A close reading of Leviticus

I must say it is rather disquieting to come down to breakfast, innocently open the paper, and find in it a photograph of a sign put together by a fellow who proposes I should be put to death because of my marriage.

I mean dang!

However, I found that as I studied the gentleman’s sign more closely, I realized that perhaps I might be safe from this gentleman’s sentence of capital punishment after all. 

As I read the text, so helpfully quoted from the book of Leviticus, I see that it says, “If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed…", etc.

As a strict constructionist, as one who takes the Bible to be the very exact and not-to-be-re-interpreted-by-all-you-liberals true spoken Word of God, I found myself drawn to observe certain key words in this verse 13 of Leviticus chapter 20.  I mean to say, this is a verse that so many, from the Pope to the humblest cross-bearing believer, have judged to be one of the most important verses in all of scripture.  After all, it is from these 33 words, that they have fashioned a sweeping condemnation of a sizeable chunk of humanity. 

So I want to be sure that we are all reading it exactly right.

I cannot help but call your attention to certain words in this verse.  First, I notice the word “also” as in “if a man also lie with mankind..”  Then I look at this phrase “as he lieth with a woman.”  Two things strike me. 

First, it seems to me that in order to fall under the scope of this very strict pronouncement of judgment—a person must be a person of the male persuasion.  Reading it quite closely and exactly, I see that it does not prohibit the liething of a woman with a woman.

So I am certain, that Mr. Adams, the maker of the sign, would not dream of reinterpreting or second guessing God’s clear dictum in this verse by supposing that there is anything at all contained within it that objects to a woman liething with a woman.  That would be reading between the lines—that would be interpreting—that would be activist rewriting of God’s word—and that is something only wrongo liberals do.

Second, with this word “also” I find myself obliged to ask, why is that word “also” in there?  After all, God didn’t put anything in the Bible by accident!  I think that it is quite clear that in order to fall under the scope of this very strict pronouncement of judgment—a person must first be man, and second he must lie with another man, but, and this is the important part, he must “also” lieth with a woman.  Because being very strict and literal about it, if a man lie with a man and he never in his born days has layeth with a woman, than it cannot be said that he “also” lie with a man as he lieth with a woman.  I think that if he never did layeth with a woman, then he’s OK.

I mean if the word of God in the holy Bible had said, “If a man lie with mankind, as mankind lieth with womankind, both of them have committed an abomination,” that would be different.  If God had dropped the “also” and changed “as he lieth” to “as mankind lieth,” then I fear that even the poor sixes on the Kinsey scale—that is those men who only ever lie with mankind, and would never dream of also laying with a woman, would be in trouble. 

But that isn’t what God says.  As I read it—in my very strict and not at all loose way—what this verse says is that bisexual men should be put to death.

Everyone else, the lesbians, and those poor male sixes on the Kinsey scale who have never gotten it on with a woman, and even those brave male fours and fives on the Kinsey scale who have righteously resisted their occasional impulse to get it on with a woman—they’re all OK!

The only ones condemned by God, are bisexual men!  I tell you, it is those lousy bisexual men.  They are the ones, after all, who ALSO lie with mankind as they lie with a woman.  Tch. Tch.  Their blood shall be upon them.  So there.

But even as I am reassuring myself of this correct, proper and strictly strict interpretation of God’s word, I suddenly recall that back in ‘75—there was that one night when I was feeling really frisky.  My friend Dolores and I were having such a good time, and she was looking fine and then before either of us knew what was happening, we ….  Oh my God, I’m doomed! 

The truth of me, on fine Italian paper

Recently I went into Barnes and Noble.  I went to all the sections of books that normally interest me to see if anything caught my eye.  Not only did nothing catch my eye, I felt bored by all the topics I'm usually interested in. 

Then I came to the blank book section.  That caught my eye.  There were dozens of blank books:  journals, sketchbooks, notebooks – some with lined paper, some with blank pages.  The differences among the books were in the binding, the cover, the size, the quality of the paper.

The more expensive ones were bound in leather:  “Made in Italy for Cavallini and Company, San Francisco,” said one.  There were luxurious blank books. Some were artificially aged, made to look like journals that had already been on an expedition, journals that came out of the box redolent with adventure.

I felt at once both the attraction and the terror of owning one of these beautiful leather-bound journals.  Across from the blank book section was a display of fine writing instruments:  calligraphy pens and well bred bottles of ink.  I began to fantasize about writing with such a pen. 

