Another Queer Jewish Buddhist

The Sexy Men of Venezuela: Are You My Angel?

If you aren't familiar with the annual Mr. Venezuela contest then you are truly missing one of the world's great expositions of male beauty. Here, for your pleasure, and for my hungry ghost, is Angel Casallas from last year's competition.

And as an angel, he brings to mind this beautifully wistful paean to male beauty, Allen Ginsberg's poem, A Supermarket in California:

   

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe.

I remember the first time I saw art work by Joe Brainard

I was standing in a store on Spring St. in Manhattan called Untitled that sold art post cards. Some time in the mid 70s I went there and bought several dozen — 10 of which I laid out on my bed with the intention of creating a narrative from the images and then writing a little chapter of the story on the back of each to mail to a boyfriend who was away at college in Bennington. One of the postcards I didn't use was the one above, which was a limited edition postcard created by Joe Brainard. I didn't even know who he was or that he was an artist and a poet.

Around the same time, I started reading poetry by the New York School after coming across some poems from the group in Mouth of The Dragon. And it led me to Brainard's memoir, I Remember.... This hypnotically beautiful mantra of memories moved me greatly. It didn't shy away from his queer life and loves, juxtaposing the most soul stirring moments with the absolutely everyday — all related in a way that spoke to all the senses. What is so amazing is that this poem has become the template for teachers in schools around the country for teaching children how to write poetry (minus the racier bits).

What a handsome man he was. I first saw a photo of him at a retrospective of his  work  that traveled the country — I happened to see it at a museum in Berkeley. Recently a book was published of his artwork that centered around a popular 20th Century comic character, Nancy. If you don't know his work, go take a look at his website. You'll be surprised to discover just how much of his work informed everything that came after him — and how much of his work inspired Warhol. I actually think Brainard was the wittier and more accomplished artist — Warhol was just more of a merchant and showman than Brainard was interested in being.  If you like what you see of JB's work, you should also check out the site of his friend and sometime companion, Kenward Elmslie.

The Tzohar, The Triple Gem and The Jewel Trader of Pegu

Both Judaism and Buddhism share an important metaphor — that of the jewel. In Jewish mysticism, the Tzohar is a jewel that seems to be lit from within. And indeed it glows with the primordial light of creation that it carries. Those who possessed the Tzohar possessed the light that is stored for the righteous, that particularly Jewish phrasing for enlightenment.

There are many folk tales about the Tzohar, some of which can be read in the collections edited by Howard Schwartz (one of my favorite stories, in the volume Gabriel's Palace, is called The Sunken Forest). The Tzohar, like the oral tradition it represents, is passed down from one person to another as is any esoteric teaching.

Some readers may wonder about the similarity to the word Zohar, which is the name of one of the most important books of kabbalah. I will simply note in this digression that zohar means brilliance or radiance. Tzohar means illumination. And kabbalah comes from the Hebrew verb root kbl, which means to receive.

In Buddhism the jewel is a central metaphor, much more than in Judaism, where it is merely a symbol in a particular mystical tradition.

In the Anguttara Nikaya the Buddha speaks of the diamond mind, the mind that is strong enough to cut through all delusion. And the of course there is the triple gem — the spoken formula by which all followers of the Buddha’s path take sanctuary. I have spoken the words of the triple gem every time I have started a ten-day meditation retreat. But unlike an esoteric tradition like that of the tzohar, the teaching of the triple gem is open and clearly explained to all. This is not the story of a hidden light, but one that is shared.

Why this long explication of jewels and Jews and Buddhists? Well, recently Jeffrey Hantover published a new novel, The Jewel Trader of Pegu, and one of its central images is a jewel that the main character finds.

The jewel trader is indeed a Jew, named Abraham, who wanders from his home in the Jewish Ghetto of Renaissance Venice to a small kingdom in Burma known for its fine gemstones. There he builds a small fortune as a trader of gems, and in his work he comes across a unique jewel that, like the tzohar, seems to glow with an inner light, that actually “pulsed with life.”

Indeed, Abraham does trade jewels when he settles in Burma. Having escaped from the confines of the ghetto, and of the calumny of Christians, Abraham begins to experience a freedom he never knew. And at the same time, he discovers a ghetto he never knew that he lived in — the ghetto walls that encircled his own heart.

