Isherwood and Auden

This is my first image on this blog. And I'm glad it's this one, because I like it and it's not tawdry.

It's Christopher Isherwood and W.H. Auden, reclining together in some garden, or in some park. I don't know where it is, but somehow I like to think it's San Francisco or Los Angeles.

Isherwood looks great, as he always did, but even Auden looks good. (Didn't we ALL at one time?)

I love this photo because they were both very eloquent men, and both VERY gay. You know that they weren't messing around, but were well aware of their inclinations (god, how I hate that word!) and LOVED MEN, but also LOVED WORDS!

And that makes this photo even sexier to me.

Also, I love their style, their pose, and their... okay, once again, THEIR STYLE!!!

Quentin Crisp was certainly a 'poofter' but he was right about everything he said, especially style.

The nose and hairstyle on Isherwood are fabulous. More men look like that every day in Portland, if only they'd don the suits. Auden looks dorkishly sexy... those big ears and wallflower-pensive gaze are so fuzzy. Damn he was a fucking amazing poet, too!

I hope they got plenty laid.

Reunited

After only two entries, I lost this blog site for months... my own, which is strange, I know... but having such an un-catchy title I'd forgotten my own witty device.

Yet here I am, once again:

So much to say, yet so little. Always the same as this. I crawl an inch forward, and then am shoved back by some existential hand and told, "No! You get back in line, maggot!" And I, always the obeyer, slink back into emptiness and feeling less until the cracked shell hath mended itself, sealed itself shut, and I'm once again embryonic.

A face swims in my eye-hole. A handsome face. It towers and then shrinks... vanishes for days... then is relived. The face is a man's (no surprise) and wispy, wistful, weeping, waifish, willowy, wan, and wonderlicious. All those W things. It's always my distant lover coming back to haunt me. A grand autopsy of all that's come before, and visions (lusts!) of what's to come in the future. That is, if anything EVER comes again.

Catty, tawny (yes these adjectives continue), jester-like, sprite-like, wayfarer-hippie-dippy-like, long haired, long cocked, long eye lashes, long lisped... continue onward and this shit could get DULL! Cool, un-attached, dark, light, happy, twisted, hopeful, despondent... no wonder I'm never satisfied.

The face swims and I find it throughout my day, and into my night world. But a face is only a sliver, a sickle moon. So little, yet pronouncing so much.


Okay, enough of that! Had to get the juices flowing with some automatic writing.