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Synopsis of Future Present This book, set against of the backdrop of his partner´s decline and death from AIDS, relates the review the author experienced of his life when confronted with this tragedy. It is told in anedotes, stories, and insights with his poems (18) and paintings (104) while relating how he found himself in a life of art, found his poetic and artistic voice, as well as his discovery of his sexual identity as a citizen of the twentieth century.Excerpt of Future Present, Chapter 2, Awaiting The MessageI haven’t met much evil. Nor have I been involved with it. The closest act of evil thatI’ve completed came through alcohol, self-loathing, precious love and fetid jealousy, andfatigue. Actually, not to water it down, the prank was more wicked than evil, evil beinghell-bent and wicked just a treacherous warning. Evil has no escape; wicked’s wretchedness contemplates safety and pardon because of its cleverness.I was living below the Smokies, below the spot Dollywood now stands and where onefinds Cades Cove’s dead end--the first geographical dead end I’d run into, in theRiverhouse*. First floor, southern front apartment on a street paralleling the river indowntown Knoxville. With alcoholic, classical piano-playing Rick. We had fled acrossthe country, drinking days into nights into street lamplight, and had managed to enamor aless-than-self-assured young college student to us by being “les deux avec les bonmots”--artists struggling through capitalism, lashing out in self importance. We were, atleast to this bookish waif, the jetsam of an over-flowing tempest of corruption: too goodto be noticed.It worked well for us, being idols. We worked, Rick and I, diligently to dispel thisfalse idolatry by long discussions of self-admonishment, hope and assurance to him thatby being patient, he would find himself, and hence, we would earn his worship.And Sam was sweet. Eager. A curly headed raggedy Andy. Floundering sophomore,lithe and with no distinct shoulders, waist or height: just there, big-eyed and listening. How he longed for acceptance--which he had at his very intelligent fingertips if only he’drelax--and for the excitement of being recognized. For what, I can’t remember, but giventhe stature of Rick and me in his eyes, I’m not surprised that we enjoyed him if the rest ofthe world had no defining shelf for him. At twenty-three, his was a big request.Yet it was his whining that finally wore me down: he was once and forever achingover the non-events in his life. No matter that he was truly smart, could read and write inthree languages and had the instinct of art. No. He was spinning as a moth on coldcement, no direction but the endless circle, flicking dust.What I did was not in any way planned--our days weren’t: they revolved around thebottles we could score--but now I can recall that Sam’s haphazard appearances, rappingat my frosty gallery window, were beginning to interrupt the frequent painting hours Ispent watchful for Rick to return from his shift of waitering at Annie’s Place. And Samquickly learned the timing of being there, at the apartment just long enough before Rickarrived to deplete my concentration by questioning me about all the fine odds and endscollected in dust about the apartment. And how and why I was incorporating them intomy still-life paintings such as Distilled Life* and Entente.*I considered him primarily Rick’s friend, which allowed more than the usualannoyance. Why did Rick’s friends have to like me? He admired that I stumbled frompainting subject to subject, seascape to still-life, and I remember that he had neverknown, until Notes Falling*, that calla lilies grew wild...somewhere. In Tennessee, theywere imported from hothouses; it had not occurred to hi