RFD 149 Spring 2012

SEX/Magick Issue

150 Call for Entries

They say “Love makes the World go ‘round”—but we wonder whether it really is DESIRE that propels us forward in our lives. To explore this possibility, we are dedicating the Summer 2012 issue to SEX / Magick: how do these two words and the myriad meanings they conjure in relationship to each other dance in our lives, personally, in relationship(s), and in community.

How does Eros enter your magickal life & workings? How magickal is your sex life? What happens when you bring them together consciously—and/or does one aspect of this pairing erupt unconsciously in its relation to the other in your body awareness, experiences and rituals? What does one teach you about the other? How has the shadow side of this dance caused harm = induced forced learning?

We are interested in exploring the MANY facets inherent in this pairing through stories, poetry, art, photography as well as ritual recipes that have proven efficacious - or fallen flat in the face of expectations. For those who have participated in the Sex Magick workshops Harry Hay initiated in 1990 we are curious how this work has enhanced your life (or not?). What other forms of Sex Magick have you encountered & experienced in your life?

Because our community continues to experience new transmissions of HIV (and other STI’s—sometimes at gatherings!)—we are calling for a robust conversation to raise awareness & compassion. Many of us are long-term survivors of HIV infection—what has this experience taught you? Many also do not even buy into the HIV paradigm as an accurate narrative—how does your worldview work with others’ perspectives & experiences.

As we gather to celebrate Pride at the height of the Solar Season (in the northern hemisphere, that is), we encourage, exhort & extoll our community to explore this rich subject that can affect us deeply in our personal & communal relations. There is so much to learn & share with one another as we continue to build our lives together. May your sex life be magickal + may the magick be sexy = it can move the world in ways unforeseen.

As part of this issue, we intend to create a bibliography of reading materials relevant to this rich subject. Therefore, we ask (even if you do not intend on writing a full article) to submit a list of books, articles, or pamphlets that you know are available to enrich our lives and understandings of Sex/ Magick. Many thanks!

Raschel Faux-leather Dacron

Vol 38 No 3 #149 Spring 2012

Between the Lines

The 2012 Fashion Issue

RFDas a magazine is one of America’s great queer treasures. The oldest continually operating “gay” magazine, and possibly only reader created quarterly, is known for its intelligence, depth, and integrity. The various writers collectives have taken on suicide, depression, and AIDS, however in the thirty plus years of publishing, they have never gotten around to publishing a fashion issue. Why?

Is the often debated “radical” that comes before faerie so obsessed with its own important political and spiritual narratives that it can’t be polluted with the frivolity of fashion? Is there an important political and spiritual force at play whenever fairies get dressed and go out on the streets? Is our impulse towards our drag an ancient, sacred part of being… whatever we are?

Fashion in the dominant culture is gross; it is eating disorders, unfair and intentionally racist labor practices, environmental destruction, and endless superficial lalala at the cost of everyone’s psyche. Fashion is assimilation, class stratification, and wealth, plumage, and plunder on display. When Europeans got to this continent the trannyshaman and their culturally appropriate crossdressing were so shocking they had to call the queen and throw a genocide*.

To read the history of fashion is to read the story of privileged men and their fancy embellishments, and every few generations, even by their own definition of history, queerdo carnival cadres come out as mummers, mimes, wizards, sots, gender benders, clowns, and shaman. We emerge over and over again from the boring bourgeois pages of ancient vogue as spectacularly costumed jester prophet gangs. We, as

two spirits, have a long tradition of putting on our best frock and speaking truth to power.

Turning out a look is not without risks. We have all experienced threat and intimidation, and some of us violence, for merely entering the world as our selves. The ability to change genders fluidly in a culture obsessed with its binary nature is incredibly powerful and therefore terrifying. The phobia part of homo and transphobia is in many ways tied to our ability to transform and walk between the supposed rules of society. Our existence alone is audacious; when we perform our lives through our outfits we invite fascination and ridicule; we offer critique and possibility.

San Francisco Feyboys believe that fashion is an everyday expression of our art, our life force, and a gift we give out to the world. Fashion, for us, is not about names and designers, price tags, purchasing, and sweatshops. It’s how do I cover my body with cloth until I feel like me, and what do I want to be.

We challenge ourselves to dress the part of radical faggots in our daily lives to encourage liberation from normative structure, to defy the drabness of first world ennui, and to enjoy our individual intrinsic beauty with a little help from hot glue and sequins. We believe our gender transgressions and identity politics are sacred and best shared with the public.

A little leavening lightens the whole loafer.

Until the revolution arrives, see you on the dance floor.

—Feyboy Collective

*Queen Isabella defined the “new world” as “savage” in 1539 after hearing testimony of wide spread sodomy and transgendered priests. Google it.

Submission Deadlines

Summer–April 21, 2012 Fall–July 21, 2012

See inside covers for themes and specifics.

For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org

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, and 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. Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places. RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302.

Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302 Non-profit tax exempt #621723644, a function of RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190. RFD Cover Price: $9.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. Copyright © 2012 RFD Press. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001. Mail for our Brothers Behind Bars project should be sent to P.O. Box 68, Liberty TN 37095.

On the Covers

Front & Back: Feyboy Collective

Inside Front Cover: “Embracing Day at Rooster Rock” by Kwai Lam, KwaiLam.com, FaeryPhoto.com

Inside Back Cover: “Dinner Circle, 1996” by Keri Pickett . www.pickettphoto.com .

Production

Bambi Gauthier, Editor in Chief Guest Editors: Feyboy Collective

Matt Bucy, Art Director

Paul Wirhun, Editor

Myrlin, Prison Pages Editor

“Glisten” photograph courtesy of Glisten

LETTERS & ANNOUNCEMENTS

It causes us pain to admit…

A letter from Milo Pyne

My name was sadly misspelled in RFD #148. I was a founder of SMS and submitted a photo to Franklin Abbott. I even filled out a form giving the rights to use of the photo... (i think..). I was bummed to see my name appear (twice) as Milo \’Payne\’—I do not want to be a \’pain\’ but I was disappointed in this (very minor) flaw in a otherwise fabulous issue!

—With love, Milo

Spirit Meets Flesh BC Radical Faerie Camp 2012

“The body is a holy place of romp and renewal... Open your temple to love. Visit other temples.”

—James Broughton

The Radical Faeries of British Columbia welcome you to B.C. Faerie Camp! In each other we delight, we move, and we have our being—and also our identity as Radical Faerie. It is an identity which means very different things to different people, but one constant remains: we celebrate ourselves, our tribe, all humanity, and creation in the perfect beauty of one another. As Faeries, we regularly gather to manifest that together.

round the last corner of the road into the camp, and the lake, field, forest, and snow-capped mountains come into view, you arrive at a destination where spirit meets flesh.

And that is the theme for this year’s gathering—creating together a space where our spirits and bodies intermingle and feed one another, tending toward new growth. Whether it is your imagination, your body, your brothers, our tribe, or the world; the vessel is filled when spirit meets flesh...a uniquely Faerie consciousness manifested when we meet and breed ideas, visions, intentions, and one another.

The deadline for registration is firm: May 1, 2012. We have set the number of participants this year at 75, to maintain the same intimate atmosphere we enjoyed last year; and we will keep a first-come, first-served waitlist in the event we exceed that number.

For more information and registration, please visit www.bcradfae.ca.

Faerie Sex Magick Workshops for 2012

We are very pleased to announce that the next Sex Magick 169 workshop is scheduled to occur at Wolf Creek Sanctuary in southern Oregon from May 26–June 2. There are another three workshops tentatively scheduled for Western Missouri in August, Short Mountain Sanctuary (or Sassafras) in October, and Vancouver, B.C. in November.

This workshop, now into its third decade, was originally conceived and led by Harry Hay. For the past 10 years the workshop has been led by some of the original participants as well as more recent alumni. Faerie Sex Magick, simply defined, is a week-long, chem-free workshop that uses the heart circle process to explore deeper levels of emotional and physical intimacy. Where gathering Heart Circles and Sex rituals end, there are often levels of unexplored connections. The Sex Magick workshop, though its participants, manifests a container of intimacy with deep bonds between the members. Faeries who are comfortable and committed to Heart Circle process and exploring heart-centered erotic connections are encouraged to participate in the Sex Magic workshops.

Music circles, dancing, and cuddling around the lakeside campfire, hiking in the B.C. rainforest, canoeing in the lake— or even swimming, for braver souls. Meditation space, chill n cuddle space, heart circle, games and kinkgames, inside and out. Camaraderie through ecstatic dance, the k(no)w talent show, and the auction. Meals for all on the vegan-carnivore spectrum, funky camp-style bunkhouses, friendly staff. As you

For more information (including future dates for scheduled workshops) or to register, please go to http://www. faeriesexmagick.org. All potential participants are asked to participate in a gate-keeping process before attending a workshop. Feel free to contact us if you have questions or are at all curious. Thanks for reading this!

Rosie/ eggmananda@gmail.com

Chas /

chas@faeriesexmagick.org

Photo by Edward Parker

GATHERING GUIDE 2012

for contact information visit www.radfae.org.

When It Comes to Faerie Fashion This is What I Wonder

by Jack Davis

I wonder if one of our roles as faeries is to deconstruct the gender binary.

I wonder if we faeries follow styles or if we create our own individual style.

I wonder what it would be like to dress so that no one would mistake me for a heterosexual.

I wonder if when we fags dress butch to attract other men, are we just perpetuating the myth that sissy is not sexy.

I wonder if when we judge drag queens for not looking “real”, aren’t we perpetuating the myth that there are only two genders and that we have to look like either one or the other.

I wonder why there is so little porno that involves drag queens.

I wonder why the colors black, blue, grey and brown are so popular with fags.

I wonder if we remember that the first faerie gatherings were called for fags who did not assimilate into the gay mainstream.

When I dress to look like I assimilate, I wonder why I do.

I wonder what it would be like to do drag that is transgressive, that travels between the world of male and female.

I wonder about wearing lingerie with hiking boots.

I wonder about hairy legs and high heels.

I wonder about really short skirts with dicks and balls exposed.

I wonder about wearing all of one’s necklaces at once.

I wonder about wearing a wedding dress that remains unzipped down the back.

I wonder about baseball caps with frilly aprons and nothing else.

I wonder about rather than slipping a dress over your head, you just strap it to the front of you and let the back of you be naked.

I wonder how many faeries have had sex while wearing a dress.

I wonder about packing for a faerie gathering and not taking any trousers.

I wonder about fags who go to a dress-up event with one accessory that if it were removed, they would look like just like a straight man.

I wonder about how much of dressing butch is claiming straight male privilege.

I wonder what it would be like to dress in a way that says, “I’m a big fag.”

I wonder if faeries can put the “fuck” back in “genderfuck.”

Clothing Design H I S S Y F I T, model: Eric Glaser, make up: Kegel Kater, June 2, 2011, photo by Daniel Nicoletta

“Philly Faerie” Photograph by Peter Lien

By the time I became a teenager, Daddy had dragged us off to a big city down South so he could do his drag race thing. All of a sudden I went from rural New York to a big bad city where there was an endless supply of boys who wanted to beat me up because I was a “pansy” or a “faggot” or a “queer.” I had no idea what these things were. I made straight A’s in school but was too stupid to learn how to jerk off until college.

When I was fourteen I liked to dress in a cape and swing down out of the trees and use my fingers to cast spells just like Dr. Strange in the comic books. “Don’t do that!” Mommy yelled, “What will people think?” “I don’t care what people think,” I informed her.

In 1967 I was initiated into the National Honor Society. For our hazing the new initiates had to entertain the older ones with skits. I and two other boys had been chosen to put on skirts and make-up and dance kicking our legs up in the air. The Honor Society was very important to me. I did it, endured more public ridicule. My classmates were intent on associating me with female clothing for some reason I did not understand.

Thencame college and the hippy days. I got to dress in whatever I wanted. I had no money and hated shopping for clothes. I took to wearing baggy clothing from my grandparent’s attic and shopping at Salvation Army. I had a long black coat I favored. It was warm but the buttons were on the wrong side. I liked it. It reminded me of my Dr. Strange cloak but it was (I thought) a socially acceptable coat. I wore it home on vacation. Mommy cut it up into pieces and put it in with her rags.

