Tremble!

August 27, 2014

Dream about Larkin – 24 August

I am sweetly blessed by last night’s dream/vision of Larkin. I had managed to doze off with the help of Royal Gate, around 1:25 AM. Slept like a log, if you understand how light sleepers like me (living over one of the noisiest street corridors in the city) usually have a most difficult time of it. And for those who think sleep deprivation is a stupid joke upon the low-income (or at best a plot line for the latest heterocentered sitcom)…please know that a prolonged period of wakefulness causes disruption of sane faculties, and distancing of family, friends and all other loved ones. Or IOW:

This is no laughing matter, you evil dickwads!

Yet as a gay-focused shaman, clinical insomnia inspires visions that can only be acquired by such psychic starvation. Thus gave me this awesome, sweet dream last night:

I step into an obviously gay bar, though it’s barely more than a converted two-door L-shaped garage that is nicely carpeted, and decked out in astounding bric-a-bracs, paintings and other sorts of art (such as miniature Athenian statues, Spartan relics and Corinthian columns).

Comprising the foot of this “L” is a back room that allows four drinking customers on the long side, and two more on the short. Larkin is seated against the wall on the far end of the counter, with one vacant perch to his immediate left. Someone’s leather jacket is slung over the chair in disarray, yet I sense that I can freely claim the seat as my own.

Seeing as he does not gesture that it’s a bad moment to be seen with him, I occupy that vacant spot with tremendous pride. He neither hugs nor greets me (as I so strongly desire), yet his eyes sparkle with a welcoming joy beyond measure. I glance back at him in gratitude, awash with his subtle compassion. His fiery golden irises sparkle with joy at the mere presence of Yours Truly, and I almost dissolve in ecstasy. (No question he is not about to humiliate and drive me out by wicked slander…as were his previous interactions since early 2013.)

[ Among the myriad important lessons Larkin has taught me, Oh Drymarchon Reader, is this: to enjoy the company of one so beloved, it is not necessary to utter a single word. In fact, verbal exchange tends to water down the miracle of such bonding. ]

When the bartender (a handsome, spiky gray-haired fellow of approx’ly 62 years old but nonetheless “cute”) arrived, he began flinging little receipts like fortune-cookie strips though with more cardboard-like resilience, to each of his customers including myself. I wondered what-the-fuk is going on, so pick up one, then two, receipts:

“Next drink, $3 off!” (and the other) “Next drink, $2 off!”

So I order a vodka-tonic from the barkeep, after handing him a “$3 off” ticket. At the same moment I’m grasping for my wallet, only to discover that it’s not there, so I probably left it at hovel. I sigh and apologize to the mixology PhD:

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. But it looks like I forgot to take my wallet when I stepped out. So please cancel that order.”

He does, and as I depart for The Stygian Outlands, I pause just before the exit, and prod my pants once more…only to discover my billfold in an extended pocket towards the rump side of my khakis. Realizing that I could now enjoy one or two tonics alongside Larkin’s angelic presence, I turn about to regain my seat.

Yet the greater bar landscape just short of the entrance, is now obstructed by a curved, metallic fence like a tractor grill: no space to get around it, but for a narrow wedge clogged up by lingering patrons. Though strenuous, I manage to force my way back to the bar (after more than 5 minutes’ struggle)…wondering if it really is later than I thought, and last-call already happened. Finally return to my chair, with a stranger’s jacket still hung loosely over the backrest…though Larkin is nowhere to be seen. I’m more than elated, however, to occupy a space where he had only recently sat beside, and graced me with sweet attention.

The same bartender who flung out the bargain slips is no longer there, replaced by a shorter dude who turns out to be a butch dyke of slim stature and close-cropped hair. So I lean across the bar to make my appeal:

“Look, the barkeep before you was offering 2-and-3 dollar reductions on well drinks, and I was about to order only to discover I left my wallet at home…or so I thought. But before stepping out, I found the wallet in another pocket. So here I am a few minutes later, wondering if you can provide the same bargains. But if you can’t, no problem, I’m glad to purchase a coupla drinks at full price.

The friendly (and handsome) dyke kindly shrugs her shoulders to declare: “I can do that, no problem!”

That is when I woke up late at night (around 3:15 AM) beneath the glaring street lamps that infuse my windows. Two faux wax candles (one placed on the topmost shelf of Desk #2, the other on a colorfully decorated hexagonal cabinet just three feet tall and to my immediate left) flickered with a honey-yellow light powered by two double-A batteries in each base. And I thanked Our Creator for this lovely vision.

I stirred cozily in the bedding, wishing to resume the dream. But seconds later, my building began to rumble. And I realized: EARTHQUAKE! I trembled a bit, wondering if I should move or stay…knowing that if the windows shattered, I’d be a goner. Nowhere to escape to a safer spot, as I inhabit a humble SRO. But no sooner did this cross my mind, than it ended. Though it was quite a roller. (Later I learned there was a 6.1 temblor north of here, epicenter 60 miles away, near Napa, at 3:20 AM.)

Then, instead of panicking from the tectonic rumble (and getting up to have a smoke and turn on my laptop for distraction) I rolled over swaddled in the peaceful thought that Larkin manifested a quake solely to express his profound adoration of This Weary-But-Lovestruck Soul. It wasn’t till the next day, late in the afternoon, that I recalled something I said to Jonathan four days ago:

“My world always rocks whenever I see Larkin!”

I have never before described My Most Treasured Amigo in that way. Yet somehow he knows that, and sent me a direct message through the dream, quickly followed by an earthshaking event.

[ Gracilariidae Reader: some might claim that I'm compensating for the loss of a friend by cooking up a vision in my subconscious, that I may prolong a joy that truly once was there, but is no longer. However, I beg to differ. It is my firm belief that The Earthquake Dream is a genuine omen. And a good omen. That Larkin felt my heart-tugs to end these trials, and bring us together once more, in blissful bromance. So he, in His Own Dragonly Manner, manifested this dream and brought it to artistic perfection with a real-life earthquake. I am either greatly loved, or greatly cursed. ]


A Cautionary Email

August 23, 2014

From: A Friend of Bryan
To: Zeke Krahlin
Date: Mon, 18 Aug 2014 13:28:30
Subject:
ZekeBlog 2.0 Comment

I’ve just read your ‘Another One Bites the Faery Dust‘ and hope that you take a little of your apparent precious time to read my note to you in response.

I apologize you never got the chance to know Bryan. I am truly sorry that you apparently haven’t been able to come to terms with your own apparent issues which after reading your blog you do in fact have. Otherwise people wouldn’t disregard you or invalidate you. I’m sorry that for some reason in your sad little life you feel you have the right to judge others merely by their appearance.

I would tell you about Bryan and could probably give you some insight into why you may have gotten some of the responses that you received or say you received from him. I can tell you that he was far from wealthy in a monetary sense. But he was apparently much wealthier than you’ll ever hope to be in the fact that he was loved and cared for by so many both in San Francisco as well as back home in Michigan.

Are you sure it wasn’t a reflection of yourself staring at you with soulless eyes because everytime I looked into his they were comforting and welcoming.

I believe you Zeke are just a hateful, narcissistic being and hope that nothing like this ever happens to you.

And if it does I’m certain that someone will be blogging ‘Good riddance’ to your existance and that they “Never gave a fuk” about you.

As for a Mama’s boy, I will give you that much. Yes he was, right up until she died 7 years ago while Bryan and I held her hand.

Don’t judge, get off your soapbox as you are no better than anyone else. You obviously know this and it just makes you feel better to insult others. I apologize that you’ll never know love because if you did you damn sure wouldn’t be the hateful son of a bitch that you are now.



Date: Mon, 18 Aug 2014 14:06:36
Subject:
Re: ZekeBlog 2.0 Comment
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Friend of Bryan

That’s okay you are upset with me. I am attempting to dredge out certain reactions by community residents. As assistant to a detective, I play the decoy. There is a cult connected with this murder which my associate and I have been pursuing for almost nine years now. More than half were busted in 2007…but the remaining goons have migrated to the Castro.

Which is where I’ve been living since 1983. The detective has moved less than a block from me, for my protection. This cult intentionally spreads tragedy and mayhem through gay neighborhoods, many of whom are gay themselves.. I have to come off as a pathetic flake in order to protect myself, as well as catch some suspects off guard. They have already killed several of my friends since 2008, and have frightened other potential friends away from me. Thanks to this cult, I’ve been existing in virtual social isolation, except for my detective buddy.

AFAICT all remaining cult members will soon be rounded up and thrown into prison. They are the main reason the Castro presently suffers a dangerous uptick in violent crime.

Anyways, my apologies for getting you caught in a bit of crossfire.


From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Friend of Bryan
Date: Tue, 19 Aug 2014 10:17:09
Subject:
Re: ZekeBlog 2.0 Comment

A Friend of Bryan wrote:

{{ My apologies for the many insults. As no one should know your position, neither did I. It’s still very much raw as I’m sure you’ve experienced and can imagine.

Good luck to you }}

No problem,I don’t blame you one bit. Bringing out anger in a group is one tactic that helps flush out suspects. My scathing remarks against Bryan will be removed in two weeks…that’s plenty long for my purpose. Then, I’ll repost that blog entry and give him honors.

I am very concerned about two of my homeless friends out there, considering the violence going on. They are both great guys and are moving ahead with their lives…and I’m very proud of them. Wouldn’t even know they’re homeless at this point, they’re so clean and considerate. Last thing I need is to lose them, too. In fact, I wrote about one of ‘em in that piece which includes Bryan. It’s at the very end section called “ThankDragon for Trace.”

