This is a brief return to posting on my blog, an experiment in re-learning how to use my computer, after a couple of months in a vale of great sicknesses (about which, more eventually); I am seriously damaged, but plucky.
This is in memory of the excellent Antonino Zichichi, who died on 2/9. First of all, for having a wonderful Z name, even more entertaining than Zwicky. For his groundbreaking research in nuclear physics. And for a lifetime devoted to causes benefitting the common good.
Follow-ups to two of the three parts of my 10/14 posting “… that I am precious to them”.
[1] in the advance health care section [of my draft legal documents] was a Treat with Dignity section that begins:
If I should suffer serious disease, injury, or illness, I desire that those who love and care for me touch me and tell me so, demonstrating that I am precious to them.
And then I burst into tears at the delicate intimacy of the wording, even though it’s probably boilerplate text these days.
[2 about the Stanford Linguistics department’s 50th anniversary celebration]
[3] .. Sally Thomason just reported:
Steve (Stephen R.) Anderson [of Yale University] died last night, October 13, after a diagnosis last month of aggressive stage 4 esophageal cancer
Damn! And I owed him e-mail [in response to his of 8/5]. An old friend from the 1960s (he was just 3 years younger than me), a true scholar, an extraordinary general linguist, a good guy, and a sturdy friend (he sent me remarkable cheeses from Switzerland when I was sick and downcast!).
Now: on 1, about comforting the sick and dying; and on 3, about Steve Anderson’s commiserating e-mail from August).
I have been going over about 50 pages of draft stuff for my lawyer: revisions of my trusteeship, my will, the advance health care instructions, and a durable power of attorney — the product of a session with the lawyer last month. Oh my. Well, it all seems to say what I said I wanted, but of course, in careful legalese and with provisos for all sorts of circumstances I had never even contemplated.
And there in the advance health care section was a Treat with Dignity section that begins:
If I should suffer serious disease, injury, or illness, I desire that those who love and care for me touch me and tell me so, demonstrating that I am precious to them.
And then I burst into tears at the delicate intimacy of the wording, even though it’s probably boilerplate text these days.
From Amy Dahlstrom on Facebook yesterday, an obituary for Ives Goddard (who was, oh dear, a year younger than I am) from the Smithsonian Institution:
Ives Goddard III [Robert Hale Ives Goddard III] (1941-2025) passed away peacefully in his sleep on the evening of August 6. Ives earned his A.B. (1963) and Ph.D. (1969) from Harvard University. Following a stint as a junior professor at Harvard after his Ph.D., in 1975 he came to the Smithsonian to work as a linguist and as the technical editor of the Handbook of North American Indians. After he retired in 2007, he continued his research as a curator emeritus.
Ives was a renowned linguist known as a leading expert on Algonquian languages.
… He will be fondly remembered for his dry wit, encyclopedic knowledge of Indigenous languages, generosity to language learners and to other scholars, and passionate support for linguistics and language revitalization.
The first follow-up to my posting yesterday “A gay life”, which had material about my first male lover, Larry Schourup, from earlier postings of mine. About 55 years of the loving friendship that succeeded our original relationship, a lifelong conversation carried on through enormous changes in our lives. LS ended up in Japan, with a long-time Japanese partner, Isao; they had to conceal their homosexuality and their relationship for many years, until recently it became possible for them to live openly, and to apply for domestic partnership in Kyoto (which I now have learned was granted on 5/29/24, wonderful thing).
My intention was talk about integrating sexual lives, relationships, and identities with lives of accomplishment (like LS’s teaching and published research in linguistics) and value, with a bow to the poet Frank O’Hara (who LS introduced me to many years ago). I am, however, overwhelmed by the firehouse of fascism being sprayed on a daily basis by the overlords in my country, which needs a variety of responses, all of which take time — so I’ve trimmed this post down to its other aim, which is to report on the last year or so of the LS/AZ correspondence.
I woke at 3:30 am, after 8 hours of good sleep, to the sound of Scott Ross playing Soler keyboard music on his power harpsichord — the Fandango and an assortment of sonatas — which filled me with delight and promised a good day to come. Eventually I worked my way to my computer, and found one odd surprise and one very sorrowful one.
[This posting will eventually turn to sexual matters for which the F-word seems to be indispensable; this content is not suitable for children or the sexually modest]
From 2/14 on Facebook, from Leland Wykoff, passed on to soc.motss-folk by Ellen Evans yesterday:
[AZ:] Dennis Sullivan Lewis, Jr. born 7/11/1956 in Jefferson, Ashe County NC to Dennis Sullivan Lewis and Georgia Mae Miller (data thanks to Ann Burlingham); Dennis was a frequent contributor to the soc.motss group and also a frequent participant in the annual motss.cons over the years (including 2017, here in Palo Alto)
[LW:] Sadly, I must report Dennis Lewis has died [AZ: on 2/3; thank you for the date, Chris Ambidge]. Dennis was a good friend and will be missed by so many in life and on Facebook.
[He] had many interests: organ concerts, live theatre, music, ghost hunting, media, and, of course, TV shows and movies.
… Dennis passed at home peacefully in his sleep. [He] had moved to Jacksonville decades ago to work for the Florida Times Union newspaper, which was a positive and upward career move. Following his tenure at the Times Union [he] began working on grants for higher education in Florida. A position he held for over 25 years.
