RFD Issue 58 Summer 1989 by RFD Magazine Gay

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Is finally, truly Summer here at the mountain after a crazyquilt of seasons out of synch - Spring in January, followed by Winter, then Summer, then just in time for our Beltane Bash, Spring again* Summer storms are just beginning, incredible displays of the power and majesty of nature - continuous lightning reminiscent of the chorus of flash-bulbs that accom pany Elizabeth Taylor at a gala opening.

RFD is a reader-written jour nal for gay men which focuses on country living and encour ages alternative life-styles. Articles often explore the building of a sense of commu nity, radical faerie conscious ness, the caring for the en vironment, as well as sharing gay men's experiences.

The blessed rain from these storms is coaxing our garden into ab undance - broccoli, peas, radishes, sweet sweet, strawberries, scallions, and our 1ite-sustaining wild herb and weeds fill our bellies and keep us healthy. Yesterday’s deluge, however, was a disaster for RFD. Gaia’s nearly tornado-force winds blew right through our western windows and dropped waterfalls of rain all over the layout table! In a flash of intuition we ran to the of fice and managed to save most of the issue. Lost and irreparable due to our closeness. 3 days, to deadline, was Barrv Voeman’s art icle FaerX* CvlAVXt• (next issue - We promise)

Editorship responsibility is shared between the Department Editors and the Managing Edi tors. The business and general production is centered at Short Mountain Sanctuary in rural middle Tennessee. Features are often prepared in various places by different groups.

Thanks to your generous response, our inherited debt is nearly clear. We thank v ’all for coming to our rescue. The less we have to worry about finances, the more we have time to fill these pages with joy. We also appreciate feedback on the state of the magazine. In our letters column is one such responce asking us to "tighten up. toughen up...". That sounds like a request for our Urban Aboriginal readers to contribute. We know you’re out there. In addition, we would love to run more articles on farming (urban and rural), gardenning (ditto/, new ways of tightening-up our impact on Gaia, etc. There is so much left unsaid... If you have experience with such things, please tell us about it. You don’t have to be a schooled writer to be a skilled one* Even purely academic articles would be of great use to our readers.

RFD (ISSN 0149-709X) is pub lished quarterly for ^15 per year by Short Mountain Collec tive, Rt. 1, Box 84A, Liberty, TN 37095. Second class post age is paid at Liberty, TN and additional mailing offices. Postmaster: send address chan ges to RFD PO Box 68, Liberty, TN 37091

By the way. if you recieved a defective issue, please let us know the nature of the defect and we’ll send you another copy. We get more proficient at weeding out errors with each issue. We look for wavs to *tighten-up" with each issue, and hopefully w e ’ll just get better, and better, and better!

ISSN # 0149-709X USPS # 073-010-00 Non-profit tax exempt status under #23-7199134 as a func tion of Gay Community Social Services, Seattle Washington.

The constant search for individuals and collectives to focus on a feature continues. Anv subject, any medium - all word, ail photo, art...you’ll have 12 pages to play wiih. Send us vour idea (s/ and we’ll send you a deadline. At this time, next Fall is our nearest opening. That gives y ’all a year to get it together. is

M O T

W W W

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S H O R T

H o p e w a y . - L o v e

M O U N T

y o u r a n d

MEMBER: CCLM (Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines) IGLA (Int'l Gay & Lesbian Assoc.)

S u m m e r L u s t

C O L L E C T I V E INDEXED by Alternative Press Media PO Box 33109 Baltimore, MD 21218

R S — If you buy RFD off the magazine rack, know that you can save $4.00 a year by sub scribing. See page # 68 for our subscription form, (we also send gift subs) It's worth it.

$> C O R R E C T I O N S O E I S S U E ** 5 7 Kevin Gerard drew the graphic on page # 2 The shawl photos .on page * l are not by STV If you took them and know who you are, please let us know! ■#

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drawings by Dwight Dunaway

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ITE M N O W R E S E R V E Y O U R C O P Y OF T M I S L_ I M I T E D E D I T I O N F O R E A C H ( i n c l u d e s p o s t a g e and h a n d 1 in & > . D E L I V E R V IN WR I TE : R E D C A L E N D A R R. O. BOX es l_ I B E R T V , T N 3 7 O <95

"the Dear |_ove of Comrades"

S E P T E M B E R

R E D ’S C A L E N D A R T O O S M E R IN T H E R E T U R N OF T H E “G A Y N I N E T I E S "

contributors Franklin Abbott.. . 20 David Bauer.. .51 V O L.X V -4 ISSUE 58 Ryan Gale.. .44 Louise Coggins...41 Jack Davis.. .55 Wii1 Doherty.. . 1 1 John D . Dolan.. .30 Charles Donavan.. .15, 17, 27 Dwight Dunaway.. .I . F . Cover Earthk in. . .45 Michae 1 J .Eaerv.. .1 I ▼ ▼ ▼ Don Engstroa.. .Back Cover Vince Fitzpatrick.. . 10 Kevin Gerard.. .25, 30, 57 Charles E. Hall PhD... Steven Heath.. Hyperion.. P U B L X S H E R S Jeffrey S. Ingraa.. T h © S h o r t M o u n t a i n C o l l e c t i v e Robert Kap1an.. Robert Kevlin.. V O L U N T E E R D E P A R T M E N T C D I "TORS L . E . Lewis.. BOOK REVIEWS - Ken Waller-Zanghi TX Buddy May.. KITCHEN QUEEN - Buddy May TN Joe L . Malone.. LUNAR CALENDAR - Moonhawk TN K . Mart in.. POETRY - Steven Riel MA Daniel Morrison.. SPIRITUALITY - Paul Maier KY Edward Mycue.. Hal Myers.. F R O N T C O V E R Moon Hawk.. Photo by Lee Steenhuis Denise Newborn.. Ranson.. Design by Dwight Dunaway Len Richardson.. B A C K C O V E R Steven Riel.. by Don Engstroa Raphael Sabatini.. Assoto Saint. Mark (M. A. Sarvakrit).. Richard Schaonsees.. .1 0 Steven Louis Scurletis. .45 Lee Steenhuis.. •F.Cover,Centerfold Winthrop Saith.. . 9 Joe Stewart.. .57 United Fruit Coapanv.. . 1 6 R . Walden.. . 1 0 L .E .Ward. . .48 Burt Washington.. .25 Allen Young.. .56 Greg Zak.. . 10

contents / index and

ESSAYS

An Open Letter The United Fruit Company Gets Pissed! New Age Brain Rot and recovery at 7000 Feet Wild Child Designs How do You Mend A Broken Heart Barefoot Country Boy Notes from the Caligatron (tm) On The Nature of Reality My Faerie Perception Faeries Don’t Get AIDS Go Fiche-in' Molested! Inspirations BOOK REVIEWS

Boys And Their Contacts With Men Gay Men And Women Who Have Enriched The World Crush Favorite books of RFD Readers Avalon Dutchess Gives Good Interview, a visit with David Leavitt CONTACT

The States Of Curtis Lamar Falling Ephrem A Pacific North West Faerie Tale GATHERIMGS GRANDFATHER’ SCUPBOARD KITCHEN QUEEN L_ LJM / ^ R CALENDAR MEMOR I OI_S

Steve Me Carthy A Man Named Jim Haiku for John Giorioso NETWORKIMG MEWS ROE TRV

June 30th, 1986 Hosanna Anonymous Untitled Two Guys At Home Manhood: Part 2 Cocteau’s Minotaur Dishing The Faerie Gathering Begins The Don’t Bee Gnarly? Never 1 H e ’s Poised Enthuslast i caly Heterosexual Images of Father Earth

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Steven Heath U.F.C. Hal Myers Denise Newborn Franklin Abbott K. Martin Ryan Cale Steven Louis Scurietis

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Raphael Sabatini Jack Davis Mark A.S Wind, Mark

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Len Richardson L. E. Ward Robin Kevlin Raphael Sabatini Ranson Raphael Sabatini

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( M .A . Sarvakrit)

Burt Washington John D. Dolan Joe L. Malone Jeffrey S. Ingram Charles E.Hall PhD. Buddy May Moon Hawk Allen Young Daniel Morrison Joe Stewart

8 9 9 9 9 1O 1O 1 o 11 11 11 11 i a i a l a

Robert Kaplan Assoto Saint Winthrop Smith L. E. Lewis Vince Fitzpatrick Greg Zak Richard Paul Schmonsees Steven Riel Will Doherty Michael J. Emery Edward Mycue Earthk in

D ear R F D B r o t h e r s

(or is it Mothers?) Thank you 3, I treasure the connection you are providing. Truth sparkles and glitters from your pages and resonates thru my body. Please keep cumming ! For magic and ecstacy, Fred Stahl 9

D e a r

D e a r S .M .S . F a e r i e s ,

I much enjoyed the Spring ’89 issue. You should be proud of yourselves. Please kiss each other for me. I agree RFD should eaphasize stuff not found in other gay publications. Routine consens us type politics is well co vered elsewhere. Look forward to eore on shaaanisa and spir ituality. I’d like lore eaphasis on in dividual e_xjperience w ith Grandmother Earth whether in a rural setting or metropol itan setting. I can remember some very powerful experi ences as a farm boy. at sea while in the U.S. Navy, at night in the ruins of the Coloseum in Rome, at night in the Rambles of Central Park, in ay suburban back yard, at many gatherings, etc. etc. In snort, just as faeries are everywhere, so, is Grand mother Earth. She calls to us everywhere and we should answer as best we know how. I have a friend who is at tracted to R.F.D. because of it’s alternative cultural ap proach...The needs of all such folk and no doubt others need to be met somehow. Much opportunity to excersize your faerie creativity 1 Bob McNee ^

R . F r. D .

Yes, I let my subscription lapse after just one year, and I’ll try to explain why, though my feelings of dissat isfaction are vague even to me. What impells me to write are not specific complaints but admiration for the con cern that led you to mail out a card asking for feedback from a missing member of your flock - a niceness almost un heard of in the current mar ketplace that seems to assume that it can suck up another two customers for anyone that for whatever reason doesn’t come back on schedule. I especially like that spirit of personal concern that per vades RFD - a quality missing from virtualy every other gay I’ve encountered with the ex ception of Drummer, with it’s admittedly different (or may be not...) readers. What don't I like about RFD’ I’m put off by the faerie empha sis, something I don’t relate to personally. The graphics, while sometimes clever, are excessive, often too flowery, and seem to be taken much of the time from public domain Dover books (or contemporary imitators of nineteenth-cen tury advertising hackwork). The articles within any sin gle issue seem to lack cohe siveness (I have in front of me number 55, my last), and to frequently are character ized by a wimpy self-indul gent quality that strikes me as puerile and parochial. Of the issues I received last year, the only one that lin gers in my memory is the first, which had a fairly a

lengthy treatment of gay sit uations and encounters in foreign countries, which was well written, well edited, un usual and informative. Of the rest, with very few excep tions, all I can aver is that it lacks all those admirable qualities. The poetry and let ters entries, especially, cry out for tasteful, ruthless editing. Let The New Yorker be your model, in which every selection shines precisely be cause of it’s aptness and grace, not just because you feel obliged to print what ever a subscriber chooses to drop on your desk. Now that I’ve got all these quibbles off my chest, here are some things about your magazine that I really like: anything aimed at or for pris on inmates; your Contact Let ters section; your cooking columns; and, above all, as I suggested in the beginning of this letter, my utter convic tion of and deep appreciation for your very personal devotion to your readership, or what you percieve your readership to be. Speaking only for myself, it may not be quite as rural, wistful, and strangely unsexual as you seem to think it is. With every best wish for your continuation and potential for betterment, I’m enclosing a check for a resumtion of my subscription, along with my hope that you'll find your way to tighten up, toughen up, get a little slicker, a bit more urbane, and a tad more eroticized now and then. ... I remain, at heart, yours sincerely, David Towner ^

Editorial Response: My name is Dwight Dunaway, sometimes known as Light, and I was the production depart ment for RFD while it was at Running Water Farm, and am now one of the crew here at Short Mountain Sanctuary. Durring the last five years or so I’ve seen many letters like this come in. I’m thank ful for this letter as it gives me an opportunity to re state the purpose behind RFD. First of all, RFD is a reader written journal and we don’t

solicit any of the material we get. We do not print everything we get. If we did, each issue would have to be 200 pages long, simply unaff ordable. We try to edit submissions as little as possible with respect to the author. Incidently, if we were stricly a literary maga zine and only published works that were up to literary stan dards (wherein we would feel obliged to pay the author, which we can’t possibly do), we would not be RFD. Whether or not our offerings are in teresting or whether or not there is a coheseive overall theme is left to fate. Seren dipity alone is responsible when a theme or a literate piece does appear! Secondly, RFD was originated by faeries and has been continually produced by various faerie collectives. A large, though not total, pro portion of our readership are faeries, hence the preponderance of faerie material. We would print more articles on other subject if people would send them in. Thirdly, RFD is produced by non-professionals - most of the staff here are not com mercial artist and have never seen the production of a magazine. In addition, we produce RFD with no electicity in what used to be the bee-tending shed . In other words, you can’t get more primitive conditions than these' And as for the use (and abuse!) of the Dover publications ethchings, we would gladly use less of them if we had more printable original art instead. We use what we have. I hope this sheas a little light on the reasons RFD is the way it is. If it seems parochial, it is because the circulation is small and rather specialized. If we went slick and added those subjects that are already we 1 1 -publisized in other gay magazines, RFD would lose some of it’s charm. In Love, Dwight £ By the way, we thank you for finding things to appreciate as well.

■ A I D S

D I R E C T O R Y

The Fund for Human Dignity is seeking information for the updated fourth edition of Local AIDS Services: The National D irectory, especially from all newly formed AIDS service organ izations and those that have changed address and/or the range of services they provide. The Directory, is the most compre hensive list of AIDS services and resources available nation wide. Organizations should con tact Ira Berkowitz, Project Coordinator, The Fund for Human Dignity, 666 Broadway, Suite 410 New York NY 10012 to request a survey update form. ■ T H E R E ’S

H O P E

At tne request of the Gay and Lesoian Alliance Against Defa mation, Bob Hope filmed a 30 second public service announce ment condemning anti-gay violence. "Hope’s staunch con servatism makes him all the more credible as a spokesperson against anti-gay violence. He takes it out of the partisan political sphere to a purely moral ground where all violence is recognized to be wrong...", notes Karin Scnwartz who dealt with Hope’s people throughout the negotiations. Here is tne text of his anti-vlo1ence PSA: I’m proud to live in this great, free country. I’m proud of our commitment to free speech... and I’m proud of our country’s commitment to protecting the rights of its citizens to work and live free from bigotry and violence. That’s why I was amazed to discover that many people die each year in anti-gay attacks and thousands more are le#t scarred, emotionally and physically. Bigotry has no place in this great nation and vio lence has no place in this world But it nappens. Prejudice hurts... kills. Please don’t be a part of it... by your words or by your deeds. Thank you. ■ A I D S M E M O R I A L Q U ILT* R E T U R N S T O W A S H I N G T O N Requests and encouragement from around the world have prompted the NAMES Project to display the Quilt for the third year in a row October 6 -8 . The display will culminate the 19 city 17.000 mile trek for the«Quilt. The Quilt is expected to include 12.000 3 ’ by 6 ’panels, 6 times the size of the inaugural dis play in 1987. Deadline for sub mission of panels is August 1st. 1989. Send to: The Names Project POB 14573, San Francisco 9 4 1 1 4 5

■ N A M E S F » R O U E C X N O M I M A X E D The Names Project responsible for creating the acres-large AIDS Memorial Quilt was nomi nated for a Nobel Peace Prize by Congresswomen Nancy Pelosi and Barbara Boxer. The Quilt, along with letters, photos and poems that have been recieved with the panels, represents one of the largest collections of archival material about individual lives in the twentieth century. When the more than 9,000 panels are displayed together, the Quilt offers a graphic symbol of the human death toil of the epidemic for all people across the world. “The AIDS Quilt blankets the world of prejudice and fear with a sign of hope and sews a col lective human face on this dis ease to heal the bitterness between people," said Boxer. ■ W H A X N E W S I S E I X X O F > R I N X "? As I sat down to type up the "news" we received from various sources, I lost all motivation. Most of our readers probably get other gay rags whether it be The Advocate or a local paper, I thought to myself, so what's the point of telling them something they likely read elsewhere. So then it flashed, why not relate news that affects our unique community of readers. Where's that news going to come from7 We could make it up like the "News from Lake Wobegon", creating fictitious characters, or you could send in stories of "real" events that happened to you or friends of yours, or we could just drop the news section. Some press releases we receive seem significant enough to share. If there is a lull in the news then you won’t find any. If you happen to read anything that is worth sharing please send it to us. We count on yail to make this the special magazine that it is. Thanks... your news coordinator, Stv.

VTis the gathering reason, friends, there’s at least one near you this summer. Already, early in the season, we have had good participation and good times. The February Northeastern Faeries planning and discussion Gatherette in New York City was a real successful event for clarifying issues and taking positive loving steps to be more honest interpersonnally with difficult participants. It served too as a dry run of the housing and logistics needed for the F.A.G. Gathering in NYC this June. I was impressed with the level of committment and organ ization already m place by the Gatherette to bring about the F.A.G. By the level of response so far we could have well over 500 people for the celebration. We should nonetheless nave room for all, as long as we register early. Discussions were held at Pine Busn to "heavy up" our sitt in Ithaca to accomodate the crowds expected there just prior to the F.A.G. Gathering. I write you on a quiet cool morning, first post-Gathering morning here at Snort Mountain, a few of us having Breakfast on the porch. Feeling good and warm. Good times on the mountain hope to get some pictures in by deadline. Here too the circle dealt with the issue of what is inappropriate behavior at circle and what to do about it. I hope to write about this more next issue. I leave tooay to prepare for the Queens Birthday. "The Old Queen" has decreed ner Birtndav Gathering site styrofoam and plastic free. Her loyal subject has set about the task of pre paring a dishwashing set up to hygemcly handle the expected crystal, silver and china.

Northeastern Faeries (Blue Heron Farm) Hal Tatelman 6158 E. Pratt St., Baltimore, MD 21224 i G A T H E R

v r a d

f a e r i e

I FSIGS

Here is a listing of ail the places we know that host gatherings,some we did not have contacts for. Please write to the contact listed to get more specific information. If you would like to oe a part of this listing please let us know. Urban Faerie Circles can be listed as well. The more we network the stronger we Become'

Canadian Faeries Les Fees du Canada Ken Hi 111 s #6 248 Elgin St., Ottawa Ontario Canada K2P 1L9 Chicago Faeries c/o Midwest Men’s Center PO Box 2547, Chicago, IL 60690 Ganawango, western NY Jay Stratton 121 Union St. Westfield NY 14787

Northwestern Faeries 1206 1st Ave. #23 Seattle WA 98101 Northwoods John Sutton 2440 Garfield Ave. S Minneapolis MN. 55405 Rai nwoods Skyhawk POB 203, Pork Union

VA 23055

Running Water Center Rt. I Box 115 Bakersville NC 28705 San Francisco Faeries „contact Nomenus Short Mountain Sanctuary Rt. 1 Box 84-A Liberty TN 37095 Southern California Harry Hay/John Burnside 5343 La Cresta Ct. L.A. CA 90030 Willow Hollow Ranch PO Drawer 70 Purlear NC 28665

Gray Lady Place Kenn Wahler-Zanghi PO Box 611, Blum TX 76627 L'Affarie David Givens Rt. I Sox 6i4 Pollack LA 7l4t>9 Mid-Atlantic Faeries Bob Lubarsky 220 N. Mulberry St Lancaster PA 17603 Nomenus PO Box 11655 San Francisco CA 94101

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Herman ▼ 6

V N O R T H W O O D S G A T H E R I M G NORTHWOODS GATHERING This is the second year faeries will be gathering at the head waters of the St. Croix river on 400 beautiful secluded acres. The dates for the gathering are August 4-13. Contact: John Sutton, 2440 Garfield Ave. S, Minneapolis M N , 55405

VRAINWOODS A wilderness gathering place in the heart of rural Virginia. Simple, basic tent camping onlyno luxuries, just what is naturally here. Weekend and weeklong retreats individually and collectively. Planned seasonal • W O O D S T O C K 2 gatherings. Visits welcome year round. Nominal gratuities. For "Back to the garden ...to lose additional information and the smog", Joni Mitchell. August details write to: Skynawk 15-16-17, 1989 is tne 20th Rainwoods, POB 203, Fork Union anniversary of Woodstock. Write: VA, 23055. Please include a SASE Woodstock Festival, Box 98, for your reply. Thank You! Woodstock NY 12498.

O t\ A C V

V G R E A T L A K E S G A N O W U N G O E A E R I E G A T H E R JULY 28-30, 1989

• M I D W E S T

M E N " S

I NIG

A wilderness camp-out for gay men held at Ganowungo (Chautauqua gorge) in western most New York state. BYO camping equipment, water, and vegetarian food to share. For directions and more information, please write: Jav Stratton, 12) Union St., Westfield, NY 14787 V S H O R T M O U N T A I N The dates for the Fall Gathering are October 6-15. The full moon falls on the last weekend, so expect plenty of PANdemonium. A pre-Gathering work week starts on the 29 of September so think about c u ming early to help us get ready. Write SMS for details V J U S T I IM E R O M T H E E A E R I E S - A T A L I T E D I S H These places hold gatherings at these times but no of ficial word has been sent to us as of yet: BLJJE HERON FARM hosts a gath ering starting a week before Labor Day including the holiday weekend. Blue Heron is located in noerthern NewYork state, twenty miles from Canada. Write the Northwes tern Faeries (see gathering listings) RUNNING WATER CENTER, former home of RFD hosts a gathering around the fall equinox in September, (see listing for address) WILLOW HOLLOW RANCH hosts a celebration on Thanks Giving, a time to celebrate our abundant harvest, (see listing for address)

• l 8 R A I N B O W G A T H E R I IMG This is a mixed gathering of folks who live on the edge of the mainstream culture. Since 1981 the Radical Faeries have participated with their own camp, adding a lavendar band to the rainbow flag. Each year we find greater accep tance in the rainbow family. Come make this camp the most fabulous camp ever. The dates are July lst-7th, the location: in a national forest in Nevada. Contact Dennis or Jonathan at (415)588-8616 • M E R R Y M E E T

The dates for the eigth annual Men’s Festival are August 19September 1. This is a mixed men’s gathering with outreach done to gay and nongay men. The festival is held at a group camp at <i.ake of the Ozarks State Park in Missouri. Cabins as well as camping are available. Whatever your sexuality, race, creeo, feel welcome to join us. Contact: David Hubert, 1523 S. 10th St. #108, St Louis MO 63104

’ 8 <3

The covenant of the Goddess (an international federation of Wicca Covens and Soli taries) announces it’s 14th Annual Festival. Merrvmeet'89 to be held Labor Day weekend near Kalamazoo, Michigan. For registration info., workshop offerings, etc., please write to Lady Pythia, (attn. Merrymeet). PO Box 25, Kent. OH 44240. Blessed Be'

networking ▼ IN T E R N A T ▼B L A C K A N D W H I T E M E N T O G E T H E R The 9th annual convention of the National Association of Black and White Men Together will be held in Tallahassee FL July 2-8. This years theme is “ Make It Happen". Write: 411 Chapel Dr. Box 226, Tallahassee, FL 323043321, or call 904/681-9499 ▼C I R C L E G U I D E T O R A G A N R E S O U R C E S The 1990 edition is now being compiled. The new edition will include names, addresses, and descriptions of Wiccan, Shamamc Feminist Spirituality and other Nature Religions- oriented Groups, Networks, Centers, Stores, Gatherings, and Period icals throughout the United States, Canada and othei^ coun tries. Listings are free, but must be submitted in written form. To request a listing form: Resource Guide, Circle, Box 219 Mt. Horeb WI 53572 USA or phone: 608/924-2216 weekdays 1-4 CDT 7

I O N A L

S E X U A L Y O U T H C O N E E R E N C E Copenhagen, Denmark is hosting this years gathering, July 30th-3lst, and Aug 1st3rd. There will be a variety of workshops and discussions on the theme of SEXUALITY. For information, contact: Ungdomsgruppen, IGLVO Confer ence 1989, Knabrostraedet 3, DK-1210 Copenhagen K., or call: *45 1 131948 ▼ N E W M E X I C O R E D " R S There is an organization in New Mexico for those who are interested or involved in land owning (including cooper ative purchasing, bartering of products, goods, services, cottage industries, crafts, gardening, or simply rural/ country life in general) with gay and lesbian friends and neighbors. Write to: New Mexico G/L Homesteaders’ Association, c/o ACL, Box 6135, Taos NM 87571

Hosanna by Assotto Saint

June 30, 1986: The Supreme Court Rules That States Have The Right To Outlaw Private Homosexual Acts by Robert Kaplan Somewhere a man is loving himself. Only the man is not loving himself, the man is loving an image of himself or an image of himself with another man or perhaps that other man himself or just the image of that man with the man who is loving himself any of which can now result in the man loving himself to death. If the window is open he could die. If the window is closed he could die. If there is a knock or a bang he could oh so easily die in the dark of loving himself or of loving the other man or the image of the other man whether the image of the other man is in the image of the closed eye or in the image of the open window either image is now enough for the man to love himself or the other man to death. Everywhere there are faces that are looking for death. They are looking for death in a man or a woman but not a man and a woman they are only looking for the death of the man or the woman who is loving himself or herself while the other man or the other woman disappears into the closed eye image of that man or woman who is loving himself or herself in a lovely lovingly way one step closer towards his or her own death. Now that there are no lights to be turned out and no protection of closed sheets or closed doors or the closed courts of oblong laws in which the man or the woman or you or I can love the other man or love the other woman now that there are no windows or eyes that can be closed or opened there is only the man or the woman or you or I closing and opening like windows and eyes while the image of the other man and the image of the other woman closes the image of the window and the image of the eye and opens ourselves to love ourselves one small lovely step towards our own small lovely lovingly lovely death. (reprinted from Amethyst with the author's permission)

birds of a feather coo spread their wings at the edge of the world they soar stretching themselves to god

Anonymous by Winthrop Smith Too much, perhaps, To ask, since much 'S allowed By men revealed For you, their names Not shared with you, They gave you time Instead, Their sexualÂ ity from time To time; enough, Perhaps, for some To have, For men who trade In time and lust, But time, of course, Has ended, lust Remains, The search for names Which satisfy.

The Seeder translated from the French of Norge by Steven Finch Except for the last one, he scattered all the seed. The earth took it inside its hot, humid lip. He held that last one in the hollow of his hand. The earth would not have it just then. "It feels so good," he said, "to hold a small forest in the hollow of your hand."

Untitled by L.E. Wilson I shall come dressed in green to woo thee then dress' in grey to sing thy sorrow I shall dress all in white to warn thee dress in black to mourn thee and I shall cloak myself in wings of crimson fire to raise thee from thy deathbed bier tomorrow, and tomorrow

Two Guys at Home

by Vince Fitzpatrick This autumn evening Joe sews buttons on his flannel shirt. Clumsy with thread, blunt with thumbs, he sews with slow care, and sees me through the needle's eye: my relaxed boots, a day's growth of beard, sprawled on the sofa drinking wine.

Manhood: Part 2 by Greg Zak When will I lose the earth with cold and shut the sky forever? But now, at twilight the lid lifts, pendulous, and scars the west with blood of old sun and wet shadows weep with crickets. And I, secret, buried in my will, being such a child, belly into your eyes, looking to raise that tower of slant light and, oh so fruitful, name all the sacred birds that feed from our hungry hands before night can fall again.

Our chairs sit sturdier on the rug; sharp edges have smoothed themselves out as we grew close again. What a hell we went through to get here, to this house, to ourselves, The places we touch in the dark.

Cocteau's Minotaur by Richard Paul Schmonsees He breathed into the poet's oasis. Washed his hair in rainbow water, eating candy off the ocean floor. He walked as if in trance to Handel's Serabande, cut sweet water in film frames. A boy in toga and minotaur's head invites him into a grey garden where the love they make is ancient and the murmurs of the theatre of hallucination are performed. Painting the boy's naked chest the colors of illuminated eyes, he peels back the moon like an orange, kneels to the soft god, whispers the secrets of ancient myth, gestures to the light in the boy's eyes that close in ecstasy, like a thunderclap.

