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I first encountered the word, Starward. in a sonnet about Saint Benedict written by Thomas Jones Jr., who was (and, in my opinion, still is) one of the premiere Christian poets (a high church Episcopalian) of America; whose reputation was plowed over by the Modernism imported into this country primarily by Ezra Pound.

   On Saturday, July 10th, 1976, I was helped to find, or led to find, my c.b. handle, Starwatcher, by my then beloved, Cerulean.  The following September (on the 9th, exactly, a Thursday), I was taken by my parents to a small college, a dorm school, where I had to spend the subsequent eleven weeks without Cerulean and without my c.b.  The transition from rural village high school to small liberal arts college was, for me, a bit traumatic for me---because I had gone there against my will, against my heart.  But that handle, Starwatcher, stayed with me and, like a suit of armor (admittedly, a poor simile), kept me together and protected those parts of my soul that were most vulnerable.  The college was primarily a party school populated by sons and daughters of East Coast wealth; so a social disconnect was immediately established (same happened to an incoming freshman by the name of Lloyd Douglas, who, in his retirement from the pastorate, wrote a rather famous Biblical novel entitled The Robe; he had been so traumatized that, as a successful author, he refused to visit the college which sent several invitations, although he did deposit first editions of each of hid novels in the library).

    On November 23rd, a Tuesday, my parents transported me from the campus to our home for the very long winter break (move-in for the winter term was Sunday, January 2nd, 1977).  They took offense that, as soon as I had greeted and received loves from my Cocker Spaniel, Monica (no dog ever loved me as much), I brought my c.b. out of the storage closet, dusted it off, put it into my car, and went to find Cerulean, who told me that, in my absence, some little kid attempted to approriate my handle, but my friends on channel 22 prevented that from happening.

     On Tuesday, December 7th, I had a somewhat mystical experience in my bedroom while I was changing into clean clothes for an evening to be spent with Cerulean.  Earlier that year, sometime in October, I had been directed (by the English professor who was like my "other dad" at college) to set aside my intense study of the poems of John Milton, and to begin to study the poetry of T. S. Eliot.  I began with The Waste Land and had also read Ash Wednesday (with sufficient attention that on Christmas Eve, in the lull between the two services traditionally conducted at that Church for that Holy Eve, I was able to intelligently discuss the latter poem with my pastor, who held at least a Master's Degree in theology.  But, on that first Tuesday of December, with a biography of Eliot open on my bed, I seem to hear in Eliot's voice the directive to sign the long poem I was then working on as Starwatcher.  Every poem I wrote subsequently during my four years at college, I signed as Starwatcher.

     In those days, I was a scrawny, awkwardly clumsy, socially inept adolescent, so shy that I could not order a pizza on the telephone without stammering in my high-pitched pipsqueek voice.  But our c.b. (I considered it to be both mine and Cerulean's, ours and not just mine) had a factory defect.  The "governor" that was supposed to keep its wattahe output to the legal limit of five or less had been damaged prior to our purchase.  That particular model broadcast at ten watts (with no power kicker attached, which Cerulean described as "running barefoot," a term that gave me no end of delight).  We added a battery operated power microphone (which was legal) and the subsequent transmissions altered my voice to that it deepened when heard on receivers; and even sounded (as I was later told) authoritative and distinctively mature.  This was flattering to the eighteen year old nerd that I was (what Cerulean saw in me I shall never fully know).  Even more amusing was the experience, at face to face meetings with friends and acquaintances made on channel 22, of receiving a quizzical look, or outright surprise, and the question. "You're . . . the Starwatcher?"  The idea was so unbelievable to some of those we met that Cerulean had to vouch for me once in a while.  

      Starwatcher evolved into Starward.  All the joy and comfort and encouragement I received from Starwatcher is present, but exponentially so, in Starward.  And I have recently had the delightful experience (reminiscent, to me, of hunting easter eggs at my grandparents' rural property during my childhood) of finding several instances of the use of the word in unexpected places.  It has been used by some poets who were contemporaneous with Thomas Jones, Jr.  One was in Samuel Delaney's wildly entertaining novel, Phallos.  And another instance of its use, which I just discovered today, appeared in a poem written by the (secretly Uranian) British poet, also a diplomat, Rennell Rodd, 1st Baron Rennell, who had served as the British Ambassador to Italy during the years of World War One.  These discoveries, as I wrote above, remind me of the great joy of Easter Sunday at my Grandparents', finding easter eggs hidden everywhere, and forming a path that led, when followed, to an elaborate Easter Basket, slyly hidden by my Grandfather.  I especially loved the eggs that had been dyed robin's egg blue, for that was also the color of the concrete slab on which their cottage, the central building on their property which looked like a small farm (although without animals)---which was understandable since both of my Grandparents had been raised on family farms.  The edges of that slab were quite visible through the grass that grew around it, and, weather permitting, I always walked around the cottage at least one on each visit, simply to see those edges and be reminded of Easter's Glories.  (And, in autumn 1976, I was delighted to read, in Eliot's poem, Ash Wednesday, IV, the line "blue of Mary's color.")  And this dovetails into Revelation 22:16, in which Christ reveals the last metaphor that describes Him as (and they tell me this is how the literal Greek reads) "The Star, the bright one, the morning one . . ."; and His Blessed Mother is titled, Stella Maris, or Star of the Sea.  

   Being an adopted child (with a discovered past, prior to my adoption at five months old, of judicial bribery, unrelenting confinement of my birth-mother, and her father's attempt to abort me by pushing her down a flight of stairs (and him supposedly a gentleman, with a PhD in Chemistry from Purdue; a 32nd degree Mason; and an Elder in the Presbyterian Church), I have always had an identity problem.  I have a recurring nightmare in which I awake suddenly, after feeling as though I had been strangled, and am unable to think of my mundane name; although I always know that I am Starward, as in 1976-77, during my Freshman year in college and the disconnects that world imposed, I knew I was Starwatcher.  

    I have flip-flopped before, and it has been brought to my attention.  But the Easter eggs I have received in the past few days---perhaps as stabilizers prior to the surgery I must undergo in less than forty-eight hours---should prevent any further vacillation on my part.  The surgery is not expected to be elaborate; it is planned as an outpatient procedure.  But, the unexpected is always possible.  If I live through it, or die during or after it, it will be as Starward.

I dedicate this brief essay to Patriciajj, who has offered tremendous encouragement and understanding of these issues.

Starward