Van Robert Ault 1956-1996

Photo of Van from Our Faerie Ancestors, used with tremendous gratitude!

~*~


One thing I loved about the TV show SIX FEET UNDER, was Nate's continuous apparitions of his father.

When you know someone very well, you know what they would say. You just know. Other times, you are dying to know.

I remember wishing Van a happy belated birthday, the same week as the People's Temple disaster. (He had attended the church a couple of times, pronouncing it "odd.") "Oh honey, those poor people! I can't bear it!" And those words echo, as I watch the TV shows chronicling the horrific events of 30 years ago. And I miss him, the one who couldn't bear it.

Missing my friend, one of the touchstones of my life, is almost impossible to write about. I have tried several times. What can you say about the sort of individual who is simply LARGER than life? An amazing, dynamic, theatrical personality who was a fountain of love, ferocious wit and unending generosity? I can say: he took me in when I had nowhere to go, fresh off a Greyhound bus from the midwest. He shared his home with me. He gave me the beginner's course in San Francisco 101, what to watch out for, who to trust, who not to trust. I couldn't have functioned there without him; my guide, my mentor for the city.

He was my best friend.

But I find I can't describe him accurately. He was just too big for words. His eyes were bright green, like a cat's. (If you dared ask him if they were contacts, he would mimic slapping you; they weren't.) He was 6'4" and struggled with keeping weight on his whole life. I met him when we were both 15 and he was already full-grown but weighed only 135 lbs. People gaped at him; the word gaunt barely covers it. He took me to the Chattanooga Choo-Choo restaurant in Tennessee and Glide Memorial Church and the I-Beam in San Francisco. He took me to gay bars and introduced me to the first drag queens I had ever seen in person. We danced late, late into the night at discos. He showed me porn and than ran it backward: "Watch how THIS looks!" and then hooted and squealed.

He was either the president or vice president of the official Supremes fan club. He would be mad at me for not remembering which. I have a photo of him with Mary Wilson, and on the back, his trademark scribble: "Don't I look like I'm coming?!" Yes, he did.

In short, I adored him. And I can barely write this. One of the major losses of my life, this beautiful person.

~*~

"What are THESE?" said the naive girl from the midwest, leafing through Van's wallet. There were several colorful, plastic membership cards to the popular San Francisco bath houses. "Do you take baths there?" asks naive, unaware Daisy.

"Well I suppose you could!" he winked at me. "But I don't know anyone who does!" I asked about the sexual protocol of the bath houses, and he told me everything.

~*~


Left: Van wrote several new-age books in the 80s, and was on the staff of MAGICAL BLEND magazine. (I'm not sure if it is still publishing or not, but can't locate a decent web page.)



By the 90s, I had moved to the south, the same place he had escaped from. He tried to talk me out of it. "It's changed, Van, really," I said on the phone.

"Not nearly enough," he sniffed at me. He called it "Baptistland" and would sing made-up lyrics to the tune of Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland"--down in BAP-TIST-LAAAAAND! Always, always, making me laugh.

I attempted to tactfully approach the subject of the bath houses, the MATH, the sheer MATH. Mathematical probabilities. I got sick when I thought of it, got a headache.

I couldn't tell him that, so I just asked: "Are you worried? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. And then he sent me a sparkly pagan greeting card assuring me that he was okay, while also informing me that he was HIV positive. "Constant changes," he added, signing his name.

Constant changes?

I wept, but composed myself before calling. "You calling to see if I'm still here?" he asked, acidly.

I shot back, "Maybe I am, what's wrong with that?"

"Don't lose that sass, sister-woman!" he ordered, laughing.

I've tried not to.

~*~

An actor (as well as writer), he liked to make phone calls 'in character'--invariably pretending to be other people. For my phone calls, it was Baptist preachers. In his best televangelist voice (which was remarkably authentic), he would shout into the phone at me: "I'm calling from Bloody Jesus Baptist Church, and would like to ask you to ATTEND THIS SUNDAY. Are you SAVED?" He changed the name of the church each time, and on at least two occasions, actually faked me out. He would chuckle, then gloriously guffaw, if he had actually fooled you. He did it to everybody. I heard him call a friend on the phone and pretend to be Laurence Olivier.

"He won't call me back, but betcha he calls LARRY!" he said to me, after hanging up.

~*~

(deep sigh) I love you, dearest Van. I missed your Scorpio birthday, because it has taken me since November 11th to write this coherently. Last year, could not manage it at all. I promised myself, this year. This year, I will write it.

Van's apparition says to me, "Don't take that stuff too seriously!" then muses, "If I'd had the internet, honey? I'd put it to some excellent uses!"

And the apparition adds, "Try not to waste your time, okay? Just don't waste it."

I won't. I promise, I won't.