Dishing

the fairy gathering begins by Steven Riel

for Peter

For those of us who aren't glib, dishing is like playing jumprope with the girls at recess, when I'd gape in envy at their pearly patent leather clicking lickety-split with nary a hitch through double Dutch peppers, while each syllable in our chant multiplied the challenge— Fudge, fudge, call the judge; Mama's got a newborn baby. It's not a boy, it's not a girl; It's just a newborn baby. Though I thrilled at jumping in & out without getting caught, I'd never be pretty at it, never fluid, flubbing flyballs in leftfield, an exile at either end of the playground. Now, I'm befuddled by two tipsy queens throughout a brunch of nouvelle cuisine. Retorts dash by like greyhounds. With pursed lisps, Miss Dish shows Miss Thing to the lost & found. I have a tongue like a bassett hound, waddling woefully close to the ground. I'm no better throwing attitude around than I was at second down. My friends flow best ad-libbing on tiptoe. I'm least awkward alone, in a poem; if it resounds, then I belong, as rope astounds the air with song.

by Will Doherty come out, come out wherever you are bade the fairy queen we'll practice and sing and dance about upon the moonlit green. we'll breathe the misty morning air. we'll drink the raindrop dew. we'll eat from ripe fruit-bearing bush, red, black, and berry blue. faith in love, faith in luck, faith in fairy will... hand in hand, arm in arm, trust the fairy 'til... ...the cool slim wrists and slender chestr bait the wistful wand. the soaring song of fairy love from moist red lips is drawn. until the sun does rise again and bring the peaceful dawn, the laughs subside to milky sleep, soft snores replace the songs. come out, come out, wherever you are...

(reprinted from Bay Windows with the author's permission) The Don't Bee by Michael J. Emery

Gnarly? Never! He's Poised for James Broughton by Edward Mycue James' games are famed, lithe little dapper cheeky puckers— not like some muckers all beef and all brawn. No, James is a fawn a-prancing and dancing; a peach of a guy who'd love to up hold you; then tell you he told you; then do it again. Say, when. Gnarly? Never! James has poise, is one of the boys, partakes of their joys (here rime something with toys!— but avoid being ex plicit in case that might limit him only to Gables when Grables are also a part of our show: avoid "no"). Say: "James," you say "YES"; James is as lush and as silly as a druid. This dear fawn is also subtle, fit. And he'd be a darn sight brighter than to sit here stuck at my typewriter. So, to take his example, I'll scramble.

on Romper Room he refused to call her MISS MELODY & when the group circled counterclockwise he walked the other way. after a long time his nice wife & kids got sick of him too & left for the Gulf, hoping the infinity of waves skimming in would tattoo their minds back to blank books. at home the appliances go on strike— the microwave refuses to irradiate frozen dinners, & the can opener's on the blink. only the leaf blower in the yard continues to come to life, its air-raid drone making the neighbors stand at their curtains, as he gathers leaves in piles, he finally decides to circle the yard counterclockwi s e . but the next day he's still stuck alone with his morning hard-on, waking up & no one to play with.*

LUNAR CALENDAR Blessed be, This summer we will have a number of spectacular phenomena to observe in the heavens. Hopefully, we'll have some beautiful clear evenings to see them. On July 1st, Uranus will conjunct the asteroid Vesta. If you know where to look and have a telescope, you'll get to see something quite unique. On the 2nd, Saturn and Neptune will be opposite the sun. This means they will rise at sunset as the evening stars and will be visible all night long. Also, on that day, Mercury will conjunct Jupiter. You'll have to be up before dawn to see them as a dou ble morning star. It should still be possible to see them on the morning of the 3rd. On the evening of the 3rd, we will be privileged to see an extremely rare phenomena. Sat urn will pass directly in front of the star 28 Sagattarii. If viewed through a telescope, it will be quite spectacular. The evening of the 4th will provide us with yet another beautiful sight. The very thin crescent of the new moon will be in very close conjunction with the evening star, Venus. Then on the evening of the 11th, Venus and Mars will be In conjunction just above the horizon right after sunset. This Is just another of the double stars we can see this year. July will end with a firey display of the Delta Aquarids meteor shower on the evening of the 31st. They and their lesser companions, the Capricornids, are many times golden in color. They will be coming out of the south at a rate of several dozen an hour. Being the eve ning before the new moon, they should be very visible.

AI RE 5

TAURUS GEMINI

August begins with the new moon on the 1st. That evening, the meteor shower of the previous evening will still be visible. If you miss it on the evening of the 31st, you'll have a second chance to see it. On the 2nd, the moon, Mercury, Mars, and the star Regulus will be in a grouping on the horizon just after sunset. On the 5th, you will get to see yet another of the double stars visible this year. Mercury will conjunct Mars just above the horizon right after sunset. On the evenings of the 12th and 13th from midnight til dawn, we will be treated to the annual visit of the Perseids meteor shower which is always spec tacular. They can come as often as one a minute. Now comes the big event of the year. On the evening of the 16th, we'll get to see the first total eclipse of the moon since 1982, and the last visible one in the U.S. until 1992. It will be visible to the eastern half of the U.S. with those of you in the NW and Alaska only seeing the tail-end of it. This is regrettable since it will be quite spectacular. It will begin to enter the earth's not-very-dark peripheral shad ow, the penumbra, at 8:23 pm EDT. It will probably be around 9:00 pm before you really start to notice it. At 9:21 pm, things will really start to happen. The earth's dark central shadow, the umbra, will first touch the left side of

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Recently I have been re-reading Starhawk's book Dreaming the Dark (Beacon Press, Boston, 1982) and was reawakened to her discussion of the need for images of Father Earth (p. 87). The thoughts, which were first brought up in a discussion with a male friend, she notes struck her in a very negative, offensive way— because of her recognition that the power of the (pa triarchal) father has raged very much and long upon the Earth without needing to be revived— particularly within the Goddess religion. Yet is the image of Mother Earth enough? She describes allowing herself to experience the Earth (as) God as have I, and realized that the image of the Father Earth has been preva lent in the mythology of Earth religions. (I must add my own feeling that many exclusively Goddess-worshiping people need to be informed/ reminded of this fact--such a recognition does not seem to be apparent for many Spiritual Feminists today.)

I am an enthusiastically heterosexual male. Is my heterosexuality a virtue? A sign of right eousness? Either an accomplishment or a vic tory of some kind on my part? Of course not! I had nothing whatsoever to do with being het erosexual. Is is a mysterious gift of God's grace communicated through an exceedingly com plex set of chemical, biological, chromosomal, hormonal, environmental, developmental fac tors— totally outside my control. My hetero sexuality, however, is my personal moral, and spiritual responsibility.

Starhawk notes that Father Earth is the Green Man of the C r a f t - - t h e G o d who is p i c t u r e d crowned with leaves and twined with vines who is the spirit of vegetation— of growing things, and of the forest. She shares that the image of Father Earth for her expresses the experience that we are rooted in the earth, that we come to know the force that twines upward— that we know how it is to flower— to swell into fruit— to ripen in the sun— to drop leaves— to ferment, to be intoxi cating— that we know the cycle, over and over— that we are not apart from it (the Earth), and that it is the source of our lives.

My behavior as a heterosexual may be, there fore, very sinful— brutal, exploitative, self ish, promiscuous, superficial. My behavior as a heterosexual, on the other hand, may be beau tiful— tender, considerate, loyal other-cen tered, profound. Precisely the same distinc tion between being a homosexual and behaving as a homosexual applies to heterosexuals, unless you and I are to be guilty of the lowest blow of all, and that is to work by double stan dards .

She reminds us that the God is an animal in many forms. That he is the Horned One that his images express, rather remind us that mas tery is not all— that his image reminds us of the deeper part of ourselves, still untamed, whose strength is that of instinct— reminding us that we feel— that we smell and bleed that we can be in our bodies with animal grace— that there is an elegance, a control not imposed by the mind on nature, one that rises from the body, that arises from being in the world--in the moment, as if we belonged just as an animal belongs where it is. The God as hunter has long been an image--too long just associated with males--yet hunting is not a male quality— note Artemis.

Homosexuality, quite like heterosexuality, is neither a virtue nor an accomplishment. It is a mysterious gift of God's grace communicated through an exceedingly complex set of chemical, biological, chromosomal, hormonal, environmen tal, developmental factors totally outside my homosexual friend's control. His or her homo sexuality is a gift--neither a virtue nor a sin. What she/he dies with their homosexuali ty, however, is their personal moral, and spi ritual responsibility. Their behavior as a homosexual may therefore be very sinful— bru tal, exploitative, selfish, promiscuous, super ficial. Their behavior, on the other hand, may be beautiful— tender, considerate, loyal othercentered, profound.

We know that being a hunter is a state of con sciousness— of relaxed alertness-readiness to move swiftly to take without hesitating. She states that the Hunter is telling us that this consciousness is a doorway men can use to at tain what women do more easily— that men can develop the ability to merge— to let another being in as part of oneself— to flow around that being— to become ground as well as self.

With this interpretation of the mystery that must be attributed to sexual orientation, both heterosexual and homosexual, I clearly do not believe homosexuality is a sin. ▲ Reprinted by permission from The Parsonage Vol. 7, #1 (January 1988). Sub scriptions $15 per year. Published month ly. 555A Castro Street, San Francisco, CA 94114. Phone (415) 552-2909.

We, men as well as women who have discovered and worship the Goddess, must all recognize that the powers of life and death are united in Him as well as Her. They are not exclusively the powers of the Goddess and of women, and they cannot be contained by women alone. 14

Thus, in the God as well as the Goddess, we have positive models for our lives and changing men as well as changing women— and we come to understand and celebrate and love the Earth as our Mother and Father. ^

They are powers, as Starhawk states, which underlie all of life. Father Earth as the God is also phallic, which at this time of change seems to be surrounded with very negative images/connotations of misused power and control and danger. Yet He (Father Earth) traditional ly is the Maypole— the hermstone— the penis— the dying and reviving God. The Horned One is all--desire and terror. But He is more than just physical fertility. As the phallus He says— experience pleasure, know in you body how it/energy peaks and fades, give way to it not as the pleasure of performance and mastery, but as the deeper pleasure of the body--the deep desire you can know when you no longer deny the dark.

Reprinted by permission from BROTHERSONG. Sample issue $4, subscription (4 issues) $16 from BROTHERSONG . P.0. Box 13158, Minneapolis, MN 55414.

Letter

BY S

teven

eath

RFD addresses itself to Gay Men Everywhere and as rural men we share common pleasures as well as common tribulations. Rural living is flavor ed by local geography, politics, economics and values and most of us choose an area because in some (many) ways it suits our needs. While rural life has much going for it there always seems to be trade-offs. The trade-off for gays living in the country, at least in this part of the country, is a lack of community. It is dif ficult to get to know other gay people because we perceive ourselves to be in a hostile social environment and thus tend to be an individual population. Such perceptions exist because rural areas are generally noted for their lack of tolerance.

Thus the penis becomes a symbol of vulnerabil ity and of feeling and thus becomes freeing to men and assumes a more positive image for all, for women as well as men.

Rural values are traditionally based on religious beliefs often as defined by fundamental religions. This conservative value system leads people to have a more narrowly defined sense of acceptable behaviors and being gay is generally not con sidered acceptable behavior. As a consequence we often don’t have access to traditional me diums for meeting or socializing with others, which means no source of support or comfort, no means of validating our lives. To be denied this basic need of companionship in the commun ity we were born in or choose to claim as our own, is particularly painful.

As Father Earth (the God) grows and dies with the year, He enables us to experience the sea sons, the unending cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. The God sacrifices the male potential to remove himself from the realm of birth and death— as the Goddess sacrifices her potential to remain the ground of birth and death instead of the self which suffers death. As Starhawk points out— that the Gods and God desses we are coming to know reveal themselves in living women and men and they change--and thus the myths change— and such seems to me the situation now as we as changing men and women come to more fully understand and celebrate the interplay of the male/masculine and female/feminine energies/ principles active and vital in creating and sustaining the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

What I want to know is how to create a sense of community for rural gays, how to create a safe environment for meeting and socializing. In the past it was sometimes sufficient to have a few "fuck buddies" and to enjoy the fun and comfort of another body on a catch as catch can basis. Not so any more. AIDS has brought an ugly re ality to the way we relate to each other. We can no longer afford the casual encounter and all the more need the comfort and support of others. Unfortunately, the social structure that we need to find and form healthy relation ships often does not exist.

The God of the patriarchy as well as the men of patriarchy have attempted in every way possible to escape from the Earth and as a result have brought on alienation/destruction of the self and body as well as of the Earth. The God of the Earth--in connection with the Goddess-wants to know His body, wants to feel life stirring in Him. He wants to know its source and to abandon Himself and become one with that source and is willing to sacrifice Himself.

I am sure many of you are faced with this same situation. You know that somewhere nearby there is probably someone you'd like to meet, someone that you could enjoy spending time with. But how the hell do you find him? Maybe RFD could be the forum for a dialogue of thoughts and suggestions regarding this issue. -riven both the pure joy of rural life and the accompanying challenges, I would be eager to hear how others have dealt with this problem. ^

The God and the Goddess, the Father and the Mother, each move in their own way, following their own paths to the Source— to the heart of the Earth where they must fully encounter each other and discover that She is not the encom passing Earth, but a self and that He is not immortal, but is an animal and part of the Earth— an important discovery for both. 15

Three of us go to my trial; traffic violations and a judge making bad jokes. Well, he's a jerk, but maybe he won't be too bad with the sex cases.

United F riiit COAUMNY

Guess again. "I see this happened at the Vince Lombardi Service Area. We've had over 400 cases out of that one men's room." And the three of us realize this judge knows it's entrapment, and is happy to go along with it. "It gets to the point where normal people can't use the restroom." Who's going to believe he actually said that? Seven men arraigned that night. "Do you have children? Well, then, do you have nieces or nephews? How would you feel if your nephew saw what happened in that men's room?"

(JETS PISSED! My sisters from the United Fruit Company (a small activist group of gay men from Boston) and I were on our way home from the AIDS ac tions in DC last October, still coming down from the civil disobedience that morning at the FDA. We stopped at the Vince Lombardi Service Area on the New Jersey Turnpike for gas and a piss. I went in to the restroom; as I was washing my hands to leave, I saw two men cruis ing me in the mirror. Both were good looking— in their twenties, short dark hair, jeans, flannel shirts, work boots. One was standing at the urinal beating off, the other was lean ing against the back wall groping himself and moaning at me. Wild! I went up to the urinal; the one against the wall leaned over trying to watch me take my cock out, and then came over to the urinal next to me.

And how do we answer? How do we answer this judge accusing us of what we've always been taught was shameful? How do we answer this judge who could put us in the Bergen County jail for six months? How do we answer when we know we've done nothing wrong? Some mouth the words the judge wants to hear, some on the verge of tears. And most both at once. We, men arrested in a bathroom for public lewd ness, came from Massachusetts and Missouri and Virginia that night, threatened with jail. For some of us, our jobs were at stake, for some our lovers, for some our wives. How many had friends to go with them, a community to support them? This is something men kill themselves over.

The both began to jack off, one on each side. I was getting turned on. But it was all hap pening too quickly, and they s e emed to be hiding their cocks. It seemed weird, and any way, the Fruits were waiting for me. The two of them stared at my cock as I buttoned my jeans and turned to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed them nod to each other. "Oh, shitl Fag bashers!" I thought--I knew there'd been something wrong. As I hurried toward the door they hurried after me. "Sir. Sir. Sir!" I felt a hand on my shoulder. "You're under arrest."

Who is expendable? is it our turn?

We want to stop this. If you've been entrapped at the Vince Lombardi and are interested in a civil suit, contact Lambda Legal Defense (666 Broadway; New York, NY 10012) or Gay and Les bian Advocates and Defenders (GLAD; P.O. Box 218; Boston, MA 02112). We'd also like to hear what happened to you, and anything that happens about the civil suit. So spread the word: if you're heading north on the New Jersey Turnpike don't wait till the last service area before the George Washington Bridge to stop for gas and a piss. ^ Jon Autiello, Bruce Goldstein, Jeremy Grainger, Stephen Harrington, Abe Rybeck, Danny Schultz, Read Weaver

And what is it that we think is so terribly wrong about sex in a bathroom? Consensual sex between gay men in a restroom is criminal, sexual harassment against women on the street is business as usual. What is going on here?

United Fruit Company Box UFC GCN 62 Berkeley Street Boston, MA 02116

You want to ask these cops, "What drew you to this line of work?" It's a question worth asking. Here's another one: How many men make their living as queer bashers? What does the existence of qovernment-funded queer bashing tell us about the world we live in? ▼

When

Over 600 men have now been arrested at the Vince Lombardi Service Area. At $805 a whack New Jersey has made a half-a-million dollars arresting gay men.

What is it that's illegal here? Public sex? Is this really a law against pulling out one's penis in front of a urinal? We found out later, many of the men who've bee arrested just stayed in the restroom too long. At least one man was cruised by a cop outside the restroom. Anyone who doesn't run away at the hint of public sex is subject to arrest. This is a law against being gay.

Whom do we write off?

We're signing this letter as a group because gay oppression and sex-phobia affect us all— not all of us can be out being arrested for public lewdness.

▼

New Age Brain Rot and Recovery at 7000 Feet

by Hal Myers

"I don't know how you can do it. . .[pause].. . but I'm glad somebody can." As often as someone has said this to me, I'm surprised that I'm always somewhat taken aback. The "it" which they say they couldn't do is work in an AIDS program. I want to say: "It's not like that." I stop myself, realizing "it" is "like that" for the person I'm talking with. I want to say: "Sure, it's hard sometimes, but mostly it's like being seven years old and making chocolate pudding with my mom and sister." How can I convey that feeling? How can I explain this, which I grasp intuitively but intellectually understand so poorly? I've been in Santa Fe too long. In less than three years I've started thinking in terms of "synchronicity," "transformation," and "co-creation." I got clean and sober in time to witness my own case of brain rot. Too little oxygen at 7000 feet. Or maybe its the New Age smorgasbord I'm surrounded by. I'm definitely embarassed. I want to say that I'm doing AIDS work as a kind of reverse missionary, going into the jungle to save myself, rather than the natives. And I want to talk about Tobias Schneebaum and Wild Man, and the richness of my experiences, and grappling with co-dependency. I settle on something like this: "I'm in recovery, and this is one place where the issues are pretty basic. I do this work because I get back as much as I give." I usually leave out the part about being put there by my Higher Power. As far back as I can remember, I was "different" in some way or other. I always felt vaguely inappropriate. Puberty brought a keen focus to those feelings. I worked hard between pubescence and my first awkward attempts at coming out six years later at age eighteen. I put a lot of energy into attempting to obliterate my fantasies and my desire. I internalized self-lo a th in g . In Dan Q uayle's hom etown--m y hometown-the only word I had ever heard which could describe my condition was that I was a "queer." I'd been raised in a bland protestant denomination. Even in the absence of eternal damnation, though, I'd gotten their message. So it was simple enough when I came out. They'd lied to me about who I was, and They'd lied to me just about everything else. They could drop napalm on children and expect me to believe there's a just God? In 1967 I found a community of support in the antiwar and student protest movements. Drugs and sex

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became ways of joyously connecting to It All, to Something greater than my radical aloneness. I could help reinvent the world while I reinvented myself. (It never occurred to me at the time that most of the sex was clandestine because I rightly sensed that so many of my new-found brothers and sisters were queasy about homosex.) No matter. Psychedelics helped me fit into a Universe more vast and full of wonder than my former religion could have allowed me to imagine. With LSD I could have direct experiences which were self-confirming and which bypassed my intellect. Compared to some, I suppose, my binge drinking and the amount of drugs I consumed were "moderate." But for me, they'd become a problem. I would sometimes have unpleasant heart ariythmias when I smoked pot, and hangovers were almost guaranteed whatever amount of alcohol I drank. After moving from Atlanta to Santa Fe, 1 noticed that there were times when I was under stress that 1 wanted to have a drink. I decided that at those times, in particular, I would abstain. I met a man in Santa Fe who breathed, ate, drank, and slept AA. He talked about it incessantly. It seemed that he had substituted this addiction to AA for his previous pill and booze habits. His zeal about AA was that of a tent preacher, and it turned me off. One day when I was discussing my decision not to use when I felt a strong desire to do so, he simply said: "Sounds like you've got a problem. Why don't you go to a meeting with me. If you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like it, fine. If you do, who knows?" Nearly three years later, I go to meetings like I used to drink, in spurts. I have been completely abstinent from drugs and alcohol, and although I do not actively practice the 12 Steps in any routine way, the philosophy has definitely had an impact in my daily life. What all this has to do with the "Spirituality" theme of RFD is this: I used drugs for two primary purposes. First, as "dope to cope," and, second, as a way of feeling the connection between myself and the universe. Along the way, I had some wonderful, transcendent experiences, and I had some shitty experiences. What I came to see, however, is that substances are like static on a radio; they partially obscure the full beauty of the music. After helping me feel the connections, I confused that aspect of my use with a belief that substances were a necessary part of that connection. Today, "clean and sober," I know that's not true.

F o r ^

An expae**lon o$ ihaaed thought*, \>i*ion*, and action* taken to cAeate and nuAtuAe in ten tio n a l cormunitie*. FA.ee [contribution* welcomed). Waite cfo Jim Hankie, 496 El Capitan, Palo AUo, CA 94306 [415] 493-3398 drawing by Charles Donavan 17

DESIGNS by Denise Newborn

When I left Nashville at the end of 1986 to live in the mountains of North Carolina, I was "leaping empty-handed into the void" as the Runes say. I had no job, no place to live, and not much money. I told the people I met that I was here to start my own clothing business and that I didn't know why but I had a strong urge to live in the mountains. I had no idea at the time what I would make, or how to run a busi ness. I was afraid to begin, so I took a job working for a designer in town producing her clothing. This was a valuable experience to learn how I did not want my business to be. I left the job, and floated in limbo for a while, then went to Central America for close to two months. For the last week we stayed at the pyramid sites in Palenque, Mexico, and I did a ritual inside a waterfall in the jungle for r e l easing my old fears and ways of doing things, and choosing to learn how to manifest my visions. As I laid on the smooth, ancient stone and felt the water rushing past, I knew this ritual had power. When I returned to the U.S., after recovering from culture shock, I began doing Wild Child Designs full-time.

had a feeling I might go through some hard times due to my own internal blocks, and I did. There were times when I was so frustrated and overwhelmed with what felt like my total lack of ability to deal with this undertaking that I would lie on my studio floor and cry. The first nine months was like a term of pregnancy, with extreme highs and lows. We did three craft shows, each time receiving so much sup port and enthusiasm that I was once again ex cited to continue. January, 1989, was the end of the first nine m o n t h s . . . I had several dreams of pregnancy, and then one of a beauti ful and aware baby boy wrapped in my favorite fabric. My thoughts and actions about the business made a tremendous shift, and I real ized this enterprise was much easier than I'd been making it... that it could be an exhil arating game instead of a struggle. The Wild Child was born! The next inspiration was a piece of sea-green cloth, who had whispered to me when I found it, "Sea Goddess!" I picked it up months later in perplexity, trying to figure out how I would create a Sea Goddess from what looked at the time more like a table cloth. Eventually I did what I often still do... stopped thinking about it, pulled out other beautiful fabrics that went well with it, and allowed the fabric to tell me what to do. I started placing and cutting fabric, and soon a pattern evolved, and I knew what I was doing! When I work this way, my mind gets to learn humbleness about being the last to catch on... fortunately, she enjoys surprises.

I was first inspired with fabric while in Nash ville, where I met some gypsies passing through who made wild creative clothing using applique art-work. I was drawn to them immediately, and e x c i t e d a b o u t w o r k i n g in the m e d i u m of fabric... it was a safe way to express myself because it wasn't what I had been conditioned to believe was "Art," so I could relax my harsh standards on my own creativity. We decided we would stage a "happening" on Halloween night. We sewed for days on costumes, put up signs, and on Halloween eve we went to the park and put up bells, ribbons, and homemade musical instruments. We chanted and danced with many different people we never would have met other wise. That was my first taste of Planet Art... and my discovery that sharing music and dance is one of the most effective ways to create peace in the community, and the world.

At the first two shows I did, the Sea Goddess was the focus of awe and admiration. Something about her spoke to people, and captured their imagination. Since my spirituality is oriented towards the Earth's cycles and the elements, the next step was natural... a robe represen ting each element. Later this expanded to include the moon, the Horned God, and virtually any natural force or spiritual archetype ima ginable. Sewing a magic robe is like immersing yourself in one aspect of creation so deeply that it takes you beyond time and space to the place where all the essences are connected.

Where does clothing fit in with all of this? When I started Wild Child in May, 1988, I still had no idea, I only knew I felt compelled to make clothing, that I am a multi-media artist, and that somehow it would all fit together. I 18

By the fall of '88, Deb Criss was working with me part-time, creating the Earth robe, and some powerful designs for blouses and ponchos. Her arrival into Wild Child brought the element of multi-media performance into it. She is in an all-womon visionary band called Grandmother, and began to wear some of the clothing onstage. Some of the robes were worn for a performance of the Goddess chants, and for a full moon circle. The bright colors and evocative de signs added a whole new dimension. It was then that I started seeing ways that my earlier vision of combining wearable art with perfor mance could be manifested. Next to evolve was the Peace Ambassador. In spired by the Faery skirt (made from camouflage with bright ribbons around the hem) Deb and I conceptualized a shirt, which she made for her son. Made from camouflage fabric, appliqued on back was a dove rising from a pool of dark red into a golden sphere. On front she embroidered a peacekeeper (based on the Cherokee tribe where certain Grandmothers hold the vision of peace). We both got tremendously inspired with this design as a tool for transforming con sciousness while doing something we love. It was quite a revelation to become aware of the impact that socially conscious wearable art could have on our culture. We immediately began receiving orders for them, and Deb began sewing them. She soon began to experience difficulties working with it as painful associ ations of the Vietnam War resurfaced, and han dling it for hours was exhausting. I didn't feel much like working with it either. Then I had a dream where a guide showed me a symbol for transforming war into peace. It was a pyramid with nine spheres, five at the base, then three, then one. It was to be sewn onto every camouflage garment we made. After wor king with it a while we have come to understand it as the transition from fear-fragmented group consciousness, through the sacred trinity, to the source, the One. Since we have incorpor ated this symbol our peace ambassadors have become a joy to work with.I I have one I wear myself, and am noticing my consciousness about bamouflage changing. I am able to remain peaceful and centered when I see it. I still do not approve of what it repre sents. However, my anger and fear projected toward those who are already acting out their violence in a destructive way can be of no help to the situation. People polarizing themselves into irreconcilable opposites has always been the root of the problem, and the peace movement is no different. To self-righteously say w§. are peaceful and they are violent, is to ap proach world peace from separateness, which can never achieve it. What can achieve it is ack nowledgment of each person's wholeness, which means that we all contain within us the entire spectrum of human qualities. Most of us have accepted only part of that spectrum to form our identity. It is essential to recognize th$t we all have within us the potential for violence and terror, and that we may be running an emo tional arms race instead of a physical one. When I wear a camouflage garment with bright colors and symbols of peace and femininity, I

am acknowledging unity with the human race, that I have my own negativity that I sometimes struggle with, and yet, out of all the realm of possibilities, peace is my highest choice. Imagine a peace demonstration of thousands who have transformed their consciousness about the military to love, acceptance, and feeling at one with all humans no matter how they are disguised... for thousands to stand up and say NO to war out of this kind of love rather than anger and fear... how much more healing, how much more effective it will be! After the peace ambassador evolved, many more designs came through easily. Each piece is unique, and it's like getting to know a new friend, with its own name and its own essence, as each one is created. Doing custom order work has been especially enjoyable, since each one is a collaboration, and what emerges is something that neither myself nor the person ordering it might have thought of alone. Sew ing a design that is meaningful to someone is like an open channel to a soul connection, and very nourishing to both. When I realized how important this connection was, I began to think also of sewing affirmations into clothing, so that it would have a strong field of positive thought for the wearer. This was undoubtedly inspired by Morgan Le Fey in the Mists Qf lon. sewing protective spells into the scabbard of King Arthur. When I started doing this business I finally understood the truth of what she was doing. I've read somewhere that magic is what seems to have happened when one sees the end product and not the process. After doing this for a while, I'm convinced that the "creative process" is really quite ordinary and natural, and requires no special talents other than focus, persistence, believing in yourself, and being open to your soul for inspiration. Everyone is creative, it's part of being human, it's simply that some are more aware of and nurturing toward this part of themselves than are others. One thing I've always loved about the Faery Gatherings is that they always seem to bring out everyone's innate creativity, and spontaneous art happens joyfully everywhere. Our vision for the clothing of Wild Child De signs is to provide symbolic tools to encourage people to embrace their wholeness, and wear their choice for peace. It is also to empower them to remember that we are all artists, and to recover their enthusiasm for an expressive medium that feels best to them. Clothes with powerful fields of positivity are one way of doing this, and our main way at this point. Another way of doing this, perhaps a little more in the future, is through the creation of multi-media, participatory, Planet Art events. Planet Art is the idea that in its most inclu sive definition, art means to harmonize, and that world peace can be created through all people empowering themselves with the love and strength that comes from sharing creativity with others. This spring Wild Child will pres ent a ‘line of clothing with Planet Art as the theme. Wild Child Designs is a direct-order only com pany, which enables us to sell to you for a much lower price than if we had to take into consideration the doubled prices at retail shops. A full color catalogue is available by sending $3.Q0 to Wild Child Designs, P.O. Box 278, Asheville, N.C. Spread the word!