It is not that you shouldn’t know about my activities, I am at the tail end of a long and crazy journey, and it is okay for me to reveal /some/ of what I do. IOW, I’m pretty much outta the woods now. FYI, my first book is out, and the reader learns how I stumbled onto this cult, and a wonderful man who I discover is a detective. All true, with my own flights of fancy interjected. You may read it for free online, at:

http://www.gay-bible.org/free

One purpose of that book (though there are many others) is to expose this cult and cease their misery.

Book 2 is also up there, so is Book 3 (a work in progress). I am actually greatly blessed and honored that kismet brought me such adventures, and a great love in this handsome detective, whose real name is Larkin Kelsey…though in Book 1, I use the pseudonym “Arwyn Miles”…and made him 6-foot-7 instead of his actual 6-foot-4. He gave me permission to use his real name starting with Book 2. It is my dream to use the profits off my publications to open a home for severely disabled LGBT veterans. And employ good people on the streets for whatever position suits them (cooks, companions, drivers, gardeners, accountants, etc.).

Those followers of my WordPress blog can keep up with my present adventures…most of which will be put into Book 3. But here are some tales there you might enjoy (in chronological order):

But It Won’t Make Me Happy
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/02/18/but-it-wont-make-me-happy/

A Little Lizard’s Lament
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/03/22/a-little-lizards-lament/

Letter to Zachary
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/06/01/letter-to-zachary/

He Shoved Me Again!
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/06/23/he-shoved-me-again/

I’m a Decoy for the SFPD!
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/06/26/im-a-decoy-for-the-sfpd/

Four Times in One Day
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/07/12/four-times-in-one-day/

The Misery & The Ecstasy
http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/08/02/the-misery-the-ecstary/

Some of my blog readers BTW, are members of the SFPD. For in my tales I often include details about the homeless, both the good and the bad. That their work may be eaiser to fulfill, in as compassionate a way as possible. Again, you have nothing to be sorry for, standing up for a good friend. My role is a most awkward (and often thankless) task…though the rewards will be immense, and will benefit not only myself, but gay folks at large.

Blessed be!

- Zeke Krahlin


From: A Friend of Bryan
To: Zeke Krahlin
Date: Tue, 19 Aug 2014 16:23:58
Subject:
Re: ZekeBlog 2.0 Comment

I did in fact read just about everything on your page yesterday trying to in a sense figure you out. Bryan’s mother was my best friend and sadly her time was cut very short as well. I became very close to him in the time she was in the hospital and drew what strength I needed to get through that ordeal from him. She made me her POA which is not easy for anyone but given she was married, had 4 children, 2 brothers and a sister it made things a little more difficult given the remarks and the second guessing.

Knowing him the way I did and knowing the demons that he constantly fought I was obviously immediately livid when I read your blog. If you do in fact work with the detectives out there and are familiar with this case then I’m certain you’re aware of said demons as well. There were times he was a little rough around the edges but I never knew him to take those feelings out on anyone but himself so I hope you see where I’m coming from and I look forward to reading the reposted version. Thank you for the links, and for the insight. I really do appreciate it and I will check them out when I get home.

Have a beautiful evening Zeke.


From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Friend of Bryan
Date: Tue, 19 Aug 2014 18:20:14
Subject:
Re: ZekeBlog 2.0 Comment

A Friend of Bryan wrote:

{{ I did in fact read just about everything on your page yesterday trying to in a sense figure you out. Your empathic nature is /most/ impressive…and I thank you for bearing with me. }}

I will soon compose a very sweet memorial to Bryan, though I hardly knew him. And I promise: I am /not/ deceiving you, it /will/ show up on that blog entry by Sept. 1, if not earlier. In fact, I’ll send you the redaction soon as I complete it, which I will be working on tonight and tomorrow.

Yes, I work with a detective, a private eye hired by the SFPD. They needed an outside gumshoe, because some members of this cult /are/ San Francisco cops. How I stumbled into this cult, and became a detective’s assistant is an amazing story in its own right. I do /not/ get any remuneration for my good works…but in the long run I will. Though what really matters is righting egregious wrongs, even if I wind up homeless.

What is strange (and remarkable) is that I found a “gray hoodie” near Duboce Park, the next day after the murder of Bryan. The suspect was described as wearing a gray hoodie. That next day (Monday, July 18) I was strolling through Duboce Park on the way back home. At Noe & 15th I found a discarded jacket. It was a thin-leather outer shell, with a gray-hoodie lining. And in such perfect, new condition, I couldn’t understand why anyone would discard it.

Now, with some hindsight after learning of Bryan’s demise, I /do/ comprehend. Though it may not be the same jacket that the criminal wore, I wonder if any witness just noticed the gray hood and not the black leather that covered the jacket itself…thus, described it as a “gray hoodie.” It was only yesterday that I considered this possibility, and a shiver went up my spine.

But before this realization, I passed on this jacket to a dear street friend, whom I shall call “Trace” in my tales. Now, I wonder if the street thug will spot his jacket on my buddy, and attack him, too. Life is quite bizarre, and this is not the first time I have been thrust into an extraordinary circumstance. Though I have faith that Trace shall not be victimized. In the sense that even the worst souls on this planet must be liberated and forgiven for their heinous deeds.Therefore I interpret this “jacket” episode as a sign of some sort of spiritual liberation for the perpetrator. But I will also tell you this:

From the recent wisdom I have gained about Life’s Workings, no one really suffers the horrid acts of violence and murder…in fact, no one actually /dies/, but is shunted to another sphere of heavenly peace before such an incident occurs. Whereby angels replace their souls and act out the remainder of their deathly throes…that we, as external observers, can learn compassion and long suffering without any person actually experiencing such horror.

Most folks get quite upset at the claims I just made to you in the above paragraphs. Understandable, ’cause it does get complicated. But I conclude that if God (or Goddess or the Great Spirit or Spaghetti Monster or what have you) is truly compassionate, he or she would /never/ allow any human being to go through such nasty outcomes. What I am saying implies thusly to Bryan:

Well before he was attacked and killed, his soul departed to a heavenly existence. And an angel’s spirit occupied his shell of a body during the time he was brutally destroyed. Thus, we (as observers) may suffer his loss and hopefully learn to be more loving towards others, not just our close friends, but strangers as well. For it is my belief at this point, that if Our Creator (or Universal Mind) is a truly loving God, this is how he teaches us to grow kinder and more concerned about /all/ people on this planet.

This philosophy of a benevolent creator I have expounded upon in my essay “NeoPositivity, a Gay Religion” which you may read here:

http://gay-bible.org/write/4_neopositivity.htm

This wisdom has made things so much easier to help bust a cult that I stumbled onto more than seven years ago. And realize that, while I might experience a close call now and then, I will always be perfectly fine. Take this as you will, I don’t expect every single person to understand where I’m coming from. In fact, most people /don’t/. But in these last several years of personal experiences, this ideology has proven itself to me, 100% of the time, to be the absolute truth.

While realization to the greater part of humanity will prove to be a godsend to many long-suffering and sweet-natured souls.

I will not tell Trace of my suspicion about where that jacket came from, as it will probably freak him out and cause him to get rid of it. There is great joy for me to part with something which I valued greatly. Due to his incredible achievements in overcoming the brutality of surviving the streets, to present him with such a lovely gift I know will do wonders for his ultimate success.

And that, perhaps, is the liberating aspect of one who has committed a grisly crime.

Yours truly,

Zeke


FACEBOOK MESSAGE TO BRASUS – August 19

IT HAS OCCURRED TO ME that one of your “friends” on Facebook may have discouraged you from my posting to your page. Because I noticed someone in your list who is /not/ a very nice man. He is part of a clique that has for years denigrated me, and chased any potential friend or lover away (by instilling fear in them against me). I know who it is, and can tell you in person. His name starts with a “W” (whether first or last I will not say in this message).

The fact that you still keep me off your FB page indicates that someone may have spoken bad about me. You made a rather suspicious excuse for not re-friending me: “Oh, you needed a few days off from getting back on” (I paraphrase). That doesn’t make any sense…because I didn’t. I know myself better than you or anyone else. (Except perhaps Larkin, for he /is/ my Guardian Dragon.)

Another excuse you recently made for distancing yourself from me, is that you had some ex-wife BS to deal with, and you “needed your own space” for a while. I also need to vent on something you said about what “friendship” means:

You stated that the employees at Bean There /are/ my friends. Nope. They are friendly ’cause that is good for business…and I’m sure they’re nice people outside of work. But the point I tried to make (though you stormed off and slammed the door before I could) is this:

FRIENDS DO THINGS TOGETHER, HANG OUT, ENJOY EACH OTHERS COMPANY.

These Bean There workers are not people I spend time with in any way, shape or form. Not a one has invited me to hang out with him (or her). Therefore:

THEY ARE NOT FRIENDS, THEY ARE FRIENDLY ACQUAINTANCES.

But I think you already know this, thus I am suspicious of your /real/ motives.

The people in this neighborhood and city are, for the most part, disgusting. They have compartmentalized me into social isolation…none speak well of me. In spite of my /many/ years’ devotion to LGBT rights. Though friendly enough to my face…they have never introduced me to their other friends as a veteran gay activist and author of many years. Nor do they /ever/ run up to greet me, or present themselves with a genuine smile. An indication they’d rather have nothing to do with me, and wish me to disappear.

Such social invisibility makes me quite vulnerable to thugs roaming the streets at night…as they choose those who appear vulnerable and friendless. IOW I am an easy mark for their homophobia.

So other long term residents such as Linda (laundromat manager), Guy (who sells flowers at Noe & 15th) and Les (who runs the liquor/grocery store just across the street from Guy)…are potential murderers. They isolate good people like me, that I may become more susceptible to violent attacks. Hoping of course to eliminate me w/o any mark of blood on their hands. And such deplorable behavior is how a neighborhood can be more readily manipulated by this cult I’ve described to you numerous times.

