Wednesday, December 31, 2008

WNYEEP, Part 2: Matchmaking

A note from Bright Crow: This continues the revision of a serialized adventure Walhydra first published on The Crone Thread in 1996.
Part 1: Dr. Bob
Part 2: Matchmaking
Part 3: Jim
Part 4: A Virgo harangue
Part 5: Introductions
Part 6: The “brownie”
Part 7: The concert
Part 8: The seduction
Part 9: The crisis
Part 10: The conclusion
Part 2: Matchmaking

During one of their times of deeper sharing—it was either an empty moment between inmate crises or maybe while bouncing to lunch in Dr. Bob's rust dappled Buick—Walhydra discovered just how poetic her friend could be, despite his convinced rationalist's faith and practice.

Dr. Bob told her how he came to recognize at age five that he had a special longing for boys.

The puzzle to him, he said, had not been why. Nor had it been anything to do with moral or ethical or psychological concerns.

The puzzle had been how to be a father and raise a family, since that was his other dear desire.

One of the great blessings of his life was a wife who had been willing to build a marriage and family out of the love and caring he could give her, yet still let him be who he is.

Granted, this is the reading which Walhydra, ever the romantic, put on Dr. Bob's story. He himself told it all very dispassionately. She humored him, chuckling privately at the "principled" ways of self-styled rational menfolk.

What moved Walhydra the most, however, was how Dr. Bob described the nature of his passion for men.

That passion had of course had its erotic dimension in his younger days. Now, though, the notion of physical sex seemed rather silly to him.

The key to Dr. Bob's fascination with men of any age was this: recognizing someone with a particularly clear flame of masculinity.

Masculinity, according to Dr. Bob's definition, had two essential traits: a deep sense of high purpose and an insatiable thirst for ecstasy.

"A cute butt helps," Walhydra chipped in.

In fact, though, Walhydra marveled at how well Dr. Bob's words expressed the heart of her own passion for men.

What drew her most was a man or a boy who had an intensity of purpose—she was tempted to say divine purpose—so clear and powerful that his quest roused in him all of the most wonderful human—and spiritual—passions.

Ram Dass (Richard Alpert)Of course, there were also men whose attraction was that they manifested these two traits in the opposite order. They were so open to and desirous of ecstasy that they radiated their intention to seek, worship and exalt in it without restraint.

Paul Francis & Levi Poulter, by David Vance
[Note: Walhydra must take time out here to catch her breath...and dry off.]
It was during this conversation that Dr. Bob began to tell Walhydra about two young men for whom he was playing self appointed matchmaker.

Dr. Bob usually spent weekday evenings with his wife at their home in Columbia, SC. On the weekends, though, he went to his boat in Charleston.

There, for years, he had befriended and mentored a long string of street kids, delinquents, high school and college students, and assorted other clear flames. He also shepherded a fair number through the online bulletin board he ran from the computer aboard his sailboat.

In all cases, Dr. Bob practiced the same non judgmental, compassionate tolerance for stubbornness, misguided self centeredness and opinionated faulty thinking which he used in his work with psychiatric patients—and with colleagues.

He seemed to have an unbounded willingness to put up with obnoxiousness.

There was a catch, of course: he would always, with his kind yet unavoidable precision, point out their errors of thought or their inappropriateness with others.

A number of the "kids" Dr. Bob befriended—especially in the current crop—were of the rebellious, freethinking yet confused variety. They tended to have creatively damaged hair, piercings in unappetizing places and clothing which seemed in constant peril of falling off. Dr. Bob called these boys "the orcs."

The two for whom he was matchmaking, though, were not orcs.

R. was a 26 year old computer programming expert in Atlanta, one who had been Dr. Bob's protégé since adolescence.

He was a brilliant and creative young man who could write in assembler language (the computer equivalent of being able to write fluent Proto-Indo-European). R. also wrote volumes of very inventive gay porno and was something of a musician.

The other young fellow was D., a 16 year old son of divorced parents who shared a mutual dislike with his step father. He lived in a garage apartment owned by his adult elder sister.

