I made mental lists of the pluses and minuses of weekending in the hamlet of Fire Island Pines. There were many entries on both sides of the ledger, although the minuses were a bit more alarming than the pluses were reassuring. I took the train out one weekend with a friend to whom Asaph had ceded his space, owing to a family commitment. I had a bad taste in my mouth.
"Do I have bad breath?" I asked my friend.
"Well, I wasn't going to say, but yes."
"Really?" I was horrified.
"Yeah, I just assumed that it was your diet." I had thought that this friend was also following a primal or paleolithic diet, but he ate a sandwich on the train, so I supposed that he wasn't.
At that moment I decided to give up alcohol-based mouthwashes, since I decided, in accordance with a primal or paleolithic worldview, that killing all of the germs in your mouth was probably not the best idea, and could have a counterintuitive effect. I had already given up antihistamines earlier in the year, as well as grains and sugar and moisturizers. I had not been brave enough to give up minoxidil.
We waited in a long line at the ferry. At the last minute, just as we were about to board, the aging ex-Soviet pornographer who renamed himself after the angel who battles the dragon in the Book of Revelation, and also after the author of the Acts of the Apostles, came, along with his flock, from behind everyone, insisting on boarding first. There was no shortage of space, but he seemed upset that proper deference had not been shown to him. I noticed that he was wearing a visor, like a banker.
This is the world, I thought, and let out a sigh that would not be my last.
We had to sit near the pornographer and his gaggle on the boat, and the sounds of their cackling provided the discordant musical accompaniment to our voyage.
(Later a friend and correspondent told me that I was being too judgmental and that I shouldn't expect everyone to be good. That means I have to be extra good, to compensate, I thought.)
It was a nice weekend anyway.
It was nice to spend some time with the friend to whom Asaph had ceded his space.
His good friends, who are just my friends, came out for the day. I took photos of my friend who is like a gentle giant.
I offered small apricots that I had brought from the city, but no one was really interested.
There were posters everywhere for upcoming parties. There is little variation in the design of these posters, I noticed.
I was accidentally part of a conversation about astrology. I often think about and repeat the story of how once a young non-heterosexual man said to me, in a shocked manner, "How can you not believe in astrology? It's like not believing in math!"
When I tell people my astrological sign, they tend to be surprised, I thought. Supposedly I should be constantly thinking: sex, death, sex, death, sex, death.
I supposed that I do, but just not in the way that normal people would think about those topics or subjects.
There was a large party to be held on the beach that weekend, but we were not attending, owing to the exorbitant cost of US$200. In addition to the standard motif of the Apollo's Belt, this party was also had a supplementary Hellenistic theme: Poseidon (Ποσειδῶν). The multinational conglomerate that owns all of the bars and clubs and restaurants in the Pines (I believe it is a South Korean chaebol 재벌) tried to use Hellenism in promotions for their other events.
Oddly, I didn't see any references to Dionysos, the most appropriate god for Fire Island.
Bacchus, Bacchus, Bacchus, I thought.
My friend and I decided to go to sleep, while the other members of our house went to the all-night Poseidon party on the beach. Before turning in, I showed my friend some photos I had put up on a social-networking website.
"What are these weird names you use?" he asked.
"Oh, I label the albums using the French Revolutionary Calendar," I said, suddenly realizing how weird that was.
Silence followed.
The silence was not enjoyed for long. The beach party was taking place near our house, and we could hear every song played. Luckily, my friend had earplugs, and there was an electric fan that Asaph and I had brought out last year to provide white noise.
In my dreams, I thought: hurry hurry hurry, now, quick quick quick. I got up at dawn and stood on the deck, listening to the so-called morning music while drinking prescribed anti-inflammatory hypoallergenic rice-protein powder mixed with almond milk. The birds had canceled their dawn chorus.
I went back to sleep. Later we went to inspect the ruins on the beach.
Then we went into town. The conglomerate had put up many posters to entice us to spend large sums of money on drinks, in the hope that all of our dreams would be fulfilled.
I wondered about the fate of these young Ganymedes (Γανυμήδης).
