Frere du Coeur

 

It’s been told that when Oscar Wilde spoke at the Masonic Temple in Louisville in 1882 several single men, presumably frères du coeur, wore green carnations (Wilde’s favorite flower at the time) to show their fraternity. Essentially, it was the Rainbow Flag of its day. I can’t help but wonder how many of those boutonnieres met up someplace later that evening — just to revel and relive the evening of course.

Some 126 years later, I was searching on line for fleur de lys images and came across a chartreuse fleur de lys graphic. Look to the right. For some reason I was wildly ecstatic, but I’m not quite sure why. Yes, I love fleurs de lys – evidenced by the multitude of stuff I own with the symbol, and I’ve even have a blue one inked into my left bicep. The color of the tattoo is significant because blue irises are my favorite flower.

Like one of the lost boys, I cut a whistle out of a tree limb and dance to my own music. I much prefer heather to forsythia, devil’s trumpets to morning glories, rubies to diamonds, and silver to yellow gold. I’m most at home in the night and can live either in the complete concrete jungle of the city or the remote isolation of the wilderness. The suburbs, however, all but give me the hives, and I grew up in them. Come to think of it, maybe growing up in the suburbs is the reason they all but give me the hives.

While I’m quite anxious to see what 2012 brings, I’m hoping that it will, like the Chalice in the Rings, be a little off center.

Mousquetaire

The Three Musketeers is now available in a comic book series from Marvel! For some reason, this thrills me. I mentioned this to a friend last night, and her immediate response was to ask if it was a smuty version. Um, no.

The idea tossed and turned all night and all day, so that now my imagination is in full gear. I think that an erotic of Mousquetaires de la Garde adventure would be fun — provided they are gay musketeers. So, I’m off to research the real monde du mousquetaire. We’ll see what turns up. Off the top of my head I can assume there will be a Gothic cathedral and a fleur de lys or three — on a prostituée française perhaps.

Got Pride?

While Kentuckiana PrideFest still has a few hours before it’s over for another year, Jack’s time at Pride is done. I was totally surprised by the Gospel-esque music that was going on for a good while when I came in. The guy at the Free Thinkers booth hoped (as did I) that they were going to move to something secular — soon.

Where else but a gay pride event would the music turn from religious to the Scissor Sisters — yes with segue. And Babycakes, the over twenty-one winner of the limbo contest was quite hot (maybe it was from all the binding over backwards he did). The barmasters in brightly coloured, plastic mini-grass skirts were totally worth standing in line for. So, Jack has a thing for barkeeps. Did we not already know this? The custom fleur de lys t-shirt from Dirty Teaseis a grand addition to my wardrobe. It’s a bleu fleur on a black shirt. I also kidded with one of their peeps that his “I Suck” t-shirt needed to say “I Swallow.” Or to go with the one that had a rooster and a lollipop (that the lesbians had trouble with) it could have an eye with the bird on it.

I sported an Obama sticker, picked up assorted pens, another shirt that says Fuh Q, and assorted papers, pamphlets, and fliers. And signed up to win all matter of goodies — hear comes the SPAM.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After much searching, I found the booth for the Louisville Trailblazers, met a woman whose owner had wandered off as well as a guy whom she described as a “sick fuck.” Yep, Jack’s quite at home here. I did manage to  get their meeting times and place. Let’s say there’s a barstool awaiting my imprint. In the process, I played their duck game and won a rubber Leather Pride wrist band. 

 

Fare Box

Geof walked along the quiet street in the bleak hours before the lamp of heaven shown his light upon the urban landscape. He loved this time of the morning when he was all but alone in the city. His shiny, black wing tips beat a staccato on the grey concrete and caught the light from the amber lams lining the street. Putting a doe-skin gloved hand into the pocket of his black leather trench coat he pulled out his cell phone to check the time and fantasized that his return trek would leave foot prints in newly fallen, lake effect snow. Peace and tranquility enveloped him. At this moment, he knew that the gods were in their heaven and all was right with the world.

He turned the corner from his upscale neighborhood and headed toward the less sterile streets to catch his bus. Spoon fed the Napoleon Code, his parents had expected him to become an attorney, but he’d taken a different route. In his less agreeable times, he blatantly plagiarized Frost. Today he was in a good mood and would say that he loved fiction and poetry as much as a judge reveled in a well written brief. Forgoing the tedium of torts, he’d taken up the esteemed profession of editor of a small publishing house. It didn’t offer a six figure salary, but it was enough to live a decent existence that when augmented by a well endowed trust fund and combined with a lifepartner of six years who’d had sense to pass the bar, his was a life style to which most people could become accustomed.

His thoughts were broken by the sound of steps coming toward him. “Amigo,” a voice called to him with no trace of Latino heritage. “Can you spare some change to help me get a cup of coffee?”

Geof recoiled and muttered something about being out of change. Before there was time for further encounter, his bus rounded the corner, his transit pass hastily shown, and he was whisked off into the pre-dawn Downtown of glass and steel and sanitized dirt. Sinking into the seat, he ran a hand through his blond hair and closed his cobalt eyes to block out the world. It wasn’t fear of attack that struck him. He stood just under six feet and was muscled from his hours at the gym and cocktails of creatine and whey protein. White liberal guilt enveloped him. He couldn’t place what he felt. Then his epiphany struck him. He realized how close he was to being that man. A wrong choice anywhere in his own life and he could be asking for quarters on the street.

The bus came to his stop, and he alighted. The indie coffee shop shown like a beacon. He walked in as he did every morning. As the barista mixed his red eye, another layer of stone encased his heart.