Dr. Bob said that D. was perhaps even more brilliant than R. Dr. Bob had given him keys to the boat cabin, as well as SysOp status on the computer, so that D. could have access to stuff no one else was allowed to get at—and, of course, privacy away from his family.

Dr. Bob told Walhydra, "I think I'm getting ready to do something slightly naughty.

"I'm going to have both R. and D. over to my home for my New Year's Eve Eve party this Saturday night. And they're both spending the night there."

Walhydra glanced at him. "I'll get the drink of hemlock ready, oh, Socrates," she straight faced.

Dr. Bob explained that R. was smitten with D. yet had given up hope, until he, Bob, insisted that D.—curious but not yet out teenager that he was—kept asking after R.

"And the worst part," Dr Bob continued, "is that I am so jealous it hurts.

"R. asked me 'Jealous of whom?' when I told him.

" 'Of both of you!' I said.

"It's actually been an intriguing experience, feeling such emotions. I almost cried when I told R that."

Walhydra, who was jealous without having even seen these boys, commiserated.

That was when Dr. Bob gave her the invitation. It read something like this:
This is a cordial invitation to a New Year's Eve Eve (sic) party to be held at my house on New Year's Eve Eve (not surprisingly). I suggest 7:30 as a starting time, and I plan to start playing the piano at 8:00. If you want to miss the piano music, come around 8:45. Or maybe even 9:00. Bring your own poison. We will have various ancillary substances on hand.

We may sing some carols.

Plans to sacrifice a virgin may have to be altered due to unaccountable reluctance.

Oh yeah: the program may or may not be as follows:

Autograph of the Polonaise in Ab Major Op.53 (Heroic) - (Beginning)Claire de Lune, DeBussy
Papillon, Grieg
Berceuse, Chopin
Revolutionary Etude, Chopin
Winter Wind Etude, Chopin
Prelude in E minor, Chopin
Pollonnaise in A flat, Chopin

D. was going to play the violin, but he chickened out.

Sincerely, Bob
This was an event obviously not to be missed.

[To be continued]

Friday, November 28, 2008

Walhydra's New Year's Eve Eve Party,
Part 1: Dr. Bob

A note from Bright Crow: Long before Walhydra became (in)famous on the 'Net with her ranting blog, Walhydra's Porch, she was already part of a private listserv of Pagan friends called The Crone Thread.

In January of 1996, Walhydra started serializing an adventure she had just survived at what began innocently enough as a New Year's Eve Eve Party, hosted by her prison counselor colleague, Dr. Bob.
Part 1: Dr. Bob
Part 2: Matchmaking
Part 3: Jim
Part 4: A Virgo harangue
Part 5: Introductions
Part 6: The “brownie”
Part 7: The concert
Part 8: The seduction
Part 9: The crisis
Part 10: The conclusion
Part 1: Dr. Bob

Walhydra had been looking forward to the party all week.

Dr. Bob, her host, was one of the most interesting and unusual of all the dozen or so interesting and unusual clinical colleagues she worked with. Most of these folks were mid-30s to 40s, either counselors or correctional officers become counselors.

For a year plus, Walhydra had marveled at how well this quirky, diverse crew of folks meshed professionally and personally as they accomplished the day to day miracle of keeping 250+ mentally ill male prison inmates more or less stable and safe.

Dr. Bob had been the most challenging of them to mesh with. He was a genuine polymath, a brilliant man, now in his late 60s, who had a seemingly endless reserve of stories—all clearly true—about "when I was at Julliard," "when I was a concert pianist with the Houston Symphony," "when I taught at the University," "when I was studying meditation with my guru," "when I was experimenting with LSD...."

None of these stories were told to show off. Each was offered in context, either to illustrate a point or simply to share his delight in an amazing experience.

Dr. Bob had come out of retirement to work as a psychologist in the S.C. prison system—because he needed extra money to refurbish the ocean going sailing yacht he had designed and built by hand years earlier, and which now sat in drydock in Charleston harbor!

