Month: March 2018

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Finding My Voice, by Gillian

Finding my voice has never been difficult for me. Finding it when I should be losing it is what has always been my problem. From my early school days on, if a group of us were somewhere we should not be or doing something we should not do, I was always the one who got caught. My voice just naturally carries, so even if no-one witnessed our misbehavior, someone was sure to identify my voice and name me as one of the otherwise unidentified miscreants.

For a shamefully long time I failed to learn from this the obvious advantage of keeping my mouth shut! I was a fount of firm opinions, and rarely failed to voice them. This led to many arguments, a considerable number of which I lost because I tended to find my voice without the necessary accompaniment of engaging my brain. Later I would often ask myself, why on earth would you say that? What in the world were you thinking? I failed to answer myself, as I should have, by saying, that’s the problem isn’t it? You were not thinking.

I added to my difficulties by consistently finding my voice when I was angry; and if there ever is a time to lose your voice, that is it. But no, my voice would be off, seemingly of it’s own, volition, speaking whatever words it wanted without reference to me, and most certainly not to my brain which remained silent except occasionally to mumble indistinctly and very sotto voce about big mistakes and future regrets. I could not begin to count how many times I was forced into abject apologies the following day. (I can never decide whether this means I completely flunk steps 8, 9, and possibly 10 of Alcoholics Anonymous, or possibly I have already completed them with flying colors. Suspecting the former must be why I doggedly remain absent from AA.)

However, despite my lack of assistance from AA, I did eventually accept that I needed to change my ways, and for this I needed help. I turned for this to Spirituality. I have been especially blessed in my efforts to follow this path in that my Beautiful Betsy accompanies me. Finding your way along an unfamiliar and often difficult trail is always easier with a companion rather than having to go it alone – especially when that companion is also your soul-mate and the love of your life. Together we have read many books, joined Spirituality groups, listened to CDs and watched wonderfully articulate guests on Oprah’s TV series, Supers Soul Sunday.

One of the early books we read, though more self-help in general than Spirituality, contained simple advise I have never forgotten. Remember to ask yourself from time to time, the author says, why am I talking? I find this the ultimate relaxation tool for group situations. Can’t get a word in? Not familiar with, or no interest in, the topic? Relax. Just listen. You have no need to talk.

I have become a much more peaceful person, both for others to be around and within myself, since I started down the path of Spirituality. Anger is almost a thing of my past, and when it does overcome me at least I no longer find my voice, at least until I have thought through what I really need to say and how I need to say it. I don’t mean to make it sound easy. Given our current socio-political situation in this country, I struggle with the extent to which I should in fact control my anger. I know that in theory I should negate the anger and replace it with calm, positive, action. But is there never a time when anger is justified? Ah, I still have a lot of work to do. Spirituality, like so many things, requires eternal vigilance. And that, in turn, requires something so important to you that you never question the need to pay it constant attention. I have found that in Spirituality. I never intend to go back to the days of finding my voice when I should be losing it.

© October 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Men and Women, by Betsy

Outside of the biologically assigned functions of copulation, child bearing and nurturing I don’t see that much INNATELY different between men and women. Most people would not agree with me on this. But I emphasize that I don’t believe there to be huge INHERENT differences. I believe most of the differences are superficial and acquired. Right from day one in our culture it is of the utmost importance to raise your child’s awareness of and flaunt his/her gender. Pink or blue, dolls or trucks, ribbons and bows or baseball cap, long hair or short, everyone knows the norm. Ways of highlighting, accentuating, detailing, and belaboring the differences between the sexes seems to be a preoccupation, if not an obsession, present in our culture. 

