Author: jnelson

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Great Performances: Alexei Sultanov, Classical Pianist by Will Stanton

I wish that I could share
with audiences a lifetime of great classical performances on the concert
piano.  But then, as the adage states,
“If wishes were fishes, we would all cast nets.”  Ironically, and perhaps even tragically in
light of my own desires and emotions, I was gifted with sufficient musical
understanding to be a pianist; however, I never have possessed the pianistic
athletic ability.  Succinctly said, my
hands are crap.  Performing the
astonishing physical feats necessary to play classical piano requires a special
genetic gift.  In my trying to explain to
the uninitiated this irony and my frustration regarding my condition, I often
quote the short poem by Robert Frost, “Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on
Thee, And I’ll forgive Thy great big joke on me.”
I realize that envy is an
undesirable trait, yet I admit to a lifetime of envy upon viewing those persons
who do possess the qualities that I wished to possess.  I recall seeing on YouTube the
fifteen-year-old Swiss pianist Kristian Cvetkovic performing the most virtuosic
piano works such as Franz Liszt’s devilishly hard “Mephisto Waltz No.1.”  Those beautiful hands just flowed over the
keyboard with the greatest of ease, strength, and endurance.  Kristian, who speaks several languages and
was a pen-pal early in his career, mentioned in passing, “I don’t seem to have
a problem with technique.”  To me, that
was rather like Microsoft’s Bill Gates stating, “I don’t seem to have a problem
with money.”
It seems, however, that
throughout my life when I have envied some person, something happens to
dramatically remind me that such persons are not immortal gods, that some
unseen fate can befall them; and it may be just as well I was not living in
their shoes.  Such is the case with the
genius pianist Alexei Sultanov.
Alexei, Age 11
 Alexei was born in 1969 to
musician-parents in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. 
Even as a tiny child, it soon became abundantly clear that Alexei was
gifted with deep intellect, great musical talent, and a physical, pianistic
skill that is very rare.  He began his
studies in Tashkent and quickly came to the attention of music pedagogues.  His first performance with orchestra was at
age seven.  I have a recording of his
playing a Haydn concerto when he was ten and a recording at eleven playing the
very difficult Chopin Revolutionary Étude with astonishing speed and great
power.  He soon began studies in Moscow,
which lead to his acceptance in their famous conservatory.  By age thirteen, Alexei’s progress was so
remarkable that he performed in an international piano competition in Prague.
Then by age nineteen, his
teachers felt that Alexei was of high enough technical expertise and musical
understanding to participate in the arduous Van Cliburn International Piano
Competition in Fort Worth, one of thirty pianists chosen from around the
world.  His three extensive recital
performances astounded the audience and, apparently, the judges; for, from the
six finalists, he won the gold medal, the youngest pianist to ever face such a
demanding challenge and win. 
Alexei approached his
playing, both musically and technically, with fresh yet valid
interpretations.  Denise Mullins, who was the Cliburn
Foundation’s artistic administrator in 1989, stated in an interview, “He
took things to the absolute edge of the cliff, and it was very exciting to
hear.  He wasn’t afraid to take a chance
on stage, and there aren’t a lot of pianists who do that.”  His fingers never seemed to lose
accuracy, power, or speed.  The fact that
Alexei’s fingers were so strong and enduring that he snapped a pair of strings
during his performance of the “Mephisto Waltz No.1” does make one wonder where
such physical gifts come from, especially considering the fact that he was only
five feet three.
(See video of another
performance of this work at age 19, St. Petersburg:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZH3XQ_cflg )
For Alexei’s first-place win
at the Van Cliburn competition, he was presented with cash awards, a recital at Carnegie Hall, a recording
contract, and sponsored tours throughout the United States and Europe with free
management valued at over a million dollars.
Alexei then went on to shine in 1995 at the International
Frederick Chopin Piano Competition. 
Then, at the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow, some judges awarded him
top marks, but other judges apparently deliberately sabotaged his win by
falsely assigning low enough scores to prevent his win.  Naturally, Alexei was bitter about the
political unfairness of the event. 
Viewers can judge for themselves by watching several videos of Alexei on
YouTube.
(See the remarkable video of Chopin Sonata No. 3, 4th movement:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2TvpQP4RSE )
I had a chance to hear
Alexei’s performance in Boulder and to suffer yet another moment of unabashed
envy.  Alexei certainly lived up to his
reputation, pleasing the audience and amazing them with his pianistic
pyrotechnics.  While in Boulder, he
stayed with a wealthy patron of young musicians.  She kept a Steinway in her home’s music room
were Alexei could practice while he was there. 
I once pretended to play her Steinway when visiting her home.
Alexei, Age 16
The all too frequent curse
that accompanies my envy struck yet again. 
Apparently unknown to Alexei and others, he soon after suffered a minor
stroke.  Then in 2001, he felt ill and
dizzy, slipped in the bathroom, struck his head, and exacerbated an already
fragile injury.  Then in February, he
awoke to find that he could not speak. 
He immediately was taken to a doctor, who discovered severe internal
bleeding in his brain.  Alexei slipped
into a coma.  The doctors rushed Alexei into emergency surgery.  As they struggled to save his life, they
witnessed on the brain-scanner a continuing series of five massive strokes that
destroyed most of the brain’s capacity to communicate with the body or to
receive input from the body.  Ironically,
the cognitive portions of the brain remained intact so that, when Alexei
awakened a few days later, he became fully aware of his tragic incapacity.  He no longer could speak nor play the piano.  The musical genius that astonished audiences
with a blaze of superhuman technical feats was extinguished forever, depriving
us of perhaps another half-century of pleasure.
(See the video of the very demanding, beautifully played
Liszt piano sonata in b-minor, 31 min.:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWBonbvcjAs )
Over the next months, Alexei struggled to gain enough
control of one hand to pick out the melodic lines of the Rachmaninov Third
Piano Concerto, the concerto claimed to be the most difficult written and one
of many with which Alexei once stunned audiences and judges alike.
In November, 2004, Alexei Sultanov was made a U.S.
Citizen.  To celebrate, he peformed with
one hand “America the Beautiful” at the ceremony.  That was his final appearance and his final
performance in public.  He died June 30,
2005 at the age of thirty-five.
  