Love’s Labor

This is a little embarrassing to admit to. I have a hang-up about thespians. It’s not that I don’t like them as people. I am both prejudiced and not. The one’s I’ve known have generally be really great people – I think. There’s the rub, as Shakespeare might say, I always wonder if they’re being genuine or acting. An actor friend I work with responded to my query on the topic one day by looking me straight in the eye and asking “Have you ever been confused about where I stand?” Well, no. But on the other hand I’ve wondered on a few occasions if she is as hyped, depressed, angry, etc. as she appears. Fortunately the situation has not come up – yet, but it’s worth thinking about. Would I date an actor? Honestly, I’m frightened of the prospect. Mind you, I’ve said neither yes nor no.

In one of our philosophical conversations a friend blithely pointed out that a stockbroker can be a good actor but not in it as a profession or advocation, and I’d not have a clue. At least with a practicing actor, I surmised, I’d know up front. It’s something we could talk through. Then my friend mentioned that my preferred method of communicating is the written word – implying, I suppose, that like Hesiod’s Muses, I know how to tell beautiful lies that seem true. Hmm, it was a punch but above the belt.

And what if the Lily Prince just happens to be an actor? I need to find resolution and exorcize the demon before I make a grand mistake.

Lys Vert

 

It’s been told that when Oscar Wilde spoke at the Masonic Temple in Louisville in 1882 several single men, presumably frères du coeur, wore green carnations (Wilde’s favorite flower at the time) to show their fraternity. Essentially, it must have been the Rainbow Pride insignia of its day. I can’t help but wonder how many of those boutonnieres met up someplace later that evening.

Some 126 years later, I was searching on line for fleur de lys images and came across the chartreuse graphic. For some reason I was wildly ecstatic, but I’m not quite sure why. Yes, I love fleurs de lys –evidenced by the multitude of stuff I own with the symbol, and I’ve even have a blue one inked into my left bicep. The color of the tattoo is significant because blue irises are my favorite flower.

Like one of the lost boys, I cut a whistle out of a tree limb and dance to my own music. I much prefer heather to forsythia, devil’s trumpets to morning glories, rubies to diamonds, and silver to yellow gold. I’m most at home in the night and can live either in the complete concrete jungle of the city or the remote isolation of the wilderness. The suburbs, however, all but give me the hives, and I grew up in them. Come to think of it, maybe growing up in the suburbs is the reason they all but give me the hives.

While I’m quite anxious to see what 2008 brings, I’m hoping that it will, like the Chalice in the Rings, be a little off center.

Places Found

The newly reopened, remodeled or whatever they call it, Henry Clay Hotel is full of surprises. I was introduced to the place last weekend when I went to see the latest play staged by Pandora Productions (http://www.pandoraprods.org/). There are some really great shops on the street level. Kentucky Backroads Gifts and Gallery is wonderful — and sells a line of fleur de lys wares that’s awesome. I’m also enamored with the current show — painting of ballet dancers. I also discovered that Wildflowers has opened in the old Kentucky Theatre. It’s my favorite florist in all the Land. I really do mean that.

And as I walked down Fourth Street, I thought that though early by my standards, I wouldn’t mind a beer. There’s a micro-brewery in town called Bluegrass Brewing Company (http://www.bbcbrew.com/index.php), and the one on Theatre Square (a part of Fourth Street) has a window (like a garage door) that opens onto the Square. While I’ve eaten at there a few times, I’ve never done a curb-side order. With the really nice temperatures the window and open, and I walked up for a Dark Star — my favorite of their line. There were some decent football games on, so I stood there with my foot on the rail watching a game and being both part of the crowd in the bar but completely separate. After a little casual and harmless flirting with the barkeep, I was on my way. Not bad for a fiver. And I’ll be going back — soon.

Art Fair & UnFair

St. James is always the signal to me that Fall has come – except today when it was at least 90 degrees. I was glad I’d chosen a pair of thin shorts and had foresight enough to wear an a-shirt under my t-shirt, so I didn’t have a huge sweat patch on my chest or back. But it checks those years when it’s damp and barely above freezing, and the Sun is a great counter balance to those years it rains torrents. To put it succinctly, I saw, was seen, spent far more money than I’d intended, and throughly enjoyed myself.

I’m always astounded by how good beer from a truck at a festival tastes. There’s no reason that it should taste any better (or worse for that matter) than any other time. Maybe it’s because the open container laws are ignored. Perhaps, like the bar liquor, there’s something magical about drinking it someplace besides home. I guess there is a possibility that there is something that really does make it taste better.

Sicut lilium inter spinas, sic amica mea inter lilias.

While researching for a story last night, I found two must have shirts – both with a fleur de lys motif. One is a polo that I can wear to work. The graphic is done with Mardi Gras beads. The second is a t-shirt with a flaming fleur de lys on it. I’m not sure what began this fixation with the design. It’s one of those things that is. I didn’t find any boxers with a fleur on them, that’s okay. I also found that flower-de-luce is another term. I might have to use the symbol in the story – possibly on the shield of Basileus. The tale was inspired by a scene in The Merchant of Venice. Roughly Basaileus travels to Basporus to win the hand of young Byzas. Yes, they are both men, and Basileus means king. Well, I said I was a classicist running head strong into post modernity didn’t I? However, my research isn’t done, so I’m not going to say more. Oh, and the friends I was out with last week totally approved of my moniker Silver Star Sodimite. Too bad we didn’t think to ask Kippie what she thought. Damn!

La Petite Morte

Yes, I died the Little Death
I hope you died one too
You took all that I had
And gave me all of you