This can be easily observed in the traditional roles men and women assign themselves as well. For example, women do the cooking and serving of food; that is until it’s time to cook on the grill outside. Then the man takes over. Is that because women are not supposed to get their hands dirty? I’ve never been able to figure that out. I know men who wouldn’t be caught dead cooking meat in the oven in the kitchen, yet pride themselves on grilling a piece of meat or an entire family dinner on the patio. 
Men fix things, build things, do the driving. Most likely it is the man who does the outside work and possesses the tools. But in reality women can do these things too. Personally, I did not and do not fit well into the traditional roles for which men and women have volunteered. I have always been the one who possessed the tools even when I was married to Bill. I wonder. Is that because I have always been a lesbian; i.e. a deviant female—even when I didn’t know it? I don’t think so. I think it’s because I like tools and I like fixing things. 
My father taught me to use an axe and to use it effectively. Even though I was a puny child I learned well how to split a large log. Fortunately, or maybe by design, I married a man who did not need to play the traditional male roles all the time in order to secure his feeling of manhood. Often I would find myself outside chopping wood for the fire while he was in the kitchen cooking. He actually loved to cook—once in a while. I give him credit too for doing the clean up as well. On the other hand I know some women who do not want and will not allow their husbands or anyone else in “their” kitchen. So perhaps domain has a lot to do with the roles people take on along with personal preference; not just intrinsic gender differences. 
Sure, bearing and nurturing the children and caring for them naturally falls to the female. That means women are more likely to stay home while the men go off to work, to hunt, to cultivate the fields, to fight the wars, etc. 
However, in these modern times it is not unheard of for the care-taking roles to be reversed. There are many women who actually prefer working outside of the home. This I suppose applies mostly to professional women on a career path. At the same time there are many men who love staying home and raising the children. As a mother, I stayed home when the children were babies. I considered myself fortunate to be able to do this, but at the same time I envied my husband who was developing his life-long career of choice. Although it was I who stayed home, I was not the ideal adult to take care of young children. As much as I love my children, I often felt trapped in those early days, unable to get out of my house and out into the adult world. I never felt that I was cut out to be a child care-taker. 
Many women and many men are very good at caring for and educating young children and love to do it. Today men and women do this professionally while mothers and fathers spend their days working their careers. Career or no, today in most cases both parents are working out of necessity. In any case at day’s end working parents are eager and happy to see their little ones. Maybe this is a better way of raising children. 
Another notable but superficial difference between men and women is the clothes they wear. Myself? I’ve always preferred men’s clothes to women’s. They are far more practical and far, far more comfortable. Whose idea was it to put 3 inch spike heels on women’s shoes? Probably someone related to the people who invented foot binding in China. Fortunately we women today are spared from wearing the corsets, bustles, petticoats and other such torture apparel of the past. The spike-heeled shoes are still prevalent however. 
Men, on the other hand, have not totally escaped the inconvenient dictates of fashion. Spats, top hats, and stiff collars would never be appealing in the comfort department. For convenience, simplicity, and ease I’ve often thought going back to the toga might not be a bad idea. This would not go over well with the fashion industry which is thriving in our capitalist system. Now there are the Chinese. The Chinese dress comfortably and in a unisex fashion. But I don’t care to dress in a quilt, no thanks. 
Men definitely have the edge when it comes to physical strength. And it’s a good thing. I am constantly looking for a man to open the cap on my water bottle. Women have better endurance and pain tolerance it seems. So even though we’re not the same in that department, we balance out. 
I have a friend who transitioned from male to female in middle age. She tells me that when you are born male you get a pass that females don’t ever get. Now there’s food for thought and maybe a topic for later discussion. It seems to me, after considering this subject, that there ARE, in fact, some, but very few, INNATE differences between men and women. I would say most of the distinguishing characteristics are the ones people, cultures, and societies have created over the ages and are still constantly devising and fostering.

© 1 May 2017

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Tearer, by Ricky

Not to “down-play” the feelings, but tears are nothing more than a physical response to extreme emotions. Tears caused by circumstances that are too horrible to even think about, like: being buried alive or being a passenger on an airliner that is falling to its doom from 40,000 feet or catching the Ebola virus or discovering too late that vampires, werewolves, and zombies are real. Since these thoughts really are too unsettling to think about, I will write about other forms of tears.

Among the less stressful tears in the animal kingdom are the Wire Hair Fox Tearer, the Boston Bull Tearer, and the Scottish Tearer.

Moving up to the next tier on the tear-ladder, most of us can remember Dennis Mitchell, commonly known as Dennis the Menace. His neighbor, Mr. Wilson, considered Dennis to be a Holy Tearer for causing him to shed many tears. Another such boy you may recall is Johnny Dorset who was made famous by O. Henry in his book, The Ransom of Red Chief. Johnny is such a Holy Tearer that his kidnappers paid the boy’s father to take him back. Even The Little Old Lady from Pasadena is known as “The Tearer of Colorado Boulevard” for causing tears in the eyes of all the racers she beat. Hmmmmm. Here’s a thought. Before their son was old enough to know right from wrong, would Joseph and Mary’s many tears caused by a mischievous Jesus label him as being a Holy Tearer?

Many people want to cry tears when extremely happy but can’t, because it would be a patent violation. Some woman owns the rights to all tears. Now known as “Tears of Joy” ®.

