Fifteen Years of the Blue Truck

Rainbow over a Texas highway.

It's hard to believe, but I published my first post in this blog 15 years ago today at this hour.  I started it on a whim, with no particular plan, and have continued it on the same principle ever since.  For a long time, it was a convenient vehicle for my ranting and raving about the state of the world and the sadly misguided people in it - to put it mildly - but the last few years I have mainly given up ranting, which serves no purpose (good advice is never welcome to misbehaving ears) and keep blogging just to have something constructive to do in retirement.  I know it is no great shakes, certainly - your Head Trucker has never been a crowd-pleaser - but it pleases me, if no one else, and that's enough.

I appreciate more than I can say the kind attention of my faithful truckbuddies, who have stuck with me all these years, the ones who regularly comment and those who rarely do so, but merely lurk in the corners.  Being effectively housebound at this late age, and resolutely opposed on general principles to what is called social media - a corrosive pestilence that will have to be suppressed sooner or later - the Blue Truck gives me a happy connection from time to time with like-minded friends, and that's a very nice thing to have.

To celebrate this anniversary, I reprint here from my second blog post an excerpt from E. M. Forster's essay "What I Believe," written in 1938 when the dictators and their rat-faced minions were preparing to carve up the world among themselves, bringing death and destruction to millions all around the globe.  Thank God for the stalwart leaders and peoples of the democracies who stood up to them and thwarted their evil plans.  We who are now old men have lived our whole lives in the long, sunlit afternoon of the postwar order - which, alas, seems daily to be coming apart at the seams, pulled and ripped in all directions by extremists and fanatics of the right and of the left.

In our fathers' time, the democracies were the golden mean, the middle path between the two extremes; and when the democracies finally realized there was nothing else to do but fight or die, they discovered their enormous strength and used it to subdue the wicked and restore peace, liberty, and justice to the world.  But is there still a middle way to be found?  Does anybody even want to find it?

I have my thoughts, but this Cassandra prefers not to waste breath by speaking them.  Nor is it safe to speak freely anymore about any but the most trivial topics.  Instead, I offer this excerpt from Forster's essay, which reflects something of my own thinking.  I don't agree with Forster on everything, but this passage resonates in my own heart.

"The victory of our queer race . . ."

I believe in aristocracy, though - if that is the right word, and if a democrat may use it. Not an aristocracy of power, based upon rank and influence, but an aristocracy of the sensitive, the considerate and the plucky. Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet. They represent the true human tradition, the one permanent victory of our queer race over cruelty and chaos. Thousands of them perish in obscurity, a few are great names. They are sensitive for others as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke. 

I give no examples - it is risky to do that - but the reader may as well consider whether this is the type of person he would like to meet and to be, and whether (going further with me) he would prefer that this type should not be an ascetic one. I am against asceticism myself. I am with the old Scotsman who wanted less chastity and more delicacy. I do not feel that my aristocrats are a real aristocracy if they thwart their bodies, since bodies are the instruments through which we register and enjoy the world. Still, I do not insist. This is not a major point. It is clearly possible to be sensitive, considerate and plucky and yet be an ascetic too, and if anyone possesses the first three qualities I will let him in! 

On they go - an invincible army, yet not a victorious one. The aristocrats, the elect, the chosen, the Best People - all the words that describe them are false, and all attempts to organize them fail. Again and again Authority, seeing their value, has tried to net them and to utilize them as the Egyptian Priesthood or the Christian Church or the Chinese Civil Service or the Group Movement, or some other worthy stunt. But they slip through the net and are gone; when the door is shut, they are no longer in the room; their temple, as one of them remarked, is the holiness of the Heart's affections, and their kingdom, though they never possess it, is the wide-open world.

Hugs and good wishes to all my truckbuddies - thanks for riding along in the Blue Truck.

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Ten Years on the Road in the Blue Truck

Today is the tenth anniversary of my little blog, strange to say.  Where does the time go?  I started it on a whim, and have continued it ever since on the same principle.  Consequently, it has never amounted to much - a poor thing, Sir, but mine own - nevertheless, it has been for the most part a happy little hobby, an agreeable routine to pass the time with amid the changing seasons of life.

Your Head Trucker doesn't amount to much, either - just an old dog lying on the porch, watching the mad world go by.  If any of my 3,690 posts has uplifted my truckbuddies, shown you something you didn't know, or raised a smile on your face sometime or other - then my small efforts have not been entirely in vain.

To mark the occasion, I am serving up once again one of my favorite slices of literature for your diversion:  an excerpt from E. M. Forster's collection of essays, Two Cheers for Democracy (1951), which I posted ten years ago today.  The waiters will be handing out glasses of champagne while you read - no tipping and no pinching!  Enjoy.

