Sunday morning I went to Brooklyn's Cobble Hill to have brunch with one of my college professors from Hofstra, whom I have not seen in 12 years. We'd talked about having dinner for the past four years, and since I had to come to the neighborhood to do research for a short story/novella I am writing, I imposed my countenance upon him and his partner and the three of us went out to eat.
But wait! I have buried the lead! Before going to Brooklyn, I picked up the phone and called England. Specifically, my cousin. As I figured they must have, they had figured me out. The perils of being openly gay on the Internet... He and I discussed my letter/esssay briefly, followed by a lengthier discussion of a trip the family there is making up to Yorkshire to say goodbye to their old shul, the congregation of which has dwindled. Then he asked me when I will be coming round again to the UK, and that, as they say, is that. I suspect I will spend years to come visiting my cousins, getting to know their children, and taking full advantage of the truly discounted goods at the Body Shop. A few days later his son-in-law wrote a note in the affirmative as well.
When I first met these cousins, and stayed in their home sight unseen, the benificent Beryl said to me, "You know, when you first arrived, I didn't know how well we'd get on, but you fit in quite nicely." The former because I didn't take tea or coffee (just drinking chocolate) and the latter because I did a thorough job of the hoovering in the room in which the children had been sequestered wtih their food.
So, I'm still in the family. What a relief.
After parting, I wandered around Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens, spending a lot of time in Carroll Park (seen in the recent movie Object of My Affection). I also wandered down to the other side of the BQE and sat at a bench at the Ickes playground, which was completely desserted and had a fantastic view of Manhattan, with the Red Hook Bulk Salt Station in the foreground. I wound up wondering why I was sitting there like a target, so I went back to Carroll Park. It was encouraging, in this neighborhood that goes crazy with decorating at holidays, to see among, all the houses with Scarecrows in every fifth front yard, a rainbow flag hanging on the outside of someone's window.
I dropped in to my office and read the New York Times op-ed piece by David Leavitt, concerning the murder of Matthew Shepard, and that set me off anew. He perpetuates the myth of gay powerlessness and while a very diagnostic piece, he offered no solutions. So I wrote a 650-word response and dashed it off the the Times, later on at home. (Click here to read it.) I had hoped to go see the Stepford Wives at A Different Light, but they were full up, so I went home, which was when I wrote that piece to the Times.
So despite Hollywood's and Brooklyn's best efforts, I was pissed off all over again. I went home after a brief trip to Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookstore and wrote my letter to the time.
Once again I couldn't sleep, so I sent a letter to both gay papers, entitled Hitting the Third Bumper. I feel like I personally have to start some sort of event or movement or something, since New York is so apathetic, and our "leaders" are absent or weary or something depressing. It's vainglorious to think I can start a movement, but I do know I can do something. I know I can.
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