This Is Halloween?

Mark claimed he was unable to resist devouring Halloween candy, so we didn’t have any the morning of Halloween. This necessitated a run to the local chain grocery — Mark insisted that I needed supervision buying Halloween candy — where we discovered a two-for-one sale on fun-sized Skittles and Twix bars. And aisles of Christmas decorations.

“Hmm,” Mark said as we went home. “We didn’t get fine chocolates for ourselves.”

“True,” I said.

He baked gluten-free brownies.

On the pumpkin front, this year is very low key. I gave the single pumpkin I impulse bought last week a jagged lid and carved a skull out of the pumpkin’s thick rind with holes for the eyes and nose. The teeth look a little like a car’s radiator grille. It’s very basic. Sometimes I like it, other times I’m dissatisfied with how crude it feels. In retrospect, I should have drilled holes around its brows and stuck in marigolds.

At least we have a ton of paper bats adorning the walls. Which I like.

Mark has put up the blower-powered Eldritch Horror: large, purple, inflatable, light-up tentacles. It’s under the front rhododendron and behind some plastic old-timey graveyard fencing. It looks very effective, and it’s the one Halloween Thing Mark seems to be into because he wants to order another one for more tentaclely fun.

I wasn’t sure what the night was going to be like, weather-wise. A dense (and possibly freezing) fog advisory for the morning meant a grey pall over everything. The predicted clearing came around 4:30 PM. At least there wasn’t a deluge. Or — thinking back to Minnesota decades ago — snow and dented parked cars.

I set up the long folding table, placed a green tablecloth over it, and set up the wooden skull, the ceramic jack-o-lantern my Aunt Joanne made, the light-up skull candles, the lava lamps, the spiky-winged siren-ladies crystal ball stand, the blue glass orb, and various tea candle votive ware.

I really wanted to set up a cauldron with an old copper punch bowl and our sonic fog machine, but after an hour of searching the garage and loft, I could not locate it. I am sure I saw it over the summer when we were reorganizing the bedrooms, and it is not in any of the places I recall seeing it. Undoubtedly I will find it this week when I’m tearing the house apart looking for something else.

I did find my RollerBlades (and wrist guards), so I threw on my large black-and-purple cloak, put on the RollerBlades, and swooped around the street for a quarter hour. Apparently, the Dragon Dancing I’ve been doing has been good for my balance: my muscle memory kicked in and it felt like I’d been RollerBlading forever instead of only once a year. Real bats did not join me as I glided up and down the street (as they did once, several years ago), but yes, Saint-Saëns’s Danse Macabre was playing in my head. (“Look, Aoife, John’s back. He didn’t need his cell phone to call the ambulance from the middle of the street at all…”)

Our first group of trick-or-treaters appeared shortly after six. Which was a little late; usually the little-little kids are making the rounds by 5:30 PM. “Oh. More Skittles,” one grateful little ghoul said.

Since Aoife was going a little nuts, I figured it would be a better night if the doorbell wasn’t rung too much, so I set up the square card table in the driveway, next to the garage and in front of the skull jack-o-lantern, with a white tablecloth, two white camping lights, and my tarot cards. (Setting up a flood-lit path to a tarot card reading booth in the backyard had been vetoed earlier that afternoon.)

I shuffled and shuffled the cards. I murmured the invocation to the circle and four quarters. I broke out The Book of Art and a pen. I shuffled the cards some more. I heard trick-or-treaters shrieking from several blocks away. I shuffled the cards and attempted to formulate a question. The night grew cold, and so did my hands.

I settled on a nine-card spread and shuffled the cards some more. This was probably a mistake, as the spread I chose is more suited for a yes-or-no answer with temporal cards filling in the why, and I was asking a “how do I” question about community. The most interesting aspect of the reading was that it started with the King of Cups (fire expressed as water) reversed, and ended with the Queen of Wands (water expressed as fire) reversed. Why, yes, The Chariot reversed showed up, too. And the Two of Pentacles, reversed.

I wrote the cards down in The Book of Art; all suits represented, three upright, six reversed. I will need to do more research, but I’m pretty sure the spread was pointing out that “you’re the common factor in all your failed relationships,” and that focusing on one thing might help. And possibly (looks at Seven of Pentacles sitting in the middle of the spread) I’ve confused “community” with “legacy.”

At some point I managed to coerce Cicero — who had managed to sneak out of the house, even though he’s a black cat on Halloween — into my lap and partially under my cloak. We both appreciated each other’s body heat. I gathered up the spread cards, noticed that they had a faint trace of condensation on them, and started shuffling the cards once more for a series of practice readings — two crossed cards over a line of three cards — to flex my cartomancy muscles.

Around 7:45 PM the second group of trick-or-treaters, three little girls, slowly approached the table. “Aw,” one said when Cicero leapt out of my lap and into the shadows of the neighbor’s shrubbery. They were very polite and effusively thankful for the candy loot, and somehow managed to scamper off before anyone could ask for or be offered a one-card tarot draw.

By 8:00 PM, it was clear that no other trick-or-treaters were going to walk by our house. I dismissed the circle and the quarters, pulled up shop, and asked Mark if he wanted to go looking at neighborhood jack-o-lanterns. At first he was happy letting me go by myself, but then changed his mind and we were walking up the hill.

Our street was dark. On the next block we passed by one house with a jack-o-lantern and orange lights, and another house with the resident dog’s dog toys dramatically lit up and hanging from a tree.

We continued to climb the hill and turned the corner onto a dark street. I was stunned. We passed the silhouettes of houses. In the distance, a railing glowed with white and orange lights. We passed an empty porch with a single smiling jack-o-lantern: the piece of its pumpkin grin had been split and stuck on the sides as ears (or horns).

“What the hell?” I asked. In my memory, this street had been Halloween Central, packed with teeming hordes of trick-or-treaters — light-up jellyfish, vampires, witches, Sith, ghosts, fairies, Mario Brothers, pirates, Minions, princesses, X-men, and the occasional sexy werewolf — and homeowners in lawn chairs holding block parties in their driveways. “It’s like someone sucked the Spirit of Halloween out of this town!”

“Well, the Y had a trunk-or-treat party from about five to eight.”

“Trunk-or-treat,” I scoffed. We turned the corner to the apex of the hill. The former Halloween Party Houses appeared to be mostly empty, although there was an axolotl distributing candy to two small trick-or-treaters at one front door. We turned the corner to another empty street.

“Well,” said Mark, “pumpkins aren’t very ecological and their transportation has a big carbon footprint. I could see folks deciding not to do jack-o-lanterns this year.”

“What the hell?” I asked the darkness. Aside from a giant inflatable pumpkin-headed scarecrow, we were the only ones on the street.

“You’ll have to sign up for trunk-or-treat at the Y next year,” said Mark. “You could decorate the car, and it’s a social event and you like people.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Trunk-or-treat is lame — Oh, look, they’ve got a good ghost projection.”

“Traditions change,” Mark said. “And so do neighborhoods; the closest neighbor kids are graduating from high school.” Mark pointed out a car that had been working its way down the street, pausing at any house with a hint of Halloween to disgorge three kids, collect them, and repeat the process five houses later.

“I guess the night peaked at seven?” I hazarded. We passed a house projecting a swarm of multicolored objects that turned out to be witches on broomsticks.

“Let’s go down this way,” I said, hoping to find more Halloween activity on a busier street.

“What the hell?” I said a moment later as the only thing lighting up were the street lamps. A car drove by.

“My poor husband,” Mark said. “People are probably at events downtown. The Eugene Ballet’s fundraiser party is at the Hult Center. And Halloween has become yet another holiday event for adults to drink, like Cinco de Mayo.”

“Win Money! Money! Money!?” I said in my best A Charlie Brown Christmas voice.

“Your decorations are the Most Sincere,” Mark said as we returned home.

I mused on trunk-or-treat to try to pin down exactly what my problem is with it. I vaguely remember it appearing in Octobers about ten to twenty (?) years ago, and thinking it was odd and anemic even back then. It seemed like it was a work-around for extra-rural families who literally lived five miles away from each other — which is fine and I get it — but in urban settings, the replacement of the trek from house to house to five steps to the next car’s trunk felt like an incredibly tame and domesticated consolation prize. A little more research reminded me that it started as a conservative American church movement to replace the folk tradition with something more Godly, transforming it from a mysterious interstitial period to a safe, sanitized, candy distribution event. And it’s occurring to me that trunk-or-treat would be a recommendation side-bar in any October edition of The Fearful Parent Magazine (Informing Parents On Ways Your Child Could Die In Seconds This Month, sponsored by the Baby-Industrial-Military Complex).

I want my Halloween to be a journey about choosing what masks we wear and what masks we take off, and a way to collectively examine our chaotic fears and wishes and desires — the tricks — and the ways we appease and order them — the treats.

And yes, when I was a child, a costume was a cool by-product of collecting tons of candy from the neighborhood (that I’m one hundred percent sure my parents did not pillage).