I would sit with my leather-bound journal and my pen and nib and ink—and I would write.  I would draft a sublime little essay about my day, with the fine penmanship of Jefferson—dipping my pen into the ink bottle, like taking breaths—and exhaling exquisite calligraphic writing.  I would write and write into the beautiful leather-bound journal until all the wisdom I possessed was dispensed. 

And there would be the truth of me, nicely worn, elegant, and inscribed on fine Italian paper:  words that would move hardened cynics to tears, words that would cause the downcast to smile, words that would be utterly fascinating, even to bored readers like me.

If only I knew I could write faultlessly.  There was the terror:  the specter of a beautiful, finely bound leather journal desecrated by ink that could not be erased.  Or worse: a blank book so pristine that I could not begin to write in it. 

So I elected a less ambitious course.  I chose a mid-priced journal—more expensive than a pad of paper, mind you—but not so fine or costly that I would be filled with remorse if I messed it up.  The journal I selected is intended as a travel journal.  It has an aged photograph of the Eiffel Tower on the cover.  The colors are faded and there is a trompe l’oil  postage stamp “Le Republique Francais – 10 ¢” in the upper right corner. 

The journal I chose has a convenient black elastic band, bound so that I can insert it snugly at any spot to keep my place—as I will only write, presumably, in between adventures.  After I bought this book, I realized that that was exactly what I wanted:  an adventure, but I would not travel to Paris.  No, I am to travel in the incubator of my imagination, the uncomfortable, breath-taking space where all things are possible.  I am traveling toward the unfolding me, toward the moment the flower blooms.

Everything you know is wrong!

Once upon a time, I had a plant sitting in the window, which had been left for several months to grow toward the light.  Then one day I decided that I wished the plant would exhibit more symmetry in its form – so I turned it 180 degrees around.

Observing this, a friend said, “You can’t do that.  It’s like telling the plant, ‘Everything you know is wrong!’  You have to turn it gradually, a little bit each day.  Let it get used to the change slowly.”

Some days I feel like I've been turned 180 degrees.  And I wonder if everything I know is wrong.

Which leads me to the question: “What do I know?” 

Looking back, I see that the knowing I had as a child, the knowing I had as a teenager, the knowing I had as a young adult – have all changed.  I have to admit, it seems likely that such knowing as I have now will change too.

When I consider the history of the world, I notice a similar pattern.  Each era had its beliefs.  Many concepts that were widely accepted as true, later came to be recognized as wrong.  The world is not flat.  Bleeding does not cure disease. Negroes are not inferior to whites.  Margarine is not healthier than butter.  A woman’s place is not invariably in the home. 

It follows then that many of the facts the world knows today will likewise be replaced by an even more advanced understanding of things.  It seems that both in my life and in the history of the world, the older I get and the older the world gets, the closer we each get to certain truths. 

But  the closer I get to the truth the more I feel like I’m coming closer to something familiar.  It is as if in my old age I will see the flower of the seed that was me as a child.  The flower has always been in the seed.  The truth, it seems, unfolds.

Right at the moment, I can’t quite make out that flower of the older me.  I can merely sense it.  I imagine that older me will be ideal (of course!).  I will be the embodiment of love, serenity, joy, peace—and most especially, wisdom.  What I can’t imagine is sustaining those ideal qualities.  For, thus far, every perfect moment in my life has been, like a flower—ephemeral.

So how then will I achieve a lasting wisdom?  I guess that I will not.  I guess that the older and wiser I get, the more aware I will be of how much more I have to learn.

So I wonder, is this growth of a single soul – is this evolution of the world – infinite?  I can’t conceive of an infinite journey.  Because the journey, I am told, is toward oneness – toward that end where everything that knows itself as separate also knows itself as one.  And that seems like a final and finite destination.  Can it be reached?

Why not?  After all, it says so right on our money: E. pluribus Unum.

 Painting: Gift for Romney - 2003 - 11 3/8  x 7 ½  - Watercolor and Gouache - By James Stephens  (Available for purchase at the Lemberg Gallery)

The Fairie Godfather of Schadenfreude

By Lendon

Being a Catholic and a Twelve Stepper, long lapsed as both, I have decided to unburden myself of perhaps my most bizarre fetish. For the majority of my adult life I have indulged an indefatigable devotion to Tiny Tim. Fear not gentle reader. As kinky as this mania may sound, I refer not to the pale under-nourished, eternally chipper, crippled adolescent from Charles Dickens' classic tale, A Christmas Carol. So you need not bother alerting the local citizen militia of a prospective unregistered pederast on the prowl. Nor should you expect an impassioned apologia for NAMBLA. I refer instead to the pale, somewhat over-nourished, ecstatically chipper adult-child crooner who has been the object of international ridicule since his television debut in the late 60's.

