Landscape With Traveler

by Barry Gifford

  59

  Old

  Photographs

  It’s quite curious to look at old photographs, as I’ve been doing lately, sorting through boxes of them I haven’t seen since childhood. It’s difficult to remember the times when they were taken, and since almost all of the photographs are of me, rather impossible to imagine just what I was like when they were taken.

  It’s sad in a way, but really more puzzling than sad, I guess. And interesting to feel one’s mortality so acutely—and eternity at the same time, as I suppose I feel no different now than when I was a “sweet, innocent” child. I end up feeling rather sorry for my father, as he would certainly have wanted me to be anything but what I turned out to be, and since he can’t accept me as I am. Nothing bad, or so I think, but just something beyond his understanding. Though I guess it’s presumptuous of me to think I can know how he feels about it, especially in view of our long-standing lack of communication. Strange, too, that I value a couple of photos of writers that I’ve never met over any that I have of my family. I just wonder how that can be.

  I recall well my cousin Will in San Antonio, a fellow I’ve always loved dearly, who looked upon me lovingly, perhaps, but with at best an awed respect and at worst a sort of impatient, or even slightly contemptuous tolerance, finding that I saw things in a strange and, to him, irrelevant way, though at the same time a little envious of my independence and what he saw as the “glamour” of my life, feeling a bit shy with me.

  How I project! Though I firmly believe that innocence can survive the light of knowledge, if there is enough of that light.

  60

  Intellectuals

  How blind “intellectuals” can be—such as people who are horrified at one having a great number of possessions. One would think they’d realize that attachment to the idea of nonpossession is as bad as attachment to possessions themselves—and that “attachment” is the key word, not “possessions.”

  I went briefly through such a phase, as have most people, I’m sure, and realized finally—rather quickly—that it’s nonattachment that counts (as in all the religious and philosophical preachings—Eastern or Western). So I’ve long since relaxed with my possessions, which are a bother only when I have to dust them or make room for more, which is, incidentally, the only time I notice their existence.

  61

  Ignorance

  Ignorance is the only thing that rejects. It also is a great poseur and makes pronouncements (as I seem to be doing!) and has firm pretensions. Most un-Socratic. I know all this firsthand. Some people get into a youthful habit of condemning and sneering (natural in one’s insecure youth), which becomes a character trait, quite unshakable, if they don’t see just a little bit of light before, say, the age of twenty-five or thirty. I did see a little bit of light, mostly due to considerations of other people’s misunderstanding of me, and it more or less saved me from falling into that particular idiocy. Or so I like to think. Though now I come to think of it, maybe enlightenment also rejects. I’m not ignorant, but I reject many things.

  Nothing irritates me more than people who read books or go to the theater or opera or ballet only in order to pick out what they call faults. My first reaction is still (I’m ashamed to say) to give them a boot in the ass, though I know kissing them very sweetly on it would likely do more good. How did the ass, such a pretty thing, actually, get to be almost nothing but the object of kicks? A nice lady said to me one time not long ago that something or other “sucks,” and I, smartass that I am, told her I hoped, for her husband’s sake and her own, that she did too. Fancy not sucking. It’s like never having eaten fresh caviar! Just imagine! Ah, language!

  62

  It’s

  One

  of

  Those

  Funny

  Nights

  It’s one of those funny nights when I hate the thought of going to sleep—I feel too good to cut it off (being awake, that is). And for no reason that I can figure out, though I don’t try to analyze it, and just enjoy it. It’s one of those nights, too, that seem only to exist in New York—sultry, humid, everyone covered with a film of sweaty skin oil and city grime, all stuck together so that a shower is more attractive than a lover or anything else.

  I came home in one of the wildest late-night subway trains I’ve been in in a great long time, with people pressed against me from all sides, sweating and cursing, literally dripping on each other and slimy arms sliding against even slimier ones. Sounds horrible, but I really enjoyed it, being part of that great solid chunk of people, and I was smiling a little, I guess, and the people around me all calmed down and started smiling, too, and relaxed into the rubbing and jolting.

  63

  Answering

  Mail

  I’m so poor about answering mail. When I’m up to it I always try to write back as soon as I can so I’ll get another letter back. I’ve always envied a friend of mine in Rome, an Italian count, who had a wonderful system of writing letters. He’d put all mail on his desk unopened until he had time to sit down and read it and answer it. He’d open one letter at a time and reply immediately before opening another one. I’ve tried his method from time to time, but I seldom make time for it—even with the few letters I get—and always have to give it up. Besides, I’m too impatient—and he didn’t have to go out and earn his living.

  64

  The

  Antique

  and

  Flower

  Show

  I went to the Antique and Flower Show at the Coliseum the other night with a friend who was looking for some silver, and I was just looking. However, while I was looking at the silver with her, my eye was offended by the gleam of brass, and it turned out to be a shell casing, about seven or eight inches tall and a couple of inches in diameter (reminded me of an old husband!!), and I picked it up to see what the decoration was.

