Come Back

by Sky Gilbert

  Well, I’m beginning to understand that specialization is all-important, and that your acquiescence on this topic may have to do with the fact that you are not a Shakespeare scholar, or even an English professor, but a prof in gender studies. I find it shocking that people can be so sensitive about their areas. What if I suddenly decided to have a conference about the idea that identity politics was dead? I’m not sure you would go for it — not because you are not a nice person, but because it would just be too controversial for your area. Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’ve picked the wrong analogy. I’ll just get on with it. Anyway, my interest in Shakespeare authorship has been my secret agenda in terms of this conference. I know I first suggested that the subject of the conference might be Shakespeare and sexuality, which everyone, including Dr. Braithwaite, seemed to think was a good idea. But of course I wasn’t being completely honest, especially with Dr. Braithwaite. Of course I’m interested in Shakespeare and sexuality, but I’m also quite interested in the authorship question. And I was hoping — more than hoping — planning — that the conference might have been devoted not just to Shakespeare and sexuality, but could feature a few panels on authorship. Specifically, I was hoping to invite Dr. Mittenstatt from the University of Massachusetts who is the first American scholar to write a thesis on the notion of de Vere as Shakespeare. (Just Dr. Mittenstatt, just him, just one scholar on this topic, among — how many — thirty or forty?) Well, anyway, as you know it’s been very important for me to get Dr. Braithwaite’s approval and support and I was really looking forward to having lunch with him. Neither of us was going to be at the university last Wednesday so he invited me to his house for lunch. I was very flattered by this and this probably adds to the general humiliation. You know how difficult it has been for me to make the adjustment to academia from the world of the theatre. I’ve never really felt accepted by the literary community because I’m an out, gay writer. (You’ve been very encouraging to me on this subject; it’s not because of you that I’m insecure. In fact, the opposite.) As you know, Dr. Braithwaite’s wife, Amanda, is a professor here and also a prominent poet. I’d never met her, but I’ve always kind of admired her, even if only because of the way she tosses her hair around at meetings of the graduate department. I mean, they make quite a handsome couple, don’t they? He is elderly but still very, very muscled, well-built, blond-bearded, distinguished and such a kind man — and kind to me — while Amanda looks like a dominatrix, or at least a woman in charge. I’m kind of afraid of her, but in a worshipful way. So when Dr. Braithwaite said, “Why don’t you stop by and have lunch with us,” I thought I might be having lunch with the scholar and his wife, the prominent Canadian poet. I really was looking forward to it, which makes the whole thing super-humiliating. I wish I could abandon this need to be “accepted.” It’s the bane of my existence. You’d think that, being such a rebel in my writings, I would be able to handle being an outsider on the Canadian literary scene. Well, I can. But what I can’t seem to handle is being abandoned at lunch.

  I met Dr. Braithwaite at the Broadview subway, and he was going to drive me to their home overlooking the public swimming pool. But as soon as I got in the car, Dr. Braithwaite said, “I’m sorry, something has come up and we won’t be having lunch at our home.” Here is where it gets a little sketchy. I’m sure it’s possible that something did come up, and that this was not an excuse. But you know how people use that phrase “something has come up” — it’s almost always a textbook euphemism for “I’ve decided I don’t want to spend time with you.” Now, I don’t think this would have been coming from Dr. Braithwaite himself, who is a very nice man and is always very cordial to me. I can’t help thinking of Amanda. . . . I could just hear her saying, “Oh, I’m in a mood today and I have to finish that sonnet and I just can’t bear having lunch with Canada’s pre-eminent gay playwright — not today, could you just put him off?” I know that’s what happened; I’m sure that’s what happened. And you know, it doesn’t matter if it is a preposterous idea, and it is. But the fact is that I will never be accepted by the Canadian literary establishment. And I would like to pretend I don’t care, but I do.

