Author: jnelson

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Sports, by Gillian

In my youth, I
understood sports to be for fun, fitness, and friendly competition. Now, in my
curmudgeonly old age, I know sports to be about money, winning at all costs,
and very unfriendly competition.
Even amateur sports
have gone completely out of whack. Have you been to a school ball game lately?
Even pee-wee baseball is all about winning. At that age, should it not be about having fun, getting some healthy fresh air exercise, and learning the basics of
the game? Oh no! Fathers scream abuse not only at other children but at their
own. God forbid that poor little Joey should strike out or fail to catch a
ball. He’ll pay for that when he gets home. The pressure on so many
children these days is immense. Everything has become so serious.
Professional sports,
of course, have paved the way. Back in the 1970s I had friends with Broncos
season tickets. The husband frequently had better things to do, and my husband
was rarely interested, so off to the game the girls went! It was fun. Having
had the same seats for several seasons, my friend knew all the people around
us. We all bought each other beers and chatted and cheered. After my divorce I
lost touch with those friends, and I did not go to a live game for a long time.
Then one day another friend had a spare ticket and I went to Mile High Stadium
again, for the first time in probably twenty years. My, how it had changed.
Everyone seemed to be angry rather than enjoying themselves. There was a
constant stream of verbal abuse hurled at the players on both teams, and of
course the officiating crew. I was so sick of the constant “F” word. By the time
I left I felt as if it had been burned into my ears and my brain and my psyche.
(Or, as Betsy commented when I read this to her, I felt completely fucked! And
not in a good way!) I have not been offered a ticket to a football game since
then; if I were, I seriously doubt that I would accept it.
I have to admit I
still follow the NFL pretty devotedly on TV. I can’t explain why I like it.
Many lesbians are ardent football fans, which seems strange as the game
consists of what most of us abhor; sanctioned violence, perpetrated by huge
sweaty men. I have to close my mind to two things, though. The violence to
women committed by an unfortunately large number of players, and the huge
salaries now offered to these people, would put me off the entire sport if I
thought about them too much, so mostly I don’t. 
After all, I don’t refuse to see a movie because of the shenanigans of
those acting in it.
I do abhor the lack
of humanity which seems to have taken over. If a player has an injury, the
opposing team members will do their best to attack that part of his body. Has
it really gotten to the stage where the intent is to do permanent bodily
injury?
“Be great for the Broncos if they could take him out for
the rest of the season,” laughs the commentator happily.
“Well if anybody can eliminate him, Foster can. Man! He
plays so angry,” rejoins his co-commentator in admiration.
“He’s
just looking to rip someone’s head off every play!”
This isn’t war.
It’s supposed to be a game. Was it always so merciless? Maybe so and I didn’t
get it. After all I have never played football.
OK. Fair enough.
Football is a violent game. If you don’t like it don’t watch it.
But it’s not just
football.
I have played
tennis, though far from the Pro level. But, at that Pro level, how it has
changed. Once considered a sport of Gentlemen and Ladies, it is now as
cut-throat as any other professional sport.
“Now Farmer’s
injured that right ankle, Varenova will keep her going to that side, see if she
can’t break her down,” a happy commentator reports.
“Exactly,”
replies another, “It’s time to take advantage of that injury and finish
her off. Go in for the kill right now.”
So this verbiage of
violence seems to have penetrated even the sport of Ladies and Gentlemen.  It is so pervasive, and I cannot believe it
has a positive effect on our society.
All this, and the
seriousness with which we take sports, players and spectators alike, of course
has come with the advent of huge financial rewards. These in turn came with the
universal obsession with sports by so many people. In the days before huge
lights dominated the playing fields, games were played in the daylight hours,
thus eliminating most of the potential fans who were, of necessity, at work.
Even if it were broadcast live on the radio, or later the old black-and-white
TV, few were available to enjoy it. Most were played at weekends, to attract
more followers, but time off work was limited and people had many things to
cram into a weekend.
Then came the huge
brightly-lit stadium where people could gather after work and watch, or watch
at home on the TV in the evening, relaxing from that hard day at the factory.  The fan base kept growing. Sports were becoming
big business. Compensation for players and coaches, support staff and owners,
kept rising.
Then came mass
media, complete with ever-improved recording devises and exponentially
increasing choices of what to watch when. No need to miss anything. Ever.
Grandma turns up unexpectedly right at the kickoff or the first serve; no
matter. Press the little red button and welcome Granny with open arms. In
addition, the fan base for all sports is expanding horizontally, across the
globe. Want to watch the Australian Open Tennis here in the U.S.? Can’t even
figure out what day it is in Australia, never mind what time? No worries. Look
it up on the TV Guide, on the TV of course, not that little book we once bought
at the grocery store, hit that little red button and go to bed. Watch it
tomorrow. Sometime. Whenever.
So, given
professional sport’s universal, world wide appeal, I suppose the money involved
is only to be expected. I’m not sure what Neil Armstrong earned by being the
first human ever to walk on the moon, but I doubt it was anything like what
many many sports heroes earn. But why not? The moon walk was reportedly watched
by 530 million people. The 2011 Cricket World Cup between India and Pakistan
was supposedly watched by about one billion.
I miss the days
with less hype, less money, less drama, involved in sports. But what I really
really miss is the gentler language, before it all became so infused with
violence. But it seems to be what most people want. After all, you get what you
pay for.
© 3 Nov 2014 
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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
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Any Writing is Experimental, by Will Stanton

