RFD 176 Winter 2018

Number 176 Winter 2018 • $11.95

IMAGES OF OURSELVES

RFD 176 Winter 2018 1

Issue 177 / Spring 2019

I’M MIGRATION

Submission Deadline: January 21, 2019 www.rfdmag.org/upload

Migration is the heartbreak story of life itself. The spring 2019 RFD edition invites reflections at the crossroads of queer and immigrant realities. Our intention, similar to a heart-circle, is to mutually hold open spaces exploring migratory patterns of loss, seeking and finding; to sensitively present biological, geographical, intimately personal and radically political; culturally and historically infused ritual, art, poetry and stories of fleeing harm in search of healing.

In times of crisis people and communities adapt. What are the risks taken, the skills and strategies discovered to migrate from places and situations of oppression into regenerative spaces of connection through inclusion? During torrential change let’s tie our destinies together by telling life-anddeath stories of riding out storms.

Between wish and action, the decision to commit. Women, immigrants, people of color, trans, queer and otherly-abled people are at increased risk of backlash.

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As we seek relocation we remember to ask ourselves, our youth and elders, “Where are you and your people from? How did you do it? What is now needed and what do we have to offer one another?”

This edition called, I’m Migration reaches out to our intersecting networks to consider personal and collective stories of migration. We must also ask in the face of desired and/or enforced change, “What are the risks of doing something—and what are the risks of not doing something? What vital parts of our experiences and identities are sacrificed in an attempt to survive, assimilate and/or make radical change to thrive? Mycelium-like, how are some popup communities doing the necessary work of sanctuary making? What safer containers are needed for magical inspirations and revolutionary actions to foment? And finally, what does the near future require of us today to navigate these, our own best and worst of times? Please share some of your heart-smart ideas and examples of what is possible.

Refracting Fulsome Displays Vol 45 No 2 #176

Winter 2018

Between the Lines

This is issue is about how we envision ourselves, how we’ve seen our experiences and showing a diverse picture of what our community looks like and what it can become. The stories people have submitted reflect a looking back at former selves, seeing how an experience can shape our selves in the present and looking at how we can spread the influence and power of individual pride in our queer identities.

We hope you enjoy the issue as you look at faces familiar and new and we hope you seem aspects of yourself in the stories, poems and images which make up this issue.

As many of you know we’re always working on a shoestring here at RFD and that includes people power. If you are in New England, where RFD is currently based, be in touch about the many projects we’ve been percolating but haven’t been able to finish as we focus on the primary task of RFD, getting this magazine into you our readers hands four times a year.

If you are not “local,” another place where we always appreciate interest and support is coming up with interesting and engaging themes for our readers to consider for upcoming issues. Please send in your ideas. Another vital part of RFD is getting it out to more people, engaging more of the community. Consider in this holiday time renewing your subscription but also consider giving a subscription to friends. Also if it is within your means please consider making a donation no matter how large or small to RFD. It was a frosty cold weekend laying out RFD but the RFD crew braved it all for the burritos at the end of the slog through the multitude of images we had to consider. Our beloved art director, Matt, pleads with you to send in high resolution images!

From an icy New England morning,

—The RFD Collective

RFD 176 Winter 2018 1

Submission Deadlines Spring–January 21, 2019 Summer–April 21, 2019

On the Covers

Front : “Richard Creates Man Art 2016,” photo by Lee Bivins.

Back: “Self Portrait 2,” by Zak Plum.

See inside covers for themes and specifics.

Production

For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org RFD is a reader-written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, Radical Faerie consciousness, and nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volun-

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teers. We welcome your participation.

The business and general production are coordinated by a collective.

Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places.

RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302.

Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA

Managing Editor: Bambi Gauthier Art Director: Matt Bucy

01035-0302. Non-profit tax exempt #62-1723644, a function of RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190.

RFD Cover Price: $9.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. First class mailed issues will be forwarded.

Others will not. Send address changes to submissions@rfdmag.org or to our

Hadley, MA address. Copyright © RFD Press. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001.

Drawing by Adam Christensen

CONTENTS Adam Christensen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 artboydancing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4, 11, 13, 16, 42, 45, 47 How I Became What I Am Now. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mata Hari. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 To The Artist As A Young Man. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jim Jackson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Communion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racheal Walser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Radical Faeries Global Over Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . Terry Cavanaugh / Hammer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Oshee Eagleheart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Leo Raciot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Michael Oglesby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Images of a Winter at Short Mountain Sanctuary With My (bio)LOGICAL Family. . . . . . . . . . . . Teacosy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Joseph Minutello. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Covelo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Frank Serafino and Phil Brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 BB Ha! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Veris & Ahnika Meyer-Wilde . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Gabriel Q. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Richard Vyse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Layard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36, 38, 40 Revelation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alan Sugar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Self Portrait 2018. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e.c.patrick. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Spriggin Radfae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Will You Take Me As I Am?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . qweaver. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Stephen Mead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Fortification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scarlett Woods. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Junis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Who I Am and What Brings Meaning to My Life . . . Earl Nissen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Dmitry Bitjukov. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Aloud. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gina Marie Bernard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Atticus Winterfae. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Gordon Binder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Blackbird. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 J. Nguyen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Todd Shaw. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Pumpkin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 hoMopoke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Mushroom.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Marvin R. Heimstra. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Tim Evans. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Pink Jimmie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Dippy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

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Upcoming Gatherings These gathering listings were found on the following websites: www.faenet.org, www.radfae.net, www.gayspiritvisions. org, www.calcommen.com, www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org, www.eurofaeries.eu, www.nomenus.org—thanks to them for providing these listings for the larger community.

New Year, Edward Carpenter Community, Wasdale, Cumbria, United Kingdom Dec 27–Jan 3, 2019 Belgica Faeries Winter Gatherette, Ardennes, Belgium Dec 30–Jan 2, 2019 Billys New Year Gathering, Camp Meeker CA Dec 27–Jan 1, 2019 Furnishing the Garden of Eden, Lake Atitlan Radical Faerie Sanctuary, Guatemala Jan 12-25 Winter Meditation, Gay Spirit Visions, Highlands, NC Jan 18–20 Forestry Camp, Wolf Creek OR Jan 27–Feb 9 Imbolc, Glastonbury, United Kingdom Jan 28–Feb 4 CalComMen Community Camp, Angelus Oaks, CA Feb 8–10 Asian Faerie Gathering, Koh Yao Yai, Thailand Feb 14-24 Breitenbush Winter Gathering, Breitenbush, OR Feb 14-18 Foxy Faeries F7 Gatherette, Ontario, Canada Feb 15-18 Billys Midwinter Retreat, Upper Lake, CA Feb 28–Mar 3 Many-Fae-Station gathering, Lake Atitlan Radical Faerie Sanctuary, Guatemala Mar 10-21 New Zealand Summer Radical Faerie Gathering, Faenua Sanctuary, Raglan, NZ March 21-25

Stonewall 50 Human Rights and Social Justice March and Rally SUNDAY, JUNE 30, NYC. JOIN OUR PLANNING CIRCLES. JOIN US AT THE MARCH. Connect on the Stonewall 50 Faeries Facebook page. Learn about the march at ReclaimPride.org.

The Stonewall 50 Human Rights and Social Justice March and Rally, which will be held concurrent with the World Pride/Heritage of Pride (HOP) parade, is a response to the corporate celebration that the annual Heritage of Pride parade has become. The Stonewall 50 March is committed to a massive act of resistance to the ongoing assaults against human rights and social justice at home and worldwide. Hatred is fueled and violence is sanctioned. The march is modeled on the original gay liberation marches and is open to all. It will celebrate our communities, rededicate ourselves to our liberation, spotlight attacks against LGBTQIATS+ people by right wing activists and governments worldwide and reaffirm our alliances with all progressive people.

The Faeries will make it FABULOUS! Let’s spread Faerie magic into every pore of this exciting and historical event.

The Stonewall 50 Radical Faeries will have monthly gettogethers in NYC on Saturdays or Sundays, 2-5 pm, between now and June 30 to prepare ourselves and to participate in all aspects of the planning and execution of the march. Each get-together will have a heart circle, an update on Reclaim Pride, a teach-in, visioning and working circles and a potluck.

At Stonewall 25 the Radical Faeries, with Harry Hay and John 4

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Burnside among us, joined tens of thousands in a parallel march and performed a Spiral Dance in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral before gathering in Central Park. Let’s make magic again! Above All Else, Audacity!—Harry Hay

Guatemala Gathering Update and Upcoming Gatherings I am helping to organize a few small Faerie gatherings in Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. We had our first gathering there last year. It was only five or ten people, but the intention and energy was very sweet and powerful. We hope to expand the invitation a bit more this year. Last year each person was from a different country. This was not by design. It just worked out that way. It was great to have some diversity. It was so interesting to me to be the only person from The States. The only person that had ever met Harry Hay. And clearly the elder amongst them with many things to share about the history and traditions of the Faeries. I’m hoping that a few more people from The States will join us this year to help share our traditions with the others. It’s out of the way, and very basic.

