Author: jnelson

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Lonely Places, by Gillian

The
recent hundred-year anniversary of the beginning of WW1 started me thinking
about how war, above any other single cause, creates lonely places of the soul.
After all, the very essence of the armed services is to nullify that; to create
a sense of belonging and total commitment to your military comrades. To a
considerable extent, I’m sure it succeeds. But at the same time it still leaves
ample room for lonely places. Did that man hanging on the barbed wire of no
man’s land in agony, screaming for one of his buddies to shoot him, feel less
alone and lonely in his terrible circumstances simply because he had
buddies? I cannot imagine so. Did that 
tail gunner of the Second World War, huddling cold and frightened in his
rear turret, not feel impossible alone?
But,
sadly, it is not just the combatants who inhabit such lonely places. It is
also, very often, the survivors, and certainly the people who love the ones who
died or returned as shattered pieces of their former selves, to occupy their
own lonely places. We only have to hear that someone is a Vietnam Vet to
immediately conjure up a vision, alas all too frequently correct, of someone
with  …. well, let’s just say, a
vulnerable psyche. The estimate of total American Vietnam Vet suicides is
currently about 100,000; approaching double the number of Americans killed
during the twenty-some years of that seemingly endless, fruitless, war. Right
there are 100,000 vacated lonely places. And of course it’s not just the
veterans of that war who inhabit places so lonely that eventually they have to
take the only way out they can find. The U.S. right now suffers an average of
22 Veteran suicides each day, most of the younger ones having returned
from Iraq or Afghanistan with battered bodies accompanied by memories dark
enough to extinguish the light in their eyes, and their souls. 22 more lonely
places available every day, and no shortage of new tenants.
World
War 1, was a terrible war that was supposed to end all wars and instead gave
birth to the next, already half grown. Whole villages became lonely places.
They had lost an entire generation of men in two minutes “going over the
top,”, leaving only women, old men, and children, to struggle on. Children
dying before their parents is not the natural order of things, and creates
empty spaces so tight that they can squeeze the real life from those held in
their grip, leaving only empty shells to carry on. Consider that awful story of
the Sullivans from Waterloo, Iowa; all five sons died in action when their
light cruiser, USS Juneau, was sunk, (incidentally, one week after I was born,)
on November 13th, 1942. How on earth did their parents and only sister cope
with that one?
Several
years ago I spent some weeks in Hungary. A Jewish friend in Denver had given me
the address of her cousin in Budapest, and I arranged a visit. This poor woman
had lost her husband and their only daughter, thirteen at the time, in
Auschwitz, but somehow survived, herself. She showed me the numbers on her arm,
and talked of nothing but her child, proudly, sadly, showing me photos of this
shyly smiling young girl. I had never met a Concentration Camp survivor before,
nor anyone who had lost their family in one. I felt physically sick but bravely
sat with her for two hours, hearing every nightmare of this family’s holocaust
as if it had just happened the week before. That was how she talked of it, and
I’m sure that’s how it felt to her. She had not lived since then, but simply
drifted on through that huge empty place of the lonely soul, going through the
motions.
One
of my own, personal, lonely places, and I suspect most of us have many of them
we can topple into at any unexpected moment, is the one I can get sucked into
when I find myself forced to confront Man’s constant inhumanity to Man. It’s
not only war as such, but any of the endless violence thrust upon us by
nations, religions, and ideologies. On 9/11/2001 I sat, along with most
Americans and half the world, with my eyes gazing at the TV, somehow mentally
and physically unable to detach myself. The one horror which burned itself into
my brain, out of that entire day of horror, was two people who jumped, holding
hands, from the hundred-and-somethingth floor, to certain death below. I wish
the TV channel had not shown it, but it did. I wish I hadn’t seen it, but I
did. It recurs in my protesting memory, and tosses me into my own lonely space,
even as I involuntarily contemplate theirs. Can you be anywhere but in a lonely
space when you decide to opt for the quick clean death ahead rather than the
slow, painful, dirty one fast encroaching from behind? How much comfort did you
get from the warmth, the perhaps firm grip, of that other hand? Did these two
people, a man and a woman, know each other? Were they friends? Workmates? Or
passing strangers? I have no doubt I could find the answers on the Web, but I
don’t want to know. Those two share my lonely place way too much as it is. They
estimate about 200 people jumped that day, but the only other image that stayed
with me, though not to revisit as often as the hand-holding couple, was a woman
alone, holding down her skirt as she fell. I felt an alarming bubble of
hysterical laughter and tears rising in me, but in the end did neither. To
paraphrase Abraham lincoln, perhaps I hurt too much to laugh but was too old to
cry. No, I doubt I will ever be too old to cry; in fact I seem to do it more
easily and with greater frequency. And perhaps that’s good. At least it’s
better than being, as I was that day, lost in my lonely place, too numb to do
either.
In
May of 2014, the 9/11 Museum opened. It occupies a subterranean space below and
within the very foundations of the World Trade Towers. That sounds a bit creepy
to me. Then I read that hanging on one wall is a huge photograph of people
jumping from the burning building, propelled by billowing black smoke. Why?
Talk about creepy. Why is it there? These people have loved ones, we
presume. Do we have no reverence, no respect, for the dead or for those who
remain? I feel my lonely place approaching. It rattles along in the form of an
old railroad car; doubtless it contains doomed Jews et al. My lonely
place has much of Auschwitz within it. I know for sure that I will never visit
that 9/11 museum. I did visit Auschwitz, and it was awful, but still there’s
the buffer of time. I hadn’t, unlike 9/11, watched it live on TV. I breath
deeply and feel my biggest, deepest, lonely place, pass on by. No, I won’t be
visiting that museum. There are times when those lonely places can only be
fought off with a big double dose of denial.
© August 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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A Picture to Remember, by Carol White