In fact, I’d say that such 2-faced neighbors are willful members of this cult. Know the saying: “God forgive them, for they know not what they do?” Well, what strikes me as particularly evil about these dirtbags, is they KNOW what they do!


FACEBOOK MESSAGE TO BRASUS – August 20

FURTHERMORE: The only thing you’ve said to me, the only thing you’ve posted back to me after my numerous FB messages is “I love you, Zeke.” Do you think that ameliorates every question I’ve put before you?

You deny me the respect of speaking my opinion after thrusting verbal kok down my throat, then slamming the door in my face, so I can’t speak up. Larkin has done the same to me, as have many others. Causing me tremendous frustration, anger and grief. So I’m left to do what…vent myself via FB messaging, never knowing whether or not you even read them? For all I know, you’ve blocked me; or if not, just delete them immediately. Same pattern as Larkin, whose roommate told me he doesn’t even read my letters, just tosses them into the garbage unopen. Very beautiful tales which he’s inspired, some of which you’ve already seen.

When I tried to speak truth to you, you rudely interjected: “That’s /your/ reality, not mine!” Which is simply and purely HOGWASH. For I was speaking about friendship, and your definition of this was way too broad a term to hold any validity. I was explaining UNIVERSAL HUMAN TRUTH that does not vary from one person’s reality to another. I pointed out that you already /have/ solid and true friends via family and other long term associations. I do not. Therefore, it is an easy thing for /you/ to claim many friends in the city after only being here several months.

You can /enjoy/ superficial friendships because you already have a base of /real/ friends to lean on. But in /my/ case, all I’ve ever known are friendly acquaintances who disappear almost as quickly as they appear. Therefore, not having any true friends in my life causes great suffering and isolation for me…when you add up all the /years/ it’s been that way for yours truly. San Francisco is a highly transient city, which exacerbates this lonely situation immensely, especially for low-income people like myself.

I find it curious that when I asked if you’ve read my messages, you made up some faux excuse about how the Facebook app seems to disrupt viewing my posts. While I suggested you switch to a more reliable FB app, “Tinfoil,” I really don’t believe you.


ONE LAST POSTCARD TO LARKIN (I THINK, BUT YOU KNOW HOW THAT GOES) – August 20


FACEBOOK MESSAGE TO BRASUS – August 20 (later same day)

I noticed your notes on the back porch…very impressive. There has been a lovely tradition in 2306 of leaving nice items on the back porch for others to enjoy. But the last few building managers have pretty much put the kibash on this tradition. You understand what’s going on. Your reprimanding residents for not separating their trash is also spot on. Just because they have money to toss around, does not give them carte blanche to not cooperate in an important ecological movement (which is nothing less than saving this planet).

It is my conclusion there are one or more residents performing acts that make the manager think I’m the culprit. So that he will turn his anger upon yours truly, and get me evicted. Which will, of course, backfire. I just want to say thank you.

YOU HAVE BIG BALLS, BRASUS (and maybe some day I’ll get to lick them all night long).


UPDATE AUGUST 22

So today I discover that Brasus has blocked me from his Facebook page, the only way he allowed me to communicate with him other than knocking (or leaving a message) on his door. Guess he can’t take the truth…which I believe I presented in as compassionate a way as possible. I therefore conclude he’s another one of your Castro Clone Losers. Fitting in for the acceptance of Upper Middle Class Queers who control the city, and exclude and spit on the remaining poor who are mostly homeless. With the exception of a few “gracious” benefactors who lavish the street urchins with the occasional jacket, socks, cigerettes, tina and what have you. Such as you, Brasus.

Obviously he has sold out to the many arrogant ciliques abounding the Gay Community here in Sf, and most likely in every liberal city of America if not the world. So now I’m stuck with a possibly aggressive enemy as my next door neighbor (206) right here in 2306 Market Street.

But I signed on with a new Facebook account via another gmail profile. Sure enough, his “page not available” that came up with my standard email, this time around presented the Full Monty. Ergo, the fukker’s shitting all over me. So much for having a kind ally for a neighbor. Silly me to ever expect such a nice thing to ever really occur. So I left him two sticky-notes on his apartment door:




ADDENDUM (FACEBOOK CHAT)

Zeke:

Revision completed, safe to put it up now. Redactions begin right after his photo. It’s not “glowing” praise, but a fairer rendering of Bryan, and the tragedy of our community’s elitism. Here’s an anchor link to take you right to the Bryan Higgins section: http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2014/08/17/youre-a-bad-boy-brasus/#faerydust.


Friend of Bryan:

Not “glowing” but IMO a bazillion times better than what I read that led me to you originally. I hope you don’t mind that I shared a portion of one of your emails on my Facebook page. It was and is extremely comforting to think he didn’t suffer per se. I was talking to his uncle and didn’t have the exact verbiage but sent him the portion I shared and he feels the same. To attempt to explain Bryan’s ‘dismissal’ when you asked his name Bryan was bi-polar and schizophrenic and quite often would go off his meds. You may have caught him during one of those many times. He for the most part handled himself quite well, when he felt he needed to or when he began to go into a manic state he would begin taking his meds again. Not the healthiest way to treat his illness or disorders or whatever you want to call them but he believed in more holistic remedies. So let me attempt to offer you an apology for my ‘adopted’ son. He really was a beautiful creature. Again, thank you so much for the updated blog. I know you didn’t know him, he really wasn’t one to judge, I do indeed like this version much more than the first. And thank you for the kind emails. Much love to you. <3


Zeke:

The outrage you posted to me, is exactly the kind of response I wanted at certain community meetings over Bryan’s murder. Then Detective Kelsey could observe /which/ faces did not emote anger towards my callous accusations…or which faces mimicked outrage in order to blend in. He now has a trail on four people who match the desired “lack” of rage. At least one of them may be a cult member, who can then possibly lead the PD to the proper suspect. For it is my belief (and that of Larkin and several other associates) that this attack was orchestrated by this cult (which I call for want of knowing their /real/ title: Disciples of the Zodiac Killer). They are quite clever and surreptitious, using gossip and emotionally disturbed people on the streets, like puppets totally unaware of their controllers. Thus, the cult gets away with many crimes. SPOILER ALERT: Book 1’s Chapter 13, “The Phone Call,” introduces the reader to the cult: http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2012/04/27/the-phone-call/. And the reader also learns, for the first time, that Larkin is a detective.


Zeke:

And it may well be that since this cult clocks my every move once outside and strolling the Castro, they witnessed my several friendly conversations with Bryan. The cult drives away, injures or even kills anyone they perceive could become a friend in my life. Thus the possibility that I am an unintentional instrument of his death.


Friend of Bryan:

I would like to think what happened was ‘random’ and that it had nothing to do with anyone in particular except this evil animals cruel nature. Whatever his/their intention may have been. I do intend to respond further, things are chaotic to say the least. And I work 7 days a week. I would prefer to respond via computer rather than my phone. It’s a bit easier. So I will chat with you soon. <3


Zeke:

I don’t own a cell phone, I have an android tablet and a Windoze laptop. But I want to end this conversation on a truly positive note: If I am correct in my understanding of life’s machinations described earlier, which evolved out of meditating for years on the Buddha’s statement: “we have no enemies, only teachers”…then nothing more than an incredible tragicomedy is unfolding in my world, and that of the SF Gay Family. Some play the role of evil, some die after a short appearance, and some my protectors with Larkin at the helm. Therefore:

No one killed Bryan, who is simply one of these actors playing out his chosen role. The entire scenario is exquisitely orchestrated, and for whatever reason are making me the hero of This Gay Soap Opera. It’s been going on for almost a decade now…but it wasn’t till approx’ly 4 years ago that I began to figure out what’s going on. And now that I have, I blog about it, that others may enjoy and grow wise.

This also explains why I am not so grief-struck any more, whenever another tragedy hits our neighborhood like a meteorite. It’s all a game, a beautiful game, which outcome will be unbelievably joyful. Though it may not manifest until just before the last scene plays out and the curtain falls.


You’re a Bad Boy, Brasus!

August 17, 2014

So three nights ago Brasus shows up to share with me some really strong ganja in a peace pipe, and deliberate upon Bryan’s untimely death. For which I remarked:

“The gay community here is now up in arms that these killers remain unapprehended, and at large. But such crimes have gone on for more than 30 years. Nothing has changed. There will continue to be brutal violence against gays in their own neighborhoods, so long as we remain disunited. I spoke with Linda (laundromat lady) about this murder, stating that horrible thugs are hanging out at her laundromat after hours when she is no longer there.”

Her response was snippy and uncalled for: “Well, I can’t be here all the time.”

So I voiced loudly as she swiftly regressed to the back of the laundromat, in order to avoid me:

“Don’t talk to me like that! Why does everyone speak to me that way? I’m only informing you of the situation. I realize it is not your fault.”

Linda obviously chose to invalidate me, but I stood by the doorway and awaited her return from the back room. As she crossed my path and exited, I declared:

“Look, you watch out for yourself, things are getting dangerous.”

But she merely wandered across the street to tend to her own myinistrations. But what I wonder is this:

Why would she brush me off, unless she doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about gay people? In spite of my handing her now and then, a printout of my gay-themed tale or essay, and her complimenting me on my fine writing? I can only conlude that she is part of the problem…in that hetero folks with some affluence move into the Castro and live a comfortable life. Yet lift not a single finger when anti-gay tragedies occur. Tragedies which could be averted, were this district populated by enough concerned citizens. Which it is not.

She does have some gay friends, but they are all homo-owning conservatives, one of whom she allows to use her laundromat some evenings, so he can set up his sewing machine and ply away. This may be a good solution to discouraging homophobic thugs from entering the place during off hours, but Linda does not really seem to be concerned over the anti-gay threat that overruns any laundromat once a manager departs. And her laundromat seems to be the only one in the Castro that does not provide on-spot attendance at all business hours.