I believe in aristocracy. . . — if that is the right word, and if a democrat may use it. Not an aristocracy of power, based upon rank and influence, but an aristocracy of the sensitive, the considerate and the plucky. Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet. They represent the true human tradition, the one permanent victory of our queer race over cruelty and chaos. Thousands of them perish in obscurity, a few are great names. They are sensitive for others as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke.

I give no examples — it is risky to do that — but the reader may as well consider whether this is the type of person he would like to meet and to be, and whether (going further with me) he would prefer that this type should not be an ascetic one. I am against asceticism myself. I am with the old Scotsman who wanted less chastity and more delicacy. I do not feel that my aristocrats are a real aristocracy if they thwart their bodies, since bodies are the instruments through which we register and enjoy the world. Still, I do not insist. This is not a major point. It is clearly possible to be sensitive, considerate and plucky and yet be an ascetic too, and if anyone possesses the first three qualities I will let him in!

On they go — an invincible army, yet not a victorious one. The aristocrats, the elect, the chosen, the Best People — all the words that describe them are false, and all attempts to organize them fail. Again and again Authority, seeing their value, has tried to net them and to utilize them as the Egyptian Priesthood or the Christian Church or the Chinese Civil Service or the Group Movement, or some other worthy stunt. But they slip through the net and are gone; when the door is shut, they are no longer in the room; their temple, as one of them remarked, is the holiness of the Heart’s affections, and their kingdom, though they never possess it, is the wide-open world.

Grateful thanks to all my truckbuddies for riding along with me in the Blue Truck.

Tired Old Queen at the Movies: Maurice

Steve Hayes reviews the 1987 gay romance:

James Wilby, Hugh Grant and Rupert Graves turn in subtle and brilliant performances in Merchant Ivory's adaptation of E. M. Forester's romantic gay love story, Maurice. Published after Forester's death and hidden for decades, it concerns the romance of a two young men at Cambridge at the turn of the century, what their love affair costs them and how they manage to find peace and happiness in a society which forbids, admonishes, and punishes them for their inclinations. Gloriously photographed, meticulously directed, and exceptionally cast, it is one of the greatest and most honest love stories ever filmed.

What I Say: Your Head Trucker has written before in the Blue Truck about reading the newly published novel one weekend when I was 17, and what a seminal experience that was in my young gay life - seeing all my deepest feelings portrayed in print for the first time.

But although the film is indeed beautifully photographed, it left me cold: I just could not believe that the three leads could actually be attracted to one other, despite their best attempts at acting that way. So the movie was completely unconvincing from first to last, for me: as if they were all just reading the lines but not feeling them. (For the record, all the other Merchant Ivory films were likewise disappointing, for the same reason - lovely to look at but played without real emotions, and deadly boring to watch.  I would have thought two gay guys could have done better on that score.)

Maybe one day it will get remade with actual gay actors who can deliver the umph of passion and attraction that this version lacked. What did you fellas think of the movie, I wonder?



Catch more fabulous movie reviews at Steve's YouTube channel.

"the victory of our queer race . . . "

I first read Forster's famous statement of belief when I was about 19 or 20, trapped and closeted in a fundamentalist church in a far province of the Deep South, knowing no one gay, fearing I was the only one who ever felt that way . . . and I've never forgotten Forster's ringing affirmation of the truth and goodness of one's real inner self. It was a momentary balm to the soul. I don't remember whether I knew Forster was gay when I first read this, but I do recall I recognized a soul somehow like my own.

I believe in aristocracy. . . — if that is the right word, and if a democrat may use it. Not an aristocracy of power, based upon rank and influence, but an aristocracy of the sensitive, the considerate and the plucky. Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet. They represent the true human tradition, the one permanent victory of our queer race over cruelty and chaos. Thousands of them perish in obscurity, a few are great names. They are sensitive for others as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke. I give no examples — it is risky to do that — but the reader may as well consider whether this is the type of person he would like to meet and to be, and whether (going further with me) he would prefer that this type should not be an ascetic one. I am against asceticism myself. I am with the old Scotsman who wanted less chastity and more delicacy. I do not feel that my aristocrats are a real aristocracy if they thwart their bodies, since bodies are the instruments through which we register and enjoy the world. Still, I do not insist. This is not a major point. It is clearly possible to be sensitive, considerate and plucky and yet be an ascetic too, and if anyone possesses the first three qualities I will let him in! On they go — an invincible army, yet not a victorious one. The aristocrats, the elect, the chosen, the Best People — all the words that describe them are false, and all attempts to organize them fail. Again and again Authority, seeing their value, has tried to net them and to utilize them as the Egyptian Priesthood or the Christian Church or the Chinese Civil Service or the Group Movement, or some other worthy stunt. But they slip through the net and are gone; when the door is shut, they are no longer in the room; their temple, as one of them remarked, is the holiness of the Heart’s affections, and their kingdom, though they never possess it, is the wide-open world.

–E. M. Forster, Two Cheers for Democracy, “What I Believe” (1951)