Any
writing, especially when one first endeavors to write, is experimental.  This is particularly true for those not well
versed or prone to writing.  As one
becomes more accomplished, the need for experimentation is reduced but rarely
eliminated.
The
primary function of writing (and speaking, for that matter) is to communicate
clearly, conveying accurately what is meant to be said.  If that is achieved, the secondary
consideration is to communicate in an engaging manner through a good command of
language and perhaps, when appropriate, with humor.
The
main advantage of writing, versus attempting to speak extemporaneously, is one
is given the chance, in advance of presentation, to organize one’s thoughts and
words.  In that way, the presenter has a
good chance of eliminating pauses or non-verbal utterances while searching for
the next thing to say.  This also
prevents one from repeating or wandering astray onto unrelated and unnecessary
sidetracks.  The presenter also has the
advantage of not droning on, losing the main point or topic meant to be
conveyed and, consequently, driving the listeners to distraction.  The presentation should be no more nor less
than required.
A
colleague of mine, Dr. Hughes, made an in-depth study of well-known
speakers.  He concluded that the most
effective, extemporaneous speaker was, unfortunately, Adolf Hitler.  Winston Churchill found it impossible.  He had to write and re-write his speeches and
then practice them until he felt comfortable presenting them.
Over
the years, I regularly was required to speak extemporaneously in my
therapeutic-group sessions, in lectures regarding some of my other interests,
and even, for fun, spontaneously creating and relating stories.  Apparently, I’ve inherited a modicum of
verbal skills.
I
still find, however, reviewing and fine-tuning early drafts beneficial.  The main reason is that imagery and memories
are clear to me, yet they may not be clear to listeners unless I make sure that
I express them clearly.  As a
consequence, I always begin early thinking through and writing about a topic,
rather than waiting to the last moment or, perhaps, not writing at all.
I
am aware of only one super-genius who never had to rethink or revise what he
wrote, and that was the superlative composer Mozart.  He could perform one of his piano concertos,
then at the same time compose another in his head, and finally, upon returning
home, set the new concerto down on paper without a single change or
correction.  Obviously, that skill is
astonishing.  Most of us, however, are
not so astonishing, and experimenting with our writing still is required.
© 14 July 2015 
About the Author 
 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Anger, by Ricky

