A Matter of Heart

At the end of his semester vacation, David Clark found himself at the Yugoslavian/Austrian border with a minimum of funds, partly due to his own extravagance, and partly due to the sudden devaluation of the dollar that February. Thus he broke a long-standing rule and hitched a ride with the two Athenian truck drivers he met while waiting to get through customs.

Their truck was fairly old, and the cab was curiously decorated. There was a white plastic Madonna affixed to the dashboard. Beneath it, where the radio should have been, hung a yellowing pin-up from a back issue of Playboy. Way back. An obligatory string of worry beads dangled from the rear-view mirror, and an icon depicting a garishly impaled St. Sebastian was stuck into the visor over the driver’s seat. The windshield itself was lined with a fringe of red pompons. And it was through this frame that they first spotted Anne-marie in silhouette against a slate-grey sky that threatened snow.

They had left the border at nine in the morning. David sat on the motor cover between the driver and the co-driver. The driver’s name was George, he learned, and spoke only Greek. George had long brown Jesus hair and a mournful face reminiscent of an Afghan hound. Paul, the co-driver, looked like an over-fed fox, short and stubby, his eyes close set, his nose pointed, and his face furred with three days’ worth of beard.

He had soon discovered that Paul spoke fluent English. He had spent some time in America with relatives, presumably learning English for truck-drivers, David thought, as Paul’s language was peppered with profanity. They had stopped in Leibnitz for coffee in a diner frequented by Bulgarian colleagues, and then in Graz to grease the axles, but finally they had made good time, until they spotted the girl.

She was standing on the side of the highway, just outside of Leoben, and as they had done constantly since David had been with them, they blew the air horn and whistled and waved. David saw the girl smile at this enthusiastic greeting, and then she held her arm out, indicating she wanted a ride.. George did a double-take, then braked.

David shifted on the motor cover between them, and wondered whether they were going to put him out of the cab in preference for her. Paul and George had other ideas, however. Paul hoisted the girl up into the cab and told David to tell her to make herself comfortable in his lap, which she did.

“Hi, my name is Annemarie, thanks for stopping.”

“”I’m David. I’m studying in Salzburg, and these guys gave me a lift from the border. Where are you going to?”

“I have to get to Bischofshofen. A friend of mine is in the hospital there.”

“Oh, am sorry to hear that. Is it serious?”

“Yes, I feel really terrible, you know? I had an accident about two weeks ago, and she was in the passenger seat. We skidded on a patch of ice and went off the road. She broke her leg, and I didn’t get a scratch. I feel sort of guilty; by rights it should have been me.”

David translated what Annemarie had said into English for Paul, who relayed it in Greek to George. And this formed their method of communication for the time they would travel together.

After the basic introductions there ensued that silence which often occurs between strangers, and a subtle, mutual sizing up took place. David guessed that Annemarie was twenty-five or so, and later found that to be correct. She was good-looking he thought. Her hair was auburn and fell loosely onto her shoulders. She gazed at each of the men directly and without embarrassment. Her eyes were deep blue, and seemed naïve. A spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose added to that impression, an impression that was spoiled by a cynical hardness in the set of her mouth..

“We haven’t been making very good time, yet,” David said. “I’ll be glad to get to Salzburg, believe me. This metal is boring right into me. Will you be able to get in to see your friend, or are you going to wait until tomorrow? I don’t think we’ll make Bischofshofen in time for visiting hours.”

“Oh no, I won’t be able to stay over. I have to hitch back and pick um my daughter.”

“You’re married?” David asked.

“No, she too was an accident. I left her with my mother.”

“How old is she?”

“My mother?”

“No, your daughter,” David said smiling.

“She’s six.”

“Oh, I see..”

“Do you really? That’s what they all say.”

David looked out at the road, embarrassed that he had been tactless. It was beginning to snow, and the mountains seemed to close in about them, naked and menacing. “That’s all we need,” he muttered in English.

Paul brightened. “Hey don’t worry, man. We drive up here in winter all the time.”

“Without winter tires, or chains.”

“Sure, all the time. No problem.”

David wondered about that. George broke out of his long study of Annemarie and let loose with a long remark to Paul in Greek. Paul then turned to David.

“My friend, he just talk now. He say---you know what?”

David smiled. “No, what?”

“He say, he likes Austrian girls better than he likes German girls. You know why?”

“No, why?”

Cupping his hands before him, Paul said, “because they got bigger tits, you know? You ask him that.”

It took David a moment to realise they wanted to relay this amazing anatomical fact to Annemarie. George and Paul looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to begin. Reddening, he repeated what Paul had said, but substituting the word ‘breast’.

To his surprise, Annemarie laughed. “Tell him that’s because we’ve got bigger hearts.” David did and the drivers laughed raucously. Annemarie asked him where he had spent his vacation.

“In Athens.”

Paul overheard, and understood that much. “You were in Athens!” he exclaimed. “How come I didn’t see you there?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed. “Athens is big.”

“I’d love to see Athens,” Annemarie said.

This statement, when translated excited another outburst from George, who had looked more mournful than ever, being confined to Greek and the few things Paul had related to him.

“My friend, he say you come to Athens this summer? You ask him that.”

David relayed the invitation to Annemarie.

“I’d love to come, but I’m afraid I couldn’t afford it.”

“My friend, he say go got no money, its no problem. But she really come? My friend, you know, he waits. Not good if she don’t come. You ask him that.”

“Of course I’d come if I say I will,” she assured David. And after a moment’s pause, added “But tell him that doesn’t mean that I’m in love with him or that he would have to marry me or anything like that.”

“Of course not,” David said dryly, which elicited a calculating look from her.

David watched the road for a while. The snow fell heavily now, and visibility was lessening by the minute. They approached and by-passed Radstadt. “You really won’t make it to Bischofshofen in time. It’s already five pm,” David said.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” she replied.

David shifted on the motor cover and cursed himself for not having waited for a car to pick him up. Annemarie was admiring an eagle tattoo on Paul’s forearm.