I still watch my downloaded videos of Alexei.  No matter how many times that I watch and
listen, I am moved by the sheer beauty of his playing and astonished by his
superlative technique.  (Watch the video
of his playing the Tchaikovsky 1st piano concerto, 3rd
movement:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaqQRye3gUI )
Yet, that mind and those hands are gone now; they no
longer exist.  Here I am, lamenting those
clumsy “feet” attached to my arms instead of the dexterous hands I wish I
had.  Yet, at the same time, I’m still
bumbling about at nearly twice Alexei’s age when he died.  I envied his ability to perform, but I don’t
envy his tragic end.
 

Alexei During Piano Competition

© 25 January,
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. 
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My Favorite Transportation by Ricky

(Planes, Trains, Automobiles & Buses, without John Candy)
Preface:  I wrote and submitted this piece to the SAGE
Telling Your Story group, while visiting my brother and sister at South Lake
Tahoe (SLT), California.  My brother had been
diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer and had driven from his
home in Oregon back to SLT to visit our sister. 
While there he became so ill that he could not return to Oregon so I
also stayed throughout the summer until his end.
          I spent most of my teenage years either being driven or,
when I reached 16, driving myself in either my or my family’s car.  Once each year during Christmas school
vacation, however, I got to ride Greyhound buses to and from my father’s home
in Torrance, California (a suburb of the Los Angeles metro area) so he could
have his one-week visitation rights. 
Those trips occurred from my age of 10 through 18 when I left home for
college.
          Whenever I had to catch the transfer bus in Carson City,
Nevada, I always dreaded the 5 to 6 hour wait until I discovered the Nevada
State Museum.  Eventually as the years
passed, I managed to see all the exhibits (and I even started reading the signs
telling about the stuffed animal dioramas). 
I learned a lot about “things” during those years from visiting the
museum.  My favorite exhibits were right
at the entrance; the history of and silver service from the USS Nevada
battleship, ultimately used during the hydrogen bomb test at the Bikini Atoll
in the South Pacific.  It had various
animals on it to represent human crewmen. 
My other favorites were the displayed collection of Silver Dollars and
Gold Coins minted in the Carson City Mint and at the official exit in the
basement, the mock-up of an underground silver mine.
          Whenever I had to catch the transfer bus in Sacramento,
California, I was usually involved in reading a book specially purchased for
the trip.  Once, when I was 16 a slightly
overweight girl my age sat by me for the whole trip.  She was going home to Venice (another suburb
of Los Angeles) and very talkative and all I wanted to do was read but, since I
am often too polite for my preferences, I talked with her until she got sleepy
and then I read.  Once close to Los
Angeles “we” decided that I would pick her up for a date in two days.  My dad loaned me his car and we went to
Pacific Ocean Park (sort of a carnival with rides built on a pier over the
ocean at Venice).  We had fun there.  I took her home and walked her to the door
but we did not kiss and I never saw her again.
          After the above mini-stories, you might think that
Greyhound was my favorite mode of transportation.  While buses played a major and positive part
in my youth, my recent 24-hour bus ride from Denver to Reno definitely removed
any “romantic” attachment buses had as a result of my youthful memories, so it
is not my favorite.
          From age 10 thru 17; I was probably the happiest when
riding with my dad during his 30-days each summer visitation time.  He would pick me up at Lake Tahoe and we
would then travel to Minnesota, Iowa, and points in between during the days the
interstate highway system was just beginning to be constructed.  One year on our way to Minnesota, we went to
Mt. Rushmore first and traveled on a portion of I-90 in Rapid City, South
Dakota.  I had my learner’s permit then,
so I was driving at that point.
          On one of those cross-country trips I learned something
about sleep and dreams.  On one very warm
(no auto air conditioner) day, I was dozing or perhaps actually sleeping.  I was actively dreaming about being in a WW1
trench with other soldiers.  Apparently,
I was the commander because I began to give my men a “going-over-the-top”
pre-attack motivational speech.  During
the speech I started to sing and everyone joined in.  We were singing “San Antonio Rose”.   After a couple of choruses, there was an
