bi_janus

At the University of South Florida, in the small gymnasium, on a platform draped with hand-woven rugs and supporting pots of burning incense, Shankar and Allarakha sat and began to play. Lines of raga and percussion pierced me. After a few minutes, the music stopped; the crowd applauded wildly. Shankar smiled toward Allarakha and said, “Thank you. If you liked the tuning so much, we hope you enjoy the concert.” The tabla playing that evening was virtuous, and like lightning striking. Try this, and be sure to wait for the tabla solo beginning in the middle of the video:

At the Hilton for a charity event with silent auction. Of all that I do in my present tired and cranky state, public socializing is most taxing. But, I know the organizers and I support their work. They'll help Ann later, so I feel obliged. I don't drink and never have, a nod to my passion for control, but now I couldn't even if I wanted to change a lifetime habit. Ann has four or five of these events around the holidays and begged off. I circulated, receiving greetings from acquaintances who remember little about me except that I am sick. Most of them speak briefly with an unctuous tone that substitutes for real empathy. Having placed bids on several items that I don't really want or need, but will give to our friends should I win, I stood at the bar, sipping a ginger ale. Earlier, as I circulated, I realized that about thirty percent of the men in the crowd were gay. I knew this because I've met many of them in social settings. A friend saw me and joined me at the bar. I've known him for a long time, and he knows Ann and the history of our somewhat unusual marriage. I thought I'd found a way to make the evening less painful until a gay male couple I know casually and my friend knows well joined us. My friend had obviously at some point mentioned to the couple that I'm bisexual. The couple looked at me as if I were an accidentally caught coelacanth; they couldn't quite see what place I had in a modern ecosystem. One member of the couple was sympathetic, and, with a significant level of ethanol lubrication, tried to say that it must be hard to live as a pendulum. How do I know, the questioner almost tactfully asked, whether my compass needle is pointing to men or women at a given moment. Oh, the horror, the horror. I chose to regard the questions as born of genuine curiosity and not social incapacity. Never one to avoid a moment of possible instruction, I waded in, suggesting that I was not a pendulum, but more like the quantum mechanics description of an electron. My general state of attraction could only be described by a statement of wave-form probability that always included both men and women in varying combinations, and that only at the time of a given observation, should I invite an observer, could the result of my state of attraction be precisely defined. The couple was confused, and wandered away. My friend, unhappy with their obtuseness, said that the confusion served them right. I went home having won a couple of bottles of wine which were useless to me, but which friends will consume at holiday gatherings in our home, attended, among others, by a few other coelacanths.

Ghosts Bi_janus for MaNesha McGarrah The older ones stay in their graves or urns or old boxes hidden away, uncaring that I cared and failed. The children come, resurrected and respectful on behalf of my need. No crying or pleading tantrum, evincing patience they had not in life. They remain liminal as if, could I reach them, unreachable, they might yet be held by fathers. I see them beseech while receding from any reach I may manage. One by one now they come, well behaved and pliant, when perforce I call, so that I may grieve.

In the sixties, when my friends and I were listening to Hendrix and Clapton, I was also listening to Alice Gerrard and Hazel Dickens. These kids seem like worthy heirs. Thanks for pointing me to their work.