If you stop and think about it, we all have been a tearer at one time or another. Most notably when we try to open a small letter or package where the instructions tell us, “To open, tear along the dotted line.” Failing in the act of doing so and crying about it, identifies us as a tearer. People who are very good at tearing are known as tearerists.

To paraphrase FDR, the only thing we must tear-up about is that the Republican Party has again gained control of Congress and the Presidency. Now that is worthy of producing tearerists!

© 23 Oct 2017

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Assumptions, by Ray S

Over some 90 decades my life has been one assumption after another, some good, but the majority not so. I recall another old adage, “Never assume; it can make an ass of you and me.” So be alerted. Assumptions can not only be habit forming but lead to some curious circumstances the result of our own making. Again, some good, some not so.

That day I stood on the Capitol steps looking west across Lincoln Street at the Gay Pride celebration in Civic Center Park. It marked the time and place that I committed, after years of stealthy hiding in my hetero-closet, that I joined the tribe. My assumption being that a place called the GLBTQ Center would have room for one more late-blooming queer Troll—a popular term for active geriatrics. That was a good assumption.

It felt so wonderful to be out to family and the three very close straight couples who responded happily for me with the classic rejoinder, “We always knew.” There’s another assumption—who me?

Naively, upon one impulsive search for an evening’s recreation I ventured into the local gentlemen’s athletic club—no, not the DAC or YMCA, but maybe with that song ringing in my ears, Y-M-C-A. This club sported both outdoor and indoor swimming pools and was noted for its hospitality and comradeship. There. ASSUME on that while I commence to relate what followed after I was buzzed in through their hallowed gates.

Many years had passed since my first impromptu visit to these premises, and you guessed it, I assumed nothing had changed but perhaps some twenty-five years on my shoulders. Well things did change that evening. The gate keeper “regretted” to inform me that under new management they had chosen to limit their clientele to what I would call (in the gay vernacular) “Twinks” (free lockers 18-20 aged, and no one that even neared the appearance of being over 32 years of age. It may have amounted to gross discrimination to any gay man even edging the neighborhood of geriatric maturity, no how much dignity and class and elegance a bit of seniority would have leant.

“Sorry, sir, why don’t you try the Uptown on Zuni Street.” Head unbowed I followed his suggestion, no assumption.

I offer this bit of history to those that assume we’re never too old to dream, or assume. As I stated at the beginning of this tale, life is just one big assumption after another until the coroner assumes for you.

I leave you with a very sage assumption by one poet laureate Robert Frost:

“Forgive me, O Lord, my little jokes on thee,
And I’ll forgive thy great big one on me.”


© 27 March 2017

About the Author

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Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

Perhaps I’m too practical to be interested in utopian fantasies. They’ve never appealed to me. After all, I grew up in Kansas and even the Wizard of Oz lived somewhere else and, when found, was shown to be a fraud. I had a friend who grew up near Liberal, Kansas, right there in the center of Dorothy country. He was brilliant, talented in music and organization, a teacher, and probably had red slippers in men’s size 12. He was gay and came to understand life was never utopian although he could dream. I had a different kind of Kansas imagination, but we liked each other and were fine friends for many years. He fled the wheat fields of southwest Kansas. I left the state for more education. We met up in Colorado, Texas, New Mexico, and eventually San Francisco. Now this latter place seemed utopian to him and opened him wide to his sexuality. He lived high on the hill on Castro Street, could watch big ships move in and out of the port, had lots of fun, and felt the kind of acceptance he needed. But it was no utopia. He loved it there, but life in gay San Francisco was not without its hazards. To me it seemed he lived rather fully into all of those hazards. They took their toll, and I made my last trip there to memorialize him, a man who lived and worked to make a gay utopia deliver the goods so Kansans and other people could enjoy who they were or who they wanted to become. I applaud his efforts; I miss him still many years after his memorial service.

I don’t tell this as a sad tale. Of course I cried at my loss of him. I too understood the attraction of the utopia out there by the western sea. I loved being with him walking up and down the steep hills, hearing great musical performances, visiting parks, strolling along the beach, hiking out to Land’s End, talking about life and his life and my own.

The experiments for this kind of utopian life continue in urban centers far beyond the reach of his lifetime. Anytime I am involved, I recall Ted’s contributions. We made music together, danced, and laughed in the little utopia of our friendship. Such utopias are necessary. Their pursuit brings quality and love into human relations. Their possibility asks us to be kind to one another, to applaud all human efforts for equality and freedom, to create pockets of such mutual respect in order to keep hope alive. With this account I memorialize a deceased friend to an extraordinary group of elders and in this most appropriate place where we celebrate our comradeship through telling stories and listening to the stories of others. Our sharing keeps alive the necessary and possible kind of community to support our lives in freedom and in love, even if that community is somewhat less than utopian.