Now, I’ve lived here in the same SRO since 1983. I know of various long term residents throughout Eureka Valley: the black homeowner Guy, who sells flowers on the corner of Noe & Henry; Les just a block up and across, who runs a grocery/liquor shop, and so on. Yet not a one speaks well of me to others, nor introduces me to their friends. While they appear friendly to my face (of course, they’ll take my moolah), I am outraged at the soulless lot of ‘em! By their willfull exclusion of yours truly from our local society, they leave me far more vulnerable to attacks as I stroll my own sidewalks. They have compartmentalized me into oblivion. They are fiercely and pervertedly EVIL!

Even gay-identified residents don’t give a damn about homophobic violence on our streets. For they are mostly homo-owning wealthy shit-heads who enjoy reports of even their own gay poor and homeless being victimized by homophobic attacks. But when one of their own elitist kind gets murdered, it’s all “rah-rah” and “so sorry you were murdered, we valued you greatly”…and then, business as usual once more in a few weeks’ time. The Cult feeds on such deleterious sadism, using the wicked to promulgate the persecution and bashing of the few decent folks who remain (whether homeless or housed).


FIVE FACEBOOK MESSAGES TO BRASUS

[ Quadragesimal Reader: Brasus was a popular male name in ancient Thrace. Please read my tale about Sabazios and Brasus in my blog entry dated 23 July, if you want your eyes open. I prefer you read the entire piece; otherwise search that page for "Sabazios". ]

  1. August 13 (late evening):

    FORGET ABOUT MY FRIEND REQUEST…my unfriending you in an anxiety attack was, apparently, the right thing to do. So if you friend me now, I’ll just unfriend you right back. It is clear to me now, that you have no desire to speak well of me to any of the new people in the Castro you have met and associated with. Whether they are shop owners, local residents, hot guys you meet at the gym (which you so juvenially call “heaven”), or even those without a roof over their heads. It’s like you showed up to usurp all the good works I’ve done these past 30 years or so. I just wonder: what the fuk is wrong with you? You have willfully chosen to allow (and even encourage) folks who live here, including those who are homeless, to at best, not know who the hell I am…and at worst, to hate me and do me harm. No good will can come of this, and I pity the outcome of your life. For I have /never/ lost a battle yet, and never will. What you have done to me is DISGUSTING. I look forward to your sudden and unexpected depature from 2306 within a few weeks from now.

  2. August 13 (ten minutes later):

    I’ve also observed that you don’t spontaneously hug me. I have to beg you for a hug if it’s ever gonna happen. As if you’re doing me a pity favor. Go fuk that and the horse you rode in on. You good lookin’ guys are so full of yourselves it makes me wanna vomit just at the thought of your unforgivable arrogance. When we hugged for the first time, it is /you/ who kissed me smack on the lips. But out of modesty, I deflected and kissed you on the cheek. You SET ME UP to think you were physically attracted to me…just so you could fuk with my head in the long run. Trying to make me feel bad when I showered you with affection at Last Call. You are a freak, and a curse on the gay community. Welcome to the Castro Country Club.

  3. August 14 (just before breakfast):

    I introduced you to the baristas at Bean There as “my wonderful and new neighbor and friend.” FYI, I also spoke /very/ well about you to our building manager. Ditto for Linda at the laundromat. I never dreamed that bringing up the suggestion you return the favor, would cause such a negative reaction in you. Or /any/ negative reaction, for that matter. My friend Johnnie used to introduce me that way, to his friends…until his father suddenly died, and he turned on me in bitterness. I have had /others/ speak well of me before their friends, but they were only passing through. Such kindness is extremely rare in my life, but I have experienced it…and it’s taught me to use that as a reliable measure of true friendship. Superficial friends are a dime a dozen.

  4. August 14 (just after breakfast):

    I am going by the assumption you are also a member of this secret society that Larkin runs, thus you are testing me. Over what? That I can stand strong when I am attacked through my greatest weakness, my Achilles heel. Which is this: fate has put me in a highly desperate situation for YEARS now…where I really haven’t even one good friend in this world. Will such desperation cause me to sell out my values, my ethics…that is, my SOUL? Or will I stand my ground even when it means my isolation will remain? Well, now you have your answer. Give my best regards to Larkin, next time you see him.

  5. August 14 (just after supper and right before watching “Toy Story of Terror“):

    This will be my last message to you, then I’m outta your hair. You have never messaged me back, not even once. Is that a friend, ya think? And you’ve never given me your phone number, though I’ve given you mine (on my business card). Now, I perfectly understand if someone doesn’t give his number to another he hardly knows. But you /did/ give your number to a person who lives here, and who is basically a skunk. I know this because you told me he texted you, and demanded you not text back. You’re doing the same kinda thing to me, by never messaging back. Enjoy your fake friends, Brasus. You’ve made the wrong choice. Once again. (In your next life I wager you’ll be born a dusty dog w/o a home, wandering the streets of Philippi for table scraps.)


[ Dragonian Reader: Jason Parsley is a gay journalist (and editor of South Florida Gay News) I discovered in February of this year. We have a loose association via LinkedIn, nonetheless I admire his devotion to gay ideals, and courageous coverage of controversial issues that most LGBT reporters would shirk. After he perused my gay-bible web site, and learned of my many years as a dedicated gay street activist (as well as author of countless gay tales, essays, poems and articles), he offered to feature me in his newspaper. Unfortunately, his publisher turned down that request, and Jason could do nothing further. He's very cute, but just got married. Fuk me with a duck. ]

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Jason Parsley
Date: Fri, 15 Aug 2014 12:03:43

Subject: Nice to see your name in a B.A.R. news article!

Sitting on the toilet for my morning ablution,
While reading the Bay Area Reporter,
a journalistic institution,

Lo and behold I stumbled upon
Your name in an article called:
Gay prisoner shares story, his mistakes,
in newspaper column.

Your work is cut out for you,
You do a great job
Towards ending the stigma of el-be-gee-tees
Viewed by the mainstream as no more
than golems.

So hats off to you, my activist ally,
For forging ahead/carving out
Our own pro-gay map
not found in McNally.


Sinqueerly yours,

Zeke Krahlin


PRINTOUT ENCLOSED IN ENVELOPE AND TAPED TO BRASUS’S PORTCULLIS

[ Superannuated Reader: this letter fit easily on one side, but on the other, I printed out a lovely rendering of the blue rose. The image you see below (of the fingerpainted walls) is not, of course, part of the actual letter. Included just so you'll understand what I'm dealing with: a crazy loon who is also a darling man. Thus, I'm trying to find a way to ameliorate his deleterious (though sweet) aberrations, that our friendship will be cemented. ]

15 August 2014

YOU’RE A BAD BOY, BRASUS!

I tried using soapy hot water to wash off your “dust art” on the walls of my little corridor. But they won’t come off! So it would be nice if you find some way to remove it…perhaps a commercial product just for cleaning walls.

I have too many folks scapegoating me as it is, and having Bohemian squiggles in my hallway only serves to enforce their perception of me as the village idiot. And could likely cause anger by the building manager, against U-No-Hoo. I prefer to choose my own battles, not have them foisted upon me by naive victims of cult telepathy…victims because they haven’t the foggiest clue they’re being used by negative forces to cripple my good works, friendships, secure habitation, etc.

Of course I do realize these present difficulties serve a higher purpose, that is: my initiation into a secret society that has watched over me (as well as harassed me) for many, many years…decades, even. But now–just before all my lovers and dear friends from past lives come to surround me–those who are already here (such as yourself and Larkin, and I guess several others), choose to vilify me for a while longer. Apparently it remains their role for the sake of my betterment.

So I also realize this is the purpose you also serve, much to my chagrin. Thus your behavior, while kind on the surface, bubbles just underneath with all sorts of inconsiderate games. Not the least of which is running away from me, that you may always have the last word. I confronted you on important matters of our association, but instead of hearing me out, you slam the door in my face. YOU’RE A BAD BOY, BRASUS! And though I love you very much (and that might be a problem in your little world of privileged egotism), I will not put up with it by pretending that undercurrent isn’t going on, just because I am sorely lacking in true friendship. But please realize this:

While harassment upon This Desperate Little Dragon by those he loves (and who love him back) continues for Sabazios only knows how long (and I wish it would end soon), there will be one among them who will cease his attacks first, to become The Affectionate Comrade Of My Dreams. And he will boast to everyone he knows and meets, about what a Really Good Man is Zeke! But what’s also important to know, is this:

Whoever is first to stop battling against me, will have my company five times more often than anyone else (friends or lovers)…for all eternity. I’m assuming of course, that will be Larkin. But you never know until the cake is done, who’s gonna apply the frosting.

Zeke

P.S.: Peace and love, even if you don’t come through for me. The worst that will happen AFAIC, is we’ll just be neighbors living out our own lives apart. Just like I am forced to do with everyone else here at Hotel California North…and the Castro…and San Francisco…and California…and these Disunited States…and North America…and the western hemisphere/northern hemisphere…and this sorry little planet.




ANOTHER ONE BITES THE FAERY DUST

Yet another queer was recently murdered here in our “Gay Mecca For Wealthy Fags Only.” Typically, there was an outpouring of the usual neighborly regard, in order to cover up the true bestiality of all those so-called “nice” people who inhabit the Castro. While they, themselves, are the real reason why such atrocities continue, and increase. Let me explain:

Decent people like myself are often ignored and forced into an invisible existence, soley because we are low-income and left-wing. Such stigmatization (a la gossip) leads to abuse, harassment, violation, bashing and death…due to the local community’s enforced elitism against those who don’t own a home or business. Yet when a member of their clique gets killed, they mourn in public as if to prove to the world that they are, indeed, really good folks. Which is pure horse hockey.