  Anyway, the whole thing set my paranoia off, but I vowed to myself that I would be a good boy and have a nice lunch with Dr. Braithwaite because I had a Shakespeare conference to set up. We wound up in a coffee shop because it was all that was open in the neighbourhood. “Will this be all right?” he asked. He is so nice — I just couldn’t say no. Well, we sat down and everything was very warm and chatty, and we really got to know each other. Did you know that Dr. Braithwaite is starting to lose sensation in his fingers? He must be sixty-five years old if he’s a day, and it made me very sad to think about it. He was trying to be blasé, and he is the very epitome of the absent-minded professor. But all I could think of was, does his dominatrix writer wife with the perpetually flippy hair, does she know about this? Is she taking him to clinics, or is she just too busy writing the next great Canadian poetry collection? So I was feeling very sorry for him, and he was giving me lots of great advice about the conference, trying to work in some Dekker stuff because that is also his area, you know, which I expected and was completely open to. Then when everything seemed perfect, and he said he was going to contact people he knew, like Stephen Orgel (I was very impressed!), I thought the conference was in the bag. So we were finishing our coffees and I decided to just throw in a little question about Shakespearean authorship. I didn’t anticipate his response, not for one moment, and even though it was quick and casual, it hit me like a ton of bricks. “So, I was hoping,” I said in an offhand way, “that I might invite maybe one scholar who could talk a little bit about the authorship question.” “Like who?” he asked. And I didn’t think there was anything wrong yet. “Well, like Peter Mittenstatt,” I said. “And who is he?” he asked politely. “Well, he wrote the first PhD thesis on the notion that Edward de Vere was Shakespeare,” I ventured. “Oh —” there was a pause; it was endless; a pause I will never, honestly, never, forget — “well, you couldn’t do that.” He said it just like that, just like it was the most absurd idea anyone had ever had. “Why not?” I asked. “Because,” he said, still looking very sweet and grandfatherly, “if you did that no one would come to the conference.” “Literally?” I asked. “No,” he said, “I’m afraid they wouldn’t.”

  After that I tried to make conversation and be polite and smile, but I knew it was all over for me. I mean, so much is over. Why would I want to organize a conference when the whole reason for me running the conference — my major interest, the Shakespearean authorship question — would not and could not be a subject for discussion? I felt betrayed. Not by Dr. Braithwaite, who I still think is a kind man operating in a cruel and stupid system. Yes, I have to say it’s cruel. And I feel completely betrayed by it. And I don’t want to have anything more to do with it. What I don’t understand is, if it’s so ridiculous to think that de Vere is Shakespeare, then why would it matter if one stupid and irrelevant academic were invited to attend the conference and argue in favour of the bungheaded theory? Why, instead, would that make everyone boycott the conference? What are they all afraid of? And how could a man as kind and brilliant as Dr. Braithwaite treat me as if I had just farted in public when I brought up the subject? Is the emperor wearing any clothes?

  Okay, I’ll stop. It’s becoming clear to me that there is no place for me in this world. I was driven out of my theatre company. Why? For being too gay, for championing gay, when gay is clearly over. At least, in the way I knew it. And now the only academic subject I want to talk about is verboten, and I am condemned to silence. I feel that when it comes to me, the rest is silence, because what else do I have to say, and what is the point of talking?

  You don’t have to answer. But maybe you will understand why I have been late with my latest draft.

  Thanks for everything,

  Dash

  The Hamlet reference is melodramatic but appropriate.
Shortly after this, Dash abandoned not only his thesis, but any effort at constructive living. I don’t expect you to like Dash; he is eminently unlikeable, self-obsessed and self-destructive. And I’m not saying I like him, just that I am fascinated by him. Is this just nostalgia? At my age, I think I can be forgiven a little nostalgia. But I don’t think that’s really what it is. Dash’s self-destructiveness is rooted in a direct relationship with a discernable reality; that is, he knows he can destroy himself. (It is so difficult to destroy yourself these days!) But also, his obsession with Shakespeare is not only rooted in a time and place where identity mattered, but where truth mattered. When history seemed like something that could be proved. It is romantic, and I am romantic. And though I don’t want to stop talking, it is late. We have been talking practically all night — it’s so easy now that I am integral. But I suppose this isn’t talking, technically, as you haven’t had a chance to respond. Yet I haven’t needed a cigarette because I have become drunk on you. You can’t imagine what a job it is to haul this carcass — and that is literally what it has become — into bed. But that’s what I am going to do. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me alive is believing you’ll listen to me. When we meet again — I am certain it will happen someday — will you buy me dresses? Yes, I would look ridiculous. It would be like putting the Blob in an evening gown, mud glittering with diamonds. But I should like that. And I would especially like you to go on again about how you cannot wear dresses, that you don’t know how to wear them. But I can.