artillery blast that roused me a bit and I felt my dad shaking my leg and heard
him tell me to wake up.  As I woke, I
heard “San Antonio Rose” playing on the car radio.  So it is possible to hear the real world
while dreaming and incorporate it into the dream world.  This is not unlike dreaming of using the
bathroom and waking up to find out you have either wet the bed or are about to,
if you don’t hurry. 
The
artillery blast turned out to be the result of a large goose that did not move
out of the car’s way in time and had hit the windshield in front of me.  Unfortunately, the goose’s neck and head got
stuck between the windshield and the exterior “visor” overhanging the
windshield on that model of car (possibly a ’55 Studebaker).  Dad made me go pull it out so we could
continue.  Yuck!!
While
I have always enjoyed “road trips” because of my yearly travels with my father,
it is not my favorite mode of transportation; most common, yes.
My
first experience flying was just before I turned 8.  My parents had decided to send me to live
with my mother’s parents on a farm in Minnesota while they obtained a
divorce.  I didn’t learn about the divorce
until age 9 ½.  Since that time, I’ve
flown a lot on personal, union, and military business.  Once on the way back from visiting my father
in Los Angeles, the plane I was on almost was involved in a mid-air
collision.  That particular experience of
violent turning and climbing and turning again put a solid fear of flying into
my conscious and subconscious.  So, now
days I’m am always tense while flying. 
As you should expect by now, flying is not my favorite mode of traveling
either.
At
age 13, my parents decided to take a late summer vacation to the farm in
Minnesota.  So, after packing us all
roast buffalo sandwiches for the trip, we left Reno for Des Moines, Iowa where
we needed to change to a northbound train. 
When we reached Ogden from Reno, the train was to be stopped for
20-minutes.  My parents went to get
coffee and left me with my 2 ½ year old twin brother and sister on the
train.  About 10-minutes after they left,
the train began to move and I went into major panic mode.  “Where are they?” “Are they leaving us, like
mom did when they sent me to the farm when I was 8?” “How am I going to care
for two babies?”  “Can I stop the train somehow?”  Those are the questions that started racing
through my mind, repeatedly.  I don’t
know why or how, but I didn’t cry.  I
think I wanted to.
As
it turned out all the railroad did was move the train to a different track a
bit beyond where they had stopped originally. 
About three minutes prior to the expiration of the 20-minute stop, my
parents were back on the train with us. 
Contrary to all the TV ads, “relief” is not spelled “Rolaids” it is
spelled “let-me-give-you-both-lots-of-hugs-and-tears-of-joy.”
We
returned from that vacation 1 ½ weeks after school started.  I was starting 8th grade.  My first day of school was Thursday.  My teacher, Mr. Ross, gave me my books and
assigned me a desk.  Just before the
final bell rang for the end of the day, he announced that there would be a test
on the first 3 chapters in our social studies book the next day.  He told me just do the best I can.
I
did some panic stricken cramming that night and the next morning and took the
test.  On the Monday following, he was
upset with the class because they had done so poorly on the test.  Then he did the unthinkable.  He told the class that I had only one night
to prepare and they had nearly two weeks; then said that I had scored the
highest in the class by a lot (like an 86 or something).  That statement fixed my reputation as a DAR
(Darn Average Raiser) and my classmates were slow to become friendly and the
reputation (much undeserved in my mind) continued through grade 12.  In college the real truth was revealed.
Train
transportation is not fast in the west and central parts of the country, but it
is very stress free and relaxing (unless you start school late).  Yet, it is still not my favorite mode of transportation.
My
favorite method of transportation is books! 
Reading books can transport one to places that cannot be reached by
planes, trains, buses, or automobiles.  I
love to lose myself (and problems) in a good stories contained in books.  Television and movies are often stories first
told in books.  Books have the benefit of
taking longer to finish and can easily be taken off the shelf and
revisited.  Books contain adventures and
knowledge without end.
The
cliché states, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”  This submission to our storytelling group is
1579 words long.  So, you should have a
decent image of me in your minds, in case you all have forgotten what I look
like.  I will be back soon.
© 25 September 2011 
About the Author
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