© 5 February 2018

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Birds, by Pat Gourley

Birds, by Pat Gourley


I attended the local Women’s March on Saturday (1/20/2018) here in Denver. It was an extremely exhilarating event. I have not felt the same empowering and invigorating feeling since some of the earlier Gay Pride demonstrations back when we called them marches and not parades. Yesterday’s Women’s March, estimated by the Denver Post to be 50,000+ strong, most probably had more openly queer folk in attendance than the Pride Marches of the late 1970’s. As discouraging as things seem to be at times today we really are winning the revolution though considerable work and diligence on our part remains so as not to lose any ground.

In keeping with the spirit of powerful women so openly on display yesterday I’d like to acknowledge the work of the great pioneering environmentalist and semi-closeted lesbian Rachel Carson. Her 1962 book Silent Spring is often credited with kick-starting the modern environmental movement. In thinking about today’s topic of Birds it was her book that first came to mind. A significant part of her silent spring would involve the die-off of songbirds, dead and gone due to exposure to chemical pesticides and herbicides.

I certainly did not read Silent Spring when it came out in 1962. I was a farm boy in northern Indiana and perhaps directly involved in spraying DDT containing pesticides on anything that moved. I do remember though reading the book and being profoundly moved by it probably though not until I reached my freshman or sophomore year in college in the late 1960’s.

Carson believed that the eggshells, particularly of large birds of prey, including the American Bald Eagle, were being softened and then collapsing unable to reach hatching maturation by exposure to ddt something so ubiquitous at the time that it was practically being sprinkled on our breakfast cereal. This onslaught from DDT continued until it was banned in 1972 with the Bald Eagle in particular at that time being in danger of extinction in the lower 48 states. The ban though resulted in a gradual increase in Bald Eagle breeding pairs per an article in Scientific American and they were removed from the endangered species list in 2007 in large part due to the pioneering work of our lesbian sister Rachel Carson.

Carson unfortunately died of complications from breast cancer in 1964 and never got to see the fruits of her dedicated labor. It was in a piece from the web site http://queerbio.com/wiki/index.php?title=Main_Page that I learned details of her relationship with another woman. http://queerbio.com/wiki/index.php?title=Rachel_Carson

Carson started a long-term relationship with a married woman named Dorothy Freedman in 1953. The entire relationship though apparently was rather closeted and sadly resulted in Carson destroying all of her personal correspondence before her death, presumably including that with Freedman. This was of course back in the age of letter writing and decades before Facebook and Instagram

Though the two women, again according to the queerbio piece, readily acknowledged their relationship she wanted to avoid the publicity perhaps to not detract from her life’s work and therefore got rid of their correspondence. Sad but understandable, it was 1964 after all. The queerbio piece also states in describing their relationship that there was “no certainty to the extent of its sexual nature”. This observation though screams for my often-repeated Harry Hay belief that “the only thing we have in common with straight people is what we do in bed”.

© January 2018

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Ramsey-Scott Fund, by Jude Gassaway

When my senior thesis abstract was accepted for presentation at the Geological society of America Meeting held at Portland State University, Oregon in 1973, my registration fee and airline travel from San Diego State to Portland State was covered by my Geology Department. Other out-of-pocket expenses were to be borne by myself—a graduate student still living at home. Luckily, the family financial stars were aligned in my favor. My second cousin, Sandy Gassaway, was a Professor of Economic Geography at Portland State. Sandy and his wife, Carolyn, were able to provide room, board, local transportation, and emotional support for my first public appearance in the scientific world.

I was set-up in Sandy’s home office with a comfortable sofa. I examined he books in his study. One item of note was a bound copy of his Doctoral Dissertation. Sandy’s fieldwork took place in inland Scandinavia, near Russia, during the Cold War.

Its loosely remembered title had to do with mapping and interpreting routes of reindeer migration as accompanied by Finn-markians.

One fun and interesting item to be checked in papers such as this (where I did not exactly comprehend the vocabulary or the importance of the study) is to scan the Acknowledgments section. Sandy’s thanks were extensive and comprehensive regarding his professors and Carolyn.

There were two items that I had questions about.