But it’s also magical and unique being so close to the land and indigenous Mayan culture. We should also have some locals attend. They tend to express interest in attended, but then don’t show up, or don’t come for very long. But I can feel that we are making progress in expanding our connection and our relationships with the local people around us down there. This is not meant to be a retreat where we can all isolate from the larger community around us. We are trying to figure out how to gather together in harmony with the land, the people, and the culture around us. It’s also very rustic. Not much in the way of electricity, wifi, cell coverage, buildings, etc. But this leaves space for Faerie magic to enter into the experience.

Gathering from January 12-25, 2019. Called Furnishing the Garden of Eden. At this gathering, in addition to having regular heart circles, rituals, and some fun activities, we will be creating the basic infrastructure of the space for a larger gathering in March. Creating things like a garden, kitchen area, shower area, building a bodega, tapping into the waterfalls close by for our water supply, etc. We expect the attendance at this gather will be small. All genders and variations of Faerie persuasion are welcome. We are capping it at fifteen people. This should create a very intimate circle.

Gathering from March 10-21, 2019. Called ManyFaeStation Gathering. This gathering will be slightly larger than the one in January with a maximum capacity of twenty-five people. We should have some of the basic infrastructure in place to gather in a little more comfort. However, it is still pretty rustic. We are hoping to work on finding ways to manifest our vision of creating community in harmony with the land, the people, and the culture around us. All genders and variations of Faerie persuasion are welcome.

Registration and information page: atitlanradfae.dudaone.com/#Gatherings

“Into the Light,” photograph by artboydancing.

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How I Became What I Am Now

by Mata Hari

I

want to tell you about my first experience as a performer and how I became what I am today. For what I have become both “legendary”and “notorious” for across the Faerie World.

One of my most formative and beautiful sensations at Faerie Space was during and after my first appearance in the ‘No Talent Show’ on the penultimate summer gathering in Terschelling, Holland 2009. I intended to pay homage to the great French singer and icon Barbara, who became active in the fight against AIDS and was completely unknown outside of France. I had been introduced to her music only a month earlier by my Jewish-Arabic-French friend in Paris, and I was totally entranced by her.

I was so afraid of going out on stage dancing something totally unexpected in front of so many people. How would they react? It was a total different music than Faeries usually hear on stage: serious, calm and not kinky at all. How should I open my world of inhibitions, worries and insecurities? “The black eagle” was supposed to fly on stage: “L’aigle noir.” However before I interpreted this song, I read some thoughts from another song that Barbara had written during her stay in Vienna.

As I sat down I pulled my purple cloak over my face which was encircled by my silvery shining pearls, the music of the black bird and the voice of Barbara started and suddenly a new dimension opened up inside me—the infinite world of art.

Looking into eyes that gazed at me soulfully, I moved in a way as if guided by a completely different spirit. All of a sudden, I entered the world of my intuition in the right brain, which is mostly completely destroyed in our Western society, and which

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is always hidden from us humans and especially from men. I had suddenly discovered how beautiful this world of the liberal arts was. My ego was completely outside myself, yet at the same time one hundred percent deep within me. I slid fluently along a border area that I had never known before, a place that was only revealed to me on the stage floor. A door being opened for me into the soul world of our ancestors, and also at the same time into every single Faerie present there. The whole barn was so quiet that you could have heard an ant in a haystack cough.

I floated as Mata Hari in complete abandonment to the voice of Barbara and I hoped that this ecstatic moment may never end in my lifetime. So many wonderful things became possible, and because of this new understanding of people, new wonderful moments and things were possible for me. I fell so in love with those souls that were present, who all held their breath for four minutes. Yes, I had experienced immortality. As others I discovered a black hole in space. I floated with my black eagle in this mysterious window of time in me and heard from afar how it all began and where I came from. I flew Mata Hari in Terschelling 2009.

of nothing—it must be given to you or not. However I was lucky. The magic happened again, and I was grateful to the cosmos for allowing me to get over the feeling that I was insignificant in the universe.

During a rebirth, consciousness enters the womb of the mother as soon as the male seed and the female egg join. Here in Faerie Space, a rebirth occurs when all the male and female elements in me merge into a harmonious entity and form an indissoluble bond with the surrounding faeries. I was taken as a male seed through the stage opening, like on a lighted vagina into the mother body of the Faerie world. It was immediately clear to me that this was also my hour of rebirth.

It started a radiant new life! I had found an identity in me that forever made me very respectful of the creation, and of the Faerie Spirits that gave me this unique opportunity. I no longer had to hide or displace my personality. I have stopped my resistance to it.

From now on, I start every Heart Circle with the same words: “I am Mata Hari”. and I sailed, and suddenly I heard how the big bang must have felt because when I landed again on earth thunderous applause broke out.

The island shook with the enthusiasm of these faeries, which carried their waves to the other shore of the sea—to a place called Leeuwarden.

We could see this place on the mainland with our naked eye. At that time I did not know that this was the birthplace of the historical Mata Hari—one of the present Dutch faeries told me this fact only a little later. But what happened here at that moment changed my life forever. I felt so much affection and love from all those faces spilling over to me and also their applause proved to me that I had not done anything wrong.

When I woke up earlier next morning earlier than anyone else seeing the first warm morning rays peering through the crack of the barn, and thinking back to what had actually happened last night, I knew I had found my true identity. I was irrevocably assigned a place in the faerie queendom. I felt an infinite peace in me and a joy to have brought happiness to so many people via the stage. Many told me that something had happened in my performance, many also cried internally. Everyone was fascinated by what they were allowed to witness.

Years later, I tried to reproduce that moment with an Equinox festival once more for a movie recording.

But such a magical moment cannot be conjured out Above: Mata Hari in Terschelling 2011 as Clepartra in his “Homage Performance to Elizabeth Taylor.” Right: Mata Hari in Folleterre Sanctuary 2012.

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To The Artist As A Young Man

by Jim Jackson

L

isten to me young man. Pretty boy. I have somethings to say to you. You won’t take what I have to say seriously, I know. Because I know you all too well. You were resistant to most things your elders told you, but I’m from your future and I’ve learned a few things. So get that half-hearted smile off your face and prepare yourself for the realities of your coming life.

Y

our situation is not as assured as you think it is.

You are full of yourself. You think that the art world is just waiting for you to open up its guarded doors and invite you inside and celebrate your talent. It won’t be working that way but you will have no right to complain. So get real. You are not allowed to feel sorry for yourself. Artists are never satisfied, keep that in mind.

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Y

ou’ve had a remarkable ride up to this point in 1968. Scholarships through college at the University of Texas in Austin with prizes and grants to send you off to the Big Apple to get that Pratt MFA that your teachers have told you to get so that you can teach in college and have a fairly easy living while being able to work as an artist. Stop.

That won’t be happening.

In just a couple of years you will face the reality that the academic art world isn’t looking for another white male. So prepare yourself: You are going to have to make a living.

About your confusing sexuality, I know how very cautious you are and that you have been afraid of physical intimacy. I know about your dreams, sometimes about women but mostly about men. Oh, they are bothersome and have led to wet dreams and you don’t want to admit that they are happening. But doesn’t every guy have those dreams?

“1968 JIM JACKSON FOR GRAD. ART SHOW PRATT MFA”, photo courtesy author.

You have begun to think that you will be trying it out someday if the right guy and situation comes along.

One other big thing hanging over your head.

You are very aware of the risks of being drafted into the Vietnam war which you oppose. You know what? You will turn out to be right to have resisted and protested, but you will never feel proud of the extended effort to avoid that draft. And you will wonder if it damaged your American masculinity. In the end you always knew that you resistant to absolute authority. An artist needs to feel the freedom of expression and the rigidity of military life could kill your artist’s soul.

A year before this picture was taken, you wrote a story about a train trip that you never did anything with. Let’s look at that again.

The Train from DC to NYC, September 1966 Skowhegan Summer School was over and there were three weeks before Pratt started its graduate school classes. I had time to kill and decided on one weekend to go by train down to Washington D.C. to meet my friend Marshall from Skowhegan and join him in visiting the museums and galleries.

I had a little money left from a travel grant that I was awarded on graduating from the University of Texas. I was not allowed to spend it on anything but travel, so off to D.C. I went.

Marshall and I had a great time seeing the sights and the special collections of the National Gallery and other museums. One surprise was Marshall showing me the Phillips Collection which had wonderful modern and impressionistic paintings. I had long admired Renoir and was bowled over to see his Luncheon of the Boating Party. It was mesmerizing.

I was transfixed in front of it for I don’t know how long and made a point of returning again before leaving. It is still a very big favorite.

After the Phillips we were close to Dupont Circle and went into a bar for a drink. The bar seemed kind of dark and strange in that there were only men there. As we settled in and got our drinks, Marshall whispered to me that he thought it was a gay bar. I looked around at a few guys looking at us and realized this was probably true. We quickly finished the drinks and left. That was my first known visit to a gay establishment and it made me quite nervous.

It came time to get back to the NYC and Marshall saw me off at the train station.

As the train arrives and I step onto a car, a glance around shows that it is only partially filled and only

two or three people get on behind me. This makes it easy to find a seat as far as possible from the other passengers. Noticing that the back half of the car is filled with youthful marines all decked out in uniforms, I choose a double seat one row from the front of the car. I’m happy to have a seat alone so I won’t be bothered and I can read a book which happens to be Dylan Thomas’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog. Maybe I can spread out and get comfortable enough for a nap.

