I painted this in 1980 while I was living in Santa Barbara. Click to enlarge.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Not a Lover but a Brother (1985)
At a local rainbow gathering I met this wonderful boy. He is 20 years old, long limbed and boyish graceful, and like a kid he shows his affection with his body; he leans on you; he caresses you; he hugs you tight. But he is not gay, he says, and I say OK. I am not after sex really; I want to give it up; it drains me. If I can get your total love, then sex is a small matter to give up. So, I try to put it out of my mind. When I get a hard-on I say purification mantra and it vanishes.
This happens every time I give him a massage and little by little I become less strict and allow my excitement to manifest. First I massage his back. When I press the muscles on the shoulder blades he groans. Then I squeeze his powerful copper freckled shoulders and down his bulging biceps and again he groans with pleasure. I do his hands; I do his feet and up his legs. I do his butt and he likes it. I turn him around to do his neck and head, and my hands slide down over his chest, his sides, and his stomach. Step by step I explore his whole body except his sex.
During the year after we met, we have spent time together four times averaging a month. Every time we came a step closer. Once I am lying on the mattress naked and he comes out of the bathroom fresh from the shower and flops down next to me and says, nap time! I put my arm around him and snuggle up to his back and a warm peace fills my whole being and I sleep.
On our travels we are one night given a double bed. We fall asleep separate but wake up in an embrace. I caress him and he responds and all morning we are blissfully entwined. Afterwards we talk about it and he says that it freaks him out a little. I say, oh, I love to just sleep with you like that, it is so warm and good, and I respect that you don’t want sex.
But now he begins to hint at sexual motives. He talks about his hard-ons and one day he lets his soft cock hang out. I grab it and say, how are you, nice to meet you! When we hitch hike we play around and he tries to squeeze my nipples and I go for his crotch, but he is stronger than me. More and more often we lie together naked, embracing, caressing. I know that some day it will happen, but I want it to be his decision.
We sit and talk and he says, when I come home I am broke; maybe I’ll sell my body! – How much? I ask. He seems surprised and laughs, I need $80 – That’s kind of expensive, I say – oh, he says, but it’s worth it!
When we come to my home at travels end, he is cold in the morning and I put my cover over him though he is still under his own blanket. I cannot sleep, so I get up and knead dough for bread. “What are you doing?” he asks when I come back in. “Baking bread”, I say.
He opens up his covers and invites me into his arms. I feel his cock hard against my stomach; it jumps and wants to play – there is no doubt. I let my fingers flicker lightly over it and as I look down I see a pearl of lubricant emerge. He is ready, and I go down on him. For some reason, to finally have reached my ultimate fantasy is less blissful than it should be. I am too tense.
I feel guilty, he says, because I don’t have the urge to do the same for you, but I tell him not to worry, it’s good, I’m happy. That day we pass mostly in bed and he gets hard again. The same happens the next day, more than once, but I am still too tense to find relief. In the evening as we are going to sleep separate I hear him moan. What’s up? I ask. Oh, I’m just playing with myself, he says. That’s OK, I say, if I can be in on it – and I jump on top on him and he takes my cock together with his and this time we come at the same time.
The special satisfaction of ‘going all the way’ is his total surrender to the heart, his total acceptance of my lust as being in the service of love. Closer we cannot get, being unified even where we differ. His words of goodbye set it all in place: ”I don’t think of you as a lover, I still think of you as a brother.”
I remember one of the first days we were together by the Yuba River.
We had taken Ecstasy and he wanted to jump from a 40 feet cliff. I had to do it too, even though I was scared. When I hit the water it tore my arm out of its joint. We had climbed to get where we were and there was no way I could climb back with the arm out of joint; we had to fix it then and there. He had some experience and his advice was to bend the arm in the direction that hurt most. It didn’t sound too good but it worked: the arm clicked back in place and after a few minutes I felt all right and ready to continue our expedition up the river.
There was only he and I, and jumping behind him from one rock in the cool, clear water to the other I set my foot step by step where he had set his. The green, green moss stabs me with pleasure and in a flash I know that I am happy, that I will never forget this moment. But I let it go and follow him as he leaps like a flame up the river.
This happens every time I give him a massage and little by little I become less strict and allow my excitement to manifest. First I massage his back. When I press the muscles on the shoulder blades he groans. Then I squeeze his powerful copper freckled shoulders and down his bulging biceps and again he groans with pleasure. I do his hands; I do his feet and up his legs. I do his butt and he likes it. I turn him around to do his neck and head, and my hands slide down over his chest, his sides, and his stomach. Step by step I explore his whole body except his sex.