The first was a line-long object/word in a Scandinavian dialect that Sandy thanked profusely for careful and attentive and complete watching of him in his travels throughout the country.

“So”, I asked Sandy, “what did that word and the accompanying phrase mean, exactly?” Prior to Graduate School, Sandy had spent time in the U.S. Army, doing air-photo reconnaissance regarding where Paratroopers should or should no land in battle situations. “Some hops fields, with long pointy sticks holding up the crops, would make a shish-ka-bob of a soldier who landed on one,” he told me. He looked older than most college students.

Although his studies involved extensive walking around in the back-country, getting to individual study areas involved long trips in small commuter ships that plied up and down each fjord, with many stops a day. Once on board, Sandy noticed a man dressed in snap-brim Fedora and a long overcoat, the only person so attired. The man appeared to be watching him. So, to test his theory, Sandy approached the man, and asked for a light for his cigarette. The man complied, their eyes met, Sandy thanked the man, and he wandered off to smoke his cigarette.

At the next stop, Sandy watched as his cigarette lighter man hurried off the ship and headed for a dock-side telephone booth. After a short telephone call, the man reboarded the ship. At the next port, Sandy watched as the first man left the ship—apparently being replaced by another man—also wearing a snap brim hat and a long coat. The men did not acknowledge one another as they passed each other. After the ship continued on, Sandy would casually approach the second man, and again ask for a light for his cigarette.

Otherwise boring trips were brightened as this scene got engineered and repeated several times. Hence the acknowledgment of the watchfulness and dedication of the homeland’s secret service. Here is the actual quota from Sandy’s dissertation: “the members of Norges Sikkerhetsjenneste who provided constant watchful protection and bolstered the author’s spirits with continual amateur entertainment during the field period…”

The second acknowledgement that caught my eye was, at the end, “Thanks for financial aid from The Ramsey Fund of Portland, Oregon.”

Now, I knew this was Alexander Ramsey Gassaway himself, my second cousin, and, upon my query, he immediately announced the creation of the “Ramsey-Scott fund”, which “honored and funded students who supported their own filed studies.” Myself (whose middle name is Scott) was now included. And our partnership was set.

Every now and then, I’d hear from Augustus Ramsey (our fictional patriarch, the President of the Ramsey-Scott Fund). Later on, Sandy and I agreed that the Fund’s permanent address be Box 1, Bonita, California (my parents’ address), because I no longer lived there, and it gave distance and plausibility to the existence of actual disbursable funds.

I eventually became employed by the US Geological Survey, and as a beginning field geologist, I noticed that my field work continued to be supported by my own funds, (also known as The Ramsey-Scott Fund). I would get an Official Travel Authorization to do fieldwork on my project. I would be paid my hourly wage (travel time included) while in the field. I could not get over-time because those costs normally came out of Project Funds, and my Project was simply not funded. I drove my own truck and paid my own way.

Promotions at the USGS were considered by a Committee of peers every year. And every year required up-dating and re-writing one’s in-house resume. Once, noticing a blank space on a page, I just added, in the honorable family tradition: “1984 to present: partially funded by: The Ramsey-Scott fund, Box 1, Bonita, CA”. This also tidied up the page.

Several promotion cycles (years) later, a bright-eyed peer noticed my funding windfall, and she inquired regarding getting funding for her own field work. This request came to the attention of the Branch chief who observed, in horror, that one of his employees, a Federal Civil Servant, was receiving financial aid from An Unknown and Un-vetted Source (and had been, for several years).

I contracted to explain this, and after “telling my story” to the Branch Chief, I made a fast call to Sandy—who immediately got some letterhead and business cards printed. Sandy composed an explanatory letter to the Chief. He explained, (in Augustus Ramsey’s clipped British style) “the fund’s continued enthusiasm and support of Ms Gassaway’s important research on silcrete”; he enclosed the business card, and mailed it to the Branch Chief.

I still didn’t get a promotion and based on some other things, I ceased employment there the following year. The Ramsey-Scott Fund is now retired.

© May 2017

About the Author

Retired USGS Field Geologist.

Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus

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Finding Your Voice, by Louis Brown

I find my voice most clearly at the Monday afternoon sessions of “Telling your Story”. In fact, in an ideal world, we would have generous sponsors who would give us a radio station so that, when we come in, each one of us sits in front of a microphone. Once we have told our stories, Phillip will take calls from the radio audience.