“I got that put on in prison,” he said brightly.

“Why were you in prison?” David asked curiously.

“Oh, they said I did something,” Paul answered evasively. “Hey, let’s get something to eat. Maybe Annemarie knows a place where it’s good for the truck. You ask him that.”

Annemarie did know of a Gasthaus, it was situated high up on the side of an elongated valley above a picturesque village, but had a flat parking lot where it was easy to park the truck. They went inside, being self-conscious about being somewhat grimy in contrast to the gleaming accoutrements of the restaurant. They were the only guests, however, and took a table in the far corner of the dining room.

The waitress approached and stiffened at the sight of them. When Annemarie asked for the menu in her unmistakeable Styrian dialect, the waitress’ frown deepened. “The kitchen is closed. There are only cold cuts and soup.”

“Well bring us the menu anyway,” Annemarie snapped. The waitress departed slowly, her mouth curled in disapproval.

“What’s the matter?” Paul asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” David said uneasily. Paul’s eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Really, she is having a bad day, or something.”

The waitress returned and laid one menu on the table rather forcefully. David said, “I’ll have a goulasch soup and a glass of beer please. The others decided not to order anything at all. David felt foolish and paid in advance. When his order arrived, and began to eat, Paul decided to give him a lesson in manners, which caused each succeeding bite more difficult to swallow.

“In my country, we don’t do things like that, you know? When we eat, we eat together, or just drink, and everybody drinks. But not just one person eating and the others not.”

“I didn’t know you weren’t going to order anything. You said you were going to eat,” maintained David defensively.

“All the same, everybody in my country, they eat together or not at all.” David pushed his half-full bowl of soup aside, and said, “Ok, lets go then.

As they filed out, the waitress was still glaring, and David was feeling angry enough to blame her for his breach of etiquette. “Thank you so much for your ‘hospitality’, he remarked as he went by.

They by-passed Bischofshofen and headed toward Werfen and the Lueg Pass. They were able to talk Annemarie into trying ano9ther restaurant before crossing it.

“Are you going to hitch a ride to Bischofshofen from here?” David asked wonderingly.
“No, I’m going to Munich with them.”

They found another Gasthaus where they were served by a friendly staff, and had a substantial meal. Paul asked about Annemarie’s background through David.

“He wants to know where the father of your child is.”

“I haven’t seen him in a long while. We were in school at the time, and although we loved one another, he married another girl who had money and came from a better family. He didn’t really lover. But that’s the way things happen sometimes,” she said philosophically.

The discussion turned to politics and comparisons between different countries and cultures. David expressed admiration for the Austrian brand of Socialism, while Annemarie criticised the same bitterly. “But you are wrong, here you are put into a slot. Because you are born into one family, you are trapped in their milieu. It is still a backward nation in many social respects.

Paul summed up over coffee. “Maybe you don’t like your country, you know? I don’t know. Me, I don’t like my country, Annemarie, she don’t like her country. You know why? Fucking politics! And the people,” he continued, “they don’t got no heart. They look to this side, they look to this side, but they don’t look at me! Maybe, you know, maybe they heart is good. But not for me, “ he concluded sadly. George seemed to follow that and nodded in his mournful way, never taking his eyes off Annemarie.

Paul paid the entire bill, and when they went out into the parking lot, they found that so much snow had accumulated that the truck was stuck. George didn’t even have a shovel to dig them out so David borrowed one from the Gasthaus owner. Annemarie considered going on alone, as the storm was worsening. But they discussed that with a sense of shame, feeling that they had shared a private part of themselves with these strangers, and to go on alone seemed to David to confirm that statement of Paul’s which was still in his thoughts: ‘The people, they got no heart.’

It took them two hours to free the truck and had gotten close to ten pm. They began their ascent of the pass. Because they had no winter tires, the trip up into the night seemed endless. They gained about one meter every thirty seconds, and David fully expected that they would suddenly let loose and slide crazily down the mountain, a scene from a silent film. But they finally reached the top without mishap.

The descent was all the more hair-raising for that. The truck was equipped with air brakes, and each time the air supply grew low, George had to semi-jack-knife the truck to allow them to fill again. The atmosphere was tense, and no one spoke. Half-way down, they came upon a wrecked truck that had tilted into a snow bank. The motor had fallen out onto the road, and was afire. George stopped, and Paul said, “We must help. They are from Greece. Like brothers, you know?” He waded out into the snowdrifts. David toyed with inner visions of the Donner Party. A few minutes later Paul returned. “They say help is on the way. We can go.” The descent continued without further incident.

Some time after the road had become relatively level again, they saw an exit sign for Salzburg. Pointing to it, Paul said, “We better let you out here. It’s good for the truck.” David squinted to see where the exit was, and assumed it was over the next rise. “Ok,” he said, and they braked.

“Are you really going to Munich with them?” he asked Annemarie.

“Of course,” she said, and smiled strangely.

“Well then good luck,” David said as he climbed down from the cab and thanked Paul and George.

“Same to you”, she replied, “you’ll need it.”
David looked up at her not comprehending. Paul pulled the door shut, and the three of them drove off laughing. David trudged through the whirling, blinding snow, and reached the top of the rise. There was no exit. He would later discover that they had let him out more than twenty miles south of Salzburg, once an understanding had been reached between Annemarie and Paul. As it was, David turned his back to the wind and faced the sparse on-coming traffic. And as one vehicle after the other passed him without stopping, he suddenly laughed. “Yeah, the people, they got no heart”, he said.

The Witch... we all grew up with one, right?

The Witch
The wicked Witch of Pleasant Street
Lived in a brick apartment block.
She was the only tenant,
But her yard was full of sunflower stalks.


The wicked Witch of Pleasant Street
Looked very mean, had wild white hair,
And undernourished greyish skin,
And fiery eyes that madly stared.

She'd laugh a cackling shrewish scream,
And scolded us when evening came.
For then we'd gather in her court
To tease her and to play our games.

