Gay Mystery

Reading (one to two a day) the 'Henry Rios' novels of Michael Nava; saving the best, the Death of Friends, for last. How does one describe the peculiar excellence of Nava's work? Partly, I may say, that, while I had been looking for "gayness," (not so much to titilate--though a certain, not disproportionate, titilation there is--as to validate) what I find is gay humanity, or maybe a profound and personal gay humanism. I am affected by his writing rather as one might be who had asked for a glass of water, and found himself drenched with spring rain. There are flaws (not many, but) which bespeak Nava's Chicano subculture roots: An inconsistent use of "lay" or "laid" as the past tense of "lay," with some preference for the former; an occasional prepositional phrase twisted awkwardly in English out of native Mexican Spanish--flaws like acne or smallpox scars in a beautiful young face, which evoke pity and are easily overlooked, as one perceives the astonishingly subtle and dignified character of the person beneath them. I quote, from the Burning Plain:

That night I dreamed...It was Josh. He was dressed in the clothes in which he'd been cremated but he was whole again. His flesh was supple, his hair shone and his eyes were clear, free of pain or fear...

"My God, Josh," I whispered, "You're alive."

"No," he said gently, "I've come back, but just for a minute." He slipped out of my embrace.

"What do you mean, Josh? What is this place?"

"Come with me," he said, taking my hand. We walked to the edge of the promontory. He looked across the brilliant sea and said, "This is a sort of jumping-off point."

"Jumping to where?"

"He spread his arm above the ocean. "There. Henry it's my time. That's why I came back, to say good-bye."

"I don't understand."

He stroked my hair. "It's hard to explain. After you die, there's a place, a place of judgement. Kind of. It's a place you've always carried around inside. It's what you imagine happens after you die. If you imagine heaven, that's what you get. If you imagine hell, you get hell." He clasped my hand tighter. "But the point is, they don't exist except in your imagination, and when you realize that, you're free to go."

"Go where, Josh?"

He released my hand and stared out at the sea of light. The look on his face was ecstatic. He whispered, "There are no words..." He seemed to burn from within, with a light of such intensity he became translucent, a rainbow aureole forming around his head. Without changing shape, he seemed to grow larger and larger, until the clouds drifted across his eyes. His face shone like the sun and his legs were like pillars of fire. I could no long look at him and cowered, afraid I would be consumed by his light.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "Look at me."

I looked and it was as if I saw through him, past the awesome light, to something indescribable.
Later, I remembered it as a rose as vast as the universe, charged with intelligence, serenely folding and unfolding shimmering petals of fire.

"Oh," I said. "Oh, oh..."

And then it was over. The inhumanely [sic] radiant light faded, he shrank to his normal size and I could hold him in my arms again.

He kissed me again with a mouth that tasted of apple.

""Good-bye, Henry," he said. "I loved you so much. More than either of us knew."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Look into yourself," he replied, slowly seeping into the gloam of dreams. "We're the same person."

"Josh..."

I woke to darkness, tears running down my face.