One caller calls and asks what our mission is exactly. Phillip says he has his opinion, and Telling Your Story’s corporate papers have a mission statement, but Phillip says he would like us participants to answer that question, that is those of us who are so inclined. After an hour or so of discussing our mission, the general consensus emerges that our mission is to liberate Gay and Lesbian people from oppression by developing a new mass media that different gay communities can use to communicate with one another. Another important goal is to record how gay and Lesbian people perceive the society in which they are obliged to live. Thirdly, we must develop a political liberation strategy that includes keeping close tabs on the activities of our opponents, i.e. Focus on the Family, the Family Research Council and more recently Mike Pence who, according to Donald Trump, wants to hang all gay and Lesbian people. Jokes like these we can do without.

After a month or two on the air, we get a grant to set up a political newspaper for gay people who live in the Denver area. Maybe such a newspaper already exists. This new publication should promote our gay civic groups and print gay liberation type literature of all kinds.

Other groups also perceive irrational hostility directed toward them. For instance, in the last election, when we had a choice between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, we did not really have an authentic liberal alternative. Was the public really satisfied with these candidates? Hillary Clinton admires the memory of Barry Goldwater and still admires Henry Kissinger. That makes her clearly a right-winger despite her dubious claim to being a progressive. Barry Goldwater, Henry Kissinger and more recently Donald Rumsfeld all became discredited warmongers. As Gilbert & Sullivan would say, “You can put them on the list, you can put them on the list, and they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be missed.

Politicians who accept their legitimacy should be discarded by the public. The peaceniks of the 1960’s and their numerous followers in today’s culture need to develop an alternative mass media outlet to counter the current blackout on real political information.

Our gay magazine or newspaper of the future should hook up with one these newspaper enterprises. Perhaps Rolling Stone, something of that ilk. Rolling Stone started up as a new independent alternate culture media tool.

And then of course the Socialists. Bernie Sanders says he is a democratic socialist but who, according to the current media, did not convince a significant number of black people that he was their candidate. I will admit I was waiting for Bernie Sanders to tell black people in a loud public way that, in addition to promoting perpetual war, capitalism promotes racism because it is very profitable. In the early nineteenth century, slavery in Dixieland was very, very profitable. Also, pitting one ethnic group against another is an easy way to break up labor unions. These are basic socialist tenets. Bernie never really developed this in his speeches.

And Bernie Sanders never really expanded on the relationship between capitalism and perpetual war. War is very profitable, and the resulting profits are more important to the war profiteers than the lives of a few million people. Of course the war profiteers eagerly purchase senators and U. S. representatives and Supreme Court Justices. To a large number of people this is all obvious and a truism, but many Americans do not seem to be aware of these purchases of public representatives.

Did you notice the large number of protesters in Hamburg, Germany, during the G-20 Summit? This indicates a large number of people recognize they are locked out of the current status quo, and they need another media outlet to promote their point of view.

Also huge protests occurred when the U. S. started the unjustifiable war in Iraq. The mainstream media made sure they were not covered. Another reason for developing a new independent media.

Thus we see the necessity for developing a new more independent alternative media. In my fantasy, I am one of the CEO’s of this alternate media. I will have found my voice. Wish me a Happy Birthday.

© 23 October 2017

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Don’t, by Gillian

My mother was the one who instructed me on the do’s and more specifically the don’t’s of life. Throughout my youth they dropped effortlessly from her lips with great frequency.

“Gillian,” (always a mark of displeasure when she used my whole name rather than the usual ‘Gill’), frequently followed by a couple of disapproving tsk tsk’s,

“Please,” (emphasized to indicate that her severely-challenged patience was near it’s breaking point),

“Don’t do that!”

Mostly followed by,

“What will the neighbors think?” (managing to ignore completely the fact that in actuality we had no neighbors close enough to see me picking my nose or scratching my thigh or hitching up my skirt to straddle the fence or whatever this particular ‘that’ was. No human ones anyway, and the sheep, no matter what you may think of them, are not ones to pass judgement. Had I ever pointed out that basic fact, I’m sure she would have replied,

“Some passer-by then,” managing to ignore the rarity of that, too.

Of course those same fictitious persons must also be protected from hearing the unacceptable.

‘Don’t shout, dear,” she would say, almost in a whisper, thereby proving her point.

“I’m only three feet away. The neighbors will think we are arguing.”

“Do turn that awful noise down, please!” she implored as I turned up the radio volume for my beloved Beatles. “I don’t want the neighbors knowing you listen to that dreadful stuff”

My poor mother, life was simply loaded with pitfalls. If she wasn’t protecting us from the negative judgment of the non-existent neighbors, she was protecting us from the negative judgment of fate itself.

