What Is Between What Is Out There

 

Birmingham, Alabama. Photo by me, June 2023.

The road has had more of my time this year like an old friend calling me on the phone for a long catch-up conversation. I am not good at ending conversations; I am bad at knowing when to wrap things up and have to let the other person do it when the pauses grow too long. Every conversation could be the last and it should count for something, as I see it. For those who have endured the hours-long phone conversations with me, they deserve to be appreciated. 

 

I like being on the road, watching the sunset between the white stripes of a rest area parking lot, not caring all that much about a place, after all, I am only passing through and watching the crazies tailgate each other in the fast lane. I am not ready to end the conversation with the road, hang up and say, "Bye-bye." I want to see what is out there and what is in between what is out there. I have had a lot of long drives and conversations in my lifetime.

The Birmingham skyline. Photo by me, June 2023.

 

I was in Birmingham, Alabama two weeks ago. Small to mid-sized cities are time capsules of the past. They remind me of Atlanta in the 1980s and 90s, before traffic reached twenty-four-hour gridlock and all of the cool places and people were priced out. Small cities have just enough of the ingredients of the magic of possibility to not bore me without overwhelming me.

The car radio scanned and I was surprised that Birmingham had an alternative station, 107.3 FM Mountain Radio. I listened through the eastern suburbs and spent the rest of my time in the city listening to a classic rock station that played too much AC/DC. Back in Black greeted me as the skyline came into view. My mind veered to the early 1980s and I was hearing that music coming from my brother's bedroom and it seemed angry in the way teenagers pose as rebels against everything.

I have a little history with the city and plenty with the state of Alabama. Alabama, contrary to popular opinion, is not a foreign country for gays. The gays there are the rebel weed dandelions growing through the sidewalk cracks and surviving through the adversity of existence. In the 2000s, I occasionally partied at a club called Quest. It was one of the few gay bars in the city and in the state and it was open 24 hours. The attraction was that it was always open, never closed, and open later than the Atlanta bars that closed at three in the morning. These trips were never planned and were spur-of-the moment excursions. I visited a few times danced until sunrise or so, grabbed a hotel room to crash for a few hours and went to The Galleria mall to buy fresh clothes. The locals at Quest were friendly and recognized that I was not a local. I would say I was from Atlanta and that led to too many questions and unwanted offers to buy coke. I raised the guards and applied my fake bar name, Eric.

Birmingham. Photo by me, June 2023.

My reason for being in Birmingham this time around was to visit an antique store. The times have changed. The store was on the south side, in the same neighborhood as Quest. I parked on the street and walked on a windless, hot day as smoke from the forest fires in Canada glazed the sky. I relaxed and felt the relief of having more space around me than in Georgia. 

 

I smelled the stale scent of a time capsule opening.

Photo by me, June 2023.

It was a large and interesting store and a few purchases were made. The prices were better than what can be found in Georgia, another benefit of being a less populated place.

I loafed around Birmingham for the day, seeing new places, eating barbecue at Dreamland on 14th Avenue and then headed home to Georgia. The radio stayed on the classic rock station on Interstate 20 as far east as Anniston, another place with a history for me and radio and Susquehanna, until the static choked it out. The last song I heard was The Marshall Tucker Band's Can't You See. 

The road called, the conversation was had and I was out there seeing what was in between through the crackling static. The last of the sun fell on me at the Georgia welcome center parking lot. A family posed in front of the state sign with a peach on it. I must have looked as silly as them on some of my travels too. Life is going by the same as the cars on the asphalt and there is no slowing down.

Pride in 2023

 

The Atlanta Pride parade 2004. Photo by me, June 2004.

I am standing at the corner of 10^th and Peachtree streets on a Sunday in June 2004. This is my regular spot to watch the annual Atlanta Pride parade. I prefer this spot as the parade slows to make the right turn on 10^th as it heads to Piedmont Park. I can have a longer look from here at the marchers, clap, cheer them on, watch the men and snap photos. The parade with all of its color, loud music and performances is a writhing and beautiful street party in a week of parties. It is the ultimate release of frustration at being a discriminated-against minority and a celebration of surviving another year. The American version of Queer As Folk was my favorite television show and I wanted both the characters of Justin and Brian.