Having settled in, I notice two lovely decked out ladies shuffle in from the car in front. I learn that people can move from one car to another. I’m pretty new to train trips usually only being able to afford the bus. It is disappointing that they choose the two seats directly in front of mine. They have similar hairdos, nicely bleached blond teased up and piled into a bubble… style of the day. In Texas we called them bubbleheads. They seem happy and are very chatty with the bubbles bobbing as they talked. I imagine that they are housewives off to the city for a good time. Ladies night out.

The train starts moving and I am happy that no more people can get on at least until the next stop. I return to the book, but shortly become aware that it is getting dark outside. Looking out the window the view is depressing. So much trash and junk along the tracks, and the broken down houses and buildings so near. As it darkens more and more all that I can see are the distant lights of cars, streets and houses.

One of the marines in the back comes up the aisle and catches my attention as he stops at the seats of the ladies in front of me. He’s checking them out.

Perhaps a little too obviously. They are kind of coy in reaction to his looking them over.

Just then my attention is drawn to a small commotion in the back of the car. There is this disheveled guy about my age (23) who is going from one marine to another trying to strike up a conversation.

He is being rejected. Maybe he is too forward or a little too out of context for a usual human conversation. Is he drunk? Flirtatious?

As he gets closer, I sense that he is developmentally disabled, but apparently functional. I can’t really tell his condition. But I am not happy with the way they are making fun of him and sending him off. He migrates on up the aisle toward me. Perhaps because I had turned around looking at the commotion, he manages to make eye contact and comes my way taking the seat beside me. He’s wearing a dirty white short-sleeved shirt and khakis. In his hands he RFD 176 Winter 2018 9

clutches a wrinkled lunch paper bag and a newspaper. His demeanor is disturbing. This is why the marines have rejected him. I try to ignore his presence and go back to reading, all too aware of this oddball who is now sitting next to me. I fake concentration in the book and hope that he will go away. Instead he tries to strike up a conversation which I really don’t want. I look back at the book.

He goes on anyway, “Where are you going? I said where are you going?” “To New York.” I try to give it a short and snippy tone, trying to convey that his question is an intrusion into my privacy.

One of the ladies ahead on the left looks back over her shoulder offering a sympathetic smirk.

This really bugs me. I decide to show them that I’m capable of kindness and understanding. Friendly to the distressed in life. Just to show them, I try to talk to this guy in a normal conversational manner.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “To Philly.” he says.

“Where have you been?”

“Washington. Shopping.” His appearance makes his answer seem ridiculous.

I lay the book aside with the determination to command the conversation, but he moves to speak.

“Would you like to read my paper?” taking it from under his smelly arm pit. “No, thanks.”

He asks again, “Where are you going?”

“New York. Do you have a job in Philly?” I’m thinking, is this guy capable of holding down a job?

“Yes, I work in the stock room at Gimbel’s Department Store. Part-time. Do you work?

“I’m a student.” “Oh yeah, where?”

“Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, NY.” I try other trivial questions to try to keep him talking about himself, but it seems impossible. Soon his questions turn toward me.

“How much do you weigh?” Reluctantly, I answer, “160 pounds.” “How tall are you?”

“5 feet 10 inches.”

“Oh, 5 feet 10 inches?” “Yes.” “You have a good build.”

The thought of this strange guy trying to come on to me puts me on edge. I notice that the ladies are again whispering and glancing back with ridicule and sympathy for my plight. But for some reason, this only makes me more angry and willing to try to keep this awkward conversation going.

Just then he offers more than a question about my body.

“I had the day off to shop and look around Washington. It sure is a pretty city.”

“Washington is a beautiful city.”

I can’t seem to manage more words and there is 10 RFD 176 Winter 2018

an awkward silence. He reaches over to me and feels of my shirt. He rubs the material between his fingers and asks.

“New shirt?” “No.” “Where did you get it?”

I’m slowly backing away and grunt, “I don’t remember. Sears, maybe.” “It looks nice on you … a real nice fit.” He touches my sleeve.

I notice the dirty, wrinkled shirt that he has on.

It looks like it hasn’t been washed for weeks. I feel sympathetic because I had worked in the stock room at the Sears store in Dallas for a summer during college. Stock boys are not treated so well. I wasn’t allowed on the floor during business hours for fear the customers might see and smell me. I had my days of looking like this guy. So I identified with him, even though I would never get on a train looking like that.

The conversation became tiresome and led no where, and it never felt very comfortable for me.

Then the train arrives in Philadelphia, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He gets up to leave and says, “Err.. I liked talking to you…bye.” He turns away and he is gone.

Sigh of relief.

Then the train started again I open the book to page 26: “I let Edgar Reynolds be whipped because I had taken his homework; I stole from my mother’s bag; I stole from Gwyneth’s bag; I stole twelve books in three visits to the library, and threw them away in the park; I drank a cup of my water to see what it tasted like; I lick my hand afterwards; I cut my knee with a penknife, and put the blood on my handkerchief and said it had come out of my ears so that I could pretend I was ill and frighten my mother; I pulled my trousers down and showed Jack Williams; I saw Billy Jones beat a pigeon to death with a fire shovel, and laughed and got sick; Cedric Williams and I broke into Mrs. Samuels’s house and poured ink over the bed clothes.” (page26, Dylan Thomas,Portrait of theArtist as a Young Dog.) I hear people talking…

The conversation is going something like this: “Hello, how are you doing?..Oh fine, where are you headed?… Well, we are going to New York for a couple of days. That’s great. I’m on my way there myself…” I look up and another one of the marines is standing in the aisle talking to the ladies. I’ll call him Loudmouth as the trip continues, he is quite verbal and very sure of himself, seeming a little drunk. I peg him as the kind of conversationalist and knowit-all who wants to dominate every discussion.

See Through Into Your Soul,” photograph by artboydancing “I

RFD 176 Winter 2018 11

Occasionally he tips his hat, trying to be suave.

The ladies are reacting to the curious young marine with smiles and friendly chatter, though they are both old enough to be his mother. They seem thrilled at his attention. After all they are off to the big city for a little fun, away from the husband and kids back in DC. They react patiently.

As they are chatting back and forth, I see out of the corner of my eye another marine coming up the aisle. He seems to know Loudmouth, so I will call him Buddy.

“I’m sorry ladies. Is my friend bugging you?”

“Oh, no not at all. We are enjoying the discussion.”

Loudmouth nudges Buddy in the side with his elbow, and gives off a sly gleam. Then says, “We just got out of basic training at Paris Island.”

“These ladies don’t want to be bothered with your life history.”

“It’s OK, we have heard of Paris Island and know it is a famous place, and I gather a very hard place.

Really hard. Is that true?”

Loudmouth says, “Yes, it sure is. You can’t imagine the things that go on there, the meanest most inhumane place in the world. Don’t misunderstand me, I really respect the marines, but their training is really tough.”

“Why then did you join the marines?”

“Well Uncle Sam was going to draft me and I wanted something better than the army, so I enlisted in the marines.

“It’s really too bad that the mess in Vietnam is going on.”

“Yeah, we’re being sent there in two weeks. They only gave us two weeks at home before they ship us over there. Maybe it will be over by then.”

At this point Buddy decides to get more comfortable and he sits down beside me. This intrusion again disturbs me but I decide that he might have some interesting stories to tell. He talks with caution. Maybe he is more intelligent than Loudmouth.

Loudmouth lights a cigarette, and out of no where a woman starts yelling quite loudly: “Young man! Young man! Put that cigarette out right now!”

Everyone is startled.

I turn to look across the aisle and back a couple of seats and see a very frail elderly woman. She is clearly agitated and continues with the harangue: “I sat in this here car so I wouldn’t have to put up with cigarette smoke, it makes me sick. Can’t you see the No Smoking sign? If you want to smoke go to the next car up front.”

The harangue momentarily dampens the groups 12 RFD 176 Winter 2018

social energy and they grow quiet. Loudmouth stamps out the cigarette. He meanders off to the next car.

To break the awkward silence, I turn to Buddy and ask, “How did you come to be in the marines.”

“I enlisted. Joined. Stupidest thing I ever did. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. Patriotic and all.”

“But why the marines?”

“Well, at the time it seemed like the best. I didn’t like the army or navy and I wanted to join the best.

I was told that the marines were really tough and wouldn’t take anything but the best. At the time I was having trouble with my wife and I decided that I should get away for a while, hoping things would straighten out. We have a six month old baby boy.

I’ve come to regret that decision.” He pauses quietly.

I get up a little nerve, “I’m glad to hear that you feel that way. Sometimes I feel bad because I’ve been evading the draft by staying in graduate school.”

“Don’t worry about that, just stay where you are.

Don’t go unless they force you.”

“You can’t imagine the kinds of animalistic things they teach you. They were inhuman. Drills everyday.

They taught us how to rip a guys throat out with one hand. You just reach up and grab his Adam’s apple like this.” He shows his right hand in a contortion similar to a cat’s paw. “And, just give a good swift yank. Completely tears his throat open. Can you imagine having the ability to do that? I am now a trained killer, my hands are deadly weapons.”

I’m stunned. “I’m sorry man, no one should be taught to kill like that… no one should be taught to kill at all. How could you stand it? How were you able to take it.”