During the year after we met, we have spent time together four times averaging a month. Every time we came a step closer. Once I am lying on the mattress naked and he comes out of the bathroom fresh from the shower and flops down next to me and says, nap time! I put my arm around him and snuggle up to his back and a warm peace fills my whole being and I sleep.
On our travels we are one night given a double bed. We fall asleep separate but wake up in an embrace. I caress him and he responds and all morning we are blissfully entwined. Afterwards we talk about it and he says that it freaks him out a little. I say, oh, I love to just sleep with you like that, it is so warm and good, and I respect that you don’t want sex.
But now he begins to hint at sexual motives. He talks about his hard-ons and one day he lets his soft cock hang out. I grab it and say, how are you, nice to meet you! When we hitch hike we play around and he tries to squeeze my nipples and I go for his crotch, but he is stronger than me. More and more often we lie together naked, embracing, caressing. I know that some day it will happen, but I want it to be his decision.
We sit and talk and he says, when I come home I am broke; maybe I’ll sell my body! – How much? I ask. He seems surprised and laughs, I need $80 – That’s kind of expensive, I say – oh, he says, but it’s worth it!
When we come to my home at travels end, he is cold in the morning and I put my cover over him though he is still under his own blanket. I cannot sleep, so I get up and knead dough for bread. “What are you doing?” he asks when I come back in. “Baking bread”, I say.
He opens up his covers and invites me into his arms. I feel his cock hard against my stomach; it jumps and wants to play – there is no doubt. I let my fingers flicker lightly over it and as I look down I see a pearl of lubricant emerge. He is ready, and I go down on him. For some reason, to finally have reached my ultimate fantasy is less blissful than it should be. I am too tense.
I feel guilty, he says, because I don’t have the urge to do the same for you, but I tell him not to worry, it’s good, I’m happy. That day we pass mostly in bed and he gets hard again. The same happens the next day, more than once, but I am still too tense to find relief. In the evening as we are going to sleep separate I hear him moan. What’s up? I ask. Oh, I’m just playing with myself, he says. That’s OK, I say, if I can be in on it – and I jump on top on him and he takes my cock together with his and this time we come at the same time.
The special satisfaction of ‘going all the way’ is his total surrender to the heart, his total acceptance of my lust as being in the service of love. Closer we cannot get, being unified even where we differ. His words of goodbye set it all in place: ”I don’t think of you as a lover, I still think of you as a brother.”
I remember one of the first days we were together by the Yuba River.
We had taken Ecstasy and he wanted to jump from a 40 feet cliff. I had to do it too, even though I was scared. When I hit the water it tore my arm out of its joint. We had climbed to get where we were and there was no way I could climb back with the arm out of joint; we had to fix it then and there. He had some experience and his advice was to bend the arm in the direction that hurt most. It didn’t sound too good but it worked: the arm clicked back in place and after a few minutes I felt all right and ready to continue our expedition up the river.
There was only he and I, and jumping behind him from one rock in the cool, clear water to the other I set my foot step by step where he had set his. The green, green moss stabs me with pleasure and in a flash I know that I am happy, that I will never forget this moment. But I let it go and follow him as he leaps like a flame up the river.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Unusual Waves
This was taken on a very windy day in a harbor basin. Click to enlarge and watch the tiny waves that crisscross everywhere.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Words of an Anonymous Prophet
The Great Spirit said:
In all times and at all places, I am.
I am the force in the germ and the stink in putrefaction.
I cut down greatness, and brace up the small.
In the evil I am the good, and in the good the evil.
In the clear I am the obscure, in the mystical the simple.
Through this, my duality, I create, uphold, and destroy worlds.
My duality is infinite, duality within duality.
Irreconcilable contrasts are contained in me.
Myself, I am above this, eternal and imperishable.
Your thought cannot comprehend me.
Your words cannot describe me.
I hide nothing from you, but my magic blinds you.
My divine ways are above thoughts and words.
When you see me mirrored from all sides,
then turn towards me and you are there,
where you have always been.
In all times and at all places, I am.
I am the force in the germ and the stink in putrefaction.
I cut down greatness, and brace up the small.
In the evil I am the good, and in the good the evil.