When I got back home to New York I noticed that I had a tiny chip in one of my teeth. I was worried that this was a sign of something very bad. For a moment I wondered if I was dreaming, but then I remembered that dreams about teeth crumbling and falling out of one's mouth were also very bad.
The next week I went back to Fire Island. I was informed in the harbor that the end was near.
My Italian friend Pierluigi was also out on the island. We took a walk on the beach. I thought about Cancer.
Waves from the ocean lapped aggressively at the beach, threatening to wash it away.
We passed someone who had often visited the Fire Island house I rented in 2005. He was a good friend of many friends of mine, and he and I had had many conversations in the past.
"That was a beautiful man!" said Pierluigi.
"I used to know him, but I doubt he remembers me anymore. The [non-heterosexual] memory for other [non-heterosexuals] requires continual refreshment or else it fades away," I explained.
I remembered that my crazy holistic doctor operated an office -- in much of the rest of the English-speaking world, a surgery -- in Cherry Grove.
We followed the signs.
Our path was unambiguous.
I spent a long time explaining a complicated, multi-level pun to Pierluigi.
We continued on our way. I misidentified something as the flag of Malta, when it wasn't that at all.
I didn't and don't know what it was the flag for or of. I had been thinking of Malta, because Asaph's step-step-sister had moved there, and I was dying to visit. I watched a scene from a Maltese soap opera on my computer, and the language sounded like Arabic spoken by Italians. It was wonderful.
We walked through the Great Swale back to the Pines. We emerged at the swamp near my house.
We headed to the Teas through a bamboo forest.
After the crowded, overpriced Teas, we went to have dinner with the mysterious Édouard. His house was charming and New-Englandish, with a screened-in porch and many nostalgic furnishings.
Heureusement, l'usage de la langue française n'était pas obligatoire.
It was a lovely meal. We were served iced cherries for dessert.
What a great idea, I thought.
The next day the ocean was turbulent.
A beautiful dog was brimming with excitement and anxiety.
I saw some poetic littoral litter.
There was considerable froth and foam.
Again, the ocean threatened to claw back what it was owed.
We returned to the house to sit by the pool.
I ate a peach instead of a golden apple.
We went out to the Tea before departing. Pierluigi cheered up.
A female friend of mine was visiting for the day. I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of deference shown to her by many of the non-heterosexual males, even though she was New England spinster pushing 40.
Back in the city, there was endless heat and humidity.
And endless examination and analysis. It was tedious.
Even venturing outside was unpleasant, but I knew that exposure to some natural or quasi-natural elements was crucial for good mental and physical health.
We had a number of young houseguests from Israel. The first one was someone I had met before. Despite having an Arabic last name, he was quite fancy for an Israeli. He spoke flawless English with nearly no accent and had spent the past year working for an Israeli development organization. I thought that it must be challenging to find a country where Israelis aren't hated right from the start, thereby making do-gooderism impossible. He had just returned from Nepal and Haiti. He complained that persons who work for the United Nations are overpaid, but I suppressed any eye-rolling I might have wanted to engage in.
He was kind of a hippie. It was easy to forget that he was Israeli, but then there would be a stark reminder, like once when we were waiting to be seated at a restaurant and we had to restrain him from going up to a table and telling its occupants to hurry up and leave. It was a table of older non-heterosexual men who had finished eating and were chatting and enjoying each other's company. I would have waited all night before telling them to hurry up.
He came to one of the training sessions with our gorgeous Israeli trainer. Three Israelis and me, I thought. I don't stand a chance.
He vomited at the end of the session.
The morning that he left, I woke up to find a note from him stating that he had borrowed $20 "from the thicker wallet" that had been on the counter. That was my wallet. It was only thicker because it was filled with unredeemed debit cards from a transit benefit provider. I had to go to the bank before I was able to buy coffee on my way to work.
We went to Westchester to visit the new baby of one of Asaph's co-workers.
She had black fuzz all over her back, shoulders, and ears. It was nice to be around someone with similar levels of ear hair.
The next day I went to Brooklyn to see my good friend Christopher, whom I hadn't seen in ages. He had figs in his yard.