Oh wicked Witch of Pleasant Street,
You let yourself be fooled.
You acted out the evil role
That we assigned to you!

We'd shout, 'Come out! We're not afraid!'
And clamoured in the twilight's damp.
You'd stand before your window,
Scream, 'Begone, you little tramps!'


We'd yell, 'Come catch us on your broom!
Come out and fight the slaughter!'
And when you had enough of us,
You'd douse us with hot water.


Oh, Wicked Witch of Pleasant Street,
You played into our hands,
We needed someone old and mean
To play our fears and child's demands.


I know today you had it rough.
Your husband died in Europe's war.
Alone, you had a child to raise.
You had no job. You were dirt poor.


I feel ashamed when I look back
On all the grief we gave to you.
We only wanted fairy tales:
Giants, dwarves---and witches too.


Oh, Wicked Witch of Pleasant Street,
We never gave you one small thought.
But was it really fairy tales,
Or eccentricity we fought?


All children find their Wicked Witch.
There's one in every neighborhood.
She's always the outsider
In a world defined as 'bad' or 'good'

Middle Street

Cruising the Middle Street Market

Middle Street row-houses sweat,
Their once red brick now black.
Soot runs into each crack
Along walls shining dully and wet.

Once proud neighborhood in years
Before Depression Great
Humbled it, filled it with hate;
Filled it with immigrant workers tears.

Middle Street families are gone.
Left are the aged and
Helpless, who try hard to stand
Up to everyday tasks. Life goes on.

Dog Day’s become steaming night.
And on the asphalt walk,
Scribbled in urchins’ chalk,
Is a protest against urban blight.

My footsteps echo quite loud,
And above me a head
Seems to watch me with dread…
As though I were not one, but a crowd..-..

Headlights flare on the street.
Blinded, I falter, then
Walk onward slowly when
I see it’s cop on his beat.

Once more around the block, then.
Seeking companionship.
Seeking a quick trip
To the Millyards, for sex between men.

Parked on the side of the street
Is a lank-looking man.
I look. He nods. As if planned
I get in, and his mouth and mine meet.

No words between us must pass.
He drives off a short way
To the Millyards. His hand strays
To my thigh, to my crotch, to my ass.

Two moments later we park.
Hot breath and roving tongues
Mingle and prod and plunge
Deep. Hands rip at clothing in the dark.

Cramped in the narrow back seat,
We thrust, adjust, and squirm.
He whispers, he wants my sperm.
His hands stroke, increase desire’s heat.

Then comes my on-rushing tide.
He flows, and then ebbs.
We drive back, nothing’s said
These are the rule by which we abide.

Alighting again alone.
I stare as he drives off…
Am suddenly aware of
The night and the heat and the soot black stone.

Middle Street’s seen better days.
When I was a child,
There were elms. The air was mild.

But together we all have decayed.

Lullaby

Georg Danzer

If you are followed home tonight

Don't get uptight.

Don't get uptight.

It's just they think your radical.

Don't that beat all?

Don't that beat all!

And so whatever you may do,

Just keep in mind

They'll see it too.

Don't ask, insulted, why they should.

They'll say it's just for your own good.

So go to bed now, and sleep tight.

They'll watch you through the lonely night.

There is no reason to take fright;

They'll watch you through the lonely night.

Play deaf and dumb, refuse to see;

They might be kind and let you be.

But if you hope for social change,

You are deranged.

Oh yes! Deranged!

And if you're sexuallly aroused,

They'll find it out.

They'll find you out.

For not a thing escapes their eye,

Those agents from the FBI.

Sleep well, sweet dreams, and never fear.

Big Brother's day is drawing near.

Don't get upset, he'll be right here.

Big Brother's day is drawing near.

Those who denounce their fellow man

Are well-rewarded in this land.

They help maintain the status quo.

For them a black-list is unknown.

The Constitution protects those

Who are well off---and I suppose

It is one's duty to obey--

No questions asked, or else you pay.

But go to bed now, and sleep tight.

They'll watch you through the lonely night.

Big Brother's right there out of sight.

He'll watch you through the lonely night,

And so good night, and so good night.

Good night!

Pornography

Anywhere you may go, you’ll find
Keepers of our morals watching
What we say, what we do,
They make sure we don’t become too shocking..
‘Don’t think you can rebel wildly.
Sex can not be taken mildly!
And wherever we go—Oh!
We can find a trace of porno!’

Ladies old are so cold;
When it comes to love, they are mistrustful.
Only hate, even power
Can awaken feelings that are lustful..
Put guns in the hands of your children.
Patriotism will kill them,
But wherever you go---oh!
You will find corrupting porno!

‘What a pig! Dirty swine!
How degenerate! How disgusting!’
One bared breast can arouse impure thoughts—
And set the sterile cussing!
Make sure your clothes have a loose fit.
Don’t you dare show what’s beneath it!
For wherever we go, Oh!
We detect a trace of porno….

And desire is a trap
Sprung by nudists of both genders;
If you show what you want,
You’ll be in the file of sex-offenders.
The Just are one hundred per cent sure:
‘We want your acts and your thoughts pure.
And wherever we look---OH!
All we find is filth and porno!’

And just who decides what we read or we see?
Where’s the harm?
You tell me!

What is pornography???



Georg Danzer, ca. 1979

Tequila

I’m sick and tired of smoking marijuana.
I’m sick and tired of hashish and cocaine.
And if you ask me, I’ll say ‘I don’t wanna.
It’s tempting, but I’m broke, thanks all the same.’
Last night I went downtown to see my dealer
And told him ‘From now on, I’ll take tequila…
And with salt, not to mention
Sun-ripened lemons!’

I’m really sick and tired of loving fat girls.
They always seem to sap my strength away.
But when I turn around and check out thin girls,
I find that they don’t move my either way….
I hear you ask yourself, ‘So what’s his problem?’
I want tequila, and I want it often.
But, and please pay attention:
With salt and with lemon.