I suppose I’d do trunk-or-treat if I could do Sexy Trunk-or-Treat (cue Jeffrey’s dad from the movie Jeffrey woodenly saying, “That’s so hot.”).

---

“So,” said Mark. “Today is All Saints Day, right?” Then he brought out the gilt angels and put them on the mantel.

Waffles and Dragon Dancing

Monday, I was shuttling my dad to the Urgent Care in Corvallis, and the whole process was taking hours and hours. (My Dad is fine. He’s fine. He’s Old.) I texted Mark to let him know that I wouldn’t be home in time to Feed The Animals.

He texted back that he’d probably be passed out on his work computer.

“Just make sure you don’t get waffle-face from the keyboard!” I texted back.

“Oh! Waffles! That’s a great idea!” he texted.

So I wasn’t too surprised when I walked into the home filled with the smells of gluten-free waffle batter and maple syrup. And raspberry preserves. And Nutella. For Dinner. And Second Dinner.

There were various digestive consequences, but I’m sure it was worth it.

Thursday night I had a tension headache (not sure if it was from computer work, or driving, or a sugar-crash), which I resolved to address with some Dragon Dancing in front of our house. The evening was clear (the First Real Autumnal Deluge has not occurred yet) and I wanted to dance in the twilight outside with the Dragon Poi LEDs on instead of under the covered YMCA patio, which is harshly lit with canister lights. Also, using the patio sometimes requires negotiation of the space, as Dragon Dancing can take up a quarter of the patio if I let it (and it would be poor form to whap a yogi or kettlebeller if I got carried away).

The new crescent moon was playing hide and seek with some fir trees behind our house, and so I did a little dancing with it. There’s not too much traffic on the street, but I did have to occasionally retreat to our driveway, Dragon a-flutter. Spotting the cars usually isn’t too much of an issue, but there are times when I miss having a bunch of compatriots out in the street with me, ready to shout “Car!” and make everyone scatter to the curb (and it would be poor form to get whapped by a car if I got carried away).

The sky purpled and the first few stars came out. As I was dancing I saw a lone figure walking up the hill in the street. It was Mark coming home from a late afternoon yoga class. I whirled the Dragon over my head and around my body in wide arcs. Then I stepped forward, clasped Mark with one arm, and kissed him while the Dragon’s illuminated body wheeled around us like a comet.

I’m pretty sure this counted as a Moulin Rouge moment — even if the neighbors did not pop out of their houses to engage in choreography.

And nobody got whapped by anything.

Ten Days Without Mark

Mark is in Mexico on a ten-day Road Scholar package to learn about chocolate and mezcal. For the last six weeks or so, he’s been brushing up on his Spanish and learning about the historical cultures of Mexico (think Maya, Zapotecs, Toltecs, and Olmecs). He wasn’t quite sure if this was a good idea when he first got there, but after the first cooking class he’s pretty impressed with the program. He has made several canine friends in Oaxaca.

The Road Scholar Trip to Mexico is a dry run for things Mark wants to do when he retires and for packages in other places, possibly Egypt.

Aoife stayed up half the night when he first left wondering when he would return. She’s figured out that he’s gone, but I’m pretty sure she still wonders if Mark is going to magically appear at the dog park. Cicero displayed stereotypically feline indifference (there was only one upchucked hairball).

Mark’s absence is reminding me that I need to expand my social networks and increase the time that I am physically visiting with people. I think folks in England do this through the institution of The Pub. Which, of course, makes me think of the scene from the movie, “Educating Rita,” where the titular character asks her mom why she isn’t singing along with a song in a pub, and her mom answers along the lines of, “I’m waiting for a better song.” The response from Rita’s professor upon hearing this story is, “No. She’s waiting for a different song.” Visiting English pubs would be an option if I weren’t in Eugene.

And of course, imagining Eugeneans in a would-be English Pub while singing songs makes me think of Anna Russell’s monologue about folk songs where the singer is wishing they were anywhere else and “weren't in this horrible place, but were in their dear old native land.” Instead of singing songs to cope, I’ve decided that I need to pronounce Eugene (uh-ZHEN) with a French accent.

Since Mark was away and couldn’t attend, I took The Child out to a comedy club to see a “psychic comic.” It was a funny show and the comic was entertaining; he likely has a very good memory, has excellent skills at observing people, and is mentally quick. (Cue the Animaniacs singing, “So urbane-y / Shirley Shirley MacLaine-y”). The audience was fun enough, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of the very cringey audience from when Randy Rainbow came to the Hult Center a few years back. I suppose that when a comic is choosing audience stories and questions as prompts to interact with, there’s more mileage to be had from “Should I get a boob job?” or “Is my cat my sole soulmate?” You know the cringe is strong when the audience collectively sucks their breath through their teeth and goes “Oof.” Several times. It’s a credit to his skill that his answers were both funny and gentle.

As we were getting into our car to leave, a woman in her mid-thirties hit on The Child. This was the same audience member who, during one of the final psychic moments of the show, revealed that her idea of fun was to try to get dizzy (which apparently is hard for her to do), and during her last attempt, she drank insane amounts of alcohol and had her friend’s son twirl her around on playground equipment so hard that she flew off into the air and landed on her face, receiving a mouthful of bark mulch and her tenth concussion. The Child was seemingly oblivious to how her body language abruptly shifted from slouching to her car to one foot forward, shoulders-back-breasts-engaged, and a demi-toss of her long hair as she told us her name.

We wished her a good (and safe) night and drove away.

I did not take The Child dancing at the local, pink-themed, gay dance event a few nights later. I’m not sure which he would be most uncomfortable with: the various couples making out on the dance floor, the sweaty Go-Go Guys dancing in their underwear, the not-always-softcore porn clips playing behind the DJ, or my Doctor Strange dance repertoire (sixty-year-olds are so cute when they try to do their solitary ritual aerobics).

The current dance venue, which wants to be an occult-adjacent English Pub, just lost its liquor license. I’m not sure if there were more or fewer drinks spilled onto the dance floor. If I were pressed, I would say that instead of many small sloshes of alcoholic drinks there was one large non-alcoholic drink that got dropped.

The dance was simultaneously fun and a let-down. The DJ and the event photographer are always welcoming and inclusive. I liked the dancing part and the music for the most part was danceable. I didn’t have any mystic dancing down the moon on the moon paths moments and had to settle for a Dance Meditation while fixing my gaze on the red-lit disco ball and asking myself “Is This a Tree of Life Vision of Splendor, a Vision of Victory, or Have We Collectively Even Gotten Past the Veil of Maya and onto the Higher Astral?” and “Is This Experience Like The Lovers, The Devil, or The Moon Tarot Card?” The rising crawfish in The Moon seems to be resonating with me as a symbol of an awareness of unseen, possibly imaginary, currents at the beginning of a path that starts with a dog and a wolf facing each other—and there was someone in a leather pup mask, now that I think of it.

Everyone there appeared to be with a partner (“Let’s Play Master and Servant,” “I Am So Into You,” “You Can Ring My Bell”) or group (the College Kid Friends, the Women Who Say Whooo!, The Leather Harness Dudes, The Go-Go Guy Posse, HIV Alliance Volunteers) and I felt like I was the only single person there (“Dancing with Myself”). Usually, there are more singletons—maybe this time they were all hanging out on the smoking patio.

I got my aerobics in and when the music shifted from a fun dance tune to a slower, cool-down tune, it was time to leave. I wished that there was someone there that I recognized, because it would have been fun to chat; but the music is Very Loud, and it’s difficult to talk on the smoking patio. I’m hoping when the dance moves to the new venue it has a quieter space for discussions—although the new venue’s right on the edge of campus, and I suspect more undergraduates will make an appearance.

I came home to Aoife and Cicero. Who woke up enough to see if I was going to put any midnight treats in their food bowls. Mark comes home in four days.

Reading the Tea Leaves

Friday night Mark fell asleep early and I decided that I would do a tarot reading outside under the half-moon. This was partially an excuse to take advantage of the clear night and light eight beeswax candles at the cardinal points and cross-quarter points of the brick circle. Because eight candles burning in a circle looks cool.

I gathered candles, matches, cards, a flashlight, a small folding table, a copper tray, and The Book of Art and headed outside.

There was a slight pause as I had the disappointing realization that one, if not several, outdoor concerts were filling the air with… music. (Last time it was *Earth, Wind, and Fire* performing at the Cuthbert Amphitheater, two miles away.) I decided the music was dim enough that the fountain would mask it and continued with my plan.

As I was setting things up, there was a sudden thump, and something medium-sized, white, with a wedge-shaped front crashed to the ground out of the old-wooden-fort-cum-grape-arbor. I think it was an opossum. “Whoa!” I said. “Hello.”

I clapped my hands a few times to let whatever it was know I was there.

It scampered along the edge of the candle light, along the west end of the yard, and toward the tool shed.