I had never noticed that male and female jackets, shirts and coats were different! I thought it was just pants vs. skirts. My cousin and I tried an experiment. She wore my dad’s sparkplug jacket which I’d been wearing and I wore her maxi-coat. Then we walked five blocks halfway across town. Almost everybody was staring at us as they drove by. We could have caused a traffic accident just by switching jackets!

I finally started to figure things out (so did my cousin). When I came out in graduate school the war had ended, hippy androgyny had faded, Nixon

was in disgrace. Ultimately I had to cut my long hair off and get a job. I did get really tired of people trying to assign me a female gender because of the length of my hair. I took to wearing jeans and old Boy Scout and military shirts. Daddy said he was afraid he’d been too strict with me and that I was becoming some sort of Nazi hippy gay liberationist. He didn’t like my Boy Scout look either but I didn’t care.

At some point I decided to try to look like the sort of man I was attracted to. I bought a pair of steel-toe work boots even though I didn’t have a factory job anymore. I was afraid at first to wear them because in my feelings I wasn’t a real man. I was a fake. I had these same feelings return when I bought my first thick leather belt. A gay lib friend (yes, I joined GLF five years after Stonewall) gave me some fashion tips, “You know, Jay, you don’t have to look like a biker.” Why not?

Butch fashion is easy. Just act like a slob and don’t pay any attention at all to your clothes. You’ll be fine. Have plenty of jeans and work clothing, flannel shirts and jackets at hand. Don’t primp in the mirror. I often forget what clothes I have on.

I remember my faerie friend, Amber Stone (aka Bicycle Bill). His philosophy of clothing had a profound influence on me. He wouldn’t go to stores to select clothing; he would wait for a piece of clothing to select him! Sure enough, that t-shirt he found in the street fit him fine, as did those pants abandoned at the laundromat. Amber Stone was an inspiration to my sense of fashion.

Lookism = Oppression

So it was an uphill battle for me to feel comfortable dressing the way I wanted to. Thank goodness that is over—or so I thought. Faerie gatherings have their own unsubtle social pressures and are not the free atmospheres they are supposed to be. At first the vegetarians resented the leather wearers but we’re over that now. Still there are decorative Nazis and fashionistas out there who make it their mission to cover you with glitter and nail polish, you can be a faerie unless…

I’ve been called a “faggot” and “fairy” and a “sissy” all my long life since before Stonewall, so I’m sick and tired of people thinking that I’m too “butch” to be a Faerie.

Faerie gatherings have their own unsubtle social pressures and are not the free atmospheres they are supposed to be.

“BC Faeries” Photograph by Raspberry

So often at gatherings I meet others who only want to discuss clothing—appearances, rather than matters of substance. I’m quite happy being my undecorative self. I hate it when a man talks about my clothing or “look.” If I wear my pagan jewelry, that’s what he’ll focus on. I’ll wear a hat and he’ll talk about it and I realize that I’ve forgotten which redneck hat I’m wearing. I try to get people not to talk about my clothes, I’ll wear jeans and ripped shirts or I’ll go monochromatic, brown work pants and brown t-shirt. I’ll wear the same clothes day after day or I’ll wear no clothes at all.

Faerie dress up can be a fun game. It can be liberating for some people. It can shock the world and maybe cause people to think. It can enhance and strengthen our otherworldly nature. I’ll do the best I can on that, just without the glitter thank you.

Butch drag is definitely dress up too, especially for a faux-butch like me. I hate sports. When forced

to play them as a child, I’d try to make my team lose as payback for having chosen me last. I don’t hunt either. I hate cars, especially race cars. I only like men who work on them. A real man can tell that I’m a fake right away. I don’t talk about football, deer hunting or pussy.

Here’s my advice if you want to do butch drag: Get yourself a good pair of boots somewhere. Remember that real man you were jerking off over last week and feeling inadequate because he didn’t want you? Yeah him, get boots like him. Then go buy whatever at the Salvation Army. Wear what you want to wear and don’t talk about it. If you favor work clothing, do some of your own work in it so it gets well worn. That’s all.

The next step is to realize that you are a real man already. If you want to be a man chances are 999 out of 1000 that you already are one, so stop worrying about it. w

Queer Plaids–Jeremy Chase Sanders: San Francisco Based Textile Artist

Synesthesia is a neurological phenomenon that causes sense pairing in the brain. I see a particular color associated with every number and letter of the alphabet. I match the colors I see in language and weave cloth containing coded text. By selecting words that we use to identify and fashioning them into different forms I elucidate subtle hierarchies at work in the language we use and the fabrics we wear. Furthermore, by hand weaving cloth and meticulously hand making wearables I point to issues around the modes of production in material culture, and subvert the social expectations of makers and consumers.

Gay men and other Queer people have always used secret languages through clothing and fabrics

to identify and communicate. My current work deals very specifically with the culture of masculinity, and how cloth intimates sexuality, status, and authority.

My fine art textiles have been shown in galleries and museums in San Francisco and nationally.

You can see my work in the San Francisco LGBT Center’s 10th anniversary show from March 9thApril 20th, the National Queer Arts Festival in San Francisco during the month of June, and in my upcoming solo exhibition, “BRO-MAN(ce)” at Magnet community center in San Francisco October 2012.

Commissions available! Work and information: http://jeremychasesanders.com. w

Left and Above: “Patriarchitecture” (ties) Doctor, Minister, Officer. Hand made ties from hand woven lyocell/ cotton, printed silk linings. 2010.

Above: “Patriarchitecture” (shoes): Minister, Officer, Doctor. Hand made shoes from hand woven lyocell/cotton and leather, Printed cotton linings, miscellaneous notions. 2010.

The Clothes Make the Tran

By Zaccums

As a child, I wanted to be a fashion designer. I spent hours drawing picture of outfits only a rock star (or I now know, a queen) could pull off. It was the late ‘80s and I thought everyone needed fishnet, asymmetrical slash marks and leopard tights. I thought blue hair was the only appropriate color choice.

I was very lucky, my parents encouraged me and let me spend my teenage years dressing as hysterically as I wanted (the rule was if I thought I might get sent home for wearing it to school, bring a change of clothes so I wouldn’t have to miss class).

The first time I was identified as a Radical Faerie, I had yet to hear of us…I was twenty in the summer of 1998, the World Bank was in town and all the activists had come out to greet the machine. I had only been out of the closet a few years and wanted to make a splash at the protests. I wore a green camouflage miniskirt, combat boots and a fish net tank top.

I was pulling the usual youthful protest shenanigans when an elderly gay couple approached me. “Are you a Radical Faerie?” they asked. When I replied I didn’t know what that meant, they seemed surprised and made some comment along the lines of “you will be, kid.”

Flash forward eight years, I am at a heart circle at the Breitenbush gathering, a man stands up in his green camouflage skirt and starts talking about making dozens (or zillions as legend would have it) of these skirts for the 1991 March on Washington. Immediately the shard of memory sparkled. Now I understood why those men thought I already was a “faerie” all those years ago.

The clothes we wear, on top of acting as political statements and gender tomfoolery, are community identifiers.

The first time I saw my future collective mate and sisterwife Pink Feather he was walking past my window on his way to work. His outfit was so inspiring, so fagtastic, I knew I wanted to be his friend. I heard a rumor that pre-internet faeries carried cards that essentially said “We dig your vibe, be our friend!” These cards undoubtedly found their way into the hands of the weirdest dressed queens quickly.

We know from the few celebratory histories of queers that most traditional peoples who had sa-

cred third gendered religious social roles expected and enjoyed the wildly unconventional clothing choices of their local tranny shaman. Apparently fashion hijinks are a part of the spiritual calling that queers have always been blessed with. Our innate desire to create as faggots mixed with the modern political need to assert our myriad identities and genders gives our fashion a sacred quality. More than just individualizing, fashion can be radicalizing, an easy way to subtly challenge the social order in our daily lives.

I won’t say that there is a faerie fashion per se. After all, we are a counter culture obsessed with uniqueness. But I see men on the street and identify them as kindred radical homosexuals because they choose to dress themselves in whatever way that tells me and every other person they pass on the street that “I am a homosexual, and a goddamned fabulous one at that.”

In some ways, no matter how much spirituality and communication is lumped on top of Harry’s original vision, we are all most in debt to his clashing color scarves and his adamant desire to “never blend in.” I don’t know what it must have felt like to be a glamazon in the pre-Stonewall era but I know that my girly scarf and oddball jewelry is as much a badge of honor as it is a primal scream for my identity as a pagan tranny faggot. Fashion for me has moved much past the “what are you wearing and who made it” of the runway culture to “this is who I am…I am a walking billboard for the culture I want to live in.”

Last year my father found a bunch of my fashion drawings in a box from when I was eight. We looked through the now yellowed paper and were both amazed to see that I had grown up to dress, more or less, exactly as I had drawn my fictional rock stars. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t matured much past asymmetrical slash marks in my t-shirt (which I was actually wearing that day unselfconsciously) but my father, the ever supportive, offered this: most people never live the life they wanted as a child let alone have the courage to be who they are.

I want to believe I have the courage to live as who I really am. I try to give “good fey” everywhere

Evgeny Soldatov, make up: Kegel Kater, June 02, 2011, photo by Daniel Nicoletta

I go, but it is challenging. As I have aged, the idea of assimilation is easier to understand. I have seen the benefits of blending in, and yet I keep my ears gauged and my hair long. It’s a harsh world that hates queens. It’s hard to be an aging punk rocker. Oddly, and unfortunately, when I am getting ready to go out to gay bars—full of gay guys who want very much to be gay clones—I have the hardest time dressing like me. Frock block—not getting laid

because your clothes are too awesome, read feminine—is a real and boring fact of mainstream gay life. It can be hard to put on a fabulous scarf and grand necklace knowing that most of the men would prefer me in blue jeans and muscles. When the ugly voice of homo-normativity comes to bother me in my dressing room, I have to breathe deep, remember that the struggle for liberation isn’t over—even in my own heart—and look for something with sequins. w

Camouflage Skirts: Some Faerie Fashion History

by Jack Davis

Camouflage skirts appeared at the National March on Washington in October 1987. The idea was to set faeries apart from the other queer men at the March. The concept was Harry Hay’s. The execution was by Oskrr Earthsong-Feino.

Oskrr called camouflage the “mother’s colors,” referring to the colors of the earth or the Mother Goddess; wearing the skirts was a way of reclaiming our connection to nature, elements, the earth. Some faeries said that if parents saw fags wearing camouflage skirts, they would be less likely to dress their sons in camouflage. At the time, camouflage was mostly associated with the two butch pursuits of war and hunting. This was way before it became so fashionable. You would never find a camo skirt in a store then.

Oskrr was the designer and one of the seamstresses of Radical Faeries Fabrications, a cottage industry that made camouflage skirts. For a time, RFF was centered at Wolf Creek, where Oskrr lived.

The first camo skirts had a draw string and pockets, came to mid-calf and had trim near the hem that was either one, two or three stripes. Harry’s original idea was that the skirts be worn over pants, in the style of some Native American two-spirits. But after their first appearance the skirts started to appear on faeries worn over nothing at all, and some quite short. RFF also produced a camouflage tutu that Harry wore at the 25th anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion in New York City in 1994. Harry Hay and John Burnside are featured on the back cover of the spring 1994 issue of RFD, both wearing camouflage skirts. w

Top: Spring 1994 RFD back cover photograph by Steven Baratz. John and Harry wearing camouflage skirts.

Bottom: John Burnside on his 91st birthday wearing original camouflage skirt by Oskrr. Photograph by Jack Davis.

The Dress

Photographs by Peter Lien

Photo Booth Foolery

by David B. Wright (Street Candy) 1978

Ritual Craft Making

By Eden Firestone

Iattendedgatherings for many years before I was able to discover the inner spirit which guides me in the world. After years of therapy and soul searching I went on a visit to San Francisco and solo hike in the hills above the city to find inspiration. Resting on a large rock, I slept, and had a vivid dream about a large raven carrying me across a red streaked wasteland. When I startled awake, I found a large black raven feather sitting on my bare chest.