In the early 1980s my
partner Judith and I had attended the Gay Games in San Francisco, the second
one to be held in that city.  It’s
actually the Gay Olympics, but the “real” Olympics would not allow us to use
that word, so the founders decided to call it the Gay Games.  And they decided that the third one should be
held outside the United States, but not too far away, so that it would have
more of an “international” flavor to it. 
They decided on Vancouver, British Columbia for August 1990, and they
would call it Celebration ’90: Gay Games and Cultural Festival, since they were
adding many of the arts as well as the sporting events.
Around the beginning of 1988
I got a harebrained idea that it would be fun to organize and conduct a world
chorus to sing at that event, and that it would be called the Celebration ’90
Festival Chorus.  So I made a couple of
trips to Vancouver to meet with the organizers of the games and managed to convince
them to let me do it! 
We formed a small organizing
committee in Denver that met in our living room, and we began two years of
effort to make that dream come true.  At
that time we had no computers and no email and no Facebook or websites to aid
us in our recruitment efforts.  So we
began to put ads in gay and lesbian publications across the country, as well as
advertising through the Gay Games themselves, and trying to use GALA Choruses
too, although most of the choruses were not interested because they were so
busy with their own rehearsals and concerts. 
I rented a P.O. Box at a nearby post office, and I would go by there
every day and check to see if we had a new soprano or alto or tenor or bass. 
I decided what music we
would sing and we raised money to order all the music, as well as black folders
and T-shirts that one of our members had designed.  Somehow I got rehearsal tapes made, which
were really the old cassette tapes, and as the time approached, we had mailing
parties to send out all the music and tapes and fold and pack all the
shirts. 
Meanwhile we were working
full time at our jobs and we were not out at work.
After many trials and
tribulations, we flew to Vancouver on a Friday in August of 1990 with great
anticipation but not knowing exactly what to expect.  The next morning we went to the church where
we were supposed to rehearse, and 400 singers showed up with music in hand and
ready to go.  We had members from 20
states, seven Canadian provinces, the Yukon Territory, Australia, England,
Germany, France, and South Africa.  We
arranged them in sections where the congregation would normally sit, and I was
up front.  You can just imaging that the
first sounds that came out of that choir were absolutely thrilling! 
We had three hours to
rehearse that morning, then a lunch break, and that afternoon we rehearsed at
B.C. Place, which was Vancouver’s domed stadium, to perform there that very
night with three songs for Opening Ceremonies. 
They had built risers for us and they were set up on the field. 
By the time we got to the
stadium that night for Opening Ceremonies, the energy was through the
roof.  There were approximately 10,000
athletes from all over the world, and approximately 10,000 spectators from
around the world in the stands who had come to observe.  The chorus went out onto the risers and sang,
“Come celebrate, come celebrate, come celebrate our spirit.  The sound of hearts that beat with pride, now
let the whole world hear it.” 
Then we sat together in the
stands while we had the parade of athletes just like the Olympics, where they
marched in in teams from all the different countries and they congregated in
the middle of the field.  After some
speeches and other performances, the chorus went back out and sang “Do You Hear
the People Sing” from Les Mis.  This song
happened while they were running the torch into the stadium, and just as they
ran up the stairs and lit the Olympic flame, we finished the song with “Tomorrow
comes.”  It was midnight. 
The next morning I could
hardly get out of bed.  My body ached all
over.  But we had to rehearse all morning
every morning for a concert that we were going to give on Friday night at the
Plaza of Nations, an outdoor venue which had been built for the World’s Fair
when it was held there. 
So Sunday through Friday we
worked on the concert program as follows: 
Diversity, Music of the Night from Phantom of the Opera, March of the
Hebrew Captives from Verdi’s Nabucco, Song of Peace from Finlandia, Living with
AIDS, The Great Peace March, Brothers and Sisters, and Singing for Our
Lives.  And early Friday evening we
performed all of those selections to a packed crowd at the Plaza of
Nations.  Here is the “picture to
remember” from that concert.
Then we rehearsed
again on Saturday for the Closing Ceremonies that were to be held that night
back at B.C. Place, where we sang “We’re gonna keep on moving forward, Keep on
moving forward, Keep on moving forward, Never Turning Back, Never Turning Back.” 
After the chorus sang
that night, Judith and our friend Bob and I went up into the stands to watch
the rest of the show.  They used the
chorus on the field to form two long lines holding up flags for the big parade
to pass through.  I remember looking down
at that scene as the happiest time in my whole life.  We had actually pulled it off!  I think it was an extremely happy time for a
lot of other people there too.
After everyone went
back home, several of the individuals who had sung in that chorus organized gay
and lesbian choruses in their home towns, including Winnipeg, Manitoba;
Toronto, Ontario; Victoria, B.C., and Sydney, Australia. 
I have not attended
any Gay Games since then, but it is my understanding that each one has included
a Festival Chorus.
© April 2015
About
the Author 
I was born in Louisiana in
1939, went to Southern Methodist University in Dallas from 1957 through 1963,
with majors in sacred music and choral conducting, was a minister of music for
a large Methodist church in Houston for four years, and was fired for being gay
in 1967.  After five years of searching,
I settled in Denver and spent 30 years here as a freelance court reporter.  From 1980 forward I have been involved with
PFLAG Denver, and started and conducted four GLBT choruses:  the PFLAG Festival Chorus, the Denver Women’s
Chorus, the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus for the Gay Games in Vancouver, and
Harmony.  I am enjoying my 11-year
retirement with my life partner of 32 years, Judith Nelson, riding our bikes,
going to concerts, and writing stories for the great SAGE group.
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Ashes of Time, by Carlos