In the clear I am the obscure, in the mystical the simple.
Through this, my duality, I create, uphold, and destroy worlds.
My duality is infinite, duality within duality.
Irreconcilable contrasts are contained in me.
Myself, I am above this, eternal and imperishable.
Your thought cannot comprehend me.
Your words cannot describe me.
I hide nothing from you, but my magic blinds you.
My divine ways are above thoughts and words.
When you see me mirrored from all sides,
then turn towards me and you are there,
where you have always been.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Quote
All national institutions of churches, whether Jewish, Christian, or Turkish, appear to me no other than human inventions, set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit.
(Thomas Paine, "The Age of Reason", 1794)
(Thomas Paine, "The Age of Reason", 1794)
Friday, November 17, 2006
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Boredoms
The Boredoms is a Japanese cult band who did their first show in 1986. This great picture is from The New Yorker and I just wanted to share it with you.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
In Love with a Straight Boy (Ian)
One day in the summer of 1951 I stood in front of the Mona Lisa in the Musée du Louvre. There was only one other person in the room and I had to look at him too because he attracted me more than the painting. He was a young black man of dark complexion and classically beautiful, like a mask from Benin. Our eyes met and we began to talk. We agreed that Mona Lisa was somewhat disappointing and got into an hour-long conversation while she, unaffected, kept smiling. Ian was from Jamaica and was very alive. Intellectual black people often keep more of their spontaneity and physicality than intellectual white people. I had an offer of a ride to Switzerland that I told him about, and he said he would like to come.
Two days later we were off.
Ian’s love was poetry; he traveled with Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat in his pocket, and whenever we were waiting for a ride at the roadside he would read me passages. He was also interested in politics and we had many talks about racism. The way to overcome it, he believed, was by the blacks getting economic strength. In body, mind, and spirit he was a superior being, but he was not gay. Not that I hadn’t known that all along, but I was repeating an old pattern of disregarding and hiding my sexuality.
We went down into Italy. Hitchhiking over the Apennines, in one little town we were buying food in a delicatessen. I happened to look towards the shop window. The lower half was entirely occupied by faces with their noses pressed flat against the glass: these rustic people had never seen a black man before and could not let such entertainment go unnoticed. Ian gratified them with a smile and a wink.
In one of the youth hostels we frequented, all the bunk beds were build together like one construction in the middle of the room. I remember the sexually charged atmosphere that night. First a young blond American sat in his bed showing his perfect naked tanned torso while I with several others stood around, unable to tear our selves away from the radiance of his charm. When we finally put out the light and I was on the edge of sleep, the whole bed structure started shaking with the rhythmic movements of a couple up top and they didn’t let off for hours.
We traveled for a month through northern Italy and into France. The last week we stayed in a house that a friend of mine owned, the only house remaining inhabitable in a small ghost town in Provence. There was nobody around; it felt like the end of the world had come, and we were the only survivors. I wrote a story about that, a story with a sad ending, as I was in a sad mood because the end of our voyage was coming.
Back in Paris we kept seeing each other and often went out together, to the theater or to the opera.
When Ian left for Jamaica, he didn’t want us to exchange addresses. He didn’t believe in a long distance friendship; he thought attempts to keep it alive against odds would destroy it instead. He preferred to have the memories unsullied by later exchanges, motivated by feelings of duty. It is true that my memory of him still is like a jewel shining with unaltered pure light, and I remember him in the full power of his twenty-one years with never a defeat; he was groomed to be a leader, and I have often wondered what became of him when his country earned its independence.
Two days later we were off.
Ian’s love was poetry; he traveled with Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat in his pocket, and whenever we were waiting for a ride at the roadside he would read me passages. He was also interested in politics and we had many talks about racism. The way to overcome it, he believed, was by the blacks getting economic strength. In body, mind, and spirit he was a superior being, but he was not gay. Not that I hadn’t known that all along, but I was repeating an old pattern of disregarding and hiding my sexuality.
We went down into Italy. Hitchhiking over the Apennines, in one little town we were buying food in a delicatessen. I happened to look towards the shop window. The lower half was entirely occupied by faces with their noses pressed flat against the glass: these rustic people had never seen a black man before and could not let such entertainment go unnoticed. Ian gratified them with a smile and a wink.