I am always shocked by how nice his section of Brooklyn is.
Listening to National Public Radio is appropriate in Brooklyn, I thought and always think.
The Roman Catholic Church remained in extreme disorder, I noticed.
I remembered some Arabic.
We had a lovely brunch where I stuck to my primal or paleolithic diet, mostly.
We passed a long line of people waiting to visit an abandoned subway station.
The next day was the Assumption. I went to a service with my friend Vince, whose shockingly young boyfriend was visiting from Greece. The Greek boy had never seen so many people, and so few goats.
The service was so long that even the boy raised in the Greek church -- known for its marathon (Μαραθών) services -- was stunned.
There was a dry sermon from a visiting Australian clergyman. I had thought they were all Low Church down in Australia. This was not Low Church; it was Highest Church, although the thurifer didn't run down the center aisle in a manic manner like in past or passed visits.
My friend from high school who is constantly thanking God was in New York for work, and he attended the service upon my recommendation, but he had to run out afterwards, owing to excessive length. There was a reception following the service, but they were only serving sparkling lemonade and strawberries. I wanted coffee, so, after a brief self-directed tour of the building, I left.
We had another young Israeli houseguest. He was the same age as the hippie who stole my money, but he was otherwise very different. He was from a Yemenite family, had never been to the United States before, and spoke mediocre English with a very thick accent.
I asked him where he was from.
"Ariel, do you know it?" he said.
Ariel (אריאל)? Isn't that a..., I thought.
"It's a settlement," he quickly answered.
Oh dear, I thought. Faruq would not be happy that I was providing shelter to a settler, even one with origins in the Arabian peninsula.
His youthful exuberance was inspiring. He returned to the apartment every day with a big smile on his face, amazed at what he had seen. "Are you drunk?" asked Asaph one night. No, he was just happy.
Two 20-year-old Israeli girls also came to stay with us during this time. Sometimes they would come home late, while I was watching television with my shirt off. I would run into the other room to cover up my shriveled middle-aged body, certain that it was repulsive for them to see such a grotesque sight.
The heat didn't break until the end of Thermidor.
And even then, things still seemed singed.
I took a long walk down the West Side Highway, since my Israeli trainer had wanted me to refrain from exercising for two days so that he could test my "dead lift maximum".
I figured that a nine-mile walk would satisfy some primal and paleolithic requirements.
I also thought that the sun on my skin would be healthy, vitamin-D-wise.
I had read that constant exposure to electronic media was preventing the proper formation of memories.
Walking along the West Side Highway is probably not natural enough to recharge the brain, I thought.
I stopped near the tip of Manhattan.
I remembered many things, most of them sad.
I had a terrible childhood experience in a public restroom in Battery Park.
I walked up to Bowling Green, which is also the name of a nondescript town in western Ohio, as well as the name of many other nondescript American towns.
I walked up by Trinity Church.
It reminded me of sad things too.
I remembered November of 2001 when I served on a narcotics grand jury downtown, and thought about how downtown Manhattan retains an old-fashioned ambiance, like the New York of films from the 1940s.
I felt some nostalgia.
I got tired of walking and took the subway home.
The next day I went to spend time with a friend from high school, his wife (who coincidentally went to my college), and their two young children. I was briefly tempted by grains.
We went to a playground that featured old-fashioned equipment like swing-sets and seesaws. The only concession to our current era was a thick layer of rubber under everything, to lessen injury and lawsuit.
I hadn't realized how much being a parent requires interaction with other parents and children. We kept having to race over to keep other children from injuring my friends' children, and vice versa. My friends' precocious seven-year-old daughter was annoyed by an angelic blonde Australian girl on a seesaw who was precariously standing on the fulcrum and causing it to tilt back and forth by shifting her weight.
"That's totally inappropriate," said my friends' daughter to the Australian father. "How old is she, three? She shouldn't be doing that."
I was embarrassed.
The next day I went to see yet another baby.
This baby was basically perfect. He was half-Spaniard and half-Korean. When I held him, he stared at me and smiled for extended periods of time, often resting his hand against my beard. His father, a Spaniard unafraid to offend, was unnerved.