I find that life is like a game of poker,
And all the other players have the chips.
Just once, I’d like to find I’m not the joker,
And get a royal flush instead of shit.
I’m sad to say I’m not a wheeler-dealer.
Perhaps the trouble lies with the tequila.
Not even to mention
The salt and those lemons.

Georg Danzer, ca. 1979

Liberty

by the late Georg Danzer I'd forgotten how timely this is.

Not long ago I visited the zoo.
I felt so good; the sun was shining, too.
Before a cage a crowd of people stood.
And so I thought I'd go and have myself a look.
I thought I'd wander over for a closer look.


I saw a sign that read 'Please Do Not Feed,
And As Quite Wild, Please Do Not Tease!'
The children and the grown-ups looked struck dumb.
A near-by guard looked on, said nothing, was so glum.
A guard, looked on, said nothing, was so glum.


'Which animal is THAT?', I asked him, 'please?'
He looked surprised, but answered 'Liberty.
Throughout the world, it's dying off so fast,
That it's shown here for a dollar and a half.
Oh yes, we show it for a dollar-and-a-half.'


I took a look, was shocked, could only stare.
'What IS this, sir?' I asked. 'There's nothing there!'
'But that's the point!' he told me, was sincere.
'As soon as caught, it simply disappears.
As soon as caught, it up and simply disappears!'


'For Liberty is strange, and wondrous, sir.
Though many people are afraid of her.
Imprisoned, she immediately dies.
But in Freedom, Liberty can just survive. Only in Freedom can sweet Liberty survive.'

Ten Little Addicts

by the late Georg Danzer

Ten little addicts

Sailing in a boat

On the Sea of Despair

Near the Death's Head Coast.

One of them jumped overboard.

Sank in salty brine.

'Oh, shit!' were his last two words

To the other nine.

Nine little addicts,

One girl still a child

Barely thirteen years of age,

Addicted for some while.

Soon she had to walk the streets,

Winter nights, so late.

Then she caught pneumonia....

That left only eight.

Eight little addicts,

One paroled from jail.

The probation agent

Kindly kicked him in the tail.

Psychiatrist said, 'I've no time.'

His family he'd disowned.

Life was one short dead-end street.

Seven sailed the foam.

Seven little addicts

Tiredly pitched their tents

In the Desert Loneliness;

Slums, Developments.

Rumour has it that one choked

On wine and chocolate cake,

And gross lack of sympathy.

That left six to wait.

Six little addicts...

One paid Death his price

In a public toilet.

An overdose surficed.

He was found by a bum,

Himself still half-alive,

Who stole the addict's shoes and socks--

That left only five.

Five little addicts,

Together, yet alone.

Situation hopeless,

They'd no money and no home.

One of them went to a bank

To talk to a cashier

Who secretly pressed the alarm....

Four more left in fear.

Four little addicts

Sailing in a boat

On the Sea of Despair

Near the Death's Head Coast.

One turned in a dealer

To Officer McNee,

Then the dealer was paroled:

That left only three.

Three little addicts

Had just one more score.

Life had no more meaning.

Couldn't take much more.

Soon the heroin ran out.

The boat sank in a storm.

They drowned without a word of love

In a sea of scorn.

Ten little addicts

Gone without a trace.

Products of society.

Defective Human Race.

How long will you sit and watch

Your fellow man destroyed?

On Judgement Day they'll get revenge

On those they so annoyed.

Oh dear....

One of Austria's great music artists lost his battle against cancer today.

He was a true artist, could be very humorous, but his social conscience was vast. I was lucky to see him live once, and the atmosphere was unique. He will be sorely missed.

Cultured People

(Feine Leute)

Cultured people never sweat;
never go to work late.
Cultured people never love;
have dislikes, but can't hate.
Cultured people never pee
in your flower vases.
And they always know their lines,
don't fall upon their faces.
And they're born beneath an oh-so-charming star.
Oh, I love cultured people as they are.

Cultured people take their tea
with lady-finger sponge cakes;
sit on divans, so up-right.
They'd never swear, for god's sake!
Cultured people are so pure,

honest, open---nice!
They search so hard for higher truth,
yet still are drawn to vice.
And they love their fellow man--
but far away.
Oh, I love cultured people, you might say.


Cultured people are true-blue...
but only to their horses.
And they are so liberal!
They even make nice corpses!
Cultured people say, 'Thank God
that he made me so!
I'm so glad I'm perfect.
I was born that way, you know...'
Oh, I love them, for they glitter just like stars!
Yes, I love cultured people as they are...



Georg Danzer, ca 1979

Rest in peace, Schurl...

Change

You know... we all get SO FUCKING bent out of shape about terrorism, since 2001. Turn on any sort of media since then, and boy howdy, aren't they painting the canvas to make everyone so frightened you end up having to put your undies on the cold wash SOAK program to get the skid marks out before doing the regular cycle, right? And before anyone wants to take a hit on me for not knowing what I'm talking about, being long gone from NH---on that day? The husband of a very close cousin of mine was near the WTC, and another in the Pentagon. So yeah, I came home from work, it being afternoon here, and for no reason at all turned on the teevee, which I usually do not do, and thought: WTF stupid horror film is THIS? It took minutes to realise it was real. And it took hours to get through trans-atlantic per telephone and ascertain that MY family was ok, and they were---how fucking selfish.

No, this is not yet another my-god-how-horrible-it-was piece. Done to death. It's in our collective consciousness.

But life is sorta perverse, as we all know. I happened to be working at the Olympic Village in Munich in 1972. In the cafeteria where the athletes ate. 1400 university students from all over the world. That hit was the granddaddy of terrorism, if not so 'grandiös' and massivly deadly. In that whole clusterfuck I ended up standing on a balcony watching nice, engaging people being herded, tied up like cattle, into helicopters by masked men, and later heard them being blown up via the radio at work. It was a long time ago, we didn't have instant teevee and helicopters filming, AND NO. I would NOT have wanted to have seen it, looking back. What I saw was ENOUGH, thenk you... It wasn't like it was a choice or something. Which is the point of this. You don't get asked.