“Tranquility base here.  The Eagle has landed.”  The first astronauts to land on the moon,
found an environment completely serene and peaceful.  Of course it would be because there were no
people there until then.  It’s a pity
that our planet is not so tranquil.
Earth is still geologically active and also has an
energetic atmosphere, so there are naturally occurring events that would
disturb the quiet nature of a planet at rest. 
But the tranquility to which I am assigning my “it’s a pity” is the lack
of peacefulness between people, cultures, and nations.
Situations continuously arise which allow people to
make themselves irritated.  Irritation
leads to frustration.  Frustration leads
to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to violence.  Violence leads to war.  War leads to destruction.  Destruction leads to famine, pestilence, and
death.
I think we need an organization that can roundup all
the hate and war mongers and send them to the moon so we can have peace on
earth and they can experience tranquility there.  Maybe we could let them stay there “to infinity and beyond.”
© 9 June 2014 
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 9-11-2001
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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Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had
explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the
public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when
fulfilling a project for school or work.
These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble
for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing
around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of
storytelling.
You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations
are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me
although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the
scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a
similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something
again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American
cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the
Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my
childhood imaginings.
© Denver, 2013
Magic Fan
By Phillip E. Hoyle
The clutch of feathers
worked magic, at least for the boy
Who slid them over the
back of his hand,
Between his fingers,
On the skin of his face
Transporting him to a
world of freedom
Where he was one of the Indians
he had read,
Who moved freely through
the life
Of prairie and forest,
Of hunt and survival,
Through the endless
tracks of his mind.
His room, his lodge
festooned with portraits
And costumes of leather
and feather
Faithful companions in
his world of flight,
This fullness of fancy
barely
Tethered by nearness of
family.
There in his lodge, he
worked his feathers
Formed into headdress,
bustle, and fan,
Costume for his great
dream
Of being an Indian
dressed up in style
That spoke of tribal
belonging.
The basement, the space
for a dance
Of adoption, the
footwork of fancy,
Steps made real by the
presence of
Feathers that moved air
and spirit
Through ceremonial smoke
of love and desire.
His dances were brief,
three minutes or less
—sad frontier of 78s—but
He practiced the joy
Shown in dip, turn, and
stomp;
The movement expressing
the life he could feel.
His fan led the way as
he pranced,
Swift feet moving in
moccasins that
Circled the room of
ceremony and smoke.
Bustles shimmering,
bells resounding
Sisters worrying, ‘He’s
at it again.’
In echoing basement his
beads bounced
His body the drum, the
people, the dream
Of roach and shirt,
breechclout and leggings.
Of such transportation:
The magic of feather and
fan.
© Denver,
2012 
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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The Big Bang, by Gillian

Was
there only, ever, just one? The Big Bang, I read, created a new reality. So it
must follow that for something to be considered another Big Bang, or at least
analogous with it, it must change reality. Completely.
My
mind roves backwards over the history of our planet. Little blobs of floating
rock became continents which joined together and split asunder, and floated
from pole to equator. Talk about creating change! It was completely covered in
ice. It spewed out lava from deep fissures in it’s surface for millions of
years. It was bombarded by missiles from space, including the one which
created, literally, the big bang which is held responsible for the demise of
the dinosaurs. Surely no-one could deny that those events created new
realities?
It
seems to me that history is peppered with Big Bangs. Take just the short space
of human history. Invasions. Whether your little village on the Asian Steppes
was slashed and burned by Genghis Khan or your little village in the Andes was
hand-delivered deadly diseases by Cortez and his cronies, I bet it changed your
reality. Revolutions, from French to American to Communist to Industrial,
change realities. That child working twelve hours a day down the coal mine
surely had a very different reality from his parents who had slaved away their
childhoods in the fields. Every country invaded by another, from the Roman
Empire to British India to the U.S. occupation of Iraq, suffers an inevitable
change in reality. The World Wars altered huge swathes of the world, never to
be the same again. Yet so often, in fact, I suppose, always, there is some
previous contributing factor to these humanoid Big Bangs. So perhaps, they are
in fact the Big Bangs. 9/11 was a Big Bang all it’s own, but it became the
excuse for the next one, the invasion of Iraq. The justification for WW1 was
the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. If Princip had failed, perhaps there
would never have been that terrible war (though I suspect they would have found
some other excuse) so was the assassination the real Big Bang? Or does it go
further back? Probably it’s somewhere in that miasma of territorial, ethnic,
and religious struggles which seem to have plagued the Balkans for ever.
It’s
all too complex. I think I’ll stick, in blissful egocentricity, to my own
history, which seems to me equally liberally peppered with alternate realities.
I have already written about them; moving at a young age to to remote
countryside, leaving there to go to college. Emigrating to The United States,
most certainly a new reality. Marriage. Divorce. Coming out. Meeting my
beautiful Betsy.
Now
that was a real change of my reality. I had only come out, to myself and the
world, a few years before. Although chronologically in my forties, in lesbian
years I was a wacky teenager all set to sow that brand new bushel of oats. I
had NO intention of settling down with one woman for the rest of my life. In a
nanosecond Betsy burned through that reality, and, Big Bang, I settled down to
happiness ever after. Not that I’m too sure Betsy would care for being referred
to as my Big Bang. It does have a certain sexual slant to it. In fact, on
further reflection, it sounds like soothing you’d find on the bathroom wall.
I
guess you could think of death as the final Big Bang. If it doesn’t change
reality, your own, at least, I don’t know what does. But change it to what, is
of course the big question. In my new reality, will I be reincarnated as a
squealing newborn in Borneo, or one of those Amazon butterflies which change
realities around the globe with a flutter of their gossamer wings? Or will I be
….. nothing. Gone. No reality. Or a reality so changed it is way beyond my
imagination?
What
is reality, after all? For us humanoids it is what we must do to live; we must
have oxygen, food and water, and shelter. Down at the nitty gritty, that is
reality. Being invaded by the Mongol hordes or sold in slavery does not change
that. So perhaps there is only one Big Bang after all.
I
don’t even understand my own Big Bang theory. My head, which was beginning to
throb in the second paragraph, feels about to have a Big Bang of its own.
I
wish I’d never started this.
I
think I’ll just have a nice cup of tea.
© 20 Oct 2014
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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
Posted on

