Wednesday, December 2, 2009
SHARE YOUR STORY OF JAMES HERE!
Monday, September 28, 2009
I never met James Broughton, but I feel him peering over my shoulder each time I make a movie, write a story or pen a poem. He's given me the simple magic of speaking my language and believing in my work - when those affirmations were hard to find.
Friday, September 11, 2009
i met jb in the 60's at the calif art inst. on chestnut street (in sf). he was teaching film there..he was married and i didn't specially like him..
he showed up at the "committee" and went to "herald norse's" parties and got more disconcertingly liberal. the next i saw him 30 years later at a Nomenus gathering in the 90s with his young boyfriend.. he read his penis poems and
everyone liked him.. he didn't remember me...
i wasn't as impressed by him as say "lou harrison", or "allen ginsburg," and his poems, though neat, didn't sink in as well as whitman's "leaves of grass".. suppose he means to me somewhat the same as "ram dass" in that one can change at any stage of life! tho not exemplary in jb's bio...
from :->len who was a queer beat in the 50's..
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The secret to a long life, James Broughton told me, is to drink two big glasses of water first thing each day.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
We know James through his amazing body of work, Stephen's stories, and working with the Big Joy Creative Team. It's delightful to learn more about James and his influence on so many, watch some of his films, and read his poems. We had no idea he was so prolific -- and so disciplined in his art. You teach me to trust the voice of my voices Together we reflect what our mirrors conceal You are incompletely disguised as a mortal
Many years ago we first encountered "This Is It" on Stephen's wall. We liked it, but didn't appreciate its Zen brilliance until much later. Read it aloud and see what we mean.
"Adventure, not Predicament" has become more than a saying at our house -- it's a way to remember to reframe our drama trauma as a daring adventure when things get tough or tacky.
"Follow Your Own Weird" adorns the rear bumper of our vintage Toyota and brings a smile whenever we head out. We hope it also brings a small burst of cosmic fun to those on the road behind us.
Recently we heard the first part of "The Bliss of With," one of James' poems from Packing Up for Paradise, and fell in love with it. He's captured the essential joy and deep acceptance of our almost 35 year marriage in these few lines.
The Bliss of With
You have come to me out of the antiquities
We have loved one another for generations
We have loved one another for centuries
You teach me to believe my own believings
You touch the palpability of my possibles
Together we upgrade the sun in our meridians
We remain open night and day to transcendence
You are the eternal stranger I have always known
I saw your wings this morning I saw your wings
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Dear Spiral & BB Ha!
I am so excited to hear that you are working on a biography project for James.
I never had the privilege to meet James (or even know about his poetry) prior to his death. His life, and the fruits of it, have touched me on so many levels.
The first Breitenbush faerie I had a deep recognition with was a good friend and maybe even a devotee of James. The first Radical Faerie I fell in love with designed a "unicorn corral" for James' garden. In both of these faeries I see a playful audacity that I have since come to learn is related and influenced in some ways by James.
James writing and poetry then became an inspiration and companion as I wrote the thesis for my master's degree. His words reminded me that I could not risk my soul by killing spirituality in dry academic words, but instead needed to push the boundaries, take risks and keep it alive. His words (poetry and prose) help demonstrate some of the paradoxes of spirituality and the inherent simplicity that escapes explanation.
Best of luck on your project and please let me know if there is anything I can to to help you birth this project.
Hugs and kisses
Morgain Lessloss (aka Michael Anhorn)
The very week I met James Broughton, I had complained bitterly to members of my writing group that I had no mentors, that the older writers who had encouraged me when I was in my 20s had died. Then a close friend, with no idea of my sense of loss, invited me to join him for a weekend at the woodsy Port Townsend spirit house inhabited by James Broughton and his partner Joel Singer.
That weekend changed my life. James and I shared instant rapport; I found in him a friend, a mentor, a playmate, a muse, a shamanic clown. I also saw how Joel’s loving devotions enabled James to blossom into the sage he’d become.
Actually, I’d met James’ work before. At the Museum of Modern Art in New York one day, I stumbled upon his films. In an almost-empty theater, I sat enraptured for hours. I watched a California cowboy in “The Pleasure Garden” befuddle the fuddy-duddies who tried to rout out joy, sex, and spontaneity from people in a park. I watched a little boy born from a tree chase a red ball around his neighborhood while a gentle voice resounded:
and I am It
and You are It
and so is That
and He is It
and She is It
and It is It
and That is That...
(1968)
And years later I heard him read his poetry—or was it sing, or playfully preach to the choir?—at a Sunday morning service at a Radical Faerie gathering, where men meditate on connections between spirituality and sexuality:
And boy He has a Body
like you’ve never seen
(1982)
I had learned a lot from his work—lured in by its deceptive simplicity only to be surprised by its resonant and sometimes disturbing complexity. But it was different going to his house, and having him ask me, a recovering journalist, if I would help him [ital] write prose. He was writing his autobiography, Coming Unbuttoned. “Only if you help me with poetry,” I said.
We began a series of conversations, visits, revisits. I watched him get up at 5 a.m., when he was in his late 70s, to write poetry, work on his journals, and struggle with prose. He critiqued my work, sometimes very subtly, sometimes not so. Sometimes not at all. He read me his drafts, and we talked about what worked and what didn’t.
It became the mentorship I’d prayed for. James wrote prose like this: “My mother once confessed that giving birth to me was the orgasmic highlight of her life. In fact, she and I got along better in her womb than we ever did after I came out of it.”