[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 5 ]
Allow me to show you the latest gift I will soon present to My Beloved Arwyn (click on any image for a larger view):
Folder contains episodes from my latest novel (“Free Me From This Bond“): chapters 3 (Sweet Sue), 9 (Dragon Fire in the Hole) and 8 (Dragon Prophecy), plus addenda 3 (Tom Keske) and 4 (Arwyn in the Buff). Left out three other completed chapters because they are not pertinent to my bless-ed relationship with my Darling Guardian Dragon Arwyn Miles…and I am running low on printer ink, which is rather expensive. I am presently typing Chapter 13 (The Phone Call) which may or may not be added to this folder, depending on how soon I can deliver this gift to My Sweetheart, and whether or not there’s enough ink left in my printer.
Photo #3 shows my newest chapters in the left pocket; and in the right is a political comic book about America’s War Machine, and why it is so destructive to its citizens, and to our troubled world at large. Really, it’s intended as a gift of appreciation to Randolph Louis Taylor, and not to Arwyn Miles. For reasons which should be obvious to you, Sweet Reader, if you’ve been following my tales since Chapter 1 (Free Me From This Bond). The small white envelope contains a business card that promotes my latest novel. Click here to view it.
[ Tepid Reader: Photo 4 has come up missing, can’t find it anywhere, sorry! ]
Photo #4 is addressed to Randolph instead of Arwyn, for I know their spirits are intertwined, and that Lover #1 (Randolph) has brought Lover #2 (Arwyn), to heal my bleeding heart of great sorrow for the love of a suffering Vietnam Veteran (#1).
Don’t know if you can see this, but in photo #4, in fine-point pen I added (in the lower middle-right): “Thank you for bringing me to him.”
This is in reference to my other Great Love Randolph (for bringing Arwyn to me). But it also acknowledges a near-future prophecy, where Arwyn will bring me back to My Beloved Randolph (who suddenly disappeared from my life since 1992) through whatever magical dimension that is his power, which I call Dragon Sorcery. I really can’t speak enough praise, at what a noble and dear dragon, is My Darling Arwyn. Suffice it to say: “He is Infinitely Belov-ed by Yours Truly.”
FYI: If you still need to learn about my excellent association with Randolph Taylor, go here:
The Somalian Affair http://www.gay-bible.org/somalia/
Why it’s called “The Somalian Affair” will become evident, after a little perusal of that Dragon-Divinely Inspired Page.
Or, for a briefer account, this poem:
September’s Passage http://gay-bible.org/truetales/6_septemb.htm
Photo’s #5-6 are just the reverse side. A skull-theme bandana binds the folder. Those painted feathers BTW, were found in a curb on Noe Street, while walking home. Discarded, no doubt, after a fun day by one of numerous revelers, at San Francisco’s annual Bay to Breakers run. Wait-a-minute. Oh jeez, silly me. I almost forgot to mention the other items I’ve included in this folder. And which are very, very special (click on any image for a larger view):
On the left side are the original handwritten letters I composed in 1985, while visiting My Randolph after he shot himself, and where he was (hopefully) recuperating. There was no certain conclusion that his hospital bed at the VAMC in Washington, D.C. would not also become his death bed. Those letters were interviews I held with various other patients there, who were also Nam Vets and–after returning back from that conflict–became (like Randolph) anti-war activists.
What I did was illegal (carrying a concealed tape recorder into the building), and could have landed me in prison. Each night upon returning to my hotel room, I’d play the recordings back, and handwrite all the details. The next morning, I’d make a photocopy of this journal, and mail these duplicates to Warren Hinckle, a news reporter back in S.F., who agreed to receive my daily reports. This way, if I got caught, Warren would have at least some vital info that could blow this scandal wide open.
John H., you remember all this I’m sure…you were still residing in the same apartment building as myself…in fact, I had just moved in there two years earlier. You recall how I had no money to fly out there, until that miracle happened. My first computer ever (a Compaq “luggable”, 28 lbs.!) was stolen by those two rapscallions, who I let live with me for a week before they could move into a new rental. I was so upset, never dreaming I’d collect on my insurance. So I forgot all about it. Then, Randolph shoots himself!