  I can no longer twirl. I can no longer dance. Perhaps that’s why I am playing with words — because they remind me of what it was like to dance for you.

  Though I expect severity, there is something else in your tone. It’s impossible for me to imitate, and I wouldn’t want to. There is a coldness. It suggests I am already dead. It seems only fair to wait to treat me as dead when I am actually dead, and otherwise treat me with the common respect of one human being for another. Surely we are not beyond that? I have made many allowances, yes, for you. You are a fragile, special case, and your relationship with your father . . . But we won’t go there. I know I’m not supposed to mention that. I know our relationship will never be equal. I know you require acquiescence, obeisance almost, and it is that stone coldness of you I adore. It reassures me. There is so much love and so much hate in it. I used to receive enough serenity from the severity of your look that I could sleep at night. But there is something missing in the way you treat me now.

  If only I could see you . . . I know it’s impossible. Ironic that in an age when it is so easy, you would not allow me this. We could easily see each other and chat in cyberspace, but you won’t let that happen. And that is what I must accept. Again I am thinking perhaps I should come there — or will. Of course, there is the agony of flight. Can you imagine the cavity search? I don’t think the security staff could handle searching for my cavities, never mind actually searching the cavities themselves. I hear them asking: Does this monstrous mess have holes?

  Well, I can make myself laugh; I hope I can still make you laugh too.

  There are warning signs that go beyond the severity of your tone, things I want to challenge, because I don’t understand them. First, there is your use of the word prepare. As if I am to be prepared for something. Is this something academic, something to do with a final exam? But you and I are still bickering over the subject matter of my post-doctoral thesis — surely it’s not time yet to prepare for that. Did the word just slip out accidentally? Was I not supposed to know this? Because I can’t imagine what else I would be prepared for. I hope you are not keeping anything from me, because the one thing I like to imagine isn’t missing from our lacerating arguments is honesty.

  I’ll get right to the point. If you can answer this question, then perhaps it will begin to bridge this gulf I feel forming between us. The gulf must be purely in my imagination. I’m pretty perplexed (or perhaps I should say not pretty at all, but I am perplexed) that you have found such tiny — one might even say hidden — ideas in my communication with you. And that you are so incredibly upset about it. I have sent you a missive with a long analysis and history of Dash King — who you barely mention, except to say that he is an immature individual.

  That’s a start. But then you go on to speak as if we are beyond narcissism. Certainly when the plastic surgeon is so available — for all but the most ancient, who are typically told they are beyond help (like myself) — narcissism becomes irrelevant. On the other hand, what narcissism used to be, solipsism, has certainly not disappeared. One could argue, of course, that as people live less and less in what used to be called the real world, they have become less concerned with how beautiful and rich they are in actuality, and in this way become less selfish by default. But surely the virtual world is selfishness personified, now that people’s acquisitive romantic cyberlives have exponentially overtaken their tedious day-to-day existence? What I’m saying is, Dash just seems more immature than people today because he is concerned with his fortunes in what we used to call reality, with success and getting laid, notions we find antique because we can have whatever we want in the virtual world. The fact that people are still, in their own ways, immature does not mean that Dash is any less so. But it’s important to put his neurosis in perspective.

  Then there is the issue of plastic surgery. It is completely shocking to me that when I actually address issues of addiction and suggest that I might be able to loosen up my routine, you decide to rail against the notion that I might have my head righted upon the end of my spine (or what’s left of it). In this last discussion, in case you have forgotten, I referred to the possibility that I might allow myself the odd cigarette, that I might not have to observe the rituals and routines that have kept my addictions in check for so many years, because I am now so set in my ways that I am not in danger of falling back under the sway of my addictions. This is a significant notion for an addict to entertain. However, you ignore these musings. I know you are cognizant of them (you miss nothing), but instead you become obsessed with my suggestion that I might get a little bit of plastic surgery. I don’t understand what is so outrageous about that.

