My Mountain Man
by TonyI Don’t know if David Lodge is still thinking that “…deafness restricts and thins out the supply of new ideas and experience on which the novelist depends to create his fictions……“, but for us who have grown up with deafness, we know it’s no true. Most of us have always had hearing friends. As I reflect back on the various relationships I’ve had over the years, one in particular stands out.
I call him my Mountain Man, because he lives in the Blue Mountains. It raises peoples curiosity everytime I tell them I am headed for the mountains to visit him.
“What do you do up there?”
“Sounds like a dirty weekend!”
But the truth is more prosaic. If we are not working together, or soliciting for porn [the very idea of a straight guy and a gay guy visiting a porn shop together, each with their own divergent desires, is jarring, when one considers attitudes towards sex and sexuality are still plagued by ambivalence], then we are gabbing, eating, drinking, waxing lyrical, two person navel gazing,and general bullshitting.
And yes, we have been known to discuss and deconstruction pornography and erotica, and our own attitudes and responses. Which would make for quite an essay in itself. If you’ve ever wondered where my writing style comes from, especially on All The Young Dudes, it’s from our conversations. When I write, I imagine that we are chatting and I note my thoughts and responses.
His is one of a handful of friendships that still endures, inspite of time, distance, and some serious stresses [which none of my other friendships have suffered to the same degree]. We met at art college. He still paints and sculpts, and I continue to meander my way through different mediums. He is 10 years old than me. I am 10 years younger than him. He is Hearing. I am Deaf. He is Straight. I am Gay. And neither of us want to be anybody else, which is, as it should be.
Of all the men [and women] that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in my life, falling in love with, and remaining friends with, he remains my favourite. A free spirit. Not easily captured. Unwilling to be boxed in. Reluctantly conceding, if ever, to peer pressure, or relative humidity. Not beholden to anybody’s expectations. It doesn’t matter who he is, and it is irrelevant whether you should, or will ever get to meet him. All that is important, is that he is my friend. My mate. But if you’ve met me, then you’ve met him.
My Mountain Man was the first person to ever teach me the value of being oneself. The importance of being true to oneself. The importance of loving oneself. Though it must be said, that our relationship does thrive on the residual hearing that I have, and that I speak. I’m not convinced that we would have had the relationship we have, had I been profoundly deaf. I’m not convinced that we would have met in the first place. But then, that is pure conjecture, as the person you are now, is not the person you were then.
Of course the path of friendship never travels smoothly. Does it ever? Ours was fraught with expectation and libido, on my part, that only age and time, has tamed. Suffice to say, that I never truly understood him, until I understood myself. Travelling, living and experiencing life in another country. All the nouns, adjectives and verbs that people threw in my direction, made me realise, they were describing my Mountain Man. For I am he!
Fun Stuff:
What is the etymology of the phrase “to shoot the shit?
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