  It was a very crude engraving (“graving” may be better to say) of a number (III) and an insignia, military, of some sort, and some initials—I.D. or J.D.—plus the legend “1.4.1943, Russland,” and on the bottom the Nazi eagle and swastika Curious piece, and cheap, so I bought it like an idiot.

  Fascinating that it should finally turn up in New York after all it travels. And where is my wandering I.D. or J.D. tonight?

  65

  Things

  I

  Love

  Things I love:

  Men.

  Silence.

  Books (not only for their contents, but also as physical objects).

  Body smells.

  Boys’ choirs.

  Beignets.

  Artichokes.

  Figs.

  Boxwood.

  Amber.

  Carnelian.

  Ivory.

  Useful gold and silver objects.

  Callas’s recordings.

  Flowers in vases.

  Bamboo.

  Pottery.

  Some TV commercials.

  Musical instruments.

  Fountain pens.

  66

  Things

  to

  Which

  I

  Am

  Indifferent

  Things to which I am indifferent:

  Natural scenery (except sunrises and an occasional sunset).

  Death.

  Jazz.

  “Liberation” movements.

  Movements.

  Untidy apartments.

  House plants.

  Pets.

  67

  Things

  I

  Hate

  Things I hate:

  Lies.

  Circumcision.

  “Perfect” binding.

  Plastic.

  TV programs re gays.

  68
<
br />   If

  We

  Disliked

  Anyone

  If we disliked anyone for what they don’t understand, then we’d have to dislike everyone. I keep preaching my doctrine of “To Understand Is to Love”—without, however, pretending that the understanding part is in any way easy.

  On the other hand, I’m afraid certain others’ (far too many others these days) sense of “community,” I suppose one has to call it, is rather misguided. I just read a silly interview with Isherwood in a magazine for homosexuals that is full of talk about his gay “brothers and sisters” (namely me, I suppose, inter alia). That kind of thing is always off-putting to me.

  On Sixth Avenue a black guy grabbed my arm on the street, saying, “Hey, brother . . .” and before he could go on and ask me for a quarter (or five dollars, or whatever they’re asking for these days), I jerked away and nonplused him by saying, “I am not your brother, not even your third cousin, and I don’t want to speak to you or hear anything whatsoever that you have to say.” Or some such piss-elegant faggy remark. But whatever my manner, it was an exact telling of my feelings. That is, after all, how words lose their meanings. What are people to call their real brothers, now that we are all “brothers”? Phooey, and a pox on it all anyway. (And understanding be damned!) The other night the same thing happened, and I thought of a better one. “Hey, brother . . .” “You are mistaken, sir. I am an only child.”

  Shenstone: “I think, moderately speaking, that the Vulgar are generally in the wrong.”

  69

  Why

  Am

  I

  Writing

  All

  This?

  Why am I writing all this? What value, if any, it has is hard to say. The main one would probably be in the sense of that much-misused word “communication” (how I hate the word!) between myself and the world at large. I mean in trying to weight (and weigh) the things I say properly, or at least properly in relation to my own image of myself. The very fact of writing a word instead of saying it gives it undue importance.

  70

  I

  Was

  Very

  Happy

  I was very happy, as well as surprised, to have had a little tête-à-tête (or rather corps-à-corps) a few days ago. It was quite a pleasant experience, it feels good to hold someone and explore a beautiful body. More important, though, were my ultimate reactions. Of course, I couldn’t help thinking of what it would be like to have a person around all the time again, and I realized that I wouldn’t want it. Maybe I’ve had too big a taste of total freedom (translation: have become too selfish), but whatever it is, I don’t believe I’d want to exchange my present life for one of conjugal bliss. Pourquoi me réveiller. . . .

  All that sounds a lot more consciously calculating than I really am on the subject, and I’d probably just give in and tell him sure, come on and move in if he wanted to. Maybe not. But it’s not very likely to happen, anyway.

  À propos sex, I saw a rather astounding movie the other night, a wee ditty called LA Plays Itself, or some such. A friend of mine had seen it and told me, “Well, Miss Francis, you just won’t believe it!” (tantamount to a dare). So I went. And my friend was nearly right. It’s a gay sex flick which purports to contrast the sick sex of the city with the pure pastoral lovemaking of naked youths in the mountains. The former involved a rather prolonged S&M scene, culminating (a pun) in what I’m told is called “fist-fucking.” Now, in my day, fist-fucking was simply fucking one’s fist. That was, apparently, a rather naïve era. A most attractive young man was spread-eagled on his belly on a bed and a very muscular other man proceeded to stick his arm, up to the elbow, up the other’s ass—all in glorious technicolor close-ups. I have made inquiries and am told that oh, yes, it’s not at all uncommon. Well, such an old-fashioned fairy I am.