I'd seen them all summer. They engaged people in the most wonderful dialogues , and were exceptional.

I've probably never gotten over it, not really, but in my repressive stage, I wrote this about what went before, engaging and establishing dialogue with so many people from all over the world. Unlike so many people, who tend to be insular, when I first came here, I always wanted to be a good ambassador....

Sometimes I think I failed....

My first reaction, and it took me years to deal with, was 'Change'. It dealt with the Other part of that wonderful summer and the hope. Which got crushed.



You could be anywhere, and get blown up. There were terrorists being looked for where I worked when I first came here to Austria for good. I missed a bomb at a train station in Italy once. By one day. AND a devastating earthquake in the south of that country. But you go on, hey. And you know what? You just have to fucking DEAL with it. You don't need the gubmint to make the rules. And it never occurred to me to be SCARED all the time. Y'all have something that USED to be called a Constitution. Gonna sit on your ass and be 'skeered'? Well be my guest. Am not gonna join you on the bench in the waiting room, hey.


So this is about the good stuff, and the anger I felt that the world wasn't what I wanted it to be when I was 23 years old and naive: And the saddest part? It was more than thirty-five years ago, and not much changed. Depressing. The stick pins referred to were lapel buttons, and were something everyone was eager to collect...

"What reverence is rightly paid to a Divinity so odd
He lets the Adam whom he made perform the acts of God?"
W. H. Auden (Friday's Child)

AND EVERYONE CRYING 'CHANGE!'



In the narrow corridor

Between Forum and Chapel

The atheletes are milling about.

It's an open Bazaar

Where the West meets the East.

(or is it perhaps

a miniature Big Apple??)

The reporters write for the evening news,

That here is a love feast

Where humanity is spoken

But to me it is Babel:

And behind their smiles

I see thirty-two tooth salutes of contempt..

They trade national tokens

When their training is over

And the August sun is on the wane.

And everyone's crying 'Change!



Some of their stick-pins are, of course

More in demand---

Depending on reknown and supply-

(For who wants a Poland

When one can acquire

A token of Russia---

or Japan, by and by?)

The Olympic ideal does not exclude

the desire for personal prestige and fame.

And so here the capitalist ethic reigns,

And everyone's crying 'Change!'



Most stay in their groups;

They're like gaggles of geese

And they casually size up their opponents.

The Belgians won't speak with the Germans,

And the French look down with noblesse oblige

On the rest of this city's components.

And the Indians are wary of the Pakistanis.

The Nigerians hate the Rhodesians....

Still, they are anxious to trade

So they swallow

Their pride and political allegiance.

The friendliest are from the smallest countries;

From barely visible dots on the atlas.

They compete with the best and have no face to lose.

And their names tie the tongue, are exceedingly strange...

And EVERYONE'S crying 'Change!'



And we watch them, amused....

We foreign 'guest workers'

Try not to compete, but try

To understand what we're all about,

To conquer the predjudices

Our leaders have taught us

And try to discover their lies.



(We find sinister reasons for political deeds.

Can most of them be really due

To something so mundane as greed?)

We grow national guilts for the actions of others,

Attempt to solve problems,

And the grounds our talks cover

Range from politics to jokes,

to religion and pollution.....

And we can only agree that our world is insane.

And everyone's crying 'Change'



CHANGE cry disillusioned Americans

as George Meany offers millions to dump George McGovern.



Change! cry the Irish

who are weary of blood-shed, still demand to be self-governed.



Change! cry Rhodesia's majority blacks,

while their whites promenade and acknowledge no guilt.



Change! cry the Greeks

who have lost their Democracy,

and blame the American military bloc.



Change! cry the people of the Middle East

While the world sits in judgement

To the ticking of a nuclear clock.



Change! cry the people trapped in the suburbs,

in anonymous houses, sleazily built.



Change! cry defenders of the Earth's environment,

while in factory accidents, their neighbors are killed.



Change! cry the starving and the world's minorities,

who live on hate, while others grow fat.



Change! cry the young, as they champ at the bit,

while the Establishment sees they're held back.



Change! cry the conservatives who want power and control,

and tremble at thought of a reverse in the order of things.



Change! cry the liberals who shout out for justice

So all have a chance to grasp the brass ring.

Yes!, they shout, Change!



On the day of departure

the action is frenzied,

and the shouting reaches fever pitch,

trading sneakers and track suits,

And their laughter and smiles

no longer seem stretched,

are real, and their owners fit.

Competition is over,

and now they are grinning,

no longer concerned

with who will be winning.

Koreans wear Russian warm-up pants;

Belgians wear French warm-up jackets.



We smile and fight down the urge to gloat,

For we long know what they're finding out,

Have the experience and memories to back it.



The September wind blows yesterday's news

Through the passage-way. Then it rains.

And the athletes take refuge in the Chapel's pews

To a dying last echo of 'Change'



Change! For the world is shrinking fast,

On yourself you can no longer rely.



Change! And drop tribal habits at last....

Or like the dinasaurs.... We WILL die...







Manchester, 1974


Goodness---once upon a time, I was so damned naive.... I didn't really have to change anything content-wise in this one, btw. Isn't that sad....

So What Did You Expect, Professor Higgins?

"The greater the love, the more false to it's object.

Not to be born is best for man.

Afther the kiss comes the impulse to throttle.

Break the embraces, dance while you can."

W. H. Auden (Death's Echo)

So you met him in his taxi

And his meter was running.

You went swimming on your days off

And you told him he was stunning.

You decided you would lend a hand

To tame this welfare child.

In the end, you surely got results:

They were anything but mild!

But what did you expect, Professor Higgins

From this member of the proletariat?

Did you think Eliza lurked within his being?

And did you thing---with all that sitting---

He would never grow fat?

Well, the first year was the best one

As in all the fairy tales.

And he learned his lessons perfectly...

And stayed out of the jails....

And he even learned the difference

Twixt Degas' and Renoirs

But he couldn't break a habit

Of slurping Vichyssoise.

But what did you believe, Professor Higgins?