Part of what made Dr. Bob a challenge was his absolute commitment to rational thinking and empirical evidence and his readiness, at any moment, to gently but firmly dispute any sloppy thinking or any claim or belief not confirmed by scrupulous scientific method.

He didn't mind at all being teased or argued with and enjoyed baiting his colleagues, though never in an unkind way, if he thought they were being at all careless in their thinking.

Walhydra had found Dr. Bob very daunting at first. As a boy in high school and college, and on into her 20s, she had used her own intellect both as a distraction and as a defense against the teasing or indifferent people around her. She had even believed that she was basically a logical, scientific person.

That was until age 23, when she dropped out of Lutheran seminary and began the process of coming out as a gay man and witch. Now, at 45, she could be amused by both rational and non rational discoveries. She could laugh at her own silliness, her own "professional white male" ego defensiveness, her own spectacular mistakes and successes—and so on.

But it still took a while to stop worrying about not being able to out argue Dr. Bob. And to discover how much they shared and enjoyed in common.

The outer bounds of this common ground had to do with their mutual intellectual fascinations with their clients and the mysteries of mental illness, with music, with politics and with other realms of human behavior.

They also shared a chronic enjoyment of Internet communication—though Dr. Bob could program and de-bug and fix computer hardware, while Walhydra steadfastly refused to learn these things why bother when she could always ask her math and computer wiz spouse, Jim?

Yaoi BoysAs they became more familiar, Walhydra and Dr. Bob found that they also shared a very unorthodox view of what is naturally okay about human sexual behavior, as contrasted with what is either condoned by or horrifying to conventional morality.

This in turn led them to an even better discovery: they shared a life long, polymorphously perverse fascination with...


[To be continued]

Friday, October 31, 2008

Old Fogey That I Am

Old Fogey That I Am:
On Fleeing Fuel Coffeehouse

I forgot

tonight is the night
angry young men
shout obscenities
and call it poetry.

Old fogey that I am....

I just came here to read
and stoke my reflux on some caffeine
and blow some dollars
in the crack machine.

Old fogey that I am....

Grew up in another century
when "damn" was enough
to get your mouth washed out

And schools kids
got in trouble
for chewing gum
for shooting up their classmates
in the hallways.

Old fogey that I am....

When I was eighteen
home from college
and a tire blew out

My preacher dad
"Fucking sonovabitch!"

And we three kids
suddenly silent
the millenium
must have come

Even though
the driver
didn't disappear.

When I was eight
on Christmas visits in Ohio
and a travel photo
was backwards
in the slide projector

My preacher gran'dad
could chill the air
with his elegant
nineteenth century
swear word:

Old fogey that I am....

I don't do swearing
with much poetry.

Most of what I know
I learned
working behind the wall:

"Mother-fuckin' asshole!"

Tame stuff.

But what does an old fogey
sissy-boy like me
for cursing poetry?


I sat with a straight buddy once
looking for a label mean enough
to slap his sort with.

No reaction.

He laughed.

"Yes, please," he grinned.

Oh, well....

So, where was I?

Old fogey that I am
I've forgotten
what my point was.

Oh, yes....

Angry young men.

Need to remember, I guess....

That God wears
this awareness too.

back in another century
was an angry young man.

Trying out my anger

Tasting the relish
of resentment.

Flashing my adolescent blade
at the gatekeepers
of treasures
they'd made me think

Cursing an older generation:

"Fascist pigs!"
"Fuckin' rednecks!"

Not knowing
that such people
were the angry young men
of my preacher daddy's day.

Of my gran'dad's era.

Of the second week
of creation.

Old fogey that I am....

I enjoy
the relish
with which these young men

Trying out their riffs

across the microphone
to a room
of connoisseurs.

rant on.

Just don't forget:

The warrior is most powerful
who need not
his sword.

'Cause after that
it's all


wordless instinct

grunts and blood.

using you
to kill

No intelligent choice.

Just a tool
hacking out space
for a larger

Your dick
just a way
for an egg
to make

I'll take my books and go now.

Thank you.