Having been freshly purified by a
late spring rain, the crisp air sparkled. Although he had better things to do
than go down to the dark, claustrophobic storm cellar, he knew it was time to unleash
the bittersweet longings that with the passage of time had become infected like
a festering sore. The moment had come to whittle out the once sweet flesh that
had gangrened ever so slowly. He had found every reason that morning to avoid
descending into that dank basement, uncertain as to whether he had the mettle
to confront his past. In a sense, he was decidedly hopeful, for he was finally determined
to expunge the pleasures of his youth, pleasures that had morphed into ghostly silhouettes
from a charnel house. Yet, he was afraid, for by finally exorcising the dancing
demons, he remained dubious as to whether blissful light long denied would
shine through.
He unlocked the basement door and
pulled at the storm doors, casting his shadow into the darkened crypt like an
angel with uplifted arms. He bit his lip and firmed up his resolve as
delicious, yet dead, memories deluged him like a wintry blast of Arctic air.
Descending down into the abyss, his fingers brushed the settled dust from the
spines of long-abandoned volumes of prose and poetry. Motes of dust gyrated
like phosphorescent pollen riding spears of golden sunlight that now flooded the
basement. Like tattered Victorian lace, filigreed cobwebs draped down from shelves
that once held sweet summer preserves and briny pickles. Undaunted, he directed
himself to the back of the basement where earlier he had secretly hidden a
solid box. Subconsciously, he must have believed that as long as the contents
reposed in peace, some day they would resurrect like Lazarus emerging from the
tomb. He released the clasp of the small coffin-like box, and was greeted by
the olfactory assault of yellowing paper, air-deprived cloth, and desiccated rose
petals, all fragile to the touch.
As he gently brushed the sheaves of
paper and the other vestiges of his lost past with his fingertips, time yawned
sluggishly as though from a midwinter slumber. He picked up a ribbon-festooned
pack of letters, and as he unraveled the knot, the pages fell from his hand
like wind-propelled maple wingnuts, He read words penned when he was young,
words that spoke of sensual delight, undying devotion and youth eternal. Alas, time
proved false, like a sundial on a moonless night.  Barely decipherable inscriptions promised the
sweet aroma of new mown grass, promises that dissipated with the wind. Then, he
pulled out a time-ravished linen shirt. Worn one memorable evening as the sun
descended at its western horizon, the fabric had once been the repository of
spicy cologne intermingled with musky summer sweat. The aroma was no more;
nothing of that past lingered except for the soft bitterness of slow decay.
Putting down the vignettes of his youth, mirages spiraled before him. He felt
the sinewy arms of the first man who had ever held him in a manly embrace. Deteriorating
photographs of two, smiling luxuriously at each other, peered back. The
pictures catapulted him back like a time traveler to those days when
strawberries tasted of vintage crème liqueur and carnations sported a clove-like
aroma. He smiled knowing that in spite of ruptured dreams, he was no longer
confined by guilty pleasure within a hermetically sealed casket. In confronting
the dark shadows of his past, his former adversarial friend has taken flight.
Placing the contents back into the box,
he picked it up and gently cradled it in his arms. Retracing his steps, he set
his sights on a smoldering fire pit he has previously prepared. Letters and photos
shriveled into themselves as he cast them into the coals. Sparks pirouetted up
into the heavens like light-drenched fireflies. Scissors in hand, he mutilated the
linen shirt and cast the flimsy pieces into the hungry flames. Soon enough, the
conflagration died down. He bide the memories adieu, grateful for pleasures
they had once offered, but no longer burdened by the guilt of unfulfilled
longings. Shovel in hand he entombed the ashes within a mantle of earth,
Blessing himself for having had the courage to walk in the light of a new sun,
he arose. As he walked away, he felt newly restored. He felt a soothing balm
that healed the toxic past to which he had clung. He felt cells emerging from
within him as zygote coalesced into awaiting embryo. He would no longer hold on
to the guilty pleasures of nights that shunned the light of dawn.
© May
2015
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.
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Multi-Racial, by Betsy