In his talks with his Burmese business partner, he learns about the teachings of the Buddha. And he sees how these teachings are part of the lives of the people. This is a novel of culture shock. And one of the jewels Abraham trades is the tzohar for the triple gem. I do not mean to suggest at all that he becomes a Buddhist. But that his heart opens in a way that he experiences the Divine in ways that do not seem to him to connect with what his tradition has taught him.

Please don’t get the idea that this is a philosophical or religious novel. One could make the argument that it is historical romance, since the most important relationship in the book is between Abraham the trader and Mya, a young widow who is destitute. And the action is framed by the historical events of the time, an egomaniacal king who leads his country into ruin through his self-delusion. However, in the discussions between Abraham and his Burmese business partner Maung Win we see how each man discovers the beauty in each other’s tradition, the other facets of the jewel reflecting the one light.

As in any good novel, Abraham discovers that with freedom from the ghetto of the heart comes choice and responsibility. He realizes that “An ox yoked to the grinding wheel cannot claim to be virtuous for not trampling the crops in the field.” Freedom is no longer “just a prayer at Passover” for him, and he discovers its true meaning.

What is the true meaning of freedom? Reading The Jewel Trader of Pegu will give you a hint. It will also capture you in a story of people in love who are caught up in events beyond their control. Sound familiar? Of course, it is one of the few great stories in the world, and in this case it is told anew with masterful grace. Whether you are Jewish, Buddhist or another queer Jubu like me, you will find much beauty in this slim volume.

Sunday Morning Cartoon: Achilles and Patroclus

To call this 11 minute claymation telling of the Greek myth of Achilles and Patroclus a cartoon does not feel right, regardless of the fact that this is certainly animation. It brings together so much that I love — Greek mythology and folk tale, animation and queer representation in media. This is not for children to watch. I mean, naked men in claymation? There is a rape scene in this cartoon that is intense and horrific. It is the story of the violence of war writ small. Yet this little film is really about the love between these two men. As the narrator asks: What makes a leader of men — the armor or the heart? Made in 1996, it is narrated by Derek Jacobi and was nominated for a BAFTA award. Be patient though, because it's long it takes a little while to load, but believe me it is worth it.

Music I Can Read

I remember studying music theory with my old piano teacher Mr. Gates back in Brooklyn in the early 60s. I practiced scales. I played simplified classical pieces. The Marines Hymn. Yes, Mr. Gates was rather conservative. He didn't like it if when he asked, "How is your mother?" I would reply, "She..." He felt that I should say "Mother is fine, thank you." So I don't think he would approve of this piece of music, written by the Fluxus artist, Dick Higgins, called Ten Ways of Looking At A Bird.

And while I haven't sat at a piano since the mid-90s this is a piece I would love to play.

What, if any, relation this has to the eerie Wallace Stevens poem, Thirteen Ways of Looking At A Blackbird, I can't imagine. But the similarity of names calls forth this resonance. So I invite anyone who might have an idea what relationship there might be, to write about it below.

"I've often thought that I would like...

...to be the saddle of a bike."

This little couplet is attributed to the great 20th Century queer poet W.H. Auden.

It sprang to my mind when I came across this old print ad in an issue of Life Magazine from 1952, since it seemed to this, uh, jaundiced eye, that the visual seemed to capture some time warp cruising.

Yes: "other times, other tastes" indeed.

I just love the copy here: "...I ought to know, it's Blatz, Blatz, Blatz, wherever you go."

What an infelicitous name for a product. Sounds more like an onomatopoetic name for a laxative. Who knows, that might have been a side effect of this product.

I shouldn't poke fun. This product actually still exists, and has its own fan website. I've just never been a beer drinker of any sort. I just find myself in agreement with Auden's sentiments — until I think of the opening scene of John Waters' Desperate Living where Mink Stole's husband is smothered under the enormous butt of their housekeeper.

No. I suppose the lines of Auden that most inspire me, especially since this post goes up as I am taking the sea air in Cherry Grove, are from another poem attributed to him: A Day for a Lay. And whether he wrote it or not, it sure is a fun read.

Hate Crimes: State Sponsored or Condoned

I've just finished reading Nathan Englander's new novel, "The Ministry of Special Cases." It is raw look in the emotional lives of a family torn apart during the years of the junta in Argentina, when state sponsored kidnappings led to a generation of people who never returned, who were referred to as the disappeared. It was hard to read because I knew it would not, could not, end well. But the depth of the story, Englander's amazing character, Kaddish Poznan, gave the sadness of this story a wildly human face that also captured the story of outsiders of all kinds, not only Jews. And of course, it wasn't only Jews who suffered in the state-sponsored terrorism in Argentina.

