 1 was assigned to ing him alone by the fire: him, Tim Henke and David Alosi for a rideshare. When Wessie pulled up to my house in Noe Valley and honked the horn, I looked “ Nothing’s forever.. .nothing’s forever...nothing’s forever.” out the 3rd floor window to see him and thought, “Oh crap, it’s the HI I) W inter 2(X)8-<)9 #136

38

CelefcrstiDg s%

J©y

2009 marks the tenth anniversary o f the death o f James Broughton, faerie poet, filmmaker and shaman.

In many African cultures the tenth anniversary' o f a death is cel­ ebrated in a big way. The spirit o f the departed has joined the all important congregation of the Ancestors. In these African tradi­ tions the Ancestors intercede between humanity and the Divine.

James will be most effective in this capacity since in his human form he often spoke with and channeled the gods. His films and poetry display great inspiration and anyone who was lucky to know him personally, even if briefly, was touched by a greater spirit that came through James as Big Joy. Being one o f the for­ tunate 1 was often inspired and encouraged by James. More than my poetry he mentored my mirth. James was not just a blithe spirit. He was a keen observer o f the foibles o f humanity and often issued a stern warning. One o f his signature poems.

Shaman Psalm, warns against the fear mongers and exhorts us to love one another as an ultimate antidote.

We celebrate James here with essays and photos by four who were close to him. His beloved partner in life and art of many years, Joel Singer, his dear friend and anthologizer. Jack Foley, and another dear friend and a member of James' inner circle, his biographer, Stephen Silha, and Janis Lipzin, a collegue at San Francisco Art Institute.

1 was interviewing Michael Lerner, a politically active rabbi, on my radio show. When 1 asked him about death, he answered, “ Death?” His answer made me think of my dear friend James Broughton (1913-1999).

James—not easy to write about. Where to begin?

There are so many incidents, so many feelings. Scarcely a day passes when 1 don’t have some kind of thought of him.

His image, his poems are on the walls of my house more are in my memory. Dear James, a lovely, deeply funny, deeply deep man:

Each share a different facet o f who James was and is. For any­ one new to James and his work this should provide a delicious introduction. For those who are revisiting an old friend may these words and images place you, once again, into James won­ drous embrace. James often remarked that what the world needs more o f is praise and gratitude. In keeping with his sage advice, praise and gratitude are offered to Joel, Jack and Stephen for keeping James' light burning bright.

May Big Joy find us and keep us well tickled and ever amazed in love's transforming glow.

1 am

a a a a

center o f gravity thermal spring magnetic field mercurial planet

We met in the mid 80s, probably 1985. 1 was running a poetry series at Larry Blake’s restaurant on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley. The series was quite successful and featured a very wide range of poets. One of these was Robert Peters in full drag as Flizabeth Bathory, his “blood countess.” Peters asked me whether I'd like to be introduced to James Broughton. I said, “Sure,” though I was only vaguely aware of his work. I had heard of his films and had read the excellent early poems published in Donald Allen’s I960 anthology, The New American Poetry.

1 also knew that he was a gay man but I don’t think I knew much more than that. Wonders awaited. James read for my series many times including one memorable occa­ sion when the series day fell on November 10, 1987, James’s 74th birthday.

Franklin Abbott 29 Oct. 2008 Stone Mountain james & Franklin, Port Townsend, 1998

“BROUGHTON FOUNTAIN” by Jack Foley From T h e P o t t e d P s a l m in 1946 to P r o g e n y in 1976 I could not have created anything without sharing love with my collaborators. This is a weak­ ness I take delight in. “Relations are real, not sub­ stancessaid the Buddha. And the more intense the love, the livelier the work.

— J a m e s B r o u g h t o n , Seeing the Tight

39

RFD Winter 2008-09 ti 136

M y f ir st e x p e r i e n c e o f h i m w a s a l u n c h : he i n v i t e d m e o v e r for o n e o f th o se

in cred ib ly d e lic io u s g o u rm e t

fe a sts re g u la rly p r e p a r e d b y h is lo v e r, J o e l S in g e r. T h o u g h a t that t i m e 1 w a s a v e r y l i t t l e - k n o w n p o e t

an d straig h t!—

both m e n m a d e m e feel n ot o n ly at e a s e but e x t r e m e l y c o m ­ f o r t a b l e in t h e ir p r e s e n c e . J a m e s s p o k e t o m e a s i f I w e r e an o ld frien d. O n e o f the in te r e s tin g th in g s a b o u t h im w a s th e f a c t th at, t h o u g h h e w a s a d e e p a n d l i f e l o n g b e l i e v e r in “ l o v e ,” he w a s n e v e r s e n tim e n ta l o r tre ac ly . H is w it a n d i n t e l l e c t c u t t h r o u g h th e f a l s e f a c e s o f l o v e a n d w e n t d i r e c t ­ ly to its d e e p h e a r t . B y t h i s t i m e l h a d r e a d his

Androgyne Journal.

and ado red—

I k n e w h e w a s in s o m e w a y s a

“ J u n g i a n . " I r e m a r k e d t o J a m e s , “ I l i k e J u n g b u t th e p r o b ­ l e m w ith J u n g i a n s is th a t t h e y o f t e n s e e m to s k i p o v e r th e b o d y in t h e ir z e a l to a r r i v e at th e a r c h e t y p a l . ” J a m e s s m i l e d a n d a n s w e r e d w i t h h i s i r o n i c d r a w l , “ T e l l m e a b o u t it.”

