@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; Aetia, 1, For, To, And Of Gary L---, A Difficult, But Joyous, Confession

Your family's house was six lots south of mine on

our peaceful dead-end street, at the west edge of

our rural village; between the pine-tree farm (at the

east edge of all our backyards) and, westward one

sixteenth of a mile, the creek, at its most shallow and narrow.

Haters and gossipy old prudes in the

neighborhhod suspected you of subversion because:

---your hair cascaded just below your shoulder blades;

---you rarely put on a shirt in the summers, but always

wore the same kind of baggy, denim bell-bottoms; and

---hating the confinement of shoes, weather and surfaces

permitting, you rarely wore them, your feet sheathed,

instead, in brown socks (always brown socks).  You

were the most beautiful, and the oldest, of three brothers. 

Your skill with the tools of automobile engine maintenance was

said to be artistic, adroit, and demonstrative of an

innately intuitive knowledge of repair, but even this was not

acknowledged by prejudiced haters because

it simply did not fit in with their estimation of who and what

you were.  None of us knew---and I only learned, when

one of your gorgeous brothers told me years later---that

you read Poetry, but only covertly, surreptitiously:

homoerotic verse, according to the description provided me.

I remember the summer when you went to work for

Tom Siddon's filling station (minor repairs available as well),

mostly pumping gas.  No work uniform was required.

You often had to close on the weeknights.  The

building, itself, had stood since the mid-nineteenth

century, before the town had even acquired a name

(Tom and his partners had installed the gasoline

pumps, and the adjacent repair bay beneath its own

roof.)  One summer evening, my father---who

normally did not patronize Tom Siddon's business---

learned that the other filling station had temporarily

closed, so we stopped by Tom's.  You filled our tank.

You came out---shirtless and shoeless, and those

brown socks seemed to glide across the pavement (at

least that was my twelve year old impression).  You

wiped off the windshield and checked the oil.  And then,

unexpectedly, you leaned against the open back window

(I was sprawled out in the back seat)  and spoke to me,

calling me by my first name (not faggot or fairy, as so

many of my school classmates did), and asked me how my

summer had been progressing (you used the word "going").

Your smile was welcoming, reassuring, and comforting.

I think you had an innately instinctive understanding of my

nature---like unto yours, although I was ugly and awkward, and

you were exquisitely beautiful.  When the pump shut off, the

tank being full, you seemed genuinely disappointed to

end our conversation; and I was disappointed as

well, although I did enjoy a final opportunity, for that night, to

watch those brown socks move over the pavement that I

delightedly envied.  I cannot tell you how much I wanted to

spend some casual, private time with you:  but you had

turned eighteen years old that past spring, and I had just

entered my twelfth year.  So we could not touch each other.

But the interference of the state legislature's inhibitive

stautes could not regulate my newly adolescent fantasies about

all sorts of imagined pleasures and their delightful variations.

You also entered my dreams; shoeless and shirtless, you

flaunted those brown socks seductively and shamelessly, so that,

often, the dreams were not merely . . . "dry runs."

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patriciajj's picture

A serenely paced story

A serenely paced story through the eyes (and heart) of a young boy already feeling the vise of unsparing societal pressure and at a time when straight-laced, holier-than-thou slices of Americana were as ruthless, emotionally, as ancient cities that stoned to death those accused of sexual "abominations".

 

In the charming closet refuge of an old-time filling station and in the span of a few minutes, an angel with brown socks minus shoes, a mane of unleashed hair and a tender voice changed everything.

 

Your crafty use of subdued and refined eroticism that comes forth in wisps of wit (Watching "those brown socks move over the pavement that I/ delightedly envied") is fine art and far more effective than outright description. A warm blanket of subtlety. It reminds me of the covert homoerotic references that were slipped into ancient Sufi poetry. For example:

 

"He gave me the cup and the darts of his eyes,

and before I drank from his hands,

it was from his eyes that I drank."

 

—Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi (858-940)

 

So many lines in your vital series are as exquisite as this. Truly!

 

In this coming-of-age spotlight on evolving dreams and desires, you excelled in bringing to life, through a heartwarming, soft-focus lens, a redemptive and life-altering moment. Congratulations on this!

 
S74rW4rd's picture

I am so overwhelmed by this

I am so overwhelmed by this comment that my response will probably sound more like a gush.


I wanted, first, to write a poem for Gary. with whom---too long ago and too easily---I lost touch.  His beauty was, of course, quite obvious.  His soul's empathy less so, because of the huge effort of discretion than required of him.  But this moment that he gave me---and I knew it was intentional, not intentional---and the other moments I could discretely observe from my bicycle, riding up and down our dead-end street (a little over a tenth of a mile in length), with the reward of my efforts being near the bottom of the slope, and was not just a downhill coast.


I happen to believe that many closeted youngsters have experienced similar moments.  And, aside for being a tribute to Gary, the poem is also meant to tell them, even to reassure them, that their experiences are neither perverse nor unnatural, but normal for their natures; therefore, like their natures, to be embraced, celebrated if they can, admitted if they can, and protected from the unfortunately freequent interference of those self-righteous slices your comment mentioned.


Needless to say, I was bowled over that I could remind you of the Sufi Poet, of whom I had not heard before but I will be, this very night, looking him up.  I am humbled before your mention of him, and grateful for the reference for more reading material.


Thank you, Patricia, for this nourishing and sustaining comment.  This series could not exist without your encouragement.


Starward

patriciajj's picture

Thank you for your kind and

Thank you for your kind and appreciative expression. Your intention for this series is an inspiration; certainly it will be a lifeline to people suffering from injustice, and this makes it a mission of light. You make a difference.

 
S74rW4rd's picture

Thank you.  A word like that

Thank you.  A word like that from you is very inspiring.


Starward