One Monday Afternoon by Phillip Hoyle

One Monday afternoon with a folder of
stories in hand, I made my way to The LGBT Center in the 1100 block on
Broadway, the place with the purple awning that I had visited often to borrow
books from the Terry Mangan Memorial Library. My friend Dianne had looked at
The Center’s website and called me to say they were offering art programs and a
weekly storytellers gathering. She thought I might be interested, and she was
right. For quite a few years I had been attending a writers group, a monthly
gathering of men and women in which I was the only gay, but now I thought I’d
like to read my gay-themed pieces to an LGBT audience to see what response I
would receive. Excited by the prospects I entered the building, climbed the
stairs, registered my presence, and made my way to the library where the group
was to meet.
I knew the storytelling was part of
SAGE, a seniors program, and wondered how I’d compare with other participants.
I was younger except for Jackie who was the group leader. She was quite a bit
younger than I, a graduate social work student at Denver University who had
started the group as part of her internship with SAGE. Jackie’s warm and
friendly personality attracted me, and she was just funky enough and humorous
enough for me to relate to her. Two or three other men attended my first Monday
afternoon with the group. We introduced ourselves to one another and the
storytelling began. Since I’d never attended before, I had no story about the
topic, but I did have a couple of stories about my experiences as an older man
who came to Denver some years earlier to live his life as an openly gay man. Two
participants told stories extemporaneously, sharing interesting events in their
lives. Jackie read her story, something about one of her boyfriends back in New
Jersey. The other participant read his story in a thick Alabama accent.
I knew I had come to the right place. Thus began my tenure with The Center’s
SAGE of the Rockies “Telling Your Story” group, a storytelling relationship
that has endured over three years.
The next Monday afternoon one of the
extemporaneous storytellers surprised us and himself by reading a story.
Somehow the experience of putting his feelings on paper moved him deeply,
reading them aloud nearly devastated him, and hearing them read nearly devastated
the rest of us. What was this group? I suspected our times together might
become more than any of us anticipated.
Over the ensuing weeks—April through
June—we told our stories to one another; sometimes asking questions for
clarification, sometimes responding with our own similar experiences and
feelings, and always appreciating the candor and depth of the sharing. But
Jackie broke into our satisfaction by announcing the end of her internship; she
had received an assignment at another setting for the final months of her
academic program. Michael piped up to say we already had our next leader. We
looked around the room and then a realization hit me. I felt like I was again
in church; I was being volunteered. When the truth of it was clarified, I
agreed only to consider convening the group. The Center would be closed for a
month while the programs moved into the new facility on East Colfax Avenue. I
suggested that on the first Monday afternoon of opening week we come together
with stories on the topic “Beginnings.” In the meantime I would confer with
Ken, the acting SAGE director, about the possibility of leading the group.
I did volunteer to lead the group, an
experience of great importance and meaning for me. Prior to accepting the
responsibility I had gone nearly twelve years without leading any kind of
group. In fact, I had rarely attended any meetings for over a decade. I
reasoned perhaps it was time I re-entered group life and asked the participants
to brainstorm several topics we could use for the next meetings. We did so and
since then have generated so many topics we’ll have to meet weekly for
several years to use them all. The LGBT makeup of the group has presented no
particular challenges because of the personalities of group members and their
dedication to building community that features a broad spectrum of human
experience. But the most important thing I discovered in assuming this
leadership was that the group barely required any leadership, barely needed it.
It’s the easiest group I ever led, and I had led many, many of them in a church
career that lasted thirty years. Also, I never before led a group with such a
high average IQ or so much creativity and talent, both raw and trained. And
still after many months I never can imagine what to expect each week. Such fun,
such humanity, such diversity, such community. It all began for me one Monday
afternoon.
© Denver,
2013
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

Anger by Lewis

I have related here
before the heightened levels of anger I experienced and acted out as a boy–my
killing of birds, shooting out of a streetlight, throwing a dandelion digger at
our cat. 
There are other
manifestations of my inner rage that I have not told.  For example, there is the time that I shut
off the electricity in our neighbor’s house when they were away on
vacation.  Or when I hit the hubcaps of a
passing car with a stone flung from my slingshot.  Then, there’s my all-time most daring feat of
disgruntlement when I wrote an anonymous, deprecating note to a bunch of older
boys and left it where they would be sure to find it.  They, to my shock, surmised the source and
came immediately to me expecting a confession. 
I, naturally, denied any knowledge of the blasphemy, whereupon they
demanded a sample of my handwriting.  I
compliantly agreed and, when handed a pen and paper, copied the words of the
note in my very best left-handed printing. 
The lack of resemblance left them dumb-founded and they turned away in
search of the real culprit.
I could easily blame my
parents for my anger.  My father was
gentle and kind but incapable of understanding me or my juvenile emotional or
psychological needs.  My mother lacked
empathy. 
I was isolated as an
only child and a withdrawn one at that. 
In addition, I was the bearer of a horrible secret about the most
shameful of subjects–my sexuality.  I
felt myself to be kind and loving, yet an unworthy aberration of God’s creation.  I had no role-models, for I did not fit the
“role” of any other human being I knew.  So, I compensated by seeking to act like–and
perhaps be–an apprentice of God while feeling like one of the
“unclean” on the inside.  It’s
no wonder that the tension found an outlet through acts of blatant hostility.
I recently attended my
50th high school reunion.  My high school
years, as I have said here before, were miserable.  I had few friends–in fact, had no idea how
to make any, other than by using my intellect to impress.  I had no interest in sports and was
intimidated by the very sight of a girl. 
If I had thought that I had any sex appeal at all, I would not have
known how to take advantage of it.  
Consequently, my lowest moment at the reunion was after taking the tour
of my high school, now having undergone a $30 million refurbishment.  What little of it I could recognize brought
back memories of a childhood lost or, at least, spent in a depression-induced
daze.  I have long suspected that the
same could be said of most of the folks who never show up for reunions. 
So, what is the state
of my anger today?  I suspect that it may
be out-of-sight but not out-of-mind, much like an old childhood scar, hidden
beneath my clothing.  I still curse a
blue-streak at the slightest frustration. 
Perhaps this is healthy, as I believe anger suppressed leads to
depression.  I suspect the neighbors in
my apartment building would complain were it not for the fact that I live in a
corner apartment with a laundry room next door. 
I think much of my
anger comes from shame.  Shame is a
condition much more difficult to express than anger.  Shame then builds, leading to more
anger.  Next thing I know, I’m feeling
ashamed of my anger, which is really depressing.  I think I’ll go shopping for a punching bag.
  