The person lately dispatched to a much better world, Bryan Higgins, was an active member of the Radical Faeries. Years ago, I attempted to join their commune, but was rejected because I refused to participate in any circle-jerk gatherings. Now what does that tell you about such a group, if they excommunicate you only because you have no interest in perverted sexual behavor?

I only know Bryan from popping into Rosenburg’s Deli where he worked, in order to purchase a pack of ciggies or, perhaps, a pint of vodka. He was not a particularly friendly type, which IMO made him quite typical of elitist behavior so common in the Castro. In fact, I asked him once:

“So what is your name?” To which he replied:

“Oh, call me whatever you want.”

Now that, my friends, I consider an asinine reply. Since I was showing him respect in wanting to know a bit about him. SF gays are often rude to me, they don’t know me from Adam…and I guess that’s the crux of the matter. I am not known to them, not part of this or that clique, and I’m definitely not a cute young dude. Though I’ve been part of the community since long before 1983, and have accomplished much good work in the name of Gay Rights…I may as well have moved to San Francisco yesterday. I remain a stranger in my adopted home town.

There was a celebration at Duboce Park just one or two days ago, to honor Mr. Higgin’s memory. All well and good but for one thing: were I to be so bludgeoned to death by a cabal of violent homophobes, no one would honor my history of devotion and sacrifice on behalf of gay liberation. I’d just be a blip on the radar of the Castro’s GLBT records, and promptly forgotten. In spite of my incredible acheivements, which many have stolen and claimed for their own vainglory.

So rest in peace, Bryan Higgins, though please know that neither the Radical Faeries nor the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence have shown me any acceptance or respect, though I have accomplished much on behalf of Queer Freedom. Same goes for all of the other organizations under our coummunity umbrella. Even though I’ve made my presence known to them numerous times, including resumes of my gay street activism and LGBT-themed tales. Offering them many of my ideas gratis, so long as they acknowledge my contributions rather than claim credit for themselves.

Now that I’ve vented (and thank you for your patience), I must give you some honor, though not in the smug fashion of elitist sycophants who remember you with pomp and circumstance. (In part I presume, out of superstitious fear that if they don’t, the gods may look down on them with disfavor…but also because, while not rich yourself, you were well connected with a major gay organization.) No one deserves the brutality that you suffered and which led to your death. Yet there are many gay-identified souls here and elsewhere who, like me, are completely ignored (even vilified) by those blessed with a cozy life, and celebrated by their LGBT peers. Who, when bashed or murdered, get barely a few lines in the local papers, if that. And certainly: no public memorial.

A dear friend of yours back in Michigan has set up a Facebook memorial page in your honor:

Feather-Lynn Memorial

I am sure that, now that you’re on The Other Side Of Life, you completely grasp where I’m coming from. And proudly serve as guardian angel to all those in our Homophile Family, who suffer through no fault of their own, social isolation and scorn by their brothers. For if you’re as sweet and spiritual as claimed by those you left behind, that is exactly how you’re spending your time in Avalon.

[ Now get this, Yoghurty Reader: the suspect is identified as a white male 20-30 years old, wearing a gray hoodie. A gray hoodie? Everyone wears a gray hoodie, fer Zeus-sake! Thanks for nothin'. This really quells the fear of good citizens strolling the Castro (or Duboce Park) at night, yessirree-bob-a-loo-la. (And which person will never wear a gray hoodie for the rest of his life, care to make a wager?) Way to go, douche bags. Then again, I wonder: are there more than just a handful of good citizens left in the area? I really doubt it.

There is also the matter of defending oneself with an effective weapon of legal choice: if not a gun, then pepper spray. In most cases, a one-on-one confrontation can be summarily thwarted simply by wielding a canister of PS before the attacker even makes his first strike. It is my wager that Bryan was defenseless. Too many gays walk the streets w/o any protection whatsoever. Had Bryan wielded such a weapon, he may have averted a tragedy. Which not only serves to protect him and live a full life, but would spare the LGBT Family from needless grief and expense. ]


WHEN IT COMES TO LAPTOPS, I’M A BOTTOM

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Sean
Date: Fri, 15 Aug 2014 15:56:35
Subject:
Found a notebook in freebox!

Six years old, in great condition. Compaq Presario V6000, 1 G RAM, 67 G hard drive, etc. Vista Home Basic (boo). Large, crystal clear screen, plays videos beautifully.

Still trying to complete all updates…refused to load Service Pack 2. That would clear up the wifi flakiness. But it does well via public access. Linux doesn’t seem to take well to it, both video resolution wise, and wifi wise. My USB wifi chip is supposed to work perfectly in Linux, but I’ve tried five of the latest distros with no luck yet. Not even Puppy Linux, which always before recognized Linux compatible wifi like a charm.

Problem is the AT&T free wifi set up in the Castro…it’s not good at connecting half the time, so can’t always tell wherein the problem lies. Would like to get this Compaq connecting at home, for updates…cause it’s a heavy weight to lug around.

Anywayz, good to have a backup system, as well as one to watch videos and test new freeware that might have a malicious virus or two.

- Zeke


HOODIES STALK THE ‘HOOD

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Several Gay Papers in San Francisco
Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 22:15:37
Subject:
Violence in the Castro

Dear Editor,

In light of the increasing, mostly anti-gay, violence here in the Castro, I’d like to point out two especially dangerous hot spots: Jane Warner Plaza (JWP) and Noe & Market Laundromat. Anyone who visits the Castro on a frequent basis is surely aware of the nasty bums loitering about JWP at all hours. They do not belong here, but take advantage of our generosity, and the fact that all gay neighborhoods are a lot safer and friendlier than the straight ones. Yet it is this very friendliness they abuse, since these scumbags see LGBTs as “faggots” and a silly joke in their Christianized Pathology. Glad to take our dollars, though.

Please realize that most homeless use the services of churches for food, showers and shelter. And that, even here in “Gay Mecca,” the majority of pulpits preach war against homosexuals. What few gay-friendly churches exist here, I can count on less than ten fingers. These religious institutions preach hateful dogma against gays, in exchange for their so-called charitable outreach. Then send these disturbed souls to gay districts in order to spread violent doctrine in God’s name. This is Nazi-style propaganda: fomenting hatred against sexual minorities through populux religion and Aryan airwave brainwashing.

I cannot enjoy strolling my own neighborhood, thanks to these pinheaded scoundrels who take up every outdoor public venue (seating, plaza and park). JWP is one such space that is particularly occupied by fuckups. Plus: living over Market Street between Castro and Noe, I often hear vagrant lunatics traversing the block and screaming at the top of their lungs, wickedly anti-gay epithets and curses. Sometimes very late at night, thus interrupting my sleep. As if they are doing God’s righteous work. Moving on now to Noe & Market Laundromat, six doors down from the intersection with Market:

I think it’s the only laundry service in the district without a manager or attendant for the full time it’s open. So when the manager leaves for the day (around mid-afternoon), scary dirtbags haunt the place. One of them recently confronted me and demanded I hand over five dollars. When I said “No way, get the fuck outta my face,” he seemed about to fly into a rage. Thankfully, he did not…nonetheless, he strutted back and forth by the laundromat, causing me unwelcome stress. He is but one example of the numerous freaks who occupy that laundromat through late afternoon and night. Now I ask you:

Why should washing one’s clothes be akin to standing unarmed in a battlefield? I do not blame the laundromat’s present attendant…for responsibility lies with the owner. He certainly needs to assign a second person to cover the remaining hours when the first employee is off duty. That is: if he really cares enough to stop providing a haven for homophobes and creeps.

Sincerely,

Zeke Krahlin
Long term (and bedraggled) resident of the Castro



THANK DRAGON FOR TRACE!

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Mendocino Muse
Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 14:12:56
Subject: Amazing!

Ran into Trace late last night (around 3 AM), and he looks GREAT! No more shopping cart BS, very clean and neat looking…and soooo handsome (honey-brown hair tumbling to his shoulders, like a seraphim; green eyes, etc.). Told him how glad I was to see him again, and how proud I am of him for struggling to survive after Hurricane Katrina drove him from his home state to San Francisco. You remember him, sent you a photo of Trace asleep on my bedding…tattoo over the left calf muscle that spelled “Baton Rouge.”

Well, here’s that photo again (see attachment)…really cute dude, but so much hotter than the image reveals. A truly LOVELY man, and I’m a truly LUCKY man to have his company once more.

He had a nifty bicycle lit up here and there with blue-white LEDs. Took him home where the next thing I know, he’s lying down on the bedding with his pants lowered, and darling fat wanger sprung up like a…well, you get the drift. He didn’t even want a couple shots of vodka first, a cigarette, or even some pot to smoke.

“Are you sure you don’t want some vodka?” I queried, surprised at his unexpected and bold move…though absolutely delighted like a hound with a jumbo Milk-Bone.

So I took a quick sip of my drink that was left unfinished when I stepped out to stroll the Castro. (I do that sometimes, late at night, just to check out the street dragons, and maybe find a sweet one to hold in my arms and stuff like that.)

He admired this lovely new jacket I found in a free box last week: thin leather with an inner hoodie shell of gray flannel. Well, I love that jacket and wore it every day, even in the warm weather. Never thought I’d part with it willingly, but there ya go, El. Without a nanosecond of hesitation, I yanked it off and gladly presented it to Trace.

He only stayed long enough for a quickie, but he did pull off his sweater and topmost shirt to bring it down to one. His torso was exposed up to his chest, during which time I got up from my chair and slid my arms about that sexy, smooth bod. To my surprise, he did not resist, but continued to remove the shirt, then put the outermost one back on…then donned the jacket.

“I gotta go see my people,” he said while gripping the handlebars of his road bike. “Let me out, Zeke.”

As if I were trying to hold him back. Ha!