Summoned by my clapping (which typically means SQUIRREL!), Aoife raced out of the house and silently and vigorously patrolled the shadowy foliage in the area between the tool shed and the grapes.

I continued to light candles, and began a formal invocation of the ritual circle, and invitation to the Powers of the Four Watchtowers. Aoife continued to guard the perimeter—at one point she did add to the concert music floating through the air by whacking the tin sides of the shed with her tail (this is usually a sign that she’s scented wildlife cowering under the shed’s foundation).

I chose to do a general bellwether, five card spread. 1. Situation/environment: Death. Change and transformation. 2. Crossing Obstacle / side-quest: Four of Swords, reversed. Emerging from rest. This would be like a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis. 3. Temperance, reversed. Churning resources; spinning one’s wheels. 4. Strength. Animal drives and reason working together. 5. Knight of Swords. Air expressed as Air; mental agility; reminder to stay focused and sustain efforts. In this particular reading the three cards don’t represent a past-present-future progression so much as showing a way the Strength is a balance point between inward churning and outward charging.

I did a count: two swords; three major arcana. Two reversed cards; three upright cards. The interpretation of the five-card spread I did boiled down to: you’re moving forward by leaving old things behind; take a moment to ground; don’t confuse stability or balance and stagnation; don’t confuse the opposite of stagnation for undirected frenzy.

I wrote the cards down in the Book of Art, bade “hail and farewell” to the Four Quarters, dismissed the ritual circle, and brought all of the equipment inside. A little light reading before I fell asleep reminded me that Death, Temperance, and The Devil are connected with “The Dark Night of the Soul” and related paths to Tiphareth on the Tree of Life.

I suppose that this reading might have something to do with my job, my retirement, Mark’s much sooner upcoming retirement, and how long I’m going to have to continue to work until my pension benefits and social security benefits will provide sufficient retirement income (Don’t Lose The Day Jobbe just yet).

---

The next morning, Mark stopped on the threshold between the kitchen nook and the living room. “There’s something on the floor here.” He stepped back and forth. “What is this? Did you spill sugar or salt on the floor?”

“No,” I said.

He reached for the hand vacuum. “Huh, it’s kind of black. Were you doing Secret Pagan Rituals while I was asleep?”

“Well… actually—“

“Hah! You were Agitating the (Astral) Cooties, weren’t you?” He vacuumed the floor. For someone who claims to be a religious non-participant, Mark has an intricate theology of the Cycles and Habits of the Common Astral Cootie, which boils down to: “Leave The Cooties Alone.”

This is what I get for reading 1980’s Starhawk aura cleansing techniques to him.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I just did a tarot reading outside.”

He turned off the vacuum. “What did you do?”

“I just put eight candles on the brick circle and did a tarot reading.”

“Were you burning myrrh?”

“I thought about it, but I just lit beeswax candles.”

“And why did you light the candles?”

“Well, they’re cool. And they were on the circle, so they formed a barrier.”

“Ah ha! You raised energy and Summoned the Cooties, and you’re handsome and the Cooties wanted to get to you but they couldn’t.”

“It was just a ritual circle and tarot cards. Oh—something large, white, and wedge-shaped dropped out of the arbor. I think it was an opossum... Aoife came out and chased it and then was on silent patrol.”

“What?! There’s no such thing as albino opossums in Oregon!” He reached for his smartphone. “(AI’s love me.) What does seeing a white possum during ritual mean?” He then read out two answers, which boiled down to protective spirit animal or deceiving demons. “Ooh. The poor AI; one source is an Instagram feed, the other is a goofy Facebook page…. I’m going to go with the protective animal.”

“It was running away from the grapes.”

“Oh, these men. That just proves my point; it was running away from The Cooties that you stirred up.”

“Oh, you know, I wonder if the black stuff was the remains of a match; I brought in the folding table when I was through.”

“So you brought stuff into the house! And The Cooties followed you in!”

“I’d dismissed the circle after the tarot reading….”

“You put a barrier around yourself, but you didn’t put a barrier around the house, did you!?”

“Well, the ritual circle keeps—”

“It’s the old ‘Where Did You Send The Cooties?’ question all over again.”

I was not awake enough to point out that my raising a ritual circle for a candlelight backyard tarot reading was different from a ritual cleaning and banishment performed by one of Mark’s Pagan housemates back in the late 1990’s.

Mark claims his irritation with myrrh is proof of an affinity with The Astral Cooties. “I’m surprised I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t have any odd dreams…. Although, I did wake up at 1 AM with a headache.”

By this time I needed to get to the Y to clink weights, so the conversation ended. I suppose that I’m going to have to ritually sweep the floors in front of him and bid The Cooties a formal farewell and adieu.

But, by the time I got back from the Y, Mark decided that the black substance on the floor was not the result of Cooties but actually the remains of a teabag that ruptured when he was straghtening up the beverage supplies cart in our kitchen.

I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there, somewhere.

July Fitness

July is almost half-way done and our yard is flowering. This year we have an abundance of artichokes blooming; their purple crowns are a favorite with the bees. The gladiolas Mark planted earlier are growing taller than the foxglove; the hummingbirds love them. And the iris has given way to purple phlox.

After about six months of Mark dropping hints that I could join him for yoga at the local YMCA (yoga isn’t my cup of tea, though), I’ve re-started my fitness regime. This involves wearing a fitness tracker that talks with my mobile, and spending time on a health app keeping a food diary of weighed out serving portions. And waking up early and going to the Y to either swim, or run on an elliptical, or clink weights. Or sit in the hot tub.

I want to say the increase in activity has been good for my mood, so yay. If I can continue to exercise consistently through September, I’m hoping habit will carry me through the Very Very Long Grey Months around the Winter Solstice. I also want to say that my body is thinking about beginning to look a little more toned, so also yay.

I’m surprised by my sleep patterns: based on motion and heart rate, I wake up a lot more during the night than I realized and I actually sleep a lot less than the seven or eight hours I thought I was getting. It would be interesting to correlate when the tracker thinks I’m in REM sleep with an actual EEG.

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The other weekend I went dancing. Mark opted out. The producers of the dance were the same folks who produced the Pride After-party.

I arrived at a local Queer/Pagan bar a little after 9 PM, when the event started. The music was pumping out, folks were around the bar and tables, and the dance floor was empty.

The theme of the dance was “Hanky Panky”; folks were supposed to wear a colored bandana in one of their back pockets to signify what kind of sexual activities they’re into. Since there is no hanky for “My husband stayed home, and I’m just here to dance,” my back pockets were bare and I wore a black T-shirt with a rampant rainbow unicorn on it. In retrospect, I should have worn a mirror-ball keychain… perhaps with a T-shirt reading “My ball-and-chain is a disco ball.”

I ordered a cola product and inspected the decor. This is somewhere between a theatre production of the Addams Family, an occult bookstore, a Hot Topic shop, and a leather bar—with a covered and fenced-in porch on the side.

I finished my drink, figured someone had to be the first person dancing, and headed to the stage end of the bar. The DJ, smiling, left his control panel, bounded past a Saint Andrew’s Cross and a bondage bench, underneath the big screen showing campy and risqué videos, through the strobing and whirling stage lights, past a dancer’s cage, and met me on the dance floor. “You’re early!” he said, and then introduced himself. Technically the dance’s start time was 9—but things wouldn’t get started until about 10 or 10:30.

This was fine by me, because I wouldn’t have to worry about stepping on somebody or thwacking them with an upthrust arm accidentally while I shook the rust off of my dance moves—which I’ll be the first to admit are a cross between cha-cha, the fox-trot, an aerobics routine, and a ritual summoning.

The music was a fun repeat of the mix during the previous week’s After Party, and, luckily, not quite as loud, as I had forgotten my ear plugs at home. The video on the big screen was a slightly more X-rated version of the previous week’s PG-13 video.

The dance floor filled up, and then go-go boys in day-glow fetish-wear jumped onto the stage. I’m not sure if they were dancers who strip, or strippers who dance, but at least they seemed to be having fun. Especially in the cage. My sense is that they had friends in the audience.

I danced and danced, and briefly re-connected with a queer pagan acquaintance I hadn’t seen in about two years; he went back to dancing with his partner, who was in a wheelchair.

Just a quickly as it had filled up, around 11:30, the dance floor cleared. I remember this used to happen thirty years ago at Perry’s On Pearl: you’d be dancing to the music, look up, and realize that about half of the dancers had left, presumably with each other. The energy of the room would shift from summer lovin’ to autumnal lean and prowling.

When I stepped out onto the smoking patio looking to chat up my acquaintance and his partner, I realized A) it was cooler out here; B) oh yeah, this was where people actually smoked, and; C) a bear in a leather jockstrap and harness wasn’t just waving hi, he was offering me a joint.

Actually, I’m pretty sure he was offering my hair a joint.

I smiled and said, “Thanks; I don’t smoke.”

“What?” he said in mock-horror. “A man dancing with long grey hippie hair doesn’t smoke weed?” (See, I was right; my hair had scored.)