~*~

When I left the Bay Area, he made me a mix tape. "This will make you think of me, and you can take it everywhere you go and think of---(((here he sang a deep baritone C)))---MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

And I did.

This was the last song on it.

Lena Horne - Believe in yourself (from "The Wiz")



Believe in yourself, as I believe in you.

All Souls Day - Day of the Dead

Ironically, sitting here yesterday typing and pontificating (root word: pontiff, haha) nearly made me late for All Saints Day Mass. And so there I go, scurrying in during the homily, duly splashing myself with holy water while wondering (as I always do) why the Mexicans and Vietnamese are always sitting in the back. You should go up front! You are just as entitled to be here as the white people! Alas, I don't know any language but English, so I can't say this to them. I usually express this sentiment simply by sitting with them, smiling at their babies and sharing tissues when one spits up. They are probably thinking, poor confused old hippie, doesn't know where the white people sit.

The reading is from spooky old Revelations 7, and reminds us:

After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude which no man could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, "Salvation belongs to our God who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb!" And all the angels stood round the throne and round the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying, "Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God for ever and ever! Amen."

Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, clothed in white robes, and whence have they come?" I said to him, "Sir, you know." And he said to me, "These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

I thought about those who have had the greatest tribulations, those who have endured war, famine, illness and hardship; those who have been abandoned. I was suddenly overwhelmed, humbled and honored to be in the presence of the saints.

~*~



Old joke: The most dangerous place in the world to be is in a Catholic parish parking lot after Mass; the second most dangerous place would be the closest bakery. (I guess that's a dated joke now, and it should be re-written to say, the closest Starbucks.) I hate gridlock of any kind, so I therefore hang back and usually wait until the place clears out, and pay close attention to details... for instance, my priest is picky about his nomenclature and the song sheet informs us that today is THE SOLEMNITY of All Saints. So is it still THE FEAST of All Saints? What, one wonders, is the difference between Solemnity and Feast?

The calendar is a traditional Christian method of organizing a liturgical year on the level of days by associating each day with one or more saints, and referring to the day as that saint's feast day. The system arose from the very early Christian custom of annual commemoration of martyrs on the dates of their deaths (Dies Mortis, day of death, opposite of Dies Natalis). As the number of recognized saints increased during Late Antiquity and roughly the first half of the Middle Ages, eventually every day of the year had at least one saint who was commemorated on that date.

The day a child was born determined who their patron saint was, hence, the derivation of "birthday."

"Various feast days will be "ranked" with various levels of importance. In the Roman Catholic Church, from most to least importance, these are solemnities, feasts, memorials, and optional memorials. In the Church of England, they are Principal Feasts and Principal Holy Days, Festivals, Lesser Festivals, and Commemorations.

You could go crazy trying to keep it all straight, and Lord Knows, I once tried mighty hard.

I am now lucky to make it to the Majors.

~*~

Some years ago, I thought donating blood at Halloween was a fun idea, especially since they also passed out cute Vampire T-shirts to all participants (blood, vampires, Halloween, get it??). At some point, this habit morphed (like the holiday itself?) into giving blood for All Saints Day instead, and I made it part of my spiritual repetition. Blood was shed on my account, I guess I can shed a little bit in return.

And so, I made my way to the local Bloodmobile, which really does bother me. I don't like giving blood in a VEHICLE. I know, it's a fancy schmancy vehicle and everything, but it is still a VEHICLE that could, you know, MOVE at any moment. The humongous electrical generator makes all manner of roaring noises, and as my blood pumps out of my arm, I am left wondering: Did they remember to put the emergency brake on?

First, the Blood Connection lady takes me into a little cubicle to ask me personal sexual questions, extending all the way back to 1977 (!). My favorite of these is: Have you had sex with a man who has had sex with another man?

And I really want to answer: Have you ever asked a man that question, before you have sex with him? "Oh, hey, by the way, have you had sex with another man?" Right.

In other words, the proper and true answer: How the hell am I supposed to know? But if you say that, expressing doubts, they will refuse you and bounce you out. So, everyone just replies in the heterosexist manner in which you are expected to answer: No.

Even though the battery of sexual questions is harrowing, and they add a few more bizarre twists and turns every year or so (I have to admit, I enjoy sniffing "I'm a VEGETARIAN!" to all of their Mad Cow Disease questions), the thoroughly bored demeanor of the interrogator always gets me through. She doesn't care; she's heard it all before, and then some.

The last question is the most interesting: Are you giving blood just so you can be tested for HIV?

Does anyone really do that?

~*~

Coming up in Day of the Dead, Part Two: Ron Paul in Greenville, with original photos!

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Listening to: Howlin' Wolf - Smokestack Lightnin'
via FoxyTunes