T h e n J a m e s a n d J o e l s e t m e in a little r o o m w i t h a f i l m p r o ­ j e c t o r in it. T h e y s t a r t e d T e s t a m e n t ( 1 9 7 4 ) a n d le f t m e to s e e it. 1 e m e r g e d s t a r r y - e y e d . 1 h a d s e e n s o m e t h i n g s t u n ­ n in g ly b ea u tifu l and on ce personal

in c r e d ib ly rich. W h a t a m o v i e ! A t

even se lf-d ep recato ry

w ith tr a n sfo r m a tio n .

an d m a g ic a l, aliv e

(We’ re taking the bus!)

We love sweet Ja m ie O 'Broughton And Jam ie O 'Broughton loves...(w orried) somebody else? (em phatic) No! Jam ie O ’ Broughton loves us!

I lo v e d film an d h ad p u b lish e d arti­

c l e s a b o u t it, b u t t h i s w a s th e v i t a n u o v a . J a m e s w r o t e o f T estam ent,

/ spun what I thought would be my final film: a self-portrait bouncing me from my babyhood to my imagined death. To sum­ marize the guest for erotic transcendence that animated all my cinema / mixed film clips, still photos and staged scenes. I was assisted at the camera by an ingratiating redhead named //. Edgar Jenkins...At the film's beginning / am seen rocking in a chair by the Pacific Ocean, questioning my life: / asked the Sea how deep things are. (), said She, that depends upon how fur you want to go.

A d e l l e d i d h e r t a p d a n e e a n d J a m e s c a m e o n t o th e s t a g e to t h u n d e r o u s a p p l a u s e !

On Jun e 28,

1 9 9 0 , A d e l l e a n d I r e a d at C o d y ’ s

B o o k s in B e r k e l e y w i t h J a m e s . W e d e c i d e d to i m i t a t e e a c h o t h e r ’s s t y l e s f o r th e r e a d i n g . J a m e s w r o t e a c h o r a l p i e c e — his o n ly

o n e— fo r h im

and

me

to p e r f o r m

togeth er.

It

b e g in s,

T H IS W ONDER A Hymn to Herm

1 m e n t i o n e d to h i m o n c e t h a t th e w o r d “ t e s t a m e n t ”

(Duet for Tenor and Baritone)

w a s c o n n e c t e d b y e t y m o l o g y to th e w o r d “ t e s t i c l e . ” “ Is i t ! ” he said .

This wonder this prize

O v e r the y e a r s I k n e w J a m e s , I w r o te m a n y a r tic le s a b o u t h im a n d in terv iew e d h im often . H e w a s a re g u la r

this secret this wonder my wonder my steering gear

g u e st on m y K P F A rad io sh ow . 1 lo v e d his w o rk an d w a s v e r y p l e a s e d to d i s c o v e r th a t h e e n j o y e d m i n e . O n e o f th e f e a t u r e s o f m y p o e t r y r e a d i n g s is t h e p r e s e n t a t i o n o f c h o r a l p ie c e s re ad by m y w ife A d e lle an d m e. J a m e s — u n like

my sword my bird in hand Your wonder

s o m e o f m y o t h e r f r i e n d s — i m m e d i a t e l y u n d e r s t o o d th e sig n ific a n c e o f th ese p ie c e s a n d d u b b e d them “ a n d r o g y ­ n o u s , ” a v e r y i m p o r t a n t w o r d in h i s c o s m o s . I i n t r o d u c e d

this wonder this surprise this skyrocket your wonder our wonder my takeoff my songbird my flying carpet O wonder

J a m e s at m a n y o f h is ev e n ts. F o r o n e 1 w r o te s o m e t h in g T h e e n t i r e p o e m i s i n c l u d e d in

p a r t i c u l a r l y s p e c i a l . J a m e s k n e w th a t A d e l l e a n d I h a d b e e n

ALL: A James Broughton Reader. F o r m y p a r t , I w r o t e a

s in g in g a slig h tly p a r o d ic v e r sio n o f the o ld w a ltz , “ S w e e t R o s i e O ’ G r a d y . ” A d e l l e e n d e d th e s o n g w i t h a little t a p dance

fan c ifu l

a b it o f w a l t z c l o g . J a m e s a s k e d m e to r e w r i t e th e

“ B rough ton

w o r d s o f t h e s o n g to i n t r o d u c e h i m o n th e s t a g e o f the

in

It w 'a s f u l l o f q u o t a t i o n s f r o m

w h o m w e both a d m ir e d :

J a m e s ’s w o rk a n d b e g a n :

SW E E T JA M IE O ’ BR O U G H TO N

The Master stood on the edge of the cliff. He asked which of his disciple wouldthrust him­ self over the side, plunging

Sweet Ja m ie O ’ Broughton O ur bountiful Jam es It’s he that we’ re toutin’ He’s water and flames

RID Winter 2008-09 #136

p ie c e ,

F o u n ta in ,”

w h ic h I h e a rd h is v o ic e cle arly .

C a s t r o T h e a t e r in S a n F r a n c i s c o . I t r i e d to c a t c h a b it o f th e fee lin g o f C o le P o rter

prose

40

into the mouth of a horrible and certain death. “ I.” said one. eager to get a running start.

"Wait." said the Master. "Do you think I'm some sort of idiot .1 1 was only raising an abstract question. I need all the disciples I can get— and besides, it's a long way dow n the side of that cliff." "True." said the eager dis­ ciple. "But wouldn't you alway s honor the name of the disciple who died for you?” "Well, 1 might.” said the Master, "but really it all depends on whether I've writ­ ten it down. My memory 's a little shaky these days, and I can’t seem to locate my pencil." “ Master," said the disciple. "I would be the one who died for you!" "Well, go ahead if you must.” said the Master, fumbling in his pockets for a piece of paper.

"But I’m not guaranteeing anything. Oh. where is that pencil!" "Thank you. Master. Aieeeee!" said the disci­ ple as he leaped over the edge. "What was his name?" said the Master. "I suppose,” said another disciple, ‘‘there isn’t much left of him now.”