“It’s true,” I said. “Thanks anyway.” —Not realizing until the next day when Mark told me that the leather bear was flirting with me that I missed the sub-text and was completely off script.

Note To Self: Next time, compliment a leather bear on his gear and ask him where he shops.

I went back inside. While the fantasy cater-waiter dance scene from the movie “Jeffry” played on the screen behind him, a lone go-go boy whirled some LED poi in front of a mostly empty dance floor. Which was too bad, because if I had to choose, the go-go boy with the whirling lights was the most interesting one on stage, and he deserved more of an audience.

The night had reached an inflection point. A long time ago, someone taught me the difference between staying at a party because you’re having fun and staying at a party because you’re waiting for something to happen. If one is waiting for something to happen, one either needs to make something happen or leave. Even with the disco nap I’d taken that afternoon, I was feeling a little tired after about two and a half hours of almost solid dancing. So it was time to leave.

The next day my fitness tracker reported that I’d taken 6,183 steps and that I’d burned through 586 calories during my 95 minute “Aerobic Workout.” I can tell from the graph of my heart rate when I was enjoying dancing the most, but, alas, I can’t tell from the valleys and peaks where the poi-whirling go-go boy or the leather bear are.

I can, however, find Mark.

Eugene Pride 2025

Last Saturday, I wanted to march in the Eugene Pride parade while holding Mark’s hand. Retrospectively, I had an unconscious desire to recreate the magical NYC Pride float experience of 2023, only with Mark this time. This was probably at odds with Mark’s disinclination to participate in public events, like dancing, or the Saturday Market, or Eugene LGBTQ+ choral performances, or the Eugene Bright Parade. Which can bring out his contrarian side.

On one hand, two over-fifty, gay, married men holding hands while one of them waved a small rainbow flag is a political statement about gay life, gay liberty, and the pursuit of gay happiness; on the other hand my imagining of the moment involved fast-paced 1970’s disco, and gauzy rainbow on the edges—I’m pretty sure in my vision we weren’t marching so much as gliding. So probably more fabulous than what was going to happen.

This year the Pride Celebration was moved up from August in Alton Baker Park to June in the Lane County Fairgrounds. Of course this caused controversy. I prefer having Eugene Pride in June when it’s typically cooler; and I’d much rather march in the rain at the end of grass pollen season than under a 95°F August sun in the middle of wildfire smoke season. Security was also a concern: it’s easier to put up fencing around the fairground venues than it is a city park. The security measures also meant a bag-check for non-clear bags and no signs, banners, or flags larger than 11X18 inches.

Mark wanted to skip the rally at Kesey Square and just join the 10:30 parade from the square to the fairgrounds. Since dealing with the car would probably be a rigamarole, we opted to walk downtown—which takes about twenty-five minutes. Between yoga, looking after a neighbor’s animals, dealing with some of The Child’s childhood junk treasures, slathering on sun screen, and taking the dog to the dog park—but no gay brunch—we started out not quite as early as I would have liked. Which necessitated a brisk walk—water bottle swinging from my belt; 12X18-inch pride flag in my hand; and keys, tickets, mobile, and wallet in my back pockets. It was already a clear-skied 72°F.

Somewhere along Willamette Street my paper ticket to Pride worked its way out of my back pocket.

We got to Kesey Square at 10:32. It was quiet. And empty. An abandoned, pink, open, VooDoo Donuts box did its best tumbleweed imitation next to the statue of Ken Kesey. I still don’t know if the parade started early, or if the rally decamped to a different march staging area.

We walked west on Broadway Street toward the fairgrounds and met some other folks also looking for the march.

Mark noticed my rising Sun-in-Capricorn-Moon-in-Virgo-You’re-Doing-It-Wrong-This-Is-Why-We-Can’t-Have-Nice-Things sense of frustration and advised me to breathe out frustration and breathe in calm. Or something. We found a bakery with chocolate brownies, macarons, and coffee for Mark.

As we were paying, someone behind the register took in my black T-shirt with a Progress Pride flag on it, my Rainbow flag, and very likely my Hair and asked for a social media photo.

Fortified with the photo-op and some little white bags of baked goods, we soldiered on, ever westward.

As we neared Franklin Street, I caught the sounds of drums, and we could see police blocking off streets. We were just in time to insert ourselves into the tail end of the parade and jockeyed for a space between various other groups based on whatever it was their signs and banners read. No one resurrected the chant, “Hey-hey, ho-ho…”.

I waved my little Pride flag. “Hey, Mark,” I said. “Give me those bags.”

“I can carry them,” Mark said.

I eyed the small cup of coffee in his other hand. “But I wanna hold your hand.”

“Where’s your brownie?” he said.

“I snarfed it as soon as we left the bakery.”

I held the flag and the bags in one hand and Mark’s hand in the other. It was nice for about sixty seconds until I had to let go of Mark’s hand to push my hair out of my face. Which prompted mock-protests of a typical Leo nature from Mark about being abandoned.

Five blocks later the parade transmogrified into a fairground entrance line. After an interval of shuffling, during which I realized that I could display my ticket on my phone, we made it through the Event Center back entrance doors and emerged next to a stage where dancers we wanted to see were scheduled.

We sat down in the audience section and got blasted by loudspeakers during a sound system accident.

Mark thought having Pride in the Fairgrounds venue made it seem like a combination of the Eugene Holiday Market or Boat/Home Show, which was a little cramped and overwhelming for him. He would have liked vendor booths arranged circularly around a central performance area instead of the grid layout they used. He also missed being able to picnic on the grass (which is hard to have inside).

I did like being in the shaded, if not air-conditioned, indoors; but it would have been nice to have picnic tables set up.

The dance groups were entertaining and interesting.

Prompted by the experience with parade, I made a point of asking someone at the information table where the after-party dance was going to be held (since the location wasn’t clear). We bumped into four folks we knew and had quick updates with them.

And then we were done.

We walked back home.

I spent the afternoon digging through an unorganized collection of mostly papers looking for my party ear-plugs. I found them behind some coffee-table books on Ancient Egyptian Art.

Around 7 p.m., I drove to the 21+ after-party dance event, which was located next to the Lane County Events Center, in an old Quonset hut. In some ways, it was a throw-back to the dance floor, twenty years ago, at Perry’s on Pearl; only with newer songs. And much less clothing. With go-go boys.

The music was danceable, and I was glad for the earplugs. I had fun, and I was dancing by myself in a Quonset hut filled with people. I thought about braving the long line to purchase a soft drink or mocktail, and wound up paying $3 for a 16oz bottle of water. I danced to the four quarters, and stayed in my body. I danced and danced, and only realized the music kept on playing a half-hour after the dance’s official end when I looked at my phone.

The crescent moon hung above the western horizon as I walked past folks breaking down chairs and booths; past the deflated rainbow arch at the Event Center front entrance; through the main parking lot and over a creek, to where the car waited in auxiliary parking.

Dreams and Dating in 1997

Date: Mon, 17 Nov 1997 23:40:30 PST
Subject: What's up?


OK.

First off, I'm fine; the deer is fine; and my car is fine. You can say prayers to the spiritual guardians of your choice. ("Oh blessed Diana, patron saint of Deer and Automobiles...") Or not, as the choice may be.

I suppose that there were two impulses fueling the events of Monday night. On one hand was the need to get to Eugene to pick up my AIDS test and share the results with Mark (ah, dating in the nineties). On the other hand, my Deer Voice (which has successfully warned me about deer in the road twice in the last six weeks) was retelling me the story about when my Mom drove home with a shattered grill on her car after she hit a deer (on the same road I might add).

I've listened to the Voice which reminds me that the deer are migrating and I've driven through Monroe and am just about to conclude that "Oh, this time my Deer Voice must have been wrong" when all of a sudden a deer springs out onto the road from the left and decides to dash across the road in front of me.

I slam on the breaks and veer to the right. The tires screech in the rainy night. The deer tries to outrun me (while still crossing the road). I see it sort of dive on my left—dark eyes, brown coat, no antlers—suddenly bright past the perimeter of my headlights. "This is it," I think to myself, "I'm going to see hoofed feet doing cartwheels across my hood and end up with a deer through my windshield and in my lap." I close my eyes when I hear the BHMPF!

The car and the screeching tires stop.

I'm at the side of the road. I turn on my hazard lights. A car passes me. I get out. I go to the front of the car. No blood. No dents. No deer. I look around.

A large truck comes from the other side of the road and I see the deer lying down on the left shoulder of the road. As the truck gets closer the deer rises in one sustained motion and, as I watch, bounds over the ditch and away into someone's garden, where it apparently begins to munch on someone's harvest as if it hadn't just lost a race with a two ton 'Merican box of metal on wheels.

"Thank you," I say, and continue on my not-quite-so-merry way.