In the New Jersey
suburb where I grew up there was very little diversity in the groups of people
to whom I had any exposure.  My friends
and family, my parents friends, and most of the people in our community were
white and Christian.  Black people entered
our community to do work for the white people–always house work, child care,
or yard work.  This was the extent of my
exposure.
Later in the early
1950’s we moved to the Deep South.  My
eyes were immediately opened to not only the presence of an entire culture made
up of black people, but also to the injustices and insults that routinely were
dealt them.  In Louisiana at the time
everything was highly segregated. I have to say that the denial of access to
public services, stores, parks, recreational facilities, schools, some jobs, etc.
was indeed shocking. This was the highly valued way of life in the South, they
declared.  Always had been, and always
would be.  Everyone, white and black,
wished it to be so, I was told. Every man knew his place in that culture and
every man was content with the status quo. 
Why ever change it?  It worked for
everyone, didn’t it?
I left the Deep South
after three years in high school.  I left
for college and I deliberately chose to leave that part of the world.  I never felt like I belonged.
Given this deeply
entrenched way of life it is no wonder that when I returned to Louisiana to
attend my step-mother’s funeral two decades after the civil rights legislation
had gone into effect, I discovered that what had changed was that many public
facilities had become private, thus giving legality to excluding certain people
from entry.  One positive change,
however, that I observed was that many skilled labor positions previously reserved
only for whites were now occupied by black people.
In college as a student
of sociology I learned that there were three races. White, black, and
yellow.  Detailed studies had been done
to describe the respective features of each race.  The implication, if not the direct message,
was that each race would retain its own distinctive features, and would always
be identifiable if the individuals of each race kept to themselves.  Of course, there was no mention of any social
inequities among the three races–no mention of unequal rights.
Then came the civil
rights movement of the 1960’s.  Being
occupied as a new mother at that time, I did not become active in the movement
except for cheering for the civil rights advocates and mostly observing what
was happening.  I saw that John Kennedy
was on was I deemed to be the right side, so I switched sides and became a
Democrat.  There were Republicans on the
side of justice, too, but they were working much too slowly and not making
enough noise.  Kennedy and later LBJ, became my heroes.
When we moved to Denver
in 1970 I observed a much more multiracial society than I had seen in
Rochester, NY or anywhere else.  Blacks,
Asians, Latinos, and whites all going about their daily business together.  At least on a given day in down town Denver
it appeared that way.  We chose to live
in Park Hill neighborhood because it was an “integrated neighborhood.”  True, it was integrated to some extent.  Apparently those who did not want to live in
an integrated community had been part of the “white flight” that had taken
place years earlier.
I soon began working
for the Girl Scout Council after we became settled in Denver.  The mission of the organization at the time
was to serve the entire community. 
Although the mission was not written as such, those of us in the membership
Department knew it meant we were to change our image from a white christian
organization to that of a multiracial organization with spiritual values not
identified with any specific religion–but all inclusive.  The traditional image of the Girl Scouts is
that it is an organization for   white,
Christian women and girls.  Although in
truth, my experience has been that the organization has always been pro-active
when it comes to including all races, religions, and socio-economic
groups.  In fact, during my 22 year
career with GS Mile Hi Council, a huge part of my job was to see that the Girl
Scout experience was delivered the to girls of all ethnic, racial, and
socioeconomic groups.  For example, I
remember planning how to approach a newly established community of Vietnamese
immigrants to assure them that the Girl Scout organization welcomes their
girls.  Of course, there was no way to do
this successfully at the time.  It would
take a couple of generations before the families had any interest in joining
our ranks.
We have always had a
multiracial staff at the Girl Scouts. 
When I first hired on, my supervisor was an African-American woman.  When she left for greener GS pastures in the
National Council Office, of course I got a new boss.  This time a woman of Hispanic descent. Many
of our board members, the real bosses, and many volunteers who carry out the
programs have been women of color.  When
I became a team leader my staff was multiracial.  In fact, at one time, of the seven of us,
three were white.
My grandfather was a
reasonable man, a wise man.  However he
was a product of his generation and a bit misguided when it came to racial
issues. I remember arguing with him about the injustice of racial inequalities
in our society. My parents had instilled in me a strong sense of justice.
Because of that and, I am sure, because I was becoming sensitive to the feeling
of being different when in the minority, I could not accept my grandfather’s
ideas and had to tell him so.    For me
life was easy though.  My difference
could be hidden; it did not show up in the color of my skin. (Furthermore I had
escaped the dreaded queer-o-meter at birth.)
I have a so-called
multiracial family.  I recently came
across a photo of my daughter with her partner at the time, a black man from
Africa, and my son and his new Asian wife from China.  In another photo next to it, sits my oldest
daughter and her partner of 15 years, an African American woman who calls me
“Mom.”  My younger daughter later married
a black man from Cuba.
Let me tell you about
the importance the concept of race has for me. 
What comes to my mind when someone mentions the word “race” are the
following memorable and multiple experiences: the high school track team, NASTAR
ski racing at Winter Park, a race against my aging body on a cross country
bicycling trip, a swim-bike-run triathlon at Cherry Creek State Park, the Race
for the Cure, and the Cherry Creek Sneak.
© 16 April 2013
About the Author 
 Betsy has been active in the GLBT community
including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for
Change).  She has been retired from the
Human Services field for about 15 years. 
Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping,
traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports
Center for the Disabled, and learning. 
Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close
relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four
grandchildren.  Betsy says her greatest
and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of
25 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Clubs, by Will Stanton