"Hey, don't like him so much!" he shouted. Except, with his thick Spanish accent, what he said was mostly unintelligible. It was more like: ¡[Indistinct]!
"Maybe he likes your blue eyes!" speculated the mother. They seemed like a perfect family, and I was envious.
The next weekend we went back to Fire Island. I was overjoyed to run into an old friend from college.
I started to push the boundaries of my primal or paleolithic diet.
I had read that blueberries were filled with pesticide residues. You couldn't wash it off -- it was inside the berry. You couldn't do anything.
I reviewed the literature that is provided to every household on Fire Island.
I felt slightly nauseated. I thought of the unholy trinity of sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, or the equivalent.
Asaph napped while I rearranged the deck chairs.
He doesn't care for Fire Island and the way that extreme non-heterosexuality oozes from the boardwalks.
Where else can we go? I wondered. The Hamptons are either too expensive or too horrible, and we don't have a car, so Upstate is not an option.
I got into a very animated conversation about sunscreen at a meal. Asaph told me that I had "crossed a line".
"Were you drunk?" he asked.
I most certainly was not. But it is true that the idea that what had seemed like an unassailable piece of advice ("Wear Sunscreen.") might in fact lead to major health problems had struck me in a profound way. What's next: smoking is good for you? I wondered.
The primal and paleolithic lifestyle movements seem to offer some sensible advice, although sometimes their admonitions resemble the warnings of the fundamentally religious: when you fail to act in accordance with your evolutionary heritage/God's plan, you will receive in your person the due penalty for your error.
Ironically, using that word erroneously, I had been reading Absence of Mind by Marilynne Robinson, a book that attacks the evolutionary psychology that has become so popular these days.
She argues that modern "para-scientists"-- from Freud through Dawkins and Pinker -- teach us that we cannot trust what we believe to be the reasons that we think or do anything: "a central tenet of the modern world-view is that we do not know our own minds, our own motives, our own desires. And - an important corollary - certain well-qualified others do know them."
I had read an article that speculated about the evolutionary reasons for jealousy in non-heterosexual relationships.
I thought of my own experiences with jealousy. I had been extremely jealous in my first relationship. I was constantly suspecting my boyfriend of infidelity and constructing heartbreaking scenarios in my mind. In later relationships, the level of jealousy declined dramatically and precipitously.
Could this be because my body senses that, by now, a sufficient amount of genetic material must have found its way into the creation of some new entities that will be able to carry on my genetic legacy?
I had assumed that it could be explained by how, in my first relationship, I felt like I had found something that I had been waiting for for my entire life. It was so special and so wonderful, I was terrified to lose it. So the idea of anything threatening to take my boyfriend away from me sent me into a hysterical state. Since our relationship had begun with a kiss, a kiss with another seemed like it might be the beginning of my end.
Now, many years later and with plenty of experience with heartache, I know that I will probably be able to rebuild myself after being brutally demolished, and I am also a better judge of what constitutes a true threat to the relationship. So, consequently, I am less jealous.
I guess these thoughts are wrong, I thought.
I went to Tea. I couldn't believe we were nearly halfway through Fructidor.
It was so crowded, we couldn't even enter Low Tea. It was like India, with more sibilance and fewer cows.
We took shelter at High Tea, which hadn't even begun. I bought drinks for my housemates. Two de facto soft drinks and one beer cost US$32.
Where do these kids get the money to be out here? I wondered. Everyone seemed very drunk, which would have required hundreds of dollars to achieve on site.
That night I walked with two housemates through the Great Swale to Cherry Grove.
We went to an event hosted by friends and acquaintances. It was not especially popular. I spoke to a friend who was recovering from a long bout with Lyme Disease. I should have arrived via the beach! I thought.
I walked alone on the beach back to the Pines. I started to run, to save time. It was very dark, but I could make out some sort of creature low to the ground coming up to the south. It appeared to be rooting around in the sand. Then, a tall, bipedal form emerged from the ocean and began to stride quickly towards it. I couldn't make out anything other than the blurred, dark shapes of the apparitions. I started running faster and faster. There was no one else on the beach! I was terrified.