© 7 June 2014
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

Endless Joy by Gillian

I’m not sure why but that phrase, the entire
concept, makes my skin creep a bit. Maybe it’s because the only people I can imagine
making me a promise of endless joy are fundamentalist preachers from the mega
church, urging me towards rebirth, and the corner drug dealer urging me towards
powders and pills. It also, to me, conjures up a vision of a constant and
rather scary manic condition.
Not that I’m suggesting there is anything wrong with joy
itself, but, like so many things, it is probably best taken in moderation. The
Free Online Dictionary defines it as intense and especially ecstatic
or exultant happiness. Now really! Who can keep that up for a lifetime? We
who are fortunate enough frequently feel joy in our lives, but it goes away;
either crashing down or floating gently away as we return to the usual
mundanity of everyday living. Christmas comes to mind, as I am writing this at
Christmas time. The word joy pops up frequently in carols, and we often
associate the holiday season with joy. Sadly, this anticipated joy does not
always manifest itself to those who expect it and they are doomed to angry
disappointment. Others, even more sadly, are realistic enough about the
situation in which they currently find themselves that they expect nothing; and
are not disappointed.
But let’s
suppose, for now, that we have a perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas. The kids
are joyous as they unwrap their presents and delve eagerly into the stockings,
the parents and grandparents rapturous as they watch. We build a snow man on
the lawn, then enjoy a perfectly dinner, after which we sit around the tree and
lustily sing joyful Christmas carols. We drop into bed, awash with Christmas
joy and egg nog. We are still pretty joyful in the morning, even though the
go-to-work alarm wakens us rudely before dawn. This Christmas was pure joy, we
congratulate each other silently. We totter into the living room which we find
completely covered in tattered wrapping paper, ripped-off ribbon, and abandoned
toys. The dining room looks almost as bad. When did all that gravy end up on
the floor? And what might that be, all that sticky stuff trodden firmly into
the carpet? And, oh God, the fudge somehow got left out and the dog ate it,
then threw it up in the corner. That joyous high is dissipating in a hurry but
we are also in a hurry. No time to do anything about anything right now. I dig
my way out to the car through that foot of snow that we were all so excited
about yesterday. Ooh, how perfect. A real White Christmas! Bloody fools,
I grumble to myself, digging out the car and beginning to register a slight
pounding in my head. How and why had I left egg nog for rum punch? Now I’ve got to get out on the icy freeway with all
those fools who don’t
have a clue how to drive in this stuff…. and I’m developing road rage before I even get the
car in gear. Not one ounce of yesterday’s
joy remains.
Weddings are other occasions
frequently linked with joy, indeed endless joy to be carried forward from this
joyful wedding to last a lifetime of marriage. A wedding crowd is very often a
joyful one, attending a truly joyous occasion. The happy couple overflows with
joy and we all rise with them onto some euphoric cloud. They rush off to the
airport only to spend three miserable hours waiting for the arrival of the
plane which by now should have already winged them away to that luxurious hotel
on the beach. When they finally do arrive there, exhausted and irritable, it is
pouring rain and colder than the home they just left. After a week of cold,
wind, and rain, viewed from the streaming window of the over-priced hotel that
euphoria bubble has truly burst. The honeymoon is definitely over.
Of course it isn’t just positive emotions which don’t go on uninterrupted forever. Negative ones
don’t either. If you marry
him you’ll
have nothing but misery. Not quite accurate. Maybe he will,
does, bring you much unhappiness, but it’s
not endless, with never a break. Surely miserable lives are, even if only
occasionally, treated to some relief, a little levity, perhaps even some rare
moments of joy. Years ago I saw a homeless woman pick up a small white flower
someone had dropped on the sidewalk. The expression on her face as she held
that flower up to the light was very evidently an expression of pure joy.
Don’t we need the bad times so that we can really
enjoy the good? If we did have endless joy, would we appreciate it? Would we
even feel it? I’m
not sure. And how could we have empathy for those not feeling so good? Helen
Keller said, “We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only
joy in the world.”
Eckhart Tolle, a name I’m sure you’re sick of hearing from both Betsy and me,
and sometimes Pat, suggests that if we live each moment in the now, never being
distracted by the past or future, every moment will bring us joy; not the
Christmas or wedding kind of joy sometimes engendered by an external stimulus,
but the spiritual joy of simply being. I work hard at it but doubt that
I will ever attain that spiritual strength. If I had been practicing it my
entire life I might have some hope of getting there, but I only really started
paying the attention I should to my spiritual needs after I retired. I am
making progress, and have experienced enough of those tiny shots of spiritual
joy to feel the beauty of it, but it is far from endless. In fact it is absent
more than it is present. The closest I can get is a kind of inner spiritual
peace, which I revere. It is almost continuous, though being a spiritual novice
I sometimes let it get away. So far, at least I am able to get it back. It is,
I believe, as close as I will ever come to endless joy. Will it be endless
inner peace? Only time will tell.
©  January 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