“Gimme a hug, SIR!” I commanded. So he did, head nuzzled upon my left shoulder. I kissed him on the ear and whispered:

“I’m your dawg now, buddy.”

He left behind a large, red-and-white striped shirt like a candy cane, and light gray sweater (see pic). Totally clean and they smell wonderful…the gritty streets, ocean breeze, and his own friendly werewolf scent…a most seductive mix! The next morning I found myself thanking Goddess many times over, as I prepared myself for another amazing day.

Got my usual whole-wheat-with-sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese and a small coffee. I was in bliss, and still am, as I compose this email.

So I finally return back home to discover my first check from Friesen Press! Only $28 but hey, still a great reason to celebrate!

And soon enough, Trace will be in my arms again. Figuratively speaking that is. Replace “Trace” with “his bodacious kok” and “arms” with “mouth,” and you have an accurate picture. Hardy har hardon!

- Zeke


Too Close To Home

August 11, 2014

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the pilgrims above, to read my spicy tale. Otherwise, click here.


The Hum of the Heater

August 6, 2014

Found this discarded street art on the sidewalk near the front gate of 2306. Just when I arrived back hovel from Bean There coffeehouse, this afternoon. Angry man and lyrics face up. Delighted to discover another drawing on the back. Might be fun to hire this talent for one of my tales, perhaps “Zeke’s Last Supper.” But how do I find him (or her)? Click on either image for a larger view. The words (or lyrics) say:

The hum of the heater
singing you the saddest song
“Don’t worry honey I don’t be long”

Notice the eerie similarity of my own handwriting to that of the sketcher. Something I didn’t pick up on till the next day:

This is possibly a parody on your typical trannie speed freak, many of whom overrun the Castro and the Tenderloin. Perhaps the snake represents meth’s venom. I dunno, you tell me.


The Misery & The Ecstasy

August 2, 2014

25 July, 5:59 PM – DIRECT MESSAGE 1 TO TERENCE:

About a certain Castro resident who calls himself Denzel (though I suspect not his real name): there are people in the Castro who despise me, to the point of scaring any new friends away from me. They are not beyond inflicting real harm. I am not imagining this, it has happened to me many times. Including poisoning and framing someone to go to jail. Can’t make friends in gay bars because there’ll always be some wicked queen who sabotages any new friendships I make. Larkin witnessed this in our first year together, at Hole in the Wall Saloon, and the Eagle Tavern. But he would give ‘em hell and drive them away. I would be wary of any drink Denzel may offer you, as well as food. I trust you are not prey to such dirty tricks, and take good care of yourself. You are a good looking dude, and jealousy abounds whenever I befriend one such. I thought these trials were at an end, once Larkin moved into the Castro. But now he’s doing same. Though I’m sure it’s for a compassionate end, which I have already described to you. I will be friendly to Denzel whenever our paths cross…as I’ve always been. It is he who has chosen a wrongful path, nothing I’ve done to trigger it. As a healer yourself, I have confidence you will not get caught up in the anti-Zeke fiasco, and maybe even get Denzel to turn over a new leaf. Blessed be, Terence!


25 July, 8:14 PM – DIRECT MESSAGE 2 TO TERENCE:

A Bit More About Denzel

Early last year I was dating a very sweet fellow who lives across the Bay. Met him at Cafe Mediterraneum, in Berkeley. His name is Jason. 43 years old, fabulously handsome, a genuine sweetheart, and had recovered from meth abuse five months prior. During that time, Denzel took a keen interest in me, though he’s always been very aloof before Jason’s arrival.

In fact, I’d find Denzel often stalking us from half-a-block distant, whenever we two strolled my neighborhood. Or we’d spot him across the street, staring me down. Quite weird, to say the least. He occupies a studio on the same block as myself (opposite side), and watches my comings and goings from a front window. Denzel has a reputation for bringing in cute homeless youth and sharing crystal with them, for purposes you can easily imagine. Jason wanted his bushy mane shaved down to sexy baldness, and I lacked an electric haircutter. Lo and behold, Denzel had such a gadget, and offered to pare Jason’s head into a clean Yul Brenner. I warned Jason about trusting the freak, but he said not to worry, he’s aware. And promised on the Bible he’ll never mess with tina again.

Jason looked very sexy as a bald dude, so I dressed him up in punk gear that made him look super adorable. During this time I had somewhat more association with Denzel, and all seemed copacetic. Even told him he’s welcome to invite Jason over now and then, especially since I can’t have him visit every night when he frequents SF, it’s too much stress for me, what with living in a humble SRO, and Jason’s boisterous camaraderie (which I appreciate immensely, though would have been far more amenable had I my own real apartment.)

Long story short: Jason succumbed to meth once more, and he rapidly deterioriated. Lost his subsidized rental, wound up back on the streets and, finally, in jail. Denzel is the kind of queer scumbag who doesn’t give a hoot about how his drug sharing impacts basically decent homeless young people who suffer great duress for various reasons. Many of whom are bipolar, for which speed is a dangerous substance to add to the mix. Now, were Jason an older man–say, 40 or more–it wouldn’t be such a tragedy. But to not give a fuk about a young man’s future, and only care about the brief thrill one might have via a dangerous chemical…is an egregious sin, IMO.

So I lost Jason for the indefinite future, but still must live in close proximity to that horrid little homunculous. And you, dear “new friend” have suddenly decided to buddy up with him and warn me not to stick my nose in your business. Therefore I must now suffer Denzel’s frequent presence once more, if I care to hang with you at either of the two gay bars that Larkin doesn’t frequent. Denzel’s not even particularly attractive: just a flaccid little runt with a few redeeming features…the greatest of which seems to be his access to certain drugs.

If you have any civility about you, I’d appreciate that you keep your visits with Denzel separate from our own. Nothing good will come of your association with him, I assure you. Best of luck to you, my psuedo-friend, may you live long and prosper.

And may you one day, grow up.

PS: Just so you know: I speak truth no matter what the risk. Even if it brings down upon me, further hostility from dumbasses looking for a fight. For I sincerely believe that standing up for gay homeless or disenfranchised folks is far more important than even my own comforts. This latest conflict is far from the first, since I’ve resided in the Castro. Furthermore: I have not lost a battle yet. If you think you can try me and win, you are a truly lost soul. And I pity your fate.

PS: Please do not accept unsealed drink or food from Denzel. Anyone who freely poisions vulnerable homeless dudes is not beyond such sins.


28 July

Saw Larkin today at Duboce Park around 1:45 PM. Sporting once more a haversack like my own red, square satchel, though his is slightly curved around the bottom with an overflap. Otherwise identical: black, wide shoulder strap and piping, same size. But when I first entered Duboce Park, I observed that Larkin was nowhere to be seen, on the main area where doggies run. So I concluded: “Nope, he’s not here today.”

But as I ambled along the walkway and turned into the path that curtailed the park’s further side, I suddenly found Larkin flipping a tennis ball alongside the thin, grassy strip that borders the rambling Edwardian mansion painted white. Later that day I concluded:

Larkin wanted to surprise me, thus situated himself on the outer edge of Duboce Park, that I would first assume he wasn’t present.

No sooner did I sit down to enjoy the view from barely four yards distant, than Larkin and doggie departed one minute later. As if Larkin waited beyond his schedule, because he knew how badly I needed to see him. His own brain seems to be in lockstep with mine, and he knows how to play it like a spinarette.

Also saw him three nights ago passing below my window. After hearing his voice bellow “Shame on you,” from about a half block away. (Don’t know what for, perhaps someone dropped his pants and flashed his butt, or something equally crude.) So I poked my head out the window to retort:

“Shame on you Larkin Kelsey, sucking on the wallets of lonely old queers! Zachary told me you don’t even open my letters, you just throw them away.”

Larkin then looked back in passing, with an expression that conveyed it’s not true, he reads everything I send. But he bit his tongue, looked ahead and proceeded down the block. I hounded further:

“Now what am I gonna do about that, buddy? I’ll think of something!” Well I did think of something (see below, regarding my note attached to a vehicle outside of The Cafe).

Last night I stumbled onto a Scooby-Doo movie (Scooby Doo 2 – Monsters Unleashed). Which is not just rare, but has never happened before (that I would accidentally flip to anything Scooby-Doo in the late evening or night). I believe it was Larkin’s telepathic regard that he loves me, seeing as he is a really big Scooby-Doo fan. Unfortunately, the digital reception for that channel was flaky, so I switched to another station. Though my gut feeling about Larkin’s manipulated scenarios is thus:

I’d rather be done with this convoluted, and often distressful, game, but Larkin insists in playing out the entirety of this script, which he so arduously composed over many years, just so he could finally play it out at this time. No way he’s gonna toss out his painfully crafted maneuvers, solely on a whim of mine.


29 July

Early this evening, I saw Larkin once again, schmoozing with two elderly lesbians standing by a bright red Ford economy van. (I pride myself in knowing nothing about cars, so can’t describe it any further…and my camera was stolen several weeks ago, so couldn’t take a snapsot.) He had his long arms about both of them, creating a circle of faux-camaraderie, though it sure fooled the two, gray-haired dykes! The heftier one declared to her partner (while Larkin curled an arm about her ripply waist):

“Larkin’s such a sweetheart, walked me to my car to see me home safely.”

At this point, Larkin raised his head from their focus, and looked in my direction, to see me 12 feet away and leaning against a storefront window…puffing on a Fortuna as if he and I were total strangers. Shortly, he escorted the duped ladies a few doors up and into The Cafe, where I’m sure they bought him many expensive drinks and even gifted him with one or more Jacksons. Meanwhile, I focused on the license number to memorize it. For what purpose, I wasn’t sure at the time.