That was 2004. Gay marriage would be legalized almost eleven years later to the day.

 

Atlanta Pride parade 2013. Photo by me, October 2013.

Much has changed in the nineteen years since 2004 and much has not. I was younger at thirty-one and now I am a slower moving, slightly more wrinkled fifty-year-old that stopped partying in my mid forties, lives outside the city, I can get legally married, Backstreet and many other bars and clubs are long gone and Atlanta is a helluva lot bigger and more expensive and Atlanta officially celebrates Pride in October and I totally and utterly disagree with that change.

In one aspect, it feels more like the 1980s and 90s than 2023 as Pride month begins. The stench of fear and bullshit are blowing in the wind. Again, the United States is bobbing and weaving through another culture war with gays and Pride in the middle of it, as a volleyball in a game in which those on the conservative political spectrum are trying to score using us as bait. This is reminiscent of my youth, when the country was less tolerant, less accepting of the other and we had AIDS then too. The political sideshow of it all is boring and tiresome at fifty years old.

The ghosts of the Moral Majority of the 1980s and their claims of a sinister gay cabal with a homosexual agenda have arisen from their cesspits of defeat. There are accusations of gay grooming and all of that nonsense. This new set of grifters and homophobes may be loud, but they certainly are not very original in their smears. Shame on those nasty people and perhaps they should clean up their own closets. Thou doth protest too much. What's next the gay panic defense?

 

It is rather funny that in all my years I have never caught a whiff of official homosexual meetings typing up the homosexual agenda or even a grocery list.

A woman confronts a coward to his face and all he can do is look away. That man is the type that wish to do gays harm. Atlanta Pride parade. Photo by me, June 2007.

There is much revisionist history I read on the internet, as some claim Pride month is a new phenomenon in some gay conspiracy take over of the country. This is nothing more than some homophobes finally taking notice of something beyond the end of their own noses and using gays as a way to grift money and make a name for themselves on social media. June has been officially recognized as Pride month since 1999, thanks to Bill Clinton. Also, since June 1969, there has been the historical precedent of that important event in gay liberation that you might have heard of called the Stonewall riots. Pride month is not something new and there is also Pride week when the parties, the festival and the parade happens. For those who do not like Pride month or week on their calendar then ignore it. I promise that Pride month is not going to kidnap you, make you dance for dollar bills in a thong on Peachtree or give you a better sense of fashion.

Some people are upset that Target is selling Pride merchandise and others are upset that Target is removing the Pride merchandise as a capitulation to a boycott. Both sides are being played in this silliness over what a retail store sells. It is a distraction from the larger issues of life. How dumb and lazy have we become as a society that adults spend time arguing over rainbows on tee shirts and beer bottles? Do you believe you are saving the world by stopping someone from buying a rainbow tee shirt? Are you that easily offended, weak and manipulated? Maybe you are one of those types who thrives on outrage because of your own misery?

I have no plans of buying any Pride merchandise from Target, I can do that at a gay retailer such as Brushstrokes. The only gay themed shirts I have ever purchased were from Brushstrokes in Ansley, Ball Beachwear in Fort Lauderdale or at the Pride festival itself. At least I know that my money went back into gay pockets.

There is another side to this argument to consider.

 

Atlanta Pride parade 2007. Photo by me, June 2007.

I remember the complaints in the gay community of the 1990s and 2000s about how commercial Pride had become with corporate sponsors and floats in the parade. I did find it rather insulting and tacky to see Bank of America and other corporations with floats that were nothing more than advertisements in the parade. Bank of America does not get hurt being called a faggot on the street by a moron like I have a few times, nor have they ever been assaulted as I have for just being a gay man. They have no place in a Pride parade and they have not earned that honor and yes, it is an honor. Corporations have bought their way in and used Pride as a marketing opportunity.

 

PFLAG in the Atlanta Pride parade. Photo by me, October 2013.