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# ■ ^ = V 2nI ^ ‘T s r ^ ' T S \ ' / ^ r K j 7 p ^ u c i K / ^ Losing a relationship, even a bad one, can be, and usually is, a major trauma. Too often we deny the impact of such a loss and tell our selves to "get over it" which means for many of us to get into a new relationship with all due haste. This may help us minimize our pain in the short run. In the long run we produce one relationship after another in which we stay confused and unhappy three-quarters of the time. After enough of these, we develop a distaste for romance thinking love too much t r o u b l e to pursue. We con c e d e that "love hurts" and retire to polish our cynicism.

STEP THREE:

STEP FOUR:

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ACKNOWLEDGE THE DIFFICULTY

THIS IS A TEST

The test may come in the form of a crisis or inertia or a little to a lot of both. The question that we are forced to confront is about our capacity to give and receive love. This is perhaps the most critical point in the process. It is a turning point where we have the opportunity to let go of the past (the fantasy that s/he will return and all will be happy ever after). It is at this point that we are often in such despair that we reach out to others for help. STEP FIVE:

These two notions are more connected than we generally admit. Falling in love again with an unmended broken heart ought to carry a surgeon general's warning as being dangerous to one's health. What is often unclear (no songs on the radio to tell you this) is how exactly do you mend a broken heart so that falling in love again is possible and has a reasonably good chance for success. Being precise in affairs of the heart is impossible. Our hearts are too different one from the other to prescribe spe cific remedies. What may be more helpful is a description of a process in seven steps that make a bridge between the trauma of heartbreak and the possibilities of new love.

NOTICE WHAT IRRITATES YOU

Notice also who irritates you and why, and then imagine you are looking in a mirror. Ask your self whit is it about yourself that you need to change in order not to repeat the past. In AA this is called a moral inventory. In therapy it is called dealing with your shit. STEP SIX:

PLOUGH, FERTILIZE, PLANT AND WAIT

Adjusting your life to match your new-found realizations is work but it has its season. Once your ploughed your field, your moral in ventories should provide enough shit to fertil ize it. Then plant your hopes and dreams, taking care to sow exactly what you want, then wait. Waiting can be one of life's greatest difficulties. It can also be an opportunity to clean out closets, balance your accounts, deep en your friendships and refine your sense of humor.

ACKNOWLEDGE THE LOSS

Your life has been disrupted and at this point there is no figuring it out. Console yourself with this: most relationships die of natural causes (bad timing, immaturity, too much stress and strain). Be compassionate with yourself (and your ex). It's easier to blame than feel the pain. STEP TWO:

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I have yet to encounter an adult human being who has not had some experience with sexual violence. Statistics on rape, incest, physical and sexual abuse, gay bashing and domestic violence are staggering. We are also vulner able to depression and panic attacks, to addic tions and physical illnesses, including sexual ly transmitted ones. It is difficult in such an emotional environment to foster love, to keep love alive. This is just the truth.

In both my psychotherapy practice and in my life and the lives of my friends, I am aware of how much of our spare time is spent dealing with or denying our heartbreak. Fear of rejec tion and falling in love are obsessions. Top 40 radio alternates these themes sung country, sung rock, sung rhythm and blues. Experiment with your favorite top 40 station. Listen for an hour and see how many songs played don't fall into the categories of heartbreak and desire. It's as if there were nothing else to sing about. In titling this article I use two old standards that I can hear clearly as if I had a jukebox in my brain: A1 Green wondering "how do you mend a broken heart?," Marlene D i e trich croo n i n g about "falling in love again."

STEP ONE:

STEP SEVEN:

BE PARTICULAR

The poet James Broughton says in his 75. Life Lines that true love is a result of two things: mutual lust and equality of soul. Don't settle for anything less. Do continue to care for yourself and to notice what in your life nour ishes you. Take your time. Talk to your friends. Pay attention to your dreams. Listen to the wisdom of your newly mended heart.

TAKE TIME TO BE WITH YOURSELF

In solitude we can tune into our inner wisdom. We all keep secrets from ourselves. We hold things in the confidence of our unconscious until we are strong enough and safe enough to hear our heart's true stories. Sometimes we require the equivalent of a personal earthquake to see through the cracks of our beliefs into the depths of our souls. Heartbreak can be that earthquake.

These steps are useful not only in finding a new lover but in finding a new love with the lover you have. It is also important to note that there are tools that expedite the process, that make it safer and add richness and depth.

Among these tools are: journal keeping--write down your feelings, your dreams, your visions. meditation— find ways to tune into yourself deeper, to touch the deeper parts of yourself. politics--when we understand the odds we're up against, doing something about injustice and oppression can help us feel more fully active. art— write it out, weave it out, draw it out, dance it out, carve it out, cast it out. therapy— a process of healing and self-under standing to be gone into with much care and commitment. community— an informal group of friends or a more formal group (group therapy, peer support, 12 step programs such as AA, AlAnon, Co-depen dents Anonymous, healing circles, religious groups) that supports your growth and appreci ates your gifts. magic— the way in which you focus and direct your imagination. Some people light candles, others recite psalms or sutras. We each must find our own magic that corresponds to the needs of our unique imaginations.

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continued from page 00

Give him my love before a world ended with frost on the trees, and the first thin ice on the lake, in the first winter's morning of 1984. Marc drained half the bottle, and set it in the bright sun at the edge of the otherwise totally shaded table. Everything was hot and silent. Marc's cat idled up from the cellar and rubbed against Marge's leg. In a lull of the muted traffic noise from First Avenue a few yards up the block from the gate behind the hedge, for a moment the only sound was the tapping of Marc's paring knife against the cutting board. Marge looked up hesitantly before she spoke. "Uhh... How's Evreme, Marc?" For a few seconds there was no answer. "About as well as can be expected, I guess." "Is he still... did he, uhh, parents' summer place okay?"

Finally, falling in love again we must give up some of our control, i.e., when you're holding on tight how then can you fall? What we can hold on to is what we've learned about our selves in the process of recovery. That know ledge is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for the rest of our lives.

♦—

EPHREM

get

off to his

"Well... that would have been difficult. But Jacob found him a place, not far from there." "The priest?

From Saint Cyril's?"

"Yes, that's the one. A place up near Liberty, where they've... where there're others, and a special staff..."

o --- ♦

Franklin Abbott, LCSW, is a psychotherapist in private practice with Ansley Therapy Associ ates. He co-hosts "Soundings" every Thursday afternoon from 1 to 2 on WRFG, FM 89.3 (Atlan ta) and facilitates at the Circle of Healing. He edited the anthology Nev£ Mg.ru. Ngyi Mjadgj Breaking Male Tradition and has worked with the journals RFD and Changing Men.

There was only the sound of chopping while. Marge finished her beer. Marc sighed. Sunday." "Gosh, Marc.

"I'm going

see

for

him.

Please give him my love."

Please give him my love. Give him my love before everything slides and crumbles; before all form and color are gone.

Dear Brothers: I’m looking for Phalli c ar t and ritual objects for my coll ec t ion They can be old, conte mpor ar y . international, domesti c , p r l*1tive, folk, also jewel ry fetishes. Must be made fro m natural materials (no pla S t i c dildoes please1) descr lbe , P r ice and photo if possible. Th ank PHALLOS: is a national con ta ct club for well hung men and admirers. For more inf or ma ti on please write: Joe Lembo PO Box 640444 San Francisco, CA 941 64

our m m m by T E R R Y DELIMONT For all of you anglers, there's quite a choice of spots to pick from. Just down off our little mountain is big Beaver Lake. It's so large that each cove seems to pro vide a different style of quality fishin'. If yer a wantin' to go after crappie; there's the Horse shoe Bend area that best suits your catch. Live minnows and small crappie jigs will keep you reelin' 'em in most all day long.

Hi, Ya'll! Welcome back to Rocky Top Farm! Ya'll are lookin' great; and I see ya remembered to toss in yer fishin' poles for this trip. That's just what the doc tor ordered; so we'll all go catch us a few here directly. Ya'll come on up here on the front porch and sit a spell while we decide which fishin' hole we're gonna try out. Mountain Boy is gonna fetch us some of his famous home made apple cider; then we can get us a little overview of all the local Ozark ponds and lakes. Homemade cider? Why sure! Mountain Boy and I make all we can out of what we raise right here at Rocky Top. Most all summer we're a harvestin' and a cannin' around here. We raise pears, apples, cotton, strawberries, blackberries ---- now there's a thought! Mountain Boy has a country recipe for Blackberry Cobbler that'll melt yer sweet tooth plum off. Afor ya'll leave this weekend, he'll whip us up one; then I'll see to it that ya'll each git a copy of the recipe. He's just prouder than punch over things 1 ike that. Now; if everybody has their mug of cider, let's take a gander at some of the local fishin' hot-spots.

Bass fishermen need to go to the Lost Bridge section of the lake. The clear, cool water of this cove hold record making white and black bass. They been running real good on worm-tail spinners this year. Remember that Arkansas law requires that bass be at least 12 inches in length to be legal; but fishin' at Lost Bridge usually nets the real big ones --- 'specially early in the morning; up to about noon. Now; over by Beaver Dam, larger lures are used to haul in the big Striper. Some of these fish have been recorded to be larger than a man's leg; so be prepared for a heavy workout on the days you fish in this area. Below the Dam is the beautiful, misty White River. Trout fishermen travel hundreds of miles every year just to come here and do battle with the wily rainbow trout. There's little that can top the sight of one of those beauties dancing out of the water at the end of your line. Of course, all of the fish I've mentioned live throughout the entire lake area — along with perch, suckers, and catfish. Any area you choose will offer a wide variety of challenges. Mountain Boy and I have a special likin' for catfish ourselves. There's two real special spots in the area that provide us with all we can carry. The first one is Lake Winsor; located at about the center , Arkansas. The second (our favorite) is Lake Gentry; just a mile or so west of the rural community of Gentry, Ar kansas, Lake Gentry is unique because its waters are used to cool down the area coal-fired electric plant; located on the lakes south east shore. The water that returns to the lake is heated (naturally); so fishin' remains active when other lakes become too cold due to changing seasons. If you're really in terested in big, strong catfish; these two lakes are considered a must. Oh; Mountain Boy just reminded me. We got us a couple of catfishin' secrets fer ya. One of the catfishes most favorite things to eat is liver. I'm sure ya'll know from experience how slimy and soft that stuff is though. Well; we've discovered a perfect way to keep the dif ficult stuff on our hooks when

we're fishin'. Find you an old pair of sheer nylons. Cut the material into squares about 1^ inches across. If ya take a small piece of liver and wrap it in each square like little tote-sacks; you've got the perfect fish bait. The liver still attracts the big ones and the nylon keeps it on your hook waitin'

While Mountain Boy fires up the old pickup truck, let's gather everybody's tackle and poles so we can be off fer the fishin' banks.

Plus; there's an old fishin' story what says catfish always are found at the bottom of the lake. Like most fishin' stories; it ain't completely so. After sundown, catfish always come up to the top of the water to feed. The best catfishin' is always done between dusk and full daylight. During that time the catfish are always found in the top two feet of water — no matter where you are fishin'.

AUTHORS NOTE; By the way; anyone wanting copies of the homespun recipes mentioned in "Out With the Hillbillys" may have them by writing to the Rocky Top Hillbilly c/o RFD. See ya next issue!

Fer all you what's stayin' behind; ya'll take care, play safe, and don't let the coals die in the campfire.

Now that only skims the surface of the fishin' possibil ities in these here parts. There's over 35 lakes in the four counties that make up Northwest Arkansas alone; plus over a dozen major rivers and creeks. There's no end to the choices that are available! Ya'11 made it back to Rocky Top at a real momentous time this year. The entire county is a gearin' up for the big Sugar Creek Days Festival right now. Benton County is one of the oldest; most historic areas of Arkansas — especially with all the Civil War history that was made here. So every year the population joins together to celebrate the past and enjoy the spring. Every town is a hostin' craft parades, music shows, cos tume contests, antique auto shows, and cookouts. There's even bed races scheduled in one town. What's a bed race? Well, I asked the same question cause the only time I run to bed is when Mountain Boy well, you get the idea, I bet. Anyway; a bed race is when a metal-framed bed is put on wheels so it can roll. Six teammates are assigned to each bed. Three must ride on the bed while the other three push it down a marked off course. When they reach the end; everybody trades places — 1 the three that rode down have to push the other three back. All team members are required to wear pajamas (or nightshirts) and house slippers; so they really look hilarious when they run. That's only the beginning of the fun! The local costume contests require that individuals dress as their ancestors did years ago here in Arkansas. We always try to take a special trip into town for this event due to our own personal family histories. Yep; Mountain Boy here is a member of the true Old-Timers Club. He was born and raised right here in these Ozark hills; a fer-real native. I'm what they call a "transplant" though. My family is descended from Buffalo Bill Cody and I was born and raised on the prairies of Kansas, Nebraska, and Colorado. I moved to these parts after I growed up. Those tiny bits of history in everybody's personal background sure make these costume contests excitin' though. Why; it's almost like watchin' a walkin', talk in' live museum! Oh; and then there's food! Outdoor cookin' at its very finest! Ya'll have just got to try it to believe how perfection is borned over an open fire! Speakin' of food; ya'll just have to come back to Rocky Top this fall around County Fair time! We can hit the local midways together and share some of the best home canning on this earth! Now that's a ticket; we'll have a blast!

Barefoot Country Boy bv

Martin

When the weather turns warm most of us usually dress down. Many of us go barefoot and never give that experience a second thought. Or should we? This article focuses on the fasci nation of the male foot, a brief history of foot fetishism, and the relevance for country me n . Why discuss feet? What is there to discuss? A remnant of cultural conditioning encourages gay men to "cruise" and "score," with the emphasis on the crotch as "ground zero." Few men real ize that other parts of the body (such as bare feet) can be as seductive and sensual as the crotch. Men are attracted to feet, even though many might deny this fact. Why this denial? One reason is presented in W.A. Rossi's The Sex Life 2l t.hJS. ShflS a M fQ&fc. (1976, New York: Saturday Review Press). Ros si's non-gay analysis of foot fetishism essen tially says that feet are erotic and sexually stimulating. This is why most industrial soci eties, prodded by religious pressures, encour age their citizens to wear shoes and to keep their feet hidden from sight. Rossi states that even a poor country like Mexico subsidizes the cost of shoes for all its citizens — an unbelievable expenditure considering the cur rent state of the Mexican economy. 23

All of us have seen a handsome man to barefoot and took notice of him (and maybe of his feet). Think about the man now, "what was it about his feet that drew my attention?" Could it be the curved outline of his feet as he picked up each foot while walking? Could it be the way the toes wiggled? Could it be how smooth and dirty his bare feet appeared?

The following opinions are my own and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the The Fo ot Fraternity . The demographics of "The Frat" are that 80% to 100% of its members in any given state reside in a major city. I wrote to 50 "Frat" men during one year and consistently found many common traits: they prefer people over animals, cities over nature, "culture" over outdoor adventure, fast food over real food, etc. Well, I think you under stand my drift. There may be a leu of men into feet out in the world, but how many of them are country men?

The sexual sensation is strong. If you've ever played with the bare feet of a hiking partner the smoothness of his feet and close-up view while you rub his feet can give an unexpected hard-on. Unless you've experienced this "feel ing" for male feet, it is difficult to under stand the fascination for the male foot.

TFjE COUNTRY EXPERIENCE Country folks can better appreciate the experi ence of going barefoot. The physical ensation (why does it "feel good" going barefoot?) is very evident since men prefer barefoot'n it on the cool grass of a country meadow, rather than on the rough and hot concrete and asphalt of the city (although I once met a barefoot young man who preferred the city!). How many of you go fishing from a dock on a hot day and dangle your feet in the cool water? When working in a garden, do you usually wear shoes? As any Californian surfer (and there are many barefoot beach boys down there!) will tell you "the best footwear is no footwear." This was the time less wisdom for the American Indians, as they wore thin leather moccasins or went barefoot.

Why hasn't foot fetishism been discussed more openly? Probably because most men are still in a process of "reclaiming their bodies" in which the Christian-based hate message of this socie ty proclaims that feet are bad, disgusting, diseased, and unworthy of attention. Rossi's book covers that aspect in greater detail. For example, how many of us have been labeled a "barefoot country boy?" What does that mean? The "country boy" part sounds familiar to all of us. The "barefoot" part implies that we are uncivilized. I tend to view this as a compli ment, since our "rural civilization" has a "culture" based on nature! When a society looks down at barefooters, that society is afraid to look at. itself. To wear shoes is a vote for the city. To go barefoot is a vote for nature.

There is an emotional outlet connected with the feeling of going barefoot (why does it "feel good?"). If I'm filled with negative emotions, I take off my shoes and socks and I soon feel relaxed. I might go on a barefoot hike through grassy fields to be alone and contemplate the world. If the weather is too cold for barefoot hiking, then you might consider spending time with a friend massaging his feet while he mas sages your feet. You'll both feel better for it.

HISTORY OF FOOT FETISHISM Although Rossi covers the origin of "foot wor s h i p , ” a brief summary is p r e s e n t e d here. China had foot fetishism between men and women as a part of its culture for over two thousand years. Foot massage, foot and toe nibbling, foot smelling, and foot worship were common. Foot fetishism, even among male friends, became a subculture in many Polynesian societies, including Hawaii, due to the warm climate of these areas (why wear shoes t h ere?). This subculture was virtually destroyed in China when the communists seized power, and toned down in Polynesia when the Christian mission aries subverted those cultures.

Finally, there is a spiritual sensation (why does it "feel good?"), which is better under stood in the context of American Indian cul tures. Does it feel natural or right when you walk on Mother Earth wearing shoes? Many, including myself, feel lost when not going barefoot because there is a direct sense of connection to the Earth and fellow brothers when there is nothing on your feet. How can country men with an interest in feet network with other such men? Sending in a contact letter to RFD would be a good place to start. If men are interested in joining a national network, you should write, and include a SASE, to: Tjje Fraterni t y , P.O. Box 24102 , Cleveland, OH 44124. The "Frat" is growing at a rate of 60-100 men per quarter, and maybe more country men will join as time progresses.

Foot fetishism as a subculture of gay culture is poorly understood and documented in the USA. Fascination with bare feet has been in the gay culture of sunny southern California and in New York City for the longest time. Foot fetishism spread through California and onto major West Coast cities, the Great Lakes area, New Eng land, and the Atlantic Seaboard. Conservative and/or low-populated areas, such as the Bible belt, the Midwest, the Inland Pacific North west, and Interior West, contain few men inter ested in feet.

CONCLUSIONS Going barefoot in the country is a positive experience. Fight the cultural conditioning that tells you to hide your feet and regard feet in such a negative way. Feet are beauti ful. If you like feet, perhaps you might talk about it with a friend. Explore this realm together. Country men have a good opportunity to do this because of our closer physical, emotional, and spiritual connection with the Earth.

To help connect men interested in feet, a club was formed in 1978 called the Foot Fraternity. Mr. Doug Gaines, its president, has advertised in widely circulated gay magazines, such as The M Y g c a t e and Drummer. Feature articles about the F&at Fraternity appeared in The Advocate and Drummer (issue #55). Over 2200 members in the USA and a few around the world have joined since the founding of the club.

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_amar ’ s g o a l i n is t o have sex man f rom eac h f i f t y s ta te s .

Arnericana--Alabama to Wyoming. He filled a Blue Horse tablet with the men he thought might dwell on shrimp-boats, sugar-beet farms, mesas way out west.

The q u e s t , waits p r o b abl y h i n t e d to h i m w h e n hie waits o n h i s first t r i p -f r o m W V t o O H ----i n ai c r o w d e d Bu i k d r i v e n f c >y H i s c o u s i n H a r k is C r a b t r e e _

"Why don't ya draw me?" Stella Deese asked, the nipples of her blouse wet where some boy had sucked her. "Or me," said John Henry Counts, caught and squeezed in his hands.

The driver and the others played the license plate game (which side could peep the most states). Curtis, in the middle of the back seat, listened. He also tried to look at both sides of the roads, streets, for men in or out of u n i f o r m - s a i l o r s to exterminators. The cousins got thirty states. Curtis, fifty-three men.

his crotch

Curtis kept a hard-on over geography, and in the boys' john. Once he reached at the trough urinal for the riled pecker of Ransom Kern. Nobody else was around so Ransom let him shuck his nubbin. Let him say he'd like to stroke that thing forever. Then ran and told the world.

And written on the wall of a john in Newcomerstown, OH, was: "Where are the quoirs? I'm a PFC. Wont a quoir to suck me." Underneath the words was a hole cut out of the wood.

"Curtis is a quoir," Ransom said. "A bum, a nation," said Stella Deese. The principal called Curtis into his office. Pulled at his cods, under a loose-fitting suit, and asked Curtis if he knew what happened to dick-grabbers, in West-by-God-Vitginia.

Curtis knew all about cornholing. About fucks between legs. And Omar Shanks had even put his mouth to the dick of his cocker spaniel, but Curtis had never heard tell of men sucking each other. Folks where he came from had too much grime. But that summer in Cleveland, he dreamt of doing such to crowds of men he saw at stockcar races, tractor pulls.

Curtis shook his head he didn't. "Cut their nuts out," the p r i n c i p a l said. "Pour turpentine in the sac. Point you towards OH." He put his hands together. Zipped one away, to hint that Curtis go.

Back in his West Virginia high school, he ig nored his lessons to read the states in the 25

smell. On page California.

Curtis did. With the signatures of his mama a n d d a d d y he j o i n e d the N a v y . "S e e the states," he said. "Alabama to Wyoming."

32 went

New York.

Page 5

Forty-seven pages were left for the others.

"Write back tell us what hit's like," his mama said.

Later he drew the men's pictures while the recruits scratched their nuts and talked of pussy.

At boot camp, in NJ, he told he had palsy, to try to explain away his trembles. All those little dicks growing into big ones? In the showers. On the bunks. All those pretty butts that looked like angel cakes? Or devil's food, for the black. Thighs and legs>decorated with hair that seemed trained to swirl or curl?

Curtis went back to The Dew Come In. For Mary land and Virginia. Louisiana and Texas. All was right with the world, until the Chief Petty Officer called him in and demanded his dog-tags. "You are not fit for the Navy," he said. And he almost threw the Blue Horse note book at him.

In the showers, he got so hard and hot he shot off i n t o I v o r y . T h e b a t h e r s saw. They pointed. Laughed. Then coddled their balls. Lathered the patches of hair just above halfhard dicks.

Curtis was too shocked to say what he'd made up. That was he was taking an art course of fered by a matchbook.

Curtis became the talk of camp, for he couldn't bathe without losing the load that had crawled up and down his dick all night while he stayed wide-awake and listened to the mumbles of the boy from Kansas, the deep snores of New York, the lip-smacks of Tennessee. When Iowa, three bunks down, thrashed around and the jerked off to a little whistle through his nose, Curtis too clawed his dick and balls and shot with him.

He had enough money for a bus ticket to Cleve land— the only other place he'd been. Enough even for two weeks of rent on a room. He got a job as a plumber's assistant (one of twenty) , but the other men laughed at the way his hands f l u t t e r e d when he p i c k e d up the pipes. They called him a "wrench fairy," "pipe pansy." Even after he showed them a picture of him in a Navy uniform.

He learned the sleep signs of sixty men--and when one of them got up for a midnight leak, Curtis followed. Two urinals away, he watched the big hoses and trembled.

They plagued him daily. Used rubbers in his lunch pail. Red panties in his tool box. In the port-a-john, someone wrote: "Hold onto yer balls. Curtis is watching." A drawing showed a stick man in a commode, his mouth and shark teeth spread for what might dangle down.

Two let him play with them (Nebraska and New York), but most just yawned and went back to their mattresses. Their snores.

Onto wet cement someone printed: Curtis Lamar, Cocksucker.

Curtis picked out one particular pattern of breathing. Fit his to it. Pretended he was snug against the boy's body.

"You're down in history," his bossman said. "Geography," jo b .

Most recruits would have dropped from the lack of sleep, but Curtis had always been a light sleeper. Dreams had always got to him. Now he lost weight, but he survived on cat-naps, when the officers were yelling, the chaplain quoting red seas.

Curtis said and walked off the

He got on at a cardboard factory. Making boxes for milk and toilet tissue. The pay wasn't good--minimum wage— but it kept him in a fur nished room and gave him enough to night roam. The machines whirred at work, and a whole week would pass without him having to say a word. He had learned that to talk was to set himself up for hurt. His lips often quivered for a say, but he bit them shut and thought of the blank pages in his booklet.

On his first pass, Curt i s s t u m b l e d onto a little bar— The Dew Come In--that had a woodhole like the one in OH. This one had instruc tions: "Suck my dick," and "Eat my balls." He sat and listened to Loretta Lynn on the juke box. In came a pair of work boots with cement icing. His heart played leap-frog as he inched his head to the hole— to see a monstrous dick half-hard and getting bigger. It barely fit through the hole.

The quest he had put back in his brain--with sailor knots and white bucks— until he jacked off a handsome drunk at the Greyhound station. Both standing at the urinals and the booths all empty.

Curtis started womping up on it. Five slurps from him, two groans from the man, and it was over.

"Alabama," the man said as he shot. Curtis knitted his brow for what.

Curtis wanted to find out where the dick was from, to get a start on his geography, but the man pulled backwards before Curtis could catch his breath.

"I come from Alabama," the man said. Curtis was still playing with the broad cockhead. Working the thick cum into the rings of foreskin, now relaxing.

From three others he had there, he did find out. He bought a Blue Horse book and in it, on page 30, he printed New Jersey— then a descrip tion of the man, his dick, his shoes, his

A child darted in. Else Curtis could have made that pole salute again.

That night he wrote "Alabama" up on page 1: 6'2", Greyhound. Thick. Coffee and new nico tine. Long-toed boots. (He couldn't be too specific. His parents, in WV, would get his belongings if he was hit by a car or the rapid transit. They and their church believed Jesus would cut the heads off Curtis' kind.) The picture he drew looked a lot like Rock Hudson, with a snarl.

jitterbug and twist. One man——an old male nurse who c l a i m e d he s ucked off A1 C a p o n e (alive)— danced by himself, ceiling poles be coming his partners when he passed them. Curtis thought of saying hey, but he overheard the bartender warn another man, "You speak to that fucker? You got a problem for life." In his room, Curtis talked to Rowdy, Cheyenne. To wagon scouts and masters. Bounty hunters and masked marvels. He said things he'd never say to men in person.

Curtis learned there were many men like him. "One in six," he overheard at The Cadillac Lounge. Rich white men came there. Fancy black men in rainbow hues. Curtis usually went to Jack's Bar, or Elaine's, to see men like himself. To The Merry Widow, for all blacks. The c o l l e g e bar, near W e s t e r n Reserve, he didn't go to. He felt he'd be out of place there.

He started building a memory box which he kept under his bed. Wallet-sized photos of his TV lovers. From the real, candy wrappers, rub bers, matchbooks. He overheard two men at the Cadillac talk about their c r u i s e to "the i s l ands," and Cu r t i s started dreaming of the big ships he'd never sailed on. He set aside a dollar a week for such a journey. He wanted variety in his note book. For two years he got only repeats--OH dick by the yard, WV, PA, NY, KY, MI.

When he started serious work on his notebook, he went to public places. The train station john in Terminal Tower. The Greyhound. Trailways. Johns in The May Company and Higbee's. In straight and gay bars. The airport. Finding dicks was easy. Asking, through a hole, or under a partition, the dick's place of birth was the hard part. He'd usually get it

He fantasized about the 50-1 shots: W Y , MT, ID, NM, SD and ND. Or the 100-1: HI and A K .

c m > i c o Q W « u JmZ u .o

«0 c 3 M k.

all riled, on the way to gushing, and then hold the shaft tight and say in his deepest voice, "Hey, buddy, where ya from?"

He l i s t e n e d hard (at the t e r m i n a l s and on buses) to hear if folks talked about their birth in such faraway places.