So the spirit of the Raven found me that afternoon and I felt compelled to express this new spirit within me, the Raven; a spirit traveler from the past to the future.

In 1997 I found the inspiration to design and build a Raven spiritual costume for the Beltane Gathering at Short Mountain. The photos in the article are from the following summer. Interestingly, when some photos were taken with Infrared film, the wings turned pure white from their heat.

The piece is patterned on Cherokee Shaman costumes which I had seen in books, hours of looking at photos of the birds and much careful thought and practice in tying leather thongs to feathers. I sat in the now disassembled B-Complex greenhouse at Short Mountain and in ritual silence for several days and crafted a set of large black wings to be worn and a headpiece, which I no longer have.

It is composed of leather strips which have regular holes in them, black turkey feathers, smaller “duff” feathers to soften the feel of the quill on the inside and waxed cord to tie them all up. I also included several “dance bells” which are on many Native American Powwow costumes and various beads and natural stones which I gathered and tied in place.

I researched Cunningham’s Magical Herbalism: The Secret Craft of the Wise, Llewellyn Publications (2001) and in so doing I found a group of herbs to use as incense to purify my work and to bring special energy to it. I practiced a ritual cleansing of the work every morning at sunrise. Standing below the maypole and using white sage, infusing the area with smoke and spirit, inviting the spirits to come and work with me.

Entering into my sacred workspace, I would light an incense of rosemary, bay leaf, basil, mugwort and crushed acorns for protection; cinnamon, white sage, saffron, garlic and rosemary for healing. I used

two small charcoal incense burners to keep it going throughout the day. I would not eat or drink during the day, enduring a cleansing fast.

When beginning the work I would cast a circle and chant a short mantra to heal and protect, to love and learn while I was tying each knot. This lengthened the process but ensured that each knot and each part of the wings was filled with intent and purpose, not just a craft session. This was very difficult for me, because I could hear voices, fun and games in the barn yard very clearly. I was always tempted to leave my work and join with the others; however the ritual and chanting maintained my focus.

At sunset I would close the circle for the day, leave the greenhouse and again cleanse the area around the maypole and those who were present. Being in ritual silence, many people would come up and ask me questions about what I was doing, but I tried not to respond, to stay in spirit and wait until after nightfall to again connect with the other faeries at the gathering.

On Beltane that following week, I helped with the maypole, as usual, but then wore my wings and climbed the maypole after again casting a circle around myself. Looking out over the land, watching the dancing and laughing faeries and feeling the warmth of the sun, I held onto the maypole with my feet in the ribbons, spread my wings and sang a song to the Spirits. Not unnoticed, several others spread their hands up toward me, perhaps to catch me if I fell, but also to join in the chanting. After a few moments, their gentle hands helped to carry me back to the ground and I began dancing with them for the first time no longer held by my past, but looking into the future. w

Photographs courtesy Eden Firestone

Opening Doors

Walking down the corridor of life

I opened the door to fear; and found strength.

I opened the door to pain; and my wounds are healed. I opened the door to rejection; and loves grows like green flowers

I open the door to My heart; My life; My spirit; And seen what lies therein.

Dress-Up, Snap and Paint

by Jim Jackson and JaybirdChirp

In the course of our 30-year relationship, it is rare that I have sat for Jim or been the muse behind his art. These works represent an exception. In October of 2010, I was preparing to go out to a Halloween party in Brattleboro, Vermont, and Jim had decided not to go. I dressed up in my finest gender-variant drag we collaborated on my face paint. Before I headed out the door, he asked me to pose for some photos and I was more than happy to cooperate. I thought he was merely impressed with my look and wanted to capture it on film. As I later found out, there was more to his request than met the eye. He had started a painting of a reclining figure but couldn't figure out the head of it. He was inspired by my drag and considered how he might incorporate it into the painting. A week later, I came into our living room and there was the “Cosmetologist” hanging on the wall.

Opposite Top: “Egret” and Opposite Bottom: “Roof”

Photographs by Daniel Ford (Comet)

Haiku by Yan

Iamnot noted amongst faerie for being a dedicated lurker in the Folleterre drag wardrobe, but I often bring bags of interesting apparel out there to augment it. Taken from everywhere—donations from the Binz in Zurich (radical huge squat) and my former housing co-operative, Sanford in South London, where picnic tables outside the houses on “the street” are regularly filled with potential treasures from folk relocating abroad, or simply bored with their look. My friend, Lappi, regularly presents me with dresses five sizes too large (bitch!) with the inevitable delivery line, “I found this on the street and thought of you”.

But things happen when you hang around faeries dresssing up- tearing frocks of hangars and trying for the basis of a look before the frenzied rummage to accessorize as the plaintiff nature of the yoo-hoos of those waiting for circle or food down in the friendship room, kitchen or outside beyond the barn doors intensifies and grows less patient. I ask if I can help a cute new young faerie and he tells me he is looking for a good top. I sigh and reply “It's always the same at large Gatherings, sweety…there are never enough tops for all of us!”

The first time I wore drag in a group of men (aside from as kids tussling with my elder brother, Robin, over my mother's black velvet opera cloak when she was out on more mundane pursuits) was with Edward Carpenter Community in maybe 2002. This was at iconic Laurieston Hall where the dressing up room has long been situated in Sunny Room. I was to accompany a friend down to dinner and, waiting while he selected his ensemble, I made helpful suggestions and was pointing out a skirt when something stirred and moved inside me—it was like being struck by the madness of love—there was no defence. “That little black dress,” I said. “Pass me it down, could you?” Handbag quickly followed and a blond Fennella Fielding wig. Black shoes for my size 11 (US 44) plates were simply unavailable—but 60s singer Sandy Shaw provided excellent precedent for making my classic grand staircase descent arm in arm with my dinner escort (resplendent and dashing in a vintage young officer's tunic) “aux pieds nu.”

I was hooked. And then plentifully eyed!

There are interesting questions to be asked about what happens when men put on drag (or even if

sometimes faeries sigh and feel they need to put on “boy drag” in the world outside sanctuaries and gatherings. One is why so often the persona that emerges is the (Sacred) Slut. One answer could be that that whore has not been out nearly enough. But many have thought about this and wondered why so many gay men like to project their feminine (or is it the female?) as foul-mouthed tramps? Dave Nimmons asked the question (in “The Soul Beneath the Skin,” I think) if the Bitchy Drag Queen was an archetype no longer relevant or useful to us in our progression to higher consciousness. I confess to have pouted, sneered, provoked and sleeved many times once that slinky frock got a hold of me.

Another phenomenon I have observed at Gatherings is the bewildering succession of outfits and rapid costume changes assumed by certain individuals—I seem to recall some faerie manage 6-8 at ten to twenty minute intervals after dinner. A number of these, I now recall, were made by faes perhaps “attention seeking.” But maybe the motivation was not that simple always. Sometimes this behaviour seemed to reassure newer visitors, a tad uncertain of their “footing,” their place in the group—maybe because they had not yet arrived and found a faerie name—a predominant identity with which they and us felt comfortable.

The gender fuck tradition and legacy seems clear—I still revel in my iconic image for our “Lumberjanes” wood-cutting Gathering at Folleterre (mid-end October) which is of a nicely muscled faerie in a tutu, hard hat and construction boots wielding a chain saw. Folleterre is a sanctuary open to people of all genders and sexualities (or who profess none). So on occasion I watch closely to see if faeries in drag and the way they wear it in any way offend transgendered faeries, women or others on our rainbow spectrum.

For sheer fun as spectacle, I treasure the memory of a surprisingly competitive non-competitive fivea-side soccer game at Laurieston Hall with Edward Carpenter Community. Portly, or I should maybe say, matronly, figures in full battle drag (twin pieces, matching handbags and hats) hurtling around the turf with court shoes and sling-backs often following the ball into the back of the net! Burlesque sometimes seems made for the burly.

“Satin and silk are drawn Over beard, nipple rings and cock Walk between the worlds!”

Finally, I rest on those quintessential myths that abound about faeries for those outside our community. Heart circles that never end. Meals served up after midnight (“faerie time”) and that you “have to wear drag to be a faerie”. On the last element of this trinity, I am reminded of the stock phrase or sticker, “you don't have to be crazy to work here… but it helps!” Faerie Gatherings are about many things, including crossing boundaries that others hedge around us. Digging within ourselves and learning from what comes up. Being playful. Putting feminine aspects of ourselves to the fore to encourage other aspects as nurture, compassion, intuition, grace. For me, in faerie space, one script I always tear up if ever I should still find it is, “I don't do that.” It is like Blackpool rock (or cock): “suck it and see.” If you have never tried it, how can you condemn it? Faerie space is experiential above all. I have difficulty with ideologues in community since I find the ideology conceals the person, limits choice, restricts and restrains when there is the opportunity to blossom and bloom—to learn as well as teach

others. So if in doubt, try on a gown. No need to really try to look the complete lady when the answer to the question “does my dick look big in this” can be “Yes, fine!” with the right spangly boob-tube.

This piece is not trying to be a doctoral thesis—just a few light-hearted observations and all my opinions have not been self-censored—so no offence intended. At my age, I guess there is still an association of wearing drag and camp. Born with the name Vyvyan, I have come to expect people to look for a sissie. So when someone asks me: “Notre Dame (or nowadays, Yan), were you really in the army?” I reply the same whether wearing jeans or a skirt: “Not entirely, darling, mostly it was in me!” And when they ask in what regiment of corps I served as an officer I tell them it was “The Queen's Own Window Dressers.” I drive a 40-year-old Land Rover that looks like The Last Butch Attack. I also look totally flawless with a tan from a Folleterre summer clad only in my white basque. The bliss of this life is in finding one can have one's cake and eat it. w

“Rhoda Roadkill”

Photograph by Adrain Chesser and Timothy White Eagle

Fae Fashion

By Kit

My first Radical Faerie gathering was Wolf Creek Sanctuary Summer 2009. I had been led to the gathering by a number of synchronous events. Prior to this I’d been “Faerie Adjacent”…having dated a fae for some time in ’08. So it’s my first gathering and I researched the Faeries online, spent time convincing a friend to go with me, and thought a lot about my intentions for the gathering. I developed four intentions for myself: Community, Con-

in with the community. Somehow “outfits” and radical self-expression were connected in my mind and spirit. As the gathering went on I continued to play in my Chinese outfits (leftmost image: here headed to breakfast—seemed a reasonable look for 9AM).

I began to feel connected to the community because of and despite of my fashion. Amazingly, I never felt so accepted than at one point, simply covered in mud (yet hanging onto my fan and slip-

nection, Spirituality, and Celebration. Little did I know that fashion would play a role in each of these areas. I had decided that I needed outfits for the gathering. My friend, who had agreed to attend with me, and I headed for San Francisco’s Chinatown and bought enough inexpensive Chinese clothes and accessories (think fans, umbrellas, pajamas, slippers (with a slight wedge), and chunky amber bracelets) to last the entire gathering. And thus, my first “look” for a gathering was complete.

Arriving in Medford, I changed in the parking lot in to my arrival outfit. I was excited to meet the Faes and wanted to be sure I looked the part and fit

pers) I felt seen, heard, and accepted in spite of my fashion. No one cared what I wore but was more interested in who I was as a person.

I found myself hanging out with new friends on a hot summers’ day. I had noticed a Fae, Jaiar Diamond Bones, early on in the gathering. Something about him felt familiar. It was hard to describe but the connection I felt to Jaiar had to do at first with his fashion, his “look”. He reminded me of past friends, many now gone from this world. I realized this waking one morning and when I saw him at breakfast I told him he reminded me of home, of the friends in my past, and thank you. His response

was sweet and real and connected and we talked on and off from then on. Later he tells me that he’s noticed my Chinese fashion and has something that he thinks I’d like and he’d leave it at my camp. That night I find an incredible red Chinese robe— deconstructed and artfully put back together— hanging on my camp door. It was fantastic. It was Chinese and yet it had been re-imagined and was fabulous and fit! He even loaned me his ruffled black panties to go with it. I rocked the look and had a great time that night.