As far as the regurgitated smears of gay grooming, gay kids are a natural part of human biology and are going to exist whether some like it or not. Those children deserve protection, as all children do, and that is why there are organizations like PFLAG that have been around since 1973, the year I was born.

The origins of PFLAG began when elementary school teacher Jeanne Manford's gay son was beaten in 1972 for handing out flyers to a dinner party. The police had little interest in solving the case, so Manford became an activist. She went on radio and television and in the summer of 1973 marched with her son in the New York City gay pride march. She carried a sign that read, “parents of gays unite to support our children.” Her bravery and willingness to support her son gave birth to PFLAG.

A terrible photo of me and my then boyfriend at the 1998 Atlanta Pride festival in Piedmont Park in June.

I think back to my first Atlanta Pride festival and parade in 1995. I was twenty-two and though I was more than comfortable in my own skin and with being an openly young gay man in some of my circles of life, I was not out to all. I was not out to all of my family then or to my coworkers. I lived in an old factory on Ponce de Leon Avenue and even living in the confines of the city, it was not entirely safe to be completely open in my life. My boyfriend had the tailgate of his truck vandalized in the parking lot of our building, sprayed on it in capital red letters was the word FAG. We had been harassed on a MARTA train at Five Points. The city was not OZ or a protective paradise, but it was significantly safer as a gay man than living out in the suburbs in a place like Cobb County. Going to the parade and festival in Piedmont Park was the first time in my life that I was surrounded by so many people like myself. It was scary and simultaneously great. That weekend meant a lot to me and it still does. I was glad that Pride existed, if for no other reasons than it was eye-opening and so much fun.

I went to Pride for years and it was always marked in ink on my calendar months in advance. I went to the parade, the festival, the parties and danced until sunrise or later in the bars. I watched the younger generations move into the scene and then it became time for me to bow out. Plus, having Pride in October in Atlanta does not work for me, as October is one of my busier months for social activities.

There are disagreements I have with the modern gay movement, support organizations and Pride, but those are insignificant when compared to external threats and the rise of hateful smears against gays by those that would do us harm just for existing. I did not ask for my sexual orientation to be politicized, just as I did not ask to be gay.

Of course, I am glad Pride still flourishes and means something to younger generations finding their way through life. Pride has a place for them just as it did for me in 1995 and if I ever feel as though I need it again. We do live in ugly, violent and fractured times.

The Silent And The Quiet

 

Late spring encroaches on the banks of the Yellow River in Georgia. Photo by me, April 2023.

On a recent walk in the woods it was surprisingly quiet. It was so quiet that it was noticeable like a change in the atmosphere from dry to humid. It is not often that you can find woods that are quiet anymore. Most woods around the northern half of Georgia outside of places deep in the mountains are not far enough away from some form of civilization like a road, a subdivision or other people that you can enjoy the natural sounds of the environment. I grew up in a quiet place, enjoyed it and prefer it today.

Where I walked was in the woods of Yellow River Park near Stone Mountain. I know that it was only quiet on the trails because it was a Monday in late April and it was late afternoon. Another day and another time and it likely would not have been so peaceful. This was a fortunate experience unlikely to be repeated unless maybe I returned to walk in the rain.

 

It was down this stretch of path when I noticed how quiet it was. Photo by me, April 2023.

It is my impression that society and modern life does not value quiet and especially silence. Lives are filled with noisy traffic, chirping car alarms, slamming car doors, leaf blowers, cell phone notifications, loud talking people, music blasting and background television wanting to sell you something. So much space and tolerance is made in life for noise that little is left for quiet.

It is amazing how much can be learned about people because they do not care to remember that voices have a volume control and that we have feet to bring two people closer in conversation instead of shouting from a distance. I find myself judging people's manners by how loud they speak in public and not always by what they say. It is not always about what is said, but how it is said. I would prefer to know less about strangers, but they do not care so shout it to the world they think – or in fact they do not think.

 

I passed through a thicket of blooming mountain laurel and it was a surprise. Photo by me, April 2023.