It ended, — My name is Jam es./ There is nothing/ But the indestructible sweetness/ Of Everything!/ Follow your weird.

Joel Singer-Lover & Life Partner-Remembers

1 knew James in the last years o f his life, as he began his witty, deep, courageous meditation on the fact o f his ow n mortal­ ity (“ I am / a moony old vessel, / 1 have / garbled many a han­ ker” ). The thought o f Death began very early in his w'ork, but the notion o f it changed as he grew older. In the end. Death became the greatest lover o f all— propelling James into whatever eterni­ ty might await him.

Jam es’s work stands by itself and stands high and tall.

(I'm sure that James would remark to that, “ Hermes bird!” ) To those who were, like me, lucky enough to know him personally, he offered the image o f another sort o f manhood. He was a gay man, I was a straight man— yet we simply accepted each other and loved each other just as we were. He had his fears and anxi­ eties— explored especially in the early work— but he kept the feeling o f child-like wonder alive in his consciousness through­ out his long life. He once w'rote, “ People don’t grow up. They just get taller.” How do you describe the sun?

*

Ja m e s (aka

B i g J o y ) d i e d in M a y o f

1999.

I h a d th e

r e m a r k a b l e e x p e r i e n c e o f i m m e r s i n g m y s e l f in h i s j o u r n a l s f o r th e b e t t e r p a r t o f a y e a r f o l l o w i n g h i s d e a t h , t r a n s c r i b ­ i n g s o m e o f t h e m ( a n e x c e r p t is p u b l i s h e d in

ALL)

and

e s s e n t i a l l y a b l e to r e - l i v e v i r t u a l l y e v e r y d a y o f o u r 2 4 y e a r s to g eth er. W h a t a t r e m e n d o u s g ift that w a s !

1 m a n a g e d to f i n d a l a r g e an d b eau tifu l m u lti-fac e te d ston e w here

at

a

we

quarry liv e d

near

in

Port

T o w n se n d , W ash in gton an d h a d an e n g ra v e r ca rv e tw o o f Ja m e s' p o e m s on tw o o f its s m o o t h s i d e s . A t t h e t o p , h is n a m e a n d d a t e s a p p e a r

*

w ith

My life since Jam es’s death is not dissimilar to what it was w'hen he was alive. 1 continue my writing and my perform­ ing—both o f which are undoubtedly im-proved because o f my knowing James. 1 feel very strongly still the sense o f his multiple selves: “ You are your own twin and your own bride and all your gods.” 1 put together ALL: A James Broughton Reader because I felt the need o f a book in which the various aspects o f Jam es’s work could all join together in a chorus and sing to one another.

I’ m very proud o f the result. I am currently writing a long histo­ ry o f poetry in California from 1940 to 2005. It will probably be published next year. Jam es’s work is an immensely important element in that history.I

the

Adventure, Predicament m axim s).

The

ep itap h

Not (o n e tw o

of

his

poem s

are T h e G a rd n e r O f E d en a n d In T h e A r m s O f L o v e r .

At

th e " u n v e i l i n g "

o f th e

s t o n e in a c e m e t e r y in P o r t T o w n s e n d th e f o l l o w i n g s p r i n g , a m a r i m b a b a n d (t h a t i n c l u d e d J a m e s ' a d o r e d r o l l e r ) p l a y e d jo y fu lly .

L a t e in h i s l if e 1 s u g g e s t e d th a t h i s r e m a i n s m i g h t b e s c a t ­ t e r e d in s o m e o f t h e r i v e r s a n d o c e a n s o f th e w o r l d that w e

I feel h is p r e s e n c e a s I w r it e th is, a s I r e - r e a d h is w o r k , a s I t u r n m y m i n d t o w a r d s th e a m a z i n g m a n he w a s .

J a c k Foley

h a d v i s i t e d . H e l i k e d th e i d e a . A f t e r a m e m o r i a l at th e S a n F r a n c is c o A rt In stitute a m o n th a fte r h is d e a th , a la rg e g r o u p o f f r i e n d s g a t h e r e d at S t i n s o n B e a c h , a p l a c e that h a d b e e n h u g e l y i m p o r t a n t to J a m e s o v e r th e y e a r s . W ith th e su n se ttin g a n d m o o n risin g , o u r d e a r frien d G u y A lb e rt

9 .2 9 .0 8

c o v e r e d h i s n a k e d b o d y w i t h J a m e s ' a s h e s a n d d a n c e d i n to the b r e a k e r s.

4!

RH) Winter 2008-09 #136

O n a trip t o S a n t i a g o d e C o m p o s t c l l a in t h e f a r w e s t o f S p ain

w ith

our

dear

frien d s

Step h en

and

M a lco lm ,

1

d e p o s i t e d a s m a l l s c a l l o p s h e l l ( s a c r e d t o S t . J a m e s ) in w h ic h l h a d ritu a lly c o ll e c t e d m y s p e r m m i x e d w ith s o m e o f h i s a s h e s in a h o l e in th e m o r t a r o f t h e n a v e o f th e c a t h e ­ dral o f S ain t

Jam es.

Jam es

had

m ade

a p ilg rim a g e

Stephen Silha, who had a mentorship relationship with Broughton for the last 10 of his 85 years, the Big Joy project brings together the skills o f other artists and media-makers who have been influenced by Broughton, including filmmaker Eric Slade and multimedia artist Javier Bryan Sanchez.

to GOD AND FUCK BELO N G TO G ETH ER

S a n t i a g o b a c k in t h e 5 0 s w h e n h e w a s liv i n g in E u r o p e a n d th e p l a c e h e l d p a r t i c u l a r p o w e r f o r h i m .