Passion by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or
enthusiasm for something.
“Passion is energy, feel the  power that comes from focusing on what
excites you.” — Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things: First, for
certain people; namely, my loved ones—my partner, my children and g-children.
My second passion is for music;
namely, classical music of the baroque, classical , and romantic styles and a
little contemporary.  I am very limited
in my ability to perform music.  I do
like being a part of a choral group and have been doing this for much of my
life.  But listening is stirring and
inspiring and I usually never forget something I have heard that has touched my
soul.  I use my ipod  when exercising.  Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to
keep me moving and working hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing
machine. I do mix in some fast-paced Abba for variety most of which I find very
energizing.  My music does excite me and
gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m listening to.  When I tell them, they give me a very strange
look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock? You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports.
That is doing not watching. I am a less than mediocre spectator fan.   I don’t pay much attention to which teams
are winning or losing.  Occasionally, I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a football game.  But given the opportunity I would a thousand
times prefer to play, compete or do most any activity that requires physical action, motion, and either some
skill, or a desire for adventure.
My deepest passion?  I had to search my soul a bit for this.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a deep passion for the
truth.  Perhaps that is because earlier I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.  After all, until I came out, that’s what I
was doing. Since we do not know the truth about most things from mundane items
that come to us through mainstream media, to metaphysical questions such as
what lies beyond this life—since we do not know the truth about these things, I
have become very conscientious about separating fact from belief.  Since this is all my brain is capable of at
this point, I leave it there.  
I would like to mention one last point
about passion in general.
As I was giving this subject further
consideration, I came to the conclusion that passion and obsession are very
closely related.  To illustrate: I DO NOT
have a passion for writing, which does not always come easily. But the use of
the English language and the application of its rules of grammar is near and
dear to my heart.  This goes back to my
high school days when my English teacher Miss Dunn who taught me for all three
years of high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the 3
years of grammar was rather boring, but I loved it.  I guess I have the kind of mind which loves
to analyze and that’s what we did.  We
analyzed sentences most of the time and learned rules of grammar and word
usage.  I, therefore was quite horrified
when I realized that I had made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s
writing and I actually read it using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even
notice.  The realization hit me in the
middle of the night—the night following our session here–as I lay in bed. I
thought,”Surely I didn’t write it that way.” 
So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written it that way and read it
that way.  Very upset with myself, I had
to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t
believe I did that,” I said.  Later,
thinking about passion I decided I do believe I have a passion for properly
applying the  rules of  English grammar….Or is it a passion?  Some would call it an obsession.  So, where do we draw the line between passion
and obsession? I believe that passion is actually obsession when one says to
oneself, “I wish I could have let that go.” 
To put it another way.  When one
becomes dis-eased over what she THINKS she has a passion for. (Oops! Did anyone
notice that!  I just ended a sentence
with a preposition.)
© 24 Oct 2014
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.
Posted on

Mushrooms by Ricky

          Why are mushrooms and
children so different yet still in the same Kingdom?  Why are children and mushrooms so alike but
not in the same Phylum?  Does it really
matter?  Yes, it does.
Similarity #1:  Mushrooms are Fungi which thrive in dark and damp places
often sticking their heads up into the sunlight to examine the world above the
soil and to scatter their spore.  Kids
stay in the shadow of their parents, then ever so slowly peer or venture out
into the world beyond their home seeking greater light and knowledge.  Adolescent male children prematurely scatter
their “spore”.
          Similarity
#2:  Mushrooms feed upon
smelly decomposing organic compounds predominantly in the dark.  Children are kept “in the dark” about many
things and accuse their parents of feeding them smelly decomposing organic
compounds.  Yet some parents do “feed”
their children’s minds a steady diet of “BS”, by continually espousing concepts
of bigotry, hate, and homophobia.
Parents unwisely keep their
children “in the dark” to protect them from information which theoretically might hurt or damage the child
or which is too embarrassing for the parent to talk about.  Not talking about sexual matters early enough,
but waiting until the child has already obtained a rudimentary knowledge which
is often wrong and incomplete is not good for the child.  Thus, a child who feels “different” for some reason
has no one with which to discuss their feelings, because the parent has closed
or not opened the door to such information or discussion.  This has a disastrous impact on the child’s
mental health, life, and is hazardous to their adult future.
Parents often struggle with
and wonder why their children don’t remain active in the parent’s church in
which the children have been raised since birth.  I suspect that years of lying and supporting
the myths of Santa Claus and Elves, the egg-laying Easter Bunny, the Sand Man,
Frosty the Snowman, and the Boogeyman finally carried over to the stories of
Jesus.
Parents keep forgetting that
children are NOT STUPID.  They are smart,
cunning, and bear considerable watching. 
Continually lying to them, even if it is a white lie like Santa Claus is
not setting a good example.  There must
be a discussion early on in a child’s life of the difference between a fictional
Santa and a real Jesus – a wise parent will ponder and prepare for that discussion very carefully
or be forced to admit that they
don’t know if Jesus is or was real.
Difference #1: 
Mushrooms
are Fungi.  Children are not Fungi.
Difference #2: 
People
eat mushrooms for flavor or recreational purposes.  Mushrooms only eat people after the coffin is
sealed, and often for the same reasons.
One day at our dinner table,
we were eating spaghetti with the sauce provided by a jar of Prego. 
This particular version of Prego
contained small pieces of mushrooms. 
Partway through the meal, my oldest daughter (7) proudly announced to
everyone that in school she had learned that mushrooms are poisonous and she
would not eat them anymore.  Instantly,
her sister (5) and brother (3) stated that they would not eat them either.  No matter how their mother and I explained
only some mushrooms were poisonous and they had been eating mushrooms in the
spaghetti sauce their whole lives and not died; no argument or fact could or
ever did change their minds or behavior. 
Sometimes, children really can be less smart than a parent wants to
believe.
What is the point?  The two questions that opened the mushroom memory
story are totally irrelevant to my point except as a literary device to get you
to read this post.  The question of “does
it really matter” is important.  It
matters because too many youths are still killing themselves over sexual
orientation bullying and parental homophobia. 
THIS MUST STOP!!!  Open and honest
dialog between parent and child must begin before age 5 and continue throughout
their lives.
So called Christian
ministers who preach hatred and homophobic sermons ARE NOT CHRISTIANS and
should be discharged and shunned until they repent and teach correct Christian
doctrine.  In my opinion, these ministers
could be prosecuted for some form of “breach of the peace” or “inciting
violence”.  They definitely are causing
discord and not preaching Jesus’ Gospel of love and harmony.
I am someone who believes that
every life matters. 
Every youth suicide represents a lost national treasure.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is
a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away
by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to
know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
– Poet John Donnes, 1624.