Dennis was an alumni of Lipscomb University [AZ: a private Christian college in Nashville TN; Dennis was also serious about his Christian beliefs], where he excelled in his studies. Dennis had love affairs with his cars: a Cadillac Cimarron, his current Buick, and the trustworthy Ford Taurus. [He] enjoyed trains, subways, and streetcars.
I responded on Facebook:
— AZ: A shock indeed. Dennis was genuinely sweet and astonishingly open in his enthusiasms, which embraced trains, organ music, movies, and gay sex hotels. And just investigating new places [most often throughout the southeast US, but also all the way to Wales] and telling us about them, in minute detail. I will miss seeing things through his eyes. (Then, purely selfishly, I’ll miss Dennis because he was one of the most faithful readers of my blog, often the first person to note my postings. And yes, I did thank him for that.)
And then Troy Allen picked up on the fourth item, gay sex hotels, on my short list of DL’s enthusiasms:
— TA > AZ: His Parliament House tales were legendary.
Parliament House in Augusta GA bills itself as a “men’s resort” (“an all-male, clothing-optional retreat offering a welcoming space for the LGBTQIA+ community”). Similarly for Parliament House in Orlando FL; from my 2/20/20 posting “love nest”:
[El Nido is] a love hotel — where love is a more decorous way of referring to sweaty sex; such places are sometimes bluntly referred to as fuck hotels.
… The places often have bland names, inconspicuous entrances, and few if any windows. Gay sex hotels, on the other hand, are often open and celebratory about their function. Some are managed as resorts; of these, probably the most famous in the US is the Parliament House in Orlando FL — a fuck hotel resort with drag shows and a celebrated gay bar. [3/2025: it’s currently closed.]
Jim Martin, a friend for 66 years, died on 10/21, at home in Kalua-Kona HI, with his wife of 43 years, Deb (Deborah) Hayes, and his brother Ross Martin to see him off as he succumbed finally to kidney disease. Jim — James Littell Martin III, but he was Jim to everyone, always — was 84 (born 8/7/1940, just one month before me, 9/6/1940, so on August 7th he regularly twitted me wryly on being my senior). The eldest of the five children of James L. Martin Jr. and his wife Helene, of Tulsa OK, Jim was one of my roommates at Princeton — we were in the class of 1962 — where he graduated with a major in biology. And went on to jobs in California, Texas, and Colorado before retiring to Hawaii.
I’ll provide further standard information about Jim’s life in a little while. But first some words from Deb and from me about his character and nature, as explanation for why we so lament his death.
In print in the NYT today, a story (by Michael Paulson) I’ll talk about here in its 9/30 on-line version, headed “Gavin Creel, Tony-Winning Musical Theater Actor, Dies at 48: He won the award playing a Yonkers feed store clerk in “Hello, Dolly!” and was also nominated for roles in “Thoroughly Modern Millie” and “Hair” and beginning:
Gavin Creel, a sly and charming musical theater actor who won a Tony Award as a wide-eyed adventure seeker in “Hello, Dolly!” and an Olivier Award as a preening missionary in “The Book of Mormon,” died on Monday at his home in Manhattan. He was 48.
His death was confirmed by his partner [AZ: his male domestic partner], Alex Temple Ward, via a publicist, Matt Polk. The cause was metastatic melanotic peripheral nerve sheath sarcoma, a rare form of cancer, which Mr. Creel learned he had in July.
Mr. Creel was a well-liked member of the New York theater community whose death comes as a shock, given his age. He had been performing on Broadway for two decades, mostly in starring roles, and just last winter his physical and vocal agility, as well as his charisma and curiosity, were on display in a memoiristic show he wrote and performed Off Broadway called “Walk on Through: Confessions of a Museum Novice,” about learning to love the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
The obit continues with a detailed account of his career, which springboarded from his amazing singing voice and his projection of energy and enthusiasm, wrapped up in a big smile. He was noted for working well with others, and as being supportive of other actors’ careers. In short, an immensely talented really nice guy. All of this is wonderful, and I’m sorry I never got a chance to see him perform live, but I’m here because he also talked publicly about his life as a gay man, and how gay men compose and manage their lives is one of my areas of academic (as well as personal) interest.
Ich weiß wohl, was soll es bedeutenDass ich so traurig bin
An anguish of old age is living immersed in death — of family, friends, loves, colleagues, mentors and models, students, people who have entertained, enriched, and illuminated you — while laboring just to get from day to day yourself. I have failed to memorialize many of the departed, I cannot cope any more, and I am ashamed of all of that. And now comes the death of Manfred Bierwisch, not exactly a surprise, since he was a full decade older than me, but then he was one of the few who should have been granted a life forever. And with a special role in my life.
Martin Haspelmath on Facebook this morning:
RIP Manfred Bierwisch (1930-2024, in the middle of the picture).
(MH:) The picture shows [MB] with his close friends Paul Kiparsky and Dieter Wunderlich (taken from Kiparsky’s 2023 memoir in the [Annual Review of Linguistics])He was the GDR’s most prominent linguist, but he made no compromises with the regime. When some people were doing “Marxist linguistics” because it was good for their careers, he kept pursuing “structural linguistics”. Unlike some of his friends from the 1950s (e.g. Heinz Vater and Ewald Lang), he did not try to leave for the freer West Germany, but he stayed in the East. In 2005, he was awarded an honorary doctorate from Leipzig University, where he had studied in the 1950s (and where he was jailed for 10 months for possession of illegal writings).