Photo by me, April 2023.

Photo by me, April 2023.

 

The same goes for music. I wait for the moment that I hear a car loudly playing something by Bach, Chopin, Mahler or Mozart or anything remotely classical out the car windows as it drives by. Something tells me I will be waiting for the rest of life and never hear that. I will concede that if I heard that often enough too that I might say, “damn those Bach lovers and their incessant need to pollute the world with that noise.”

I kind of doubt I would have that reaction, but I would like to be tested.

 

The twists and turns through the woods. Photo by me, April 2023.

Photo by me, April 2023.

Photo by me, April 2023.

The frequency in which people slam car doors now is something that truly surprises me. The slammed car door is like an act of violence to my ears. I was raised to never slam a car door and learned that I was going to be scolded if I did. Do parents scold children these days? I suspect they do not. Children and adults are zombies to cell phone screens and cannot seem to walk without one in their hand, clutching them like security blankets.

Modern life has been degraded in so many aspects that people either do not notice or care like the trash out the window and into the ditch. Loud people and devices and their behaviors are polluters dragging down the quality of life for everybody else.

 

Photo by me, April 2023.

Photo by me, April 2023.

Photo by me, April 2023.

Some people are afraid of silence and it must be because it is so unfamiliar to them. People have a tendency to feel uncomfortable in the presence of the different, the other and often that other is quiet. Or maybe and this is a more scary proposition; they are afraid to be alone with the thoughts inside their own head. A couple of years ago, I said to someone when I was writing some of the stories in Terminal Wake that the book was as much about silence as it was anything else.

 

I emerged from the tree canopy into a field. Photo by me, April 2023.

As for someone like me, that is highly sensitive to sound, I notice and appreciate when sound is absent in public. I do not expect the world to accommodate me, but maybe they could consider being quiet and modest for themselves sometimes.

Taking Notes and Photos

A rundown town in Georgia. April 2023. Photo by me.

 

Having left the city of Atlanta in the fall of 2021 and moved to a different part of Georgia, I have easier access to a part of the state that I am largely unfamiliar. This part of the state is more rural and remnants of the past still dot the landscapes in their often decayed states. I am reminded some, but not entirely, of where and when I grew up and still my perspective has changed. I am finding new places to inspire my writing. 

 

I seem to be constantly snapping photos and making notes of what I see as I travel about in my comings and goings in these areas. The new places are inspiring me to think about ideas for writing that I had not considered before.

This is a photographic tour of some of those places.

March 2023. Photo by me.

March 2023. Photo by me.

March 2023. Photo by me.

April 2023. Photo by me.

April 2023. Photo by me.

April 2023. Photo by me.

April 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

May 2023. Photo by me.

None of the places shown here are in Athens, though I spend enough time there, but are instead in the smaller places on the map or not on any map at all. These places make me feel as if I am living in the early 80s music of the Athens band, R.E.M. 

These particular R.E.M. songs are in my head quite often as I wander: Can't Get There From Here, Feeling Gravitys Pull and Gardening At Night.

Two of the songs come from the 1985 album, Fables of the Reconstruction. It is an album that features southern gothic characters and themes. Wikipedia describes the album this way, "Lyrically, the album explores the mythology and landscape of the South..."

I am also drawing inspiration from my favorite photographer, William Eggleston - also a southerner.

In early March I went out to a ghost town that is far from any place, down a long gravel road and along a river. I have not written about that place yet and it is not in the photos shown here.

The Underworld Of Writing

Me in the early blogging 2000s.

T he thought entered my mind how, as far as I am aware, none of the gay Atlanta bloggers from the early 2000s, besides myself, are still around. As I have been republishing my twenty-year archive that was offline for some time, I have been thinking about that time and that group of online writers.

My old site twenty years ago was called My Daily Education or MDE for short. My slogan was "uncovering queer Atlanta." I used the word "queer" because it seemed edgy then, but now it has been adopted into the mainstream and I cringe at its usage. I wrote about nightlife mostly, wild nights, music, film, protests, travel, strange characters from local gay history, I awarded the best and worst of the city in gay terms, Atlanta and whatever else I wanted. I still write what I want, but my focus has changed with the times and my  interests. The wild nights ended a long time ago, but the writing continued and diversified.