  You do understand that my body is crumpled to the extent that the “L” shape that I used to refer is fast becoming a “C”? As my head seems to bend more and more towards my chest, it becomes not only increasingly uncomfortable but I become more and more grotesque. You make jokes about my physical body and I do too (though it takes on a slightly different implication coming from you!). But is it too much to ask, that we might attempt to halt the daunting curvature of my spine, and at least set my head right upon my shoulders?

  And then there is the implication that I would not be considering plastic surgery if I was not also considering venturing out. Maybe there is another reason. Perhaps it’s not just all about people seeing me, or being seen. You know well what could still happen if people look at me too closely, or stare at me. It’s still possible they might somehow realize who I was. But that’s not a big enough danger to warrant plastic surgery to protect me.

  What I find more than odd is that in a long communiqué in which I talk about so many subjects, you get stuck on a tiny part of one sentence. And this is the sentence in which I say sex does not involve human contact at all “above ground, or commonly.” You go crazy about “above ground, or commonly.” I find this uncanny. In passing, I mentioned a truism, something everyone knows and understands though it’s rarely talked about. The fact is there are establishments in which some of the real and dangerous sexual activities (that we know from the past) are still perpetrated. It even comes up in the most polite conversations now and then. Although discussion of these establishments has not been banned, we realize that any detailed discussion of what actually goes on must be kept to a minimum.

  I don’t think you’re afraid of censorship — in fact, you yourself occasionally enjoy flouting the authorities. You seem to think, and I hop
e you are right, that those who wish to censor, who warn us of our indiscretions, cannot and will not triumph over technology. It is technology itself that will decide whether or not anything can or will be censored. At any rate, it is the fact that you picked this tiny detail out of my letter (along with the notion of plastic surgery) that I wish to confront.

  In this context it might be necessary to speak a little bit about Allworth. I am not going to apologize for our relationship. I don’t want to make you feel guilty — that’s impossible, anyway, and it would be out of character. Whenever the smallest spark of that emotion does creep into your psyche, it fills you with a kind of rage that is frightening to behold. Suffice it to say, I am not using Allworth to make you jealous, or to threaten you. He could never be you. Remember when we found that self-help book from mid-century that went on and on about codependence? Well, sometimes I think you and I are codependent. At least, I am too dependent on you. I know you have your women, and that some of them may mean more to you than you are willing to admit — though I know you don’t like me saying that. But isn’t there a moment when you are whipping them, or penetrating them with those dildos that you so ritually boil, when there is just a little tear in your eye? An ounce of affection? Don’t you ever, for instance, miss them? Do you never, ever favour one over another? I know you will answer “No” to all of these questions.

  And just because I can’t resist a little titillation, have you ever tried electric shock? I found a great little porno scene (they are so very, very accessible now that I am integrated; I just press a button on my old head and there’s porn!) in which a very lovely young man was being shocked with some sort of electronic device. He was writhing quite deliciously. I think one of the things that attracted me to the image was that the man who was torturing him was hardly a man — in the sense that we used to think of a biological man. He was such a grotesque, withered thing. Now, I know that no one could be (and surely no one is) as aged and ugly as myself. But the reason the fantasy had such a profound effect on me was because I could see myself playing the part of the old man — crumbling artifact that I am. That I might be the one doing the torturing! It seemed so wonderful to me that the old man could have such an effect on the boy! Obviously it was not possible for the wizened old stick to actually shock the youngster with the thrill of love. Instead he had to resort to actual virtual electricity. I’m sure that I am not perceiving this cyberlovemaking correctly, and that you will tell me so. You sometimes urge me to take some photos of myself and have a little fun. You assert that there might be sexual interest, somewhere, in a lumpen heap such as myself — that I might enjoy some cybersex. Well, I certainly would have enjoyed becoming a part of the actual experience of shocking such a beautiful young man, along with the other, dribbling geezer. But I don’t think, try as I might, that I would be able to appreciate cybersex the way I could, or perhaps should.