The mad rush to find parking in Eugene, and the wild dash up the stairs before the Health Department closes, and my negative test results, and Mark's negative test results, and the pizza, and Mark's light teasing about people with "agreements" with wild animals, and the discussion about AIDS testing as a form of homophobia, and other events crammed into Mark's 20 minute break are left to your imaginations.

So, I come home on I-5. Despite fog and some stupid drivers, the drive is uneventful. But as I pull in, what should I see dropping out of a tree but a raccoon. This is the first time I've seen a raccoon at our house.

"Aliens disguised as raccoons!" I say to myself, and then remember that the night (6-28-97) when I decided that I would simply just forget about ever falling in love, ever (and die Artistically Single, too). I was "rewarded" with a dream of Machka (my missing cat) leading a raccoon into my house (a weird dream house made of canvass). I didn't want a raccoon in my house because raccoons are wild animals and they might have rabies, and after a few futile attempts to lock the raccoon out of my house, I wound up accidentally killing it. (And what do you think rabies is a dream metaphor for; oh, I don't know, could it be, maybe—AIDS!?)

I watch the real raccoon retreat away from my headlights and into the brush.

"Is this some kind of vision-quest algebra test with power animals?" I ask, and begin to imagine story problems: "Deer gets on a train heading North at 50 mph in Eugene. Raccoon gets on another train heading South at 35 mph in Portland. Assuming they both start at midnight, what time will they meet with John's Car, and how many metaphors will he write about their meeting?"

Because everywhere you look at the intersection of cars and animals another metaphor for emotions and society springs up, begging to be used in a novel or at least some dippy-hippy new aged book by someone named Moonhawk Studmuffin. Animals rushing out of the margins and rebounding after a brush with the bright lights. AIDS. Health reduced to a piece of of paper stamped by the state. Did I say health—did I mean romance? dating? happiness? Masked bandits coming out of the woods and right into your house. Wild animals and domestic animals and cute animals and not-so-cute animals.

I expect that I will dream something very rich and strange tonight.


- John

 

---

Date: Mon, 24 Nov 1997 23:44:42 -0800 (PST)
Subject: Eeek, an essay by John


OK. 

It's late and I've been channeling Marge Boule (or someone). In any case, I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing. So my questions to y'all are:

What do you think? AND Would you send something like this to your parents?



There was a deer and a BHMPF. But when I got out of my dentless, bloodless car, the deer got up and bounded away. Thanking my guardian angel, I drove on in the rain.

The AIDS test was negative. I was pretty sure that it would be; but still in the back of my mind was a swirl of old information and street lore about how the virus spread. My partner's test was negative, too. He was pretty sure it would be; but had agreed to the test because he knew that it would make me feel better.

I drove back home. A raccoon, startled by my headlights as I pulled in, dropped out of a tree and ran off into tall grasses. This reminded me of dreams of raccoons entering dream houses of canvas, and also of wild dream panthers entering through houses protected by unlocked screen doors. In both dreams I kill the animals.

I now own a scrap of paper from the health department which says I am healthy. But I have to remind myself that the clear AIDS test result is like a ticket to a safari—and not to mistake a safari for a trip to the zoo.

In bed we create a safari. In bed we drop our human masks, shed our human skins, and get in touch with our unenculturated wildness. In the darkness behind a closed door—in the shadow of a candle—we dance with the shades of wolves, bison and mamoths; harts and hinds; horses and dogs. I have to watch out for the wild raccoon behind his mask, though; he's cute, but never mistake cute for tame.

There's an assumption that the certificate means you're safe (and some folks mistake the certificate to mean they will always be safe); but an essential part of remaining safe means negotiation of boundaries. Leaping deer flash across the inroads to our wildness.

We are animals. But we are angels as well—and so our angelic selves wrestle with our panther selves in an attempt to see who is the safari ticket holder, and who is in a zoo cage. Sexual orthodoxy demands that we be one or the other, not both; so in my dreams the house of canvass becomes the stone cathedral filled with pews which restrict movement. Sexual orthodoxy demands that we become "men who love men", "women who love women", "women who love men", and "men who love women."

Eros, agape and amor are not so easily tamed, however; and despite orthodoxy's attempts, we have people who love people, sometimes more than just one at a time. In the grip of the sexual act, our bodies leap over the stalls put up by our minds. The tabernacle becomes a canvass tent, the rows of pews are not enough to catalogue the passions of the human heart. In a spasm of a few seconds, we are between ordered universes. Like water poured from one cup to another, we switch between the domesticated, the feral and the wild. We reduce our concentration down to where the house cat, the barn cat, and the panther, become one; become us.

And so in my dreams the panthers come through the screen doors. The raccoons come through the windows. In my dreams my bedroom is a cathedral with the Sword of Chaos over one cot, the Sword of Order over another, and the Sword of Pleasure is unsheathed by my anima.

It's not a fairy tale ending, though. My anima is soon contacted by Death, who wants her to become his side-kick. In real life, the raccoon runs from my headlights. In real life the deer staggers to her feet and bounds off into the night. I am unable to be at one with the deer on the road without disastrous results.

But it sure beats being in a cage.

Harp Time Capsule

The low A string on my harp has broken and I need to get a replacement for it. I took the harp to a local musical instrument shop, but they didn't carry any strings and were unable to order any for me. The hunt for strings continues, and I may have to order them on-line instead of patronizing local music stores.

While I was looking inside of the harp, at the underside of the sound board where the strings are knotted in, I discovered a large slip of paper. When I pulled it out, I found the slip was really three cancelled checks from 1989.

The first check was dated May 7, made out to Here Inc. for $275.60. It was the check I wrote for my harp! I'd gone to an international folk dance festival in Minneapolis with some friends. On a long table in a hall outside of the main performance area, there was a collection of various nylon- and metal-strung NeoCeltic harps. I strummed a few, decided that the sustain on the metal-strung harps was cool but too long, and on impulse picked out my harp. 

(Cue Foreigner's "Juke Box Hero": "... he saw stars in his eyes / and the very next day / bought a gut-strung lap harp / from a funky folk store / didn't know how to play it / but he knew for sure / that one lap harp / played on the floor / was a one-way ticket / only one way to go....")

This set the stage for folk music performances; playing ritual music; Renaissance Faire busking; and moonlit desert nights in a white cotton duster, holding up my harp to the winds for an Aeolian concert.  It also set the stage for when Mark met me harping underneath the full moon during a gay men's spiritual gathering.

The second check—written in green ink—was from May 1, made out to Northfield Sports for $211.95 for my black-with-yellow-neon-highlights RollerBlades! 

In no time, I was RollerBlading backwards while juggling three koosh-balls by daylight and donning my big black-and-purple-cloak and glow-sticks and swooping around the Carleton College campus by night. There's nothing like a twilight RollerBlade humming Saint-Saëns' Danse macabre while bats flit overhead; or RollerBlading on a foggy December solstice full moon in a black cloak holding holly and a wooden skull in one's hand (and surprise gifting the holly to a corner store filled with Eugene hippies); or RollerBlading on Halloween wearing homemade cardboard owl wings and a white poet's shirt. And these were the Rollerblades I wore on a Rollerblading date through the parks of Eugene with Mark.

Sadly, the plastic boots fatigued and broke during a Halloween mishap in 2016 involving a lit pumpkin and a pile of leaves piled up against a street curb.

(Cue Foreigner's "Juke Box Hero": "...he saw stars in his eyes / and the very next day / bought some beat-up knock-offs / from a second-hand store / They weren't his old RollerBlades / but he knew for sure / that RollerBlades / laced up real tight / were a one-way ticket / into the pale moonlight....")

The third check, from July 22, written out in pink ink to Jacobson's for $33.87 records the purchase of a red-and-white polyester gingham picnic spread and napkin set, and possibly a picnic basket.

Jacobson's was a general mercantile store that sold household goods, some clothing, and possibly paper products. I'm pretty sure it had a portal to Lake Woebegone in it. This purchase involved 1) a younger, hopelessly romantic (or was that infatuated?), not-yet-out-to-himself version of myself (who wrote a lot of the kind of poetry one would expect from a self-closeted, twenty-something, hopeless romantic); 2) one of the women from Reed College that I had a huge crush on; and, 3) an airport layover where said woman-friend was flying away to start her Peace Corps mission (back when one could haul a picnic basket full of food and utensils right to a departure gate).  

This particular picnic spread and napkin set was sold to me by "Old Man Jacobson" himself, who after learning that I was looking for picnic supplies (and possibly reading the stance of a hopeless romantic heading off to one last Noble Farewell Forever), interrupted my browsing with his boney hand on my boney shoulder and the question, "Is she a classy gal?"

At least three replies—from snarky to star-crossed—flitted through my mind, but I settled on "yes."

"Then this is the package for you!" he said, and presented the red-and-white polyester gingham picnic spread and napkin set from behind his back.

"I'll... take... it," I said, and set the stage for a short picnic on the International Airport Hubert H. Humphrey Terminal concourse. Some stewardesses gave us two thumbs up as they walked past us. My friend flew out of the country, and I returned to Northfield.

