Buster Will Be There Too

In my mind, planning to go shopping next Wednesday is no different from saying next Wednesday I might die. Both are possibilities and both may or may not happen. The only difference is that my plans to spend money at Macy's can be visualized whereas dying and being dead can't. We have this idea that when we die our loved ones with greet us on the other side. Are 'loved ones' people we loved? People who loved us or some sort of mutual love? Does one have to have known someone personally in order to find them on the other side? I have huge plans to expand who greets me after death. I want to see my father again and Blanche. (If you are alive as I write this I am not even considering you at this point). I'd like to see my Aunt Charlotte too. There are quite a few people that I've known, now dead, no animosity felt, but I could care less if I ever see them again but if they need to see me, that's fine. We can do a little nosh one day. But I want to see Buster Keaton. I am convinced that he and I would get on famously. I get him, why wouldn't he get me?

Just to get this out of the way, if fame and the need for security are needed in the afterlife... Just think about it, that doesn't even make sense. I think, based upon my notions of the afterlife, that Buster is already thinking about me. He comes to me in my dreams. Last night he came to court me and I woke feeling happy and eager to see him again.

I was living on a country lane in a small thatched cottage. I had a garden. He arrived at my door wearing a Roman tunic and carrying plant cuttings from my garden --a bouquet of wilted flowers. He was the age he was at the end of his life. We walked along the lane which connected our two homes and admired the scenery and foliage. I took his arm as we walked. He was protective of me and courtly. He had mischief in his eyes, and I noticed that glint and we smiled at one another happy we did not need to speak. His gait was an arthritic waddle which matched my gait and left us on even footing. We continued our outing and he asked me if he might see me again to which I replied: Please, do! He returned me to my cottage and we said goodbye. I turned to look after him as he departed when suddenly he leapt in the air with a bell-heel click and continued on his way never looking back. I knew in that instant I would see him again.

Just the other day the word ‘wraith’ appeared in my Word of the Day email and it took me by surprise as I hadn’t been aware that there was such a word to describe such a thing. Buster wraiths me all the time.

I have always been visited in my dreams by people who have gone on. I am consistently notified nocturnally of death. I have no real reason to mourn. In dreams, I always get the chance to say goodbye in a ‘see-you-later’ type of fashion. It all feels normal and serene, aligned and informative. I am always left with the feeling that I can call on and expect these individuals to rally-round when my time comes. It is in this vein that I imagine the afterlife, where I will I be reunited with those that I loved in life but also with those that gave me comfort that I may never have actually known but I will nonetheless recognize when my time comes.

That's why I am sure Buster will be there too.

Diane Tose 1942-2020

In part, Diane’s passing marks the end of an era. The end of a time in history when the work in HIV research was experimental and run by mavericks. Diane was a ‘maverick’ in the truest sense of the word. We all were no matter the discipline we worked in. We were trailblazers. Diane was a complex woman. If you didn’t come to know her she was just a tall British woman who put the fear of God in you. She was pragmatic, demanding, and proudly British, even though she confided in me that she felt much more American than British. Diane liked things just so. An inch either way would be enough for her to voice a strong opinion. Opinionated women can often be alarming, but in Diane I found a heroine. I admired and looked up to Diane. She was no-nonsense. I can remember her calling patients into her office for pelvic examinations with a loudly overheard: Let’s have a look-see, or a get those feet up in the stirrups. I am sure that had she been a man she’d have been reported into oblivion, ...

My Plantation Sown With Sorrow

I recently found this academic paper while going through things in my home. It is a book review of Dorothy West's novel, The Wedding. It was written sometime between 1994-97 when I was working with the Dean of Empire State College, James H. Case , who served as my mentor. I do not know how to put footnotes in Blogger so I will be using asterisks with an associated number which can be found at the end of the piece. Two days ago I closed Dorothy West's book, The Wedding, and fell straight to sleep. I had a dream. I was out shopping but had an appointment with E's therapist later in the day. I was supposed to meet E there. I called twice to say I would be late and finally arrived when the session was over. When I arrive, E and the therapist are friendly. The therapist tells us of a party we might be interested in going to later that very evening. E and I agree to go. We arrived at the party and I immediately split to go sit with the gay men and begin to yuck it up...

Something Bigger Than Thomas: A Native Son

There was a moment in time when I witnessed my father vulnerable. He had rented a car and parked it outside my apartment in Brooklyn. He was not feeling well and had asked to stay with me and my then boyfriend, Eric. He slept for days on end and I really don't have any recollection of talking to him while he was with us. This is important to this narrative because I have always lamented the fact that I seem to have spent relatively little time with my father. I have snapshot memories of being with him - here and there, here and there. I am a teenager and he drives me into San Francisco, hands me money while he waits in the car, and I go in and buy some shoes. There are the times we drove the few blocks necessary to get to Baskin Robbins for ice cream over on University Avenue a few blocks up from his home in Palo Alto. There were lots of family reunions but I don't have any memories of being alone with my father, having a conversation or discussing anything. He did however ca...

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