“Oh, don’t walk under there!” she would grab me to steer me around the leaning ladder.

“Stop! Stop!” she would cry out in alarm if a black cat – and there were many loose cats around in those days – threatened to cross our path.

If we saw a lone magpie we would gaze around anxiously for another. Where was it? There must be one! as she murmured,

“One for sorrow, two for joy.”

The only judgement which apparently held no fear for my mother was that from above. She never once even suggested that anything she or I might do would incur any negative judgement from The Almighty. The God she offered me was a loving God, not one of wrath. For that I am forever grateful. In my eyes it more than compensates for any petty fears I still hang on to, such as searching relentlessly for that second magpie. I confess that I still do that, if at least a little tongue in cheek. My efforts remain a bit unsettled because I am unsure of the rules. When does the Statute of Limitations expire on that other bird? Is it actually vital to see both birds together? Or is an hour later OK? What if I successfully spot number two later but on the same day? The same week? Someone once asked me, if I could spend five minutes with my mother now, what would I want to ask her. Crazily what immediately leapt to mind was that damn bird. Quick, Mum, tell me rules of the two magpies.

It was inevitable, of course, that my dead mother was hovering around, peering over my shoulder, when I decided I had to come out to the world. Gillian, what will the neighbors think? Indeed!

No, for all her earthly warnings, I have no concern about any Heavenly fears. If by some remote, as it seems to me, chance that she is actually aware of my life as it is today, she will not condemn, she will not fear, she will not scold. If she knows everything, then she understands and accepts everything. She is free of fear. She is done with don’t. And so am I!

© May 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Illegitimi Non Carborundum, by Carlos

“Illegitimi Non Carborundum …


Don’t Let the Bastards Grind You Down”

She had been a nun, a shadow of a woman who had infiltrated the cloistered nunnery not to be the voice, the hands of God, but rather to introduce darkness into the core of light. In the years she sidewinded among the devote sisters, she sowed the seeds of discord and fear, being immune to the beatific acts of devotion surrounding her. Rather than offering healing and solace to a community long in need of these virtues, she concocted a bubbling blasphemous brew. And thus, she was released of her vows and cast out into the realm of unsuspecting men and women. And for years, she became a contamination amongst citizens in her neighborhood, infecting them with her mellifluous words and her soulless deeds.

Death finally claimed the hellkite, but the aftermath of her deeds continued to radiate out like heat from an untended firepit. For so many decades, the neighbors had been in danger of sacrificing their immortal souls; even now that the corpse moldered in its grave, her influence continued to demand their attention. Although they had been freed from her shackles, they remained imprisoned by memories. Some even considered the possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, they were tainted by the malignancy that still blighted them.

One day, a bright amber cart guided by a dappled mare rolled into town. At the seat of the wagon sat an old man with a grizzled beard and a booming voice, announcing his presence. His voice resonated throughout the valley, yet it was as gentle as the wool of a newly shorn lamb, “I am Raphael, a seller of treasures long sought after but rarely found. I offer them to you but for a few paltry coins, yet your investments will reward you unmeasurably as do the beams of light from the stars above. Come close, dear friends, and accept my offerings. Come forth, brothers and sisters, and cast down the anchors that weigh you down. Come forth, righteous men, women and beasts and drink from the font I offer you.” Needless to say, the citizens were intrigued, perhaps inspired, and one by one they approached the peddler, curious to learn his ways.

The first to approach was a massive cinnamon brown dog with its tail tucked between its legs. As it nervously approached the wagon, it pulled back its lips, revealing menacing, sharp teeth. The peddler held out one hand and whispered, “I know, dear one, that you have been abused and abandoned. Alas, the world knows not that all creatures great and small are in Spirit’s embrace.” The dog lowered its head and gingerly approached, the magnificence of the itinerant peddler now evident. “Sir, I have nothing to offer, yet, I long for so much, for the gentle touch of my beloved caretaker, for the tender loving words ‘Good boy’ whispered into my ear, for the freedom to love unconditionally, even as I am loved unconditionally.” I have been injured by one who no longer walks amongst us. Her curses and threats have seared my soul and made me fearful of humanity. In sleep, she still hovers nearby as I am consumed by spasms of fear and despair.” The peddler teared up and offered wisdom. He replied, “I know not why evil is incarnate. I know not why good is the world highest code. What I do know is that unconditional love will be rewarded, in time. Allow me to offer you a blessing on your head that you may always know that love will always reign supreme.” The dog, now smiling, genuflected before his benefactor, arose and trotted off into the shadows, knowing someday, someday but in the blink of an eye, he would awaken to the eternal caress of love.