Little did I know that Jaiar and the incredible gift of fashion would open me up to my families past and a whole new area of interest. But it did!

my hand at the circus arts myself. I found I felt so passionate about the Circus Center. The intersection of physicality, discipline, and creativity was for me spirit personified. I’d found another “home.” I continued studying trapeze for over a year until an injury sidelined me. If not for Jaiar and his gift of fashion, I’d never had the opportunity to explore my family’s past and develop a new passion.

Back at home, I thought a lot about fashion for myself and felt I needed a perspective—a point of view if you will. Given my circus past and my sci-fi interests, it was easy to settle on Dustbowl Circus meets Steampunk for my self-expression. I went to work and pulled together outfits, many worked on

My great grandmother was an acrobat and my great uncle had a circus in the early ‘30s. It turns out Jaiar had been studying trapeze at the Circus Center in San Francisco and so we had something in common. After coming home, I asked my mother for more details on our circus past—this led to more research on my part and to the online archives of a state newsletter. Apparently my distant cousins were the premier show family of West Virginia! Who knew! I shared the old photos with Jaiar and thought more about the circus and what it meant to live like that and read Water for Elephants (great book) and finally decided to try

with a special friend, and put myself out there in a way I had not since my 20s. In my 20s, I’d been on the scene and always in outfits of some kind or another. Then I lost that part of me—the creative celebratory fun young man I’d been. Now, in my late 40’s it was back. What a gift—to be able to not re-live but reconnect with a part of my life/self I’d thought long gone. What fun. What joy.

And so for me, that is how fashion played out in my coming to the Radical Faeries and to my radical self. I know not everyone is into “looks” or “outfits.” For me though, it was an integral part of coming home to the Faes and myself. w

Photographs courtesy Kit. Right-most photography by Dot.

Philly Faerie Gathering

Photographs by Peter Lien

The Yellow Hat

by Steven Schwartzberg

The starts of poems are with me tonight First lines hatched with a sudden shiver and The flash of conviction (false, I know, from Countless past bluffs) That a precious word jewel Has come through me, like Athena through Zeus’ skull, To grace and edify the world.

“The guard of your heart is deluded, my friend…”

Flowing from the magnanimous Lava of my mind, these openings arrive Swathed in the swagger of their own sure merit.

When I was eight I made a hat For a contest with the Suburban Temple Brotherhood. One by one We paraded our creations on stage.

“Some days I shop for futures” – No –“Some days I window shop for futures to try them on for size…”

Mine was yellow: Three sheets of Construction paper glued together, like Lopsided sacks astride a mangy burrow Scrawled with random crayon hacks. I was not a good artist.

“The tailor Ramesh needles his way to my room…”

The winner is called: I race to the stage aflame With the honors due me My glory awoken -It wasn’t my name the guy had spoken.

“Hail Hafiz and Goethe, yo Balzac and Rumi…”

That’s how first lines still announce themselves To the brotherhood in my mind Ready to claim their prize, Sate the public’s buzz Before line two takes shape, Which it seldom does.

But this poem took shape. What a surprise This lopsided sack saw fit to survive… And I humbly thank the members of the Academy.

“Mat & Michael” by Walt Cessna from his book WOLFPACK! See story page 52.

Realtime Fashion Disruption

Fashion by the Feyboy Collective

Wakan [Holy] Love

by John Tahnodin Lorenzen

Iamlost on the prairie…throat parched, sweat pours down my burning brow; my legs stumble through the dry grass. Mind empty, heart aching for a Beloved--someone I have searched for but never found…Lost, I am lost with no one to claim for my own…To search for my Beloved is why I came west. Searching for many days…I have lost my will to live. The waves of parched brown surround me with no shade in sight. The bitter blue of the unyielding sky relinquishes nothing, not even hope to a lonely heart. I shall die here under the blazing Sun, the Holy Sun, never having found what I was looking for—my Beloved of the Plains.

I raise my arms above me in supplication calling to the Spirits for help. “Oh, Creator do not let me die here without finding my Loved One. Let him find me so I may die in his arms!” My shouts echo in the sky and the last of anything left within me is spent. My body falls like a rock in the grass. The last thing I think I shall see is the white sky.

Closing my eyes, I lay despondent. I am ready to die. Suddenly, I feel a sudden coolness, a darkness as if a tree had sprung up to take pity upon me…I open my eyes and look up to behold the dark form of a being whose body has blocked the rays of Grandfather Sun and set the light spinning about him. I focus on the figure—broad shoulders, narrow hips, sturdy legs and long black hair blowing about a smiling brown face. It is a man! A native man! But how? Who would be out here on the lonesome prairie to die with me on such a lonely quest? The spinning light about him closes my eyes reluctantly. The last thing I remember is strong force lifting my head up to a wood bowl and cool water tumbling down my wanting throat. That is all I remember as the sacred dream takes form in two strong arms surrounding me.

I awake…it is dusk with the sun glowing blood orange, sinking behind tattered purple clouds. The grass is cool and scratchy. I press my arms against the sacred earth. Raising my upper body, I look up. I see Him standing there close to me bathed in sunset’s orange light. Silken black hair blowing about his smiling boyishly handsome face. Warm, intense brown eyes that stare right into me. Skin the color of red buckskin. The broad naked chest

with bears claws strung across it. For a long time I cannot speak. Beholding his tribal beauty—seeing him there in the waving grass in the setting sun in the land of his ancestors…drinking in his warrior energy.

“You saved my life. Thank you.” I say sighing. He draws closer kneeling before me, his dark eyes drawing me into his heart. “And you have saved mine” he says with a sad smile. I want to ask how, but the sight of him tears reasoning away. Is he real? I see his beautiful being, hear his heart beating, smell his musky scent. I can almost taste him! I reach out and touch my savior feeling the hot warmth of his chest. He smiles and as he does a light seems to glow from within him. He touches me with one brown finger and that touch is like the setting sun. “You are real!” I hear myself say. “We are both real”, he replies, his voice a deep river of sound and motion.

“What is your name?” I whisper. He smiles broadly and motions with his arms, his eyes searching the sky. A sudden gust flows over us, cooling the sweat on my neck ruffling the eagle feather in his hair. He returns my stare, gazing serenely at me. “The Wind Calls”, he replies. “The Wind Calls”, I echo. “A Beautiful name…a Holy name.” Already I am melting for him. He smiles broadly and asks “And what is your name?” Closing my eyes, I spread my arms to the sky in embrace as a new breeze rose from the valley sweeping over us. “The Wind Answers”, I tell him.

We look each other straight in the eyes and into our hearts, smiles spreading over our faces, his eyes sparkle with delight. Our laughter fills the hills around us. His chest heaves as he rises at last, dark eyes glittering at me. I must be seeing things but I’m not. Is this tribal man the answer to my Prayers, the lonely aches that drove me out here to walk, to search—to even die? “The Wind Answers, will you ride with me?” he asks, his broad smiles showing his white teeth. A moan escapes from deep within me. I cannot take my eyes off him.

Standing up I stare into his deep brown eyes and say, “Yes, I will ride with you.” In my heart I hear my voice…”I will ride with you…with you…with you…” I feel it joining the birds singing near the blue stream where cottonwoods gather in green banks below. I

“Wildflowers Golden Hour” photograph by Noam Gonick and Luis Jacob

hear my voice joining this man’s heart to mine, and his voice joining my heart with his.

The Wind Calls grips my shoulders in his strong hands. I feel a surge of energy rush into my body from his. “Good” he smiles. “Come with me then.” Laughing, he races ahead of me, buckskin fringes flying, muscles flexed like a panther’s. I catch up with him, heart beating like a drum. We race each other across the prairie grass. He laughs and trips me and we tumble in the dry grass. I feel the heaviness of his body, the strength of him as we giggle like children, rolling through the greenness, the sky and clouds revolving dizzily overhead. We slowly stop. The Wind Calls rests his arms on my chest, his body spread across the rest of me. We had known each other’s feelings from the start. “We were meant to meet, heh? You and me?” he says smiling sexily, a handsome smile set in his handsome brown face. I smell his sweet breath. “Yes” I whisper. “Yes, we were.”

Can this be happening? Can this beautiful being be lying on my chest? Is he Spirit? But spirits do not weigh so heavily. His chest rises sensually. I feel something beautiful, something sacred stirring within me. My Warrior looks at me with lust. The smell of His breath is pure and sweet. In one fluid motion, he lowers his mouth to mine. His lips are soft yet hard. Sparks explode in my mind--I see and feel stars and an uncontrollable feeling rising within me. He smells of prairie grasses, of sun, of buckskin, of horses. The sweat and pressure between his thighs presses mine.

My Beloved is up and standing above me before I can be surprised. He takes my hand pulling me up “Come” he smiles with desire. “There will be more of that later…” In a dream I see myself walking with him through the velvet brush, his sinewy arms parting our path…A hawk circles over us…my loved one plucks choke cherries from bushes…popping one after the other into his sensuous mouth—and then some in mine.

To a little clearing we walk side by side, then hand in hand, his dry palms strong yet gentle. I look him and blush uncontrollably, legs shaking. He looks at me squeezes my hand and grins even more. We walk to an ancient cottonwood tree where a beautiful red mare munches grass in the approaching twilight. The Wind Calls pats her head and she whinnies. In his musical voice he says, “She’s a beauty….” Then flashes me a smile. He lays his head against the mare’s smooth sides, closing his eyes rapturously. I want to hold this man some more! “What is her name?” I ask. “Pretty One” he answers

gliding his brown fingers through the mare’s mustard colored mane.

Suddenly my warrior grabs the mare’s neck and leaps over, muscles flashing. He grins, eyes sparkling. “Climb on,” he says, extending his hand. I reach up and take it in my own feeling the strength and heat of him. For a second our expressions meet in complete understanding—in the next moment I am behind him feeling the warmth of the sun in his hips. “Ho,” he cries huskily, and Pretty One breaks into a trot that nearly sends me tumbling.

We bounce along together as one body, gliding through the green river bottom. Pretty One bursts up the hill and over the crest as the sun glides into our eyes, the wind shaking in our hair. The tawny grass hills billow against the faded blue sky blending together with every shudder of movement beneath us. I hold onto my beloved’s hard waist firmly as his black hair ripples in the wind caressing my face. “I am taking you”, he shouts above the gallops, “to a special place where no one goes but the eagle, the buffalo, and the wolf…” I squeeze his brown waist and his laugh resounds with the wind. We roll over the hills now violet in the sinking sun, past the strange white cliffs turning gold.

Far in the distance a scarlet sky blazes the sacred Black Hills before us. I see campfires flickering like lightening bugs in the purple dusk. Turning his handsome face my Friend says, “My People—the Lakota!” He smiles radiantly. The cool rushes past us as I press my face against his shoulder blades. Pretty One’s body below is rapidly churning energy. Up to the top of a long crest we ride, then The Wind Calls pulls the reins tight and Pretty One comes to a dusty stop squeezing our bodies together.

I wipe the wind from my face. The only sound is the mare’s heaving sides. We look down upon a beautiful valley—a broad green slash surrounded by parched brown hills. We stare in silence at the creation below us, all around us. “A Sacred Place,” says The Wind Answers his voice drifting above the whispering grass. “ A Holy Place…our trysting place.” He turns around looking at me with pleasure. My heart warms at the thought. I kiss his shoulder.

My Warrior whistles. Down the white hill we ride, down to the rivers edge, our butts bouncing against Pretty One’s smooth hide, her hoofs sparking against the stones. “Whoa!” my Beloved cries. “Whoa Kola!” The mare comes to a stop in the wet sand. We slide off our friend’s heaving sides and let her gulp gratefully from the mirrored mossy water. The Wind Calls stands before me resplendent in strength, his copper skin seems to glow from within

“Piwacket Extraordinaire” photograph by Adrain Chesser and Timothy White Eagle

giving off light of the hot sun from hours before. “Come to my home, my Friend,” he smiles eyes flashing.

My heart beats like a drum—I feel something overwhelming stirring inside of me—a surge of energy jumps from his body to mine. I feel that wave of his ancestors—it is a jolt of ceremony and of his powerful love. I will never be the same again—the old world is gone! The new one is with The Wind Calls—my whole life and love is in his hands. He feels this energy, too---a look of amazement and surety cross his boyish face—he stares with wonder at me, mouth partially open.