Bv S te p h e n S ilh a T h e very w eek I m et Ja m e s B rou g h ton , I had c o m ­

S o m e o f h i s a s h e s w e r e l a t e r s c a t t e r e d in P u g e t S o u n d , th e in

p l a i n e d b i t t e r l y t o m e m b e r s o f m y w r i t i n g g r o u p th a t I h a d

M o n t r e a l ) , B a n g k o k ' s C h a o P h r a y a R i v e r , t h e G a n g e s , th e

n o m e n t o r s , th a t th e o l d e r w r i t e r s w h o h a d e n c o u r a g e d m e

S e i n e , th e A t l a n t i c a n d M e d i t e r r a n e a n .

w h e n 1 w a s in m y 2 0 s h a d d i e d .

St.

Law rence

R iver (Ja m e s and

I had been

m arrie d

T h en a c lo s e frien d, w ith

n o id e a o f m y s e n s e o f lo s s , in v ite d m e to j o i n h im fo r a A y e a r o r s o a f t e r h i s d e a t h I b e c a m e i n v o l v e d in a s u r p r i s ­

w e e k e n d at the w o o d s y P ort T o w n s e n d sp irit h o u s e in h a b ­

ing 9 - m o n t h - lo n g r e la t io n s h ip w ith a w o m a n w h o w a s a

i te d b y J a m e s B r o u g h t o n a n d h i s p a r t n e r J o e l S i n g e r .

f r i e n d o f o u r s . W h e n th a t e n d e d I c a m e to N e w ' Y o r k to l i v e That

w'ith a d e a r o l d f r i e n d o f o u r s , T o b i a s S c h n e e b a u m . T h e r e

w eekend

changed

my

l if e .

Jam es

and

I

h a d a l w a y s b e e n ’e n e r g y ' b e t w e e n u s a n d 1 n e e d e d to h a v e

s h a r e d i n s t a n t r a p p o r t ; I f o u n d in h i m a f r i e n d , a m e n t o r , a

s o m e o n e t o t a k e c a r e o f . 1 b it o f f a g r e a t d e a l a s T o b y w a s

p l a y m a t e , a m u s e , a s h a m a n i c c l o w n . I a l s o s a w h o w J o e l ’s

su fferin g

w ith

P a rk in s o n 's

(so o n

to

be

fo llo w e d

l o v i n g d e v o t i o n s e n a b l e d J a m e s to b l o s s o m into the s a g e

by

h e ’d b eco m e .

A l z h e i m e r ' s ) . W e l i v e d t o g e t h e r f o r m o r e th a n 3 y e a r s a n d it w a s at w h a t t u r n e d o u t to b e T o b y ' s l a s t r e a d i n g at a

A ctu ally ,

b o o k s t o r e in S o h o t h a t I w o u l d m e e t th e m a n w i t h w h o m 1 h ave been

l i v i n g f o r th e p a s t 4 y e a r s , a B r o o k l y n b o r n

B u d d h i s t p s y c h ia t r is t w ith

th e H i n d u

nam e

I’d

m et J a m e s ’ w ork

before.

At

th e

M u s e u m o f M o d e m A r t in N e w Y o r k o n e d a y , I s t u m b l e d u p o n h i s f i l m s . In a n a l m o s t - e m p t y t h e a t e r , I s a t e n r a p t u r e d

N irgran th a.

W h e n w e m e t h e w a s in th e m i d d l e o f b u i l d i n g a v i l l a o n

for h o urs.

th e m a g i c a l i s l a n d o f B a l i . J a m e s a n d I h a d b e e n to B a l i

G a r d e n ” b e f u d d l e th e f u d d y - d u d d i e s w h o t r i e d t o r o u t o u t

I w a t c h e d a C a l i f o r n i a c o w b o y in “ T h e P l e a s u r e

b a c k in 1 9 7 9 w h e n w e s p e n t a s a b b a t i c a l y e a r in A s i a a n d

j o y , s e x , a n d s p o n t a n e i t y f r o m p e o p l e in a p a r k .

I h a d a l w a y s d r e a m e d o f re tu rn in g.

a little b o y b o r n f r o m a t r e e c h a s e a r e d b a l l a r o u n d h i s

I w atch ed

n e ig h b o r h o o d w h ile a ge n tle v o ic e re so u n d e d :

This is It

W e are n o w liv in g th ere h a l f th e y e a r a n d w ith the u p c o m ­ i n g s a l e o f o u r l o f t in T r i b e c a

and I am It and You are It and so is That and He is It and She is It and It is It and That is T h at...(1968)

w e s h a l l b e b a s e d in B a l i

b e fo re lon g.

A few years ago I developed my own website that features some of my photographic work of the past 20 years, including a section of portraits. New York streets and some of my photo collages from the 1990s: please visit www.joelasinger.com

A n d y e a r s later I h e a rd h im r e a d h is p o e tr y — o r

Som e years ago Facets M ultimedia in Chicago brought out many of Ja m e s' films and a number of our collaborative film s in a video collection that has recent­ ly been re-issued as a set of 3 DVDs (1948-1988) that are available as a complete set for $59.95: www.facets.org *

*

*

w a s it s i n g , o r p l a y f u l l y p r e a c h t o t h e c h o i r ? — a t a S u n d a y m o r n i n g s e r v i c e at a R a d i c a l F a e r i e g a t h e r i n g , w h e r e m e n m e d ita te o n c o n n e c tio n s b e tw e e n sp iritu ality a n d se x u a lity :

God is the Fuck of all Fucks And boy He has a Body like you’ ve never seen (1982)

* I h a d l e a r n e d a lot f r o m h i s w o r k — l u r e d in b y its

The Big Joy project will bring the luminous work of poet and filmmaker James Broughton into the 21st cen­ tury through a website, aflint and a book. It will provide a humorous antidote to the cynicism and materialism o f our age. c o v e r c o ll a g e by J o e l S i n g e r for Big J o y b io grap h y KI D Winter 2008-09 #136

d e c e p t i v e s i m p l i c i t y o n l y t o b e s u r p r i s e d b y i ts r e s o n a n t an d s o m e tim e s d istu rb in g co m p le x ity .