“Simple they make you take it. If you don’t take it they had just as soon kill you. It isn’t easy, but you should hear the kinds of things that they tell us about the Viet Cong. Those guys do a lot more than we do. Bamboo traps rigged to plunge spears into you. The spears are coated with human shit and poison and all they have to do is scratch your skin a little and the wound becomes infected and you die a slow painful death from blood poisoning or worse.”

“Yeah, but what about the new rifles we have?”

“Oh, the M16. Well that’s a real machine. It can blow a guy to pieces. The bullet is covered with a special metal jacket that explodes on contact with the target. If he gets hit in the head it just blows his head off. Nice and neat. You should see it work.”

“No. No. I’ll pass on that.”

“You know the worst part of the training wasn’t battle training. It was the way you were treated in

RFD 176 Winter 2018 13

“Neon Odyssey,” photograph by artboydancing

on the rack. That’s an order.” The air has suddenly the barracks. If you did the slightest thing wrong become nervous and fearful. they would make you run until you dropped… or “Look Corporal, you have no authority here. worse. They would have someone beat the hell We’re on leave.” out of you. They encouraged anyone who caught For the first time a middle aged man sitting in a another guy out of line to beat him within an inch of window seat across the train speaks up. He could be his life. The sergeants didn’t care as long as he was a traveling salesman. alive when the medics got to him. I saw a guy who “At a boy. Don’t let him push you around. He was beaten unconscious because he took another doesn’t have the rank on you.” Corporal, “I said take guy’s toothpaste. He didn’t have a chance. Died a the damn hat off. It belongs on the rack.” week later of a brain concussion.”

Loudmouth smiles at his supporter and turns “Really are you sure? I’ve never heard of such a back to the Corporal. thing. Looks like the guy’s family would raise hell “The marine handbook makes it quite clear that and sue the government or something.” it is optional whether or not you wear your hat on “The family never really finds out what hapa train.” pened, they’re just told it “You want me to knock was a training accident of it off?” some sort…. Nothing could The salesman, “Come on be worse than training…. now Corporal there is no (He lowers his head mumIf you did the slightest reason for you to be harassbling)….not even Vietnam.” thing wrong they would ing this kid.”

“Shit man, its not right.”

Loudmouth, smiles and There is a quiet moment make you run until you stands his ground. “Come of contemplation. dropped… or worse. They on and try it.”

“The marines are the would have someone beat Just then, the door opens best though, we can handle the hell out of you. They and another Corporal steps anything because of that in behind the angry one. training. I just dare some encouraged anyone who He senses right away guy to pick on me now caught another guy out of that his friend is losing it. with what I know and the line to beat him within an He firmly places his hand way they built me up. He inch of his life. on the shoulder in front of couldn’t stand a chance. him.

You can’t fool with a ma“Come on Mark, don’t rine.” let him bug you. Come on Buddy sits up proudly be cool.” and looks at me with a “Do you see this private’s hat? It’s supposed to be slightly evil grin. I look back to my book. No fight on the top of the rack not on his head.” from me.

Salesman: “Corporal will you please remove this trouble maker?” Loudmouth: “I’m by the book, he oudmouth returns to the ladies, standing in doesn’t….” the aisle at what has become his station for the “You just shut the fuck up.” the second Corporal trip. He takes up chatting again, but now they have snaps at Loudmouth, “Oh, so sorry ladies….now changed and seem to have warmed up to him in a more motherly way. They have listened to his stories come on back Mark.” Tugging on his shoulder. “Let him alone. He’s a jerk, not important to anyone.” of Paris Island and return sympathetic nods, askew Mark glares one last time at Loudmouth and smiles and kind words. turns slowly around and steps around his friend, The door at the front of the car opens and anopens the door and proceeds into the forward car. other marine comes in. He is in full dress uniform The Corporal then turns to the ladies, “My with a few medals high on his chest. After closapologies. My friend has been through an awful lot ing the door, he turns, stops and stares directly at this last year.” He then starts to light a cigarette, takLoudmouth. ing more notice of the ladies.

“Private! Remove your hat.” Dead silence. All of “Young man. Young man. Can’t you read? No us look up.

Smoking.” the old woman calls out and coughs as “Private, you slob, take your hat off and put it

L

14 RFD 176 Winter 2018

she sits back mumbling.

He shuts the lighter and pockets the cigarette, looks back at the old woman and then at the ladies and nods his head and turns and leaves back through the door, a frustrated young gentleman marine.

The whole car breathes a sigh of relief. It is quiet again, but only for a few seconds as Loudmouth joins his new friend the salesman and sits on the aisle seat beside him directly across the from Buddy.

And the salesman says, “Well now, you did fine.

Just fine. Stick by your rights.”

“Yeah, sometimes they try to push you too far and I get fed up.”

“I know a little about what you are up against in the service. I was in the service myself in World War II so I know about the crap you have to put up with. Wasn’t in the marines though, but I got a lot of respect for marines. I was in the army. Almost made it to sergeant before the war was over. Why I remember just about all that happened on the western front. I was in France. The Nazis were tough not like the Cong hiding in the jungle. They came out and threw the hard stuff at us. Major artillery.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. The Cong are really bad you know. All official papers seem to report that they are the toughest enemy we have ever faced.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard a few things about the Cong.

Those little commies are hard to beat, but they don’t realize what they’ve done challenging our military and you marines.”

“Sir, there are things you wouldn’t believe, and in a few weeks I’ll know more about it first hand.

They’re sending us over there.”

The salesman raises his hand to his chin in thought, then says to both marines, “I sure don’t envy you boys. How would you like to go to the bar car and have a drink? My treat?”

Buddy replies, “I’ll pass, thank you, sir. And I wouldn’t recommend anymore for my friend here.”

“Oh, don’t spoil the fun, he’s doing fine. Besides he needs a drink for what’s ahead of him.”

Loudmouth, “Yes, damn right, lets do it.”

The two of them stand and begin to leave. Buddy reaches across the aisle and taps Loudmouth on the back and frowns disapprovingly as he steps into the aisle to let the salesman out from the window seat.

He is ignored. They leave toward the rear headed for the bar car.

Buddy settles back beside me and explains: “That Corporal that came back a minute ago was probably messed up. They told us that there were seasoned

marines on the train going to NYC. I think he just returned from a tour of Vietnam.”

I nod sympathetically.

Buddy forgets himself and lights a cigarette and immediately: “Young man. Ya’ll are making me nuts.

Remember, No Smoking. Why are you boys makingmy life sodifficult.”

He quickly stomps out the cigarette and frowns in frustration.

The salesman and Loudmouth return from the back carrying their drinks in paper cups. The salesman squeezes over toward his window seat while Loudmouth steps up closer to the ladies, leaning down toward them and talking in a slightly more drunken way. The ladies demure, yet smile and nod.

The salesman hears a few of Loudmouths words and adds his own two cents. It has gotten very dull.

Loudmouth senses an unspoken rejection and returns to the seat next to the salesman.

I try my book again and Buddy leans back and shuts his eyes trying for a nap.

Shortly, things are changing on the train, it slows a bit, the lights out the window are changing. The conductor walks the aisle telling that we are arriving in NYC. As we enter the tunnel, I briefly find my mind focused not on the arrival, but on all that has transpired as a kind of theater. It has been a memorable series of events.

As the train slows to a crawl, Buddy and Loudmouth get up and move to the back with the other marines and start gathering their bags. The train comes to a stop in Penn Station and I get up and pull down my bag from the rack overhead as do the ladies in front. I notice that they only have one small overnight bag each.

The ladies step off the train and I follow, now focused on finding the subway to Brooklyn and back to school.

The platform is crowded up ahead and we are not moving very fast. As we get closer to the front of the train the crowd thins out.

There is a rumbling noise.

The doors of a big box car slide open to my left.

I see marines in full dress uniforms holding the doors.

The Corporals are giving orders.

Marines form around American flags draped over five caskets.

RFD 176 Winter 2018 15

16 RFD 176 Winter 2018

“A Twin Flame Of Male And Female,” photograph by artboydancing

Communion Racheal Walser

I

find myself standing there, at the entrance to the bypass. To the left, I see light, and brightness.

There is green there. And vibrancy, I can feel it like a feather on my skin. To the left there is a fog. A fog prefaced by the a sign that reads “St Jude’s Cemetery” in distinctive block print. I’d know that block print anywhere.

I turn to the left and left the soft wind guide me.

As I go towards it, the fog recedes. Like a nervous lover in a bar, it doesn’t make contact; just drifts endlessly backwards, unattainable.

There are trees here, tall ones with thick stumps.

They are darkened in the moonlight, not green but a specific shade of gray black. This is something I’m still getting used to. Life in shadows; the vibrancy of an eternal slumber. It is a different kind of energy. It is stillness, and contemplation. Around me, others sleep, or lie awake with their thoughts. The time of day does not affect this. But some of us still live by the clock, myself and the others who wander.

I wander because I’m tired. But I’ve always been tired. Even as a child, I preferred naps to birthday parties, or trips to the park. I preferred reading to sports, sports to socialization, or socialization to giving speeches. But that was a sleep stope.