Then he stops and takes tobacco from a leather pouch and holds it to the seven directions. The last direction he places some of that tobacco on my heart. And then he says a prayer in his native language thanking his spiritual ancestors for bringing he and me together. I, too, take tobacco that he offers me and place tobacco in each direction, ending with it on his broad chest. My Beloved is solemn and at peace. I give thinks in my own way for the Blessed Spirits bringing us together. I am beyond grateful. We walk hand and hand through the wet green grass past the gnarled trees into a hollow of pale chalk hills towering above us—their ancient heights surrounding our Love like an embrace.

We stop in the quiet shadows. The Wind Calls embraces me. I feel his heart beating, his strong hands on my shoulders, his warm chest against my beating heart. Then he kisses me deeply holding my face in his brown hands. The smell of his sweet breath is that of a smoke of a fire that burns eternally. I feel like I will faint. The touch of his lips and tongue in mine is the water that forever flows in the stream. My body arches in ecstasy against his. He whispers in my ear “Wait, my love, wait, we are almost at my home.” The sun has gone now, resting beyond the violet clouds. Grandmother Moon rises in glowing splendor above the beckoning cliffs. Swallows dart in jagged hunts across the heavy, sweet evening air.

Holding my hand, my Beloved leads me on a twisting trail, one I had never ventured before. I had never known the way until he came to me. Sweat drips down my chest. I smell the scent of him in the darkness. On this meandering trail of love and mystery, I see the muscles of his back contract then smooth and disappear in the pale blue moonlight. He stops and sighs, and turns smiling to me in expectation.

“Are we there?”, I whisper.

He smiles and clears the last bit of brush with a

slow sweep of his powerful arm. In the fading light, I see a little hidden valley surrounded by darkening trees. Below a circle of low orange cliffs a yellow tipi sits serenely lit up with light.

“Hey oh way ho”, my Beloved shouts, the joy in his deep voice echoing off the cliffs. He turns to me with a radiant smile, brown eyes gleaming with joy. “We are home, My Love!”

Breaking into a run The Wind Calls pulls me down the grassy hillside into a hollow surrounded by a low wall of cliff glowing red in the last sunset. He goes faster than I can run and tumble into the cool grass. Laughing he pulls me up again as we race like children toward the prize of our affections. The trysting place grows larger and larger in my mind as we rush onward. As I run, I close my eyes for a moment and see it still with the flickering inner light. It glows, a flaming ember of our passion in the cool darkness.

Chests heaving, we are there before the glowing skins stretched taut around the poles—broad and round near the earth and narrowing to thin points disappearing in the dark, twinkling sky. Blazing on the glowing skin are painted dark figures hunting, arrows flying, buffalo dancing, lithe figures standing side by side—all telling of brave deeds, of loves won and lost…and won again. My Lover places his arms around the hides, his fingers spread black upon the glowing womb, his eyes closed in reverie as if he is greeting an old dear friend. He gazes at me with eyes glistening, face melting in the flicking tipi light. I feel the intensity of his love so deeply—it scares me and arouses me.

The Wind Calls beckons me in to his home. I bend down and enter. Blinking my eyes, I see a central fire flickering with the burning loins of the earth. A swept earth circle is covered with various furs of every color. All around this womb of light, of heat, shadows dance off hung objects hanging from the tipi poles: ceremonial leather bundles, dried herbs, blue and red parfleches—and a pipe of red bowl and green stem hovering, turning slowly in the drafts of warmth. There is a faint smell of sage, of burning wood and warm buckskin—and sweat— ours. I stand still absorbing it all.

I feel my Lover’s arms circle my waist. The feel of them is the most comforting thing in the world. I feel the hardness of his loins, the smoothness of his chest against my back. He kisses me savagely on my neck. I feel my whole being—every nerve-ending shudder in ecstasy. Laughing a little, he releases, drawing me near, we sit on some furs and stare into the fire’s flames, his arms around my waist. The

“Bashi” photograph by Adrain Chesser and Timothy White Eagle

flames are gold, turquoise, crimson, white, orange, magenta—they lick hungrily at the wood, their flames like brushes.

“Do you like my—ahem—our home?” he says whispering in my ear. He chuckles touching my nose with the tip of his finger.

I look into his eyes. “Oh, yes! It is beautiful—like you!” I kiss him on his warm cheek. My Warrior blushes then smiles tenderly. My voice yearns to speak what is in my heart: For I have searched for such a man for a long, long time. But I cannot speak too long for my heart is so full and I feel his warmth and love surrounding me. Can my Soul Mate be really here beside me? I feel a lump in my throat rising. Tears fill my eyes and they drip slowly down my cheek. They speak enough to The Wind Calls. He puts a hand on my chin and turns my head slowly to his face. His brow creases and his eyes are tender.

“Why are you crying?” he says gently eyes searching mine.

“Because…because I am so happy,” I whisper with difficulty. I lean into his chest my emotions spent yet happy.

“I understand”, my Warrior says. “I, too, have been searching for so long. Now your happiness is mine too.” He places a strong hand on my chest then kisses the tears on my face. He pulls me down, enveloping me with his strong arms. I look back up at him holding his sweet face in my hands. He smiles sweetly and we kiss—deeply. I taste him inside of me—its like clover and musk.

“When did you start loving me?” I whisper in his ear. He nibbles on my neck and I see stars.

“When I gave you the water that saved your life.” He smiles. Staring at me, he says carefully “My friend, when did you start loving me?”

I brush a few long dark hairs from his face. “When you asked me to ride with you.”

His smile broadens even more. I stare at the beauty of his face, his eyes, his spirit. I suck his nipples--they taste salty. He groans softly. I want to submerge myself in our desires and let him do what he wants with me. His long black hair glistens about his loving face—a face that speaks with a culture thousands of years old yet fresh as the morning dew. His sturdy, lithe body speaks of many moons, of tenderness and passion, battle and intensity.

The Wind Calls smothers me with kisses. We roll onto a bear rug, our skin glistening with fire sweat and our passion. He pulls my head next to his and says, “I love you” with rough tenderness stroking my face with his long, sinewy hands. Our bodies intertwine with graceful motions by the flickering

fire’s light. His passion loosens the barriers of the culture I departed from forever. Never stopping, his mouth presses my flesh; his sinuous fingers rip away and dissolve the last vestiges of illusion.

My Beloved gazes at my firm, sun burnt body, hairy chest and legs with a mixture of passion and wonderment feasting with his liquid, brown provocative eyes. “You’re beautiful”, he says huskily. One hand grazes slowly down my thigh and I shudder. I tug at the drawstrings of his soft buckskin leggings. They loosen and I push them down with my foot. With a kick of his powerful legs and feet they fall off into a rumpled soft pile by the fire’s edge. His body is molded bronze in the fire’s light—warm, hard—his muscles powerful, lithe, like a horse’s: legs massive yet lean, chest deep and wide, arms strong and giving. He smiles provocatively at me. Now it is my turn to stare and I do—long and hard. He smiles and chuckles with affection.

“You like what you see?” he says playfully. Tenderness envelops his handsome face.

“Oh, yes…yes!” I whisper. Once more our lips touch then passionately. My Lover rolls on top of me our hips arching with heat against our bodies. The heavy warmth of him presses me into the earth—and we kiss savagely for what seems hours. My groin tightens—and so does his. His large cock is already dripping with pre-cum. I cradle his face in my hands and we stare as one into each other’s eyes. His lust and love filled eyes grip my head in turn. “We shall live forever like this, love for ever like this in the land of my people.” The savage nature of his love matches mine.

“Yes,” my voice answers as if in a dream, “forever.” He kisses my neck savagely making his beautiful way down my chest to my stomach. I grasp at his hair uncontrollably. My groin throbs with blood and longing. There is a happiness rising within me that I had never known—till now. He looks up at me with such passion and tenderness.

“Our love is Wakan—it is holy,” my Beloved says. His beauty is breathtaking—it is hard for me to realize he is here—here—and so am I!! The Wind Calls lowers to my thighs licking their hairy splendor. I start to writhe and moan. His lips are just above my dripping cock. He looks at me questioningly once more.

“Yes…yes!” He then sucks one ball after another in his tight throat—then wraps his lips around my throbbing cock and goes all the way down on it. I see stars. He pauses and smiles at me then continues. The sensation launches me higher and higher until I too am spinning like a parfleche gently above

the firelight. Seeing his masculine face bob up and down on my swollen cock is suddenly beyond anything I’ve felt--and I explode with a violent intensity, the feelings in my groin of a thousand fingers stroking it. My hips buck up uncontrollably-his face riding me. He swallows every drop of my cum and does not take his lips off my dick until I’m semi—soft. “You liked it?” he says with a wicked yet loving smile.

I don’t answer but push him down on the furs and start mauling my Lover with kisses from neck down. I lick the salty sweat off of every musky inch of his body. Then I reach his brown black cock and quickly swallow it all down. He moans and pulls my hair with such strength it almost hurts. I suck for a long time on his cock which gets bigger and bigger in my tight throat. “Oh, yes”, he moans. “Oh, my Love!” I look up at him savagely and he stares at me as I continue to suck for all my life. I have waited a long time. His body trembles all over.

His dark brown balls tighten in their hairy sac as I savor their salty, sweet musky essence. I lick and suck each gently before letting each plop out from my swollen lips. He groans. I return to his beautiful huge cock sucking it for all that I was worth, wanting to give this sacred being the best sex he’s ever had. His cock keeps expanding and I think my jaw will break open but I manage to expand my them. I suck and slurp knowing he, too have been waiting a long time. Gasps come out of his mouth and his mighty chest heaves. His groin tightens and his thighs threaten to crush my chest—I don’t care.

With a loud groan my Lover pushes my head all the way down and swamps my mouth and throat with his milky, sweet essence. It does not surprise me that his cum tastes like grasses, herbs and sweet clover honey. I do not let one drop of it escape my throat—I am impaled on his massive organ. His head tosses back and forth on the furs and he whimpers like a puppy. His muscular brown legs hold me in a vice, rhythmically squeezing me with every squirt of cum that fills my ready mouth. My Lover’s body at last shudders and relaxes. I let his cock go limp, sucking every drop of sweetness out, then return to his arms. We are both bathed in sweat. He looks at me with wonderment—as I must with him. We kiss and embrace.

An owl calls from the heavy darkness. My head is lying on my Partner’s chest, his arms about me. I clasp his hands in mine. His glistening, black hair is like a halo surrounding his handsome face, surrounding us. We both feel dreamy and exhausted

from our passions. The fire is embers and we feel a bit chill. We stare into the smoke hole of the tipi and see a few stars winking in the blackness.

“I have never felt so full as I am with you,” I whisper in my Beloved’s ear.

The Wind Calls turns leans on one elbow and caresses my hair. “The Wind Answers, you have made me so happy!” he whispers with love. “You and I are meant to be together, yes? The Creator brought us together!” I feel his smile in the quiet darkness.

I raise my face to his neck and kiss it savagely. He sighs contentedly. I love the smell of him, the taste of him, the touch of him and the look of him. He is everything I have longed for. He is a miracle.

We begin to make sacred love again and then suddenly—I hear two soft silvery flutes—coming mysteriously from across the river—and yet around us at the same time. Then I hear a Young Man’s voice, then another echoing him in a native language. They are all real and yet have a strange, otherworldly quality. I don’t know the language— but know that it is a song of love! My Lover is completely still listening with every pore of his body listening. I look at him but without a word being spoken he knows what I feel.

“The Wind Answers—that is the Ancestors!!” whispering with an excitement that is louder than a shout. He pulls me closer to him. “They are welcoming you! They are happy you are here with me! We are being honored!!” My Warrior trills so suddenly that my body jumps in his. He trills again and his voice bursts out of the smoke hole and echoes along the cliff walls. The loving male voices stop for second—then continue with greater fervor. He embraces me wrapping his arms and legs around me like a vice. I feel his whole body shaking, and he weeps with joy. I feel moisture on my face.

“And now you are the one who cries,” I tell him holding his big body just as close. I lick his salty tears off his weeping face.

