About 15 years ago someone discovered that it was William Carlos Williams' birthday, so naturally Schultz, Gross and I rushed to the Great Falls of the Passaic River at Paterson, New Jersey to pay homage to the good doctor and graduate of our alma mater Horace Mann, and also to honor the Wobblies whose efforts for the workers of the world were concentrated, for a time, in Paterson's silk factories. We noted the irony of Alexander Hamilton’s statue overlooking the hallowed ground of a thirteen month bitter strike, to which IWW leaders Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Big Bill Haywood, and Carlo Tresca often came to harangue the bosses and to support the strikers.



Then, one of us clutching William Carlos Williams poem in his hand, we worked our way to the base of the Great Falls and began a reading of the 150 page poem. The roar of the falls mixed with our voices, and each of his took his turn until it was time for lunch. We trudged up the side of the river bank and found a grocer who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats. As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in one of the brick-work, honest breweries of Brooklyn, but sadly, now only a name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.



We returned to the falls to continue our reading. This time we remained at the top of the falls, on an overview, as from this point the sound of the falls did not quite overcome our voices. Our declamation did, however, attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on, but at around three o’clock decided that though our clothing was well-misted our throats were dry.



A suitable working man’s tavern was found and we re-charged ourselves, losing several dollars at darts, a local game played by the charming patrons of this particular tavern with particular meticulousness and disarming skill.



The dart players proved not to be poetry lovers and as we wanted to finish the poem we cut short our losses and made our way back to the falls.



Our following of children had abandoned us, but a few of the older men had loyally awaited our return. None, however, followed us down to the river-edge, as perhaps they were not in the mood for swimming. Like the adults at Basil’s Passover table those not reading hurried the reader along. New Jersey’s tired sun was falling below the gorge and a chill worked its way under our damp clothing—but we were determined to complete our homage. Someone’s foot found its way into the water, and our celebration completed, wet and muddied but undiscouraged we made our way back to New York, waving at Hamiliton, while remembering the honor of Big Bill. Only Emma Goldman was absent.



mek

A very close, lifelong friend of mine was an Episcopalian Theologian who lived a very compartmentalized life, keeping several groups of his friends separate from each other. One topic that we avoided was the exact nature of his sexuality.

Many of my friends who met him through me over the years believed him to be homosexual, but I remained agnostic on the subject, perhaps naive, or perhaps feeling that it was his business to express himself if he wished. Sometimes I thought that he was asexual and celibate.

Most of my friends, in my opinion, were cynics when it came to Bob, and I always took their opinion with a grain a salt. Maria and I were often invited to his famous New Year's dinners which were always formal, and many of his guests would be knock-out women who adored him. The point that you should understand is that part of him remained a mystery to me. This was bewildering to me because most of my close friends hide nothing from each other except the exact amount of the income--and sometimes even that is shared.

Seven years ago Bob died and was cremated. I spoke at his funeral, at St. John the Divine, in New York Where his ashes are interred in what you may know is called a columbarium.

A few weeks ago while in New York I went to St. John the Divine, and was amazed to see that someone else was sharing his niche. A name with which I was not familiar.

I wrote to a friend who is graphic artist and who works at St. John, and asked her whether it was possible for strangers to share a niche. Her answer follows. Her remark about Paterson and Alan Ginsberg involves a reading of a poem by William Carlos Williams at Paterson, and that story is another long one. I will save you more agony by not passing it on.

I thought it would interest you and Howard because of her reason for leaving the Catholic Church:


Mike,

I know that the Columbarium niches can hold up to four individuals, but usually they choose their crypt-mates at the time they purchase the space. While I do know unrelated individuals who have decided to share eternity together, I think it would be highly unusual for strangers to be added willy-nilly. I was in the Columbarium myself on Good Friday as part of the service I attended and I found it pleasantly meditative as always (not to mention they finally built a much better ramp up there).

As I am sure you know, the whole same-sex partner thing is a huge issue right now in the Episcopal church, even before the rash of "gay marriage" events around the country. It started last summer with the national convention's vote to accept Gene Robinson, the openly gay bishop of New Hampshire, and then a lot of fluff at the international level since of course the Third World members want nothing of it. Sisk, the New York bishop, is walking a very fine line with a lot of skill, but there are some very odd schisms in the making here.

I feel obligated to support the gay rights movement within the church, since gender equality is the main reason I could not remain a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, last summer I was starting to feel like it was the only issue anyone would talk about. Yes, it's important, but this is not exactly the 1964 Civil Rights Act. The oppression of the educated middle-class homosexuals leading the discussion is painful, but not on the same scale as a lot of other human rights issues, or even the war, which is personally of more interest to me.

The whole issue is sort of fascinating from the point of view that while its official expression is splitting congregations and city councils in two, everybody at these contentious meetings is setting their Tivos for Queer Eye or Will and Grace. It's clearly the last gasp of resistance before the cultural tide sweeps in, but I'm sorry so many people are hurting each other over it.

I'm now going to attempt a massive turnaround to link this to our initial subject, and I suppose it will have to be Alan Ginsburg, who was both a homosexual and a Pattersonian. And whose memorial service I attended at St. John the Divine.

Anyway, all of this sounds more angry and negative than I really feel these days. Spring is good. My mood has lifted after a long dark winter. I feel changes in the air but I have no inkling yet of what they will be. Maybe I just need more Ted Hughes.

S