Sometimes they wouldn't say. A few withdrew. Zipped up and left. But within a year Curtis had ten more of the fifty— and over a hundred repeats (mostly OH, WV, PA).

He was at the Greyhound, kneeling to a Iowan (10-1) when the man's accomplice pushed Curtis’ door in and held him at knife-point until he handed over his billfold and every speck of identification he had. Along with a dime-store cellophane of Clint Eastwood and a little globe of the world— the holder for a key ring.

With a 8-cent an hour raise (and a badge that deemed him a Prince of Cardboard), he went into debt at The May Company for a TV. When he wasn't out hunting for geography, he watched the westerns. Rowdy Yates made Curtis' pecker crawl out of its barn-door. Cheyenne Body's voice alone brought on wet dreams. And Wanted Dead? Sugarfoot?

Curtis didn't dare tell the Greyhound man, much less the police. He humped his back and re turned to his room. He tried not to cry to Little Joe, showing cock in redwoods. He got out his memory box and fingered through it.

He didn't have a friend from work, or from his rooming house. A few regulars at Jack's Bar nodded to him and he nodded back. His only words were "Duke" (for another Duquesne beer) and "Where ya from?" The john there was tiny and not very active. The straight manager thought such things should be done in the pri vacy of one's home.

He called in sick the next morning. time ever.

The first

His boss wanted to know what on earth could be wrong. Curtis shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. He didn't speak for two weeks, not even to the TV.

He liked to lean into the wall of the little dance floor at Jack's and watch the couples 27

His first words damned the wind whistling off Lake Erie. The snow that came and threatened never to leave.

Rowdy and Cheyenne had long ridden off the TV. Most of the new TV men looked like the women at Curtis' cafeteria. Except Saturday mornings. They were for western re-runs.

His lunch in a paper bag, he spent Christmas at the men's john, Terminal Tower. It was warm and no janitors were around. (They seemed never to remember him when they were there. Some men they ran off, at night.) Curtis had repeats— two OHs, one PA. One W V . A LA who snorted brandy and hummed "Jingle Bells."

Ten y ears went by and C u r t i s single state. Then to box factory closed. bossman said.

He was almost ready to call it quits when in walked a pair of spit-shined wing-tips. They rocked at the urinal and then turned for the opening of Curtis' door. He didn't bother to direct the man (almost a double for Rowdy) to the next booth. He took the butt into his arms and breathed into the thick pubic hair, still crisp from the cold.

add a

"Plastic,"

the

Curtis had saved enough for a few months, but the rent doubled and the boss said he'd forgot ten to pay unemployment. Curtis moved back to W V , just in time to see his mama die. See his daddy waste away. There was no inheritance. His parents had sold the land to ward off starvation.

"Warm me up," the man said and bowed to take Curtis' mouth into his. To barrel his tongue down Curtis' throat.

No sheriff came to tell Curtis he'd have f*> leave the mountain shack. But ghosts did--his mama when she could hoe two rows to anybody else's one. His daddy when he broke a mule to the plow.

Then he rose, a ten-inch dick in warm bobble, and he gave it gently to Curtis' ready mouth. The dick tasted of new rubber and winter pines.

Curtis took his suitcase— still unpacked— and hitched to KY where his closest kin lived-Harkis Crabtree who had first showed him the world. Harkis had two jobs. A farmer of his own land, and, twenty miles away, supervisor of two state rest areas, No. 9 and, across the road, No. 10.

Curtis showed what he could do, after long practice. He roofed the dick— side-slurped it-swallowed. All so expertly that the man shot twice in ten minutes. "Best I've ever had," the man said. been far."

didn't

"And I've

"Interstate's gone come through," Harkis said. "Place's gone be big's New York City."

"Where ya from?" Curtis caught enough breath to ask . "ID," the man said. "Ever been there?" He was buttoning up. Fluffing himself.

Curtis asked him for work. Cousin Harkis hemmed and hawed that he didn't need an assistant but that he'd pay Curtis loose change if he's spend a few days at the rest areas (in a little cabin up on the hill) w h i l e H a r k i s t o o k t h e o l d l a d y o f f to Cincinnati.

To Curtis' head-shake of no, he pulled out his b i l l f o l d and g a v e C u r t i s a l i t t l e c a r d . Printed on it was "Curwin Hopkins, Public Sur veyor, Boise, ID." "Look me up, if you ever pass through," Curwin said. And was gone.

Curtis was happy to help out. A tight log cabin. Oil heat. A stove with one working eye. A radio that picked up stations and the police. The first day through the glory hole, he found a jewel. His Blue Horse took the print of his stub pencil: M T , 5'11". Red 18 wheeler. Sawdust and diesel. Brown boots. Said his fourth time that day. Said last was best.

Curtis could now tell himself happy Christmas. A 50-1 shot. And a name. Never had he gotten that. He propped the little card up on his TV table, between the enlargements of Elvis Presley and Little Joe. He changed his plan for a cruise to a bus trip to ID.

The picture was of a lumberjack, bearded and winking.

He had all that was required--a dream friend in a wa r m bed. Work. Food. TV to help the dreams along.

He had two WVs. One zipped up in a hurry and then told him he'd better get right with his Lord.

He talked himself asleep each night. Curwin this and Curwin that. He carried them through c o u r t s h ip, marriage, spats, m a ke-ups, new honeymoons on which he found ND and SD, MT, NM, AK, and HI.

An OH man took so long Curtis thought he'd have to put his jawbones in slings. Four more days, and the jackpot! NM, at 50-1. Yuma. 5'2". Wet feathers and Juicy Fruit. A little mushroom in a bed of moss. Vinyl boots.

The bookstores, with their glory holes, came, as did the baths. Curtis didn't like either. Not a word passed at the bookstores, and he was too old for popularity at the baths. He was successful only in the communal room which was too dark to see the flesh before his eyes. The first time he went he thought he had hold of two (maybe MT and a Dakota), but it turned out to be one very fat man. From Akron.

The drawing ended up looking like a runt Tonto with a toothache. Harkis came to check on him and to take him to town for supplies. 28

Curtis asked if he could get on "for good.” "You mean you lived there?" "Can't pay but just a little," Harkis said. "And don't ye tell a soul you're workin' for m e ."

"Born and raised," the tall beauty said. Curtis offered him coffee. Graham crackers. But the man said he had to be in Louisville by nightfall. He strode on into the men's room— with Curtis holding his heart and hurrying after.

"I'll take it," said Curtis. Harkis promised a TV. to town once a month.

A uniform.

And a trip

He d e l i v e r e d on the trip and the uniform, though Curtis wore it only when his cousin was around. (He couldn't get dick when the State was printed on his chest.)

He hoped his shoes had gone unnoticed. He used them to warm the man up. One slow tap. Three. One. Three. Size-17 brogans picked up the rhythm. Stopped it when Curtis stuck a finger in the knothole.

Curtis liked his life at No. 9 (where the cabin was) and No. 10 where he went four to five times a day. The work he could do in less than an hour, each place.

AK peeped through. Curtis pulled back. On his finger, though, he dangled a Trojan. Poked it through the hole.

Both stops were easy ons and offs, from the four lanes of highway. He got plenty dick. He hammered and gouged out knots in the pine be tween all the johns. (With wood glue, he could fit them back in if Cousin Harkis ever no ticed.) Bad days, he collected stuff from the men he wanted to have. Their cigarette butts, candy wrappers, a broken shoe-string, a comb. These he put in his box, now bulging.

The pipeman knew what to do, yet the rubber c o v e r e d only half of the hard flesh that slipped through and trembled for action. The heat of Curtis' mouth made rubber seem like spit. He knelt down to take ten inches and to feel the cum squish a g ainst latex and his throat. The pipeman pulled the rubber off. Tied a bow into it and left it perched in the hole.

In another year of work (sweeping, mopping, picking up), he ran through SD and ND. The men were not much to write about or draw, but he wanted to fill his book before some Smokey yanked him off to prison--or Eastern State Mental Hospital. He thought he might send the book off to some printer— The Life and Loves of Curtis Lamar. Only two more to go— Alaska and Hawaii. was getting hard to rustle up a dick. talked herpes and Vietnam clap.

Curtis pulled out his notebook heart--a new hiding place) and that looked like Paul Bunyan. He mon and the clean sweat that came That night Curtis slept with the his balls. Then he put it in pretties.

But it Folks

(next to his drew a giant listed cinna from lifting. rubber under his nest of

He whistled in a new summer. Even talked to some long-necked woman from IL. Told her how to smother chiggers.

One Jersey trucker put a rubber on before he stuck his hammer-handle through.

His cousin came down the mountain to check on him. "Do right by me, now," Harkis said, "an' I'll do right by you."

Curtis liked the slick. When Harkis came to take him to town, he bought five kinds of rubb e r s - - b l a c k , blue, and clear. To tempt a trucker who looked like he might be an Eskimo, he s t r e t c h e d a c o n d o m over his t o ngue and wagged it at a hole. The trucker stumbled out. get away.

Curtis asked.

Harkis gave Curtis a used Philco that brought in sounds but no picture. Curtis could like in the dark and listen to re-runs of Little Joe, and he guessed the faces of the Hardy Boys.

Stripped gears to

His pills ran out. He couldn't feel much dif ference in the dance of his heart. He did know that getting gaspy for a riled pecker brought on flutters.

Curtis passed out one day in a booth. A farmer found him— took him to town where a doctor said he shouldn't work any longer, that he had a heart that would make Social Security and wel fare proud to take him.

He carved into all the booths: Hiwayee, pat foot 4 times."

"If your from

and little

Autumn crisped the leaves of the sycamores. Made the birds and squirrels scutter.

Four times a day, the doctor said for the little pills. He shook his head and talked of VA hospitals. Curtis didn't tell he had an Undesirable Discharge.

Some of the men Curtis asked had never heard of Honolulu.

"Home," Curtis said, for the cabin money he got from Harkis.

He didn't ask the handsome trucker who kicked his back tires and shifted a mighty wad to his right pan t - l e g . C u r t i s n o d d e d as the man walked up to the No. 9. The man tipped his hat and clicked the steel taps on his boots.

For days, he rose only to clean the restrooms. To burn the trash. With the first robin, though, the sap seemed to fill his withering heart. An ex-pipeliner from Nome helped, too.

Texas, Curtis guessed. He barreled into the little building and took the booth next to the 29

trucker's. rainbows.

He watched a pluperfect

dick

piss

said.

"Long haul?" Curtis asked. "You better believe it," the man pulled down his pants and sat. "Where ya from?" Curtis asked. The man's foot tapped four times, H," he said. "Honolulu."

fast.

"Big

Curtis curled a finger in the hole. The man put his half-hard dick through. I Curtis took the huge cock slowly, to give his throat time to unknot. Ten inches had always been his limit, but he learned new talent— dick head past tonsils into cart ilage. The dick, swollen, was caught-~its growth great that Honolulu couldn't pull it back, he had wanted to.

so if

"Get ready for a week's load," the man said. Curtis nodded that he was prepared. He kept the cock in his mouth small enough to go back through. Some blow job, left.

partner,"

until

got

the man said as he

Curtis fumbled for his Blue Horse, underneath his shirt. He wrote the state, the smells (tar and mint), the shoes— brogans. He drew fast--a full head of hair, mustache. The neck, with an overgrown adam's apple. The shoulders he got-broad, proud, but before he could get all, the heart rose and pumped blood through his mouth and nose. The KY Hiuhlander reported that a transient had been found dead in a washroom of Rest Area No. 9.

Mr. Harkis Crabtree, Sanitation Supervisor, said he'd never seen the stranger and that there'd been no calls or complaints. Not once in his ten years of service. "I run a clean shop," Mr. Crabtree said. The deceased had no identification. No distin guishing marks, though the coroner surmised that he was around sixty. Inside the man's shirt was a notebook with drawings in it. Each one was a citizen from a US state, AL to W Y .

a I

by J'C&f*

The coroner said foul play was not suspected. The man died of an enlarged heart.

n 9

'O'C&Afx

oral a e y e a r s a g o fc>y h i s grandmot-her VincentT r a in o r did his usual m o r n in g e x e r c i s e at the s u n n y end o " f his b e d r o o m , after w h i c h s h a v e d and s h o w e r e d .

"The Unknown Patriot," the Highlander called him. One who loved and celebrated the fifty states. The VFW was notified and Captain A.T. Hauser said the man would get a twenty-gun salute at his county-paid funeral. "Unless, of course his kin call for the body."

In Athol, seven miles south as the crow flies, Billy toyed with his scrambled eggs and bacon.

No kin called.

"Eat your bacon," ordered his father. 30

His older brother Bruce popped a slice of Bil ly's bacon into his mouth and grinned.

Certain young people, unhappy in Athol, thought it was just a wide spot in the road and were planning to get out, "going over the moun tains," they called it, and glad to be going. The older generation sometimes went over the mountains, saw what was there--"It didn't show me much."--and came back, more appreciative of their small town where, if the television re ception wasn't so good, they could still leave their doors unlocked.

Billy dawdled. His mother, understanding that he wanted to be excused from the table, said, "In a minute, Billy." Mrs. Fairchild liked to know what her children were planning to do, if they were planning to do anything at all. They had their chores of course, for without chores children take entirely too much for granted.

••0

Bruce saw it coming and deftly lied. "I'm mowing the lawn and then I'm going over to Charlie's, M a . Charlie and me--we're studying our algebra." This was suitable for Charlie was thought to be a good influence on Bruce who had a wild streak. He and Charlie, who were having no trouble in algebra, would in fact hand out at the mall, Athol's newest develop ment. They would look for, and maybe find, girls.

Vi n c e n t , he a d i n g for Athol in his pickup, slowed down and stopped. A bike was lying by the side of the road and the boy, wearing a torn white shirt and torn tan shorts, was jump ing up and down, looking hot and miserable. "You all right?"

Vincent got out of his truck.

Still jumping up and down, Billy cried out, "No, it hurts!" In places his right leg was scraped raw.

Billy would wash windows and said so. "Only the front ones, Dear."

"I can take you back and wash that."

"Then what?" asked his father, although Mr. Fairchild was more concerned about Bruce.

Billy shook his head. "I'll be all But he was still jumping up and down.

"Go for a ride on my bike," answered Billy with sudden enthusiasm. The long range of moun tains, visible in Athol, was more wonderful to look at when he was alone in the countryside of flat fields. Out in the country there was hardly any traffic if you knew which roads to take.

right."

Vincent picked up the bike and put it in the back of his truck. "You'll be all right," he said. "Get in." In the truck, Billy couldn't stop wiggling his legs. Vincent, thinking to distract the boy, talked. "I know your father and your father knows me, I guess. Been in his store enough. Got a place up the road. You'll be all right, Billy. Calm down."

When Mr. Fairchild, who owned Athol's only hardware store, left for work, Billy was nib bling his last piece of bacon. • ® ®

"You know me?"

Vincent Trainor, who was known in Athol, de cided he'd go into town after all. Miss Langon, at the bank, knew him for the bank had been his grandmother's executor, and while she thought he was "awfully good-looking but some what sullen," Mr. Archer, who had more particu lar dealings with Trainor, considered him "ami able enough for a man who lived alone and as honest as the day was long." Certain shop keepers, including Mr. Fairchild, knew him for Vincent Trainor, in fixing up the farmhouse he'd inherited from his grandmother, had spent a considerable amount of money at his store, although he'd done most of the work himself.

"I've seen you in your father's store. I'm Vincent Trainor." Vincent had not only seen Billy in his father's store but had heard his father yelling at the boy and, hearing it, had walked out in disgust. "How'd you fall off your bike? It's flat out here." "I just legs.

fell."

Billy

stopped

wiggling

his

When Vincent turned off the narrow asphalt road onto a dirt lane, Billy asked, "You live down here?" He had seen the big white farmhouse and the huge trees before.

The librarian knew him for Mr. Trainor liked to read, which surprised her. Most of the young men in Athol did not care for books.

Vincent said he did.

The nurses and the doctors at the hospital knew him for his grandmother, well-known in Athol, had died in the hospital and not as she wanted in her big mahogany bed.

Billy limped into the kitchen after Vincent and sat on the kind of chair he'd never actually seen before but he knew the word. It was "an tique." So were the other three chairs and the round table. The linoleum floor was not at all like the one at home either.

Only the s u s p i c i o u s and the m e a n - s p i r i t e d judged Vincent Trainor to have been after the old lady's money. Summoned by her from the coast, he cam, leaving behind whatever it was he left behind. Some people didn't think about Trainor at all. He had been living out there in his g r a n d m o t h e r ' s house for over three years. He minded his own business. What was there to think about?

"It won't hurt much," said Vincent, putting a kettle on the stove, He lit the gas and got out a tin basin while Billy looked around the kitchen. He had never seen a kitchen before with the wood halfway up the wall and wallpaper after that. In the center of the table was a bowl of flowers. When his mother put flowers around, she usually put them on top of the

The next morning when the two boys were in the bathroom Bruce said, "You sure do get around on that bike of yours." He patted his brother's butt.

television set. He could name the flowers and was naming them to himself when Vincent poured the steaming water into the tin basin. Kneel ing down he washed Billy's leg while Billy looked at Vincent's face and groaned.

Billy continued brushing his teeth. "My mother will kill me, my clothes." "Nothing ever happens over at the mall." "I'll wash them. They'll dry out back in no time." The boy in the sunlight wiggled his legs. "There's no getting around this. The iodine will sting."

Billy put his toothbrush back in he holder, wiped his mouth and the tile around the wash basin and walked out of the bathroom.

It did sting.

"What's ailing you?" Billy asked, fo1Towing him out into the hallway.

• ® ®

"Nothing," Billy said, and nothing was and nothing would be unless people found out about what he and Vincent had done together on that big antique bed in that room with the slanted ceiling.

Mrs. Fairchild didn't see the truck stop so she didn't see the man get out and take her son's bike from the back of his truck and she didn't see the truck drive away but she did see her son as soon as he came into the kitchen.

® ® ©

"What on earth?" Unable to ride his bike because of his leg, Billy worked at his father's hardware store. As he stocked the shelves and helped his father wait on customers he sometime hoped Vincent would come into the store. Sometime he hoped he wouldn't.

"I fell off my bike." When she understood that her son wasn't seri ously hurt, Mrs. Fairchild became annoyed by the condition of her son's shirt, a good white one. And his pants were ruined, too. She also understood that someone had helped him. Irri tated and puzzled, she asked, "What happened to you, Young Man?"

Mrs. Fairchild noticed a difference and, noticing it, she began to worry Too often her son was staring at people. Too often he was staring at

in her son and watch. the wrong men.

"I just fell." "You told me that. clothes, somebody...."

Som e b o d y

washed

"Haven't you noticed the way Billy— glances? Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were on their way to the Archers for dinner. Mr. Fairchild, looking forward to Art Archer's strong drinks, said, "He's doing real well at the store, not at all like last summer."

your

"A lady did, out on Pierce Road." "What lady?"

Mrs. Fairchild decided to wait. "She gave me a tuna fish sandwich. feel so good."

I don't

Mrs. Fairchild felt her son's forehead. hot, and what not in all this heat? But not feverish. "I know of no lady out on Road." This seemed unduly unpleasant asked, "What did the lady look like?" "She was old.

Bruce did not. The brothers were watching television and because the reception was bad, he said, "Dumb fucking shit. I get tired of all this dumb fucking shit." He got up and turned the television off. "How can you watch all this shit?"

It was it was Pierce so she

"You having trouble with your algebra?"

Ma, my leg still hurts."

"Not half the trouble you're...."

"Well, of course it still does. Look what you did to it." She inspected her son's leg again and said, "Change your clothes, Billy. I wish you knew the name of the old lady. I should thank her."

"I'm not in trouble." Bruce flopped down on the couch, saying, "So tell me what really happened out on Pierce Road."

In his bedroom, Billy, taking off his clothes, decided he'd stick to his story no matter what.

"None of your business," said Billy and left the room, unable to tell his brother that be fore he turned the television off he had been enjoying his brother's company. Bruce was muscular, too.

To Mrs. Fairchild's considerable astonishment her husband accepted Billy's tale about falling off his bike when everybody knew that Billy might be something of a daydreamer but he was a whiz on that bike. Particularly astonishing was the fact that her husband never questioned the boy about "some lady out on Pierce Road" who had washed his leg, had put iodine on it, had washed his clothes and had given him a tuna fish sandwich. Maybe it was true, but it cer tainly could not have happened on Pierce Road.

••® Mrs. Fairchild, fastening her nightgown, came into the bathroom she shared with her husband as part of their bathroom suite on the first floor. They had enjoyed themselves at the Archers for a change and her husband seemed to be in a good mood. "It is not normal," she said, "for a fifteen year old boy to stare at men the way Billy does. It is not."

Bruce, listening to his younger brother at the dinner table, had his doubts, too. 32

"Everybody talks about you."

"He stares at everybody," said Mr. Fairchild. "I'll talk to him." He embraced his wife, and in her double bed they made love and afterwards they talked. Tomorrow the four Fairchilds would go to church, after which they would dine out at Athol's finest restaurant and after that they would maybe drive out into the countryside which is what Mrs. Fairchild wanted to do.

"In Athol, they'll better leave."

talk

about

anybody.

You

Bruce left, dropping the can of beer on Trainor's lawn as he walked to his car. "Fuck you," he said, s l a mming the car door. Vi n c e n t , watching the car speed off, picked up the beer can. He knew that Billy had told no one. Why should he when he had enjoyed himself, too?

She got her way. "Billy," she said, "show us the house."

• • •

Billy pointed to a house. "Joan lives there," Mrs. Fairchild said. she isn't an old woman and she doesn't alone. She has a family."

"What I want to say is that you probably don't understand what's upsetting your mother." Mr. Fairchild had parked his car in front of his h a r d w a r e store. Almost n o b o d y was on the streets of Athol yet. "You're a daydreamer, we all know that. Your mother thinks you stare at people too much."

"And live

"He's just mixed up about the house, Ma." "One of these houses," said Billy, grateful to Bruce who didn't like these Sunday afternoon drives any more than Billy did.

In the short silence, Billy held his own. "What do you daydream about, Billy?"

"I certainly wish we could clear this up," said their mother. "To be honestly mistaken is one thing___ " "Which house Fairchild.

was

it?"

interrupted

"Just things." "Nothing wrong with daydreaming. a bit myself at your age."

Mr.

Billy did not look at his father. He was being friendly enough now but he might not be if Billy goofed up in the store. There were so many ways to goof up. You could give somebody the wrong change. You could make a mistake when you priced an item. You could forget to say, "Thank you, come again," when you finished waiting on a customer.

"Maybe Billy isn't lying. Maybe he's just confused. He had a bad fall," and saying this he patted Billy's thigh who, looking out the car window, tried not to wiggle his legs.

••® That Tuesday afternoon Bruce cut out his col lege classes, borrowed a friend's car and drove out into the countryside north of Athol. He didn't know exactly where Vincent Trainor lived but he knew the general area, and knew Trainor's blue truck. When he saw it parked in front of the big white house at the end of the dirt road, Bruce drove down the lane. Trainor, behind f rowning.

his

Bruce i n t r o d u c e d brother ."

front

screen

door,

"I'll stop staring at people," Billy said. "Suppose I give you a day off for the rest of the summer? It can't be Saturday, we're too busy then. Take Tuesdays off." "Are you really moving the store over to the mall?"

was

"I doubt it," said Mr. Fairchild, getting of the car. He hadn't expected gratitude. himself.

"I'm

out

Bill y ' s As his father unlocked the front door of his hardware store Billy said, "Sometimes I think about getting out of Athol." But Mr. Fairchild already had his mind on the hundred and one things that needed to be done.

"Come in." Walking behind Trainor as they went down the hall and into the kitchen, Bruce knew, or thought he did, how to behave. He accepted the cold can of beer and sat, legs splayed, on one of the old chairs.

• ® • Billy got Tuesdays off and on Tuesdays he went biking out into the countryside north of Athol, hoping to see Vincent Trainor's blue truck. But Tuesday was Vincent Trainor's day to drive over the mountains and raise hell in San Fran cisco. He left early.in the morning to avoid the heat. And Billy, pedaling down the asphalt road, never did have the nerve to bike down the lane to the big white farmhouse.

"How's Billy?" "He said some old woman on Pierce Road— it was you, wasn't it?" "I washed his leg, washed his clothes...." "Is that all you did?" asked Bruce, holding his cold can of beer near his crotch as if he were at the mall cruising for girls. Trainor stood up.

I daydreamed

In his own bed he dreamed of falling a lot and at breakfast he dawdled over his food but he never did fall off his bike again and when school started he had to be careful not to stare at his gym teacher for when he did, he fell down and people laughed.

"You should leave, Bruce."

"You did it with Billy." "He tell you that?"

▼ L>

1.1-a mo d a n m a l e l

" M e t. t.u 1 d l o 1 m a s s y o g h m a y e d e t h e h e w h o k h a n o o p h l o 1 i m a s s y o d © t-_h e h e w m n o th o . . - T t r u d h o y o z e 1 m e n bay tokh men -fe u v - - - ” We b h e h Q dm

z e 1

b e ’e d o n o

ne p h a q

av u y

. . . :

li a r p ^ lx b e h war d u p h o y

u*e m a r

1a y k o s c o b h e at . W a b he b h y a t h h e z e “a d h m o 1 e ’ o Xa m . . . “

1e h :

t e t.h -

W a b he h o d h e h h e d h i t.t. a 1 y o h h a d h u t ho jr a b t h o , m e t tu 1 d m e n z a b h n o m s a k e 1 o H 1 ehodhe . Wanphaq we g h a n i m e n b e t,h a v u y . Kadhi m e d e m s o k h lo n g a v a m e h , m e t, t.u 1 d l o y o d h a Ja y k o n i z a 1 .

►0« S' W n

u n c l e a n

d e m o n

b e

a n

*-o

s p e a k

. . . :

"Even ac M e a v e n c a n n o t. b e E a r t h , g:o o a n I not- h a v e a n y t h i n g t.o d o w x *.b b x m . . . D r i v e him out, o f y o u r ho u g e and out o f my s i g h t . . . " I m m e d i a t e l y hin •father w e n t a d d r e n n e d h xm :

out

and

"C * e t u p a n d s o w h e r e v e r you w x 1 1 . But in m y h o u n e you shall n e v e r he s e e n a g a i n. - . " Wh e r © u p o n t h e y p u t h r e j o i c e d g r e a t__JL_V ■for h e h a d h e e n h o p ins ‘ for this -for a l ° n S time. So he w e n t out and away t r o m h i s f a t h e r ’s h o u s e . B u t h e took, n o t h xn s a t all w ith him, b e c a u s e he did not k n o w w h e r e his path rnxsht lead h im .

---------------------------------------------------- ►< > < -----------------------------------------------------^ B e c j a d h m o y o ^ ne day i n t he late " f or t i e s a ma g i c i a n came t o F *r o s p e c t F *a r -k and s e t up h i s s p e c tacle on t he h a n d st and o v e r l o o k i n g t h e macadam e xpans e o f t he open — axr s k a t xn g and dance a r e a we c a l l e d P ' i r s t F ' i e l d . It- was near noon on a s p r l n g

Saturday, and the parkees had arranged five or six rows of camp chairs under the bright cool sun. Ephrem and myself had just emerged from the shadows of the little dell to the east of First Field when we noticed the activity, and decided to go over for a closer look.

We slid into chairs at the edge of the front row, and watched as the magician whisked out a long chain of shiny metal rings. Drooping the ends of the chain over either hand, with great circumstance he held it up for the audience to see, much in the manner of a priest showing forth the monstrance. "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned. "Pull11 ease observe this chain of rings." Pause. "Pull-llease observe how the rings are inter twined to form the links of this chain. Annnd observe how there are no c r ac k s nor fissu res nor chinkkkss in the chain..." He did a little pirouette, swinging the chain above his head like a lasso. "...annnd consequently how it is not humanly possss-ible to separate the rings one from the other w i t h o u t s a w w w w - i n g or b.reakkkk-inq or cutttt-ina them!"

The magician paused with great drama, and sol emnly moved his eyes in an exaggerated arc over the small crowd.

Ephrem did something like push the spaldeen out from him, so that it hit the curb and rolled away far from Selena's reach.

" B u t , " he s a i d t h e n , " l e s t t h e r e be any s i i g h t t t -est th o u g h t of c h i c a n n n - e r y or trickkk-erv..♦" His eyes kept moving over the crowd, more slowly now, resting first on one person and then on another.

"Aw, Effy! way!"

You'll never make the majors that

K* The rich drapes on the bay windows of the par lor floor in Ephrem's house were always ar ranged so that the only view was to the trees of Prospect Park, in summer looking cool and green and endless. Even on the hottest days this room was cool and quiet, and endless in its own way with graceful dark furnishings which obscured it contours, and mirrors expan ding the corners in dim pleasant light. The air was humid, and subtly fragrant with pome granate and cardamom.