The Wind Calls stares into my eyes with total Love. “We shall be together forever. Even into the Spirit World. Our hearts are one.” His voice is raspy from his swollen tears. I gasp and kiss him with all my soul.

“The Wind Answers,” he says, “Our Spirit and Heart are one!

The Wind rustles through the cottonwood trees as if in answer. His mouth melts down into my mine—and I feel his strong tongue pulling and caressing my tongue, his sweet breath entering mine, giving me nourishment. I kiss his chest, his

Continued on page 60

Couture de la Marine Debris

Marine Debris, otherwise known as Common Beach Trash, is a Happy Hooker who loves this Planet but hates the Flotsam & Jetsam that washes ashore on her little Patch of Paradise known as Provincetown sur le Mer!

As she cruises these Sunny Shores, she gathers

this trash & twirls it into Haute Chapeau Couture 4 Your Delight & to show off how much you Love this Planet & its pristine Plages where we Cavort & Play & While away a Summer’s Day!

For sales & inquiries: houseofdelicious@gmail. com. Have a Fantabulous Day!

Chapeaux by Rosie Delicious

Photographs by Walt Cessna and Rosie Delicious

La Mode Royal des Folleterre

by Wolf

SanMarita Wolf, here I am full dressed at the begin of the Elder gathering last summer in Folleterre, France, welcoming arrivals for the Elder gathering (50+). I have my personal dresser, Lappi, who is a tornado in the drag area. Every detail has its meaning and purpose. It also express my feeling at a moment. 3: Here I am Wolf “Secretary General” of Les Amis de Folleterre, at the opening of the Great Circle July 2011, you can see what it involved being secretary, chaos, stress and speed.

1: The Royal Family, SanMaritaWolf at the left as wife of the former president of Les Amis the Folleterre Lappi, in the middle Prince William, the bastard son of Lappi. This portrait was made by a famous photographer from Paris. These dresses are the official inauguration dresses we wear voted in as Secretary General and Empress of Les Amis de Folleterre. special made and created by Lappi. 2: This is Wolf, my Faerie name, or in other occasions like here below;

The Troubadour of Brotherhood

by Wes Hartley

Trailblazer Harry Hay liberation patriarch marginalized underground socialist dissenter and tireless grassroots labor organizer, Forerunner Harry Hay Troubadour of Brotherhood

Anti-Fascist Harry Hay victim of stoolpigeons McCarthyite witchhunters and federal prosecutors refuses to be a scapegoat or rat-out his comrades, Self-Respecting Harry Hay Troubadour of Brotherhood

Undercover Harry Hay anonymous activist minority defender and equal rights champion creates a coalition of Mattachine collaborators, Visionary Harry Hay Troubadour of Brotherhood

Post-Stonewall Harry Hay anti-assimilationist gender-fuck Radical Faeries primary instigator and in-your-face whimsical lipstick shocktrooper, Iconoclast Harry Hay Troubadour of Brotherhood

Cautionary Harry Hay well-intentioned pioneer dissident stickler of ambivalent curmudgeonry admonishes aftercomers to maintain vigilance, Bellwether Harry Hay Troubadour of Brotherhood

“Isadora” photograph by Adrain Chesser and Timothy White Eagle

WOLFPACK!

It’s a paradox—the title Walt Cessna chose for his latest body of work—a provocative collection of photographs in which the concept of “body” is addressed on a number of levels. A paradox, since according to the standard definitions offered through layman’s terms and common logic, it seems to contradict itself.

Most of us are familiar with the lone wolf archetype, and could reasonably establish that various permutations of this fiercely independent creature [employment of scare quotes notwithstanding] are what and who he’s presented here: namely, the runt forced out of the pack. The outsider. The marginalized. The queer-not-gay. The option not offered on the dropdown menu. Yet, when assembled together in a group—specifically, that of a ‘wolfpack’—doesn’t the act of assembly itself cause two opposing ideas to butt heads?

Therein—or rather, herein—the power of paradox exists.

Wolfpack! It is what it is, and what it is exists outside the tidy little boundaries of tradition; what it is exists beyond that which has been defined, to offer definition. And I don’t know about you, but for me? Exploring that uncharted territory is when I get jangly in the ribs; it’s when ideas spin around my skull like the tinsel on a majorette’s baton at half-time; it’s when the back of my head feels it might blow off, and my limbs are overtaken by a menace of gooseflesh. It’s when I feel the most alive.

‘That’ uncharted territory exists through this, the testament to D.I.Y./F-You ethics held in Wolfpack! It is a pertinent example of artistic expression that emanates from a culture of Otherness, and welcomes interpretation from a myriad of different directions.

Some of the images are as casual as snapshots

posted on a social network; others as intimate and boisterous as a model standing bare-assed, his back arched, legs spread as if he’s being subjected to a body cavity search. Walt’s photography is stripped just as bare. Exposed. There is no beauty lighting, no hair and make-up magic squad, no waxy mannequin models photoshopped-to-thetits (and thereby looking less like humans and more like mannequins, after all).

Something so “simple,” and yet it’s revolutionary. Here’s where the exposure of visibility elbows its way in, arms flailing as the artifice of gaylandia and pop culture is challenged. Granted, I don’t always want to see—or deal with— the truths Walt presents through his photographs. By that same token, I don’t always want to think. It’s called being human. Which brings the discussion full-circle, since humanity is a keynote in Mr. Cessna’s oeuvre. As an artistic medium, if there’s anything Walt’s subjects communicate, it’s that we can be who we want to be. Be who we want to be, and be celebrated for it— whether in drag or undressed, hirsute or smooth, with or without a gym membership: the validation granted by way of his lens proves that as our world expands, so do the parameters of what’s deemed attractive. Long gone are the days of the beau ideal being cast in stone, or the look of a cultural icon functioning like a check list for the luxe. We have come to a new understanding: beauty is determined by the authority with which a person wears it.

As for the dudes in Wolfpack? Well, they rep correct. It’s part of the visual vocabulary that’s spoken through a cock-sure stance, or a mischievous glint it in their eyes. It’s something you can feel through the way Walt presents them on the page. Feel it, because like all good art, it’s a dialogue…and you’ve a part.

And you’re a part. w

Epilogue for WOLFPACK! (Photographs of Walt Cessna) by Clint Catalyst

WOLFPACK!

Photographs by Walt Cessna

Art directed by Frank Gargiulo

Prologue by Paul Darling

Epilogue by Clint Catalyst

200 pages / color, b&w / 140 muses / 1 Lady Rizo / Softcover

Available to order March 1st 2012 – http://www.blurb.com

Five and a Half Questions for Jericho Brown

by Franklin Abbott

Jericho Brown has charisma. The Atlanta Queer Literary Festival sponsored Jericho’s appearances at last year’s Decatur Book Festival. Jericho was part of a panel on queer aesthetics along with Emory Prof Lynne Huffler and artist Robert Sherer hosted by Griff Tester and Taryn Crenshaw. The panel took place in court room of the old DeKalb County Court House which was filled to near capacity. Jericho also gave a reading at Eddie’s Attic again to a full house. The energy in the room was electric as Jericho read poems from his book “Please.” He is a New Orleans native and worked as a speech writer for the mayor before getting a PhD from the University of Houston. He currently directs the Cropper Center for Creative Writing at the University of San Diego. For more about Jericho go to his website: www. jerichobrown.com.

Your first book Please is a patchwork of the painful side of human connection and the redemption of pain in music. How have your poems inspired you to heal yourself? Have others had similar experiences? What would you say to Janis Joplin over cocktails?

Growing up black and gay in the United States and in my father’s house meant finding a mental and emotional escape from tyranny. Writing was the only escape available to me that was legal. (Doing anything illegal would have gotten me into a trouble worse than the trouble I was already prone to finding at the hands of my dad.) While writing, I am completely present, wholly aware and yet excited beyond any sense of time. Writing poems is the act of prayer for me, an incantatory way of recreating worlds, of giving praise.

Have others grown up the way I did? Yes. Was poetry their escape? Sometimes.

I don’t know what I’d say to Joplin over cocktails, Franklin. She’d probably spend most of the time making fun of the fact that I’m a cheap date

who gets drunk after the first drink. I’ve never been much of a drinker. My experience is that drinkers don’t trust non-drinkers too much. If there are men in the bar where we’re drinking, I’d probably ask her which ones she wanted and tell her which ones I wanted. We’d fight a bit over which ones we’d share.

Please has attracted lots of attention including an American Book Award, quite an accolade for a debut. How do you deal with criticism both external and internal?

I want to sleep with people who give me positive criticism. I’m a fool for a compliment. I call my

friends and cuss about people who give me negative criticism. I haven’t had to call my friends for this that much at all. There are constructive kinds of criticism I enjoy, particularly when I know they are given to help ensure an even greater future for the work I’m attempting to do.

I have to say, though, that getting great reviews from good readers and prestigious awards amounts to very little when I get emails and letters from people letting me know that the work has made a difference in their lives. I got one such note from a Presbyterian minister who lives in upstate New York, saying that my poems helped him understand his own father and the way that he was raised and that something about my work helped him un-

Photograph courtesy Jericho Brown

derstand that he was repeating some of the same mistakes with his own sons. A response like that is worth all the awards in the world.

I’m also really grateful that some of the poets I’ve admired most, poets I studied when I was gaining my own voice, make use of the book and its poems in their teaching. Finding out that my idols, from Carolyn Forche to Terrance Hayes to Linda Gregerson to Tracy K. Smith to Toi Derricotte, see something in my work that they want to share with and teach to their students makes ecstatic.

What are you writing about now? How does your new work connect with your early work? Are there themes in contemporary poetry you resonate with? How does being queer, gifted and black energize your creativity?

I just finished writing a second book of poems titled The New Testament. The New Testament views the HIV/AIDS pandemic through autobiographical lyrics, persona poems, and the re-writing of Bible scriptures. The book also explores the history and culture that surrounds African American identity by examining the concept of brotherhood. I think of Please as a book that examines the influence of popular music on American culture and the intersections of love and violence. The connection between the two volumes has to do with my belief that the socalled personal story can indeed be the best way of understanding our nation’s obsession with homophobia and racism and sexism and violence and war.

My favorite poems are the ones written so that, while reading silently on the page, I feel like I’m hearing them spoken into my ear. I’m attracted to original language, and the hallmark of a good poem is setting that language to a rhythm that makes it come alive.

There is a wealth of opportunity present for any writer who makes use of every part of him or her self. I can’t write anything well unless I’m willing to tap into the multi-facetedness of all that I am.

“Knock and the door will open.” How do you seduce your muse?

Lately, I’ve been listening to…really overdosing on…a lot of Stephanie Mills. She uses this interestingly masculine moan that often seems to be moving toward something of a growl but at just the right time transforms into a very feminine purr. Just

lovely and vulnerable and endearing. She does it in almost every song but does it differently each time, proof that she’s paid attention to the lyrics. Some singers sing so well that they don’t think they need to know what they’re singing.

Performing artists talk about “the applause jones.” Your admirers want more of the old Jericho. How does the new Jericho find his voice and how do you know he is not pandering for admiration?

I don’t know if there is a new Jericho, Franklin, but I do hope there is a better one who keeps trying to get better. What my real admirers want is for me to be free as an artist to change and to experiment and to fail and to shine. They also want me happy, which is what I want for them. If Marvin Gaye lovers get turned on by both “Ain’t That Peculiar” and “What’s Going On,” then Jericho admirers will get turned on by the many forms I’ll take before I die. I know I’m not pandering because I don’t print anything that doesn’t risk making me uncomfortable.

And a half: RFD’s theme for this issue is fashion. You often appear in public for readings. What informs your choice of what to wear, how you wear your hair, whether to wear fragrance and if so what informs your nose? How does fashion relate to pleasure, the desire to please?

I usually wear something that seems conservative but is tailored in ways that make it clear that I’m addicted to the gym and to nutrition that keeps my metabolism high. A pullover v-neck sweater and a pair of slacks are helpful in this regard. I love pants from United Colors of Benneton because they are some of the few that I can get all of my butt and thighs into without having to buy a waist size much bigger than what mine is.

