namely, David Leviathan’s “Two Boys Kissing“, and although it isn’t sort of a novel, in the way novels often are, but more of a commentary. A specific discussion of a specific time, reflected in the now, a place more like now. It’s the soft voices of the dead, reminding me of watching Longtime Companion, and reading Paul Monette, and watching documentaries on the AIDS quilt and how people forget how horrible that time was, and how things are better, now, but better doesn’t actually mean Good, or right. And anyway, that’s why we need diverse books and that’s why I write stories about makeshift families, joyful, messy families.
…but since you are so inclined, pray that my friend and I be still together just like this at the Mont of Olives blessed by the last of an ancient race who loved youth and laughter and beautiful things so much they couldn’t stop singing and we were the song.
It reminds me of being afraid for people I loved, and walking around a very well appointed apartment, looking at art with a man who was most worried that one day his eye sight would be gone.
Hrm. That was a bit gloomier than maybe we want on a weird Monday/Friday hybrid (seasonal holidays are weird, yo).
I also woke up with a line in my head:
“Every time Cupid shoots an arrow, he risks falling in love.”
Every time isn’t the right word, but I suspect this may be a short story one day, along with “The Light’s gone out, Say Goodnight”, which has characters and a part of a set up, but zero plot. Which, you might know, has never stopped me before.
Onward, my pretties. The flying monkeys are coming.