My Earliest LGBT Memory, by Will Stanton

Five years old (or should I
say, “Five years young?) is very early for such a clear memory.  The experience must have had quite an impact
upon me to remember it so well.   The visual
aspect was powerful enough not to forget, but the excited feeling in my stomach
is what really affected me.
I was five, he was six.  He lived just two houses over from my
home.  To my regret, he and his family
did not stay there very long.  I have no
idea where he went after they moved.
I recall one spring evening
when I tagged along with my older brother to my neighbors’ home.  We didn’t actually play.  There were five of us there, and we simply
sat on the grass and chatted about whatever children of that age talk
about.  That I don’t remember, for it is
what I saw that captured and held my attention.
A traditional belief is that
children that age are not sexual, whatever is meant by that term “sexual.”  Sexual or not, I do know that, from a very
early age, I have had an unusually heightened sense of the aesthetic.  And, at the age of five, that came into play,
big-time.
The first thing that struck me
(and, the word “struck” certainly denotes the impact that I felt) was the
extraordinary beauty of his face.  The
aristocratic, finely sculpted features – – high cheek-bones, arched eyebrows,
narrow, straight nose, ideal line of the jaw and chin, and perfectly shaped
lips worthy of a Cupid.  I was
mesmerized.  As often appears to be the
case with the young, his warm-colored skin was flawless, and his richly colored
locks had avoided the shears and were allowed to flow downward toward his
eyes.  Those shining clear eyes had a
demure expression, not the more intense, self-confident look of the other boys
around him.  The others around him?  I barely remember them, almost as though they
already sat in the shadows of approaching dusk.
As the others talked among
themselves, he sat quietly, his long, lithe limbs side-saddle in the
grass.  I was not used to seeing boys sit
that way.  He seemed preoccupied with his
own thoughts.  Only occasionally did he
speak, and then in very soft tones. 
Those few moments of speech were music to my ears.
The full impact of this vision
raised strange and powerful emotions within me. 
I felt “butterflies” in my stomach, an adrenaline rush that was a whole
new experience for me.  It is that
shivering excitement that I felt which amazed me at the time and was so
indelibly imprinted upon my memory.
That remarkable moment
awakened in me a powerful passion for beauty in the human form that has stayed
with me my whole life.  It has inspired
in me the desire to express that passion through many forms of artistic
endeavor – – music, art, and writing, as I am doing now.  It often has dominated my feelings, perhaps
even plagued my thinking.  I often feel
like Gustav von Aschenbach in “Death in Venice,” overwhelmed by bitter-sweet
sensations each time I encounter beauty in human form.
Now that I am decades older
than that first experience at age five, even a generation older than von Aschenbach,
I sense no evidence that I shall change. 
Like Gustav, I shall be mesmerized by beauty to the very end of my days.
© 14 July 2015 
About
the Author 