I often wear my hair in a low and tight ponytail or braided straight back. If there is a Q&A just after the reading, I’ll let my hair down to signify a more conversational tone. Besides, I take any chance I can to publicly take my hair down and toss it.

I like the smell of cologne on men, but as a man with a few allergies to certain smells, I don’t wear any for fear that some audience member who comes up to give me a hug will leave sneezing or itching.

Self-expression via fashion can be one way we participate in being heard, seen, and known in this world without ever having to open our mouths. w

My favorite poems are the ones written so that, while reading silently on the page, I feel like I’m hearing them spoken into my ear.

Your Body Made Heavy with Gin

I can relax I smell liquor on your breath

Soon your arms will be too heavy to lift, And I’ll watch the weight of you Shiver while you sleep. But first I want to see that stagger—

Like a boy sent off to battle, shot, Then sent back. I kept one once. He’d never get a good doze. Only quake And dream of hands aimed at his throat. He’d cough and gag. I’d shake him awake. He was as you are. He could have died

In my bed. He could have never stopped

Dreaming. He’d take me

For the enemy. We’d fight. But you and I won’t fight tonight.

I’ll remember some limping lover and talk All I want about war. Or maybe

I won’t. Maybe I don’t care Who survives—I only need to watch your body

Made heavy with gin as I hold you up

From your fall at the threshold

Because I love you and I love you best

With liquor on your breath

When I can get a good look at you

Just the way I found you, reeking

And too drunk to go after the roaches

With the heel of your hand. And too drunk

To take me for one of the roaches.

Like Father

My father’s embrace is tighter

Now that he knows

He is not the only man in my life

He whispers, Remember when, and, I love you, As he holds my hand hungry

For a discussion of Bible scriptures

Over breakfast He pours cups of coffee

I can’t stop Spilling .

My father’s embrace is firm and warm

Now that he knows He begs forgiveness

For anything he may have done to make me Turn to abomination

As he watches my eggs, scrambled Soft. Yolk runs all over the plate. A rubber band binds the morning paper.

My father’s embrace tightens. Grits Stiffen. I hug back

Like a little boy, gripping

To prove his handshake. Daddy squeezes me close, But I cannot feel his heartbeat

And he cannot hear mine— There is too much flesh between us, Two men in love.

Both poems are from Jericho’s Brown’s book, Please.

History of the Faeries

Recorded by speck and transcribed by Husk. Stills from video by Peter Lien.

Joey Cain, Murray Edelman and Agnes de Garron discuss their understanding of early faerie beginnings at the William Way LGBT Center on January 15th 2012 during the Philadelphia Faerie MLK Gatherette.

Joey Cain: My name is Joey Cain and I live in San Francisco. I have been involved with the faeries since about 1980 and was very involved with Harry Hay and John Burnside in their care in San Francisco. I was part of the group that moved them up from LA and took care of them in the last ten years of their lives. I have been researching not just Radical Faerie history, but what I call the roots of the Radical Faeries, which implies that there is a set of values that we share as Radical Faeries and there is an actual historical precedent for those values, as gay men, have come from. So part of my larger project is starting with Walt Whitman, who I do see as the sort of inventor of not just modern gay male consciousness, but I think of a particular way of men viewing themselves. Starting with him I have traced it through Edward Carpenter. I’m going to do some early first gathering background.

So Stonewall happened and Gay Liberation Front was a product of that, and one of the things Gay Liberation Front found was an incredible tool for organizing was consciousness raising groups. And that was a building tool for Gay Liberation Fronts all across the United States. You move into the mid-seventies and there is this phenomenon where you suddenly have an incredibly successful burgeoning gay “ghettos” in cities. There are the gay discos, the clone look and by the end of the seventies a lot of people who had been involved in the initial Gay Liberation impulse and had been political activist were starting to feel that there was a bit of, what I call, a vapidness entering into the gay community, shallowness had sort of come in. We really were really just about partying and hairdos and clothes.

Out of that, a group of gay men started to talk to each other, centered around Harry Hay. Harry Hay for those of you who don’t know was really the theo-

retician and one of the founders of the Mattachine Society in 1950. He had continued to be involved in the gay community. In the mid-seventies, Harry Hay was sort of re-discovered by the Gay Liberation generation as a communist, as someone who said we are unique as gay people and we need to look at our own culture and look at who we are to achieve our own liberation. Two people, having rediscovered him, started to write to him. One was a Gay Liberationist out of Los Angeles named Don Kilhefner. Harry and Don corresponded and Don went to visit him. Harry at this time is living in New Mexico at San Juan Pueblo. He had been very involved in Native American land rights issues at the time.

A little bit after Don, a man named Mitch Walker, who was involved in Jungian psychology at the University of Berkeley, also started to contact Harry and also went to visit him. And the three of these folks found themselves all sort of on the same page: about who we are as gay people; where do we go next; what is the next step? And so the three of them, alongside John Burnside, who was Harry Hay’s companion and partner since 1963, decided to call a national gathering. They found a place in Arizona that was an ashram. They put together a call; they discussed what would be the name. Harry had been using the name Faerie and Radical Faerie since the late sixties. So they put together a call. They decided to use Radical Faerie on the call.

That first gathering they were expecting fifty people to show up and over two hundred plus people showed up. It was a vivid awakening for most of the

This is an abridged transcript. For the full transcript visit http://itwascuriosity.wordpress.com/2012/01/23/transcription-of-history-of-the-faeries/ Watch the video: http://vimeo.com/35171786

Joey Cain, left. Husk, in purple.

attendees to suddenly see other gay men as having this concept of gay men as having a political and spiritual component and an activist component. There were a lot of streams that flowed into the first gathering. One of the general principals or shared values was the idea that it was for gay people that were not assimilations. To put it simply, what that really means is do we just assimilate into the hetero culture and change a few laws and that essentially where are the same as straight people except for the things we do in bed. Or are we a full cultural minority that has a unique psychology and perspective on the world. And by developing that, we don’t assimilate into the dominant culture, but we create our own culture, which then becomes part of a multiplicity, a polymorphous culture. And the faeries were focused on that track, the creation of a non-assimilationist gay male community and culture.

Out of that gathering, it was like seeds spread to the wind. People went from that gathering back to their cities and towns and started to hold faerie circles and other gay men who had not been at that gathering started to attend these circles.

Murray Edelman: As you know, when you put two faeries together you get three stories.

I am going to give you my view. I want to start a little bit by talking about a pre-faerie conference. I had connected with a friend, while I was a student at the University of Chicago. He had told me about Stonewall; he showed me the Village Voice article and we had talked for a while. We started a group in Chicago. We had a few meetings. They were not that different from Heart Circles; people would talk about what it was being gay, what

the experience was. I remember people slowly came to a realization that we were keeping ourselves down. We didn’t know quite what would happen if we stepped out into the world. What we decided is that a couple of us would start coming out. So we got this button that said, “out of the closets and into the streets.” And so we summoned our courage and did that for a week. And people came back and said that the reaction was that it was really hard doing it but no one knew what the button meant. People thought it was marijuana, or this or that. So we gradually increased and people kept coming and coming. People were coming from seminars and discovering their sexuality.

I don’t want to go too far, but I do want to talk about it because for me that was so much the seeds of the Faerie is that the early Gay Liberation movement. It’s the sense of possibility and openness. It provided a space for someone like me, who was pretty much excluded during my early years. There was a sense that we were stepping into something that we were connecting to each other and we had power together. It was a discovery of who we were and it created a change in us. Like I had the courage to talk to friends and tell them that I was gay because I had a sense of support and I had a feeling about myself. Initially I had anger and a lot of other stuff and it was through what Joey mentioned, the consciousness raising, the heart circles, whatever you want to call them, that I worked those out.

And then I went to San Francisco. And San Francisco in 1970s was a magnet for gay men and women from all over the country. It was a time when a lot of the early Gay Liberation people went

Stills from video by Peter Lien

Joey Cain

Agnes de Garron

Murray Edelman

to San Francisco as well. We were all looking for something. One of the people I met there was Arthur Evans. At the same time, I had started doing weekend retreats and encounter-groups with gay men. We would have ten or twelve men for the weekend. On Friday night we would have some pairing and you know some getting the lay of the land. Saturday morning we would start it by asking what happened last night. People would start talking about the feeling they were having about the jealousy and attraction they were having. We just kept going all day. There was a lot of chanting. There was a lot of spirituality. Arthur was the scholar and he was doing research into Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture. For me, it was really exciting when he would talk about our history because I didn’t have any clue about this kind of stuff. For me, I was just inventing as I went because that was what Gay Liberation was. The history filled in as we learned more. We talked about it. Evans gave a lecture series when his book came out and I said you know I think we should start a group. He said what are we going to do. I told him about my groups and said I guarantee we’ll keep a group busy. Next thing I know, a month later he has a group together. So we form a group. He calls it the faerie circle because the group is about the faeries. We also did a group at the bathhouse. It was a bathhouse that wasn’t used a whole lot. They had an outdoor space. They had a Jacuzzi. At one point, there were 20 or 30 of us naked in the Jacuzzi chanting and that took me to a whole other place. That was something. It’s the connections. This is where our sexuality could go. We did that a couple of times. It got to me.

I went to New York because I had a job offer there. I received this letter from Harry Hay, I didn’t have a clue who he was, but he sent me this call. He included a two-page letter, which stroked me big time. He talked about my work at the baths and how much he would like if I came out. So, I went. I went to Benson, AZ. It was in September of 1979. I met people at the airport. I felt really at home. I had spent time in faerie space many times over the years. I volunteered and did the bath thing, like Harry asked, at the pool. So on Saturday night I did my night at the baths at the swimming pool.

In my mind, it wasn’t the start of something new, but just the continuation. It puzzled me because people said that all this was new and this for me was just how the seventies were. It kept going; it was a constant flow of people.

When we talk about history it is about what happened and this led to this and Harry Hay did this.

Harry Hay certainly did stuff like calling that national gathering was certainly important. There’s no question about that. But it was all the other things that were going on.

Agnes de Garron: Hi. My name is Agnes. When I talk to younger people, like my niece, she’s straight and is very gay friendly, and quite a bit younger than me, she [doesn’t] understand what living in the closet was. She thought coming out was a simple thing; the door opens, you come out and your life changes. It wasn’t like that because to be living in the closet that meant that as you came out you made divisions of yourself, you divided yourself up into pieces. And so there wasn’t one of you, but more than one of you and these were people that existed separately. They had different lives.

I got very involved in doing stuff in the performing arts as a child and it was like a sanctuary for me. I found out later as an adult that one of the safe places it was to be a faerie was to be on a stage, which sounds ridiculous for people who don’t perform because that is the most frightening of places. But they can’t touch you. I got parts in high school, you play straight people, straight men and boys, and so you are in training basically. I was giving myself an education to be better in the closet, as safe as possible.

I continued that and started to have a sex life that was separate and secretive, but it was the way I live so it was normal way for me. After I got out of college, it was during the Vietnam era and my gay friends were just starting to come out. They were like you don’t have to serve if you tell them you are a faggot. That meant though that I would have to come out to a stranger and that was impossible. My two best gay friends had been in and got out and they said we only have one bit of advice, blend in. I remember looking into a mirror with my head shaved and I couldn’t find myself. I stayed in the military; I got a commission and became an officer. It didn’t out me; my acting paid off. To come out for me after I got out was finding a small gay community in Norfolk. I went to graduate school. I did about as much as you could in Norfolk and my friends started migrating from San Francisco. They would call at all hours of the night, different time zones; they would say you have to come out here. So I had a break from grad school, I went out and I never came back.

So here I am face-to-face in a city where I am still in the closet, but the area has expanded with your gayness. The most astounding thing wasn’t men dancing for me, but men holding hands in the street- it was phenomenal. It was just precious. I just threw myself into the culture, which was basi-

cally being a sexual being. But I didn’t have a community. I had some old friends from Virginia there and I met people constantly as sexual partners. At that time, they told us that each day in San Francisco a 100 new people arrived that were gay, so we weren’t going to run out of people.

