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contours provocations
journal - 2003-0523 - 2100 Depression; Gay Aloofness; "Petals on Bronze"; Nathan Reed Today was another day marked by curious bouts of depression. One reason, I'm certain, is that I ran out of Celexa last weekend, and I've not gotten around to getting a re-fill. MISTAKE! MISTAKE! MISTAKE! I can't remember the half-life cycle for antidepressants. I'm hoping that when I get a re-fill, there will not be a delay in the effect. But then the impact of antidepressants is very gradual. It's certainly not like you wake up one morning filled with a renewed psyche. The best you can hope for is a psyche that doesn't feel quite as bruised. The Memorial Day Weekend is here. And thousands of queers will descend on Pensacola, Florida. Whenever I've asked someone about their trip, they have few positive things to say. The parking is horrendous; you have to park blocks and blocks away from the beach. The heat is a pain. And there's the customary rigid code of gay aloofness that infects far too many gay events. My limited experience with large family gatherings has been limited to several visits to Mardi Gras, and a trip to a NGLTF meeting in Dallas. You always go off to such occasions with the firmly held belief that you'll stumble on the man of your dreams. Which never works out. Or you squander your chances. Always waiting for the next bus. Or a streetcar named Desire. At lunch today, from time to time, I took slight glances at a very attractive guy a few tables over. Silver and gray trainers. White carpenter pants. A dark-colored jumper over a gray tee. A large silvery watch on the left wrist. And skin with the look of honey. Blondish brown long hair. And dark eyebrows and eyelashes like petals on bronze. I wondered what it would be like to be him. To experience his feelings and sensations. But also to be aware of who I am. My presence in his body. But then I though he could be terminally ill. Or a total nutter. Or deluded. After those cheery thoughts, I decided I was better off just pressing my wittle nose against the window pane. My other option is these cases is to deploy an invisible flyiny spycam to follow him around all day. To find out what he does, where he goes, who he is. 11:30 pm A couple of hours later, and here I am again. I stopped earlier, because I was tired. But now I'm wired. And wide awake. While I was trying to doze off, I was reading Joseph Hansen's "The Cutbank Path." Hansen is famous for his series of mysteries featuring Dave Brandstetter, possibly the first private investigator who also happens to be gay. There are twelve books in the Brandstetter series, and they're a great addition to the "knight errant" style of fiction. "The Cutbank Path" is the third in a more recent series about a young gay Californian Nathan Reed. The first book is "Jack of Hearts" and introduces Nathan at the age of 17 in 1941. In the next, "Living Upstairs." Nathan is 19 and living in LA. In the latest entry (1952), he is 28 with a "shacky little house in the Hollywood Hills." Nathan is beautiful, sensitive, funny and slightly confused. And very sexy. Hansen gently re-creates what "gay life" must have been like more than 50 years ago. Nathan's teacher boyfriend, Steve, is fired for being a homo, and for having connections to the Communist Party. Nathan sits in on a Congressional Hearing, meets some of the founders of the Mattachine Society, beds a woman, but never stops loving Steve. There are some loose threads as the story concludes, and the ending is abrupt. And it definitely points towards another work. The books always manage to give me a special type of pleasure. One that I associate with rainy days, autumn, cats and fireplaces. And I become transported to the past. For some reason, "The Cutbank Path" is not well-known. I noticed at Amazon that no one had offered a review. When I ordered it from Amazon it took far longer than usual to arrive. This is a different publisher, Xlibris Corporation, so that may have some bearing. PAX!
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