There’s not one person that I’ve been close to over these last ten years here in Portland that I’m close to now. A lot of things happened. It’s beautiful and sad and true. Still I feel lucky. Got moved. Got changed. Ain’t never gonna be the same, man.
It’s been raining buckets here. On and off, but all day. For a minute or two this morning the sun came out while it was raining and I was reminded of how sometimes thunder storm at home will roll away and reveal a blue sky. It seems like it’s been years since I’ve seen the sun shine on rain. So I sat and looked out my window for a little bit, looked out at the shadows and rain drops ripple across the tops of puddles and I missed home.
1973. Summer. All the kids at the apartment complex spend their days at the the swimming pool. Everyone’s back from lunch and we’re lined up at the diving board in an endless loop to see who can make the biggest splash. Bennie and the Jets is on the radio when my turn comes up. I run down the length of the board and jump on end. Popping up into the air it feels like I have all the time in the world to lay my body out into a baddest ass can opener any kid in the complex has ever executed. It’s gonna be a big fucking splash. I just know it. It’ll even get the lifeguard wet and I’ve been trying to get her attention all day.
Some of my interest in the language we use to talk about the darker parts of ourselves and the darker parts of our world stems from being raised by parents who had intimate relationships with darkness. My dad is a WW2 combat veteran, a Marine who fought in the South Pacific, and he suffers from post traumatic stress. My mom has her own dark story to tell; the details are not mine to reveal, but suffice it to say she saw some of the worst in someone she loved dearly. So as you can imagine, lots and lots went unsaid in my household, and to be fair I don’t know how either of my parents could have described the seminal events in their lives to me and my sister.
I’ve tried to imagine my dad killing people and tried to imagine what he did to survive people trying to kill him. And I’d guess that the darkness he experienced in himself and in other people was not something he wanted us to see in him or the in the world. But at the same time he felt the most alive there in the midst of all that. I know this because he told me as much. And it breaks my heart because that made him kinda fucked. It wasn’t like he could say “Hey kids, guess what? The world can be a terrible place and I have a terrible secret. I’m really fucking good at killing people and even better at not getting killed, and lemme tell you, that right there, that gave me a reason for living. I sure wish it was you kids and your mom, but what can I tell ya. Now pack up your shit cause Daddy’s taking you to the state fair.”
Posted some old photos of me, mostly young butch, even with the long hair I think. It was 1972 and all the cool guys I knew had long hair. I wanted to be a cool guy.
I went to a fundraiser/show last night called a Naughty Little Cabaret. It was a spectacle, but likely not the kind they were hoping for. There was a youngish drag queen, very energetic and kinda hot. At one point she was down on all fours, doing this sexy do me from behind thing. Looked promising. But when she got up she somehow (and I missed the transition) she ended up kicking her legs around alot in what looked like a river dance gone awry. After that I had about 5 minutes of missing all the great drag queens I saw at Bullwinkles as a young butch in the 80’s . There was this one in particular, Vicky Lane, that we got to watch start from scratch and then become the “it” queen. She was so hot; everybody had a crush on her. She did a number once with this 6 foot boa constrictor. Yeah, it was MTV, and it sounds trite now, but MTV was new then.
I have this dreamy play list in constant rotation. It’s a little sad and a lot of longing and I can’t stop listening to it. I don’t even wanna stop. It feels like I’m poking around at all the corners I’ve kept covered up so tightly, prying loose old memories, shaking the dust off things I forgot I ever wanted in the first place. A bit of re-remembering. It’s funny I could have forgotten what it is to imagine.
The song that’s breaking my heart right now, is Cat Power’s cover of Joan Baez’es Song for Bobby.
The first time I saw Raquel Welch was on a televised USO show in December, 1967. By that point she’d been made a star by Fantastic Voyage, and after some roles in British films, she was a legitimate sex symbol. A soldier was picked out of the crowd and invited up on stage to meet her. From all buzz and cat calls and guys jostling for position, a lone GI emerged and made his up on to the stage, looking a bit sheepish, but still eager cause he was gonna get a kiss from her. Granted, it was only a kiss on the cheek. But it was fucking Raquel Welch.
And I wanted to be him. Badly – with all my 5 year old being I wanted to be him. I sat in the bath that night, closed my eyes, scrunched up my face, and pressed my hands together and wished as hard as I could – let me be that guy for that one second when Raquel Welch leaned in close and put her lips on his skin.