So now I wander. Sometimes I find my way home, to check upon a darkened house at the end of a darkened street, in a quiet, darkened neighbourhood. But the shadows are all the darkness I need now, so I go to busy places. Coffee shops filled with students and late night conversationalists, gas stations where people are coming and going, too busy to notice a pool of warm air flooding over

them. But tonight I went to the docks, I sat on the rocky shoreline and watched the fishermen come in to the docks where container after container was unloaded, unpacked, rinsed out then reloaded for another night.

I can still smell the salt as I pass through the earth above my resting place. I like it, mostly. It reminds me of someone, she liked the docks too.

She liked them for the water. For the potential, she’d said. She would sit down there for days on end, writing madly into her little red notebook. And then sometimes she’d just sit there. I’d find her after the sun set. “Are you okay?” I’d ask. Sometimes I’d get an answer. Sometimes I wouldn’t.

We were loving each other through madness, in the plunging darkness that comes with frustration, contemplation and anti-psychotics. She identified with the waves, and I with the shore. I was her starting out point, the place she moored too, the heartbeat that sent her searching and welcomed her home. She was the water, heavy and fast, but also slow and intimate. And I the sand, waiting to feel her again.

The dependable sand. Shifting but there. Always there.

I was a part of the solid world, and she, I think as I blink away tears. She was my freedom.

And so I go to bed, thinking of salt and tears, and water and fish, and the way her smile seemed to bleed it all together. Another day of wandering, of being tired, of waiting by the shoreline. And even in death, she hasn’t come home to me yet.

RFD 176 Winter 2018 17

Radical Faeries Global Over Time

by Terry Cavanaugh / Hammer

A

t 5:00AM Portland Oregon time (4:00PM St. Petersburg, Russia) Valery introduces me via Facebook messenger to a queer activist from Ukraine, “T”. Valery is the main Russian Radical Faerie in a country of 140-million people. Valery is an extraordinary activist. Russia is a country where 140-million proud, handsome and intelligent people are very oppressed regarding sexual and gender freedom. In September 2018, my collaborator, Ed of All People, facilitated an invitation for us to speak at St Petersburg Queer Fest 2018. This is as close as Russia gets to a Gay Pride Celebration. My topic was Radical Faerie Queer Spirituality. Ed’s was the existential spiritual crisis of the AIDS epidemic in San Francisco. My topic was not easy to distill and communicate in a land of historical dialectical materialism. Spirituality as expressed in my understanding of the Radical Faerie cosmos is slippery, nuanced, and paradoxical. After days to prepare a focused talk, just five minutes before I am to speak, with a hundred and fifty Russian activists with simultaneous translation sets hanging on their ears, security walks into the building to announce a bomb threat has been called. We must all immediately evacuate into the street. Ed and I exchange glances. We are not surprised. He has been to Russia doing queer activism before. This is par for the course. This is typical in fighting for queer rights in Russia.

I met Harry Hay and John Burnside when I was twenty four. This photograph of the three of us was taken about 1983 in the garden of David Thomas in Santa Cruz, California. I’ve been exploring and explaining Radical Faeries for thirty eight years now.

Radical Faeries remain my primary affinity group.

The tribe with whom I resonate totally. An ethos of integrating sexuality, spirituality, heart connections, ecological consciousness, and political activism inside a holistic culture of creativity, playfulness, and zany community centered values. These spiritual seekers, cultural activists, freedom fighters and consciousness raisers remain unparalleled for me.

These three Russian activists, Ari, Mark, and Venya, are part of my deep prayer for our future. How blessed I am to know them. They carry the weight of yet undreamt possibility on their shoulders. We are still dreaming of a free queer Russia.

18 RFD 176 Winter 2018

My next step is flying to South Africa in January 2019 in search of a site for the third Global Gathering of Radical Faeries. Ed wants to make sure we include the twenty five plus new Central African Faeries who were not permitted visas to the UK for the second Global Radical Faerie Gathering at Featherstone Castle, Northumberland.

The work continues. Expanding consciousness of queer people and creating an honored seat the table for our kind still has so far to go.

John, Harry, Terry. Photo by David Thomas.

Above: Queerfest St. Petersburg Russia. Ari, Mark, Venya, Terry.

Below: Terry Cavanag and Ed Wolf, St Petersburg 2018. Photos by author.

RFD 176 Winter 2018 19

Oshee Eagleheart

This image is from a ceremony at Samhain 2012.

We had gathered around a sacred fire at the grove at Spiral Fire, to invoke and commune with the Rainbow Spirit Ancestors. In the midst of the ceremony I felt something touching my hand. I held it up and saw by the firelight that a snail had crawled onto me.

20 RFD 176 Winter 2018

I continued to hold out my hand, watching and feeling it move very slowly across my skin. How perfect that such an ancient, polysexual being had joined us for the Rainbow Ancestor ceremony! The next day I channeled a picture of the experience, which ever since has represented the Rainbow Spirit Ancestors.

Pastel by author

Leo Raciot

Photo courtesy author

RFD 176 Winter 2018 21

Michael Oglesby

Early feys 1976. Micheal Oglesby/Charlie Thornton/ Terry Flaherty. Mulberry House Fayetteville Arkansas. Photo by Dennis Melbason

Micheal Oglesby/Charlie Thornton New Orleans 1974. Leaving New Orleans for the Ozarks. Photo booth photo.

San Juan Pueblo, NM. Micheal Oglesby/Charlie Thornton/Olaf Oddegard/Peter/Harry Hay

March on Washington 1993, Micheal Oglesby and Harry Hay. Photo by Micheal Oglesby

First black lesbian radical faerie in the Ozarks 22 RFD 176 Winter 2018

Micheal Oglesby. Camp Camp gathering Buffalo River in the Ozarks. Photo by C. Thornton

Two Spirit Sister/Brothers Montana Gathering, Joey Criddle and Sydney. Photo

by Joey Criddle.

Drunken poets Camp Camp gathering 1990. Mask by an Ozark fey artist. Photo Micheal Oglesby

RFD 176 Winter 2018 23

Images of a Winter at Short Mountain Sanctuary with my (bio)LOGICAL family

by Teacosy

I

was a very young thirty one. It was 1981 and I decided to travel from Australia to the US of A to catch up with my BIO(logical) family and check out my much newer (bio)LOGICAL family.

So I first spent a couple of months in Los Angeles with my two of my sisters, flitting between West Hollywood and Venice Beach. I’d not seen them for years so it was pretty special.

Then one day I caught a train from Los Angeles to some tiny little station called Lamy in the middle of nowhere near Santa Fe. I was met by two Faeries who wisked me off to the Third Radical Faerie Gathering in the Pecos National Monument National Park.

That’s where I met my (bio)LOGICAL family—all 130+ of them. I realized I’d really come Faerie Homo. Harry and John were there of course.

I’m still connected with the Faerie Tribe thirty seven years later. Living at Faerieland Sanctuary in Australia the last sixteen years. This week we are hosting a Sex Magik Workshop with Keystone, Rosa and Robin Hood.

So what are these photos about? Well I’m getting there.

After leaving the gathering in New Mexico I set off crisXcrossing America visiting all my new found Faerie friends.

First a Faerie caravan across to Los Angeles, again! Then Las Vegas, Bryces Canyon, Salt Lake City, Boulder, Denver( saw Lilly Tomlin live), Lawrence (Kansas) and then hallelujah Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I fell in love with a Faerie of course! And reconnected with Crazy Owl and was treated most royally at the Old Red Schoolhouse. A side trip to Jim Long’s farm at Blue Eye Missourri.

It was late Autumn (Fall) I think when I travelled to Tennessee and Short Mountain. A whole crew of Faeries from the Gathering were there to welcome me—Purli Sudds, Crit Goin, Johnny G, Leah and a couple of dozen others either visiting or there for the grand meeting. Ron Lambe, Milo, Edwin Bridges and the wonderful Gabby “John” Haze from down the road. The meeting was to adopt the bylaws and elect an Empress. Over the next weeks I

24 RFD 176 Winter 2018

helped produce the 1981 Winter Edition of RFD— only the 29th issue! I’m on the cover and credited as Ken Garu!

So what are these images about? A couple of old black and white photos of my days at Short Mountain—printed in a darkroom hastily constructed at Gabby and Merril’s farm. A magick time I certainly had with my new found (bio)LOGICAL family.

Crazy Owl. Photo courtesy author

Top: Purli Sudds and Teacosy. Incorporation meeting, October 1981.

Bottom: “Messing in the kitchen.� Photos courtesy author.

RFD 176 Winter 2018 25

Gabby tells a story. Photo by author.

RFD #29 back cover 26 RFD 176 Winter 2018

Ian Gray aka. Teacosy Eureka Springs Oct 1981.

Photo: The Imagery Studio Eureka Springs Arkansas

“Crit has much to say.” Photo by author.

“Zenobia,” painting by Joseph Minutello

RFD 176 Winter 2018 27

Covelo Ardeth, Carol and Alfred October 2018 In October I announced my last day of thirty years of teaching. I had just returned from two weeks of disarmament education workshops in Vermont and Oklahoma with Hiroshima survivor Shigeko Sasamori and Nagasaki survivor Yasuaki Yamashita. I had pulled an already weak back lugging coats and bags and a 53 pound suitcase out of a rental car, on to a cart, off the cart onto a scale, off the scale, back onto the scale, lost ID, found ID. Bad back. Can’t walk. Chronic pain. Can’t do it any more. It was the last day of programs at the YWCA Brooklyn—SPEAK OUT! Women and Mass Incarceration and PEACE OUT! Action and Civil Resistance with four of the real women from Piper Kierman’s prison memoir Orange Is the New Black.