B u t it w a s d i f f e r e n t

g o i n g to h is h o u s e , a n d h a v in g h im a s k m e , a r e c o v e r in g jo u rn a list, if I w o u ld

help him w r i t e p r o s e . H e Coming Unbuttoned.

w ritin g h is a u to b io g r a p h y .

w as “ O n ly if

y o u h elp m e w ith p o e try ,” I sa id .

W e b e g a n a se rie s o f c o n v e rsa tio n s, v isits, revisits.

I w a t c h e d h i m g e t u p at 5 a . m . , w h e n h e w a s in h i s l a t e 7 0 s , to w r ite p o e try , w o r k o n h is j o u r n a l s , a n d s t r u g g l e w ith

Ted by journalist and futurist

prose.

42

H e critiq u ed

my

w ork, so m e tim e s

very

su b tly,

sometimes not so. Sometimes not at all. He read me his drafts, and we talked about what worked and what didn't.

J a m e s w a s a f e is t y trickster.

H e h a d little p a t i e n c e

for p o o r g r a m m a r , u n g r o u n d e d g e n e r a liz a tio n s, m e d io c r e f o o d , o r p e o p l e w h o c l e a r th e t a b i c b e f o r e e v e r y o n e w a s

It b e c a m e t h e m e n t o r s h i p I ' d p r a y e d for.

Jam es

fin ish e d .

H e d i d n ' t a l w a y s f o l l o w th e a d v i c e h e g a v e m e :

w r o t e p r o s e l i k e t h i s : " M y m o t h e r o n c e c o n f e s s e d th at g i v ­

" D o n 't p a s s ju d g m e n t.

in g birth to m e w a s the o r g a s m i c h ig h lig h t o f h e r life.

In

a l s o w o n d e r f u lly c o m f o r t a b le w ith w h o he w a s , e v e n a s he

f a c t , s h e a n d 1 g o t a l o n g b e t t e r in h e r w o m b t h a n w e e v e r

w a s i m p a t i e n t w i t h a b o d y th a t n o l o n g e r d i d e x a c t l y w h a t

did a fte r I c a m e o u t o f it."

h e w a n t e d it to.

O f t e n w e ' d j u s t h a n g o u t t o g e t h e r , w h i c h , I f i n d , is w hat

m o st

look

lik e

good

re tre a ts,"

we car

the

ou tsid e .

took

"w ritin g

trips

to

But he w a s

A s h e s a i d to f r i e n d s w h o w e r e h a v i n g

t r o u b l e in t h e i r r e l a t i o n s h i p s , " P e o p l e d o n ’ t c h a n g e ; t h e y on ly get m o re s o .”

m e n to rsh ip s

from

S o m e tim e s

P a s s ju d g m e n t b y .”

S p e c i a l I X-l i v o r i e s

I’ve never know n anyone

j

w h o h a s th o u g h t, a n d w ritten ,

ocean

as m uch abou t death a s Ja m e s.

b each es or v in ey ard s or m o u n ­

N o t th a t h e w a s m o r b i d a b o u t it.

tain s, on w h ic h w e w o u l d talk ,

H e ’d w ritten m a n y e p i t a p h s fo r

w a lk , w rite, a n d u s u a lly eat w e ll.

h im self,

In t h e s e a s i d e t o w n o f M o c l i p s ,

“ A dventu re, N ot P red icam en t"

J a m e s w o k e m e u p b e fo re 6 a.m .

lit t le

m oon?”

"H ow he

b ein g

h o w th o u g h t I'd g o ou t w ith a

JAMf s UKO-tomON

about a

ask ed .

fav o rites

a n d " B o r e d to D e a t h . ” " I s o m e ­

to a f u l l m o o n s t r e a m i n g in o u r m o tel w in d o w .

h is

b a n g , not b e c o m e an in v a lid ."

We

he to ld m e after h is stro k e.

A L O N G U N D R 1- SSI NG COiLlCT*DPOLMS »«**

s c r a m b l e d into o u r c l o t h e s a n d

By

the e n d h e s e e m e d m u c h m o r e

d r o v e d o w n o n the b e a c h (s in c e

r e la x e d w ith h is p h y s ic a l in fir­

he w a s h a v in g tro u b le g e ttin g d o w n hills o r u p sta irs).

We

m ity.

h i k e d a m i l e o n th e f l a t b e a c h a n d w a t c h e d a s t u n n i n g s u n ­

H e t o o k e a c h d a y , e a c h m o m e n t , e a c h b r e a t h , a s it

c a m e , b o r i n g o r n ot.

r i s e a s t h e m o o n d i p p e d i n t o th e s e a .

Said the one-armed logger from Portland, Most of the time of your life as you chip away the days you think it is all monotony.

Then at the severance payoff you realize it has all been magic. (1991)

R u n w ith y o u r w ildfire Y o u a r e c l o s e r to g l o r y leap in g an a b y ss th an u p h o lsterin g a rut - f r o m " L i t t l e S e r m o n s o f th e B i g J o y ” ( 1 9 9 4 )

" P e o p l e k e e p a s k i n g m e to w rite a ‘ last p o e m , ' " O ver

the

years

J a m e s co m p lain ed .

I'd

" H o w b orin g!

r a r e l y let a m o n t h g o b y w i t h ­

alrea d y .”

out s e e in g him .

poetry.

(Packing Up for Paradise

w ritten

1 9 4 6 -1 9 9 6 , p u b lish e d

he

and

house

Joel for

So m etim es

cam e

to

my

T h an k sg iv in g

b irth d ay s.