Joining a club sometimes can
be a good fit, sometimes not.  DPMC, or
Denver Professional Men’s Club, is a euphemism.   I suppose that, if the club were located in
a more cosmopolitan area with a reputation for having a large gay population,
such as San Francisco, the club might have been named “Denver Gay Men’s
Club.”  Also, to me, “Professional Men’s
Club” sounds rather presumptuous.  All it
really means is that a member is supposed to have enough money to host and
cater large gatherings of around one hundred men, has an elegant home large
enough to accommodate such a group, and money to hire bartenders.
A few years ago, Dr. Bob
persuaded me to join DPMC and sponsored my application.  After all, “Not everyone is suitable for
admission.”  This reminds me of the
quotation attributed to Groucho Marx, “I wouldn’t want to be a member of any
group that would have me as a member;” for I do not have a very large,
expensive home, and I cannot afford to cater food for a hundred men or to hire
professional bartenders.  I did join
DPMC, albeit only briefly.  My rationale
was that I needed to get out more, meet more people, socialize more, because I
had been so isolated living alone and running a home office after the death of
my partner.
I generally am open-minded,
enjoy people’s company, and give people the benefit of the doubt unless proven
otherwise.  Eventually, however, I
realized that I was not particularly happy in DPMC.  So many of the members seemed so full of
themselves.  Everyone stood about,
shoulder to shoulder or occupying the various chairs and couches, chatting to
their few  selected friends to the
exclusion of others.  Most of the members
drank, some drank heavily.  There was
plenty of catered food, although the heavy drinkers often ignored food or
merely nibbled at it.  The gay bartenders
were kept very busy and made a lot in tips. 
I never have been big on alcohol. 
If I ever had a drink, it was only one, and that was for the taste, not
to get a buzz or to loosen up.  One
egotistic member, known to give private cocaine parties and popular with those
who attended, tried to give a recovering cocaine addict some cocaine as a
birthday present.  Those factors alone
set me apart from most of the members.
I made a point of
circulating among everyone, trying to get to know them.  I discovered, however, that the
long-established cliques tended to stay together and were little interested in
getting to know new members.  Also,
although ages ranged from early twenties to, in one case, early eighties, most
were at least a generation younger than I and clearly preferred to remain
within their own age group.  This
certainly was true in one particular case.
Long enough ago when
brick-front stores sold CDs and DVDs, as opposed to generally buying on-line, I
used to frequent Tower Records.  That
large store had a separate room for classical music so that those of us with
sensitive ears would not be accosted by the sound of pounding drums and
screeching pseudo-singers blaring from the speakers in the main part of the
store.  Naturally, I found few, more
discerning shoppers in the classical room. 
That is where I was surprised to find a boyishly-young shopper sorting
through the opera recordings.  We struck
up a conversation, and he mentioned that he was studying opera and sang
tenor.  We found that we had a lot of
interests in common.
I later discovered that this
young tenor was a member of DPMC.  I
found him chatting with a small group of twenty-somethings.  I greeted him and spoke with him for a moment;
however, I quickly felt that I was regarded as an intruder, my being older and
not a member of their clique.  It also
became apparent that another in that group had taken the young tenor as a
partner and preferred not having any strangers talking to him.  So, regardless of having similar musical
interests with the tenor, I did not fit in.
I found that the older
members of DPMC were more courteous and accepting of newcomers, yet I had
little in common with them.  The
eighty-two-year-old multi-millionaire, who made his money in Texas hogs, sheep,
and most likely some oil, lead an ostentatiously flamboyant life, as evidenced
by his owning a pink Rolls Royce, a much younger, former drag queen, and a
large home decorated in a style that would have embarrassed Liberace.  Yes, they were kind enough to invite me to
their Christmas party, but our interests were so different that we did not make
socializing together a regular habit.
The most unusual member whom
I met was Jimmy.  (I am leaving out his
surname.)  I was puzzled by his arrival
at a DPMC party one evening, his appearing to be no more than fourteen-years-old
and in the company of a tall man in his mid-forties.  I dismissed the idea that the older man had
the indiscretion to bring an underage partner, so I wondered why this man was
bringing his son or nephew to an adult party. 
Later in the evening, I noticed that Jimmy sat alone, abandoned,
ignored, and obviously very sad.  When I
witness people feeling hurt or sad, that distresses me.  So, I approached Jimmy to see if I could
cheer him up.
During our conversation,
Jimmy revealed that he had an off-again / on-again relationship with the tall
man, and was living with him.  I sensed
that Jimmy felt that he was being used but had no practical idea how to find an
alternative life.  I was interested to
hear that he loved classical music and owned a grand piano, although it had
been placed in storage because the tall man had no room for it, leaving Jimmy
without the opportunity to play.  He also
enjoyed opera and cooking.  I was able to
observe very clearly that he never smiled, that his apparent sense of sadness
and loneliness were disturbingly deep-seated. 
He surprised me when he mentioned that he was employed.  I also noticed that, contrary to Jimmy appearing
to be too young to shave, he sounded much more mature than a mere
fourteen.  I said to him, “I don’t wish
to be too personal in inquiring, but how old are you?”  He stunned me when he replied, “Forty.”  Trying in my mind to reconcile the dramatic
difference between his age and his appearance, I quickly concluded that he must
be an extremely rare case of Kallmann syndrome, an affliction of the
hypothalamus and pituitary gland that, at the very least, prevents
puberty.  I then understood Jimmy’s sense
of alienation and isolation, his being a forty-year-old man who looked
fourteen.  He being so different, he did
not have a sense of belonging.  
My having been working for
many years in behavioral health, I wished that there were some way that  I could help Jimmy and offered to be
available to talk with him if he desired. 
He seemed thankful and provided me with his full name and phone
number.  The next weekend, I phoned Jimmy
a few times to see how he was doing and if he needed someone to talk with.  I received no answer, and he did not call me
back.
At the next DPMC gathering,
Jimmy again appeared.  I spoke with him,
saying that I hoped that he was OK.  He
puzzled me when he stated that I could have phoned him.  I replied that I had but had received no answer.  About this time, a DPMC member with camera
came around, taking pictures for the next newsletter.  The moment Jimmy spotted him, he bolted from
his chair and hid behind a large fish tank, refusing to have his picture
taken.  The cameraman tried to persuade
Jimmy to come out from behind the fish tank and to have his picture taken, but
he adamantly refused.  I interpreted
Jimmy’s action as having been so self-conscious and unhappy with himself that
he would not allow his picture to be taken. 
I never saw Jimmy after that.  I
wonder what became of him.  I hope that
he has found happiness.
I did not stay in DPMC much
later, either, mostly because I was not impressed with what this club turned
out to be, and I did not find people with similar interests who could become
friends.  Another contributing factor was
that the events coordinator must have thought of himself as a twenty-something,
slam-dancing, hot club-guy; and he arranged events to suit himself, despite the
fact that most of the members were more mature than that.  He arranged for a Halloween party in a huge
warehouse and hired a DJ to play ear-splitting, pounding noise.  Literally, I could not remain in that
warehouse, even though I had stuffed paper napkins into my ears and stood in
the farthest corner away from the towering speakers.  The decibels must have been about twenty
points above the level that causes hearing damage.  I was forced to flee to the parking lot,
finally deciding that I might as well leave. 
There was no way I could go back inside and be comfortable, let alone
protect my hearing.
When I was about to leave, a
long limo with a bunch of queens and driven by a Russian émigré came into the
parking lot.  It just so happened that my
costume was that of a KGB officer, with a KGB general’s hat, black-leather
coat, trousers, boots, and gloves.  The
Russian noticed me immediately, came over, and addressed me in Russian, which,
obviously, I did not understand.  He turned
and walked away when he realized that I was not Russian and that my apparel was
merely a costume.
The events coordinator
arranged another gathering at a bar that was built like a concrete box.  Apparently he had hired the same DJ, who
played ear-damaging noise.  Several of us
fled to the rear of the building and finally left the event early when the bar
needed that area to set up for another event.  
Later, when I politely inquired of the events coordinator why he
arranged extremely loud events, he gave me a very snotty reply.  I increasingly became disillusioned with
DPMC.
There was one annual event
that was supposed to be very chique, the Christmas black-tie
dinner.  Formal tuxes were expected and
an extra fee charged.  I did not
attend.  Friends, who are no longer members,
have told me that they found the event rather artificial and ostentatious.  They, too, became disenchanted with DPMC and
quit.
The very last gathering I
attended consisted of several cliques that clung to each other and ignored
everyone else.  At that point, I finally
concluded that DPMC had almost nothing to offer me.  I let my membership lapse and ignored
membership-fee notices mailed to me.
Since then, I was introduced
to the Story Time group.  Here I have
found people who have something worthwhile to say, who have had interesting
lives, and who are interested in hearing about other’s experiences, thoughts,
and feelings.  These members are genuine
people who share without pretense and who provide a welcome atmosphere of
trust.  These are the people I look
forward to seeing each week.
 © 4 March 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