That Rome was built in just a single day?

We all possess our special limitations.

And you, his idol, he soon found

Posess two feet of clay.

The second year went smoothly

And he'd finally learned the score.

Though he tried hard not to show it,

He'd become a wee bit bored.

He could hob-nob in society

With the crème de la crème,

But came that Fall, he longed for Paul---

And various other men.

You must have had a clue, Sherlock Higgins.

You surely don't suscribe to 'love-is-blind!'

I'm certain that you've played around

To save your peace of mind.

Yet once again you've come around to autumn.

Your daily Melodrama's 'de riguer'.

In sex you long have tended to abuse.

For his lies, you say you haven't any use.

Once monthly, you must speak of separation.

Yet who can e'er leave well-enough alone?

You're both too proud to sever your relations.

It's preferable to cut right to the bone.....

But what did you expect, Professor Higgins?

A bed of roses wasn't in your cards.

You did your best to fashion an Eliza,

But maybe---look at the result---

You tried a bit too hard?

Nights in the Saline Puppy

The Saline Puppy was a counter-culture haven
in the age of Narcissus, home to the craven.
First bar with genuine barn-board panels
And Tiffany lamps and teevee with ten channels.
There we drank the nights away
and we found so MUCH to say...

And plaid-shirted students dressed in farmer-johnny jeans
Solved the world's weighty problems while philosophers dreamed.
Rowdies with a buzz on tossed down their drinks
maintaining nothing mattered;
they were too burned out to think
And their eyes undressed each girl
in the crowd's unending swirl.

The nectar of the gods, came in pitchers---(dark and light)
Served by liberated ladies, bitter girls who'd bite
with a word or action. They'd no self trust,
Repressed sexuality, believed life was a bust.
Phoebe Snow sang 'No Regrets'.
and we took what we could get.

What wouldn't I give for another round
in that smoky room, watching the sights;
lost in discussion and your laugh would sound
when the talk became raucous
round about midnight.

And Robbie, Carl and Terry would join us now and then.
And the terms coined (love muscle?) Terry'd goose the men.
And the muscle bound bouncers, self-labelled Jocks
chatted with the husband-hunters--Liberation talk.
And we like to be alone,
but can't seem to stay at home..

Sitting at the bar with question-mark shaped posture,
menopausal salesmen debated on the cost or
better said 'investment' of one long-drink
for the young thing beside him, who ignored lewd wink.
And they both went home alone,
disappointed, hearts of stone.

Like the mailmen of old, we showed up in rain and sleet
And we quickly found a place where the heater warmed our feet.
And we analysed and we criticised.
And although the hours flew, we never grew too wise....
It was an uncertain time.
Done and gone with, but that's fine...

What wouldn't I give for another round,
to see how we and the world may have changed.
Or maybe to laugh and discuss and expound;
and to question our fates, so opaque and so strange.

Just when you think everything is hopeless...

someone comes along and proves that things aren't. Have been running in circles for months, and in the background there is this wonderful person who is unbelievably patient and waiting for me to just stop and have time for him. So thank you, J. Thank you so much.

Just when you think nothing is EVER gonna happen, it will. Inevitable, I guess...

This has been the first in the series 'Just when you think...'

Re-encountering Tadzio

"The dramas of memory are always Hamlet in modern dress" ---Aldous Huxley

It was already late September when I arrived in Venice, and until then, my vacation trip had been hot and boring. I'd wandered through several cities, prying into their secrets and exploring the night spots where sweat glistened on bared skin beneath varicolored strobe lights. I'd observed and marked time.Very few people had spoken to me.

(...perhaps I'd had my New England frost turned up too high against the heat?...)

I was nerved and jumpy, yet always hesitating to take the leap from observer to participant.

I arrived in Venice at sunset.

Until that evening, tourists' meccas had never failed to disappoint me. They'd been imprinted on my mind in pastel poster views, photographed from angles inaccessible to mere mortals. I had learned to lower my expectations. This time I found it had been unnecessary.

Boarding a vaporetto that travelled the length of the Grand Canal to Piazza San Marco, dusky light seemed to shimmer in the air, made my surroundings romantic, the colours delicate. The basilica Santa Maria della Salute at the mouth of the harbour sparkled phosphorescent white looking like a fantastical marble wedding cake, and when I disembarked and strode into the square, the lights in the arcades came on. I felt like I'd seen my first Christmas.

Soon I was drawn to the narrow streets in the centre. They seemed to pulsate with a secret life. I strolled along numerous canals, over bridges that arched like the backs of angry cats. I studied the details of the gondolas, facades; observed the gondoliers, who were bantering too loudly on the marble piers. The season was over; they had little to do. Stray cats slinked along the buildings stalking nesting pigeons. A fat man leaned at a second story window, filing his fingers with a rasp.

(...I can't imagine why...)

Outside a trattoria, a waiter bearing veal cutlets in white wine sauce sneezed and barely missed the plate. He nonchalantly set it before a tired-looking American couple then walked jauntily into the resaurant, whistling the march from Aida.

Further on, the sounds I heard came from unseen sources. Voices laughed, shouted, whispered and whined from darkened windows overhead. Footsteps echoed in parallel alleyways, or just out of sight. Further still, and the streets were empty save for a stray feline or an occasional silent, nesting gull. The city struck me as being rather ghostly, and as I turned a blind corner, I saw one.

The stranger was leaning on a filigreed iron bridge railing, staring at his reflection in the black water of the canal below. He was lit from an overhead street lamp, giving the impression of a lone performer on an empty stage. It was the man's extroadinary paleness that impressed me. His hair was dark brown, as was his beard, but in the space between the two, his face was a luminous white.

Although he was leaning, I could tell he was tall. His figure was lean and athletic. His profile seemed to be clearly defined against the dark facade of the building behind him. It was a fine-boned, ascetic face; strong-featured, its' lines almost too sharp, somewhat pained. From where I stood, I could see his reflection in the water. The swaying street lamp and the moving current distorted the form, and threw back that unnatural whiteness.