  71

  Sex

  For

  Sex’s

  Sake

  I must say I have no understanding of sex for sex’s sake. I don’t mean to put it down, it’s just beyond me. But then, so many things are—especially things sexual. I’m afraid I’d appear hopelessly backward if I went to an orgy these days, what with all the recent fads for pierced nipples and foreskins, fist-fucking, and all the various current delights. Gracious me, they’d all think I was normal! Years ago on Fire Island, someone remarked: “Anal intercourse is the only perversion. Cock-sucking is merely a social gesture.”

  72

  Listening

  to

  the

  Mahler

  Ninth

  Sitting listening to the Mahler Ninth, enjoying the night and the solitude. Earlier this evening I was visiting a friend who is in the hospital, and as I was leaving I stopped to listen to Christmas carols being sung, very beautifully, by a bunch of high-school kids, who were going around to all the floors to sing for the patients, who all came out of their rooms to stand and listen.

  It was a bit sad and strange to hear those strong voices and look through the group of singers at an old man whose head kept bobbing up and down (from his sickness), very serious and lost-looking, with tears running down his cheeks as he listened, probably remembering lots of other Christmases before any of us were born, wondering if maybe this would be his last.

  An elevator came, and I didn’t want to start crying, too, so I got into it. When we got to the first floor a fellow on the elevator held the doors open and told someone he knew—a girl he was flirting with—to come on and ride down to the ground floor, and an old harridan who was in a hurry said, “Who are you to tell someone to get on? We’re in a hurry to get down.” So the girl got on and said, “I’m going down, too, and who are you to start talking like that? It’s Christmas, you old fart!” And everybody laughed. It felt good to get out into the cold air!

  73

  I

  Have

  Finally

  Graduated

  I have finally graduated from recorder exercises with one sharp and one flat to those with two sharps and two flats (is that not fascinating?). Untold vistas will open when I’ve come to all the sharps and all the flats, and when I learn to play them all fast.

  Slowly I put my metronome up a notch and run little sixteen-bar races with it (it generally wins). I have my lesson every Saturday morning and practice faithfully every night, and it is all coming along just as it’s supposed to do. Telemann is all right once you give him a chance! A ballet mistress (British) I used to study with, used to say with a leer, à propos “pinching in” the buttocks: “I know it’s hard, darling, but you’ll love it once it’s in you!” She also loved, when we left the barre to go to the center, to place us in three ranks, saying: “Short ladies in front, please. (scurry, scurry) Tall ladies next. (scurry) And the bearded ladies in the back!”

  74

  Desert

  Island

  Music

  Desert island music:

  Mozart, of course.

  If others were permitted, then Handel, Machaut, possibly Mahler. Though perhaps, if one had to choose, I’d rather have some simple instrument, just a recorder, or a keyless flute.

  75

  My

  New

  Alto

  My new renaissance alto has arrived, and I am at present busily breaking it in for a half hour a day. My shakuhachic virtuosity is not progressing. “Festina lente,” said the Emperor. I believe!!!

  Last Sunday was a “big recorder concert” at my house. Our group class of four was “forced” into it by Andy, our teacher (“One has always to have some focus to work toward,” etc.), and we played four duets—each one of us with the teacher—and four quartets—with each other. The whole thing was just darling, we all looked so cute and there was wine and cheese and soda and cookies and all. Everyone was nervous (though I wasn’t), and at last it was over,
and now we don’t have to think about it anymore. I hate such things, have since I was a kid, but went along with it with good grace. Buddha himself couldn’t have done it with more patience and forbearance.

  Now, on to better things. I have no plans. Have I ever?

  Enough.

  About

  the

  Author

  Barry Gifford is the author of more than forty published works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, which have been translated into twenty-eight languages. His most recent books are Sailor and Lula: The Complete Novels, Sad Stories of the Death of Kings, Imagining Paradise: New and Selected Poems, and The Roy Stories. Gifford lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. More at www.barrygifford.com.

  About

  Seven

  Stories

  Press

  Seven Stories Press is an independent book publisher based in New York City. We publish works of the imagination by such writers as Nelson Algren, Russell Banks, Octavia E. Butler, Ani DiFranco, Assia Djebar, Ariel Dorfman, Coco Fusco, Barry Gifford, Martha Long, Luis Negrón, Hwang Sok-yong, Lee Stringer, and Kurt Vonnegut, to name a few, together with political titles by voices of conscience, including Subhankar Banerjee, the Boston Women’s Health Collective, Noam Chomsky, Angela Y. Davis, Human Rights Watch, Derrick Jensen, Ralph Nader, Loretta Napoleoni, Gary Null, Greg Palast, Project Censored, Barbara Seaman, Alice Walker, Gary Webb, and Howard Zinn, among many others. Seven Stories Press believes publishers have a special responsibility to defend free speech and human rights, and to celebrate the gifts of the human imagination, wherever we can. In 2012 we launched Triangle Square books for young readers with strong social justice and narrative components, telling personal stories of courage and commitment. For additional information, visit www.sevenstories.com.