Road Trip by Gillian

I came honestly by my
addiction to road trips. I was introduced to them by my mum and dad. In Britain
during, and for years after, World War Two, private cars were relatively rare;
gas was severely rationed. But as we staggered into the fifties, our world
became a little brighter and Dad took his old car down off the blocks where it
had rested for a decade. He worked lovingly on it for some time, then lo and
behold suddenly one Sunday afternoon we were off to the Welsh mountains. Before
long the afternoon jaunts graduated to day excursions and thence to a week in
Cornwall and two weeks in Scotland. There was never any discussion of camping,
not a very attractive prospect in the wet cold British weather, but we were on
a low budget and stayed in small back-street B & B’s. These were nothing like their upscale
modern U.S. namesakes, but simply a spare room in a very modest house, usually
sharing the bathroom and breakfast with the owners. In this style we went to
many different parts of the country and met many interesting people.
Perhaps, had I not been
an only child, I would have hated these vacations and even the day trips the
way many modern kids hate spending hours in the car. But I had the luxury of
the back seat to myself, without noisy squabbling siblings to dig elbows in my
ribs or squash me against the door handle and demand the windows be open; or
closed. I never once recall asking, even silently in my own head, “Are we there
yet?” I think it was a safe and warm haven to me, shut away in this metal box,
just the three of us.
But it was my mother
who turned it from an OK activity to something I truly loved. Mum kept up
something of a running commentary as we passed through the farms and towns. She
loved history and regaled Dad and me, though he never responded except
occasionally to glance back at me in the rear-view mirror and wink, with
fascinating tidbits about different places; not boring things like dates but
little anecdotes. At the time I believed it all to be true, though looking back
I’m not completely
convinced, though she certainly was a very knowledgeable woman. Apart from
history, she would make up silly stories about a farm we just passed, or the
vicar of a village church, or the family in a car we met going the other way.
There were still not many cars on the roads then, so seeing one was just an
invitation to Mom’s
imagination. Most of all, she loved to laugh, and if there was nothing too
immediately amusing in the vicinity, she would create something. She made
herself giggle with some of her imagined stories, and she paid great attention
to license plates, making them into acronyms or rhymes.
My mother leaps up in
my memory quite often, and usually it’s
when something comes up that I know would have made her giggle. During football
games, for instance, not that I can imagine Mum ever enjoying football, but how
she would giggle at some of the commentary, when they say things like, “He wasn’t doing much when he was an Eagle, but
as a Panther he’s
really come into his own.” When she stopped her giggles she would then, I know,
weave some wonderful fairy story around this failed eagle which somehow morphed
into a more successful big cat.
Anyway, having made a
short story long, that was my introduction to road trips; followed, inevitable
by a hiatus of decades given over to work and family. Then, in celebration of a
new millennium, Betsy and I bought our VW camper van and embarked on our own
series of road trips. I haven’t
had time to count them up, but they must number around twenty-five for a total
time of maybe a year, though we rarely are away for more than three or four
weeks at a time.
We have been many
places from the Mexican border to, and into, Canada; and from coast to coast.
We have visited every one of the lower forty-eight states, and camped in most
of them.
We have seen sights we
had always wanted to see but not had the chance, and chanced upon things we had
no idea of. Unlike taking a plane, when the best you can possibly hope for is a
journey that is uneventful, road trips are never uneventful; nor do you want
them to be, though it’s
good when the wonderful surprises well outnumber the bad ones. We have of
course had our share of those less positive – flat tires both on the road and
in campgrounds, loading up in the morning all ready to go and the van won’t start; freeway accidents only narrowly
averted and near misses with tornadoes, hail storms, and forest fires.
I understand that one
day in the not too distant future one of us is going to reach the age where
camping road trips are not such an attractive option. It’s unclear at this time which of us will
reach that stage first, Betsy or me or Brunhilda as we call the van, mostly
though not always, with great affection. That will be a sad day, whatever the
reason. But one of the blessings of aging seems to be the ability to accept
with relative ease that the good times of the moment will inevitably come to an
end, but only to be replaced by other, different, good times. We can love
taking out our favorite memories and dusting them off for further enjoyment,
but at the same time always creating new ones while continuing, with luck, to
live without regrets. And I suspect that my most frequently re-visited
memories, as long as I’m
privileged to have memories, will be of oh those many road trips.
© 15 August 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