"...lesssst there by any thought of chicanery, I hereby invite two v o lunteers to come up to t h e s t a g e a n d i n s g e c c c t my c h a i n for themselves." He paused, and then barked: "How 'bout these two fine lads right hejre!" pointing a triumphant finger at Ephrem and me.

Ephrem's own room was in the rear of the house, overlooking the array of backyards which exten ded down to Eighth Avenue like patches in an embroidered quilt. His own yard, directly beneath the window, was dark with pachysandra and ivy, and one little fig tree which never bore fruit in the clayish Brooklyn soil.

►O On Good Fridays, some of us would make a half hearted attempt to keep silence during the Hours of Passion while Jesus was dying on the cross, an eon of time which had become stylized as noon till three p.m. Only two of us ever succeeded in this disci pline, however. One was Joseph F., who later became a priest and ended up in the parish of Our Lady of Mount Carmel on Staten Island. Joseph not only spoke no word during these three grueling hours, but often even suffered through the ordeal on his knees in church, where he followed every solemn move of the priest and acolytes during the detailed enact ment of the ritual.

Ephrem's walls were covered with glossy pho tographs of Joan Crawford, Hedy Lamar Judy Garland, and other screen stars of the day. A bookshelf was crammed with gawdy volumes on Hollywood, as well as books on art and design. The counterpane of his bed was scattered with decorative pillows and marionettes. An easel stood by a desk and chair near the window.

The other who always kept silence during the Passion was Ephrem. And this he achieved, not among the faithful of the church and its threehour solemnity, but in the solitude of his own house.

On summer evenings, everyone would be out on the street, and when the afterglow finally gave way to hazy dark, we often played an offbeat m i x t u r e of tag and r i n g a l e v i o we c a l l e d "Nightrun."

► 0*

Nightrun usually started on the down-the-block half of the street, with obscure figures dar ting from stoop to areaway to sidewalk, looping around a lamppost which was "home," and with the whirring sound of crouch-running sneakers dashing below eye-level along the far side of the parked cars on a bolt for the freedom of up-the-block.

Two or three times during the warm season Bobby J.'s Uncle Hilarion and Aunt Selena drove in from New Jersey for a day, and while Hilarion was seeing about spices and other business down on Atlantic Avenue, Selena tended more to hang around with Bobby and his friends than to while away the time shopping or cooking with Bobby's mother. Selena particularly loved to talk about sports, and even played stoopball.

And up the block it always was, as night pro gressed, and a new excitement accrued to the game, an excitement which grew stranger and more powerful from summer to summer, as the game grew later, and closer and closer to the black night hush of Prospect Park.

One day we were in the middle of such a game in front of Bobby's house, when Selena moved back to field a pop-up onto the sidewalk across the street and slammed into Ephrem, who was on his way home with a bag of art supplies.

Of all the varied crew of us, Ephrem was the very best at Nightrun. Ephrem, who played no other sport, moved along in his dark silence with the stealth of a panther, and with its speed. In all the neighborhood, no one could outrun him.

The bag dropped, and Selena stood back with her hands on her shapely hips, breathing deeply, and with a faint mist of sweat on her brow beneath the tousled auburn hair. "Hey, Effy!" she yelled.

Boy or girl, Ephrem always caught you, his long legs speeding him into the wake of your futile flight beneath the dark trees overhanging the parkside, and his long arms finally reaching out to touch you, and so to publicly mark you as out of the game.

"Let's play catch!"

Ephrem just stared. "C'mon, Eff!

You gotta learn to play ball!"

Selena suddenly jogged backward and threw the spaldeen to Ephrem, who jumped at it clumsily. "C'mon, c'mon, throw it to me!" 37

Up on the stage, in the relative hush behind the magician and his stentorian monologue to the crowd, Ephrem and myself felt strangely immune to the proceedings as we studied the long chain of rings the magician had instructed us to examine. They were cold and hard to the touch, and linked together with no seams or slots at all. It was not conceivable how they could be separated.

"Good morning, children! I'm Sister Hester. Each of you c h o o s e a desk, and we'll get acquainted." There was a s h u f f l i n g moved.

of feet,

but no one

"Sister...?" "Yes, Miss?"

"MfiJLllllf boys, and whattt'ss your verdict?!"

It was Eileen K., the most efficient pupil of all.

The magician's quick loud turn to us made us flinch. But we managed to stammer that he was right, absolutely right. T h eresas no way this dazzling chain could be taken apart.

"Which side should the girls sit on, Sister?" Sister Hester arched her back in laughter, and drawing forth her hands from the shiny blue sleeves, raised them dramatically over the classroom.

"Yes, but what thennnn..." He snatched the chain away from us. "Wlflt then of thissssi"

"Why, children! Sit anywhere you like! X don't believe in keeping pupils apart because they're girls or because they're boys."

He landed back on the stage in a shower of rings, bright hoops that bounced and rolled hither and yon, all detached and free.

In the embarrassed confusion that followed Sister Hester's announcement, two boys started to move for a desk by the window, even as a girl named Patricia began to move in the oppo site direction. The space between the back wall and the last row of desks was narrow, and one of the boys got there first, exactly at the same moment that Patricia did. There not being enough space for two to pass, they got wedged up against one another, the boy's belt just above the small of Patricia's back. He tried to push for room at the wall but couldn't; his crotch was jammed tight into her buttocks. As she squirmed to get free, the cleft of her cheeks seemed to envelop him in a rhythmic pull against which the thin fabrics of his trousers and her summer skirt were of no avail.

"Or thissssi" The magician scooped up a brace of rings, threw them into the air, pulled them down and whirled them around, and in an instant had reassembled them into the form of a catcher's mitt which he placed over my startled face. "Tills, young lad is now ready to rival the great Roy £amE4Q£lla O f the Brooklyn Do d g e r s . in Ebbetts LL&ldr at the other e M of this grand park. But what have we heeeere . .. " The magician had scooped up another set of rings, and thrown them and twisted them around, and in a twinkling had them dangling in two helices from the lobes of Ephrem's ears.

A split second before they came free, Patricia turned her head, and smiled.

"A shiny pair of earrings! Yesss, indeed. A shiny pair of gJULLinaS. for this fine spring day..."

The boy trembled as he took his seat in the blinding sun at the window, in the sweet faint notes of the high school girls singing beyond the fluttering Maypole across the yard.

►O It was May, and when the new Sister raised the classroom windows, the must and staleness were gone in the beauty of this radiant morning. The sun poured in and drew out a billion motes of chalk and pencil dust as if by osmosis. From the high school annex across the yard came a melodious drone of girls' voices intoning

"All right, class," Sister Hester chimed. it is time to begin."

"Now

( Bernes s ’ o y o )

The new Sister stood smiling by her desk; the pupils moved hesitantly into the strange room, and lined up along the cloakroom to one side and along the back wall to the other.

One hot summer afternoon Ephrem came in from the park, and went up to his room where he lay on his bed among the marionettes and started toward the window. The whole room dazzled in the hot sun slanting down from high in the western sky, and the window gleamed with pure white light. Ephrem got up and stood to the right of the window, where for a few moments he managed to squint down into the yard beyond the fig tree, to the dark recess of ivy at the back of the n e i g h b o r ' s garage. The sun never reached that spot and often, mainly in the summer and e s p e c i a l l y at times like this, Ephrem would go out to the yard and sit there.

Sister smiled through large round glasses which made her merry gray eyes appear to glow. Her arms crossed her ample bosom with her hands tucked into the shiny blue sleeves of the hab it, and her head kept making little nods as if in general affirmation.

As he left his room and walked along the car peted hall toward the stairs, he passed his parents' rooms. Since his mother was away in the Catskills, her room was empty, the dainty curtains drawn on its fragrant pastel silence. From his father's room came the sound of snor-

aax.Yi. be.auteous Queen of Soring Ifi..lhee da. «. e sweet garlands bring... and ing the the

the top of a Maypole, its ribbons flutter in the warm breeze, was just visible above greensward that stretched from the yard to trees of the park at the end of the street.

Pretty Joan— Tippling, forty-year-old daughter of Pat P., who lived in a room exactly above hers in Mrs. Quigley's boarding house. Pat was reputed to have been heavy-weight champion of Kings County for a spell back in the 20s, even as Pretty Joan was rumored to have had a flash of brilliance as a Hollywood starlet just be fore World War Two. Though her striking natur al beauty had been somewhat harshly treated by booze and perhaps other activities (it was most often a cab that left her off in the wee hours in front of Mrs. Quigley's, but limousines and Cadillacs had also been sighted), yet Pretty Joan's high spirits and flair had never been trammeled.

ing from his father's afternoon nap, an incon gruity in a man who in waking life had an aura of such impeccable low-key elegance. Ephrem went downstairs and through the kitchen to the back steps leading down to the yard. But with his hand poised on the knob of the screen door, the heat and light of the sun made him flinch. He shut the door and returned to the cool dark of the hall, at the foot of the stairs to the bedrooms above. He walked back to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. He lifted the wax paper from a bowl of salad, and rummaging through the olives and cucumbers and stuffed grape leaves, lifted out a green pepper.

Marvin 0gden--a recluse in his thirties who lived with his mother and a Doberman pinscher in a brownstone whose barbedwire-fenced back yard law but four or five plots downrange from E p h r em's. (It co u l d in fact be seen from Ephrem's window, as could the entire rear of the Ogden house. Ephrem was often observed standing in that window, brush in hand at his easel, but it was never clear whether he was p a i n t i n g som e t h i n g he saw o u t s i d e or just availing himself of the light.) Since no one knew anything about Marvin Ogden (though rumors abounded) and gave him wide berth anyhow for uneasiness both about his Doberman and his own nervous, nonfriendly looks, it was a mystery how and when Ephrem had got him to sit for a portrait. But he had.

Ephrem cut the pepper in two, and stood for a moment eating one of the halves. With the other in his hand, he then walked back to the hall and climbed the stairs. He tiptoed into his father's room and up to the bed. He stood a moment, then inserted the pepper in his fa ther's mouth. ► 0* One Saturday in the chilly autumn after the Korean armistice was signed, Ephrem disap peared. Probably no one would have been aware of anything unusual, because Ephrem was now in his first year at the Parsons School of Design, and though he commuted, he'd leave each day will before the rush hour and not return until nine or ten at night. But somebody noticed a police car pull up to his house, and watched as two plainclothesmen lumbered up the stoop to be admitted by Ephrem's obviously distressed par ents. As always in the neighborhood, rumors flew, and became increasingly intricate and b i z a r r e as the days went by with no clues whatever.

(Bah h r o y

The majesty of the air in all its infinitude its bright vastness its utter height and form to the world sprawled under, turn and at points of its hued geometry helices and spirals and towers penetrating, right now saturated with noon of this new cold fall, the ships on the agate waters from beneath the span of the hori zon bridge to Staten Island ships with masts erect into the round firmament as Walt Whitman saw them, all this parallactic glory from a roof of liberty a roof so very different from a Brooklyn roof of the old days, of the old days of anger of wordless anger, how utterly strange that a person a boy a man a new kind of man can see what he saw of eleven thousand heartless angry yesterdays and see it all anew, anew with hope and form and line and body yes body too and hope for fashioning and molding and for ming, creating and forming, but also confor ming, a new conformation the new conformation and happy so very happy with liberty and wil ling conformation to beauty with all the worst of what hurt and no one understood, all of what that place with its yards and its people and its church and grandiose park failed utterly to understand, all that loss of life gone gone forever, oh what trembling triumphant relief for this new chance and creation

A week passed, and it was all over. Ephrem was suddenly back, and to judge by the looks of the family members on the street, it seemed almost as though nothing at all had happened. Only his mother appeared to have returned completely to normal, however, having lost the awful gray haggard look that beset her over the week of Ephrem's absence, and was once again shining with the dusky beauty and sweet goodness that had always been her mark. But Ephrem's father, t hough p l e a s a n t and g r a c i o u s as ever when wishing one good morning or good evening, now had a serious tight look to him when he thought no one was looking. And Ephrem himself seemed now at times to have a kind of bright, knowing aura. ► 0* Just before he moved from the neighborhood, Ephrem made gifts to his favorite subjects of the portraits he had painted of them:

•O*

The Barley sisters and their housekeeper--three octogenarian spinsters who had lived together in the same up-the-block whitestone since the death of the two sisters' father, a fire cap tain of much money and questionable repute, some fifty years earlier. The housekeeper, Luise, was a Bushwick German who was rumored to speak no English though never having traveled farther from Brooklyn than Glendale. (We never really knew, because Luise bore a constant silent scowl for everyone on the street but Ephrem.)

Ephre 234 E3r New York N

June 17, 1977 c/o Meter 5110 Selma Ave. Hollywood CA 90028

Dear Ephrem, I hardly know how to start this after such a long time, and you are probably very surprised indeed to hear from me from thousands and thou-

sands of miles from Brooklyn, but I guess you didn't know that Mother passed away just after New Years and after the shock and grief and yes just plain old crying tears I couldn't stay there any more. Ephrem how are you? do you know I really miss those times we had and just last Saturday out at the J. Paul Getty museum on the coast right next to Malibu something in those marvelous statues of the Greeks, so live live alive you could reach out and touch them like it was yesterday (but the guards won't let you though) though it was really h o r r i b l y frightening to think that all this young superb youth has been dead and gone for thousands of years. 0 there I go on about death again, but you know after living with someone for thirtyseven years it is just absolutely impossible to act like it never happened. What are you painting now? Who are you painting now? 0 Ephrem I know your painting is marvelous and just wonderful, and we did have some fine fine wonderful times, who knows? maybe you'll be out here famous one day and I only 0 I just really know Van would be wild about you and your work too (he is after all an architect, did I tell you? and knows a lot and really truly appreciates wonderful art and beautiful things.) I imagine it's all very busy there in NYC, you know I sometimes feel (or wish like) I were sitting there again with you and trying to be still and you would be so intense and gener ally intent on painting my face and my body. 0 Ephrem, but will I'd better run now, I'm run ning out of paper anyway and it's getting late and Van will be back soon (I guess it's really late there in NYC, dark night time really but you'll make it bright Ephrem with your painting and just with your wonderful way you are.

quet); canvases which don't need August to swelter, and envelop and inflame (with some thing for folks of all strokes); opening Satur day at Clive Cage Galleries, 303 WBdway. (De k h i r

(Two b o y h o o d crossed:

A p h r e m)

memories

get

unaccountably

sitting one summer morning on a shaded stoop across the street from the Gradys' apartment building when Ephrem's father turned his state ly black car down Eighth Street. I could see the father in the driver's seat, the starched white of his cuffs beneath the dark sleeves of his jacket and his dark hands calmly on the steering wheel; and in the vast obscurity of the back seat, barely glimpsed through the partially shaded windows, Ephrem reading the first of the brand new subscription comic books he had disciplined himself to save over two weeks just for this grand occasion, for this trip to the Catskills where later this very day he would join his lovely sweet mother beneath the trees on the edge of a lake at sunset... --and, sometime that same summer, going with my father for some long-forgotten reason to the Holy Family home for the aged on 16th St. and 8th Avenue. The reason is long forgotten but not the vision of the garden between the high ivied walls where the old residents were ga thered, silent and unmoving, under a statue of Mary. And the sinking feeling at seeing these people so very old that it was unclear whether they were men or women; so very old that they seemed to be fading away as if they had never h a d l i v e s and l o v e s of t h e i r o w n on the earth...)

Always, Marvin

a r ’ o)

Except for the kitchen and a small bar, and the toilets deep in the recesses of the cellar, the restaurant was coterminous with a back alley sided by three old tenements. On the fourth side, a tall shaggy hedge obscured the ancient spiked gate to the sidewalk on E.7th Street. This modest sense of nature was much enhanced by a number of ailanthus trees which flourished in the cracks between the tables and the tene ments, and by a miniature fish pond which Marc and Evreme had devised at the foot of the steps to the kitchen.

Limbs, strong warm and pliant. The strong sun poured down through the airshaft into the studio, inflaming half-finished can vases and pastel sketches. On the fire-escape above, Masza sat playing with her doll, the strong sun xeroxing her marvelous young thighs through her spring Sun day dress, and ensexing even the plastic mockup limbs of the doll with its hot rays. On the studio table a near-empty bottle of wine glowed ruby, and glossy illustrations from lay strewn in t e c h n i c o l o r brilliance. In the darkened bedroom adjacent, another lay, rhythmic in sleep, strong warm pliant limbs rising in his sleep.

It was late afternoon, and Marc had just opened for dinner. The only person on the premises beside Marc himself was Marge, a heavy woman in a Tennessee Williams T-shirt seated at the table closest to the fish pond. She finished her beer and stared down into the dark waters where a flick of color now and then betrayed the life that went on beneath the surface.

Success!

"How 'bout another, Marc?"

At long last.

Marc put down the cutting board where he'd been julienning vegetables at the top of the steps and ducked into the bar. In a minute he was back with a bottle of Dos Eauis.

It was Easter Sunday morning in the East Vil lage, the hottest and brightest day of the young year.

►O*

"Thanks, Marc."

The Soho News, August 12, 1980 "De rien." The art world will soon be reeling with the stunning work of "Evreme" (though Brooklynborn, the artist much fancies the Gallic sobri

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about an old Siletz indian who, it was said, knew why the fish did not return. He had been talking to the animals in the forest and they explained to the old man why the fish would not come back to spawn and they told him what could be done about it.

t d i d n ’t s e e m like m u c h o f 7=k s t o r y sit first. F i s h e r m e n a1 o n ^5 t h e w e s t c o a s t had r e p o r t e d an u n — u s u a 1y small autumn tni S t a t i o n o t s a l m o n

in the little town of Yaquina thought u p tEveryone he he was a bit crazy. Their thoughts were ce rivers that wound through the Coastal Range. mented to certainty when, a few weeks into the Whereas an average years might see a catch of crisis, he walked into the Riverbend Tavern and up to 100 Chinook and coho in a single trip, told this year an experienced angler was lucky if he the men drinking there that he knew why They caught a dozen. And it was getting worse. the The fish were staying away that year. listened and laughed when he said that an otter environmentalists were blaming the mills and had spoken to him as he walked along the river the slash-burn run-off that fouled the rivers. one day looking for cattails. The otter warned Commercial fishermen blamed seals, eagles, and him that the fish would not come back until even the environmentalists for spoiling this s o m e o n e had "given" h i m s e l f to the river. year's run on purpose. As the season pro Until that happened the river otter hoped that gressed fewer and fewer fish were being caught man had alternative means of livelihood, for end the state Fish and Wildlife Service was there would be no more fish. The men in the beginning to get worried. Impromptu meetings bar taunted the indian, laughing at him and were held, scientific studies were begun and calling him names. waste d i s c h a r g e p r o h i b i t i o n s were issued. Nothing worked; the fish were not returning to Word made it to the city and the newspaper spawn. About a month into the season a story asked me to drive down to Yaquina to interview came out of one of the small coastal towns

this funny old man who talked to river otters. They thought is might make for an amusing piece for the Sunday magazine section. When I got to Yaquina I stopped at the Riverbend Tavern to ask where I might find him. "You goin' to see that old coot?" they asked. "You better watch yourself. See if he don't turn you into a •possum, if'n he don't shoot you first." With a smile friendlier than the rest, the bartender gave me directions to the indian's cabin.

though I was not quite sure what I was asking. The old man smiled again and shook his head. "I, too, am very old. Like the Salmon. My seed has not the power. I talked to the men in town but they l a u g h e d at me and c a l l e d me crazy. But now I know that is why you have come. You are here to walk with me to the springs. You will make the Salmon come back." At this his eyes lit up shining and a smile opened his face as if for the first time.

The old man lived a dozen miles up river from town in a tin-roofed cabin that few knew about and even fewer had ever seen. I parked my car along the side of the road where the bartender had said the old man's shack, would be but I c o u l d not see it f r o m w h e r e I s t o o d . I scrambled down to the riverbank through thick ets dense with blackberry and salal. Above the trees on the opposite bank I saw a wisp of smoke rising from what I guessed to be his cabin. I hollered a loud but friendly hello from where I stood, not quite sure how I was going to cross the river and not sure I really wanted to, remembering what the boys back in the Riverbend Tavern had said. I yelled a few more times before a man appeared on the oppo site bank of the river.

The sound of raindrops hitting the metal roof brought me back to a sense of who I was and the situation that I found myself in. I tried to understand through reason what this old man was asking of me but the ground was giving way and I felt the arrogance of my doubt dissolving into wonder and growing curiosity. Perhaps I was challenged by the notion. rerhaps he was right. "Look," I told him, "I'm not even sure I under stand what you're telling me." The rain began to fall faster and the sound of the drops hit ting the roof echoed the pounding of my con fused mind. "And I'm not so sure I even b e lieve you."

He was a short, squat-legged man, with silvery white hair cropped close to his small head. I tried to explain who I was but the roar of the river between us took my words away with it. He beckoned me with an upraised hand. I point ed down at the water. The old man nodded his head as if to say, "Yes, you must first cross the river." I took off my shoes and socks, threw them across to the other side and rolled up my pants legs. I stepped cautiously into the water. It was icy co l d and i n tense l y black. Large boulders helped me cross in the shallow but rushing current. Soon I was on the other side, shaking hands and introducing my self. I told him the city newspaper had sent me down to find out more about why the salmon had not come back this season. As I talked, he smiled without saying a word. It seemed he knew what I was thinking; he saw my urban con descension and arrogant good humor hiding my insecurity. But he said nothing except to invite me into his cabin to dry off.

"There is no time for believing," he said. "We should go now before the paths are washed out by the rain. It must be done soon or the time will pass and all Salmon will die. You will come." He rose from his chair and reached for a leather satchel which hung from a wooden peg on the wall. Into the bag he put a small glass vial filled with a dark brown liquid. From a little drawstring purse he pulled out three perfectly round, perfectly white stones. He held them in his hands. "These are pearls from the Salmon," he said. "They speak of the birth and life of all fish." (I later found out these were otoliths, little bones that grew in a fish's head. The helped a fish to balance itself underwater and were used by s c i e n t i s t s to study g r o w t h rates.) He dropped the three pearls back into the purse, closed it, and placed it carefully in the sat chel. He also packed a white clay pipe and a po u c h of t o b acco, along with a c a n t e e n of water.

Soon I was inside warming my chilled body in front of his wood stove with a glass of bourbon that he had offered me.

It was late morning when we started out. At first we followed a path which paralleled the river for several tortuous miles. As far as I could tell the paths were already washed out but he kept a steady pace always a good dis tance ahead of me. The rain continued to pour down in thick sheets. I was beginning to feel hungry and asked the old man if he had packed any food. He told me we should not eat just yet but said nothing more. His stamina amazed and shamed me into not pursuing my complaints any further. He seemed so frail and bent yet I always felt pushed just to keep up. After a long while we left the river and turned up a sharply ascending path into the hills. The forest closed in around us and the dense under growth, knotted and thorny, tore at my clothing and scratched my face and arms. He walked on oblivious to the cold and rain. I trudged on as best I could.

"Why have the salmon not returned to spawn this year?" I asked him. "Salmon, who makes the world, he is now very old," the indian said. "Otter told me that because Salmon is so old, he can no longer father his children. His seed no longer has the power to make them return." "What will make the salmon come again?" I asked him. "I asked Otter this question. Otter is very wise. He knows much about Salmon, for he, too, must fish the Salmon to live. Like us. Otter told me that a man must go up to the first waters of the River. Otter says that man is young and his seed will make the Salmon come again."

We stopped briefly as darkness fell. My stom ach now growled with hunger and my teeth were chattering from the cold. He sensed my discom fort and gave me a drink of water from the

"So will you go up to the first waters of the river to make the salmon come?" I asked, al

canteen. He took out his tobacco pouch, rolled a cigarette and gave it to me to smoke. Al though it stopped my hunger pangs it made me feel quite dizzy. As night's dark blanket covered the forest the rain subsided and soon stars began to twinkle in the clearing sky. When I finished the cigarette the old man mo tioned for us to recommence. Although deadly tired I was glad to be walking again as it helped to keep me warm. The moon had not yet risen and darkness hid the path from me. Often I lost sight of the old man completely and I would call out for him to slow down. Instead of waiting he began to sing and I followed him by listening to the sound of his deep and pow erful voice. His songs were chant-like with long, low passages punctuated by sharp rises in pitch. I could not understand the words. As night wore on I followed his voice through the blackness. Eventually I could recognize the sounds of the songs and I began to sing along as we climbed ever upward. We sang like this together for a time I could not measure, two men walking to the first waters of the river. I considered how foolish I must look to my friends as the newspaper. Trying to rational ize it all, I told myself that I was a good reporter just chasing down a story. All of a sudden his singing stopped. I reached the point where he stood. "We are here," he said, laying his satchel down beside him. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and took in the vague outlines of a small clearing encircled by a few young alders. In our dark silence I could hear the gurgle of water and the splashing noise it made as it struck small stones in its path. He gathered wood from the edges of the clearing and set it in a pile slightly off from the center next to the source of the spring. Soon a small fire was going and my spirits lifted as I felt its warming energy infuse my weary body. The old man sat across the fire from me and emptied the satchel in front of him. The fire's shimmering light was reflected in his dark eyes. They seemed the very source of that fire's power just as the spring before me held all the potential of the river it created. He began to sing again. But this song was less rhythmic than the others and more entrancing. Whereas the songs we sang on the path had set the pace for our walking, this song seemed to set us free from that pace. It was shorter and contained fewer syllables. He repeated it over and over until I could retain the song within me and I, too, began to sing. He rose, took off his clothing and set it on one of the forked sticks he had placed near the fire. He motioned for me to do the same. We kept singing. The night air was steely cold, clear and starry. We rocked cross-legged back and forth before the fire chanting a song whose power burned its way into my heart. Soon I forgot the chill and the damp earth beneath me. The old man emptied the purse of its contents. The pearls gleamed in the fire-light. He held them up to his mouth showing me that I was to swallow them. He reached his hands out across the fire toward me. i took the pearls to my mouth, held them on my tongue for a moment and swallowed. They felt heavy and swelling within me. He filled the pipe with tobacco from his pouch and topped it with leaves he had picked from a bush mo ments before. He lit the pipe and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in, chanting again as

he exhaled. His hands reached out again across the fire, holding the pipe before me. I took it from him and followed his lead. The smoke b u r n e d my lungs and the b l o o d in my head boiled. I wanted to turn and vomit, to cough up the smoke but held it inside me until I felt nothing left, until I felt the smoke disperse to every cell, becoming every cell in my body. He chanted more loudly; the song and smoke merged and filled me. I found it hard to sing the words of the song though their spirit sang in my head. My body began to quiver as if from the cold but I felt nothing, only the song and smoke as they held me. The old man got up, walked around and pulled me to my feet. I saw now that I stood between the fire and the spring and he turned me to face the water. The flames leaped around me into the stream, dancing on the surface of the water as they were carried down in the tiny current. He began to rum by body with oil from the vial, chanting over and over the song which now burned me worse than fire. He started with my face and neck. Then he rubbed my arms, the muscles drinking in the liquid like an empower ing food. My back straightened with the power of that strange dark oil. He walked around in front of me, massaging my cheat like a war rior's. My nipples felt as hard as the stone peaks of mountains. I felt the fire growing rigid in my center. He followed the line of hair from my navel down to where an immense power was building. He skirted my center and rubbed my legs, pushing the energy up through the muscles, back up to my center where it all began to gather. I now straddled the spring like a giant astride the mightiest of rivers. He touched me once at the center with a single drop of oil and my power exploded into the spring. The power surged out of me in waves that shook my body and the ground beneath me and the white energy of my seed flew into the river, dissolving in the stream which carried it away and out of sight. Time, too, dissolved away as the energy poured out of my in endless surges and all thoughts left my head, all sight left my eyes. My body had become the center and the center was energy flowing out of my body. Flowing out, out, down and away. And then--Blackness. I remember waking the next morning near the fire feeling tired and weak. The old man was singing softly to himself. "Rest a while longer," he said. Later I dressed and in silence we retraced our steps back down the mountain to his cabin. Before the door he stopped and handed me the three fish pearls I had swallowed the night before. I must have looked puzzled. He only smiled and nodded his head. "We shall fish for the Salmon again soon." I crossed back over the river, got into my car and drove away. Back at the newspaper I wrote the story that I knew would be printed. And then I wrote this one, the real one. A few weeks later fishermen began to see the salmon reappear. Must have been a late spawn they said. Bad weather or rough seas they said. Maybe, I thought. And then again maybe not.

n w m s T

the b e g i n n i n g the o r l d was young. £\11 y t h s s h o u l d have a t a r t such as this. he w o r l d was y o u n g ■

C o n s c i o u s n e s s was w i l d and free and d e 1 i g h t e d ±n i t ’ s o w n c r e a t ivity.