O ften

p o etry — h is

own,

he

M o s t d a y s h e w r o t e in h i s j o u r n a l , t h o u g h t h e h a n d w r i t i n g

e s p e c i a ll y that o f h is o ld frien d L o u H a r r is o n , 8 0 , w h o

the

c o m p o s e d m u s i c f o r f o u r o f J a m e s ' 2 3 f i l m s ’.

O n e y ear, at E a s te r

tim e, w e w e r e lo o k i n g o u t o f

U ntil a y e a r b e fo r e he d ied , J a m e s lo v e d ta k in g an

m y k itc h en w i n d o w at P u g e t S o u n d , a n d a b ird fle w

by.

We

lau gh ed ,

and

he

a fte rn o o n hot tub. O n e d a y s o m e frien d s a n d I lo w e re d his s h r i n k i n g b o d y i n to th e t u b , a n d a s h i s f e e t hit t h e w a t e r , h i s e y e s r o l l e d b a c k i n to h i s h e a d a n d h e p a s s e d o u t f o r 10 s e c ­

e x p lain ed

o n d s th a t s e e m e d l i k e a n h o u r.

that h e h a d f o u n d t h e d i v i n e M o t h e r m a n i f e s t i n g h e r s e l f o v e r a n d o v e r in h i s l if e . c a t s c a m e in. over.

" M a ! ” h e g r e e te d th em .

" M a ! ” he said.

w a t e r , a n d h e c a m e to.

My

S o m e frien d s c a m e

i n g t o m e o n th e o t h e r s i d e o f i t . "

B y t h e e n d o f t h e d a y w e w e r e all

N e x t to h is b e d h u n g s y m b o l s o f s o m e o f h is o th e r

w hat

sp iritu al i n f lu e n c e s : a c r o s s , a B u d d h a , a n d a d a n c i n g P an .

H is b e a u tifu l sm o o t h b o d y w a s s e v e r e ly h a m p e r e d b y a Joel

w ent

on

fa m ily

visits

or

to

l e t ’s gel

F iv e m in u t e s later h e w a s g i v i n g m e a d v i c e on

say

at

an

u pco m in g

re p o r te r s: “ F u c k the f a c t s!

m eetin g

w ith

new spaper

W hat m a tte r s? ”

I w;a s w i t h J a m e s t h e d a y h e d i e d w i t h c h a m p a g n e

s t r o k e in l a t e 1 9 9 6 , a n d I ’ d h a p p i l y t a k e n th e r o l e o f n u r s e ­ w hen

"A

W e a ll b r e a t h e d a d e e p

sig h o f r e lie f, a n d J a m e s s a id , " W e ll, w e ’ re h ere, in t h e t u b . ”

F o rtu n ately , h is m in d w a s c le a r a s ever.

W e l i f t e d h i m f r o m th e

" I w a s in t h e o c e a n , ” h e s a i d .

h u g e w a v e c a m e tow ard m e, and 1 co u ld se e p eo p le w a v ­

y e l l i n g “ M a ! ” t o t h e r a in .

m aid

H e l o v e d to

w a t c h f i l m s o n d i r e c t b r o a d c a s t T V , a n d l i s t e n to m u s i c ,

B l a k e ’s,

“ M a !” Ja m e s exclaim ed .

is a c o l l e c t i o n o f p o e m s

b y B la c k S p a r ro w P ress.)

g o t s m a l l e r a n d h a r d e r e v e n f o r h i m to r e a d .

read

W h itm a n ’s — b e tw e e n courses.

or

I’ v e w ritten s o m a n y

In ste ad , he put to g e th e r a s e c o n d a n th o lo g y o f

o n h i s l i p s , m o v i n g f o r w a r d in the d a n c e o f l i f e a n d d e a t h ,

vacatio n s.

e m b r a c i n g h is futu re, " a tt a in in g the in e v it a b le ."

W hen he v o lu n ­

s h o u l d all d i e s u c h a g o o d d e a t h .

t e e r e d t o b e a g u i n e a p i g at a c l a s s f o r s t u d e n t s l e a r n i n g to

We

H e q u ip p ed , "M y c r e e p ­

i n g d e c r e p i t u d e h a s c r e p t m e all t h e w a y to t h e c r y p t . "

d o g e r i a t r i c m a s s a g e , h e s i g n e d in a s M r. J e r r y A t r i c k .

43

RKD Winter 2008-09 #136

It's b e c a u s e o f J a m e s ' s p o e t i c w i s d o m a n d c i n e ­ m a t i c c o u r a g e th a t I'm l e a d i n g th e B i g J o y P r o j e c t

an

e x p l o r a t i o n o f J a m e s ’s l i f e , w o r k a n d i n f l u e n c e th a t w i l l m a n ife st a s a w e b site , a film , and

a book.

G o d d e s s k n o w s th e w o r l d n e e d s m o r e B i g J o y .

W hat Big Joy needs now are your stories and ideas - memories of times with Jam es, stories of how his poems or films base affected your life or influenced your work.

Please send them to BB H a! aka Stephen Silha, P.O. Box 2003, Yashon Island, WA 98070. ssilhaffl comcast.net A S tu d en t an d C o lle ag u e R e m e m b e rs

With a dual career as a giant on the American avant-garde film landscape and beneficiary o f the title o f "uncrowned Poet Laureate o f San Francisco" bestowed by the late Buddhist schol­ ar and philosopher Alan Watts, James taught me as his student and later teaching colleague at the San Francisco Art Institute that

In the long run everything and nothing matters a lot.