A potent dream where angels instructed me to fly out to D.C., or he’ll die, made me worry how I’d ever get the moolah to do just that. “Don’t worry,” these angels affirmed, “the money will come to you at the right time.” Well, lo and behold, the insurance payment that I forgot all about did show up two months later: $2,850! More than enough to jet out to D.C., rent a budget hotel room, eat out, buy Randolph some gifts, and more.
And you remember how I trusted curly golden-haired Brian Stevens to stay in my SRO and keep things tidy. No guests whatsoever, especially not that byatch Kelly? Boy, did he make a mess of things! (Or really, I should say “she“.)
Sadly, Mr. Hinckle did nothing with my papers; in fact he never communicated with me ever again, despite my several phone calls to him when I got back. As far as I know, he is still sitting on these documents, or more likely, just tossed them into the trash.
Those letters are testimonials citing medical abuse and neglect by hospital staff, towards those soldiers who spoke out against our occupation of Vietnam. One such patient who suffered seizures, was locked away and ignored…until he finally died the next day. I believe they also intended the same fate for Randolph. Fortunately, I discovered his whereabouts thanks to the help of a local priest (Father Young, Church of the Most Holy Redeemer here in the Castro)…who had contacts back east. Ministers, priests, rabbis and the like can visit places otherwise verboten to your average citizen.
Once I blew the whistle by publicizing Randolph’s location and begging folks to send him letters and cards of concern, love and support; the hospital knew the jig was up, and they were forced to take good care of him. (How did I expose their skulduggery? By sending my grievous appeal as a letter to the editor to every major newspaper in each of our fifty states.)
On the right side of the open folder, are displayed three cards, all written to Randolph, but never really mailed. I did this sometimes, just to soothe my aching soul for lack of him. The topmost card shows a dog gazing down at a feline. Open this card to find:
This quote is an exact copy from one of Randolph’s earliest letters to me (while recuperating from that self-inflicted bullet wound)…right down to the little sketch of a cat’s head.
The bottommost card depicts two polar bears, youngster riding the back of an adult. Open this card to see:
Below my handwritten praise, you’ll find a photo of yet another card, depicting barnyard animals gathered around the manger of baby Jesus. It is a Christmas card of course, and the very last writing of any sort that Randolph sent to me. For a long time, I had it glued to a red background, and kept it hung on the wall right over my bed’s pillow. Inside, the card read: “May the sweet spirit of Christmas be with you all year long”. And signed, simply: “Randy”.
No return address, but the postal stamp indicated it was mailed from here, in San Francisco! I called the local VAMC and other hospitals, to see if I could track him down. Alas, no luck. I wept. For the umpteenth time since that dear man shot himself, I wept.
Finally, the central card depicts a luminous painting entitled: “The Knight of the Holy Grail” by Frederick Judd Waugh. My quest for Randolph’s Redemption is indeed, My Very Own Personal Holy Grail. Open the card to read:
So there you have it: my recent gift (or gifts, actually) to Beloved Arwyn. I entrust him with these papers, and those three undelivered cards. Why? Because I know in my heart, that Arwyn’s gift is to deliver me back unto Randolph…in some way which is unfathomable at this time, and is obviously no less than a Major Miracle. Randolph will receive my VAMC documents, and these cards…and thus my Great Odyssey come full circle.
Only now, not with just One Great Love in my life, but two!
I challenge anyone to defy my claim that I am the luckiest and happiest man in the entire cosmos (not just planet earth). Should you be such a one, I warn you right now: your mission is futile!
Why do these stupid people at WordPress have to mimic Facebox with their stupid “like”. I am not “like” anything. I remember the fifties when people spoke assertively.
Anyway, that said, yes I remember those punks, one of them a latino cha-cha who went on to be a public nuisance in and out of overnight jail for being disorderly – his name escapes me at the moment.
I remember Brian & Kelly.
Poor Kelly had an addiction problem. I always wished her well. I can’t imagine being a girl – undoubtedly ultimately fulfilling the uterus at least once, then having a burden to worry about for 20 years or more.
Brian, what a sweetie. Not too focused, but very approachable.
1985 was a limbo year for me. Quiet desparation, uncertainty, not unlike the present. Reviewing cycles, always interesting. And, like that year, presently dealing with an aching tooth that gets yanked out tomorrow.
I always remember Brian with fond thought. Remember, I wrote that medieval Welsh tale just for him (Brian & the Werewolf).
Good luck with your tooth-pulling. I just suffer any toothache that comes along. Such is the way of the poor.