Later I realized that it had just been some guy and his dog.
The next day we went to visit the new puppy of a friend.
On the way to see a sick acquaintance, Asaph and I passed a house out of which music was already blaring. A young man stood in front of it, yelling to a group of guys on a balcony who were drinking.
"I just got home!" the young man shouted.
"Take off your pants!" responded the crowd.
It was around 12:30.
We went to visit our affluent friend.
His house is very different from ours, I thought.
Asaph relaxed by the pool, getting some needed sunlight, I thought.
The adorable puppy was there.
The puppy's owner is a Canadian with prematurely gray hair.
Additional attention was given to the puppy.
The puppy's co-owner was preparing lunch. I wondered if I would be happier if I paid more attention to beautiful objects, like Tony Rizzuto.
With the exception of church, my life has gotten a tad utilitarian, I thought.
The smooth and polished surfaces of my affluent friend's house contrasted starkly with the rotting floorboards and occasional rogue nails at my rental.
We ate. I put aside the bread.
Before leaving the island, I walked along the beach.
I watched a shorebird run towards the waves.
And then run away from the waves.
And then run towards the waves.
I sighed, not for the last time. I looked towards the heavens.
And then towards the ground.
I wasn't as sad about the end of the summer as I had been in past years.
Maybe I had had fewer happy experiences this summer.
Or maybe I just couldn't remember them, owing to excessive electronic media use blocking their formation.
We fetched our bags from our rickety, but charming and lovable, house.
Maybe there needs to be some periodic rebuilding, like with a Shinto shrine, I thought.
Oh such a lovely post... almost proustian.
How was Edouard's Rosé. I really wish I could have been a fly on the wall to hear your conversation. And you give the feeling to be definetely High Church, wich is on a superficial level more non-heterosexual.
Posted by: Jérôme | 02 September 2010 at 04:05
I arrived in the Country on Tuesday to find that the oil pan under my transmission had rusted out and I had lost my transmission fluid. As a result I spent yesterday from 8:15 to 4:15 at the local dealership, which gave me more than enough time to finsh Absence of Mind. I hate her writing style! And to think, these were delivered as lectures at Yale! Heidegger said it all more succinctly, even in German. I am sure you will find Inge far more engaging.
Posted by: Stan | 02 September 2010 at 08:27
I'm exhausted just reading that.
How do you have time in your life for all these friends? With every post we learn of still more. I'd need to spend a month at a monestary to recover from all the chatter.
Posted by: Walter | 02 September 2010 at 21:00
Sorry, doll, but the Grindr beach ball is déclassé. (Feel free to italicize that last word, as is your style.)
Posted by: C. L. | 03 September 2010 at 16:02
I find it impossible to describe your writing to someone else. "You just have to read it" is the best I can do.
The list of "sins" (NRSV?): which ones were the pluses? Other random grins: cancer (oddly), babies, goats, rearranging deck chairs and more. Maybe that's it: your writing is a quiet narrative series of grins with the occasional ache or outburst of laughter. Whatever it is, keep it coming.
Posted by: Birdie | 04 September 2010 at 10:41
What a lovely note indeed. Edouard's rosé is renowned all around the pines. Your writing style should be celebrated just as much.
Posted by: Vincent | 04 September 2010 at 14:17
Another great post (and photos) and I agree with Birdie's description of your writing style. I love that the title comes from True Blood. Lately it is the only guilty pleasure that I have on TV. I also agree with Asaf's feelings about gay resorts. Though I have not made it to Fire Island yet, I have been to P-Town, Palm Springs, etc. and the charms (though many) wears on one very quickly. After my one and only gay cruise (which I had a surprisingly good time on but need never go on another one) I had enough exposure to the non-heterosexuals to last me for several months.
Posted by: Boomer | 05 September 2010 at 13:33
I suppose the notion that one must go somewhere else on summer weekends is not to be questioned.