(...if his face were a mask, there'd be a deaths' head beneath it...)

It was at that point that the song began.


An accordion swelled, and a very mellow voice came from the darknesss downstream. The stranger straightened and squinted into the night. His eyes were deep-set and dark. Sensing my scrutiny, he turned and looked at me.

(...a perfect death mask, muschles lax, devoid of expression yet something so intense about it...)

I shivered perceptibly and he turned and looked downstream again. It was not an action of dismissal, but rather a channeling of my attention to that point where his interest lay. As the music grew louder, I walked onto the bridge, standing downstage right, so to speak. And from there I could see the candle. It was a votive candle, and it was affixed to the prow of a gondola. It flickered yellowly as the vessel, ebony against the velvet night, glided toward us. The song grew in clarity and tone, a primal scream that had been choked back and re-structured into a thing of terrible beauty. It ripped at the heart as, one by one, four gondolas emerged from the night. They took on the quality of a funereal procession. I glanced at the stranger to observe his reaction. I thought his eyes flickered red as he intently watched the scene below. Startled, I soon caught the same effect again.

(...trick of light???...)

Then the gondolas were directly beneath us, and I could see the passengers. They were tourists in evening dress. They sat in meditative, dream-like poses, looking as though their thoughts were light years away. They too seemed waxy pale, although they did not have the eerie translucent glow of the stranger. Their paleness was opaque. Even their jewelry seemed dulled, somehow. The gondoliers worked silently, their faces hidden in shadow beneath the brims of their hats.

In the last boat, a man in overalls sat in a straight-backed chair, playing an accordion. Across from him, another sang-head thrown back, chest thrust out, right hand held palm-upward before him. They hit a dead spot beneath us, and the voice seemed to have been swallowed by the mouth of some dread beast. Then it sprang back into being as if by the telepathic command of some lesser god. We watched until the night claimed them again. And as the last flickering votive candle went out...

(ite missa est)

...the song and the music ended.

Some three dozen unseen hands applauded from various points along the quay. I let out my breath, not remembering when I'd begun to hold it. I turned to look for my ghost. He was gone. Stunned, I found my way back to Piazza San Marco and reflected upon what I had seen. My first impression was that the stranger had played the role of spectral guide, presenting me with images of the city's living death; a half-world of floating visions. I decided to give him a name, and recalled a lecture I'd once attended:

"Tadzio is the main death symbol of the novella. He is beautiful, and seems perfect, but he is not. You will have noted, I am sure, that he is often described as having bad teeth. They are decayed. And that is one of the main points of it, the decay beneath the perfection."

'Tadzio?' I asked myself. Perhaps, but one who had matured as this Aschenbach had grown younger. I felt as if I had been challenged with a symbol of my own living death in my role as only an observer.

(are his teeth decayed? He didn't smile....)

I chided myself for being morbid, and decided I'd let my imagination run away with me. And I would have put the incident out of mind if I hadn't seen him again. It was in the Piazza San Marco on Sunday night. Throughout history, the square had been the scene of much pomp and ceremony.

(the pigeons were sacred, the seagulls were mute...)

I'd seen paintings of processions of be-robed bishops, their carriage proud, their expressions full of self-importance and power. But that night there seemed to be a parade of fools who frolicked and gaped.


There were the Blue-Haired Ladies from Duluth, who bought wind-up plastic pigeons in front of the procuratie vecchie. They were dressed in polyester pant suits which couldn't quite conceal the bulges resulting from too little exercise and too much food. They wore harlequin-framed glasses with rhinestones set in them. They crowed over the nifty gifts they were going to bring home. Their husbands were fat and absent-minded, watching the young local girls on the square with an appreciative eye. They wore loud plaid sports-jackets and otherwise looked as if they'd been blown over from Miami in the last hurricane.

(Ruth! Commere, I wanna takeya piktcha!)

In the cafés, combos played 'Strangers In the Night' as envisioned by Liberace on a bum trip.

("Ohmigawd, he's playing way off-key Harry, Listen!"

"Well it wouldn't be Italy if he weren't, dear. Wonnerful, in'it?")

The waiters exuded contempt for all and sundry. The clientele were of every nationality and stripe: Locals, tourists, young kids on the hustle. A drunken local was refused service and threw his money at a bartender in Café Quaddri.

"Animale!"

"TU sei animale!"

"Vi via, vecchio, Lei!"

Overworked tour-group leaders shepherded their charges from one end of the square to the other, looking as though they would be ill if they had to quote Mark Twain's description of the cathedral one more time. Lines of artists' easels were set up before the cafés in rows. There were caricaturists, profile cutters, three-minute portrait painters, rows of abstract and romantic city kitsch. Vendors stood in the cathedral doorway, hawking flourescent green yo-yos and necklaces that looked radioactive.

"Yo-yo, yo-yo?"

(The first word's an offer, the second an insult.)

Men cruised other men in the arcades on the outskirts of the crowd, their black eyes penetrating. I cruised for a while as well, observing the hustlers in particular. They were beautiful, yet I always detected a hunger beneath the surface bravado, a need to hurt and control. When they weren't aware of being observed, there was always a moment when they looked despairing.

(...and do I ever look like that in a crowd?...)

At midnight the campanile tolled, and the combo in the Café Lavena began to play 'The Blue Danube' waltz. Two women excitedly got up and began to waltz in the center of the square; they were well over sixty. They gracefully swirled and dipped, bony be-jeweled hands resting lightly on one another's wraps.

A third woman approached them.

She was a walking ruin, site of interest for an archaeologist of the soul. She wore an evening dress of some stiff exotic material and was wrapped in a full-length mink despite the heat. Her sunken face was lined and powdered a ghastly white. Her lips were a smear of deep red. Her hands were liver-spotted and skeletal, weighed down by jewelry so gaudy it was obviously authentic. She cut in on the women and waltzed with one of them several times around, clutching at her partner as she tottered, trying to keep her balance and her head from shaking uncontrollably at the same time. Her eyes were feverishly bright, and she gave the impression of some wind-up toy desperately holding back to prevent the last unwinding snap of its' mainspring. Then she sank into a nearby seat, shaking and decrepit; dowager empress.