 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

The Norm, by Will Stanton

Webster’s dictionary lists
several possible definitions for “the norm.” 
Two of them are as follows: “Something that is usual or expected,” and
“A widespread or usual practice.”  Based
upon those two definitions, I certainly am not “the norm.”  Who knows why?  I’m sure it’s mostly inborn.  Perhaps I have inherited more unusual genes,
or perhaps I even have alien genes from some other planet.  All I know is that I certainly am not like,
what seems to be, the usual American person.
To begin with, I can watch
football – – – if I have to, but I never have become screamingly excited about
the commercial mega-business of football where the NFL commissioner makes
forty-four million dollars per year and has a special relationship with the
owner of the Patriots who helped him get that job.  The local football franchise, win or lose,
does not affect my life.  If they win, I
don’t receive a check, and I never have received an eleven million dollar
signing bonus.  I just am not like, what
appears to be, the majority of Americans who live and breathe football.  I’m not part of that norm.
I also never have felt
inclined to riot after a game, becoming drunk, joining a mob in the streets at
midnight, jumping on cars, and burning couches. 
It happens so frequently, especially with young people, that it seems to be the norm, but I’ve never been
part of it.
In contrast, for example, I
enjoy diverse forms of music: jazz, bluegrass, folk; but I have an especially
deep understanding and passionate love of serious music.  It’s just part of me; I was born that
way.  I don’t have the physical
capability to be a great pianist or superb singer, but I am capable of
recognizing those relatively few, fortunate individuals who do have those
gifts.  Also inborn, I have a natural
aversion to that large percentage of painfully untalented rock-noisicians and
screaming pop stars, those who have deluded themselves, along with huge mobs of
fans, into believing that they have great musical talent.   I never have been part of those mindlessly
enraptured and drug-intoxicated mobs.  I
am not part of the norm.
I have a deep appreciation
for innate quality as opposed to superficial value.  This is true with humans as well as material
goods, architecture, and fine arts.  For
example, the Wall-Street huckster who used eighty-seven million dollars of
government bail-out money to refurbish his office does not garner my
admiration, even when he looks good in two-thousand-dollar suits and drives a
Ferrari.  It seems to me that most people
are easily impressed with wealth and power. 
I’m not; I’m not part of the norm. 
There are people in this room with love in their hearts and who have
credited themselves with acts of kindness whom I admire far more.
Over the years, we all have
seen, far too often, examples of politicians and business people lying,
cheating, and committing acts of character assassination.  Greed and corruption appear to be so
prevalent that it now appears to be the norm. 
I cannot be part of that norm; it’s just not within me.  I could not be, what often is thought of as,
the “successful business tycoon” because I do not have barracuda or shark
blood.  I could not be an influential
politician because, the moment I tried manipulating people or lying, I’d turn
green and throw up.
Oh, I know that there are
good people, people whom I would admire if I met them and some that I have met
and do appreciate.  They may not be the
majority of the world’s population, but there must be a good number of them.  Separate them out from the masses, let them
stand alone, and I’d be comfortable being part of their norm.
© 30 January 2015 
About
the Author 

 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting. 
Posted on

The Wisdom of LGBT Identity, by Phillip Hoyle

Cecelia started it when she told me about a book she wanted me to teach. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron was no ordinary book but, rather, a spiritual process of self-examination, exercises, and disciplines to help the reader overcome barriers to self-expression as an artist. The content and activities were meant for writers, visual artists, performers, and just about anyone who wanted to explore his or her own artistic bent. I was skeptical, but Cecelia was persistent. Agreeing to share the task of facilitating the thirteen sessions, we settled on an approach that seemed well balanced.

A group of writers, poets, painters, illustrators, sculptors, musicians, and educators—all members of the church where I worked—assembled that first night. They received their copies of the book and listened patiently as we explained the process for both the group and the individual participants. The work focused daily on the infamous “Morning Pages,” periodically on completing short writing and art exercises, and weekly on “Artist Dates.” Oh, we read the book, too, and met each week to share our work, objections, pains, elation, pasts, and dreams.

What Cecelia knew and I hoped would happen did occur. We changed our views of ourselves, our appreciation of one another, and our ability to engage in creative work. Due to our weeks together, our lives have continued to change to this day.

For example, some seventeen years later I am still writing my three hand-written, first-thing-in-the-morning pages. I have been writing and painting on a regular basis. I know others have as well. Since that time I have led several other groups through Cameron’s process, often sharing the leadership with others as Cecelia taught me. People are still changing. But the most unexpected change occurred in me, and it wasn’t directly related to seeing myself as an artist.

The child, the inner child, a concept with which I was familiar, showed up prominently in The Artists Way. I had always been slightly put off by the concept, not because it made no sense, but because I heard it used so trivially so often. I read Cameron critically and did not find her explications very enlightening, but I did respond to her process. As a teacher I had pledged myself to engage fully in the process the book proffered. I answered all the questions the author posed, made all the lists she asked for, and on Artist Dates took my inner child to the museums, through parks, down streets of mansions, to mountain meadows, streams and caves, into paper shops, hardware stores and artist supply companies just like the writer instructed. During our times together I recalled many childhood scenes. Somehow Cameron showed me that my inner child is not just some kind of memory of past events but that I am still all that I have ever been at whatever age: confident or afraid, victorious or at a loss, praised or put down.