I warned you I'd get back to it. A number of people want me dead. I think the number has decreased over my lifetime, but still, quite a few people are in that company. They don’t just want to make my life miserable; they would really prefer I suffer a painful death. I don’t have enough economic value as a possession to warrant keeping me in servitude. Death is the solution because I may be a vector. Many of them wouldn’t publicly condemn me to death or directly participate in the killing because of vestigial moral ambiguity about who deserves that ultimate penalty, but, given the right circumstances, they would look the other way. Since the invention of writing, records of those who should be killed have been available, and the list is impressive. Most of those bound with me for the place where blood spills have run afoul of religious prohibitions or judgments. You might be listed at any moment. I’m on a list because of how I conduct my love life (it’s a very long list, and most major monotheistic traditions seem in agreement that I should be on it). The people who want me dead don’t yet have the legal means to allow them to act or have someone act for them, but that could change, and then there are some who would act anyway. Young people don’t seem as anxious to kill me, but they don’t seem interested in keeping me alive by voting either. As in most of life, my situation is a little off center. I am a man married to a woman. I must have had sex with her at least once, because we conceived and raised a child. Under oath, she would have to admit that we had a lot of sex over a forty-three year relationship. We went to PTA meetings. But, there’s also the complication; I’ve had a fair amount of sex with other men. I want to ask the moral jurists whether the acts cancel each other one for one. Or, does one act with a man put me on the list? If I lusted after or loved another man, would that be enough to get me listed even if I had never followed through? Did I pollute any true believers I pulled out of burning buildings? Since we took the “’til death do us part” thing seriously and I have married only once, while many of those who want me dead are serial marriers, do I get some slack? Or, is bisexuality the most wicked betrayal because my life looked much like theirs, so that I should be exterminated before my monosexual gay brethren? Does the fact that they may have known me and even liked me, disturb them more deeply? Does it anger them that I lived unnoticed among them or that I may have taught their children? I think this issue should be addressed in the Tea Party platform. God has been largely silent on the issue. People have written on his/her/its behalf, but I haven’t been eliminated in direct divine supernatural cataclysm. I think of the cancer as a perfectly natural process. How should I feel about the fact that some people think I should be killed? I don’t think I’ll cooperate.

Gulf storm Bi_janus for John Summer of our thirteenth year Throned on a seawall on the north end of Clearwater Beach Heating air convects clouds rising to be sheared into anvils Rushing at us lightning tongues seeking water's mouth cold air and horizon obscured look into its heart, John The door opens We fly from our perch into a maelstrom fire tongues caress our cores nearly rain blasted As desert sandstone smoothed Joined and Washed away How calm The violence, loving

A Book of Secrets: Illegitimate Daughters, Absent Fathers Michael Holroyd's collection of biographical sketches (probably his last biography) is a delightful look at an odd assortment of interesting women connected by the Italian village of Rovello, who never meet. This group includes Alice Keppel, mistress of the Prince of Wales, Eve Fairfax, Auguste Rodin's muse, and Violet Trefusis, Vita Sackville-West's lover. The chapter "Women in Love" is a nice look at women orbiting at the distant edge of the Bloomsbury Group. Tefusis and Sackville-West are one of the most interesting lesbian couples of that age. Holroyd is among the best biographers of the late twentieth century. Although illness has slowed his production, this book shines.

I'll get back to death soon. I promise. And now for something completely different: I’ve decided to use email only in the most extreme instances of inability to communicate with people in my building by other means. I've taken to walking down the corridors in the prairie dog warren where I work. Three or four minutes of attention and conversation between a colleague and me are both more satisfying and more effective than a chain of emails. Mind you, i still churn out more emails than I'd like, mostly for conversing with those in other buildings or cities or those not where I expect to find them. I'm taking this step because I found myself emailing colleagues in my own program who live seven feet away from my desk. I find that seeing the face of a colleague responding to me is important, so I've also taken to inviting colleagues to a relatively quiet space with plush chairs in the fourth floor lobby, which invites wonderfully digressive conversation lost to emails. I've also learned that the ease of emailing occasionally causes me to bother people when I really don't need to. I'm polite enough to ask if people have time to stop what they're doing to talk with me. Usually they do, and most of them have appreciated the face to face discussion, even if it takes only a minute. If they're busy, I resist the urge to email and try to see them later. At worst these small conversations result in short scheduled meetings to resolve problems or provide help. Perhaps the best result of this tactic is that my inbox has become more manageable.

Colin, Thank you. Everyone should attend poetry readings!