PEACE OUT! was with Dominican Sisters Ardeth Platte and Carol Gilbert, activists who have been imprisoned for many things including drawing

EPA Exorcism June, 2018 Rise and Resist was formed in response to the 2016 U.S. election. We are a direct action group made up of both new and experienced activists committed to opposing, disrupting, and defeating any government act that threatens democracy, equality, and our civil liberties. We work collaboratively, creatively, respectfully, and with all the joy we can muster for the health of the people and the planet. We reject State sanctioned violence, bigotry, and systemic discrimination in all its forms, including those directed at people because of their disability, gender identity/expression, immigration status, race, religion, sex, and sexuality. We condemn all the oppressive policies that define the current government regime. With Reverend Billy’s Stop Shopping Choir we did an Exorcism of Scott Pruit, EPA Director, at the EPA Headquarters off Foley Square in Lower Manhattan. A week later he resigned.

peace signs in their blood on nuclear missile silos.

In their vows of poverty they live in radical joy. As fellow ICAN campaigners at the adoption of the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons in July of 2017, we received the Nobel Peace Prize and one of the ten medallions was in the house. The kids were coming from the Special Music School, MLK Campus, Lincoln Center. What a way to go…fantastic kids, radical nuns and the Nobel Peace Prize. I’m out.

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Left photo by Jennifer Brown. Right photo by Hucklefaerie Ken..

Frank Serafino and Phil Brown

We were both approximately three-years-old at the time. The bottom photo (in our purple outfits) demonstrates that we eventually changed our cowboy hats to matching groom hats for our wedding. We’ve been together 26 years.

Photographs courtesy authors.

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BB Ha! Cops on the beat—Allison Wonder & Fluffernutter at Breitenbush 2006 summer gathering

Getting ready for faeries to arrive at Breitenbush “Ecstasies” summer gathering 2006. Serpentine, BB Ha!, Benjamin. There are always “butterflies” in my stomach before a gathering, but standing with the gods helped me ground.

Michael Hathaway and BB Ha! Breitenbush summer 2006

Harry Hay and John Burnside 30 RFD 176 Winter 2018

Photographs by BB Ha!

Photographs by BB Ha!

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Veris & Ahnika Meyer-Wilde

Haven and Veris—featuring the pearl merkin. Photo: Wolfeye.

Haven and Veris. Photo: Wolfeye.

August & Veris—Siblings of Star and Blood

Taken at Short Mountain Sanctuary

Veris and Pocket Squirrel, featuring that real baby squirrel that was hanging out in Scrat’s sweater pocket that one year at the Mountain. Photo: Estruss.

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Taken at Short Mountain Sanctuary

Taluli:“I lived here [points to ancestor circle ground] for 13 years. Under the ground.”

Oh yeah? What did you do in all that time?

“Oh, mostly hung out...”

Gabriel Q

Gabriel Q as “Baby� at the Florida Renaissance Faire, Gainesville, Florida

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Richard Vyse

NYC 1972, Hernando NYC custom studded jeans.

Photo by Lee Bivins.

Hawaii 1974, Under Banyan tree. Photo by Jeff Dauber.

Richard and Lee Baltimore 2013, together 57 years now married. Photo by Virginia Corcoran.

Richard creates Man Art 2016, studio in Baltimore.

Photo by Lee Bivins.

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Layard

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“Shine,” photograph by Layard

Revelation It isn’t in the dark I choose to hide.

It is the light in which I wish to grow.

It’s not what I concealed or how I lied.

It is the joy I wanted you to know.

It’s all I feel and all I hope to find-the brightest sun, the widest sky of blue.

It’s not a cloud of gloom I hide behind, but what’s beyond-- a light that’s bright and new.

It’s not a disappointment or a loss.

It is a day that’s waiting to begin.

This boundary that you’ve found is yours to cross.

Come to my door, and I’ll invite you in.

The words I speak are whispered on the breeze-a song of birds once hidden in the trees.

—Alan Sugar

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Layard

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“As Below So Above,” photograph by Layard.

Self Portrait 2018 I let my hair grow long when I was twenty-nine.

It curled and waved its golden hues Lost somewhere between summer and September And asked me why I’d wasted so much time.

A tiny piece of pencil lead sits stuck in the back of my left hand.

My first boy crush put it there in a fit of silly anger That now reminds me daily Of fire, lust, and youth.

Tooth scars mar the same hand’s thumb.

A rare scuffle with a sweet old dog.

Justified, I’m sure of it, And I miss him.

Hair grows in my ears now A little more each time I shave it.

And my eye sometimes flickers As if age is poking with a stick.

My belly bulges just a bit Enough to let you pinch my fat.

Best ask me first, though, before you reach Or be prepared for more than that.

I am otherwise average American male An ad for t-shirts in the Sunday spread, Somewhere between forgettable And your absolute ultimate fantasy.

—e.c.patrick

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Layard

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“Held,” photograph by Layard.

Spriggin Radfae

Fossil Flower

Beach Glass

In the Pleistocene Epoch the early dawn of hedonism I stretched my limbs upward and budded argent blooms of erotic promise.

I reached out for intimacy long absent from the gulf of my childhood.

Out of that ancient air, choked in pollen, men like drones swarmed to collect my gold.

With grunts of satisfaction, they ignored the hollow eyes, my marble face, and the way I bartered sex for closeness.

They came, then flitted off stealing in their wings my safety and my trust.

People pluck frosty, tumbled amoeba-shapes translucent brown, cobalt, sap green or white -mementos along surf ’s edge.

Several paces off, I’m a shard that cuts: razor trash, shark-tooth sliver, I savor curses, stinging, crying tears scarlet drooling from pink, bare foot a hot voice roiling, “Some jackass broke a bottle in the sand!”

I resigned myself to a calamitous love that scorned affection and bore no family seed.

The cataclysm finally struck when a lover, eyes hooded with a naked glare of disappointment said, “Don’t worry about it, I’m negative.”

Withering in my bed, a flood of indifference buried me beneath blankets of silt where I slowly calcified and to this day remain, a blossom fossilized in bones of earth.

So. Why was I broken and discarded here?

If not for disgust or dogma, I might have tumbled twenty years in marriage.

“Blame God.”I say.

Blame the bottle factory.

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“Herodotus,” photograph by artboydancing.

Will you take me as I am?

The question ricochets and the sky pours through your mouth into mine.

It’s frosty but you’re dissident, mascara-hot.

You scrape me razor-like, beard and years fall away, sneaky cuts grin where you skim.

The stars want to have it all.

You’re showing me a way through shameless and I watch as we chase after our tongues.

Temple we are, sacred we are, lit by the swing of your skin.

Will you take me as I am?

The lock in the door has been snarled-up these years.

Chords I’ll never enunciate tease ears full of chittering birds.

But this night all I hear is you.

Will you take me as I am?

You bring the thrill of midnight mass, bodies pressed forward.

Like a river always too fast you tangle my purples.

Will you take me as I am?

There is laughter under your fingernails, a raw shudder like a cigarette burns lip from lip.

Close to the edge, drumming up a storm, our stupid thighs burn River soars from your mouth to mine Merciless beauty rushing us away.

—qweaver

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Stephen Mead

This is a montage series called “From Nostalgia, Through Now & Beyond”, work paying homage to the international LGBT individuals, couples, organizations and allies (often depicting forces they were up against), predominantly pre-Stonewall. As

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I’ve learned more about our LGBT past it’s as if I have been uncovering a large secret chosen family album, and the enclosed image just reflects my small ephemeral space in the larger timeline.

Photographs by author.

Artboydancing (Many other pieces throughout this issue.)

“In Another Time And Place,� photograph by artboydancing.

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Fortification

By Scarlett Woods

A

lmost every LGBT+ person has suffered from homophobia, transphobia, or any other kind of irrational hatred. I am no exception. While our memories of abuse are vivid, I remember the surprises much more fondly, when someone stands up and fights for you, when people around you prove that living life as who you are is not wrong.

The most memorable of these for me took place when I was eighteen years old. My younger brother—fifteen at the time—suddenly ran up to me and, in hushed whispers, explained his master plan: “You know how your birthday is coming up? Ask mom to get you a boob cake!”

I was surprised, albeit amused. “Why do I want a boob cake?”

“Well, I want a boob cake,” said the hormonal teenage boy, “but mom says I’m not old enough. So, instead, tell her you want a boob cake, so that way I can still get a boob cake.” I couldn’t help but find his plan hilarious, and so I agreed. Why not? I was sure my friends would find it funny, especially once they heard the story behind it.

So, after dinner, I asked my mother if I could have a breasts-shaped cake for my nineteenth birthday. She scoffed and immediately refused, but I wasn’t all too surprised. My brother was the one who got upset.

“What? Why?” he whined. “You said I could get a boob cake when I’m nineteen, but she’s turning nineteen! Why can’t she get a boob cake?”

“Because she’s a girl,” Mother said, and things began to go south. “It’s silly for a girl to want a boob cake. If she asked for a penis cake, then maybe, because that would make sense.” (Yes, I am fully aware of how ridiculous this conversation was, even at this point.)