I'm not sure what's happened to the spread or the basket, but some of the napkins still lurk in a linen drawer in the kitchen.

I played my harp at her wedding (in Oregon) ten years later. 

At the reception, the bride and her mother disappeared for a moment.  While the folks around our table speculated, Mark quipped, "They're having 'The Talk.' You know—'Honey, now that you're married there's something I need to tell you. They'll beg and they'll plead but you have to be firm: you need to keep separate checking accounts.'"

At this point, the bride reappeared, perturbed look on her brow and checkbook in her hand. We dissolved into laughter as she walked by.

Mark and I still keep separate checking accounts.  I'm pretty sure Mark does not keep any of his cancelled checks in any type of musical time capsule.

A Writer's Solstice Altar

I’ve connected with a writers’ Zoom session to write. I’m writing a blog entry instead of working on a short story because it is easier to write a blog entry. I am supposing that instant gratification is in play—and in any case, writing a blog entry is better than staring at a paragraph and spending an hour researching on the web to polish a single sentence; or going back-and-forth on cutting-and-pasting the opening paragraph of the moment; or, worst of all, staring at a blank screen and not writing anything.

Today is the Winter Solstice. It’s hard to believe that this time last year Mark and I were walking around Las Vegas. The Solstice Spiral Walks that I helped to facilitate with C.N. aren’t happening at the local UU Church any more, so I won’t be drawing chalk spirals as a guide for fir boughs and candles or playing a tone drum in the pouring rain while congregants walk a spiral and contemplate the returning light. On one hand, it’s one less thing to do; on the other hand, I miss holding contemplative ritual space, even if the only folks I really knew at UUCE were C.N., G.M., S.H., and some other acquaintances.

A couple of days ago, I attended a Starhawk-Wiccan Solstice ritual (and potluck) at a pagan friend’s house; they conduct rituals for the greater Eugene pagan community. The ritual reminded me a little of the ritual Sunday services at UUCE: there was a lot of singing and swaying in place. As we stood in a loose circle and sang songs about the Children of the Goddess, the joke “Why can’t Unitarians sing? / Because they’re too busy scanning ahead to see if they agree with the words” came to mind. During a moment of ritual contemplation, I was thankful to be married to Mark. I did not sing “Nobody can hold back the dark,” during a closing chorus, but it was a near thing.

I was going to say that it looks too rainy and grey this Solstice morning to focus the sun’s light onto a candle, but as I looked up from the computer screen, wan sunlight shone onto the kitchen nook. Perhaps, I thought, there will be a break in the clouds later for strong enough sunlight to shine through. —And as I watched, the sunlight strengthened.

Recognizing that there’s no time like the present when it comes to ritual (or astronomy) and the Oregon sky, I leapt up from the keyboard and away from the writers’ Zoom session, scooped up my Anubis matches, the giant magnifying lens, and a beeswax pillar candle in a copper cauldron. (Why, yes; I do have ritual tools readily handy at my house, doesn’t everyone?)

I hurried outside to the deck. There was honest-to-goodness blue sky above. The sun shone above a thick bank of grey clouds and grazed the roofline of our southern neighbors’ house. It’s winter solstice, and shadow of their house stretches across the yard and brushes up against our foundation. The wind gusted.

“Behind you.” Mark was entering and exiting the house to do some yard work.

The deck was relatively dry for a damp, Oregon winter day. I set up the candle on one of the four round outdoor end-tables I originally bought to use for altars and attempted to focus the sunlight onto the match held against the wick. A spotlight circle of sunlight shone on the outside of the candle; the wick was deep in a thin shell of beeswax from previous candle burnings. I broke off most of the wax, turned the candle, and tried to shine focused Solstice sunlight again.

“Behind you,” Mark said.

I stood over the candle looking down on it; a thin wisp of smoke rose from the wick. Then my hair fell forward in a curtain, which made it hard to see what I was doing and risked making Mark’s dire predictions about solstice fire, candles, and really any sort of combustion, come true. I riffled my pockets for a nonexistent hair tie, all the time watching the sun, the clouds, and the shadow of our neighbor’s house.

I pulled my hair behind me, crouched down, and refocused the sunlight. The wind gusted again. The magnifying lens projected an upside-down tree onto the white smoke of the smoldering wick; I moved the patio furniture altar out of the shadow of tree branches.

Mark, who was picking up dog poop from the yard, asked, “The sun’s pretty low. Have you ever done this this early before?”

“No,” I said, watching the cone of sunlight waver as I tried to place its focal point onto the wick. This was technically a ritual, and I hadn’t grounded, invoked a proper circle, or invited the four directions. I hadn’t reflected on the hinge of the year, or the returning light, or numinous and immanent Earth processes. I hadn’t taken a moment to dedicate or rededicate my life to anything in particular.

I quietly sang, “Bring from the center of the sun…” and flame sprang from the match and wick. The wind guttered the candle; I picked it up, held it close, went inside, and brought the candle to the desk—in the writers’ Zoom session, I saw myself, long haired, in red plaid, holding a copper cauldron with a flaming candle in my hands.

I placed the candle next to my keyboard and mouse. Happy Solstice, I thought, and returned to the writers’ session.  The sun dimmed as the grey returned, but I had Solstice Fire on my desk.

When The House Feels Empty

Mark has been away helping his mother and family for the last few days.

It always strikes me how our small little house feels so empty when he’s gone. The cats and dog help to fill the space, and The Child (and his cologne) is back from school, so it’s not like I’m completely isolated. The honeymoon period where I can do things that would annoy Mark is over—there comes a moment when you realize that you can only enjoy so many Marvel, Disney, or Pixar Movies (which Mark could live happily without viewing) that you can watch and only so much electronica or Mediaeval Eastern European music (which drives Mark crazy) that you can listen to because it doesn’t make up for the fact that your man is in another state. And the New York Times games aren’t as fun because Mark’s not there for us to play them together.

When he comes back, we’ll decorate the house for the holidays. This will involve moving large pieces of furniture and pulling out the seasonal table cloths and decorating the house with extra lights. 

And digging out the Christmas music that we can all tolerate.

NYC Pride Notes

June 22 2023 1:25pm  Thursday.

Last fall, Mark said that I kept saying how Eugene Pride was unfulfilling and that I should just go to Pride in New York City—so here I am!  In the air and flying to NYC Pride!  I took a disco nap last night from about 8pm to 1am, but kept waking up so I'm not sure how much rest I got.  I kissed Mark goodbye, left Eugene at 2 am, and drove to PDX.  I'm traveling by myself.  

The shuttle buss was crowded. I got through security quickly and made it to my gate around 5am or earlier.  The plane was full.  Somewhere over Minnesota, I got a migraine aura, but it lasted only about an hour.  I'm guessed whacky sleep and a change in caffeine intake was to blame.  I figured I could see well enough to be able to navigate NYC MTA.

LGL will be hosting me, and there are several events planned.  We were going to attend a "Gay Mass" outside of the Stonewall Inn, which is a National Monument, but the National Park Service closed the park citing security concerns, so the mass has moved to LGL's church, St. Paul (Out At Saint Paul is an LGBTQAI+ ministry).

At some point we may go for drinks at the Eagle.  Mark said he thought that it was funny that we're going to a leather bar, and I'm wondered how much it might bother him. (He siad it didn't, but he kepts bringing it up).  We'll also visit the Stonewall and probably Flaming Saddles in addition to some shows and Sunday Pride Events. 

I'm wanting to go to the Brooklyn Museum's Egyptian Wing one day, and if we run out of Gay Things To Do, I brought my NYC Gargoyle book.  We'll also visit Mary Dwyer in Suffern (probably on Saturday, and it's possible we'll run into The Child there).

Thursday evening's Gay Mass was the first Catholic Mass I've been to.  I was able to fall into the ritual from my Episcopal upbringing, but every now and then there were changes in the wording (things like, "and with thy spirit" vs. "and also with you," and "with all the angels and archangels" vs. "with all the angels and saints"). The closest religious events to the mass that I've attended would be Radical Faerie ritual circles back in the nineties, and they're really not that close. 

As I was sitting out in the pews during communion, my eye kept returning to the Matthew 6:7 verse about not being like babbling Pagans in the service flyer, which could have been more ecumenical, but I was able to reinterpret it to "don't be ostentatious in your religious practice." 

I was surprised when the sermon turned into an interactive discussion about pride and how some folks equated it with value, or strength, or self-worth.  I'm amazed at how LGL and the others at the mass operate at the intersection of their Catholic faith and their LGBTQAI+ orientation.  

After the mass's social mingling, LGL and I went to one of his favorite bars for dinner and drinks (LGL is a networker and is on a first-name basis with practically everyone) and had a brief discussion of the effects of a transcendent God compared to immanent deity on the manifestation of the praxis of Pride vis-a-vis community vs family household.  What I had seen in the church was a community coming together for shared worship; my sense with gay Pagans is that they move in together.