The fates (or fatas; Italian or Croatian female fairies who are very beautiful) were kind and benevolent and playful; not like after He came. Nature was the friend of woman and man (al though Nature has not forgotten her friendship with womankind). But then He, came. Yes, my children, fairies and fairy spirits and humans and human spirits were friends in those first tremulous and talented, wild, young times. You remember what simple bliss that was, deep down in your racial memory. I know you do. We hadn't learned what fear, sorrow, and anger were, yet. War? What was war? Yes, all the really good creation myths start wit this thing

"animals"— we were all gods. The second law of reality (although I present them in no particu lar order) is: "We each create our own reality. We are, therefore, responsible for our experi ences, for our beliefs, because we create them as we perceive them." He, this nebulous He I have spoken of, is the First Man. He put himself above everything and everyone else. He said, "All this is M i n e ." He put himself ahead of the other gods (Gods). He went to war with Nature. He tamed. He took without asking. I named him Kreedo Daxus some ten years after that first terrorizing nightmare. A vampire and powerful sorcerer, Kreedo is the most evil man to ever walk the face of the earth. You may dispute the use of the term "evil." You may wish to delete it entirely from your vocabulary, and I commend you for your openmindedness, which is more in keeping with the third and final law of reality. In terms of

ON THE n

OF REALITV

we call innocence. You and I know— the funda mental laws of reality. One of them is: "The Universe is a safe place." You and I also know--it isn't always, or it doesn't always seem that way, any more, does it? Ah, but in those first times, it was safe.

language, h o w ever, "evil" is there and it serves a purpose. It serves to differentiate between appropriate and inappropriate behavi ors, between that which we like and that which repulses us, which, for some foolish reason, we just can't stand.

Until He came.

I believe it is safe to define the taking of something which does not belong to you without receiving prior permission from the owner as being naughty, at least: That is, if you con ceive ownership, as so many of us here in the United States do. Obviously, a majority, while deciding issues of a moral nature, is not auto matically correct, but still--

It is far easier to define ourselves by what we are not, isn't it? When we speak about those attributes we all share, about the general sameness between us all, it seems— well— too general. But when we say what we are &gl; well, that's definite, isn't it? I had a nightmare when I was seven or eight— the first nightmare I can remember which really scared me shitless. In the early times before Time was, we were all gods— the rocks, the seas, the streams, the wind and clouds, the trees, the flowers, the nourishing plants, the mysterious herbs, all us

Stealing something of real value, such as your life, your freedom, your conception of safety, we can, I believe, define as knavish, loutish, or even villainous. I believe enforced disillusionment, mandatory conformity, and mind control to be pretty vile and despicable.

But evil?

What is evil?

You who generally don't believe in evil are right. Evil is only suitable for mythologies, and myths are not reality, are they? No. I didn't think so. So, we easily shuck convention (we're good at that, aren't we?) and I propose that the First Man, Kreedo Daxus, stole our innate creativity, our spontaneous ability to reform reality from one instant to the next. Kreedo took our in nate happiness, our fundamental state (the pursuit of which notwithstanding; it is. our fundamental state and your can't convince me otherwise, so there thhpt! nyah nyah!), what ever happiness is for each of us at any given moment. Kreedo Daxus forced our fore-mothers and -fathers to live as shambling hulks, dour and melancholy, shuffling from one instant gratification to the next for ages upon ages. Kreedo Daxus, and his sons who came after, great and small, have made us human; the pathe tic-neurotic, nuclear, breeder-reactor families we all know and with which we have such a dif ficult time getting along.

There dwells within me a great mystical power, an infinity of magical energies. The one clos est to my heart is the ability to see beyond the merely physical, to see beyond what most people call 'reality'— where too many things are seen as 'impossible,' 'impractical' or 'not provable;' where most people cannot see through the filth and imperfection in the world and marvel at the beauty underneath. But as a faerie-satyr, I possess all-powerful queer perception. My vision is unhindered by the filth and imperfection in the world. My eyes are not blinded by notions of 'impractica1ity' or 'impossibility,' and I can see things that can never be proved.

If we are going to topple an ethos (and I hope we are— I've always wanted to see one of those sucker go over— yeah!) it is important to sepa rate one's-self from that ethos, to get some leverage, to get under it and heave! It seems, in these later days, in these days of real Fairy gentlemen and ladies and their friends, Kreedo Daxus' powers are waning. The world is a freer place. People are exercising their consciousness. We are better informed, and thus "smarter" than ever.

I look at a thunderstorm and see the elements come alive. I look at an old broken lamp cov ered with dust and see a sparkling torch with a magical flame. I look at an old sun-bleached dress and see the robes of a god. I look at a lowly sweaty laborer and see the soft bearded cheek of a prince, and in his eyes I see stars of a universe more beautiful than the most glorious night sky. In his touch I sense the presence of a thought; in his gaze I see the light of his soul.

Let's remember, though (will we ever be able to forget?), the lessons Kreedo has so generously taught us — you know what they are. Nazis, mesmeric televangelists, war-mongers, racists, sexists, dictators,, polluters, all those apa thetic mundane breeder-reactors, and the black boys in the park who say it's okay to throw stones at the swans because they're members of an oppressed minority. Let us be grateful for these lessons because, presumably all unwit tingly, Kreedo (who hates Fairies) has made us strong.

Perhaps it is improper to say that this pe r ception is 'queer.' I am obviously speaking of the ability to be creative, to have a vision of something beyond that which is placed in the world around us or believe in something beyond the apparent. Anyone who writes an original story (not merely an historical account) about fictional events, people and places, or who paints a picture of a non-existent place, or who conjures a mental image to accompany a favorite piece of music, or who has an idea which would not be called 'practical,' 'pos sible' or 'provable' is empowering himself with this ability which I call queer perception.

And the last law? There are no boundaries; all boundaries are illusionary, created by us for our own purposes, but in fact are not real. All times, past and present and future, exist now. All people are all other people are real ly just aspect of the same person who isn't a person as we would think of a person. Every thing is everything else all at once always. The Universe is a safe place. We each have to take responsibility for the challenges in our lives because we each created them. As we learn from our chosen lessons the whole of All That Is learns, because we are not individuals; we are not alone; we are connected.

Although this ability itself may not be 'queer' (but my intuition tells me that this ability and queerness are closely related) I do believe that it is my queerness, my love of men, that has allowed me to tap into this mystical plane and given me this perception. It has something to do with a fascination for difference. I yearn to search for, create, appreciate, and embrace all that is different in the world. My queer perception is unlimited, and allows me to appreciate the beauty of all things in the universe. And what is love if it is not the appreciation of beauty?

Learn, be happy, love, and don't throw stones at the swans in the park because you're a me ni ber of an oppressed minority. Okay? Ri ght .

"Faeries don't get AIDS", my friend and former lover, Mike, had told me. It was 1985 and he had thrown himself completely into the gay style of San Francisco city living, but with a radical twist. Unconditional love was his, community support, a raised consciousness and spirituality - he was a new person. He wanted to*be called Michael, not Mike any longer. He was a radical faerie. Mike and I had met in 1980 when he was 27 years old and just coming out, a beautiful, open, generous man who was searching for some peace, some meaning in his life. We spent four years sharing so much with each other.I

I remember one evening with Mike most vividly in 1985. We were having dinner at a restaurant and he was telling me aDout his latest sexual encounter, and how he was really getting into anal sex so much more. I just reminded him to use condoms. He looked at me unbelievingly and said, "Faeries don't get AIDS." I was shocked told him so. A little later in the conver sation I expressed that I was feeling some pain being with him because of how he had changed, his attitudes, his flip manner. His response was, "Get over it, girl". This was not my for mer lover, this was not the wonderful, open man I once knew. This was an affected, superficial, phony, immature person who was no longer in touch with reality. I saw him even less fre quently.

I went to one of the early faerie gatherings, and Mike found hearing about it interesting but not that relevant to his life. Then he went to a gathering alone, and returned transformed. He had fallen in love with another faerie and want ed to share his joy with me. He was planning to leave the area to be with this new person. He wondered why I wasn't thrilled by his plans. After a lot of discussion, pain, tears and con fusion, I decided I didn't want to be his parttime lover, and ended the relationship. The break-up was very difficult and extremely pain ful for both of us. His new faerie lover had a different boyfriend every week, so he dropped Mike after a short time. It was then that Mike threw himself into gay life-style. He moved to San Francisco, began having sex more casually, in parks, meeting people on the streets. We saw less and less of each other, and when we were together, had little to share. To me he was living in a fantasy world where everything and everyone was beautiful and loving and per fect - the world of unconditional love, of radical faeries. "Faeries are blessed, are chosen - Faeries are untouched by AIDS because we are in tune with ourselves and each other" he would say. We would discuss this Faerie world of his, this double life that he led; businessman most of the time, and free spirit a few weeks a year at gatherings. He seemed more and more superficial to me, more and more affected in his behavior.

Then in 1987 Mike called me and said he needed to see me. At our meeting he told me he had AIDS. We cried in each others arms. After his diagnosis, we became close again and shared more time together, but his behavior was still strange and erratic. Mike died in August of 1988 . He once told me he was going to live to be 100 - he barely reached 35. "Faeries don't get AIDS". Yes they do and they die like everyone else. "Unconditional love will save us". No, it won't. Unconditional love is enlightenment and very few of us are enlightened. I love you, Mike, my friend, my lover.....but I've got to tell you, baby, you really blew it.

positive. This is almost in direct conflict with other studies of sexual activities between men and boys. The second part of the book is titled, "Sex in P e d o p h i l e R e l a t i o n s h i p s , " which starts by saying, "Sex is not the most important reason boys have relationships with men, but very well may be the chief reason problems over them arise." A couple of the questions here are, "Can you recall when you had sex with him for the first time?" "Can you remember what happened and who started it?" The initiative to the first sexual contact was often taken by the adult, though subsequent contacts were taken by the boys. The center of the book is taken up with the different sex acts that the boys and their adult p a r t n e r s e n g a g e d in. They include "Active and Passive Roles, Nice and Naughty," the sexual experience and the positive and negative feelings regarding sex. This chapter includes selective interviews which are all supportive. The final chapters, "Power Difference and Abuse of Power," the opinions of others which include the boys' parents, and the opinions of the boys themselves. This is interesting reading and is also limited to the positive support of these relationships.

Boys On Their Contacts with Men by Dr. Theo. Sandfort

The last section, "The Significance of the Boys' Statements For the Law," discusses past, p r e s e n t l e g i s l a t i o n and p o s s i b l e future legislation which would decriminalize intergenerational relationships. The author justifies his study saying, "There is nothing in what these boys said that would justify punishment, the present laws form more of a threat to the boys who enjoy sexual relations than a protection." Dr. Sandfort believes very strongly in favor of sexual self-determination.

Global Academic Publishers 80-50 Baxter Avenue, Ste. 500 Elmhurst, NY 11373 17 6 pp $16.50 (add $3.50 packing & postage) Reviewed by Len Richardson

Question: Why do boys seek contacts with men? Why do boys keep going with men? Bovs On Their Contacts With Men by Dr. Sandfort has some answers to those questions.

There are three appendices. The first is on the research method (the s e 1f-confrontation m e t h o d ) , and how the i n t e r v i e w s were constructed. The second, a complete interview with three boys and a f o l l o w - u p on their o p i n i o n s a f t e r the i n t e r v i e w . T h e la s t appendix is a graph of the average frequencies with which the boys experienced each of the 14 emotions that are listed in connection with their sexual contacts.

Dr. Sandfort has offered a non-partial study use 25 boys whose ages range from 11-16, and who like to keep the company with men. These participants were selected from the Netherlands Society for Sexual Reform (NVSH). This study was partly funded from a grant by the NVSH.

Dr. S a n d f o r t has t ried to c o n d e n s e a long serious study into a publicly readable book, w h i c h c a n o f f e r t h o s e not f a m i l i a r w i t h pedophile relationships a small positive view, an in-road into a very complex subject, which in the US is one of the "forbidden taboos" of the societal structure. This outline edition is certainly a useful educational tool as well as an excellent introduction into the pedophile relationship. This book is for those who have a misconstrued idera about inter-generational relationships. It also makes for good reading for those who are not in the scholastic field or into demographics. The chosen interviews are soft, sincere, and give one the idea of a very special relationship which is not so much b a s e d on sex as it is on s u pport and mentorship. I think more of this kind of books needs to be brought to the public eye to clear up a very misunderstood subject.

The first q u arter of the book cove r s the p o l i t i c a l spirit of the times, involving pedophilia and pedosexuality, with emphasis on soc i e t a l r e action to i n t e r - g e n e r a t i o n a 1 relationships. There also is an a n alysi s concerning peer friendships, international law, and t r a d i t i o n a l values. Dr. S a ndfort has annotated all sections and has a considerable bibliography section at the back of the book. An introduction about the 25 boys and their adult friends in t i t l e d , "Pedophile Friendships." Who do boys get along so well with their older friends, and how did the boys get to know them? A couple of the questions are answered here. Here we have only some of the interviews to give the reader a general idea of the r e l a t i o n s h i p s . The a p pendi x explains a more in-depth technical approach and how it was undertaken. In all the interviews, the attitudes and responses have been very

Too often writings seem polemical to the extent that crusaders want only the erotic, or J/O fiction; or only that which appeals to the heart or mental-head, the intelligence. Some times the "pornographers" don't publish liter ate poetry or essays or fiction, because it's too "romantic." It's not a matter of either/ or. Gay human beings are exactly that; total human beings. Many gays have been illustrious; those who respect their fellow human beings are humane, and by their very definition, human.

Gay Men fr Women Who Have Enriched the World by Thomas Cowan Mulvey Books, 1988 72 Park Street New Canaan, CT 06840 Softcover; 257 pp. no price information Reviewed by L.E. Ward

Yet fine books like this— numerous, in total, through the years— sadly remain the exception.

We all read or see--or at least hear— of books and more books about being gay or the gay expe rience, past and present — falling from small and major trade-book presses. Once in a while, a book publisher addresses the total lives of gays past and present--their feelings, emo tions, brains, as well as their genitals. "Gay Men and Women Who Have Enriched the World" is such a book. I endorse it wholeheartedly.

This is a national treasure. Nothing can com pensate for the centuries of illiteracy, of cultural illiteracy that is, or civic darkness. But the present and future can be made human, civilized, informed; and the past can be recap tured as a guidepost along the way. Gay culture is just that; and it has been a driving force of all western culture— period— from the very beginnings. This is a great book; just as significantly it is a good book, a real book. In the end— this is a beginning. And along with the J/O fiction, the porno films, let us have more of the body as art, including nude art; culture as a beacon and blessing; and books that speak to the whole gay person and the whole gay culture--genitals, mind, body, and feelings included.

At age 44, possessing an MA in literature; having been a former college literature facul ty-member; and a lifelong enthusiast of litera ture and the arts, I know something about the sense and sensibility of western culture. Any literate person realizes how many gays (a ma jority or near-majority?) have created the great paintings, sculptures, novels, and poems. The knowing of this is by fits and starts. Teachers, librarians, the power-that-be for centuries either pretended gays were straight— or just as bad, kept the matter of their sexu ality a matter of the "dark."

This book is strongly, and emphatically, recom mended. Young and mature gays; cultural so phisticates and beginners alike will find some thing in it much to be proud of; glad to learn of; and sur p r i s e d , informed, and happy to "hear."

Hence, some of the people this book is about are familiar to me as q a v s . Others are not. There are forty essay/articles about forty different individuals. Lesbian women and gay men are both included. Residents and natives of many countries add to the diversity, accu racy, and sophistication of treatment.

The word is out; and the truth is more beauti ful and just, than any prior attempts at sub terfuge— and at indifference/ignorance. ■ Crush by Jane Futcher

As a sexual minority, gay people have enriched the world. This is the title of the volume; and as the author unfolds it, it has a rich and literal meaning.

Alyson Publications 40 Plympton Street Boston, MA 02118 $6.95

The entire spectrum of western civilization is included from Alexander the Great, Sappho, and Plato; through Michelangelo, Francis Bacon, and Lord Byron; through to Michael Bennett, Marcel Proust, Jean Cocteau, and Willa Cather.

Reviewed by Robyn Kevlin Some of us were born knowing we were not intended for Marriage the American Way. For those of you who weren't, this book will remind you of the rigors of discovering your sexuality in high school. It covers such burning questions as "Is it okay to hold hands if we're "just friends?" and "We are just friends.... aren't we?" and "Does this mean that we're lezzies?"

The peaks are here, like Proust; and there are moderns like E.M. Forster, Pier Pablo Pasolini, composer Benjamin Britten, and Virginia Woolf. The style is readable, intelligent, alert, comprehensive, and interesting. Book-worms and scholars will appreciate the work, as much as neophytes to the worlds of art, music, litera ture, and history.

Crush is set in a prestigous girls school in the seven ties . We wade through the many rules and regulations designed to make the girls Fine Upstanding Members of Society. We endure the panicky questionings of a new friendship that doesn’t really feel like a friendship, but couldn't be anything else because after all they’re both girls. Even those of us who never came close to an upperclass girls school will recognize the soul-searching that goes on in Jinx's mind as she tries to unravel her feelings for Lixie, while coping with the new definitions of love that are forming in her mind.

The book is a good idea, and it is accomplished with pride and precision. It has value for every discerning human being on the planet— in libraries both public and private. Mulvey Books is a new name to me, as a publish er. If it is well-established, I'll discover that; and by all accounts, I wish it a long and prosperous history, publishing like-minded volumes.

Crush is an easy read. Give it a try, if only to remind yourself how good things are now! ■

FAVORITE

BOOKS

Compiled Bob Kazmayer submits his favorite work:

the

RFD

The theme of this work is the spiritual role as priests of father earth and mother sky that we who are gay men are called to assume, this manuscript gives specific techniques, exercises, meditations, for realizing that role .

READERS

Raphael Sabatini

following review of

Since the end of the last ice age and the rise of patriarchy, gay men have been denied their rightful place and function both in society and in the world of spirit. Now patriarchy is in its death throws. We are told that this precedes the dawning of the New Age, but it is not clear whether the transformation will be gentle or cataclysmic, Whether the end of come through the patriarchy can only destruction of civilization and a great portion of humanity may well depend on whether those who have been oppressed - and this includes women, straight and lesbian, as well as gay men, Blacks, and all other minorities - can learn and claim our true roles and funcation. The guides who spoke through Andrew Ramer point the way for gay men. It is up to us to use the roadmap they have given us. ■

Two Flutes Playing; Spiritual Love/Sacred Sex; Priests of Father Earth and Mother Sky; three books TrT manuscript form channeled by Andrew Rame r . Body Electric Publishing, 6527A Telegraph A v e ., Oakland, CA 94609. (415-653-1594). $15.95 plus $3. for UPS delivery or $4. for 1st class mail. Reviewed by Bob Kazmayer (Reprinted from The Loving Brotherhood Newsletter with permission o~f The Loving Brothe rhood, Box 556 , Sussex, NJ 07461. We've all heard that you can't judge a book by its cover. This is certainly true of the work reviewed here. Plain blue cardstock serves as front and back covers for about one hundred fifty pages bound with a plastic binder. Between these covers you will find what may be the most significant work for gay men today. The pages actually contain three works channelled by three spirit guides through Andrew Ramer. There is a general introduction by Ramer as well as an introduction to each of the three works.

R E V IE W by

s c v O AVALON by Kay Gardner Solo Piute Meditations

The firs t work, Two Flutes Playing, while written in the form of prose, is to me a poem, And becau se it is such a deeply moving poem, it's hard for me to convey my feelings about it in a rev iew. I'd much rather compose a string quartet, choreograph a ballet, or perhaps paint a mountai n landscape with two nude adonises celebratin g their maleness. Later I may try just that ; but for now I'll convey as best I can what I find in this, the most beautiful paean to the love between two men that I've ever read.

Ladyalipper Records PO Box .3124 Durham, NC 27705 &9.95 plus postage and handeling When I was handed this cassett to review, my first thought was, OH N O.... another one of those. To my surprise, with my first listening, I found AVALON moving and at the same time peace ful. I have since listened to the peaceful solo flute of Kay Gardner many times and have come to place this music among my favorites. I have also used AVALON for background music during meditation, and have had many wonderful experiences.

The author identifies himself as YAMATI, the spiritual leader of a tribe of gay men that lived during the last ice age - at a time when the patriarchy which has so long oppressed the world was only beginning. At that time men who loved other men lived together in tribes. They were recognized by others as healers, and their ministry was eagerly desired. YAMATI not only talks of that time, but of how the spirit of that time may be reawakened today. He gives specific exercises whereby two men who love each other may bring their love to new spiritual heights.

AVALON is the sixth in a series of recordings by Kay Gardner. AVALON was recorded on a hand held cassette recorder in and around Glastenbury England at the ancient sight of the Isle of Apples. The majic of old was truely captur ed in the se pieces recorded there. Among the delightful pieces is found, a mystical magical sound of times passed. The recording began at the Lady's Chapel and the High Altar. I can almost smell the flowers while listening to the Holly Well, and-see the fairies dance at Chalice Hill.

The second work, Spiritual Love / Sacred Sex, comes from a spirit guicle named ARRASU. It consists of fourteen separate essays. These deal with AIDS, interpersonal harmony, spiritual manifestation, gay history, healing, death, redefining the sacred, learning wisdom from the body, transformation, and forgotten chakras. This work also gives specific exercises for gay men: individuals, couples and groups.

The audio quality and content of AVALON is ex cellent, and I highly recommended this musical master piece of old, to all lovers of music for the higher mind.

The third work, Priests of Father Earth and Mother Sky, comes from a spirit guide named SARGOLAIS, who declares himself to be a "noncarnate", a being who has never incarnated on the Earth plane. Noncarnates, he says, would in another time have been called guardian agnels.

AVALON is available on cassette only, and can be purchased or ordered through your local out let. Or order AVALON directly from Ladyslipper Records. ■

the

David L eavitt

The term 'Gay Writing' is basically double talk. I don't know what 'gay writing' is. By gay people; about gay people; for gay people? I just don't know. But the mainstream commercial publi shers realize that there is a big audience for 'gay writing' and if anything is PROFITABLE, they will publish it. Gay fiction has become more noti ceable because it makes money â&#x20AC;&#x201D; not that it is inherently anything else, Because of the profit motive, lots of good (and bad) stuff is being written now. People are more conf ident to write about openly gay characters and this is a good and interesting time. The bath house action of the 70s has diminished and people are doing more reading. That will help all authors.

Before

your first novel The Lost Language of you related "I could think of nothing that terrified me more than the thought of my father being a homosexual". Why was that so terrifying?

Cranes, David Leavitt, ot Family Dancing, The author of Lost Language of Cranes and now hi s newest book Equal Affections was coming to Lambda Rising _ _ _____ _____ Bookstore in urination's Capitol to sign copies of his new book. So, since I wrote the absolutely wonderous review of Lost Language of Cranes for RFD #51, I thought why not try and get an interview with this very talented and good-looking author. I called his publisher and they were delighted to arrange an interview for someone from "A Country Journal for Gay Men Everywhere" (whatever that was) and scheduled me for 30 minutes with him while he was in Washington.

Psychological reasons. The incest taboo and the eroticization of the father/son theme is replete in gay cultures. The vision of the distant father versus the constant search for a father substitute is a highly charged situation and was frightening and therefore a wonderful subject for my novel.

"Falling in love with couples is something I do a lot . . .and becoming simultaneously parent & child" was something you said in an interview in the past. How does that trait affect you today?

I met David Leavitt at his hotel on February 16th at 10:30 am and asked him a variety of questions about his work, his suggestions for other writers and about his person. That interview follows:

Not so much anymore! It was an immature version of falling in love without all the risks and I have moved past that today.

Many Radical Faeries have rejected the city/urban condition for lives of arduous but natural struggle in the country. Your work focuses on city themes. What have you to say to us? I find Perhaps it.

Your phrasing in Equal Affections "women who love other women had been for years collecting" is unusual. How do you craft these phrases and how can our readers learn your techniques?

that in the country I can find myself. I must leave the city to write about

Does the stimulation?

countryside

provide

you

It's funny how you picked that line...many people tried to make me change it. My primary goal is to make sense; to insure that the reader does NOT have to read a line or passage twice to get the message. But, once I've accomplished that, I'm very much interested in making the passage rhythmatically interesting. I enjoy playing with language.

with

I do my writing out on Long Island around East Hampton. It affords the opposite of stress-quiet. New York over stimulates. The countryside removes the noise so I can hear my own voice. There are so many people screaming there (in New York).

How can improve

the

reader/writers who their writing

create RFD skills?

I use a computer and revise my stuff endlessly. I'm continually redrafting, revising. The computer allows that freedom. I'm a perfectionist and never seem to be done!

Gay themes in literature run the gamut from Vidal's City & Pillar to current fiction like your Equal Affections. Where do you see your work in the broader context of this continuum and how is gay literature evolving?

Well to

I don't know. That is more appropriately a question for literary historians or critics. Fiction is so insulated--the act (of writing fiction) is so very private that you (the author) may be the last person to know where your work fits (if it fits anywhere).

then,

how do you know when to send it off the

publisher?

Well that's like approaching a door but only going one half of the distance on each step; first you're half way there, then one fourth then one eighth then one sixteenth, etc. You never get to the door. Likewise, preparing a manuscript for delivery to the publisher is the same way but at some point the author must just wrap it up and send it off. But the publishing process still allows leeway--the galley proofs allow minor changes but it just takes courage to call it quits.

"Gay writing is just now coming into its own. It's being upgraded very quickly and very well." I quote that from a comment in The Advocate How do you respond to that statement?

Equal Affections By David Leavitt

A constant theme in your work seems to be the tension between freedom and incarceration; abandon and calculation; wild and tame, etc. Is that your view of life as a whole?

Weidenfeld & Nicholson 841 Broadway, NY, NY 10003-4793 $18.95, 268 pp.

Yes. Life is lived in constant tension. Louise (in Equal Affections) is a boring domestic mother who wants to be free of her life and be a nun. Walter, who has all the creature (a lover, 2 VCR players, a home comforts he uses to contact other bored compute r guppies, a law practice, etc), wants a life of

Reviewed by Raphael Sabatini, D. of C. The man who I compared (very generally) with Hemingway in my review of Lost Language of Cranes, has provided us witTT~another superb example of his craftsmanship.

wild abandon. But while they are somewhat bizarre characters, they are also very ordinary. Wild can be ordinary. Domestic can be quite wild.

David Leavitt is a masterful writer and reading his prose is pleasureable because his characters are believeable (generally) and the language he has carefully chosen to convey his tale is rhythmically presented. It is not poetry but he has clearly taken his time to produce a sensious reading experience. Furthermore, his characters possess 'extra-human' characteristics. By that I mean that Louise, the hero's mother, is larger than life (or in her case - death). Danny, the hero, is somewhat of a milktoast while his lover is both the epitome of dull and simultaneously adventurous. Yes, I speak in contradictions but so does Leavitt.

You have been labeled by the New York Times "a genius for empathy". How has tKat helped/harmed you personally and professionally? That label has been fine. It sort of was true then (after publication of the collection of short stories Family Dancing) rather than today. I have seen much and done more. I am someone who has been in the center of intense experiences. Then I was very innocent. I am not innocent now. This is a time when we are not allowed to be innocent.

During my interview with Leavitt he related that many reviewers condemned the book for its 'abject ordinariness'. He protested and I must agree with him. While Louise is suffering on the edge of death, she is still a vital person and Danny's seeming dullness is, I feel, a manifestation of his calmness in dealing with the hum-drum day-to-day life routine that we all know and love.

Finally, one of our reader/writers who adores you wanted me to ask you how big your cock is? That's

private.

I'm

not

a porn star! ha! ha!

March 7, 1989

Equal Affections is about how one family deals with the death of the matriarch. Dull people can lead very adventuresome lives internally and obviously adventurous people can be painfully boring upon closer inspection. The book is anything but boring and I recommend you READ IT.

GO FICHE-IN' Got Nothing To DO? Don't want to start a new Project? Why not read an old issue of RFD? Oh, but most issues are out-of-print! Boo! But YES! Now all issues are available on MICROFICHE! (Issues 1-55). So order a complete run of RFD for $25. and always have our favorite mag onhand ! Order from: RFD, Microfiche, P. 0. Box 68, Liberty, TN 37095. Include check or M.O. for $25.