A widow dressed in black garments approached slowly from behind a copse of weeping willows. Her gentle husband had died in a tragic accident in the wooded glen near the village a few months earlier. Going out into the countryside one summer morn, his horse had vaulted when a lion materialized unexpectedly from behind an oak, and the man tumbled off the horse. Though the lion ran off, the man was ushered unto gentle death surrounded by a quilt of overhanging firmament. His wife grieved unabashedly, withdrawing from the eyes of her neighbors. Alas, sensing that the widow was an easy target, the old woman snarled out bitter words, “I see, your ill-fated husband has abandoned you, leaving you to live out your years in utter misery, hoping for ultimate reunion. You know, of course, that he has flown away to a dreamless land, never to awaken. And as for you, the same inky nothingness awaits.” And she flew off cackling and chortling a demonic laugh, knowing she had unraveled the widow’s faith. Knowing the widow’s heart had little residue of hope, the peddler approached and offered her a tiny glass bottle containing a single grain of rice, girdled by a golden thread. As she looked at her offering, she noted her name as well as that of her husband etched into the grain. “What be this?” she asked the affable gentleman whose eyes sparkled with the inviting light of the sun. “Your faith, your love, your souls are conjoined for all time. Be patient and go out and harvest strawberries and rescue fledging sparrows fallen from their nests. In time, you will be rewarded with a table set with delights sweeter than the sweetest of honey and your heart will nestle within its own comforting nest. Be patient and live life like sunflowers unaware of winter’s approach,” he replied. Being unable to pay for her gift, she asked, “Since I have no coin, may I go and find the reddest, sweetest berries hidden beneath the shadows of a grove of white birches as a modest offering?” He smiled and nodded. She ran off dancing in the wind, knowing that the blade that cleaved her heart had been extricated, knowing that even now the scar was closing as two hearts, separated by the schism of time and space, pulsed with synchronicity anew.

Finally, the evil doer’s worst victim stepped forth. It was evident that his heart was heavy with grief, an affliction resulting not from the death of the neighbor, but rather from the pain he carried, believing that his vindictive thoughts had damned him. For years, she had tormented him because he was different, that is, a man who genuinely radiated light. In him, she recognized what she could never be. Thus, the only way she could deal with the mirrored reflection that taunted her psyche was to attack. He sought to ignore her assaults, to deflect the pellets of spewed hatred, to heal over the sullied wounds, but over time, being a man, bitter acrimony erupted from within. For the first time in his life, he envisioned doing harm to another, witnessing his tormentor’s dying the death of a thousand cuts. He wanted to look into her eyes even as her life force ebbed away, and see terror in her eyes, a terror of knowing that as she had sown, so must she now reap. It terrified the boy so thoroughly that his soul had morphed into such an absence of grace, that he feared the sun itself had turned its back on him. The peddler offered the boy a handkerchief as the boy wept bitterly. Finally, the boy said, “Forgive me, forgive me, for I am immerse in sin, a sin so bottomless, I know God Himself weeps for me.” Then he fell upon his knees in a bout of anguish so severe, the spasms within his chest became like bellows stoking a raging furnace. The peddler kneeled before the boy, held him up, and enveloped him within his mighty chest. “Mijo, cry not, for your acknowledgement of fault and your desire to exorcise it have saved you. I offer you, the mightiest of gifts within my wagon, a small seed of the sacred tree that once grew in a desert far away. Under this tree, the enlightened sought redemption and were offered healing water. And they arose, forgave the world, forgave themselves. You have proven worthy. Now go out into the wilderness and find a small plot of loam where this seed may germinate. Watch over it, nurture it, let the world come to partake of its fruit. Tonight, my son, God Himself shall dance joyfully, for today, your free has released evil.” Now afoot, he found himself alone amidst the chirping of crickets and echoes of the constellations, questioning whether he had just awakened from a dream. Opening the palm of his hand, one single seed rested within his hand. He stepped forth into the wilderness, never to be seen again. Yet, in an undisclosed primeval forest, a healing tree flourishes, jettisoning winged seeds unto every corner of the world.

And thus, my friends, in spite of the blissful dreams that we quest after, they often remain elusive. Yet utopia is ever possible, but only when the dreamer somersaults courageously… into the nightmare.

© 12 February 2018

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.