Resplendent in his freakish finery, Tiny Tim was an illustrious vision of a queer knighthood, seemingly transported from an alternative universe. A universe where love and romance really were matters of moon/June flowers and butterflies; and childhood remains the standard of human relations. He was the fairy godfather unbeknownst to me, I had longed for.

Believe me,I realize what most of the world saw of him was this stringy-haired, lumbering, white faced, effete side show freak; much closer to the fairy end of fairy god-father. Yet there was something so naive and absolutely sincere about his "act".

Respectfully removing his ukulele from its tattered paper bag, he might spend a moment tuning his little instrument. Until the end of his career, his material consisted almost exclusively of songs penned before or around the time of his birth. Though audiences generally thought of his renditions of old tunes as parody or satire, his approach was always heartfelt, deferential and entertaining. His knowledge of early American popular music was encyclopedic. And when discussing songwriters he was reverential without exception. His manners could best be described as beyond old school; they were practically mid-Victorian. I can think of no other artist who exuded the kind of unbridled appreciation for his fans' applause as TT did. You'd think you were witnessing the debut of a young Maria Callas discovering for the first time that she could thrill an audience . He'd blush, roll his eyes heavenwards, fan himself, throw kisses to every sector of the audience; all this while moaning like Mae West in flagrante delicto. This was clearly what he lived for.

There he was. This hulking hair-ball strumming his Lilliputian uke. Then, from somewhere beyond the stratosphere came the cosmic invocation, "O-o-oh." Followed by the kindly invitation to "Tip Toe Through The Tulips." The incantation of this childishly sweet ditty, delivered in his characteristic nelly falsetto, purchased my lifetime devotion. It also was the calling card of his whole career.

His effeminacy and falsetto singing voice led many to assume he was gay. Irrelevant as it was to his art, it was also a misconception. He was married to at least three women in his life, not that this necessarily tells the tale. In an interview after their divorce, Miss Vicki, the mother of his only child (Tulip), said that Tim had admitted to one adolescent homosexual encounter of some sort. Regardless of any amount of gay experience or where he rated on the Kinsey scale, it's clear that his affectional preference was for women. This is all beside the point of my adopting him as a queer hero. Or maybe it actually highlights my point. The fact that he was not gay makes him even more of a queer duck.

I know little of his personal life, except those aspects that were publicly staged, i.e., the marriage to Miss Vicki on the Johnny Carson Show. For all of his outrageous appearance, TT was religiously and politically conservative. His invocations of patriotism bordered on jingoism. I think labeling him as gay is not just an over-simplification, I suspect it's inaccurate.

Tim was a man who had a driving passion for a type of music whose popularity had faded before he was born. He decided early in life that he wanted to make a living reviving this music that next to no one was interested in hearing. He also recognized that his appearance was about as far as the human species can vary from the ideal of male beauty. He knew he possessed something of value that he could capitalize on, if only he could find a way around his physical oddness. That way was to emphasize them.

He was that spinster kindergarten teacher whose sole raison d'être is to impress upon the kiddies the importance of making nice. Even though he may not have been the pinnacle of masculine pulchritude, his features had an engaging quality. That enormous beak and overbite, and those flirtatious eyes, ever vigilant of the stars, registered to me as a kind of beauty. Not the Brad Pitt school of hunk I'll grant you, but an allure all his own.

Some critics have suggested TT as the spiritual ancestor of Boy George, Marilyn Manson, Sylvester, and Antony and others. There is some undeniable truth to these comparisons; but like many comparisons, they often obscure more than they obviate. Most of these performers developed out of gay chic rock & roll cults to appeal to a mainstream audience. Whereas these guys had corporate entertainment support their careers, TT was fated to remain a marginal figure. The tenor of the times were ripe for these kinds of gender bending acts. They made their shticks fashionable. But Tiny was too real and too outre to be a successful commercial commodity. The closest comparison would be Sylvester, in that he actually lived the life he sang about. He was more himself than the hype. Like that ultimate suave chameleon, David Bowie, these performers were working hard to make what they did be perceived as fabulous. Tim spent his life trying to maintain a survivable niche for his queerness. He was never going to be all the rage, the latest thing. He was grateful for his fifteen minutes of notoriety here and there that made his life doable.