As it turned out, in today's New York Times there was a review of a new book, non-fiction, chronicling terror and hate crime in America against a community that is often ignored. The book is called "Driven Out: The Forgotten War Against Chinese Americans,” a historical record of hate crimes and the courageous and surprising ways in which the Chinese American community fought back. What struck me was this paragraph:

“How is a writer to make an artful narrative out of tales in which the same miserable events unfold over and over again? ….[the author] finally resorts to assembling, in white type on 35 black pages, what she calls a ‘litany of hate, a topical and chronological register of acts of ethnic cleansing.”

I hate the phrase ethnic cleansing. As though some other group was in fact dirt that needed to be scrubbed out of existence. Apart from that nit pick, the author of this book has rendered an important service to students of American history — yet another example of the ugliness under the official story of our country's history. I don't deny what is great about this country. But just as the Japanese are willfully blind to the ways  in which their army used foreign women as sex slaves (not to mention the slaughter at Nanking) we Americans are beyond willfully blind, we are almost entirely ignorant of this history.

In Argentina, this genocidal civil war was state sponsored. In the US, these many hate crimes against the Chinese were often state condoned (in fact, the book gives examples of mobs that included local officials and policemen). Nevertheless, it is essential in both cases that the stories be told, the crimes be recounted.

I was struck months ago by a posting at Republic of T., where a list of hate crimes against LGBT people was being compiled with an eye to human detail and to a level of inclusiveness that is rare in our community. I am even more moved that Terrance himself has taken on the project of making sure these stories are posted to Wikipedia.

I remember about fifteen years ago a poster/art project by the late Felix Gonzalez-Torres called Death By Gun. I saw it at the Whitney. It was a thick pile of posters, and all viewers were encourage to take one and post it somewhere. On the poster were the faces of every American who died the previous year as a victim of a hand gun. In the years since this poster was created of course, nothing has happened to challenge the rule of the NRA. But artists point out the values we hold as opposed to the values we say we hold. As a society, as individuals, we may say we value life, but this artwork shows otherwise. It shows us as a society part of who we truly are. What we are willing to tolerate. What we are willing to numb ourselves to.

At the same time, it is activist art. Created in anger and hope that it would move people to take action and change things. This is clearly the motivation behind the Hate Crimes Project for Wikipedia. And it is true that a human face on this kind of tragedy moves people. I am sure Matthew Shepard did not want to be the poster boy here. But what made him the poster boy was his age, race, class, looks. That does not take away the horror. It points out that the horror continues in other communities where we choose not to shine a light. Another reason for this project.

When Congress does not pass a Hate Crimes bill it becomes complicit in these crimes. We aren't in Argentina of the 70s. Or Germany of the 40s. There is a difference between state sponsored and state condoned hate. But when the state winks at such crimes, when it suggests that the lives of Jews, Chinese, Blacks, Queers are all worth less (if worth anything at all) it is laying the tracks for worse to come. And its up to us to remain awake, to avoid going numb at all costs, and to remember the humanity of all people in all places and conditions. As we are taught in the Pirke Avot: I may not be able to complete the job, but that does not remove my obligation to continue the work. 

It is our work to tell the stories of the fallen, and to do our best to make sure there are no new stories to tell. May all beings be free from suffering.

We: The first person plural and two works of fiction

I’ve always believed the only time the first person plural can be utilized in a sentence it would be the royal we, the papal we or the schizophrenic we. However some recent fiction has proved us wrong.

A new novel by Joshua Ferris, Then We Came To The End, is written in the first person plural and it’s a stunning debut. The novel is set in an ad agency creative department just as the dot.com economy is crashing at the end of the last century. As much as I laughed while reading this book, it also made me severely uncomfortable. It was as though the author had hidden in a corner at my agency and written down everything he saw and heard.