In one of the youth hostels we frequented, all the bunk beds were build together like one construction in the middle of the room. I remember the sexually charged atmosphere that night. First a young blond American sat in his bed showing his perfect naked tanned torso while I with several others stood around, unable to tear our selves away from the radiance of his charm. When we finally put out the light and I was on the edge of sleep, the whole bed structure started shaking with the rhythmic movements of a couple up top and they didn’t let off for hours.
We traveled for a month through northern Italy and into France. The last week we stayed in a house that a friend of mine owned, the only house remaining inhabitable in a small ghost town in Provence. There was nobody around; it felt like the end of the world had come, and we were the only survivors. I wrote a story about that, a story with a sad ending, as I was in a sad mood because the end of our voyage was coming.
Back in Paris we kept seeing each other and often went out together, to the theater or to the opera.
When Ian left for Jamaica, he didn’t want us to exchange addresses. He didn’t believe in a long distance friendship; he thought attempts to keep it alive against odds would destroy it instead. He preferred to have the memories unsullied by later exchanges, motivated by feelings of duty. It is true that my memory of him still is like a jewel shining with unaltered pure light, and I remember him in the full power of his twenty-one years with never a defeat; he was groomed to be a leader, and I have often wondered what became of him when his country earned its independence.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Quote
…to understand all ceremony, all ritual, as something for a person who not yet trusts himself.
(Ruth Beebe Hill, ‘Hanta Yo’, Warner Books 1980. p.960)
(Ruth Beebe Hill, ‘Hanta Yo’, Warner Books 1980. p.960)
Friday, November 10, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Interlude
(Continuation of Jagtvejen 2)
It was time to go to India.
There was a traveling company forming, but the plans were for the autumn, and it was just spring. I had finished my Chinese translation and almost finished the mandala. I printed 200 copies of the Dao De Jing and bound them in a soft cover in the Chinese fashion; a linocut with the title glued on. I hawked them among friends and sold them to the hippie stores to get money for the voyage.
For the summer I went with Fut to Sweden. My friends Loa and Nahoum had a house in Småland, a densely forested area to the north of Skåne, the former Danish part of Sweden. We build a small hut in a clearing a short distance from their house. It was made out of an old barn door and other discarded materials, and we named it the Samurai hut. I painted a Buddha on a big boulder and lived here for a couple of months, sometimes alone, sometimes with visiting friends.
It's me to the left
Fut was always ahead of me; he stayed only a short time and was off to India before me. Before he left we took acid together, and for the first time I had a less than blissful trip. I felt estranged, enclosed in myself, unable to communicate and even not interested in it. In the end a warm hug from Fut brought me out of it.
Before leaving I wrote about the last night:
"The last night in the Samurai house is completely hushed. The path is cold and wet. Entering the Samurai clearing I penetrate into the forest proper; blindly I turn in between the black spruces. In the heather a glow-worm shines. Not until right by the big boulder in front of the hut can I glimpse the white window frame in the blackness. I light the lamp under the lean-to and a big glistening frog takes fright and jumps away.”
The white window frame.
It was time to go to India.
There was a traveling company forming, but the plans were for the autumn, and it was just spring. I had finished my Chinese translation and almost finished the mandala. I printed 200 copies of the Dao De Jing and bound them in a soft cover in the Chinese fashion; a linocut with the title glued on. I hawked them among friends and sold them to the hippie stores to get money for the voyage.
For the summer I went with Fut to Sweden. My friends Loa and Nahoum had a house in Småland, a densely forested area to the north of Skåne, the former Danish part of Sweden. We build a small hut in a clearing a short distance from their house. It was made out of an old barn door and other discarded materials, and we named it the Samurai hut. I painted a Buddha on a big boulder and lived here for a couple of months, sometimes alone, sometimes with visiting friends.
It's me to the leftFut was always ahead of me; he stayed only a short time and was off to India before me. Before he left we took acid together, and for the first time I had a less than blissful trip. I felt estranged, enclosed in myself, unable to communicate and even not interested in it. In the end a warm hug from Fut brought me out of it.
Before leaving I wrote about the last night:
"The last night in the Samurai house is completely hushed. The path is cold and wet. Entering the Samurai clearing I penetrate into the forest proper; blindly I turn in between the black spruces. In the heather a glow-worm shines. Not until right by the big boulder in front of the hut can I glimpse the white window frame in the blackness. I light the lamp under the lean-to and a big glistening frog takes fright and jumps away.”
The white window frame.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Thursday, November 02, 2006
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