In 1989 the American Film Institute awarded him its Lifetime Achievement Award for a remarkable career spanning five decades that included such films as Dreamwood, The Pleasure Garden and The Golden Positions. W'hen Film Culture gave him their 12th Independent Film Award, he was honored as "the old master o f comedy among all directors anywhere...and an avantgarde film-maker not merely concerned with humor but dedicat­ ed to primal panic sacraments, the ancient sudden gusto, breath o f absolute release, the very spirit o f the laugh."

Beating the drum in 7 directions!

In 2006 Facets Video (www.facets.org) published a 3-disc set of most o f the major film works o f the three phases o f Broughton's career from his Chaplinesque, whimsical films o f the post WWII period, to his immersion in the great apotheosis o f experimental film in the 1960s and 1970s to the climactical synthesis o f his life's work with his partner in life and film, Joel Singer from the late 1970s to 1980s.

C o m e a n d be a p a r t o f E s ta b lis h in g a n d M a in ta in in g R E W IL D IN G H A V E N S in th e H ig h D e s e rt G re a t B asin.

There is no fee for the festival, but everyone is expected to come in the POTLATCH way of sharing your abundance with others.

Broughton describes his 1948 film Mother's Day as an expose o f the fetishes and enigmas and secret nonsense rituals o f a large household dominated by a selfabsorbed mother with a taste for exotic hats and stereotyped chil­ dren. In the words o f P. Adams Sitney, Broughton's 1968 film The Bed is a picaresque romp, asking, "What can happen to and on a bed?" In collaboration with the cinematographic magician, Joel Singer, The Gardener o f Eden from 1981 teases and explodes with the light and visages o f Sri Lanka’s unforgettable tropics.

For more information contact: SPIDER PO Box 937 Guerneville, CA 95446 aranahombre88@yahoo.com

or visit:

As Larry Kurdish, Film Curator o f the Museum of Modem Art (NY) said on the occasion o f Broughton’s 75th birthday in 1988, "...while the pleasurable body o f his work may be enjoyed in many ways, it may also be experienced satisfyingly as a bright and lyric history o f this century's most rapturous art. " ©2008 Janis Crystal Lipzin Ja n is C rystal Lip/in is a San Francisco-based film artist and Associate Professor of Film at the San Francisco Art Institute.

Kt l) Winter 2008-09 #136

44

w w w .p u llin Q fo rw iid fio w e rs .o rg

PRISON PAGES

V

By Myrlin 1 am excited to be writing this column and vet a bit saddened to hear that the responses to this column have been less than enthusiastic in the recent survey. At the same time, this doesn’t surprise me in that the number o f requests I receive for the Brothers Behind Bars Pen Pal List is also quite weak. To me, Prison Issues are a Social Justice Concern just as G LBTQ Issues are a Social justice Concern. Fortunately others have successfully fought for many o f the rights that I now am afforded as a Gay person and rejoice that you also share these benefits.

I am concerned that Prison Issues do not stand out as something we all should embrace.

Over 30 years ago the staff at RFD decided these issues were important and decided to begin including ads from our Brothers Be­ hind Bars. Over the years many o f its readers reached out and began writing and encouraging those placing ads in our magazine. From expe­ rience I can attest to the joys I have received in doing just that.

Over the years our magazine was allowed into the institutions and there was a growing in­ mate subscriber base. Now with the tightened rules on nudity and explicit graphics this reader base has almost dried up. This makes it even more important for us to be in touch with those behind the walls. Many o f them have had no role models in coming out and developing a positive self image which can stand to assist in their rehabilita­ tion and re-integration into society.

If our prisons truly locked up only the worst of the worst as they often trumpet then I would under­ stand the lack o f interest on the part o f our readers.

However the system is far from just and has much to be condemned. Thinking about the thousands of people swept up in the War on Drugs, many serving life sentences for their third conviction is o f concern to me. Why does the system crave so many able bod­ ied, non-violent folk to fill up the cells being created at break neck speed? Where is the profit in all of this?

• Each inmate housed brings in money from both the State and Federal Governments.

• Multi million dollar contracts are let to build new prisons

• Big trade shows are held to tout the latest in stun guns and other equipment • Contracts are let for inmates to make gloves, create office furniture, do political and other phone solicitations, plant and harvest cotton and other crops.

Imagine the profits here since the individuals are paid s below minimum wage or no wage for their work.

As 1 think about these tilings 1 wish many more o f my G LBTQ brothers and sisters would rally be­ hind this cause. But reality is what reality is and 1 can only hope that in some wav we are able to help those wishing pen-friends to find them. At present I am trying to find a way to make the list available from the RFD Website; in the meantime 1 would encourage our readers to write and request the list. You may do this by writing to Myrlin at RFD Magazine, P () Box 68, Liberty, TN 37095 and request the list. We generally 45

KM) Winter 200X 09 # 136

ask a donation o f $3.00 to $10.00 for the List. These monies help with postage and printing costs. The latest issue, Fall #135, has over 400 ads, manv with photos, plus poetry and art samples.

I am also pleased to include two examples o f the poetry we receive on a regular basis.

I am also happy to introduce you to a couple o f the artists submitting their work.

A ttem pts are m ade to quiet unheard cries

James McGilton #318-152 PO Box 45699 Lucasville OH 45699-0001

from deep inside ~ like scream s o f tor­ tured souls where angry dem on s reside. ~ the pain, the anguish driven deep into your soul ~ searching for a place to run, but there’s nowhere to go. W herever you

Leonard Scovens #165908, Union Correctional Institution, 7819 N.W. 228th Street, Raiford, FL 32026

g o the suffering persists ~ E ro d in g your sanity, crushing your soul but still you resist, f ighting back with all your muscle and might ~ it seeks to wear you down til you no longer can fight. So steel your will and strengthen your m ind ~ Believe in yourself and you’re sure to find ~ you are m aster o f your reality.