D a v i d

L e a v i t t

photo bv Jerry Bauer

A SUMMER SOUFFLE.

® € ® C ® ® W (tfU € (E W BY BUDDY

MAY

Greetings, I hope all of you had a wonderful spring and by now you've gotten all of your gardens planted. With all the mild weather and lots of rain, the gardens here on Short Mountain are doing great and we've already started harvesting their bounty. Being the food editor, sometimes it's hard to come up with interesting recipes that I feel everyone will enjoy and try. I have been told that some of the originators of this magazine feel that there is no need for a "kitchen queen" and all the recipes for tofu were exhausted many years ago, and they feel the column should be done away with. The present management assures me that they "do" want the column to continue. Several months ago, I received a letter from a gentleman named Bill Canfield who lives in E. Hardwick, Vt.. He reminded me of the fact that a lot of people don't really know how to cook and have trouble following a recipe because they don't understand the proceedure. 1 had to agree with him. He offer ed to do a series of articles explaining the proceedure and giving a basic recipe to go along with it. Beginning with this issue, Bill will be doing his series of articles. For his first article, he chose to teach us how to make a souffle. I hope all of you will give his recipe for a marvelous cheese souffle a try. I'm sure you'll like it. So long for now. I hope your summer is a good one and not too hot. If you come up with any interesting recipes for all those wonderfull veggies in the garden and you would like to share them with your fellow readers, don't hesitate to drop me a line. Take care of your selves and be well.

S u m m e r is a g r e a t t i m e for a s o u f f l e . And t hey a re e a s y too, o n c e y o u g e t the h a n g of them. W h e n yo u l e a r n the p r o c e s s of s o u ffle, y o u c a n c h a n g e a r o u n d or e x p e r i m e n t w i t h t he f l a v o r s to c r e a t e y o u r ow n p i e c e de r e s i s t a n c e on a whim, or w i t h w h a t e v e r y o u h a p p e n to h a v e l e f t over. 'The s o u f f l e c o m b i n e s m a n y c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s s u c h as f i n e g r a i n e d s o o t h i n g s m o o t h n e s s , a nd a b l e n d i n g of f l a v o r s . A p r e d o m i n a n t o ne l i k e c h e e s e , f i s h or c h o c o l a t e e n h a n c e d by the m o r e s u b t l e o n e s of milk, b u t t e r , a nd e g g s , " s a y s L o u i s Diat, in g o u r m e t ' s F r e n c h C o o k b o o k . F or t h i s y o u n e e d to use r eal d a i r y p r o d u c t s r a t h e r t han s u b s t i t u t e s , o ne c o u l d use m a r g e r i n e or p o w d e r e d m i l k or eggs, bu t t he f l a v o r w o u l d be l a c k i n g . I u r g e the u se of " r eal" d a i r y p r o d u c t s for this d i s h .. T h e r e a re t h r e e b a s i c c o m p o n e n t s of a s o u f f l e . A t h i c k w h i t e s a u c e , f l a v o r i n g , a nd e g g w h i t e s . T h e s a u c e p r o v i d e s the s u b s t a n c e a nd th e g g w h i t e s a re w h a t m a k e the s o u f f l e r i s e i n t o that c r o w n i n g p i e c e of e l e g a n c e t hat w i l l a d o r n y o u r l u n c h e o n or s u p p e r table. Y o u n e e d to h a v e all of y o u r i n g r e d i a n t s at r o o m t e m p e r a t u r e . A c o u p l e of h o u r s b e f o r e y ou g e t r e a d y to m a k e y o u r c r e a t i o n , t a k e t h r e e or f o u r e g g s o u t of t he frige, s e p a r a t e t h e m t h e n if y o u wish, and let t h e m stancj

with the milk and butter and whatever base you intend to use, be it cheese, as the following recepe provides, or other of your choice. One could use chicken, lobster, any vegetable cooked and chopped, or for a desert souffle chocolate, vanilla,fruit, there is a nice recepe ofr violet souffle in the ALICE TOKLAS COOKBOOK that I tried once, although I would not use Kummell as Alice reccommends. Also the French like their souffle not fully cooked through. They use the uncooked center of the sou ffle as a sauce for the outer cooked part. Souffles need a high sided dish. You can use just a regular old pyrex casarole, and tie a piece of buttered foil around the top in a collar so that when the souffle rises it can rise up out of the casarole dish and have a little support surrounding it. And more than anything else TIMING! You can do anything you want to with the mixture before you add the egg whites. After the egg whites, always added last, are beaten and added, it must be right to the oven and then to the table. Souffles fall very easily. Egg whites are the agent that rises them and they do not " "stay up" very long. It's no less satisfy ing in stufffie than anything else. They are much better when they are up. In facet a flat souffle can be boring. For those who like to plan, you can prepare the mix ture right up to the egg white well in ad vance, then just beat and add the egg whites ana pop it into a preheated oven. And the souffle can be saved and reheated later for yourselves. Although it loses a lot of pizazz that you like to share with company, the flavor is still there, and it can be very good as a leftoverSo here's how to put it all together:

CHEESE SOUFFLE 1 cup of rather stiff white sauce (recipe follows) 1 cup grated or shredded cheddar cheese 3 beaten egg yolks 3 beateii egg whites slices of cheese for decoration FIRST: preheat oven

350°

SECOND: Butter casarole and collar. THIRD: Make white sauce as follows: Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a small pan.When it is hot and bubbley, but not browned, add three tablesppons of flour and blend and cook this vigorous ly. let it cook over low heat for three to five minutes or so, then GRADUALLY add in 1 cup of milk (you can vary this liquid depending on your basic flavor, for chicken or lobster or veggies you could add here 1 cup of the liquid they were cooked in instead of the milk.) Bring the white sauce to a slow boil, remove from heat for a half minute or so. FOURTH: Add the cup of cheese and the beaten egg yolks carefully. You might want to first take a little of the sauce and stir in a tablespoon or so to the egg yolks and then add the yolk mixture back to the original one.This binds and blends in the egg yolks a little smoother and helps to cool the mixture and warm the egg yolks so the yolks won't scramble.

(T o

Once at this point you can store this mix ture under a piece of buttered wax paper. About 45 minutes or less before serving time be sure your oven is set and ready, then warm up the above mixture and butter the souffle dish.

.Become a

AND FINALLY: beat untili stiff but not dry, three (four or more if you have extras on hand) egg whites at room temperature. Fold the egg whites into the souffle mix ture, by spooning some egg whites on top of the souffle mixture and runnung a spoon or fork through the center of the mixture and lifting the center up over the egg whites and so forth untili all of the egg whites are incorporated into the mix. The goal is to try to lighten the mix with the egg whites while keeping the whites as light and fluffy as possible. Put the whole mixture into the buttered dish, smooth it out over the top and you can place thin decoratively cut pieces of cheese over the top of the souffle for decoration. Place it in the center of a 350° oven for about 30 minutes for a well done (cooked through the center) souffle. If you want to try the french method one would cook the souffle somewhat shotter length of time in a slightly hotter (400°) oven.. r 3?

V e g e ta r ia n f c > v C h a r 1es

E .

Hall,

Ph . D

O n c e a g a i n , l a r g e n u m b e r s of p e o p l e a r e b e c o m ing a w a r e t h a t t h e f o o d s s o l d b y m e g a b u s i n e s s a r e no t h e a l t h y . M a n y of t h e s e f o l k s a r e b e c o m i n g " v e g e t a r i a n s " in t h e i r e a t i n g s t y l e . If you are think i n g about making the shift, this is w r i t t e n for you. B e c o m i n g a v e g e t a r i a n is n o t s i m p l y w a l k i n g a c r o s s t h e s t r e e t a n d s h o p p i n g at a d i f f e r e n t supermarket. T h e r e is a w o r l d o f d i f f e r e n c e b e t w e e n a s u p e r m a r k e t and a h e a l t h food store. If y o u t r y to b u y c a n n e d v e g e t a b l e s in a h e a l t h food store, you will d i s c o v e r that they cost t w o or t h r e e t i m e s as m u c h at t h e h e a l t h f o o d store. So t h e f i r s t t h i n g y o u l e a r n is h o w n ot to live out of can s . After you have learned t h e v e g e t a r i a n s t y l e o f e a t i n g , y ou w i l l f i n d t h a t it is c h e a p e r t h a n t h e s u p e r m a r k e t .

Immediately it is done, it goes directly on to the table to be served. For this oish a salad,some hot rolls and butter, and iced tea would make a delightful summer luncheon. 53

Becoming vegetarian needs to be done slowly. Getting meat out of your diet needs to take 2 to 3 months. I suggest cutting your meat in take in half the first two weeks. Just have meat every other day, then in the second two weeks cutting it in half again, eating meat every 3 or 4 days for two more weeks. Then going down to once a week for two to four weeks. Then— forget about it. White sugar can also be cut out in the same way. Eat white sugar only on the days when you eat meat. White sugar and meat are balanced in yin and yang. The sugar is extremely yin and the meat extremely yang. When eaten together, they balance each other. If eaten separately the will throw the body off balance enough to make you uncomfortable but not enough to make you feel "sick." During the transition learn how to use honey. Honey comes in many kinds— explore their tastes. Also the honey in health food stores is much different from that in supermarkets. Supermarket honey is as phoney as supermarket hamburger. Someday I'm going to explain this but not now. Should you quit meat and sugar suddenly, you are likely to become ill in about a month. The body can't take the sudden shift and it will rebel by causing dis-ease. Also, you will not be able to learn a new style of cooking so quickly and will likely become bored, and even undernourished because your digestion can't process the new foods without some change-over time. Your digestive system is complex and needs to remodel itself slowly. At the outset of the change you will need to become acquainted with "steamed" methods of cooking. Get an oriental wok and two bamboo steamer baskets with lid. The wok can be inex pensive, the baskets will cost more. Woks with lids can be found often in thrift stores where people have tried them and given up too soon. With the wok you will need a metal lid, a ring to set it on over the flame, a stir-fry paddle and a wooden spoon or two. The whole lot wil] cost about $50 or less. Then you need a cookbook. Get a simple one to start with, then a fancy one if you want to do a gourmet or an elegant oriental style. There is a book called simply "The Wok Book;" it's a good one. There are many macrobiotic books for beg inners. Some of the new foods taste funny at first. Miso and tamari (soy sauce) are two of these. They are essential ingredients in the "vege tarian" cuisine. A taste for them takes a while to acquire. In a couple of months you will get used to them and even miss their flavor. There is one caution however--these foods are fermented and need to be cooked for only a minute or two. Eaten raw they will cause stomach problems eventually so you must cook them and change their enzyme structure a little.

Here are some handy tips on vegetarian cooking that will make life easier.1 1. Cut your v e g e t a b l e s at a very strong slant, they cook quicker that way. Cutting lengthwise or crosswise will leave you with raw chunks in otherwise overcooked vegetables.

2. Different vegetables cook in different times. Learn which cook slower and which cook quickly. Whether making soups or stir fries, put the long cooking veggies like carrots in first, then slowly add the others, one at a time in the order of their c o o k i n g times, tougher ones before tender ones. This gets everything done to tenderness at the same (or nearly the same) time. 3. Add herbs, garlic and miso at the end so as not to overcook them and destroy their good ness. And learn to like garlic. Garlic is one of the healthiest food-herbs the human race has discovered. Snobs who refuse garlic have more colds and flus than vegetarians. 4. Learn to cook beans and split peas and lentils 2 or 3 times a week. Cooking with mushrooms and cumin removes the gas. Also a teaspoon of oil added before serving controls the gas. Dried beans and dried peas are a vital part of the new diet, e s p e c i a l l y in winter. Here are some healthy things to get used to and discover how tasty they can be. Buckwheat, short grain brown rice, yellow millet, barley, yogurt, onions, salads with various greens besides lettuce, sprouts of many kinds, cayenne pepper (a tiny pinch at first), fresh fruit, nuts, tofu in the summer, mushrooms, flours made of different grains like oat, rye, corn, buckwheat, etc., dried fruit. If you get too confused and have no knack for making food tasty, find someone who teaches macrobiotics and take some lessons. Macrobi otics is an excellent system. In 2 or 3 months it will make a big difference on how healthy you feel. However, it is a little too narrow for the American climate and needs to be broad ened after 2 or 3 years. Beyond 4 years it will cause dry wrinkly skin and create an urge for c i g a r e t t e s , hard liquor and coffee. Strange but true. While you are eliminating meat and sugar, get rid of "milk." The milk sold in supermarkets is a disgrace to a cow. It has everything saleable removed from it to make latex paint and there's nothing left except a faded white color. Also, radioactive fallout is increasing at a rapid rate and milk concentrates 'stronti um 90' which causes bone cancer, particularly in young children. The reasons for not eating meat are many. My reason is chemistry--the chemistry they feed cows, chickens, pigs and others to make them grow faster and cheaper. This chemistry would amaze you if you knew what it is. It is poi sonous to the human meat-eater. Three or six months after you have made the change, eat some meat or sugar. It will make you sick. Then you will find out why so many people quit. You will need to do this to prove it to yourself how eating affects your health. Then learn how to be a vegetarian gourmet. It's not difficult and it can be delicious quite easily. An herbal white sauce on steamed veggies has 1,000 variations, all delicious, gourmet delicacies.

I am 49 years old. I was molested repeatedly when I was 4 years old. I have lived with the consequences for 45 years because the pain and anguish remain, not for a few days or weeks or months or even years, but for a lifetime. I had extensive therapy with a very gifted ther apist. I understand, now, how being molested twisted and distorted my childhood and most of my adult life, but I still live with it. So does any child who is molested live the rest of his or her life with the consequences of what hap pened.

by JACK DAVIS

It is difficult for any child to grow to adult hood. It is certainly more difficult for gay children to grow up as we know. But, for a child who has been molested, growing up is a torturous process at best.

Greetings to All of You. May the "little kid" within reign hand in hand with "enlightened consciousness" that both may shine harmoniously emanating from thy "Whole" Being. May the eighth wonder of the world

There are no benefits to being molested. In his article, Let's Stop Crime, (issue # 56), Raymond Latham would have you believe that there are good results. His article is simply untrue, cleverly written with very impressive statistics, but untrue none the less. If you read through his article, what he's really doing is justify ing his own behavior. He is 70 years old with two 20 year terms so hopefully he won't be able to molest again. I wonder if he ever thinks about the children he used for his sexual grati fication and realizes the harm he had done. Children are precious, perhaps the most precious resource we have. For an adult to use a child sexually is contrary to any definition of love or caring. Anyone who uses a child for sexual, gratification creates a life long nightmare of memories. I can't adequately describe the guilt, the anguish, the fear that being molested engen ders in a child. Certainly children have sexual feeling which they will explore with other children their age. Almost every child plays "Doctor" or "you show me and I'll show y o u . " . But, that is radically different than being in sexual contact with an adult. An adult who molests will lie, manipurlate, use emotional blackmail or use physical force to gain his ends. This is hardly noble or selfless behavior.

Disbelief, bigotry, intolerance, misunderstanding, and persecution have quieted the human spirit (in humans), and its Being - by men. It has caused him to reside 'inside,' where he (actually) is safe, as an individual (and One with All). Or formed secret mystical or societal groups for the purpose of keeping alive the true brotherhood and sisterhood of humankind.

M ic h a e l^ i n L e t t e r s t o RFD, W in t e r 8 8 / 8 9 , w r i t e s t h a t he b e l i e v e s b e in g m c o n t a c t w i t h a m in o r i s " a b a s ic p a r t o f h i s s p i r i t . " I d o n 't b u y t h a t f o r a m in u t e a s a j u s t i f i c a t i o n f o r h i s a c t io n s . I d o n 't t h i n k w i t h my c o c k , b u t ap p a r e n t l y he d o e s . One a s p e c t of m a t u r i t y o r s e l f a w a re n e s s i s t h i n k i n g w i t h t h e b r a i n , n o t th e c o c k o r v a g in a .

I'm not in any way a sexual prude or sexually inhibited. I enjoy sex tremendously with a man in my own age range. While S/M is not my pre ference, I do believe that any two consenting adults can do what they wish. In the same way what is called "kink" is not my thing either, but if two adults want to engage in that behavior, that's their business. But, I do believe that it is necessary to protect children and minors from adults who would prey on them.I I like RFD and enjoy reading it very much. While I don't”Velieve in censorship, I do believe that RFD should not allow NAMBLA to advertise. To do so would be sanctioning and lending credence to their behavior. I hope other readers will feel the same and will voice their objections. ■

Thus, separate or combined, mystical-religio-sexual or other 'minority,' or organizations. Which, many are, singularly or grouped, in fact, Spirit' holder's; in its highest sense. Wisdom and Knowledge will find itself in itself; in an individual. An individual in light will not be hid from others -- such as He thus, the formation of secret societies (and 'open' societies) and mystical orders. For those of us who perceive and persist, the gateway is always open; though obstructions can be many, Light will prevail. As it does, -still, greater than we know. As said, 'Keep on Keeping On.' Mark (M. A. Sarvakrit) +

ALLEN YOUNG

i fill

STEVE MCCARTY

He was born in West Virginia and lived in Phil adelphia in the late 1960's where he attended the Museum School of Fine Arts and was a mem ber of an early gay crafts commune on South Street called The Gazoo. After moving to the San Francisco Bay Area in the early 1970's, he participated in the collective of Gay Sunshine magazine. He lived in a communal household in the Castro District before moving to Massachu setts, where he lived in Westwood, Royalston, Orange and Provincetown, later returning to California.

Steve McCarty, an artist, chef and early gay liberationist, died recently in a Veterans Ad ministration hospital near his home in Livermore, Calif., of complications related to AIDS. He was 44 years old. He was one of the founders, in 1973» of Butterworth Farm in Royalston, Mass., and while a re sident there he contributed to RFD magazine. His art work appeared on the cover of RFD issue number 7 (spring 1976). In recent years, he resided in Livermore with his lover, Gene Fry, who devotedly cared for him during his long illness.

He was a veteran of the U.S. Air Force. His friends remember him as a man of boundless creative energies and talents. ■

He worked as a mapmaker, carpenter, artist and cook, most recently as a personal chef to Werner Erhardt of Erhardt Seminars Training (est).

A MAN NAMED JIM

DANIEL MORRISON

was Jim and he certainly had a real life— he was born September 15, 1952, with Leo rising. He was born in the New York.

be useful in the fight against AIDS or any , catastrophic illness. Jim was relentless and untiring in his effort to help his fellow rnan with little thought to his own needs.

I met Jim a good many years ago while attending a group called "Alternative Encounters." This group was trying to cross all boundaries and bring all brothers and sisters together in Unity.

Through all of this Jim went regularly to an AMA doctor and tried to follow, within reason, all of the guidance that he was requested to follow.

The group meeting was opened for announcements and general getting to know one another type of information. Jim stood up and in his friendly Leo manner said that anybody who had an inter est in participating in an AIDS group could make contact with him during the evening. Jim had been diagnosed with AIDS and was starting the battle of life.

The opposition finally had to enlist Jim's wonderful talents as he was attracting so many people to these new methods of healing. Many were starting to question the so-called ac cepted treatments for this new dis-ease of the 80s. They finally appointed Jim to the Board of Directors for their "network" and it seemed to only add to his mystique. He continued to push for more learning as well as operating within accepted boundaries.

During the evening I chatted with Jim and asked did one have to be a PWA in order to attend his group or was it open to all. He assured me all were welcome and they were meeting once a week at his apartment. That was the start of our friendship which was to span several years and we grew to know and appreciate each other. Jim had a special magnetism which was to attract many people, both professional and lay people, who would gather at his place from week to week.

It is my belief that Jim was too accommodating and it was the so-called approved drugs which began to weaken this wonderful man. Jim was in and out of many hospitals and weaker people would have given up--but not this man. Many battles later Jim still had a smile on his face and an encouraging word for all who followed him in his struggle against the virus.

His name zest Cor a Virgo, State of

The last time I saw Jim and held his hand was at the hospice in North Miami where he had gone to spend his last days. His body was worn but the spirit was bright and glowing as usual. Jim said, "You know even the dying seems to be a chore."

Jim was willing to fight all of the "powers to be" for the right to pursue and utilize many types of alternative healing. We heard many talks about acupuncture, an unending variety of diets, meditation, yoga, creating new life styles, colonics and the list was unending.

Today Jim has relinquished his worn and rav ished body but his spirit lives on— so I think it is fitting to say he took the passageway to transformation and he will always be a winner in my eyes.

The meetings grew in popularity and they final ly had to move to the local Metropolitan Com munity Church to handle the influx. Jim was untiring in his efforts to promote yet another chance for those who had interest to learn about alternative healing. They also enlisted the help of many people who were using herbs and other formulas that were thought to

Jim Quinn September 15, 1952 March 3, 1989 Your rewards will be great for you have fought a valiant battle— and won. 56

J'OC StlM/A'lt

HAIKU

so life doe s •flower' 8 r o w b l o o m d a z z l e and in t i m e , peace, amen

a l o n g t-he m e a d o w on b l a d e s of e m e r a l d s l o w l y s l i d e m i l d e w

lone c a mel r i d e r m i r a g e , real, m i r a g e d i s a p p e a r s in t i m e

Q tc 'iic 'i# '

die

g r a s s

a g a i n

b e y o n d tbe bare b r a n c h and p ast tbe r o o t ’s s t r e a c h e d black, c l o u d and b ird m e e t

r e a c h

gull g l i d e s p l u n g e s b i t e s g u l p s d own i t ’s r i c h o c e a n c a t c h s q u a l k s or b u r p s in d e l i g h t

sun l i g h t ’s s p r e a d i n g to fill s and w i t h i t ’s b e f o r e sea c o m e s back

dry

b u t t e r f l y w i n g s flap and flap and flap and flap sto p to t o u c h s m o o t h moss

heat

and

l e a v e s y e l l o w and dry let go of life in t h e fall e n e r g y e x p l o d e s

m o n a r c h o r a n g e b l a c k s p o t t e d p o w d e r y w i n g s fly f l u t t e r s to e a r t h

b e n e a t h the c r e s c e n t moo n a b o v e a n o m a d p r a y i n g m o s q u e b ats d i s a p p e a r

S e p t e m b e r sun on b e a v e r dam and w i l l o w w h i t e c l o u d s k y s o b l u e

t r e e s

b l u e r e d y e l l o w w h i t e b r e a k s h a d o w s of s t a r r y b r i n g s k y s e a to s i g h t

n i g h t

r e a c h b e y o n d the mist w i t h b u r n i n g f e a r l e s s see f i r e f l i e s at r e s t

v i s i o n

drawing by Kevin Gerard 57

CONTACT LETTERS RFD prints contact letters free of charge. We also provide a free forwarding service for readers who prefer not to publish their address. Donations, however, are greatly appreciated. We ask that your letters be brief (under 200 words) and positive in stating your preferences. Saying NO to a particular trait or characteristic may unnecessarily offend a brother. RFD assumes no responsibility for claims made in the letters, and we urge correspondents to exercise caution, especially with any financial dealings. For responses from prisoners we advise contacting Joint Venture, P.0. Box 26-8484, Chicago, IL 60626, before replying.

I a m a GWM a n d , lik e s o many o t h e r gay men, I am l o n e l y and d e s i r e to c o r r e s p o n d w ith o t h e r men r e g a r d l e s s of their race, l o c a t i o n or d e s i r e . I welcome a l l so w r i t e and begin a friendship that may d e v e l o p Into som ething e l s e . I love garden, m u sic and c o u n t r y life . Will answer a ll c o r re s pondence . John P . O . Box 180 P e t e r s t o w n , WV

24963

G a r d e n e r , a r t i s t , p o t t e r , t e a c h e r ; H e a l t h y , l o v i n g , g e n t l e , s t r o n g , o b s t i n a t e . 47, 5 '8, ISO, blue e y e s , tan h a ir . I l o v e my g a r d e n s and w o o d s and f u n k y h o u s e b u t som etim es get real lo n e ly in th is rural p l a c e . Could you be m y T h o r e a u ? Al J a e g e r 12 P e r r y R o a d D e e r f i e l d , NH 0 3 0 3 7

Hello. My name i s B r y a n a n d I am i n t e r e s t e d in h e a r i n g a l l about life in Wyoming. Clubs, organizations, dating, etc. I am p l a n n i n g t o come ou t t h e r e and I am c u r i o " 9 about e v e r y thing. Please r ite . Bryan P . O . Box 2 0 4 0 N e w Y o r k , NY 1 0 1 8 5

Dear

I'm very one p s y c f r e e . " jo u rn ey be. S e t might be in w i t h

i n d e p e n d e n t , and as h ic s a id , "I m u s t be I'm on a s p i r i t u a l to be a l l that I can t l i n g into community easier than s e ttlin g one man; how ever, I n a tu ra lly s e e k the i n t i m a c y of one-on-one re la tio n sh ip s even though th ey sc a re me. Men I g ra v ita te to are not a f r a i d of bein g g e n tle and s e n s i t i v e . T h e y ' r e h o n e s t a b o u t t h e i r s t r e n g t h s and weaknesses, know how to t a k e c a r e of t h e m s e l v e s and have a sense of humor. I'm tender and n u r tu r in g by na t u r e - - a "t o u c h - p e r s o n " and very a f f e c ti o n a t e . I'm physi c a l ly a t t r a c t e d to w e l l b u i l t , m u s c u l a r men and know t h a t a man c a n look and f e e l good at any age if he takes care of h im s e lf . I'm s h o r t , like to cu d d le , love to laugh, w e ig h tlif t regularly and have a s m a ll, w e l l - d e v e l o p e d body which 1 feed m o stly v e g e ta r ia n fo o d s. I get n a t u r a l l y high off nature (mountains e s p e c i a l l y ) , touching and s in g in g . A good way to k n o w me is to b u y my n e w m u s i c c a s s e t t e , set to poems from RFD, " H e a rts i n g e r S i n g s Ron L a m b e ' s S o n g s Of L o v e And N a t u r e . " I t's $12 an d i n c l u d e s p o s t a g e . My voice is, like m yself, andro gynous; and I would love to w in The Gay Gam es B a n ta m Weight Physique C on test. Want t o be my w o r k - o u t p a rtn e r? Rich Strange (H eartsinger) R t . 1, Box 1 1 5 B a k e r s v i l l e , NC (704) 688-4791 58

28705

RFD

Friends,

My n a m e i s Al Bouchard. I'm 59 y e a r s old. I'm d evelo p in g t h e INFINITE LIGHT F e l l o w s h i p . The F e l l o w s h i p is se t up f o r s p ir itu a l growth. the Fellow s h i p has no r e l i g i o u s c r e e d . I t ' s n o t a r e p l a c e m e n t fo r anyone's r e lig io n . I t's pur pose is to g iv e guidance for m e d i t a t i o n and s p i r i t u a l h e a l ing as an e x t e n s i o n to on e's re lig io u s p ra c tic e s. A strong focus of the Fellow ship is to encourage p e o p le to m e d i t a t e d a i l y and m e e t w eekly w i t h others in their conmunity for s p ir itu a l healing exercises. As th e F e l l o w s h i p a c t i v i t y takes shape here in W estern N orth C a ro lin a I ' l l want to sta r t v i s it i n g other parts of t h e c o u n t r y to do w o r k s h o p s to f u r t h e r th e g r o w t h o f th e Fellowship. If you're in te r ested in the F e l l o w s h i p a c t i v i t i e s I'd lik e to c o rre sp o n d w ith you and ask you to be a member o f the F e l l o w s h i p . The c o r re s p o n d e n c e is to get to know each oth er w ith the e x p ecta tio n that later I may a s k to v i s i t you. As I ' m v i s i t i n g in o t h e r parts of the country I'd prefer to s t a y w ith p e o p le who a r e m e m b e r s o f t h e F e l l o w s h ip . You may a lr e a d y have s p e c ia l t a l e n t s in s p i r i t u a l healing th a t co u ld be of b e n e f i t to o th e r s in the F e llo w ship. L et's share. In LIGHT, Al B o u c h a r d , F o u n d e r INFINITE LIGHT F e l l o w s h i p P . O . Box 326 S y l v a , NC 2 8 7 7 9

Gay m a l e in l a t e 60s s e e k s com panionship w ith oth e r gay men in t h e H u b e r t s e c t i o n of coastal North C arolina as well as rural areas throughout the country. S t a t i s t i c a l l y , I am 5' 7 " t a l l and tip s c a l e s at 1 7 0 #. Hair is gray as are the e y e s , a l t h o u g h s o m e t i m e s green. Love th e a tre , walks in the c o u n tr y , beach sun b a t h ing, good b o o k s - - e s p e c i a l l y d e t e c t i v e n o v e ls , and going about the house in the b u ff. Any on e f o r n a k e d g e t - t o gethers? Call 9 1 9 - 3 2 6 - 3 9 9 6 or write t o RR 3 B o x 3 2 D , H u b e r t , NC 2 8 5 3 9 .