“How does it not make sense?” my brother asked.

“She’s a girl, she has boobs, so it’s like…feminism! Free the nipple, you know? But, like, a cake.” Perhaps he realized that this wasn’t getting him anywhere, so he tried from another angle. “But how come I’m allowed to have a boob cake when I’m nineteen, but she’s not allowed to choose what she wants to have? That’s kinda sexist, you know.”

Mother was not impressed. “It’s different because you like girls. If she was lesbian, then I’d have no problem getting her that kind of cake, but it’s ridiculous right now because she doesn’t like girls.”

“I like girls.”

The words came out without meaning to. Silence

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crowded the kitchen, as my family stared at me. “…That’s ridiculous.”

The cat was out of the bag, there was no use in pretending. “What’s ridiculous? I like girls too.”

“No you don’t, you had a boyfriend for two years!”

“I’m bisexual, mum.”

“Bullshit.”

Before then, I’d had no idea my mother was so homophobic. Sure, she used some queer-themed insults. Sure, she argues “fag” is still an appropriate word. But… she has a gay friend? So, surely she’s okay with LGBT, right?

As long as it’s not in the family.

“Mom, I’m bisexual. I have been for years, and calling it bullshit won’t change me.”

“You’ve never brought a girl home. I think you’re making this up to make me angry, this is ridiculous.” She extended her index in my direction. “The day you bring a girl home is the day I will accept you as lesbian.”

“Bisexual,” I tried to correct, but my voice was drowned out by my little fifteen-year-old brother’s.

“Then how do you know I’m straight?”

She spun on him. “What? Don’t be stupid, we know you’re straight.”

“But how do you know?” he asked. “I’ve never brought a girl home either, so how do you know I like girls?”

Mother tried to wave off the conversation. “We do, you always have.”

“You don’t know that,” my brother argued. “How come I can be straight even though I’ve never dated anyone, but she has to prove she likes girls?”

“That’s enough of that-” “No, really,” he protested. “Why?” “That’s enough!” Mother shouted. “I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

We never changed her mind. I didn’t get a boob cake for my birthday. But instead, I got to see my baby brother—who’s always sucked up to his mommy—stand up for me. I got to see a straight man compromise his own sexuality to help defend mine. I saw a lot of things that day, but most of all, I saw my brother for the strong adult he is becoming. And I am proud of what I saw.

What I will remember most from that day will not be my mother’s homophobia. What I’ll remember is the boy who spoke up for what he believed was right. I’ll remember my baby brother fighting for my right to be myself. When I think of this event, I am not sad: I am proud. And I always will be.

“Notus,” photograph by artboydancing.

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Junis

These photos are all taken in my garden in Holland over a period of twenty years. Hope they express my attitude and connection towards life in which people, plants and animals play an equal important roll—as pearls on the same string, as I like to put it. The faeries encouraged me to develop my slumbering gay spiritual identity in which man , woman and non-genderness come together, (me in dress ). —Junis

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Photographs by author.

Who I Am and What Brings Meaning to My Life

By Earl Nissen

W

ho am I? Where do I come from? Where do I go from here? Where is my “shining faerie prince?”

Diversity? (Still clamoring for diversity? That was so 1990’s).

It’s strange for me to do any “naval gazing.” Other than shaving my face and combing my hair, I don’t look at myself.

I was just sitting on my doorstep. Setting sun on my face. Thinking “I’m lucky. Glad to have a job. Glad to be in decent health. Glad to have good love in my life.” Does that sound like diversity? Or “giving in to the man” and “assimilating into the patriarchy?”

Oh yes, I had the pleasure of meeting Harry Hay and John Burnside. It was around 1995? My partner and I sat with him in Denver. He was tired.

John was fussing around him. Chicken soup. Yet the serene love and calm he infused into his discussion of subject-subject consciousness was clear.

I still see myself as a humble kitchen witcth, going about my “harm none” way and quietly reaching into my self and connecting with my clients (high school students) and trying to be honest. Diversity? My first day at my current job, going around the table, talking about how my husband and I just enjoyed an “at-home” vacation together. Frozen eyes of new coworkers. Straights trying to be cool. OK, been there, done that.

Images of me? I just deleted any Facebook postings with my face on it—so mad at this electronic billboard—and lately tore out pages from school yearbooks—me smiling, me chaperoning dances, me on field trips and me coaching—and pasted them together in a collage. Reminds me of the “memory displays” at the funerals I’ve been to—just that it’s me, right, and I am still alive, right?

Remarks from students and coworkers—“You look so young.” “Who’s that black girl? I think I know her.” I laugh it off, experiments in manscaping, different moustaches, hair cuts, my seventeen years of teaching. I pinch myself, really. A gay teacher. Just glad to be working. Full-time with benefits. What a concept.

You realize that it’s teachers who have been striking, right, in five states? The “Great Recession” and “No Child Left Behind” were a double-whammy. These days I say “pick your ism.” Why deny me a job? Ageism? I’m a Baby Boomer. Sexism? I’m a gay male in a straight female profession. Racism? I’m Filipino. Again, I follow my Reiki precepts to “just for today” be grateful. “Harm none, y’all.”

Well, to round out this submission, I lifted some photos from my office. Pictures of me? Oh, I like the one of when Kevin and I were given a “wedding party” by my straight coworkers. This was in the 1990’s and we decided to “get married” in Maui. It was not a legally binding event, but we wanted something to ritualize our commitment.

Me smiling so happy, arm around my honey.

In the early years we took a lot of pictures.

Now we’ve been together 24 years, fewer pictures now.Here’s one in the 1990’s again, dressed up to attend an AIDS benefit, suits and ties and red ribbons—hard memories from the epidemic, loss and regret.

These days with the hoo-haa over “gay reparative therapy” I just laugh. You never hear a straight person say that with patience and psychological quackery you can turn a straight person into a gay one. Never.

But somehow the “do unto others” switch does not flip on when they are trying to be what— helpful? Maybe understanding? I don’t get it at all. That silly 95% of humans. Trying to understand the 5% of humans who are sexual minorities.

News flash to the heteros: we understand you.

Very much. Any maybe that is the way to finish this reflection on this “image of myself.” I think there is some phrase about “understanding a society by looking at how they treat their outcasts.” Some rubbish like that. Well, here’s the headlines from the freak front: Straights, we really are like you very much. And we are really different at the same time. Wow. Dissonance.

Maybe when they look at me they will see more of what they are. Whatever.

I kind of like that.

Reiki Master Earl at Crystal Fantasy in Palm Springs. I spend each Saturday there. I've channeled Reiki since 1994 and read tarot cards. Love this location as I groove with the Lady and Lord there!

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Dmitry Bitjukov

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“Rider,” painting by Dmitry Bitjukov.

Aloud

by Gina Marie Bernard

I

met him in the basement of Tamarack Hall, where the drone of a lonely Maytag competed with the hum from the soda machine, and he used the wall to knock a thin slurry from the bottom of his high-top tennis shoes, and he had the beer in a brown paper bag from Lueken’s Village Foods, and it was rolled down tight to the top of the Grain Belt, and as I pressed ten dollars into his gloved hand, he adjusted his stocking cap and asked why I hadn’t gone home for Christmas break yet, so I told him I still had two finals and my father couldn’t come until Sunday, and he sniffed snot back up his nose and told me to have one for him, and then he was gone, and the exit sign flickered a little above the door, and I climbed into the elevator, pressing “4” and praying the RA, who led Bible study on Wednesday nights, didn’t have his door open, and he didn’t so I went into my dorm room and sat on the futon and drank all six cans of beer while watching The Young Ones, and then I put on my coat and took the elevator back down to the lobby and followed the sidewalk into the night, and the winter air smelled of coming snow that had not yet fallen, and I walked Canis Major to the fence surrounding Chet Anderson Stadium, and as I scaled its links I cursed my forgotten mittens, the metal burning my fingers,

mooned cuticles turning blue, and once inside I tramped through crust to the fifty-yard line and made an angel, my breath pillowing from my lips in hoppy plumes, and when I stood up melting ice snaked its way beneath my shirt and slithered along my spine, and I was suddenly convinced I would never be able to cry out loud what I had suffered in silence eighteen years—that I had exhausted all my childish prayers on something scabrous, grotesque, cancerous—and that even in fairy tales the ogre never gets a wish, the troll is always vanquished to the shadows beneath the bridge, and the prince only turns into a frog (never a girl), and then I laughed but it was torn away on a December gale that left me hollow and afraid, so I climbed the cement steps of the stadium, footing uncertain because of old snow and the beers, and when I got to the top I saw that I stood on the bounds of the universe, and that if I howled into its vastness my confession would certainly be devoured and no one else would ever have to know, so I cupped my brittleness and cast it into the cosmos until my throat was raw and my voice rattled like husks of blighted corn, and the next morning as I sat acing the exam in my abnormal psychology class, I remember thinking, “Yeah, ask me something I don’t fucking know.”

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Atticus Winterfae

O

nce upon a time there was a little child called Nannoo. Nannoo was a faery child; a beautiful being, an ephemeral shape-shifter, free. Even though Nannoo lived in a muggle family, Nannoo was very happy; riding a tricycle around the allotments at the back of the house, playing, and cavorting around in mother’s chiffon babydoll night-dress at any opportunity; swirling and floating around the house.