Only then did I notice that she had sat down next to 'Tadzio'. He looked as ghostly as ever in the brighter lights of the square, and was leaning towards the old woman with that gaze of detached intentness I'd seen the first evening there. It seemed as though he were giving off waves of energy which she was absorbing. She straightened up and then he turned and looked at me; coldly, clinically. Slowly standing, he gave me one last long look then headed for the quay. I followed, for he had now become one mystery I was determined to solve.

"Pagare, Signori, pagare! L'ultima sera a Venezia! L'ultima sera!"

Two young boys leaned on the harbour railing dressed in tight gondolier shirts, jeering at the passers-by and laughing when they got an occasional dirty look. They were good-looking and animally alive, I observed.

(...and who pays for their last night in Venice?...)

I caught a glimpse of Tadzio as he boarded a vaporetto, cutting through the crowd like Moses parting the waters. I swore, felt bad that I wouldn't catch him now. But I needn't have worried.


Throughout the week I ran into him constantly. But I only saw him once in the daylight. There was a boat strike, and lots of people were sunning on the harbourside. He was lying on the grass in a small park, hiding every part of his body from the sun beneath the trees. As I passed, he looked up and watched me as I strolled.

(...and there were gulls, but they were mute....)

Twice we met on the quay at night where there were always several men cruising and occasionally disappearing behind the shuttered vendors' stands. I deliberately cruised him, being one step short of obnoxious, but he always gave me that detached look and didn't seem to know what I was up to. I puzzled over what nationality he might be, but came up with no answer. I wondered if he had been in jail, thus was so white.

(...no, he hides from the sun....)

I decided to stick with my myth of Tadzio, death symbol and observer, guide to my own lethargy.

I visited an extensive exhibition on photography. There were the usual landscapes and portraits

(... of those who once were and will never be...)

and an odd series that depicted mankind as freakish; all of us tattooed and contortionists. There were transvestites. There were lovers in embraces who looked uncomfortable and pathetic. There were close-ups of someone's naked passion.

"I hate portraits. They're like so many crucifixions."

The rich were depicted as being insufferable prigs, the poor as being oppressed by society, and all as victims of their own cruelty and desires.

(...The artist committed suicide. But is it all so simple?...)

Suddenly I was very tired, and decided to leave. And as I left the gallery I saw Tadzio. He'd been watching me.

(...all right, all right! I get the point!....)

I fled.


On my last day in Venice I met Giles. We quickly found that we got on well together. We laughed about the same things, such as the bartender in Harry's Bar. and tried to out-do one another in bad taste, picking out especially hideous pieces in the glass shops.

Young girl tourist: "Is that a real marble baar?"

Bartender: "Yes, the bar is of marble. The walls and floors are of marble. And our hearts.... they are of marble, too."

and at the tourists in general.

"leurs Bijoux!"

We visited the Doge's palace, examined a room full of paintings by Hieronymous Bosch

(...who always made Heaven and Purgatory very small and Hell very large...ora pro nobis...)

As night set in and the city grew mysterious, we set out for Giles' hotel. On the way, we stopped to make love in the doorway of a closed trattoria, feeling sudden need. We could hear a private party going on behind the rolled-down shutter. There were constant footsteps echoing, unseen walkers in a city where it was impossible to be alone. The air smelled of sea and fish and kelp and salt. Our toungues and hands explored. A cat yowled nearby. We performed a wildly desperate symphony in the night, every fibre and nerve of our being stretching and vibrating with life and passion. And when that tension snapped and the blood roaring in my ears drowned the world about me, I knew my days of observing were over. I would grab for life like the woman who waltzed in the Piazza San Marco. I came back to the world and smiled at Giles.

("Tu es gentil..")

We embraced, and then I felt him stiffen. A tall ghostly figure was standing across the street watching us. I cried out. But then he smiled, and his teeth were perfect. Overhead, a gull cried, its' voice as rusty and as un-used as the smile on Tadzio's face.

Laughing, I drew Giles away from the entryway, and we went on to the hotel.

Graz, 1980

an introduction...

As to who I am....

Just a nerd who grew up in the live-free-or-die state.

Gay and didn't come to terms with it for a very very long time. It was not a good thing to BE in the 'Live-Free-or-Die' state, believe me. Until one night in the men's room in a bar at a urinal some idjit asked me how I was doing, and was I still blowing dead niggers.

Ya know how it IS when you are young and don't know your limits after you've gone through five pitchers of beer with some friends? I literally saw red. And was still 'polite.'

So I said, 'NO, only LIVE ones ...and aren't they tasty, hey, which you probably know... And what the fuck are you doing in my space, huh? I don't even KNOW you!' And I didn't.

An hour later I thought, 'what do I have to lose?' and went cruising, because if everyone pecieved me that way anway, who was I kidding but myself? I was twenty-six years old, and traumatised by the hateful climate toward people like myself.

I did love a woman once. She was extraordinary.

But am not bi. I would have hurt her one way or the other. Badly. I think we are still friends. I hope so...

Somewhere along the line I think I grew up a little.

And what I want to post here are some old things I wrote. I used to want to be an author.

When Aids came along in the 80's I lost every friend I ever had--world-wide.

The worst was losing my 'brother'. That was a marriage of minds with a sharp age difference. It was nothing sexual. He believed in my talent, and was a gifted artist. I have lost many people who really mattered to me over the decades. But losing him was the worst of all. The project we were working on is the title of this blog, and was about a journey of self-discovery, with cities as the stations in coming to terms... Tja.... He never saw his 31st birthday.

I went speechless for a very long time.

Am putting this stuff up to preserve it. And hoping to get my voice back.

The first post was about cruising in the park in the Seventies. The second was my hommage to W. H. Auden. That won't ring a bell with anyone, but one of his most beautiful ones was quoted in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'


So go read below,ok?

RenB