There are situations in this book that are so eerily similar to actual events I have lived through with my team that it was positively dizzying. I read the book with a friend, in a reading group of two, and because he isn’t in advertising he constantly asked if things in the book were not a wild exaggeration. Some things certainly. But many things were not in the least exaggerated. It may read like satire, however sometimes simply telling the truth can be the most effective satire. But we digress…

The book is written in the first person plural. Sometimes it seems like it’s a mystery and the reader is encouraged to track down who in the cast of characters is actually speaking. And there is a reason one wants to solve this mystery. There are some nasty pranks played in the office, and it’s clear the narrator is involved in them. By speaking in the first person plural he, and it seems clear it is a he, gets to avoid any real responsibility. He gets to hide his true feelings, which so many people do in an office. In fact, he gets to hide his true feelings from himself at times.

This is not to suggest that the entire book is devoid of other characters. In fact it is filled with the amazing diversity of characters you’ll find in a creative department, and agency wide. And the book shifts POV a couple of times — so that there is actually a novel within the novel — something that isn’t clear until almost the last few pages.

The book reminded me of the very first entry I uploaded to this blog — an entry which included a photograph of two objects on my desk: a begging bowl used by a Buddhist monk and the bowl that is the design of the Caples award trophy. The two together for me capture the odd contradictions of working in this field. Then We Came To The End is a must read for anyone who works in the ad biz.

This isn’t the only time the first person plural has appeared in recent literature. It was used in The Virgin Suicides. And I was lucky enough to be present at a recorded of NPR’s Selected Shorts last year when the first chapter of an upcoming novel, by the writer Julie Otsuka, was read by actress Dawn Akemi Saito. And as it turns out, this program is about to be rebroadcast this week, so if you are interested in a completely different approach to the use of the first person plural in fiction, you should definitely tune in.

The first chapter, “1919” follows the sea voyage of a group of Japanese picture brides on their way to the United States. Unlike Ferris’ novel, where the use of the POV hides the narrator and creates a sense of distance and alienation, Otsuka uses the first person plural to create a community, a symphony of individuals, each with an individual story that is also a communal story, so that the listener follows the many stories that reveal a larger story. Hearing it read aloud, with almost every sentence starting with the word “we” creates an incantatory effect, a hypnotic rhythm that draws the listener in ever deeper. When I first heard the chapter read I was excited and entranced. And curious to see how this voice could be sustained over the course of a novel. Otsuka is still at work refining the book and it will be a while before we get to see the result (though her interesting approach to voice can be experienced in a different way in her previous work, When The Emperor Was Divine) which is also a must read. Having already read Emperor, I for one (or we for two or more) can’t wait to read her new book when she’s done.

Meanwhile, if you want a taste of the first chapter of Otsuka's new novel, be sure to tune in to Selected Shorts this week. In NYC on AM820 it will be broadcast on Sunday, July 15 and Saturday, July 21 at 4pm. Or follow the link above to find out when you can hear it on the NPR station in your location.

Oh yes, there is one other we, besides royal, schizophrenic and papal (some might say these three are really one anyway): the Threebrain Weeeeee! For those of you who are waiting for a bizarre and tasteless link in this posting, your patience has been rewarded.

In Memory of Marsha P. Johnson: Spare Some Change For A Dying Queen

The following poem was published in one of the many "fagzines" created by Ralph Hall, a collection of poems called The Divas of Sheridan Square. Ralph was an artist who was much influenced by the underground artists and rock concert poster artists of the '60s. The poem itself was written by Jimmy Centola, who was a member of the Hot Peaches, a gender-fuck theater troupe not unlike the Cockettes, but not as anarchic (I don't mean that philosophically, i mean they were a better organized troupe). Mind you, it was published sometime around 1979, long before Marsha died, but it so captured her voice, and a phrase that she made famous: Pay It No Mind, which as the story goes, Marsha said to a judge when he asked her what the P. in her name stood for.

Marsha P. Johnson, who was a transgendered activist present at the Stonewall riots, was also a founding member of an organization that could only have been started in the 1970s — S.T.A.R. — Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (if it sounds like a Warhol film, you're remembering Women In Revolt, in which trans-glamour diva Candy Darling joins a radical feminist group called P.I.G. - Politically Involved Girls ). Marsha was about as sweet as they come, a fixture on the mean streets who was always ready with a smile. And as we approach Queer Pride Day, I wanted to share this forgotten gem of a poem that tells the history of Stonewall and of what happened to the gay movement by the late 70s in Marsha's voice.