But when I marched on hovel after Larkin and retinue departed for The Cafe, I kept speaking to myself: “8W94174, 8W94174, 8W94174″ so that it stuck in my mind for a reason yet to be defined. Though when I arrived at my SRO, it finally occurred to This Miscreant Munchkin:

“Why of course. Print out a letter warning these dykes of Larkin’s devious nature, and leave it folded up in their van’s window…preferrably on the driver’s side facing traffic, that Larkin may have less of a chance to intercept, before She Who Drives can read it.”

So I sat down by my HP Elitebook and typed out the following message:

Vehicle license 8W94174:

Larkin Kelsey is not the sweetheart you think he is. He mooches off elderly bar patrons with fat wallets. That is how he survives. Hustles mostly old gay men who are lonely, but with money to spare. However, he is not shy of seducing lesbians as well. I actually have no problem with this, as he does not outright steal from anyone, gives them a really good bang for the buck. But what I do have a problem with, is that he drives anyone away who enjoys his company (and values his friendship), if he sees they’re getting too close to discover he’s a hustler…even if they don’t mind his situation, and would still like to maintain a good association. Such as myself, who he has maligned with vicious threats, humiliation and slander…and kicked me out of every bar in spite of my fidelity. He is very charismatic and talented, a great social mixer. And uses his gifts to dupe drunk bar patrons with generous wallets. He will charm you to pieces, to the point where you’ll find yourself handing him $20 bills like peanuts to an elephant. He is most likely also a drug dealer, as I don’t think he’d have been so wicked towards me, if being a soft-core hustler were his only gig. His “wingman” is housemate Zachary, who covers for his possible slip-ups…or one might call him his “patsy.” Zachary gives him cheap rental of a room at 2540 Market Street (don’t know yet the apartment number), in exchange for a cut of the moolah he sucks from patron’s billfolds. Larkin has threatened me with violence (shoved me twice), called me his stalker to everyone around, and overall tried to drive me insane. He is a very troubled man, as I have been nothing but a good friend to him for almost nine years. His sudden turn against me occurred after he moved from South of Market to the Castro. I have recently filed a police report against him. I advise you to keep your distance from this man, as he is not right in the head. Perhaps he has a brain tumor or early onset Alzheimer’s. I just pray to God he will make things up to me, but it’s been over a year and a half, now.

Then I eagerly returned to find the economy van still parked in the same spot. Folded the printout three times, inserted it deep into the driver’s window (between door and glass), leaving barely a half inch poking out. Hoping, of course, that Larkin does not intercept before she gets the chance to read it. Seeing as he’ll probably escort her back to the car, she just might hand it right over to Larkin in her state of inebriated trust. Boy, I wish I were a fly on the wall, to see all that! Well, let’s see if My Gangsta Gila has anything to say about this, next time our paths cross.

[ Please observe, Drupaceous Reader, that I did not reveal my name in this note, nor phone number, email, or address. Simply to spare me unwarrented vilification by brainwashed drunktards who are totally convinced that Larkin is the cat's meow. Though should Larkin decide to involve the police, he can easily show them how readily this message interfaces with my letters posted to his mailbox. Unless of course, he's tossed them into the trash as Zachary claimed. ]

Should he report me to the SFPD, it would be a mistake. For this would only open a can of worms that he could never close. And the label on this can says: “Kelsey’s Kondensed Horse Hockey.”


2 August

Yesterday, around 6:15 PM Larkin crossed my path at JW Plaza, to enter Twin Peaks Tavern. I figured he’d show up, as several minutes previous I saw Zachary hanging outside like a cigar store Indian, puffing on a nicotine stick. Interesting that–though I stood only ten feet away from the patsy, on the corner of Market & Castro appearing the unseasoned tourist–he projected nothing emotional in my direction. I wanted to fuk him just to teach him a lesson; not because he’s the least bit attractive, but to assert my alpha status as a punk extraordinaire…whose turf is the Castro, and my fiefdom.

I was but several feet from Larkin as he suddenly appeared in a bright yellow T-shirt (with floppy brown jacket bound about his waist) and entered the geriatric speakeasy. He did not acknowledge my presence one whit, nor did I acknowledge his. Yet I felt suddenly awash in a golden shower of angelic reverie. For that is how Dragon Squarepants always affects me, no matter his mood. Which these days is usually surly. Love holds enormous precedence in our association–albeit in brief doses–and shall never diminish. Our friendship is an eternal flame.

I then changed my post to the army-green trash bin on the eastern edge of the plaza and kitty-corner from Twin Peaks. Where I could obtain a more panoramic view of the tavern, that I may have the best advantage to view Larkin, no matter where he flitted. Zachary remained outside, even when Larkin exited the bar, accompanied by a slick-haired middle-aged doodle who no doubt considers himself an expert in day trading. He was a skosh roly-poly and less than 5-foot-9, sporting an oily coif pulled back in a knot.

They both shared a joint in the doorway of a closed shop, four
units down from TP Tavern, on 17th Street. But the Melvin departed
shortly to return to Twin Peaks while Larkin remained in the shadows,
sucking on his ganja pacifier. Finally he finished his share and moseyed
on back to TPT. I just stood by the wastebin, puffing on my ciggie
while drinking it all in. After some while (around 10 minutes) Larkin
departed the tavern and crossed right before me, yet behaved as if I
don’t exist. I likewise reciprocated.

From a safe distance, I followed Larkin to discover (as I already presumed) his ascent up the stairs to The Cafe, in order to play five or more rounds of billiards. I did not follow, but moved on towards Noe Street, where I could cross Market and return hovel. My heart wept so bad in my yearning to stand beside My Beastly Behomoth, whereby he may praise me to the heavens amid the presence of myriad dipwads.

Most interesting, his non-reaction to my slipping that revelatory note
in the Ford economy van just 4 days ago. Did my printout elude him, or did he intercept and pocket it? Did the lesbian lush actually read my advisory? (And if so, has she shown it to Larkin yet?) How will this play out in the long run: SFPD intrigue, lawsuit, gang rivalry? (Of course, first we’ll need to form two gangs, one pro-moi and the other, pro-Larkin.)

Perhaps he approves of my well-played retaliation, stirring up the muck that he may isolate the remaining cult vermin which still proves a threat on my life. Or maybe I’ve taken our battles to the next level: surreptitious backstabbing without any face-to-face showdowns as in the past. Whichever way the tide may turn, I remain astounded at Larkin’s precocity to compose a script in real life, that is the romantic comedy trilogy I have titled “Free Me From This Bond.”


Hilarious Respite

July 30, 2014

Date: Wed, 23 Jul 2014 05:24:50
Subject:
Hilarious Respite
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

July 22nd

El, this is gonna crack you up so bad, you’ll need to breathe into a paper sack to cease your hiccupping laughter! Just moments ago (around 7:20 PM) I had recently returned from Bean There coffeehouse, and I hear Larkin’s golden voice just outside my window. (For me, his audacious timbre upon these needful eardrums is always a blessing, no matter the context.) So I fling aside the curtain and peer out to see him and housemate Zachary schmoozing with an elderly gentleman who is blatantly drunk. Actually, Zachary just stood there grinning while Larkin poured it on thick, sucking up to the old coot with hugs, fist bumps, arm shakes and affectionate words of camaraderie. Including an invite to hang with him at Twin Peaks Tavern. So I holler down at them:

“You rock, Larkin! Yeah, that’s right, Twin Peaks Tavern!”

I was boisterous, but the traffic offered me serious competition, so I continued to bellow even louder; “Larkin is a sweet man, you are so lucky to have his attention!”

Still, no reaction. I persisted: “Hey, Zachary, nice to see you again!”

The patsy then looked up at me and laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Then just as quickly dropped his attention to focus once more on Larkin and prey. Which “objet de mon amour” continued to grace the geriatric rooster with subtle touches and words of endearment as I observed his targeted methodology. I wouldn’t be ignored, so echoed in fervent glee:

“That’s right, Larkin! Suck up to those lonely old fags with lumpy wallets! You got my approval, one hundred per cent!”

That is when Larkin glanced up and displayed a face of exasperation…
nonetheless gloriously handsome. Seeing as he had not one whit of control over my sudden apparition from stage left, he simply turned away and began marching towards Castro Street a half block further up. The drunkard Methuselah seemed so captivated by Larkin’s charisma, not a single word of mine reached his ear. Thus, he never turned around, never saw me, totally oblivious to this parallel overlay. At his age, I’m sure audio capacities are limited (Larkin always seems to have the Luck of the Irish on his side).

I saw My Wyvern’s legs beneath a shop awning as he patiently waited for Zachary to catch up. But I pressed on (though he stood six doors up now, my echo could not be ignored):

“I didn’t mean to drive you away, Larkin! You know I love you. So you mooch offa the obese billfolds of tipsy old queers. Far be it for me to condemn you!”

Larkin didn’t move (his legs remained steadfast), but I knew he heard my every word. Finally, the doddering barfly moved along with Zachary, and they were soon out of sight. I decided a few minutes later to stroll on down to Jane Warner Plaza, and hang out smoking a ciggie while Larkin performed his hustle on this or that gray-haired or bald patron. But alas he wasn’t there, so I returned hovel to reflect upon this silly imbroglio.

I don’t think it was by accident that Larkin showed up almost beneath my window, that I could play the jilted amigo. Nor do I think it was kismet alone that set me up for the perfect sting. In fact, I am convinced that he intentionally played out the script according to his own intent. Why (you may ask)? To honor me by making himself vulnerable, just as he did when he fell down the Metro steps last month, as I chastised him from above and he hollered: “Fuk you, Zeke!”

I meant to complete and email this piece last night, but new friend and neighbor Gabe dropped by to present me with a blue rose. More on that later. It’s now 5:25 AM, I woke up a half hour ago and decided to finish this report and send it off.