I've managed a lot of enjoyment and some pain in trying to figure out how to live happily, both socially and sexually, as a bisexual man. Early on, I tried threesomes, and while a triad provided a lot of advantages during sex, the social situation was almost always fraught. Often, each of my partners thought of himself or herself as having a primary relationship with me. I found trying to behave as if a primary couple existed within the little menage stressful, and eventually one or both partners would be wounded and leave. The few times these relationships really worked, they were wonderful, especially when the three of us went out and confused men and women trying to pick one of us off. Alas, most of us grow up, and for me that meant finding a nice girl and starting a family. In this case, a nice girl had to understand my sexual attraction to men with something more than desperate tolerance. Surprisingly, I found such a woman fairly quickly. Now, how was I going to avoid a life of compartments, one with my soul mate and one with other men? My wife was willing to try establishing a triad, but the work we were doing as a couple didn't allow either of us to give enough time to the guy and Ann wasn't wildly enthusiastic about trying to keep the sexual idiosyncrasies of two men straight in her mind, so the relationship sputtered out. Ann suggested that I could just have a series of sexual relationships with guys, provided I wore a full-body condom. I tried that approach for a while, and met some very good men and not a few asses. Something about these serial encounters, defined mostly by the sex, didn't meet my need for continuing intimacy with another man. Finally, my wife and I settled on the strategy of finding another man whose situation mirrored mine--working on a primary relationship with a woman, but needing a stable relationship with another man that didn't threaten the primary one. Easy, right? Either I was looking in all the wrong places, or I was inept. Apparently, there are a lot of happily heterosexually married gay guys out there. And, they would really appreciate my hanging up the phone if their wives called. After many attempts, I finally found just the right guy and he found me. We maintained a healthy relationship for many years, both of us continuing to love our primaries and raising families. The logistics were often frustrating, but we all made it work, awkward family picnics notwithstanding. Sexually this construct was not as satisfying to me as a threesome, but who gets everything he wants in life? If you're bisexual, how do or did you handle your relationships with men?

Sharing your name is an act of trust, so thank you, Ben. Usernames, pseudonyms, pen names, whatever, may hide a host of vices or virtues. As to publishing, I think consistency is most important. Regardless of what you call yourself, the name shouldn't be a moving target for publishers or readers. Then, I do have a few friends who publish under different pen names for different genres. My impression is that if you create quality (even if quality only means attracting a particular demographic), most publishers will be happy with any name you choose (unless you choose something like John Updike). Finally, any pseudonym can be cracked with enough resources. So, maybe just settling for the name you were given at birth is the best idea. This is the paragraph where the guy with the pseudonym who's been musing on your post rationalizes the fact that he uses one here, but I won't.

Hearing the Poet Bi_janus A poem is a sorcery of sound reduced to type, as old clothing fluttering on the drying line. I first read Yeats when I was ten, the cabin made and linnet's wings. I heard his voice when I was seventeen, the meter by force, chanting the Lake Isle. Now, I wish every poet's voice, chanting his song as he chanted in room or mind when he conjured its life, rippled the air between us.

This morning I'm not working because I'm going for a bone scan. Early in the morning I'll find my way to the basement of the nuclear medicine building where I'll be injected intravenously with a slightly radioactive soup that has a preference for accumulating in bone. Then about noon, I'll go back to be scanned back and front from head to toe with a gamma camera. Areas where the tumor is growing will light up brightly. Here's the fun part: Since this is by now a regular ritual, tomorrow my colleagues will all be wearing dosimeters in a kind of HazMat joke. Because the isotope is excreted in urine, I'll have to be more careful than usual not to splash at the urinal. After I pee for the first time, one of the epidemiologists will stand guard at the men's room door while my whole team, men and women, will examine the urine in the urinal with a Geiger counter. We have a one-dollar pool won by the best guess as to the reading. I've never won the pool. After forty-eight hours, I will cease to glow in the dark.