So I got reacquainted with my inner child’s hurt even though the idea seemed corny. Then I wrote about my fifth grade teacher who derided my Purple Cow illustration but offered me no help with my drawing. I was embarrassed and convinced I couldn’t draw. Two years later I enrolled in seventh grade woodshop instead of the art class I really wanted. But in shop I discovered I couldn’t do the projects very well not being strong enough to control the awkward tools I had to use. My only really fine work that year was the design I burned in the wooden bookends I made. I wrote about these things in the exercises and in my Morning Pages and grew more and more to love my hurt inner artist child.

The more Artist Dates I went on the more artistic and the more gay I got! That’s when I remembered the comment a gay friend of mine said about my work in religious education. “It’s more like art than education,” he observed. I trusted the judgment of this fellow minister, educator, and artist but felt confused. Looking critically into my own experience I finally realized what was right about his analysis, that my play with religious ideas, symbols, and characters was enacted through art forms. And then I started to wonder if my fifth grade teacher was wrong. I quit planning art processes for children and began doing them for myself.

Cameron’s process expanded. She wanted us to costume on our Artist Dates wearing artsy clothes—surely black outfits with berets and scarves. She encouraged us to hang around with other artists. She suggested we introduce ourselves as artists. In so doing, she opened my imagination by encouraging an identity. In my response I discovered that not only was the artist child wounded in me but the gay child as well.

Then the goofy New Age intruded. Cameron wanted us to make affirmations, to write over and over certain sentences. I did so even though I hated doing it. But how else does one learn? I still write one of these sentences, still slightly irritated because, I’m sure, I hear a writing teacher saying not to write in the first person and because to me the affirmation seems exaggerated, not exactly true. Stifling my objections I write: “I, Phillip Hoyle, am a brilliant and prolific artist.” The first time I encountered it, I simply filled in the blank with my name, first and last, just as she instructed. Then I started writing it at the end of the Morning Pages sometimes as an additional page of mantra-like affirmations, at other times to fill out the third page when I felt like I was running out of time or ideas to write.

What I learned through identifying myself as an artist transformed me. I sought out other artists. I laughed when I dressed in black like our church organist. I continued the artist dates long after the thirteen weeks ended. I continued to write the Morning Pages. And the more I did all these exercises, I found my artistic intertwined with my gay. I was doubly identified. My hurt artist child was always an artist and was always gay. That’s me.

My mantra now included this: I am Phillip Hoyle. I am an artist. AND I am gay. I was always an artist, and I was always gay.

The advantage of this identity? I was able to change my life knowing a community of acceptance, understanding, and living. A way to see myself. A structure of self-acceptance and understanding. A way to find friends. The wisdom of LGBTQA coalition identity. Something more than politics. Rather the creation of a world-view of inclusion, tolerance, acceptance, relationship, and growth within diversity.

© Denver, 2012

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.”

Posted on

Aw, Shucks, by Lewis

The
summer of 1954 is now being set down in the history of my life as the worst
summer of my entire worldly existence. 
Not only did I contract ringworm of the scalp on a family vacation to
the East Coast that summer, heretofore already recounted in this forum, but I
tried to crack a rock with my head, as well.
Here’s
how it went down–literally.  Granddad
Homer had just presented me with my first bicycle, complete with training
wheels.  I was eight years old and ready
for the next leap in mode of transportation beyond relying solely on the soles
of my feet.  So, I joined a couple of older
boys who were riding their bikes in the street in front of my house.  Not yet comfortable with the dynamics of bike
riding, I suddenly found my path cut off by one of the other boys and, rather
than collide with him, I steered into the curb. 
Aw, shucks!
Upon
impact, I was thrown off my bike headfirst into a flood-control ditch four feet
below the street surface.  Aw,
shucks!  My forehead collided with a
piece of broken concrete.  Aw,
shucks!  I will never forget the odd
feeling I had after taking a blow to the head–not so much pain, as a feeling
of stupor or disconnectedness.  I was
bleeding and my parents took me to a doctor. 
I was expecting to get stitched but instead the doc used metal staples
to hold my wound shut.  Aw, shucks!  He also gave me a tetanus shot.  This resulted in the second-worst “Aw,
shucks!”  of that star-crossed
summer.
The
next day, my family embarked upon their annual vacation trek to the mountains
of Colorado.  That first night in the
cabin, I started to feel really crappy. 
I was nauseous and feverish and couldn’t sleep.  Neither could my parents or grandfather.  Turns out that I was having an allergic
reaction to the tetanus shot, which was derived from a serum made from
horses.  Aw, shucks!  Our vacation was cut short and we headed
home.  Aw, shucks!  To this day, I always think of this story
when I’m asked by a medical professional if I have any allergies to
medications, even though horses as the source of vaccine against tetanus has
long been abandoned.  For which, I’m sure
horses everywhere are grateful.
© 6 April 2015 