Posted by: TED | 07 September 2010 at 13:36
"This is the world, I thought, and let out a sigh that would not be my last." So you! As is, "And endless examination and analysis. It was tedious." Amen, brother. And yet we can't stop ourselves, can we? Oh, to be cursed with hyper-self-awareness! One almost longs to be vapid.
"I remembered many things, most of them sad." made me laugh, because I am horrible. But I think "I felt some nostalgia," being pithier, is this week's Memoir Title.
I love how you don't name the pornographer named after an angel of the Lord. I think he gets a wrinkle any time someone doesn't say his name. And I love when you call him "aging"; he'd probably go on a Botox bender if he read that. He does have the most gorgeous white Pyrenees, though.
Maltese is the only Semitic language spoken in Europe, you know, so the Arabic-by-way-of-Italy makes sense.
Bravo on a great post ending a whole summer of great posts. You've quite outdone yourself, Eric! Love the True Blood reference in the title. I'm surprised and delighted you're a fan; cheese isn't very paleolithic. Heh.
Posted by: Bourgeois Nerd | 07 September 2010 at 14:30
A couple of years ago, I was cave-diving in the Karst region of [Adriatic Country].
There were about sixty people in our tour group -- these are immense caves. The painfully young and earnest tour guide gave all of the descriptions and instructions during the tour first in [Slavic language]. Then, he would turn to the Americans and Britons and say everything in English. Then, he would turn to the Germans and repeat in German. Finally, he would turn to a large group of Italian teenage schoolboys and say everything in Italian.
We proceeded along in the cave like this from room to room.
The tour took about two hours, given all the languages we had to go through. At the end of it, we emerged blinking into the sunlight and the guide gathered us all around to thank us, etc. He asked, "Do you have any questions or comments?"
One of the Italians raised his hand and said, "Yes. Thank you for trying, but we are not Italians. We are from Malta and we speak English like normal people."
Eric, how much English is spoken in Malta and how good is it there?
Posted by: Aaron | 07 September 2010 at 15:42
Aaron:
I am not really sure... the step-step-sister in question seems to be having no problem living and working there in English, although her Hebrew knowledge allows her to guess a number of Maltese words. (Xemx for "sun" is like Hebrew shemesh/שמש.)
It looks like education after elementary school is in English, according to notoriously unreliable Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Languages_of_Malta
"Having been governed by many different countries in the past, the Maltese population carry linguistic imprints from many places. Almost 100% of Maltese people can speak Maltese, 88% of the Maltese people can speak English, 66% can speak Italian, and 17% speak French. This shows an increase in the fluency of languages over time, since in 1995, only 98% of the population spoke Maltese, 76% English, 36% Italian, and 10% French. Surprisingly, it also shows an increase in fluency of Italian from the times when the language was actually official there."
"Before independence in 1964, Malta was a British possession, and a result of this is that English is still an official language, with government business being carried out in both English and Maltese. Most Maltese learn English in school, this being obligatory in most cases. Secondary and tertiary education are given exclusively in English. Today, 88% of Malta's population speak English. Along with Maltese, English is the only other official language of the country. Although standard English is official, the variety of English commonly spoken in Malta is heavily influenced by Italian, not only in vocabulary (most commonly by pronouncing English words of Franco-Latin origin in an Italian style) but extending to phonology, with the English being heavily accented; however, Received Pronunciation remains standard amongst Maltese individuals of a certain socioeconomic bracket.
And then there is this:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maltenglish
Posted by: Sheepy | 07 September 2010 at 16:11
I really enjoy your blog - so well written.
I love how no mention was made of the ex-Soviet pornographer's terrible facial work. I was standing next to him in the daylight at t & it is horrifying. I wonder why his partner hasn't been honest with him & told him he looks terribly freakish + unnatural.
That same partner bankrolls his business. Without him, that company would not exist despite its self promoting pr pieces!
Whatever...
Posted by: Justin | 08 September 2010 at 18:51
What's the book in the first picture, Eric?
Posted by: Bourgeois Nerd | 09 September 2010 at 13:37
BN:
http://yalepress.yale.edu/yupbooks/book.asp?isbn=9780300065138
Posted by: Sheepy | 09 September 2010 at 13:53