Bradley Hixon T-78115 Salinas Valley State Prison PO Box 1050 Soledad, CA 93960

My m em ories are getting hazy I ’m m issing you like crazy W ishing I was there T o lock eyes with you and stare and tell you that 1 realize what you sacrificed for me, And how upset you m ust have felt I’m trying to teach me to be a man and everything you wanted me to understand.

Well now I understand how much we were meant for each other.

Lookin g back now on my life and understand how much you loved me.

Jonathan Conley #166955 Arizona Prison Complex - Florence Unit CB - Kasson PO Box 8200 Florence, AZ 85232

Brian Cavalier(LA) RFD Winter 2008-09 #136

46

James Hanes(CA)

'Paul' Morris/

Treas celebrates

415-5 53-S1S1 47

RFf) Winter 2008-09 tt 136

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the ski nny SUBMISSIONS

We accept submissions via U.S Mail, or email at su bm ission s@ rfd m ag.org . When sending electronic files by cither method, save the text files as a M S Word Doc, Rich Text, or Simple Text. Images should be highresolution (300dpi) TIM •, or original JPEG's. Your work may also be used on our website.

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We welcome your submission. Suggested length is5002,500 words We will carefully edit. If you intentionally mean to vary a spelling, let us know. We'll contact you if your submission is selected. Contributors receive one copy of the issue in which their work appears and a second copy upon request. Your work may also be used on our website

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We always need fresh drawings & photos. Drawings should be quality black and white Photos can be highcontrast color, but black and white yields best reproduc­ tion Always send hi-resolution (300dpi) images if send­ ing digital submissions Artwork sent via U.S Mail re­ turned upon request.

KID Winter 2008-09 #136

M A I L I N G RFD is published quarterly and mailed around the Solstice or Equinox o f the quarter. Secondclass mail can take awhile. Let us know if you have not received your copy after amonth.

Second-class mail is NOT forwarded.

L.et us know if vou move.

48

I invite you to enjoy a tantric massage in the A rizon a sun.

http://www.tucsonnatural.com Call Marc at 1-888-295-8500

Faeries & Wicca...Spring 09

•

call for subm issions

RFD has been covering the facets of Radical Faerie spiritual* itv through the years with special issues. As we enter a new phase of RFD’s history, we thought it might be interesting to explore ‘Who we are’ by looking at the connections between our movement and the neo-pagan community, particularly the Reclaiming Tradition of Wicca. Reclaiming, centered as it is on the writings and approach of Starhawk and others, shares common membership, history, and spiritual / politi­ cal influences with the Radical Faerie movement, yet they are unique and diverse communities that are attempting to shape A spirituality that is inclusive of all genders and sexualities while honoring the Earth.

We are asking for writers to consider ways of documenting: • How these communities intersect on a personal level (why I am a Radical Faerie in the Reclaiming Com­ munity); • The common threads between the two movements (shared history, shared involvement, shared ideals); • The history of shared ritual forms -(many of the Radi­ cal Faerie traditions can be traced to Reclaiming and / or neo-paganisim (our chants, the use of directions and casting a circle) yet we also use many Native American traditions (use of a talisman, sweat lodges).

What brought about some of that shared tradition?)

Want to contribute to the SF Bay Area issue of RFD (summer 2009) ?

Our theme is Radical Faery Saturn Return. As you may know, next summer will mark 30 years since Radical Faeries were conceived. When a young queer reaches the age of thirty, s/he almost inevitably looks back, compar­ ing where s/he is to where s/he thought s/he was going to be at this age. These reflections provide a sense o f per­ spective as s/he thinks about formulating goals for the future. We want our RFD issue to help Radical Faeries everywhere to do something similar. What can you con­ tribute that will help us in our Saturn return reflections?

When our forefaeries first conceived o f us, what did they most want Radical Faeries to be? Surely there were dif­ ferences of opinion at the beginning. What were they?

Who can speak for Harry Hay, John Burnside, James Broughton, Bethie Lee, Mitch Walker, Arthur Evans, Buzzard, Rula, Wessie and others to tell us what they

How our commonalities are reflected in our use of ritual and how our approaches to ritual differ yet seek to have the same goals of celebrating the divine in all o f US;

•

•

•

•

•

How the interaction between Radical Faeries and Reclaiming has influenced each group. W'hat have individuals learned and taken away from both?

How a closer collaboration between these communi­ ties might create a broader perspective on gender and sexuality; What the Radical Faeries have to offer the Reclaiming Community and vice versa in terms of community building; Ihe similarities and differences in each’s approach to activism and social justice. (Both groups strive for inclusivity, social and environmental justice in their own way. What are some examples of the ways this work has impacted people on a personal level.)

If you left one or both communities, what shaped your decision on a spiritual level. How might your interac­ tion in these communities shape your involvement in “traditional faiths”?

Endora will be a guest editor on this issue and you can send him your writing, art work or ideas to submissions@rfdmag. org with Spirit ’ in the subject line. The deadline for submis­ sions for the Spring issue are February 1, 2009.

intended? How did those various conceptions evolve?

How would those seminal faeries have liked to change things or redirect energies as the years went by? How do you want to change things? Or how do you want to con­ tinue to work toward some o f those original goals? And how would you like to see things progress from here?

Our list of potential submissions so far is considerably more diverse than RFD offerings have been in the past because we will have both a print portal and a web por­ tal. That means we can include audio, video and lots o f color photos. We also plan to have an up-to-date ealen dar o f events in the Bay Area of interest to faeries for the whole month of June. Please spread the word, and, if you can, help us make our issue marvelous. We re hoping to have all submissions in by March 1st, 2009. If you’ve got something for us, you can email it to rfdsummer2009@gmail.com. Look for our submissions guidelines page at http://www.rfdmag.org/ Perhaps you’d like to pre-order our issue?

Go to that same address.

a reader-created quarterly celebrating queer diversity