We also talked about bunting in our respective cities.

June 23 - Friday - 2023

"That moment when your morning tarot card pull for NYC Pride adventures is the two of wands, reversed. I think this might be about jet lag…."

LGL had to work, and I was left to my own devices.  I had breakfast at Old John's (cue music, "No one DINES like Old John, or RECLINES like Old John, no one interlocks forks by their TINES like Old John...").  The breakfast was hearty -- although I did have to fish out a red pepper!-- and the waitress thought my pride flag shirt was cute (and called me "sweetie," which, according to LGL, is her standard modus operandi).

Wandering west of Central Park, I tried to find Eden Dragon House, but missed it (three blocks too north).  I meandered through Central Park.  It was raining, and with no sun I got turned around and ended up using Google Maps to navigate the curving paths to Fifth Avenue.

Somehow, I wound up in the Egyptian Wing of the MET. (Sticker shock on the ticket prices, which have gone up substantially since I was here last.)  Once I got into the Egyptian Wing, I tried photographing new things, but found myself re-imaging old favorites.  I did manage an image of a hippo on an ostracon for Mark.  Between photographs I had fun being an informal docent with hieroglyphs, especially with the offering prayer.  Alas, the Middle Eastern Wing was closed for renovations, and the Rooftop Garden was closed by the rain; so no art or photographs from there (except for a long-distance shot of the rooftop from outside as I was leaving).  

I got turned around in Central Park again as I returned to LGL's, but I managed to photograph Bethesda Park and gargoyles, grotesques, and decorative buildings.

Aside from wearing a Pride Progress Flag t-shirt, the day wasn't particularly gay.  I suppose one could argue Queen Hatshepsut was in drag when she wore a Pharaoh's beard, but it would be a real stretch.  

Back at LGL's, I took a disco nap, snacked, and had tea.  LGL returned later than he wanted to, but also took a disco nap for tonight's Stonewall Celebration at Hudson Yards and visit to The Eagle. 

The Stonewall Celebration was one part gala celebration, one part Word From Our Corporate Sponsors, and one part concert.  LGL (who knows everyone) managed to get us into a VIP section about forty feet the main stage.  We connected up with other folks from LGL's office. The pacing was a little odd in that a performer would get the crowd pumped to dance, and then the Vice-President of So-and-so Company would come out and make a short speech about Acceptance and Love.

Many people referenced recent legislation to ban or erase drag and trans folks, and urged the crowd "Don't fight back, fight forward!" The most moving performance was a trans activist who created a sound-scape around the sung phrase, "I'm ev'ry woman" and then read the names of trans victims murdered within the last year.  

The most professional performance was by Netta Barzilai, an Eurovision performer from Israel. The sound system had issues the entire event; these were not helped when Netta choreographed her sound box off of her outfit and couldn't re-connect to the stage's speakers.  She kept on dancing and singing as loudly as she could and during the dance bridge danced off stage and pulled a sound engineer back with her to get re-hooked up—smiling and dancing all the time.  

The most fun performance was BETTY.  LGL was familiar with them.  They struck me as an edgier, Rock-n-Rollier, New York City version of Seattle's 90's folk trio, We Three.  They started out with a Pride Anthem, then transitioned into a saucy song, "Did You Tell Her?"  

By this time my hair had become a minor personality on the event's jumbotron, and apparently was visible from the stage.  When we met BETTY after the event, one of them said they'd noticed my energy from the stage, and another one wondered if we'd met before (LGL quipped that they'd mistaken me for one of the sound engineers, who also had long grey locks (although his were tied back)).

Christina Aguilera came out last and performed three songs.  The weirdest part of the show happened:  about every other person held up their mobile phone up to video the performance, so it was like a forest of techno-trees sprouted up in front of us.  They cranked up the sound system for her, and I was glad that I'd brought along some concert earplugs.  She has a nice voice, but everything was so loud and distorted that I really couldn't follow the lyrics. 

By the time the event was finished and we'd gotten a selfie with BETTY, I was starving, so we found a place to eat nearby (where my hair got asked out for a date).  

On reflection, I realized that a lot of local talent had participated in the show, and that this was one difference between NYC Pride and Eugene Pride:  NYC can support a community of professional and semi-professional singers, dancers, poets, DJ's, photographers, and videographers; most of presenters and performers at Eugene are earnest and having fun—which is fine but does contribute to a "bake sale and craft fair (and group therapy)" feel of local events.  Then we were off to The Eagle.

We opened the place up; apparently on Friday nights they don't open until 10 PM.  There used to be a stricter dress code (or is that undress code?), but they've relaxed it, so wearing jeans and T-shirts (and a leather cuff) were sufficient to get in.  There was some sticker shock at the evening's cover, but we paid it and made our way up to the rooftop part of the bar.  I ordered a margarita, and LGL and I sat back and enjoyed the skyline and the scenery.  Most of the guys were dressed like we were, with about a third (?or a fifth?)—mostly the staff—dressed in more scanty scraps of leather or shirtless (honestly, I saw more leather harnesses, jock-straps, and booty-shorts in the Sunday Pride Parade than I did in the bar).  

What I enjoyed about The Eagle was that it was mostly men, and the crowd seemed to be in their 30's or older.  You didn't need to be a gym stud with eight-pack abs to dance or socialize.  The music was something one could dance to, and I did.  (My hair got some more date offers.)  This was a nice change from trying to dance to arrhythmic soundscapes of high-pitched beeps and water being poured into a pitcher with 20-something, half-stoned Eugene kids in a mixed-use space (or not-dancing because a cos-playing person is lip-synching and wiggling for tips on the dance floor).  According to LGL, the place, especially one particular corner on the second floor, would become raunchier as the night progressed, and he pulled me off of the dance floor around 12:30.

We grabbed some matches from the bar as a souvenir for Mark and left.

Saturday, June 24, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the four of pentacles reversed. This is what happens when one is discussing the previous evening’s bar tab when pulling a card…"

LGL had some business in Suffern, and so I visited my mother-in-law, Mary Dwyer, and other available residents of Dwyer Manse.  There was some cognitive dissonance running into The Child, who had flown to the east coast with his mom, and who was on the East Coast Relative Circuit.  Mary looked good, and I filled her in on Gay Adventures so far.

Back in The City, we visited the Brooklyn Art Museum Egyptian Wing.  LGL was tolerant of my propensity to lecture on hieroglyphs and the Egyptian Netherworld Books as we rode the MTA to the museum.

When we entered, we ran into a sound check for a wedding taking place there in the evening.  The last time I visited, for about twenty minutes over a decade ago, I remember a long, dark room, and a silver ibis.  The galleries were different from my memories: more broken up and much lighter.  I was expecting larger statuary than the MET's, which wasn't really the case.  The galleries did not seem to be organized chronologically, and I was not able to discern any themes to how they were ordered.

There was a lot of new artifacts to see.  I was particularly drawn to the Cartonnage of Nespanetjerenpare (3rd Intermediate Period, D 22). What strikes me about this image of Re is that it is ram-headed instead of falcon headed, indicating that this is Re at sunset; and also the green, orange, and black coloring—which I'm guessing may have associations with the rejuvenating properties of the netherworld.

LGL was drawn to a mummy portrait of an Egypto-Roman man.  I'd say the Brooklyn's Egyptian collection is smaller than the MET's, with finer quality Ptolomeic pieces.  

After the museum, we went bar hopping, first to Flaming Saddles (cowboys dancing on the bar!) and The Dickens (loosely based on Charles Dickens).  Both bars were crowded, and the crowds were both younger and more mixed.  And loud.  The music was slower, and the young folks who were at The Dickens at times felt like they were there more to sing along with the songs and enact them as a mini-performance for their posse of friends (and splash their drinks onto the dance floor) than to dance to the music en mass.  

Looking back on the night, I have to say that I appreciate spaces that are enclaves for men—the local Eugene LGBTQAI+ bar hosts a lot of all-family, drag, and trans events—but does not host a "men's night" other than a monthly "bear mixer," and I'm not even sure it's a dance event, unlike their "Lesbian Dance Party."

"That 4:38 a.m. Pride Moment when you realize (too late) that your response to “I thought Jesus was in the (gay) bar!” should be either “Come, and I shall make you fishers of men!” Or “Pick up the receiver / I’ll make you a believer.”"

Sunday, June 25, 2023

"Today’s Pride March tarot card is the four of wands reversed. Celebration in the City! Which is fun, but it’s not my home. (Pause to miss my husband… okay, put on the sunscreen and the dance tunes!)"

After a hearty breakfast at LGL's, we made our way to the NYC Pride.  LGL had once again secured access to a VIP area, and we found ourselves at the shaded review stand near 25th Street and Fifth Avenue, with access to snacks and drinks, watching politicians queue up to begin the parade.  

I took a lot of photographs of grand marshals, and floats, and marchers, and rainbow everything.  Everyone, from Girl Scouts, to people of all races, to politicians and TV stars, to folks in their eighties, to cheerleaders, and all sorts of corporate sponsors, queued up to start their march.