- Zeke


[ Let me backtrack a bit now, Crepusculous Reader, to when I was still hanging at Bean There and doing my Internet chores. Gabe shows up about two hours after my arrival, and plunks the netbook upon the table right beside yours truly. Of course I was so glad to see him, and that he wanted to test the device when it had access to really good wireless. (Our building lacks such benefit, in spite of San Francisco’s attempt to provide wifi to the Castro; their mistake was letting AT&T run the show.)

Gabe was such good company, and I was delighted to show him how well the netbook works when decent wifi is available. He turned me on to his Facebook page and the excellent photos and videos therein. One pic displayed his almost naked body (but for a Speedo-type garment that was terrycloth-thick). He also had a hairless torso, unlike the present gray hairs that now poke above the collar.

“You shave your chest!” I exclaimed. “How old is this photo?”

“Two thousand eleven,” he replied.

Most of the photos of Gabriel showed him minus his present swatch of gray hair. But at least I know now for sure, he has one helluva handsome figure. So much so, I’m surprised I didn’t get a woodie right then and there.

After about an hour or so, I finally depart, leaving him to peruse cyberspace without my back-seat-driving presence. For in his exuberant gestures (he is full of piss and vinegar) I kind of panicked over the splashes of water from his drink that threatened to short-circuit the rejuvenated netbook. I even grabbed a few more napkins, that he keep the table dry and safe from destroying his new (though secondhand) device.

Now, let’s skip forward to just after my latest (and risible) encounter with Larkin and patsy just below my window. Once returned hovel from my failed attempt to vex Larkin by Twin Peaks Tavern, there is a gentle knock on my door. So I declare before opening:

“I wonder who that is! Could it be my fantastic friend Gabe?”

Of course it was him (no one else in 2306 cares about me one whit). Holding a long-stem rose colored blue, with purple tinges. I was terribly charmed.

Please realize this photo was taken with my android tablet, since my digital camera was stolen by a visitor about five weeks ago. Thus, not the clarity I wished to share. The rose is dyed a deep blue with purple edges where the petals curl. An exquisite gift from an exquisite man.

The fact the rose is mostly blue, comes from my telling him some of My Many Legends of the Blue Rose (yesterday I think, but perhaps earlier today). And that such a color for a rose does not exist in nature, but came from my own visions of the Ice Age and the world of Neanderthals. Here are some of the tales (in condensed form) I passed on to Gabriel:


  • My first Vision of The Blue Rose occurred in 1996 when I was napping in my humble SRO. I saw two angels standing by the curtain off to my right (I have two windows in my room). One angel was sewing a blue rose into the white-gauze mesh, while the other angel stood by and observed the handiwork.

I stood up from desk #2 and approached them. The angel who needle-pointed the rose paused and spoke:

“We want you to sew a blue rose just like this, that people walking the street may see it. One if by land, two if by sea.”

“Oh no,” I exclaimed, “I don’t have the talent to do that. Could I possibly paint it on a square of cardboard, and place it in the window?”

“Yes, that will work quite nicely.”

After that incredible vision I researched the spiritual meaning of The Blue Rose. But really found nothing pertinent on the web, other than its Celtic value as a mystical symbol (as perhaps an impossible quest nonetheless fulfilled). Years passed until I acquired its true meaning. It came to me in visions, nothing that could be discovered via library resources, or Internet searches. The Many Legends of the Blue Rose (as I shall call this collection which I have yet to complete, or even begin) were born of prehistoric adventures, when ice ruled the planet and Neanderthals were king.

  • This seraphic vision directly led to my inspiration to found the world’s first gay militia, back in 1997: The Blue Rose Militia. Dedicated to “fighting for the rights of same-sex lovers across the globe and into the 21st century.” You may read that essay here:http://gay-bible.org/write/4_militia.htm
  • Some years later visions of Neanderthals on a quest for The Rare Blue Rose that only grows on the edge of glaciers began haunting my nocturnal hours. It was an act of true love, a sacrifice through many months seeking this unique flower, that discovering one and bringing it back (if you didn’t die of exposure or beast, which often occurred) guaranteed that the target of your adoration could not turn you down.
  • Later visions revealed Cro-Magnon encroaching upon the habitat of Neanderthal, pillaging, raping and destroying this earlier species. And cannibalizing them as if they were just another form of wild animal. Yet some Cro-Magnons came to see such violence as a great crime of the soul, for they realized that they and Neanderthal were brothers under the skin. And so, they became the first civil rights activists in history. Not just that, but LGBT activists too, for Neanderthal was highly homosexualized. These Earlier Men could not conceive the brutality wrought upon their kind, for they were telepathic and already regarded Cro-Magnon as kin.For some time, these compassionate Cro-Magnons (barely 1% of the total species) would protect this Neanderthal remnant by hiding them out in distant caves way high up the mountains. And bring them food, beverage, clothing, gifts, and friendship. Some even fell in love, thus secret trysts abounded. Sadly, these hidden places were eventually exposed by traitorous Cro-Magnons, and the remaining Neanderthal survivors were all killed, along with their beloved Cro-Magnon allies.

    Yet before their tragic demise, certain chiefs of the Neanderthal tribes had made their Quest of The Blue Rose, and presented this gift to their Cro-Magnon comrades. Thus this vision revealed to me The True Meaning of The Blue Rose:

    The promise one day of harmony between two different species of man.

  • Actually, not all Neanderthals have been wiped out, for there remain two separate tribes totaling 467, in two remote and covert locations in Siberia. I know this only through visions, and from a secret society called The Arctic Circle Federation of Warlocks. (Actually that’s not quite the title, but close. They are a direct lineage from those original Cro-Magnon activists.) Whose only communique with yours truly has been through telepathy thus far. They do not reveal to me why these Neanderthals are split into two locations, nor tell me of any other treasures they guard, except for five remaining dragons who all abide together in the same cavern undersea. Suffice it to say they originated the myth of the Loch Ness Monster to conceal from the world the actual home of These Wyvern Beauties.
  • Some months after my Neanderthal Vision, came visions of a great warrior chief out of Ancient Thrace, whose name was Sabazios, after their sky father god (and as “Hero” to the Greeks back then). And who lost his dearest friend and lover in battle. So was pining for a new love to end, or at least ease, his grief. Yet in spite of his heroic deeds and great affection of all the villagers he ruled over and protected with absolute fealty…not one of his superb warriors ever came forth to propose. And this struck our hero’s heart like a poisoned-tip spear. He would often weep in a hidden glade bordering upon the tribe’s territorial perimeter. All creatures would cease their chattering, bellows, groans, chirps and grunts…for here was truly a MAN for whom tears are no shame. Yea! Those tears are the waters gushing from Zibelthurdos’s own grief (whom the Athenians called “Zeus”)! And he would pray to The Great Goddess Bendis (“Artemis” as the Corinthians called her):”I have sacrificed my life for Our People many times over, yet no one cares enough to bed with me? I am still the most handsome and brave of them all, even when you consider our entire legacy of kings. What curse is this on their souls, that they grow shy like fawns from honoring what I most need and, I know, deserve all too well! Especially if I am to continue My Sacred Duty to protect and defend with utmost ferocity!”

    So Sabazios determined to satisfy his need by questing for The Blue Rose all by his lone self. (Now, My Entrecote Reader, those angels who give me these visions refuse to tell me precisely how The Blue Rose managed to survive well beyond the end of the Ice Age. Perhaps there are just a few dozen remaining of that species, astride the top of an ice-chilled mountain; I just don’t know. But there they were, some time in the ninth century BC.)

    Long story short. Upon his return, Sabazios expressed undying love for one Brasus, a most brave warrior who was a glorious auburn of purple irises flecked with green and black, of course deliciously buff, thickly hung and a leopard in the barley stack. And really super-affectionate after just two horns of fermented sheep milk. But when Our Hero fell on both knees, wept in the startled man’s toga and presented him with The Rose: Brasus threw up his skirt and ran away beyond the furthest village in the kingdom, neither to be seen nor heard of again.

    Well that broke the king’s spirit beyond mending, so he spoke these words in his final visit to the secluded glade:

    “Oh My Creator Zibelthurdos! My people have fallen into depravity and wickedness. They have no heart, no strong love, no gratitude for my devoted sacrifices that they may survive and be joyful. I must leave the village I once so cherished and protected, for my shame in them is beyond measure. I cannot look at a single one of them in the face!”

    Then he wandered off into the forest, far far beyond where any Thracian had hunted. Sabazios lived off his hands and remained unknown to any other human until the day he died six years later, destitute and broken hearted.

    The end (unless you tell of his reincarnation into a gay activist in turn-of-the-century San Francisco, and whose final search for true love ends in the arms of one Larkin Kelsey…much to his delight and eternal gratitude to Zibelthurdos).

    If you’d like, Hirudinean Reader, you may learn about ancient Thracian religion at the following site (’tis quite enlightening, though you won’t find any tale like mine therein):

    http://www.sabazius.com/thracian-religion.html

  • This final legend of The Blue Rose has to do with Jesus Christ…or at least, the crown of thorns he wore during his crucifixion. For that crown was not made of any ordinary rosebush, but of The Blue Rose Itself! Imagine what distant, hardscrabble tundra Roman Soldiers had to traverse, to acquire such a precious bramble!When the Roman Guards prepared Christ’s crown, they stripped away all the leaves and buds, till only branch and thorns remained. Yet they missed one tiny bud barely pushing out from the xylem. It grew almost into a petite blossom while trapped atop a dying man nailed to the cross. But when Nicodemus and Joseph lowered Jesus into the tender arms of his mother, this solitary bud popped away from the thorns and tumbled some distance across the dusty ground. Planting its roots at last, once the next storm arrived. And soon it did, within moments.

    More to this story at a later time. I just wanted to give some examples, though the Neanderthal and Thracian portions were quite a doozy, eh?

 

 


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