About
the Author 
  

I came to
the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after,
I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after
13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
Posted on

Death Genes, by Gillian

Our very own favorite
quote-maker, Benjamin Franklin, held that death and taxes were the only
certainties ……. in …… well …… life. Sorry Ben, but that’s not quite
right. Many many people escape taxes by fair means and foul; legal and illegal.
I have never yet known, nor even heard of, anyone escaping death.
It comes, inevitably, to us
all.
When we are young it’s
something, though inevitable for sure, that happens to other people; the old,
the sick, the careless, the unfortunate. But not to us. Oh, sure, some day. But
not now.
As we age, that
inevitability looms larger. It no longer peeps over a distant horizon but leaps
up on the front porch, like some Halloween specter, yelling,
“Booooo!” It hides, ready to jump out at us, in our TV, mailbox, newspaper
and telephone. It lurks around every corner. With the death of every loved one,
friend, casual acquaintance, or even that celebrity who seems always to have
been there, it comes closer.
They say that the death of
your second parent is one of the most traumatic events in life: loss squared. I
have no argument with that. Suddenly bereft; orphaned. Oh yes, that must be
dreadful when you’re six. But it’s not a whole lot better when you’re
sixty-six. It hurts like hell. You are left with no-one who knew you that well
or for that long. It’s like someone cut off your leg, and you had to start all
over again learning how to walk. You have to start all over again learning how
to live, cut adrift in reality. That’s how it felt to me, anyway.
And then, suddenly, it
seems, it’s almost time for your turn.
And, after all, death
doesn’t seem so bad. Even if you have no religion, or perhaps because you do,
death remains a mystery; but not such a very scary one. Unless, perhaps, you
truly believe in Hell Fire and Damnation, in which case it must be just
terrifying. But for me, anyway, simply facing the Great Unknown is really no
scarier than getting on a plane headed for some place I’ve never been before
and have no idea what to expect.
A shrug. A nap.
“Oh, well. We’ll find
out when we get there.”
At this stage, I think, most
of us do not really fear death itself, but rather the manner of our dying. Please,
we scream inside our heads to a God we may or not believe in, don’t let me
get something like Lou Gehrig’s Disease, fully cognizant, feeling death come
piece by agonizing piece. On the other hand, please don’t let me have
alzheimer’s and lose that very cognizance.
In their eighties, my
parents became the worst possible combination. My father was physically fit as
a fiddle, but had dementia. My mother was smart as a tack but had, after a
broken hip, been confined to a wheelchair. They were rendered totally incapable
of looking out for each other, and ended up in separate wings of the same
nursing home.
But, in the end, I have damn
good death genes.
My dad died first;
peacefully, in his sleep, as the phrase goes, but in his case it was true, or
so they assured me. He had suffered little, physically, and somewhere in the
night his heart had simply stopped.
My mother, a couple of years
later, was awoken as she was every day, by an assistant serving her morning cup
of tea in bed. (Do I need to remind you that this is a Nursing Home in
England?)
When they returned to get
the cup, it was empty and Mum was dead. What a way to go!
She looked so at peace, the
undertaker told me. Of course, he was a lifelong friend, so he might have been
saying what I wanted to hear, but I choose not to think so.
My very best hope is that I
might emulate my mother’s death, though I have a longtime recovering-alcoholic
friend who says it’s more likely that in my case I will swig a pint and then
fall off my barstool.
Whatever!  As long as it’s swift and sudden.  And for that I have very good genes!
© 13 October 2014 
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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.