When LGL's workplace's group came by, we left the review stand and joined in.  Initially, I felt like I stood out because A) I was wearing a grey T-shirt with a progress pride flag graphic on it and everyone else was wearing their corporate white T-shirts, B) everyone but me had some kind of flag to wave, and C) My Hair.  But I chanted, "Elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist" to myself and marched along Fifth Avenue with everyone.

After a few moments, LGL (and a work friend, C), said, "C'mon! We're going to get on the float!"  The next thing I knew I was dancing to some really good music and waving at, encouraging to dance, and making eye contact with what seemed like half of New York City as they stood along the sidewalk, or leaned out of windows, or watched from fire escapes. Most people smiled and waved back, and some even started dancing to the music.

At one point it seemed like we were floating down a river of dancing rainbow flags, faces, and sparkles.  I said to someone, "Man, I wish my husband was here."  And then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and added, "Nah; he'd hate this.  And I'd want to smooch him, but he'd want space or to go on a hike."  And it was true, Mark would have been bored after about a half-hour.

I did not have a good sense of where we were; the parade proceeded south on 5th Avenue before heading west on 8th Street. I had to look this up later:  After crossing over 6th Avenue, the parade continued on Christopher Street and passed the Stonewall National Monument (which didn't register with me as the Stonewall when we passed it). It turned north on 7th Avenue, passing the New York City AIDS Memorial (which must have been on the other side of the float), and ended up at 16th Street and 7th Avenue.

We hopped off of the float and started walking and searching for a place to have a late lunch.  Someone from LGL's work was wearing huge white angel wings and waving a pride flag, and they graciously agreed to a selfie.  

While we were waiting for food (and drinks) with LGL's co-workers, I realized that underneath the smiling and waving and dancing, I'd unconsciously been looking for Mark in the crowds, and how wonderful it would have been if at some point the crowds could have parted and Mark could walk out onto Fifth Avenue and joined me on the float.

Monday Morning, June 26, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the Seven of Wands, reversed. Taking the long view, this could signify being beaten down by institutional homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and the various -isms. Or, short view, it could be about travel anxiety."

I escorted LGL to the local MTA station on 77th Street and then went for another breakfast at Old John's.  I spent the morning wandering around the 78th Street and Amsterdam area photographing gargoyles, grotesques, and dragons.  I got caught in a thunderstorm, and was glad for an umbrella.  I found what I call "The Dragons of Library Eden House," which was half under renovation scaffolding, so I was only able to take limited photographs of the dragons there.

  

5:49pm Monday, June 26, 2023

I waited for the flight out of JFK to PDX and wrote in my Book of Art.  I probably could have left LGL's apartment an hour later, but that wouldn't have left any time for train mishaps.  Luckily, taking the 1 MTA train to Penn Station, and then the Babylon Train to Jamaica Station and then the Air Train to Terminal 4 went smoothly.

LGL was worried that the thunderstorms today might make air (and train) travel extra tricky, but at 6 PM everything appeared to be on time.

Ha! LGL was right!  First my flight was delayed 90 minutes while we waited for flight attendants from other delayed flights to board the plane (which was sitting at the gate, empty).  Then, after we boarded, we taxied around on the runways while the pilots negotiated a flightpath with air control, then we parked on the tarmac, then we returned to the gate because the whole airport was shut down, and finally the flight was cancelled around 11:20.

"That NYC Pride Moment when Delta cancels your flight home, and your Wonderful Gay Husband manages to remotely find a space for you at The Box House Motel."

I took a crazy midnight taxi ride through the rain to the motel; the driver didn't know where the motel was, and navigated there with his cell phone.  The mobile's map app sent us the long way, and I  ended up paying the fare in cash to knock off $15 of what was still a steep price.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

"And today’s post-air-flight-cancellation tarot card is the three of wands. For some reason what sprang to my mind was gratitude… although I am wondering if the merchant in the card is wishing they were on one of the ships in the distance."

Hunkered down in a (expensive!) boutique hotel, The Box House Motel, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  It was the only place with a room (the JFK Hilton had all of their rooms booked by other stranded travelers).  Between having fun in NYC with LGL and the room deposit for The Box House, my credit card was maxed out (this is my reward for setting my credit limit to a low amount as a preemptive method to manage credit card debt), and so I spent over an hour on the phone with the credit union to try to extend my credit and secure lodging through Thursday.

The Box House Motel had an artsy lobby with a sixties art-deco and colored glass pane feel.  Magnolia or cedar scented the air--it was not unpleasant, but strong.  Pop/swing ballads dominated the sound system--this made the open design of the space more private, but also made conversations difficult. 

I'm grabbed a (expensive!) burger at The Eagle Trading Company, a kind of indoor/outdoor cafe with glass garage doors. The clientele looked like local neighborhood folks; lots of dog walkers, mixed ages, and mostly dudes.  I asked the wait staff about place to walk (and not walk) and they said the neighborhood was a safe one.

After waiting four hours for a call back which never came, I finally managed to connect with a bank person and get my credit card straightened out.  It's was a huge relief; it's crazy how food and travel are dependent on credit-card connected apps on my iPhone.  I'd would have been in a really bad place if my iPhone (or credit card) stopped working.  

Tuesday evening:  There was only one working laundry machine in the laundry room.  I gave up on laundry for the moment and walked to the Greenleaf Cafe, where I found a bench supported by two stone griffins!  Then the music switched from sort of tribal-fusion to 70's Rock (oh well).  The Cafes and hotels here all seemed to be converted garages:  high roofs and glass garage doors, so I am imagined that rooms and houses and buildings that I write should have a history--the farmhouse with added rooms, or old carriage houses turned into living quarters, or old engine sheds turned into garages and then turned into cafes. 

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

"Today’s Post-Pride-Still-Waiting-For-Tomorrow’s-Flight Tarot Card is the Knight of Swords reversed. This is my usual significator card, so I’m interpreting it as a warning to stay focused and be aware that I’m tired of not being home yet."

I had recovered from bank negotiations and goofy non-travel sleep that I had enough energy to go on a photo safari of Mid-Manhattan.  The nearest MTA stop to the Box House Motel was about a 10 minute walk over a bridge spanning a small river (the Pulaski, which fed into the Harlem River).

Once I was on the MTA 7 train, it was a one-stop trip to Grand Central Terminal, where I photographed the building details, especially the twined dragons.  While traipsing about trying to find them, I wandered into a jewelry store, and the next thing I knew, I was helping my New Best Friend, Mars, pick out a tiger-eye bracelet.  She (or maybe they) gave me their email so I could share a link to Google photos of GCT.

Outside the station, I met a Venezuelan couple who were a little lost; I tried to help them, but we had no common language... I couldn't get a translation app on my phone, and felt inept.  In the end I could only wish them good luck.

From there it was more photos of the terminal and then Rockefeller Center.  Prometheus' courtyard was surrounded on all sides by rainbow flags. And somehow I wandered into a La Madison du Chocolat.

After more wandering and photography and a cloudburst and I finally exhausted my camera's battery.  This was probably a good thing, as I managed to get back to the motel before five o'clock rush-hour trains.

Thursday, June 29, 2023

"That Post-Pride moment when you’re about to embark to JFK. No tarot card pull today, although I am envisioning the eight of wands for a completed travel and arrows of love."

Thursday morning; I had to leave the motel at 5 a.m. so I could be at JFK at 6 a.m. so I could be ready for my 8 a.m. flight.  At the airport, I bumped into an information desk where the attendant was giving away little rainbow ribbons; I ended up pinning it to my camera's pack.  My departure gate was in a sixties-industrial concourse that could only be reached by bus, so I lingered a while in the nicer main concourse.  

The floating time during the three days waiting for my Thursday flight was a contrast between the scheduled time with LGL.  Instead of having a guide and host, I was on my own; instead of having scheduled Pride events to be at, I had unscheduled tourist events.  

NYC Pride was fun and great and I managed to experience it from a place of privilege.  Marching was fun, and dancing and waving to folks from a float was fabulous.  

The only thing I'd change—aside from not having my return flight cancelled—would be the bars and venues to something where conversations could be had (all the bars and places we went to had really loud music, which made understanding folks next to impossible).

In contrasting and comparing NYC Pride with EUG Pride, I'm reminded that NYC has massive corporate sponsorship, and EUG has maybe city sponsorship.  Also NYC has a larger and more diverse community, and can have groups like the Sirens (Dykes on Bikes), and The Eagle, and Gay Water Polo Players, and Education Centers, and Latina/Latino and transgender and gay parent groups.  Eugene pride is smaller, with folks like the Unitarian Church, and Spectrum Bar—but the three community pools:  Eugene, Springfield, and the University of Oregon, don't always speak to each other.

I suppose that I need to go to PDX for Gay Dancing with Gay Men over 35.

And volunteer more.