Poetry by Will Stanton

My interests in space
arts and time arts, especially fine music, all have taken precedence  over any consistent pursuit of poetry.  Yet, when I encounter well crafted poetry
with themes that speak to me, I am deeply moved.  I already have spoken of my great
appreciation for the poetic craft and thought-provoking themes of Charles
Bryant’s original poetry and amplified translations (available on
YouTube).  For this little group’s touch
upon today’s topic of poetry, I am presenting short poems from two other
people, both whose lives as well as their creations have been meaningful to me.
The first poem is from
my late partner James.  For James,
composing poetry was just one of his several interests, yet he approached his
writing quite seriously.  For example,
James had the intellect and talent to tackle translating the esoteric and
complex poems of the nineteenth century French poet Gérard de Nerval.  For comparison, I read two books of already
published English translations.  I found
James’ understanding of the poems and skill in maintaining poetic quality equal
to one of the volumes and far superior to the other.  My humble assessment was supported when none
other than the acclaimed American poet and literary translator Richard Wilbur complimented
him on his translations.
Yet, James could
create simple, more easily accessible poems, too, poems that the general public
could appreciate.  One such published
poem was “Night Child.”
She
wanted much to understand how the skies
watch
silver-eyed across a purple night,
to
learn at last how early mornings rise,
James
and
fathom fragile dewdrops caught with light.
She
wanted much to comprehend the way
that
flowers celebrate the sun, which flows,
they
said, on yellow contours of the day,
and
contemplate the fashions of the rose.
She
wanted much to know for once how clouds
graze
on a languid sky like flocks of sheep
or
change to unicorns or make grave crowds
of
graybeards dreaming through an azure sleep.
And
much she marveled as her fingers read
of
such a world as blue and green and red. © JHM
For the next poem, it
was like being punched in the gut the first time that I heard it recited.  I care deeply about good people, and I
despise violence and war.  This poem was
written near the end of World War I.  I
had gone to see the 1997 film “Regeneration,”
(DVD released in the U.S. titled “Behind
the Lines”) which was based upon the book by Pat Barker.  The story centered upon the lives of British
officers who were suffering, from what at the time was referred to as, “shell
shock.”   They had been sent to
Craiglockhart War Hospital in Scotland for psychiatric treatment.  Some of the poor souls appeared to be
permanently scarred emotionally.  For the
less traumatized, the goal was to make those walking wounded sound enough to
send them back to the front.
Among them was the
gentle soul of Wilfred
Owen, a budding poet.  There
he met and was encouraged to write by the noted poet Siegfried Sassoon, who had
been sent to Craiglockhart after he had thrown away his war medal and spoke out
publicly against the insanity of war. 
Sassoon had written war poetry that was true and realistic, in marked
contrast to simple patriotic poetry such as that of Rupert Brooke.  Sassoon encouraged Owen to do the same.
The Craiglockhart
psychiatrists (or “alienists,” as they were known at the time) managed to
persuade Owen to return to the front. 
Just one week before the declared armistice, Owen was killed crossing a
canal in northern France.  The irony and
tragedy of Owen’s death still haunts me.
The finalé of the film
included an off-screen voice reciting Owen’s poem “The
Parable of the Old Man and the Young.“ 
The poem, as well as the whole film, moved me so deeply that I returned
for a second viewing and later purchased the DVD.
So
Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
and
took the fire with him, and a knife.
And
as they sojourned both of them together,
Wilfred Owen
Isaac
the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold
the preparations, fire and iron,
But
where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then
Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And
builded parapets and trenches there,
And
stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
And
lo!  An Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying,
Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither
do anything to him, thy son.
Behold!  Caught in the thicket by its horns,
A
Ram.  Offer the Ram of pride instead.
But
the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And
half the seed of Europe, one by one.
–
– – – –
©
13 May 2014 
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

Exploring by Ricky

Boys
and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and
marriage because curiosity and exploration are part of a boy’s job
description.  
I began my career as an
explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on
the floor and tasting small objects I encountered.  Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began
to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds.  I don’t think the term “baby-proofing” existed
yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me.  Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind,
exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.
 Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I
learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very
dangerous and to stay away from them.  I
suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.”  Once I began to open doors and explore
outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do
some serious exploring.  I quickly
learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.
My exploration
of kindergarten began in September 1953. 
I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate)
with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora.  I loved to color and play with all the messy
artistic stuff.  In first grade, Sandra
and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on
how to work quietly.  I’m sure I did not
measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat,
quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with
lots of pictures.  Being unsuccessful in
finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and
eventually sent us back to our class.
Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year
old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my
parents were arranging their divorce. 
Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately),
autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. 
Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and
trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back
east to wear.  (Okay, so they really were
not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under
the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear
hides only smaller.)
1956
was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on
the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a
vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed
where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the
stink you “enjoyed” twice a day).  State
and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties
of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays
of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, balers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders,
thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.
As
summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends. 
I rode
a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new.  One of my neighboring farm friends and I were
part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then
compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning.  Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring
of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our
crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).
Another
schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games.  One favorite among all male students (townies
and farm boys) was marbles.  Our version
involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school,
placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then
stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to
roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed.  If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the
two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process
until there was only one shooter in the depression.  The winner would then collect all the marbles
in the hole and the betting process would begin again.  Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this
game.
The
second game we called Stretch.  I can’t
speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket
knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school).  In this game two boys would face each other
and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance
calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg.  If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved
and the other boy took his turn.  If the
knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the
knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had
been standing.  If he was successful in
touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife,
returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife.  If he could not touch the knife, he lost the
game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.
The
third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously
reserved for winter recess).  I trust I do
not need to describe these.  In all of
these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.
The
elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story
edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two
floors and storage rooms on the third floor. 
The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope
to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’
restroom.  “Yes,” even during a pee break
(raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to”
“explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a
boy’s job description).
Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods
around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. 
My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the
great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities.  About this time, I also began to explore
other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing
an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not.  Well, to be completely honest, of course
there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or
campouts.
During
those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not
what a person looks like on
the outside but what a person is
on the inside that really matters. 
Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to
know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.
Those
early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my
personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined
with a love of knowledge.  Those who know
me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected
questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers.  If that bothers some people, it is just too
bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.
© 29 April 2013 
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.
Posted on

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me by Phillip Hoyle

Several years ago I developed an unusual medical condition that stumped my doctor and both interested and frightened me. One morning I discovered a growth on the index finger of my left hand. It first appeared to be a long splinter the length of the finger next to the thumb. Unlike a splinter, it seemed articulated and bent when my finger bent. I was fascinated but also knew I needed to show it to my doctor. I couldn’t get an appointment that first day but set one for the next. Overnight the splinter-like protrusion expanded a little bit beyond the finger, and looked like a kind of lobe, like a smaller finger attached to the index finger.

