Before I start. Before I show you more pretty pictures.
(I am loyal to those I love.)
I have something to say.
Something that needs capitalized.
I want to remind you that ARTISTS WILL PREVAIL. Unfalteringly. However or how often they are plagued by false accusation or malicious slur. However their friends are forced to defend them. Everything gets added to the pot.
The older, the more immune one becomes. I hear it all. Before… it made me crazy. Now I am inured. Eventually those who dare say it are forced to face me. Try stopping me.
These plebeians. No, no, no.
I was house hunting this weekend upstate. Looking at pretty interiors. Imagining cottage gardens. The full, fleshy petals of pale pink peony around the house. Imagining blackberries and apple. Dahlia in the autumn.
You know, I just drove 700 miles from Petrolia to LA. I listened to the radio as much as I could bear it.
In between the many, many Christian broadcasts that you can hear very easily and NPR which you can’t, I listened to love songs.
Not one of them from one man to another, one woman to another.
Whilst we may be addressing our visibility in tv and film we are woefully represented on the radio… especially the love songs where I never hear my love mentioned.
Why is this so? Is the music industry a harder nut to crack than the military or sports?
I remember when I fell in love with a woman the songs on the radio seemed to make more sense. They had meaning and relevance.
When will I hear that love song? When will I see a real queer love affair on TV that isn’t the butt of some joke?
Why do I have to re-imagine every love song to include me?
The love between two men is implicit in George Michael‘s work but not explicit. It is obvious in Joan Armatrading‘s work but her songs have not been played for a very long time. Elton John is gay but mostly wrote the music for Bernie Taupin’s heterosexual lyrics.
When I hear queer love songs, lyrics that speak to my condition, on the radio… I will know for sure that things have really changed for people like me.
My final days in Petrolia. I’m home now. The exhausting 11 hour drive.
Stopped in San Francisco for lunch.
We must have climbed the steep hill to Alexander Cockburn‘s Tower ten times a day, getting ready for Daisy’s first paying guests.
By the time we were finished it looked magnificent. Beating rugs like Victorian chamber maids. Oiling the redwood kitchen. Making beds with fresh white linen. Sweeping cobwebs off the windows.
Giving succor to the inner butler that lurks within.
Here is the sculpture that decorates the path:
Here are the fossilized fish that decorate the bathroom:
Here are random pictures I failed to publish earlier:
The day I met him someone had built an igloo in the dog park.
The dog pissed on it.
The sun was shining over the distant, roaring city.
Then, quite suddenly I knew I was in love.
Or at least… capable once again.