We l i k e the idea of having a th ir d guy in our l i v i n g w ith us. This is a q u i e t , cultural h o m e , w e l l f u r n i s h e d , good m e a l s , s e x , and a f r i e n d l y a tm o sp h ere. F lo rid a during t h e w i n t e r m o n t h s ; New E n g l a n d d u r i n g t h e s umme r w i t h at l e a s t one t r i p down to P . Town!! You: 30 or o l d e r , nice appearance, neat, mature o u t l o o k , no s m o k i n g , no d r u g s , i n t e r e s t e d in a q u i e t l i v i n g and doin g your share around the e s ta te . Good o p p o r t u n i t y for the sin ce re in d iv id u a l. John, John c/o RFD/S8

Help! I'm lookin g for help. I n e e d a h i r e d man t h i s sunnier (or longer). I need a young, m uscular guy t o h e l p me look a f t e r the lawn and g a r d e n , help around the house and to a s s is t in ca re and h a r v e s t of several a c r e s of s t r a w b e r r i e s . Also to a s s i s t in o p e r a t i o n o f a g a y r e s o r t , i n c l u d i n g h o r s e s . Can al s o o f f e r em p l o y m e n t as a c a r p e n t e r . Room, B oard and s a l a r y f or w illin gn ess to help around the place. R elationship possib le. If you 're in terested in l i v i n g and wo rk in g in the far north, d r o p me a l i n e a n d l e t me k n o w your i n t e r e s t s . Your photo gets mine + d e ta ile d le tte r . Owner Rt. 1 , Box 130 A t l a n t i c Mine,

Dear

Hi! and g r e e t i n g s fro m the N a tio n 's o l d e s t c i t y . I t ' s been g re a t living here, but as soon as I se ll my c u t e V ic to rian house that I've r e s to r e d , I'm g o in g to f i n d a b o u t 10 acres or more somewhere f u r t he r s o u t h , on w a t e r . I r e a l ly en jo y the o u td o o r s , e s p e c ia lly water. I s c ub a and do underwater video. I also play keyboards for music and sou n d tracks, --which is a big part o f my l i f e . I've taken several human p o t e n t i a l se m in a rs, i n c l u d i n g "The E x p e r i e n c e W e e k e n d / I n t e n s i v e , " and 2 years of S cie n c e of the Mind classes, with a previous back g r o u n d in m e t a p h y s i c s . I enjoy t r a v e l i n g , a r t / s c u l p ting, plan ts, and w o rk in g o u t. I have very supportive in te r e s ts in co m p u ters, a n im a ls, k i d s , f l y i n g , b o a t i n g , and much m o r e . I ' m 5 ’8", 140 l b . , trim, bl/bn, short beard, 33, non-sm oking, and h e a lth c o n scious. I'm looking for some one s i m i l a r who i s h a p p y a b o u t being gay, is "out" to family and c l o s e f r i e n d s , a n d k n o w s how to g e t th e m o st ou t of l i f e . Open co m m unications, ex traordin ary frie n d sh ip , deep an d p a s s i o n a t e l o v e a r e expected. Do n D. C h a p m a n P . O . Box 4541 St. Augustine, (904) 824-3778

32085

49905

RFDers,

Although I have liv e d in M o n t real I p r e f e r the q u ie t l i f e the rural areas have to o f f e r . I was r a i s e d on a s m a l l family f a r m in t h e m i d w e s t a n d b r o u g h t up in t h e " p l a i n " f a i t h . It is f r o m my b a c k ground I a c q u ire d my sim ple tastes and vocational s k i l l s . I have worked the land and was taught c a r p e n tr y . I'm a gay man ; e a r l y 3 0 ’s , 6 '4", 180 l b s . ; dark brown hair; brown eyes; trinmed beard; s l i g h t l y bald; and h a i r y c h e s t e d . (I h a v e t u r n e d my s h a r e o f h e a d s .) 1 am s o b e r ; h on est; lo v in g ; warm; s in c e r e ; h a r d w orkin g; p a s s io n a te ; clean; openminded; and HIV n e g . My in te re sts include music; camp ing; animals; gardening; bak ing; c o o k i n g ; re adin g; c o n versation; and enjoying life. I'm not lookin g for a knight in s h i n i n g arm o r; I do not be lie v e in f a i r y t a l e s anymore. However I; for lack of a b e t t e r w o r d , d i s l i k e : b a r s ; d r u g s ; and head g a m es. No SScM. I'm a lover not a f i g h t er. I would be b e s t s u i t e d f o r a m a s c u l i n e man late 20's to mid 4 0 's l o c a t e d in a r u r a l area; U.S. or Canada. I p r e fer s l i m men. I am looking fo r someone to b u i l d a bon ding re lation sh ip; friends f i r s t . I know t h a t l o n g d i s t a n c e r e l a t i o n s h i p s are hard; how ever t h e y do b r i n g the h o n e s t y into the lim elight. I have a lot to o f f e r the r i g h t man. S u i v r e la v i e d a n s a n t e . S in c e r e ly , "D" c/o

of Ohio RFD/ys

I'm 28 trim , Smooth down, tache. pond w

years o l d , 5 '8-1/2", 140 l b s . , n ice b u i l d . chest, hairy from waist blond h a i r , brown m us Would like to c o r r e s ith a man/men for good

friendship

and/or

possible

re la tio n sh ip . I'm w i l l i n g to travel and would consider r e lo c a tin g if m u tu a lly d e s i r e d after g e ttin g to know one a n o th e r . You--32 to 36, dark h a ir , m u s t a c h e o r b e a r d , trim , hairy, not e f f e m i n a t e b u t n o t so butch that you are unable to e x p r e ss your f e e l i n g s . I was r a i s e d in the c o u n t r y . I've lived in m a j o r c i t i e s , i t w a s n ' t for me. I live in town now. I d o n 't want to live in the c o u n try alone as I would l i k e to s h a r e the w ork and sweat, to later share the r e wards. I'm not a f r a id to get d i r t y . Sharing is what i t ' s all about! I'm ve ry romantic, s e x u a l l y a d v e n tu r o u s , s a f e , spontaneous and qu ite capable of monogamy. I'm an a r t i s t , and see c re a tiv e p o ten tial in a ll a s p e c ts of l i f e . Kevin c/o RFD/S8

Montana counter-culture d i e hard, 38, h i p p i e id e a ls , Aqua rius, calm, frien d ly, sc ru ffy and s c r a g g l y , n e e d s k i n k y mean, macho daddy. I d o n 't e a t r e d m e a t and th e o n l y drugs I do are beer and w h is key and c a m e ls and c i g a r s . I ’m " t o y i n g " w i t h m a s o c h i s m , o b s e s s e d w ith tr u c k e r s , and looking for a filthy-m outhed, filthy-m inded, g riz zle d stud t o k e e p me in my p l a c e . I've "done" th e c i t i e s and have seen too many of my f r ie n d s eaten a liv e . I d o n ' t want to h ave to move b a c k t h e r e to f i n d a man wh o w i l l m a s t e r m e . I respect people's differen ces and t r y hard not to lay value judgments on a n y o n e ; but what I do need is a n o -n o n s e n se , l o w - i n t e n s i t y m a s t e r . I ’m c le a n , h e a lth y , uncut, w e l l e n d o w e d , e t c . , e t c . , e t c . W rite! P a s s e r s - through are more than welcome. Tom Box 8791 Missoula,

59807

Hi, My n a m e is Tom. Eventually I wish to l i v e in the c o u n t r y or at le a s t near a large c i t y , not w is h in g , of cou rse to do such a lo n e . A large garden, p e ts and an im a ls, peace and c o n te n tm e n t, a n d b e i n g alone w ith ju st o ne man is what I hope to a c h ie v e . S t a t i s t i c s - 28, 6 ' 1 ", 170«, good-looking, i n t e l l i g e n t , c le a n , c l o s e l y trim m ed b e a r d , a d u l t , f u n l o v i n g , m a s c u l i n e , h u s k y , e a s y - g o i n g , n o n - s m o k e r . I enjoy c o o k i n g , p e t s , g a r d e n ing, b i c y c l i n g , w a lk in g , my computer, antiques, love, and l i f e , and v e r y much m o r e . Sexually, I am open and v e r s a t i l e , and ex p e c t the same. My in te re sts in m e n i n c l u d e that they be in te llig e n t, bearded, h u s k y , c le a n , a d u l t , h o n e st, p la yfu l, l o v in g , m a s c u lin e 2845. If interested, p l e a s e w r i t e me, include a p h o t o if you w i s h . .. Peace.

Tom 2212 So. 10th St. Sprin gfield, IL 6 2 7 0 3

Dear

RFD

f o l k s ,

I have liv e d most o f my l i f e in de ep southern I llin o is and fin d it s u i t s me w e l l . Like many rural are as th o u g h , it has l i t t l e in the live of gay social opp o rtu n ities. At 43 I have had a f u l l l i f e and e n jo y good h e a lth (HIV- and c a r e f u l to s t a y s o ) . I l i v e on a small farm but choose not to farm for a l i v i n g , in s te a d I s t a y p o o r by w o r k i n g as a h uman s e r v i c e p r o f e s s i o n a l . Y e a r s a go I r e c o g n i z e d my n e e d to n u r t u r e and h a v e r a i s e d three sons, now in their 20's and s t i l l have a teen ager at home. I e n j o y th e r o l e of bein g a fa th e r and fe e l that g a y men h a v e much to o f f e r to c h i l d r e n . B e i n g a p a r e n t however does not s a t i s f y my need fo r a d u l t com pany and f r a n k l y I ’m as h o r n y as a goat. My i n t e r e s t s a r e v a r i e d and in clu de re a d in g , c u rre n t events, environmental issues, g a r d e n i n g , b l u e g r a s s and some rock music, camping and c a n o e ing, sh o rt t r i p s , r e s t o r i n g o ld c a r s and an o c c a s i o n a l r i d e on my H a r l e y when i t ' s in the mood to r u n . I would like to meet someone w ith c o m p a t i b l e i n t e r e s t s from aro u n d here. I am n o t looking for a l i v e - i n r e l a ti o n s h ip but would lik e to have more gay f r i e n d s . I'm 6', 180 l b s . , and b ea rd ed , age and r a c e make no d i f f e r ence but p l e a s e , no p r i s o n e r s . Steve c / o RFD/rs

Dear

Friends,

I'm 1/2 I t a l i a n and 1/2 I r i s h GWM a t a g e 38 and look ing for some new f r i e n d s and more if that should h appen . I ’m 6 ' 1 " and w e i g h 2 3 0 # . Husky, not f a t . B earded and s t a s h , l o n g h a i r p a s t my s h o u ld e r s . H airy ch e st and legs I look more Italian than I r i s h . I h a v e l i v e d m any p la c e s i n t h e US b u t for the p a s t 5 years I ' v e b e e n h e r e in New O r l e a n s . I d o n 't smoke c ig s and d o n 't take drugs. (I 60

do e n j o y p o t now and t h e n . ) I e n j o y b e i n g a r o u n d w a t e r (riv e r s, ponds, oceans, e t c . ) . S e x u a lly , I'v e alw ays been a t o p man b e c a u s e t h a t ’s what I like best. (HIV n e g ) . I can be k in d of sh y w h ic h o t h e r p e o p l e seem to l i k e b e t t e r than I do. I love to laugh, draw, enjoy music, a rt, cook i n g , m o v i e s , a l l k i n d s o f anim als and most of a ll n ice p e o p le . Would lik e to meet new f r i e n d s from all over the c o u n t r y . Had a l o v e r f o r y e a r s b u t 5 y e a r s ago was k i l l e d i n a mo t o r e y e l e a c c i d e n t. I'm t i r e d of f e e l i n g lo n e ly and need new f r ie n d s and w h a te v e r comes from that. I'm co n sid e red by o th e rs to be s e x y , h u n ky, good l o o k i n g , s i n c e r e , h o n e s t, and have no problem a ttr a c tin g other men, but I d o n ’ t go out lookin g. M ainly because I d o n 't lik e the bar s c e n e and b u l l s h i t games. Would l i k e t o m e e t men who w o u l d lik e to c o r r e s p o n d and p o s s i b l y meet someday. I a l s o h av e room in my h o us e f o r guests. Any ag e, race, color, s i z e , welcome to w r i t e , a ll w i l l be an sw ered. So w r i t e and l e t ' s see what happens. Terry c/o

Dear

RFD/SB

One--

C r e e tin g s from the woods of east Texas--i t i s a h a p p y nx i n w r i t i n g th is l e t t e r - - o n e who knows that "sim ple p le a s u r e s are the b e s t" --w h o knows the j o y o f a c o o l b r e e z e - - t h e s o o th in g warmth of a su n set over the p i n e s - - t h e e x c ite d f lu tte r of b ird s --th e g e n tle ness of a c a t--th e soft damp ness of fresh-turned d i r t - - th e p e a c e of c o u n t r y d a r k - - t h e w arm th of a f i r e s i d e - - the l o v e l i n e s s o f v i o l e t s in bloom. The man w r i t i n g th is l e t t e r is s e c u r e w i t h h im s e l f - - c o m f o r t a b l e w i t h h is g a y n e ss--w h o knows that his gay s p i r i t is a b l e s s i n g and w o n d r o u s g i f t - - a man who t r i e s to l i v e h is l i f e w ith grace and s t y l e - - w h o l i v e s s i m p l y in a small house he b u i l t himself--surrounded by animals, gardens, fru it trees, flowers and w o o d s -- n o t in some w i l d l y p i c t u r e s q u e s p o t - - b u t on a l i t t l e p ie c e of c o m fo r ta b le ear th -- th a t is g i v i n g and f o r g i v i n g - - a man who i s h e a l t h y - f i l l e d with life and energy-who l o v e s to a d v e n t u r e and e x p l o r e - - r e a d - - s o a k in the tub--make th in g s--c o o k -- listen

to music--sing--a man who likes to dress up and "play act"--to walk in the woods at dusk--a man who finds the divine in everything. The man writing this letter longs for that special one with whom to share his life--openly and comp letely--to bS. with--to love and understand--to hold and cherish--this man longs for a man who is gentle and kind--alive, happy, honest, open--who is interesting and interested--one who respects himself and all of life--one who has learned from his expe riences --who is aware of his healing powers--who is alive to his spiritual self--who's sexual nature is loving and gentle--who longs to like simply in the country--who is comfortable being uncomfortable--who does not complain but sees a l l as a gift from the Great Sp irit--and gives a i l in the celebration of life and the love of comrades. I know he is here--wa iting, watching, longing--I too wait patiently--living my life in joy and grand anticipation-write please--I here now. In love and light. Lee Spruell Rt. 3, Box 192 Linden, TX 75563

Hey (Ho!), My name is TONTO and, I quite frankly was not prepared for what I got in the mail last week. I thought I was gaining membership to a sex/penpal club, having confused RFD with another "rural" named country newsletter in Louisiana. Instead, issue #57 was a kind of godsend for me, as I had lost contact with my metaphysica l side in the last few years and longed for contact with it again, as well as meet men who feel as I do. I have been to many gatherings local ly, but the last pilgrimage I made was in 1987, to Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, to witness the Harmonic Convergence, an experience that changed my life and my sexual perspective forever. It was there I met a longhaired, moustached Sufi whose presence, stature, and ha iryness was so intense I knew I wasn't strait. From a shave-line 2 inches above his adam's apple, all the way down

to his little toes, MALTE was COMPLETELY HAIRY 100%, thick, dense, and long. In addition to his rugged handsome face, the dense, swirling patterns all over his chest, back, shoulders, stomach, arms, legs, etc., etc., were too much for my hormones to re sist. I didn't get to a hug ging session 'til the last morning; I could hardly wait to see what it felt like, and when the hair on his back ran through my fingers, and his bristly, stiff chest hair rasped against my hairy chest, and I laid my head on his furry shoulders, I knew what I wanted all along. I thought this man was the most magnifi cent and incredibly beautiful living thing on earth. He was strong, wrestler built, macho fcul benevolent, funny, affec tionate. Alas, feeling so heightened, and believing I would never see him again, I let my hardon rub on his leg. He responded negatively, and I have longed for this feeling again, having never seen an other man like him since. I wish you well, MALTE. I am 34 , 6'1'•, 230 lb., beer gut wrestler built, dark, longhaired, moustached, LATINO looking, handsome, massage trained, mellow, benevolent but strong, love wimmin; home grown; the mountains of NEW MEXICO and the hill country of TEXAS. I want to get involved with NORTH AMERICAN Indian (and other ritual) and discus sion with the HAIRIEST MAN reading this correspondence, I mean REALLY HAIRY, head to toe, front to back, side to side. To me, there is no more beautiful animal on earth. I would hope he's i n i Q his fur and is proud to show it. I'm convinced that COMPLETELY FURRY men are potentially more aware of their environment, as well as a KEY to our exis tence. I study HIRSUTISM at length (pun intended) and probably know more about it than most people. If you are completely hairy, gorilla thick, and desire loyalty, friendship, and growth with a "strait" man who appreciates you, please write!! Peace to a l l bro's and wirrmin. Tonto Box 8297 * Austin, TX 78713

Dear Brothers, I have complete faith in my dream of building a rural home in the northwest and finding someone compatible to share my life with. I have a great deal to offer, and I'm not extremely picky. BIO: GWM, 34, 6 '2", 180 lbs., black ha 1 r/ bear d, green eyes and glasses, average body hair. Paranoid about chemicals be yond alcohol and marijuana, and extremely suspicious of those who drink or do weed more than once or twice a week. I’m In pretty good shape after an eternity of exercise, and I like my body. I smoke tobacco. I'm not a self-centered prude. I en joyed sex a great deal up to four years ago. I'm negative, and I'm willing to provide current documentation. I enjoy all the basic things, and I'm willing to experiment a little, but I'm sure I'll never be kinky. I have a clean criminal, driving, credit and health record. I'm employed and going to school to learn a skill that I can relocate with. I'm also learning the basic skills and knowledge prerequisite to building your own home. I'm loyal, trustworthy, down-toearth, cheerful, cooperative, intelligent, understanding and I have a great deal of selfdiscipline. I don't need to be constantly entertained, or have my hand held a lot. I'd love hearing from anyone who has similar goals or lives in the northwest. I’d probably not be able to relate physic ally to someone outside late twenties to early forties, or someone who has a weight prob lem. Prisoners have my sympa thy, but I doubt that I'd have much else to offer them. I hope to hear from you. I'd especially like to hear from people interested in practical self-sufficiency and alternate energy sources. Your brother, Ed Swain 7247 Cameron 0221 Austin, TX 78752

Nice-looking country-western looking for same to relo cate here or I would consider relocating this area. I'm 6’3", 190 lb., brown/blue and moustache (rather endowed and cut) 55 years old, non-smokerdr inker -drugs and would like same. I have many interests; Art, western art & history, archeology, collecting arti facts, aviculture, breeding birds and also bird watcher. Reading, have large library, not a TV addict. Gardening and plants, like animals, lots of other interest. Have small quiet country place and lead a quiet life, retired. Looking for a dependable man not over 55, FR A/P, NO GREEK, please no ferns, fats, drugs, kinky, etc., as I'm plain vanilla. Don K. Hatcher Rt. 5, Box 90 Muleshoe, TX 79347 man

Dear Brothers, Ho! My name is John. I am an Anglo who follows the American Indian pathway--the pipe, the swe a t lodge, taking care of Mother Earth--I'm looking for an American Indian man or man of any other color who follows the good red road--or who is at least open enough to start. When I pray to the sacred di rections, to Mother Earth, and the Great Spirit I know that life is good but something is mlss(ng--a man to share all the beauty of creation with. Could you be that man? / am 27, 6'2", 175 lbs, brown hair and bedroom brown eyes(l). I'm handsome, very romantic, sexy. I'm also a sincere, witty, caring, warm hearted guy who loves to touch (and be touched) and most of all give and receive massages. Right n o w I am an environmental educator but someday I hope to be an artist full time --I enjoy swimming, hiking, trav el ing , and cuddling up in front of the fireplace with a sensual man. I'd like to meet a fellow brother who will understand that everything has sptrit--someone who won't

think I'm crazy when he sees me talking to the trees, to the animals! They are our brothers too. I respect the animals--that's one reason I aspire to be a vegetarian (though you needn't be). I have a fantasy of living in a cabin in the dark, beautiful woods with a sturdy man I love and who loves me. After a day of chopping wood, picking herbs, swimmi ng in the lake, we'd collapse into each other's arms and make love all night long. When the sun rose we'd wake up and drum and sing about our love for creation and each other. It's just a fantasy but one I hope can be made real someday. Well, Brothers, I hope you will write me--tell me about your dreams, your selves. I hope we can be friends--perhaps even more. Let’s walk the red road together. Blessings &. balance, John Box 4233 Blue Jay, CA 92317

Dear RFD Readers, I'm a 21 year old Wiccan; I would like to go to school to study alternative healing methods. I'm interested in Reichi an therapy and working with people with AIDS. I need a sponsor/sponsors to help pay for tuition. More information is available, please write if you can help me out. Ray 2336 Market #133 San Francisco, CA 94114

Dear RFD Readers: I'm a warm-hearted, relation ship-oriented W/M 39, 6'2", 170 lb., trim, clean-shaven, blue eyes. I'm nonsmoking, affectionate, good listener, healthy (HIV negative). Work as a school psychologist. Am interested in meeting a slim or thin, warm-hearted, rela tionship-oriented guy, any race. Although I am ideally 62

interested in finding a lover, am also interested in sincere friendships. I'm open to many interests and enjoy taking part in the interests of per sons I'm close to. Some of my interests include movies, sw imming and other exercise, music, psychology, Buddhist meditation, going for long walks, massage, eating out, and Asian culture. I tend to be attracted to guys 20-35 who are affectionate in nature and who have somewhat of a spiri tual outlook on life. I'm also especially attracted to guys who are somewhat boyishlooking, either facially or in terms of body build. And tend to be attracted to smooth or not very hairy bodies. These are not requirements, however. I don't rely heavily on astro logy, but find it interesting. I'm a Libra. Hope to hear from you soon. Bob P.O. Box 210202 San Francisco, CA 94121

Hey Gentlemen, Are you a proffesional looking for a hot young 19 year old that has red hair, green eyes, weighs 145 lbs, 5'8n, and en joys safe sex? If you are, I'm just the person your look ing for. I am a shy, energet ic, fun loving person. I enjoy traveling in good style, fine foods, live theatre, cars, motorcycles and above all, good times at home snug gling the person I love. You would have to be a mature man to take care of me and look after me and like some of the things I like. If your the man I am looking for and want the serious relationship that I do, then please write me a letter telling me all about yourself. All letters will be answered. P.S. I am willing to relocate. Troy Peterson P.O. Box 888 Monroe, WA 98272

Hello, I'm a rural living aware freethinking pisces, sensual, 35 year old dark hair and beard, 5'10", 160 lb. Smooth ath letic build easygoing. I'd like to exchange letters and photographs with husky mascu line big daddy type guys 30-45 years, especially couples, black and hispanic men very welcome. Like to visit USA, Canada and Caribbean next year and interested in alternative communities, also guys into ceramics, architecture, art in general. Cheers. P. Parsons Lot C Greggs Rd. Hurrajong 2758 New South Wales Australia

Dear RFD, I am a Brazilian boy and I am 26 years old. I am a scholar of classical language and the ology. I also am a poet and writer. I would like to cor respond with intelligent, sin cere and honest boys who are interested in the subjects above and friendship. I speak English, French and I have some knowledge of Spanish and Italian. Letters to: Mr. Batista L. Caixa Postal 1433 60001--Fortaleza-Ceara Brasi l

Hello, my name is Harold. I am 31 years old, medium built, healthy, black hair, dark black brown eyes, 5 '7". I left the big cities and moved to an island in the Caribbean. Now I have a city job and a relaxing quiet life but with out a someone special all this is empty. I am intelligent, sincere, honest, well ground ed, humorous, romantic and considered good looking. I am looking for special country man, handsome, who is 25-35 years, romantic, wanting to live a peaceful yet sharing life, someone who can care and love and want the same in return. I am homely and enjoy romance, cuddling, eating at home, have good times and yet once in a while dress up and go out to a great place. If you think you are special and need to feel special write to

Will I ever find the man I am dreaming of? It has to be someone who is very masculine, muscular or chubby built, straight looking and acting. I prefer guys with short hair (military haircut would be great), no beard (moustache ok) and broad shoulders. He must have a slightly dominant attitude. Although I am a masculine guy, I like to be submissive in bed. He must like cuddling and caressing before and afterwards and must tolerate my major interests (Native American religion and culture), astrology and wes tern movies. I am a 30-yearold, average looking German cancer man, straight acting and looking, brown hair, hazel eyes, military haircut and Errol Flynn m o u s t a c h e , who likes to rest my head on a broad shoulder. Experience taught that I seem to get along best with virgo, gemini, taurus or leo men but I would not mind to try others. I am an incurable non-smoker who dislikes smoking. Sorry, but I am very stubborn at this. I am used to earn my own living therefore I am not looking for a daddy. I am just looking for a strong American man, preferably close to my age, but not older than 60, who likes to put his big bear paws protectively around a strongbuilt, but sensitive German teddy-bear. I would move anywhere for the right guy. You are also welcome to stay at my place. Please write to:

Harold P.O. 429 St. Maarten Netherlands Antilles

Martin Krueger Koenigsberger Str. 4 1000 Berlin 45 West-Germany F.R.G. 63

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Mail all correspondence (advertising, subscriptions, business, subaissions, or letters) to R F D , R . O , B o x 6 8 , L i b e r t y , T I M 3 * 7 0 ^ 5 . Contributors and editors can be reached through this address also. We welcoae advertising - especially froa gay-owned enterprises. Please write for our add rate card. Saaple copies of the aost recent issue are ^ . 2 5 (post paid). Back issues are dP 3 . 5 0 if less than one year old. Back issuea older than one year are ^ 2 . O O each, (we are out of issues # 1-4, 6-10, 2d, 30, 32, 36, 40, 50-54) Please add postage of ^ 1 . O O for five issues and for each additional five thereof. RFD itself is not copyrighted. However, the each accredited contri bution (written aaterial, photo, artwork) reaains the property of those contributors, and nothing of theirs aay be re-published in any fora without their peraission. All non-credted aaterial aay be repub lished freely. Mention of the source would be appreciated. Due dates for F A L L W I N T E R SF>F? I I M G Soaetiaes we

subaissions to recieve full consideration are: 1989 Issue* 59 J u l y , 15. I 9 8 9 1989/90 Issue # 60 Oot.ofc>«r~ 1 5 . 1 8 9 1990 Issue t 61 J a n u a r y 15, 1 <9 O can use aaterial recieved late, so try anyway.

RFD is published quarterly and is delivered around the Solstice and the Eguinox. Second class aail takes up to three to four weeks. If you don't recieve your copy within a aonth of the publishing date, please check with us. The nuaber of your last issue is on the aailing lable. Second class aail will not be forwarded, so you aust let us know if you aove. We print the naaes of all contributors, but not their addresses ’(except for contact letters). Contributors can be reached through RFD. We do not give out the addresses of subscribers, however, RFD will forward sail to thea. W R I T T E N — Please share your knowledge and vision through RFD. This is a r e a d e r w r i. 1 1 e n journal, so it is your forua. If possible, send in your contribution typed and doublespaced. RFD prefers to wield the editorial pencil lightly, so please send your subaission to us as close to the the way you would have thea appear as possible. We do correct spelling and punctuation, unless you note otherwise. Artwork: We always need aore graphics and photos than we have* If you are an artist or a photographer (you don’t have to be professional, just talented) Send us a portfolio. R H I O T O S — If you have a choice, black and whites reproduce better than color, however, if you have a gea of a color photo, send it to us anyway. If you would like special treateent of your work or want it returned, please be specific. No negatives, please. D R A W I M G S — It is hard for us to get a good quality repro duction fron color drawings and light pencil drawings. Light blue is invisible to the caaera, however, red photographs black, (try using red colored pencil instead of graphite soaetiae!) Again, if you request special handling, be specific. « We will report to you as soon as possible if your subaission is selec ted for publication, but we soaetiaes hold aaterial over for future issues, and it aay be soae tiae before actual publication, please bear with us. A self addressed, self staaped envelope will insure tne re turn of your originals. RFD WILL SEND CONTRIBUTORS ^ 0N£ COPY OF THE ISSUE IN WHICH THEIR WORK APPEARS AS PAYMENT. Second copy upon request.