I suppose this makes me the old guard of gay Atlanta bloggers.

 

At The Masquerade in the glory days of blogging. Taken from my old site, My Daily Education. Photo by me.

 

There were several of us in our twenties and thirties writing fearless and whatever we wanted. We pounded the keys and pounded our way through the clubs such as Jungle, Heretic, Blake's, WETbar and other places. Legendary Backstreet was still around, but it was being killed by the city about that time to make way for a shiny and soulless condo tower. We would chat, drink, dance, sometimes flirt or gossip, but mostly enjoy ourselves like a small cadre. We were the upstarts against the established gay media that sugar coated everything. Then they tried to co-opt some of us, including me, to write for them. I did do that interview that said something about how blogging would die and we would move to something else, which turned out to be true. I also did do some writing for the gay media so I suppose they got to me.

 

A screenshot of that interview in the 2000s. I do believe I would not have considered myself fabulous nor do I ever recall using that word.

Where did my fellow gay Atlanta bloggers go? Our little underworld of writing we enjoyed went poof! Social media was never able to capture the spirit of blogging and aided in making people's attention spans shorter. Also, Twitter and Facebook made people more snarky and turned them into meme speakers which requires no original thought or even words.

One of the banners from my old site in the 2000s.

 

Social media killed blogging and I am not writing much about Atlanta anymore or even living in the city, but those were good times on the internet. I cannot even remember all of their names, though I wish that I could.

 

Not only did blogging die, but look at the pathetic state of gay media in Atlanta today. I am not certain local gay media serves a necessary function anymore.

 

Underworld, Sola Sistim

Scenes From Spring

Beautiful scenery along the Ivy Creek Greenway. April 2023. Photo by me.

The weather has been odd this spring in that it has felt like spring instead of what has become all too often for the past several years a period that felt more like early summer by April. This spring the temperatures have fluctuated from chilly afternoons to warm ones and some mornings have been much below average. The fluctuations have continued into the last week of April when over the last several springs this area had already settled into afternoons in the eighties and mornings in the sixties. Today's high, for example, under the gray sky and occasional light only reached the fifties. I am not complaining about still having to wear fleece jackets and long pants instead of shorts every day this spring. I have liked it.

The miles walked have added up this spring. This past Sunday I was out walking for six and a half miles and in shorts. The temperatures were in the upper sixties and the sky was partly cloudy then the wind changed. The clouds rolled in from the southwest and the warmth of the sun was gone. I regretted the shorts by the time I reached the end of my walk. This was only the second time this spring that I have walked in shorts this year and I go for long walks or hikes once or twice a week. This year is in stark contrast to the past several years. It was not unusual to be out in shorts in early February the past few years.

A group of deer scurry when spotted in the woods. April 2023. Photo by me.

We had late deep freezes in the twenties early in spring this year. It killed all of the leaves on my crepe myrtle and it has only recently sprouted new leaves. Some of the hedges in front of my house were damaged the same and also have only begun to send out new leaves. The growing season is behind this year, but the coolness has helped with transplants of bushes and trees, they have not been stressed with early heat.

Rain muddied Ivy Creek. It kind of resembles a canal in the English countryside. April 2023. Photo by me.

Like walking through a green sea. April 2023. Photo by me.

As the clouds came late in the day. April 2023. Photo by me.

April 2023. Photo by me.

April 2023. Photo by me.

The rabbits are here so they know it is spring. I have seen them in my yards eating the grass and clover and while out walking on Sunday on a nature trail. If the fat rabbits are out then there is no denying the time of year.

I will gladly take a cool spring that is refreshing with cloudy and rainy days except for that freeze that damaged the vegetation. As nature does its balancing act, I do fear that these days will be paid for by abnormally hot and dry weather this summer - maybe not. A cool, by Georgia standards, summer and fall would be fine with me too.