Now Nannoo loved dolls. Any kind of dolls baby dolls, fashion dolls, porcelain dolls, you name it, Nannoo was entranced by them. Nannoo was continuously longing for a doll; Nannoo preferred the ones with long hair, that could be brushed, styled, and made even more beautiful. Nannoo’s hair tended to be on the short and fluffy side, so doll hair was a very lovely thing to Nannoo. Nannoo would sometimes take the dolls in the bath, turning them immediately and miraculously into mermaids; those ephemeral beings that faeries are very aware of, but which we rarely see.

Nannoo’s favourite doll was ‘Havoc’ - not only a beauty, but strong and fearless. Nannoo longed for a Havoc over many weeks, walking past the toy shop each Saturday morning, staring in to the shop, longing… pining… knowing that Havoc could be made happy in Nannoo’s faery world. Every day Nannoo would ask the muggles if they would buy Havoc for Nannoo. They refused. Apparently Havoc wasn’t the right kind of toy for Nannoo. So Nannoo persisted. Nannoo was anything but a pushover.

And you know what, eventually the muggles gave in and bought Nannoo ‘Havoc’. Nannoo was over the moon.

A

fter a few weeks though, of very lovely and creative playtime with Havoc, Havoc disappeared. She was nowhere to be found. Nannoo was absolutely bemused; she wasn’t in bed, she wasn’t in the toy cupboard, and Nannoo was quite upset a number of times. Nannoo even took to looking behind the bath, as she may have been caught up in an adventure behind the bath for all Nannoo knew.

But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere.

Nannoo then noticed other dolls disappeared. All Nannoo’s Sindy’s went. Nannoo became more and more concerned. No-one could tell Nannoo what had happened. Nannoo did notice that the brother

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and father became more hostile and secretive, giggling at Nannoo together.

One day, Nannoo took himself to the bay window in the bedroom, and sat there wearing the satchel, looking out into the street, wondering. Nannoo gradually realised that the dolls hadn’t disappeared.

The dolls had been taken; by the brother and father.

And it took a very long time for that to sink in.

I

spent the next thirty years wondering; wondering why people act in this way, wondering why men feel so emasculated by someone else’s behaviour, that they treat children like this. I never had an explanation as to why I was so threatening as a childfaery, but I certainly was. Most importantly, though, the need for my inner child to play with dolls never went away. The longing to play was never ameliorated; the yearning to be able to play with dolls, to immerse myself in creative play, was never quenched.

Even more fundamentally, the faery inside me took hold.

But it wasn’t until 2015 that I had my awakening.

Amidst another period of manic depression, considering death, inconsolable, howling at the moon, I found life in the form of ball jointed dolls. These were multi-jointed works of art that were simultaneously beautiful and feats of engineering. They would stand independently, proudly, and took months to make. They were not for the faint hearted, as things could go drastically wrong at any stage of the process. And they were very expensive, with one going for over $80,000.

But my manic episodes were conducive to being productive. I was hooked.

Suddenly, I realised it was now or never; I would need to take hold of my inner child and immerse us both again in the wonders of artistic expression through dolls, or die. There was no going back.

There was no deal to be had here. We chose life.

Photographs by author.

We took a deep breath, we said a big ‘fuck you’ to all the haters in my life, and picked up the clay. I began to spend every waking hour learning the trade; how to sculpt, to cast, to mould, to fire, to spring, to paint, to dress. Each doll takes at least three months to make, and a finger can break at the final hurdle, meaning a return to the beginning. The process is a meditation of patience, commitment, determination, and creativity. But I haven’t looked back. The faery woke up, Atticus, and I became me. The images that I now make are me; the part of me that was denied. I proudly make and offer my dolls to the world. I do so to allow my soul to live, to permit my energetic body to flow freely.

I also buy others. The first one I bought was deeply shaming; the old paternal hurt raged inside, but I persevered. My partner would also raise his eyebrows. So I bought more. I also began to ‘mod’ other dolls, such as Blythes. I do tend to store them away in boxes; like my mind stores the hurt. But I do get them out now. I have a display case, and I look at them regularly. It does still feel like a dirty little secret, and my ‘partner’ does still shame me for it. But I won’t keep this silent any longer. I don’t expect everyone to get me; I expect people to respect me; my difference. And I bear no shame for spending my money on them; I work fourteen hour days, and it’s my money.

After all, my child also resists a return to poverty; once bitten, twice shy and all that!

The primary criticism people ‘offer’ me is that my dolls are not realistic, and someone once asked if I’d be, essentially, making fatter dolls. I find this exasperating. They are not intended to be real; they are not dolls for children. They are not role models. My dolls have cunts, and some have cocks.

They are metaphors for me; they are my distorted, selfish view of beauty. They are my art and much more than the primary form they seem to inhabit. They are also my unashamed representation of my ‘illness’—I produce art prolifically because I hurt.

S

o I can now fully realise myself. Now my inner child is satiated, the rage has lessened. I feel more at ease. People offer me large sums of money for them, but I can’t let go of them yet. They are mine. I made them. They have my DNA in them.

And if you don’t keep hold of your dolls tightly, they may disappear!

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Gordon Binder

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“Turning seventy, comfortable in my own skin after a long journey in our country to equality.� Painting by Gordon Binder.

Blackbird

Erotic Siddhi. Image by Blackbird.

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J. Nguyen

Black, white, gray—at all times.

Todd Shaw First time I met Keer, James & Jan GSV.

Elijah and Todd.

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Franklin Abbott and Raven Wolfdancer.

Todd and Singon now Judah.

“Viva forever the cover�, Fairyland in Australia. Photo by Pumpkin.

Pumpkin and Kevin, summer gathering in Fairyland in Australia. Photo by Jeff Huang.

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hoMopoke

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“Monsta, Alt Sydney Mardi Gras Party 2010” photo by Monsta Gras Party photographer

Above: Saturday afternoon in the Quad, at a community gathering in Lismore NSW.Photo

by Alex Davies.

Far left: “<3 Boomi,” celebrating/grieving a lost friend.

Photo by Morgan Carpenter.

Left: “Portrait,” MAP Delhi Residency 2016, moving image.Photo by Max Milne.

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Mushroom

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“Bliss” by Mushroom. Mushroom, Guy and kitties at home.

Left: “Psychedelic Mushroom,” dancing at Queer Spirit Festival UK Below: “Rainbow Mushroom”, marching at Brighton Pride UK Bottom left: “Prince William, why did you marry her?” 29 April 2011, Royal Wedding Party Drag.

Bottom right: “Naked Wrestling,” naked play fight at Featherstone Castle, UK. Photographs courtesy Mushroom.

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My First Pagoda

Lloyd and I would frequent plant nurseries in Santa Cruz: especially one with a large shed of miniature ceramic Asian buildings just right to place with our bonsai. We were discussing the purchase of a little Chinese bridge when we realized we were being observed. We looked around. No one. Oops, there was a little boy just five who had escaped Mum in the adjacent Geraniums. He was observing us with his whole heart and soul. “Do you collect pagodas?” he asked.

“Yes!” I chirped in my best avuncular tone.

“Do you collect them together?” he countered with an earnest life and death question.

“Yes, we do,” I said.

“That’s what I hoped,” he said as he ran off.

—Marvin R. Heimstra

Death Valley. Photo by Tim Evans

I view myself through music and as a person living on the planet watching the habitat unfold. I wrote these songs about love, climate change, heterosexism and queer sex because music matters. So grab some tea and get comfortable and enjoy. pinkjimmieonapalebluedot. bandcamp.com/releases.

—Pink Jimmie

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“Faerie Drum Circle, London, Nov 2017.

Rear view of me in drag.” Photo courtesy Dippy.

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www.whitecraneinstitute.com

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Issue 178 / Summer 2019

STONEWALL 50

Submission Deadline: April 21, 2019 www.rfdmag.org/upload

To commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion, we call for submissions on DIRECT ACTION. We truly honor the legacy of those who rioted when we take direct action ourselves. What are our struggles today? Where is direct action going? We ask to hear from Standing Rock and indigenous struggles for space and survival. We ask to hear from those who are part of Black Lives Matter, Occupy, Queers for Climate Justice, and movements to abolish the prison industrial complex.

Stonewall was festive and defiant, but also messy and violent. In what ways does the state still bear down on our bodies? For a select few, secure in race, gender, or passing privileges, clubs and guns may have become less likely. For the rest of us—black, brown, poor, and especially trans—conditions have not much changed. The neglect and abuse of our queer children continues to this day. Many people still live trapped in homophobic communities, hiding and suppressing themselves. What happens when we can’t take it anymore, when we feel there is no choice but to act?

Many are firmly committed to nonviolence, using our fierce glamour and humor to dazzle, evade, provoke, and inspire as we find ways to put our bodies upon the gears. Others, like the queens and butches who threw bricks and bottles at Stonewall, are committed to doing whatever it takes to bash back against the oppression bearing down on us. What creative tools and skills might we use to take direct action ourselves?

How might we act here and now to transform our oppression and to conjure a new world into being?

photo by ysonuts under license: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/legalcode RFD 176 Winter 2018 65

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66 RFD 176 Winter 2018