© 8
December 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
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.

Posted on

All My Exes Live in Texas by Ricky

        After graduating college in May of 1978, I was commissioned a
Second Lieutenant in the US Air Force (Security Police) and stationed at
Malmstrom AFB, in Great Falls, Montana.  During
that summer, I attended Camp Bullis near San Antonio, Texas for training in
security police officer duties, policies, procedures, and combat field
skills.  The first four weeks were
devoted to classroom activities and physical fitness.  The next six weeks were taught under field
conditions to hone the skills we read about in the classroom.
        One of those skills was map reading and orienteering (not to
be confused with sexual orientationeering). 
The highlight of that portion of our training involved day and night
navigation using a map and compass to follow printed directions from one point
to another.  The first set of
instructions was given us at our starting point.  We had to follow that instruction to find the
next leg of our course and so forth for a total of ten legs.  The destination of each leg was a “soup can”
mounted on top of a 3-foot post.  There
were 75 such posts scattered around the 3 square miles of our training area so
it was vital that we used the map and compass accurately or we would not arrive
at the correct final destination.
        I had done this type of compass course in the Boy Scouts so I
was not intimidated by the task and found it to be rather fun.  We had to follow the course in teams of
three.  I don’t know what the others did,
but my team drew our course out on the map and marked the desired destination
with an “X” and then walked the route. 
As we completed each leg, we drew out the next leg and added another
“X”.  No one was shooting at us since
this was training and not combat, so we had an easy time following the course
as drawn on the map except for the oppressive heat.  Due to the rolling hills, gullies, and
scattered light and dense vegetation, we would take a compass sighting and send
two of us ahead a convenient number of yards to establish a straight line.
        The legs were of varying lengths with some as long as a mile
from one point to another.  A one-degree
error over a mile distance could cause one to miss the destination by several
yards.  The target posts with the “soup
cans” containing our next set of co-ordinates were not all easily seen.  Many were placed such that one could not see
it until you passed it and looked back. 
Several were deliberately placed inside thickets of scrub brush that had
grown several feet high.  And there was
the constant watchfulness for Texas sized spiders, scorpions, tarantulas, and
snakes all while counting our steps and detouring around thickets too wide to
push through.  As I said, the day light
course was easy, but the night course was a different matter.
        The night course was the same event obviously without the
benefit of sunlight and in our case, without moonlight either.  With only flashlights, it was difficult to
send two teammates ahead to establish a straight line for walking.  We still had to deal with the local
“critters” and also the smelly night prowling ones too.  After completing the first leg with all its
difficulties, I decided to cheat a little. 
Well, it wasn’t really cheating because we were doing a compass course
and orienteering after all, and in a combat situation, it’s the result that
counts not the method.  And besides, I
really did not want to be walking around Texas all night dodging spiders,
snakes, and skunks looking for some elusive “soup can” on a post.
        Therefore, I had my team switch to nighttime orienteering using
a method not taught in our classroom experience, but taught in my Boy Scout
troop night games—celestial navigation using the stars as a guide.  After we took our compass heading and placed
the “X” on the map, we picked out a star on the horizon that was in-line with
the desired course and just walked towards that star counting our steps.  Once we switched to that method, the course
went very fast indeed.  In fact, my team
was the first one done not only for the night course, but also for the daylight
course.
        I imagine that all my “Xs” on those maps are still somewhere
in Texas, most likely in a landfill somewhere on Camp Bullis or possibly their
ashes from an incinerator are blowing around Texas on the wind.
        My only other “exes” are in Texas for sure.  My ex-president, LBJ, is buried there and the
“ex-decider” is apparently on his ranch attempting to create excellent works of
art and beauty.
© 13 January 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
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.
Posted on

The Sweetest Touch by Phillip Hoyle

Given my sweet tooth I certainly would recognize and appreciate anyone who personified sweetness, but for some reason I have no recollection of ever meeting such a person. Although I cannot recall anyone, I have experienced sweet moments with special people. I recall what follows ever so clearly.

All the busses with their crisscross routes in my Capitol Hill neighborhood and the fact that I knew schedules well enough to judge which one to catch fascinated my nine-year-old grandson Kalo. We’d be ready to go downtown and I’d wonder aloud if we should wait for the Number Ten—an every 20 minute bus along East 12th Avenue—or catch the Number 12—an every 30 minute bus along Downing that in those days, some eleven years ago, turned toward downtown on 16th Avenue—or walk three blocks to catch the ever-interesting Number 15—an every 15 minute bus on East Colfax with both local and limited busses that stopped at Downing. Kalo thought his granddad quite intelligent and looked longingly at every bus that sped by.