When we were in our twenties and first involved with each other, Ann told a number of her friends that I was bisexual. The friends were deeply concerned for her. The chief concern, because they doubted that bisexual men actually existed, was that I must be gay and trying to pass. Over the years and well after we married, she heard the concern so often that by the mid-eighties she developed a standard response that went like this: Checks against stereotype: Look at how he dresses! He sure as shit can’t dance. He doesn’t usually listen to show tunes. Reality checks: As Elton and Bernie phrase it, when “rolling like thunder under the covers,” it’s clear to me. Occasionally, when an attractive woman walks by, his eyes will wander, not obnoxiously but also not in a way that suggests he’s analyzing her fashion sense. Conclusion: as a one and a half dollar bill.

Soné Taizo Bi_janus Thick reddish ember-- Even as memory mixes your character You in whom They resurrected budo-- samurai's image but in your hand Bible for blade Twenty years inactive soles grown soft but tatami burned your spirit and your mirthful glance also steel Now they tell me your warm umber is gray and ash-- the whole bed of this old old passion dies dimmer still

Not to disarm you, but we' re all dying. My schedule is just a little more accelerated than most. I believe, with Daniel Servan-Schreiber that, "Death is part of the life process; everyone goes through it. It is very reassuring in itself." I am reassured and require no extra measure of sympathy (I'm very cross with anyone who extends sympathy). I'll violate social norms by sharing my thoughts as the wild part of me cannibalizes my bones. I don't spend most of my time contemplating the end (really, I'm not protesting too much), as I have life to live. I find, however, that an imminent demise (no, I haven't calendared it yet) has made me a bit nostalgic, and that I am moved to make a few observations on the process and on my life thus far. Observation number one follows. Robin Ochs has said that, while many think of heterosexual people as having lives, they describe sexual minorities as having lifestyles. Ann suggests that any word containing style can never be applied to me. I have to agree, but Ann and I have a life, albeit an unconventional one. The people who would characterize us as having a meager lifestyle do so because, while they are impelled to defend human life, they can safely refrain from defending my existence because mine is only a lifestyle. Questionable fashion sense aside, my approach to love and sex cannot be discarded like last year’s jacket or disconnected like Peter’s shadow. I have lived with heterosexuals for over sixty years and none has been tempted to don my particular orientation to life. I have known many gay men over the years, and sharing with them has never disconnected my desire for women. Assuming that I can change my spots is glib, like assuming that heterosexuals can transmute their leaden lives into the golden mien of bisexuals (really, some of my best friends are heterosexual). People who spout that glibness believe that I should be an alchemist while their natures are immutable. Then, the business of religion in the West is to dehumanize non-believers the way war propaganda dehumanizes the State’s enemies. We’re really talking about power, conformity, and fear. Perhaps, they should worry more about my deplorable fashion sense than my life.

I suppose a poem shouldn't require explication, so I'll just comment on the circumstance that caused its writing. At the beach on a blustery day, I watched a seagull standing on one leg, the wind ruffling its feathers, which stuck out in all directions. Eventually, the bird rested with its breast against the sand.

The boy confused Bi_janus for Ann The meter is inexact He can’t find a rhyme In this landscape He tries, I distract him for a time Why him he thinks He, pupils dilated, wanting you has written the play The boy frustrated when he hears your cue He must take us to have you

Seagull on a breezy Pacific shore Bi_janus Sometimes on one At others none. Absurd dandelion.

The episode, "Random Shoes," in the first season is as close to X-Files quality as anything I've seen. If you like musical theater, find some of John Barrowman's performances. He doesn't have the greatest vocal range, but he's a more than fair performer.

If you're a fan of camp sic-fi, you should try Torchwood, especially the first two seasons. The BBC series was produced by Russell Davies, who also produced and wrote much of Queer as Folk. The main character, Captain Jack Harkness, is an omnisexual human who can't die. Sample dialogue from the episode "Meat," in which members of the Torchwood team search for humans who are butchering an alien spices and selling the meat: Gwen: "You ever eaten alien meat?" Jack: "Yeah." Gwen: "What was it like?" Jack: "Well, he seemed to enjoy it."