will invariably go up to the speaker, lie down and purr."
-- Geoffrey Fidelman
Thought of another pilgrimage. There's an Ella statue in Yonkers. Conveniently enough, it's at the train station. I'm thinking drive to Yonkers & take the train into, oh, I dunno. Somewhere in New York State that's big and busy and better without a car, and not that expensive if you don't, you know, do anything that costs more money than your wrap sandwich and subway fare and a few bottles of water and let's face it a latte or two but c'mon how much is all that for Yew Nork City?
But it's little too cold tonight to set out right now, I think.
I'll give you some Ella posts later if you want. Anybody want? Ah, I might just do it anyway.
Ella's statue in Yonkers is just about as good as Frank O'Hara's grave, among other once-imagined pilgrimages never made. But I never wanted to see James Dean's. Or where his car crash was.
I knew this ailing older gay man at the community college in Baltimore. He taught me lots of stuff. He taught me "butch in the streets, femme in the sheets!" ("As soon as they're in that bed, those legs are up in the air!!") He also taught me "on the train." He was a kinda pissy, ornery fella. Probably doing gay catty, but I was only learning to recognize that schtick. It just seemed to me inexplicably hostile, beyond that he seemed to have a chip on his shoulder in general. To judge from how he went about enforcing standard English, fer instance. Anyway, he'd partied, or so he said (and I believed him), with James Dean. He wasn't impressed. Skinny little dweeb of a guy, he called him. In blue jeans.
Jim, the guy was named. [Here I had a bunch of rambling blather & cut it, but not before realizing while typing it how many queers there were at that community college. In English, in particular. Never really put that together before.]
And then there was the student I was kind of in love with. He's dead now. Have I told about him here before? He was studying respiratory therapy, and I used to let him into the lab afterhours when he'd knock and give a password through the door: pneumocystis cariini pneumonia (i'm guessing at spelling there, screw ya'll sticklers if it's killing you). His name was Tyrone. He had HUGE hands. And feet. His hands were kinda puffy. I loved his hands on the keyboard. First pair of hands I ever fell in love with. OMG what is it about a pair of hands when you fall in love with them, and how that can't happen, or never does, if you're not full of the love of what those hands seem to be attached to?
But I digress. [And here there was a bunch more digressing.] [Touch o' the graphorrhea tonight, clearly.]