Many things went through my mind on the bus ride to Dr. Pierce’s office. Was this some kind of exotic infection from Africa? I had any number of African friends. Was it from the high Himalayas, the original home of my friend Ming? Or China where my friends Rong and Fong originated? Or Korea from which Chong immigrated? I decided not to worry and just kept my hand on my lap covered by my other rather normal appearing right hand. But I did worry. Would I ever again play the piano? Could one even play with six fingers? Would I have to give up my massage practice? I’d already cancelled half a dozen massages. Would I still be able to shuffle a deck of cards?

At the doctor’s office I watched as my physician examined the oddity. He said it was not a splinter but rather a buildup of fluid and proposed to extract some of it for further examination. Out came the needle. Into the finger it reached. Out came dark red blood. Doctor looked concerned and marked the sample for the lab to examine STAT. He asked me to wait and showed me to an empty room. I wondered what he’d find. I had wanted to excise the dark line that invited ideas of demon possession, an idea I had long excised from my mind. Couldn’t I simply cut it off like I once did a mole? I examined myself. I thought about the many projects I was planning. I made a list of friends to call, especially those I had lost track of over the previous couple of years. I checked my phone messages, listening to all those I’d not heard, erasing many, many voice and text messages, and otherwise filled my time with distracting tasks. After about an hour, a nurse brought me a bottle of water and some magazines apologizing for the long inconvenience. My one hour wait turned into two hours. Finally Dr. Pierce returned. He told me I would have to enter the hospital. My heart rate rose. “We need to keep watch over this.” He frowned; I wondered why. “The CDC wants you isolated,” he explained for their computers had matched the sample with something dreadful. My fears shook me.

I entered a world of sterile isolation. There all was bed rest, confusion, and fear. The staff members were nice to me yet cautious and also afraid. I was also amazed for when in my long life had anything I had ever done become of national concern? Finally I awoke from the dream that morning, December 29, 2010.

Morning Pages entry from 12-29-2010

Woke up from a dream in which I discovered a growth on my index finger. It looked like a long splinter the length of the finger but protruded a little bit beyond in a separate lobe as if the whole thing were growing alongside my finger. I used it as an illustration that, like this splinter, most folk in the room (were they UUs?) would like to excise the mythological elements from their minds. I wondered if it really was a splinter and thought I’d like to find out. The stuff that came out was liquid like pussy blood. The CDC said to contain the liquid and get it to a hospital for examination. The medics were to isolate me because their computers had matched it with something dreadful. Sterile concerns all along towards the end of the dream. Keep samples sterile, etc. keep the fluid isolated. Isolate me, too.

© Denver 2014

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

Posted on

The Norm by Pat Gourley

I have for years dreaded being described as ‘normal’.  As queers we are really anything but normal
whether we like it or not and I truly believe that this is our greatest gift.
There is that old Chinese curse “may you be born in interesting times”.  A similar curse for me would be “may you be born
normal”.
I must admit though that earlier on in my HIV diagnosis I
craved “normal” lab values but eventually came to appreciate the fact that one
can live quite a relatively healthy and productive life and still not be in the
‘normal range’. Normal really is something that is not all its cracked up to be.
I suppose too there was a time in the sixties when I was experiencing my great
gay awakening that I wished I could be normal. Fortunately, thanks to a much
older lover, the Grateful Dead and an amazing commie Holy Cross nun I soon got
over that!
Normal is defined as conforming to a standard, being typical
or expected. How boring is that! I suspect the normal ones in the human herd
rarely initiate evolutionary change in virtually any sphere of their lives. I
am in favor of abolishing the term all together particularly when used in
medical or psychiatric settings. A sub-definition of the word if you will is
“free from physical or mental disorders”. Who the hell can honestly claim that
reality?
I was once again reminded of how being outside the norm can
be a very powerful agent for creating change while delivering progressive
political and social messages particularly in the hands of a gay man. This
light bulb of “fuck normal” once again went off in my head when I saw the Keith
Haring exhibit at the de Young museum
in San Francisco this past January. For anyone not familiar with Haring or his artwork
he was a very prolific gay artist who lived in New York City from 1978 until
his death from AIDS in February 1990.
I suppose my first impression of his art that I recall was in
the late 1980’s and I thought how simple, I could probably do that. Ha, well I
guess that bit of self-delusion wasn’t really normal now was it! I have
overtime though come to greatly appreciate the simple complexity and actually
many revolutionary aspects of his immense body of work. Not only was Keith very
openly gay he also was quite upfront about his AIDS and these two realities
permeate much of his later work as do many themes of social justice and the
corporate greed and rape of the planet.
Haring never drew from sketches but rather had the ability to
just start doing it and it happened in amazing fashion. The de Young exhibit also had a short
documentary with it that was quite enlightening into his beautiful soul, his
politics, his sexuality, his AIDS and most amazingly his creative process. Wow,
nothing normal about him. And talk about simple line drawings that celebrate
the penis, often his own, the exhibit was resplendent with many phalli.
 And of course on my
second trip the next day through the exhibit I was reminded that this was San
Francisco and that we weren’t in Kansas. There were dozens of middle school
boys and girls on a field trip viewing the many graphic sexual images and not
appearing to be phased in the least. In fact many were taking notes for class
and actually discussing, and not in hush whispers or giggles, the many amazing
ways fucking and sucking whereon display and at the same time delivering a
strong social and often political message.
For whatever reason most of Haring’s work is not titled. He
as often as not addresses issues of racism, AIDS, climate change and the many
societal facets of capitalist corruption and greed so rampant in our culture
today in his work with simple lines. His drawings also often speak to very
basic human realities of love, kindness, generosity and the constant message
that we are one world and most certainly all in this together.
A short quote form the artist:
“Drawing is still basically the same
as it has been since prehistoric times. It brings together man and the world.
It lives through magic.”
Thank the universe that there was nothing normal about the
magic Keith Haring brought to the world.
©
February 2015 
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.