The peak of his popularity as a recording artist came as a result of his first album, "God Bless Tiny Tim." Masterfully organized by the legendary Hollywood producer Richard Perry, this lp gives a scant glint of what his career might have been like had he been allowed the level of professionalism a niche performer needs to hold the record buying public's attention. On "GBTT", Tiny carries us on a trip down the yellow brick road and somewhere way over the rainbow. Ever the dutiful son, the album cover features him sitting with his parents. Each song is an absolute jewel, exploring the range of his vocal qualities surrounded by excellent musicians with top shelf production values. To this day, I occasionally find myself whistling "Living In the Sunlight, Loving In The Moonlight." Chocked with ditties that were old chestnuts when he recorded them almost 40 years ago, the recording is still fresh and jolly to listen to today. Surfing through You Tube on the net, I've noticed that "Living/Loving" is one of the most lip-synced tunes. More surprising yet is that most of these kareoke-ers weren't even born when the songs was released. His first album got it right, God bless Tiny Tim.

Tiny had a massive heart attack while on stage singing "Tip-toe Through the Tulips". More than a career vehicle, this song was the exposition of his life's journey. I would like to play Sartre to his St. Genet by praising this classic misunderstood clown. So many of his songs are childhood fables. In Kabuki whiteface, imploring heaven for Allah-only-knows-what, batting those flirtatious Betty Boop peepers. O-kay, I've a penchant for the tasteless; perhaps it is because those who live outside of convention are forced to make a way out of no way; and sometimes the cleverness in this process reveals such extraordinary genius.

Tiny Tim had to tolerate a great deal of humiliation in his life. I've chosen not to focus on that here. However, occasionally I'll see an icon of St. Sebastian and I can't help but think how Tiny would simply sing on when people would make fun of him. Sometimes he seemed to join in with the hilarity. It was not that he was unaware that he was being made a fool; he was that happy idiot with a song in his heart.

The Canine Being

By David

Let it not be said that the Canine Being has ever trampled the borders. No, the Canine Being does not hobble about in the flower beds, or nestle down upon the Plumbago to sleep. She is sufficiently cognizant of the boundaries within the Territory that have been established by the All Powerful Adored One so that she knows well enough where it is proper to saunter about and where it is not.

There is clearly a chasm between how the Territory is perceived by the Canine Being and how this same realm is distinguished by the All Powerful Adored One. While the Canine Being is perfectly aware of the layout of certain fixed—and to her way of thinking illogical—boundaries within the Territory, and while she understands that within these boundaries assorted flora have been established, she, being decidedly a member of the fauna division, does not comprende what any of this flora fuss is about. When it comes to appreciating the beauty of an Iris or even the olfactory delights of a Rose, she is, in fact, oblivious.

That said, woe be to any other fauna division member that dares to amble into any portion of the Territory that lies within the Canine Being’s purview. What word is the opposite of oblivious? Obsessed! Squirrels are particularly disdained in this regard. Let it be widely understood that squirrel incursions into the Territory are not countenanced by the Canine Being whilst she is on duty. Of course, should the Canine Being happen to be asleep, the squirrel can do whatever it likes.

In general the Canine Being is indifferent to the garden arts. Flower fragrances, it seems, are not nearly as fascinating as the unique scent of rabbit droppings. This is not to say that should the All Powerful Adored One come lumbering into the Garden with a wheelbarrow loaded down with a massive whatzit plant that the Canine Being will not dutifully stroll over to observe the goings on as the whatzit plant is heaved from the wheelbarrow onto the ground.

The Canine Being will even go so far as to wag the tail and sniff at the whatzit plant with a bemused tolerance that conveys her devotion to the All Powerful Adored One whilst still indicating that—to her way of thinking—it is foolish in the extreme to lug about entities which God intended to live and die in one spot. Hers is not to question such behavior, for it has been well established that the All Powerful Adored One is inscrutable when it comes to most of his activities. The Canine Being, therefore, wags her tail and hangs out her tongue, grateful that, if nothing else, the whatzit plant has gotten the All Powerful Adored One out of his easy chair.

Photo: Asia sees a squirrel – 2003 (David Greene)