Snapshot

By way of a snapshot from the past, here is a journal entry I wrote:

Saturday, June 10, 1979 (Full Moon). Savannah.

Peacock blue morning spreads open another hot day.  I have returned from a Jean Genet night at Tybee where I played life observer as usual-- the outsider, the snap shooter. A chicken queen young enough to be my son, painted face, dyed hair, earring sore in his ear, made over me in the parking lot of Who's Who, as I eyed his companion, a shy Brunswick lad. Queen Michael raved over my beard until I admitted my interest in Scott. By that time, Scott, who had responded to my glance, had another admirer, Bobby: sometimes lover of Chris, with whom Joe-Michael went home form the bookstore weeks ago. Bobby was more than match for me-- a similar type-- but with excellent physique and with smooth know-how.

Good fortune tossed us about in cars, took us to Sambo's (we now were six), and on to Tybee en route to which I had Scott, since Bobby drove. Queen Mary had picked up a friendly lad who once had a  knife fight which nearly killed him and scarred him in several places for life. They smooched and caressed. I did likewise with Scott.

Tybee paired us differently. I declined to pair with #6-- a delicate, effeminate guy whose feelings I undoubtedly hurt. Queen Mary and friend wound together; Bobby and Scott took fire and fucked on a blanket in the dunes. I walked to the sea edge and watched the sunrise.

Beer and fritos and friendly exchange made the morning. Scott phoned his parents in Brunswick. Queen Mary raved in satisfaction-- talked of living in upper Manhattan, of how he became a queen at 14 (4 years ago). He has an impeccable boy's body-- however much he contorts it.

So now I am home. Joni Mitchell sings poetry. Her guitar is soothing. How glad I am to have music in my weird life, and am glad too that last night I only took snapshots.

--Jack