Friday, June 8, 2018
This little green bug was recently clambering about on one of our roses, but when I got out the camera to take a picture he was clearly intimidated. He scooched backwards to hide between the petals, as if they were blankets. I wonder if he was hunting that little aphid in the foreground?
I read yesterday that Joseph Pintauro died. He was a poet, novelist and playwright who touched my life in several ways. I've written already about the groovy books of art and poetry that he co-wrote in the late 1960s and that I still treasure. He also wrote numerous plays, including one that I saw when I lived in New York -- and apparently I even met Pintauro that evening, although I wouldn't have remembered it if I hadn't written it on my blog. (My mind is going, I swear.)
In those days, if there were gay bookstores where I lived in Florida, I wasn't knowledgeable or courageous enough to visit them. (I'm talking about real bookstores that sold literature, not porn vendors using a euphemistic name.) Somehow, in the anonymity of the big city, I could explore that aspect of my being, if only through reading.
I loved "The Boys on the Rock" -- in fact, I still have my copy -- but I was less enthusiastic about "Cold Hands." It had something to do with two Italian-American cousins and their exotic Mame-like aunt, who was named Zia Fantasia, if I'm not mistaken. Still, I will always be indebted to Pintauro for writing one of the books that occupied my attention on the Metro in those days when I was coming to terms with my identity as a gay man -- not to mention his colorful books of hippie poetry.