So in the Castro, I saw this poster plastered to a phone pole. I didn’t know the word Faerie, I saw the word spiritual and that’s the one that popped up at me. What I didn’t know then was, is there anyway to connect my sexuality with my spirituality? I didn’t know that I needed that. And I had a car and a job, so I had money. I loaded up my car with people I hadn’t met and we drove down there. Being at that gathering, was a spiritual thing for me. There was this fusion for once that made what I thought was right anyway. Sex wasn’t just sex there was something special happening to you. I then went back, the faerie that I had found was this child, and it was myself as a tiny person doing rituals in the woods. I had a history, but no memories. And all these memories flooded back to me that I never thought about. This all happened at the first gathering, getting that part of me that wasn’t in my mind or connected with. I am already a faerie. Everything was so new. The gay men we were becoming hadn’t existed before. That was exciting. Something that never happened was what we were producing and we were told no. This is the Radical Faeries and this is a new name but you all have existed since the beginning of time that you are just way in the edges of this long history. It is this

completely new connection. I went back to San Francisco. And I would say the majority of the people were from the San Francisco area. Now, I have this community. It’s not the gay community, but the faerie community. So everyone just didn’t go back and disappear to their jobs. I had all these new friends. And there wasn’t a plan for another gathering. It wasn’t like we said we will do this next week; that was a big undertaking. They just threw you out and you were on your own. Now, I am with these people and we were like what are we going to do with this feeling, we have to do something with it. I went, and I want to mention this because it was part of gay history, what came out of it was this idea of creating a gay male convent of nuns. How do you recruit for something like this? But the faeries, I said I want us to be clones because that is the world we live in, the Castro clone was like this perfection. So we wanted to mimic this and look absolutely identical. Most of us had beards at the time, but that was just a coincidence. We didn’t wear white face. There was no makeup. We didn’t even have lipstick on. I asked faeries to help me. They said I am not that interested and I said well would you go to a fitting. They went to a fitting as a favor. And then I said there’s a photo shoot, we’re going to start off with some postcards. I know you don’t what to be a nun, but can you do a photo shoot. Well what happened was they didn’t want to be a nun, but they didn’t want to leave us. Can I just help you out and be a priest? It was like a glue. w

Continued from page 60

stomach and his beautiful thighs as he moans again with pleasure. I go back to his face and caress his hair with both my hands as we smile ecstatically at each other. The flute players continue to serenade us approving of our Wakan Love. The rising Moon now peeps into the tipi from above, bathing us with sensual white light. There is no need for the fire’s light now—I can see my Soul Mate’s radiant face from an even holier light.

Looking through the smoke hole he says with a grin, “Ho! Grandmother is blessing us too!” His face becomes a little solemn but not out of sadness but of real joy.

By pale moonlight, he caresses my face and stares in my eyes as I stare into his. “My friend, my lover, my spiritual partner,” he says huskily, “We walk in Beauty. Beauty is around us. Beauty is above us.

Beauty is below us. Beauty is within us! The Beauty of our union spreads on Eagles’ Wings. It shall never perish.”

My eyes slowly close in a contentment and passion I have never known. I know it is the same for him too. I feel my Lover pulling furs on top of us. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, our legs twined together. His breath matches mine, my heartbeat matches his. I rest Content as He does—our Dreams and Desires are at last fulfilled. The flute players still call….

In our dreams and in our waking moments The Wind Calls and I—The Wind Answers-- spend each holy day and night together—laughing, kissing, touching, fighting--and making Love for the rest of our lives and into the Spirit World of his People….together forever, loving each other until the end of time. w

Prison Pages

Edited by Myrlin

AsI write this column, it is a bright sunny day; the Ground Hog has left us an unclear signal, and I am surrounded by enough material, including drawings, a life story, art pieces, an historical out line of our G.L.B.T. history, a piece on the need to honor our sexual identities, poetry submission and letters and ads from a large number of our Brothers Behind Bars. I know that I can’t share all of these in their entirety and will be happy to provide the full text with an email request to bbbmyrlin@yahoo.com.

First a commercial: RFD Magazine has been involved in inmate support by publishing ads for gay inmates from its inception. The first inclusion of inmate ads in the magazine began well over 30 years ago. As the number of ads kept increasing and taking up more and more of the magazine pages, a decision was made to separate out the inmate ads and publish a separate list containing only inmate ads. The name of this publication became “Brothers Behind Bars” which has been available for over 10 years. The only drawback to this change is that many of the RFD readers never see these ads. The current list has over 300 ads plus art, poetry and other submissions. A donation of $3.00 to $10.00 is requested to cover costs of printing, mailing, and inmate correspondence. If you have never seen the list, I suggest you consider writing and ordering a copy. Please send all requests to: BBB, PO Box 68, Liberty, TN 37095. The list is in a booklet format with 5 ½” by 8” pages. If you would prefer an 8” by 11” format, request a PDF file and provide your e-mail address. You may request that when you send in your donation. As each letter receive from

an inmate receives a response, our mailing costs are very high. So any help is greatly appreciated. End of commercial!

Have you thought about writing an inmate but are hesitant because of negative press concerning scams and the possibility that someone isn’t really the person they are claiming to be, the internet has become very helpful in checking out basic information. Most states have a website complete with listings of all inmates with basic information such as age, height, weight, reason for being in prison and in many cases a profile picture of the inmate. These sites are easy to access by entering in the search engine “Inmate Locator + state name. Then by entering name or ID Number, the information pops up. I encourage all who write to an inmate do this basic research. Please let us know if there are any problems. We cannot fully check all entries. I can attest that your support and encouragement means a lot to the inmate and you may well find a very supportive person in your own life. I know I have.

AlthoughI can’t list all of our inmate ads, I am wanting to include two sample ads, one of which is from a person soon to be released in Oregon and a second from one on death row in Texas. I apologize to all others whose ads aren’t included here.

Jeremy W. Roberts, #12896474, Snake River Correctional Institution, 777 Stanton Boulevard Ontario, OR 97914-8335. 31 yr old, paroling October 2012. Been in prison since age of 13. I have no one on the outside. Looking for friends and open to more.

Buford Tyrone Blaylock, #1513521, Polunsky

Mataska Johnson (NM) Michael Cartwright (IA) Jordan Shirks (VA) John Talamantes (CA)

Some of the men you will meet in BBB.

Unit, 3872 FM 350 South, Livingston, TX 77351. A Gay Male, Black, American Indian & Filipino mixed, brown hair, hazel/light brown eyes, 5’11 ½”, 190 lbs, light complexion, good personality and respectful & loving. Need a friend.

Anotherinmate in the Federal System sent in a very intriguing description of his life story and an interesting personal request for friends. I am choosing to include it here along with his photo as it is both typical and unique as an example of letters I receive. It comes from Richard Pruden.

A Life’s Story

In 1983 my daughter, Audra , was born in Mesa, AZ. I cooked donuts 7 nights a week and went to trade school. So by the time I was 20 years old I worked as a air condition, refrigeration and food equipment service tech. Michelle, Audra’s mother and my first wife worked as a waitress. In 1984 her folks co-signed a loan and we were home-owners. Landed a sweet job working as a building engineer at the First Interstate Bank Operations Center in Mesa, AZ. It was the kind of job a man could put in his 25 years and have something to show for it.

In 1985 we bought a brand new used car. In 1986 my father died from a gunshot wound in the chest with a 38 revolver. He did not die immediately but did pass away after several days intensive care. I worked graveyard shift so at 7:00 a.m. I was off to work. About 6:00 a.m. I got a call that dad had shot himself. I thought he was dead. When I went to Scottsdale Memorial that morning I was surprised to see my dad alive and somewhat lucid. When I asked him what happened he said: “Nobody loves me anymore.”

In 1987 my second daughter, Alea was born in Mesa. In 1987 the bank fired me for being unreliable. In 1987 my wife and I separated. In 1987 my mom died. In 1987 I crashed through a window at our house because Michelle wouldn’t let me in. The glass stabbed me pretty bad and my lung collapsed. Michelle abandoned the house and took the kids and went with her new man.

My life up until 1987 was not exceptional and for the most part I played the role society provides: 8th grade dropout from the Trailer Parks. I drank beer and smoked pot and worked. Taking care of Audra was the only part of my life that didn’t seem fake. I loved her from the bottom of my heart. She was a easy baby. So that’s what happened the first 24 years of my life. After my mom died, I left Phoenix after getting out of the hospital from the collapsed lung.

That’s about when I became A Disaster Looking for a Conclusion. Eighteen years of prison has slowed down my rush towards oblivion. For that I suppose I must grudgingly admit that perhaps my life was preserved by this institutionalization.

I am writing you today to ask for your help. What do I want? What do you got? I can’t ask you for something you don’t possess in abundance because I don’t imagine you would give me something you could not afford. My ability to type letters, make copies, post mail, send emails. And acquire information is not limited by time. Time is what I have in abundance. What I lack are skills, resources and internet access.

I take pills now. Sometimes I wonder if the pills are good for me more than they are bad for me, but I’m certain that my nervous system was never healthy due to the neglect and mistreatment inflicted on me as a little kid. By the time I turned 6 years old I was a nervous freakin’ wreck because my guardians were mostly drunks and psychos as well as irresponsible and ignorant. Such was fate.

Now I take pills and mix in lots of caffeine to try and find some stability. Today, at this moment, I’m trying to reach out to another person far away in space who I’ve never met and asking them to help me. Right now I’m OK. I’ve got 90 months left and there is very little I can do to change that figure. However there is a chance for me to make better use out of my life now. I have good ideas. I’m smart and sincere and only want to make things better.

I’ve conquered my anger and malice and hatefulness. I’m master of my heart. I’ve got valuable skills and good intentions. So I’m trusting in the Balance of the Universe to open the door, to pen the heart of friends in my future. I’ll give away my story, open up records and provide answers to anyone. My experience, expertise and predictions are worth something to someone. So I’m searching for someone who needs what I have. I need someone to love and someone to love me. This confinement and isolation is hurting me. I am diminishing my hold on my identity. I haven’t been touched in so long. Please help me find friends.

Richard Pruden #24047-008

USP

Hazelton PO Box 2000

Bruceton

Mills, WV 26525

rwpruden@rocketmail.com

Photo by Arthur Freedman

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Issue 151 Preview

Kawashaway Sanctuary & The Northwoods Radical Faeries

Calling all the Walk Betweeners who have communed with us in the past 25 years.

In 2012, the Northwoods Tribe of the Radical Faeries is celebrating all things silver, our Silver Jubilee year. Like starlight sparkling in our hearts, the fall RFD will feature our community. Join us as we reflect over our 25 years in RFD’s 2012 Fall issue.

2012

The end of the world (or a new beginning?)

Disco balls

the sun sparkling on the lake the moon through the trees the sequins of your new frock

those baubles you made from aluminum foil the sage under leaf fur the starlight in his eyes

Perhaps you know us from Gathering, or an Urban Phase event, or online. We may be best known—by fae and fae-curious alike—thanks to the sumptuous coffee table book Faeries: Visions, Voices & Pretty Dresses (Aperture Books, 2000) by our own Klick, aka Keri Pickett. Winner of the 2000 Lambda Literary Award Best Fine Art Book, Faeries excerpts helped us spread our wings as a feature in Summer 2000 RFD. Look for new, never-seen Klick photos this Fall. And we’re yoo-hooing for your submissions of art, images, stories and connections.

Please share any and all memories and connections you have with Mother Kawashaway and the Northwoods Tribe. We are specifically looking for content about the first two gatherings in Gordon, Wisconsin, the first gathering at Kawashaway, and Spirit Gathering. The Northwoods Faeries are culling together all the Kawashaway-related submissions for the 2012 Fall RFD issue. Submissions can be sent electronically to Phoenix & White Ash at RFD@Kawashaway.org. If you’re sending big-assed files, please zip ‘em up and send via www.YouSendIt.com. Please send to us no later than June 30, 2012.

“Dinner Circle, 1996” from Faeries: Visions, Voices & Pretty Dresses © Keri Pickett www.pickettphoto.com

Ads and non-Kawashaway-related submissions direct to submssions@rfdmag.org. Words are preferred in .doc or .rtf formats. Images should be high resolution (minimum 2100x3000 pixels) in color. Large files can be uploaded to www.rfdmag.org/upload.

a reader created gay quarterly celebrating queer diversity