Spare Some Change For A Dying Queen

Can you spare any change for a dying queen dar—ling?
I mean I am dying.
I know you don’t believe me.
But I know what I’m talking about.
Yes I do.
Us queens know what we’re talking about because we’re for liberation, yes we are.
Look at the Stonewall.
When I first came to New York
all pressed and clean
in a white shirt and tie
what my mother bought me
I heard about the Stonewall
so I thought I’d go over and
check it out
and LORD!
Men are dancing with men
and one more gorgeous than another
and way in the back were my sisters, honey
turning it out in gold lame and wigs for days.

So
I was hanging out in the Stonewall one night
talking to Miss June, who was feeling low
and nodding out on downs
when she looked up at me and said,
“Them pigs come in here tonight
they better stay off my motherfuckin’ case.”
And she was right cause
we wasn’t bothering nobody
just hanging out and being ourselves
when don’t you know
sure enough
the whistle done blew
and in they come
pushing and shoving everyone just like
a bunch of pigs
and ain’t nobody said nothing
cause in them days
if you was gay
you didn’t say
you was gay

So they’re pushing and shoving
and nobody said nothing
til them came to the queens
then this pig comes up
and gave Miss June one slap
knocked her down
ripped her dress
and scratched her face.
Now Darling,
anybody will tell you
that a queen is sort of
soft hearted, easy going person
who you can sort of shove around
but Darling let me tell you this.
There are two things you cannot do to a queen.
One. You cannot rip a queen’s dress.
And Two…Don’t you ever, never
touch the face honey…
Well Miss June got up
screaming and yelling
when this pig goes to hit her again
so I said
”Hey, why don’t you leave her alone
she ain’t bothering nobody.”
And he turned to me and said,
“Shut up you sick faggot.”
Now Darling,
You can call me a lot of things,
you can call me
a queer,
a cocksucker,
or a crazy fool,
but ain’t nobody got no right to call me
a piece of wood.
That’s right,
a piece of wood.
I looked it up one day
and it was right there
in the Webster’s
a faggot is a piece of wood.
And Darling I ain’t no piece of wood
and I was telling Miss Pig this when
he came to knock me,
then Miss June picked up a chair and swung it
and everybody started screaming and fighting
and queens was getting their faces scratched honey
and you know what that meant.
And the next thing I know
we all wound up in the Tombs……..again.

Them pigs done
busted up our fun, busted our heads
and just plain old busted us.
But that was O.K., honey.
Yes it was
because that was the beginning of gay liberation
in New York
and in the world.
Yes it was.
And now everybody done forgot
who done what and why and how
and you know, sometimes
when I pass one of them gay bars
where I see my brothers or sisters
having a good time and turning it out
in all their liberated glory
and I see hanging right over that bar a sign
what says “No Drunks, No dogs, No drags.”
Can you imagine comparing me to a dog?
Well honey, I just want to break right down.
But I just pay it no mind,
that’s right darling, cause once you 86 me I tip
and once I tip I stay tipped.
And they can 86 me out of every gay bar in the village.
And they can 86 me out of every gay bar in New York.
And honey, they can 86 me out of every gay bar in the world
and I pay it no mind because I got my friends.
Yes I do, and I do know who my friends are.
My friends are people who love their gay sisters and brothers
including the queens.
My friends are people who got change to spare.
And my friends are people who smile at me and understand
when I say
Can you spare any change for a dying queen, Dar—ling?
So they next time you’re in one of them bars what has that sign,
“no drunks, no dogs, no drags”
the next time you see them
turning out one of my gay brothers or sisters
Honey, you just dig real deep down
into your pocket and take some of that change you’re saving for
your cold beers and your hot dogs
and get over yourself and
spare some change for a dying queen………dar—ling.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan...

Happy Bloomsday to all. Here on the Upper West Side, just around the corner from Symphony Space where the faithful gather every year to read the liturgy James Joyce left us, I am happy to report that the delicious language of Ulysses is given life, rolls off the tongue and is licks its way into the earminds of the liberal elite who populate this shtetl where Irish Jews and exiles of all stripes are found in projects and condos jostling together above ground as we jostle below. Here in Night Town, City of Night, In the City In Which I Love You...the search continues...

THE CALLS Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.

THE ANSWERS Round behind the stable.

(A deaf mute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. A chain of children's hands imprisons him.)

THE CHILDREN Kithoguel Salute.

THE IDIOT (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles.) Grhahute!

THE CHILDREN Where's the great light?

THE IDIOT (Gobbing.) Ghaghahest.