When Kalo was ten years old he told his parents he wanted to go to Denver to paint with his grandpa Phillip instead of attending summer church camp. Calls were exchanged and a date agreed upon. For years I had programmed summer educational experiences for children, but now I faced a new challenge: to plan a weeklong art experience for one child with one ageing granddad as the solitary staff. I called my one-week plan the “Young Artist’s Urban Survival Camp” and looked forward to the week. I knew the time would require many and varied art projects and for my grandson travel around the city by bus! Finally the day dawned and Kalo arrived. I met him at the airport gate. We rode the Skyride from DIA, took the Shuttle to Civic Center Plaza, and transferred to another bus to go up Capitol Hill. Our week was off to a great start; he loved the transportation!

That week the two of us did a heap of artwork. We visited museums, galleries, an outdoor arts festival, and the annual PrideFest. Probably just as important for Kalo, we rode busses. On one of our outings we transferred to the Light Rail. Also we walked. Since Kalo was from a small city and had lived most of his life in the country, I was a bit cautious when we were crossing streets. I’d give instructions and sometimes take his hand until I was sure he was alert to what could happen. Then one afternoon on an outing to the Denver Art Museum, when we rode the Number 10 down to Lincoln and were getting ready to cross the busy intersection at 12th Avenue, Kalo grabbing my arm cautioned me about the traffic. “Grandpa, be careful.”

I thought how sweet this changing of responsibilities was—one of the sweetest interactions of our ten year relationship. I who had long cared for people in a thirty-year ministerial career, who in my five years in Denver had watched over two partners during their deaths, who had given countless therapeutic massages—many to very ill persons—was in Kalo’s simple, thoughtful act being taken care of by a precocious ten-year-old grandchild. I received his act of kindness and thoughtfulness as a sweet moment. Of course, I also saw the act as a portent of what happens between generations: someday he and others would take care of me.

We had a great week on public transit, a mountain hike, and watching the PrideFest parade; and did artwork that had us painting, constructing collages, and making rubbings. But my favorite experience was receiving Kalo’s sweet and practical gesture for the safety of his grandpa.

Yesterday a young-adult Kalo with his younger sister Ulzii, their dad, and two friends, came to Denver. We have begun lots of talk. Perhaps I’ll remind him of this sweetest moment!

© 30 March 2014 – Denver

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

Clothes by Pat Gourley

I really was never much of a clothes person. Growing up on a
farm did not lend itself to high fashion and certainly not in rural Indiana in
the 1950’s. My family could certainly be considered lower middle class even in
the heady economic postwar years and clothing budgets were always tight. Also
attending Catholic grade school and continuing on with the Holy Cross nuns
through high school dress codes if not uniforms were required. I wonder in
hindsight if perhaps my parent’s real motive for insisting on Catholic
education wasn’t that the dress codes really cut down on clothing expenses?
I often did farm chores in the morning before catching the
school bus and the most important thing on my mind was not my regimented
clothes for the day but making sure I did not smell like pig shit going out the
door. As soon as I got to college my hippie days started in earnest and we know
what fashion mavens’ hippies can be.
Thanks to some rather ironic and unfortunate body changes due
to HIV medicines where one wastes extremity fat but seems to pile it on in
one’s mid section viscerally I have become a total fan of scrub pants, which
often come with an elastic waste band. The elastic waistband is one of the
great inventions of modern civilization. 
And nurses bless their hearts have made this the primary mode of work
dress. That has meant for years now that I can live almost 24/7 in relative
comfort. I have in fact incorporated wearing black scrub or chef’s pants to
nearly any social outing I participate in. I do own a few sport jackets but
these most often get paired with a tasteful t-shirt and the subtlest black
scrub pants I can find. T-shirts are of course another modern clothing
invention worthy of praise.
As far as shopping for clothes go I would really rather watch
paint dry. They just need to be baggy and loose fitting and of course comfort
rules always over fashion. This is a fashion statement that also endeared me to
the Radical Fairies. Especially when Harry Hay put out with the first call for
a large national gathering and in that call said something to the effect that
if clothing was to be worn at all it needed to be and I quote “flowing
non-hetero garb”. Since this first Radical Fairie gathering was in southern
Arizona in late summer the nudity won out over even the flowing non-hetero garb.
The opposite option to clothes I suppose is no clothes or
that wonderful word ‘nudity’. This option was truly reinforced for me in my
bathhouse days primarily in the 1970’s. The bathes were such a great gay male
creation. I mean lets all get together in place where clothing is truly frowned
on and actually considered rude. Nudity even if a bit of towel is involved
really does throw all pretexts for why we are here out the window. The lack of
clothes in the bathes really was a great facilitator for the main course if you
will, a great time saver.
The bathes though took a real hit in the mid-1980’s with the
AIDS epidemic beginning to really pick up steam and for me personally they were
no longer a legitimate avenue of play. I did miss the communal nudity with many
other gay men and perhaps that is why I was briefly attracted to a group called
the DAN-D’s, an acronym for “Denver Area Nude Dudes” that described itself as a
“nonsexual, social naturist club” in the early 1990’s. I did though only attend
a couple of their events the most memorable being a nude bowling outing
somewhere up in Northwest metro Denver. Trust me even the most buff individual
can look a bit strange pitching a bowling ball down the alley and jumping for
joy at a strike.

I was though delighted to find the DAN-D’s current web site
and that they seem to be thriving almost 25 years after being founded in 1990.
They actually have an event this evening if anyone might be interested. It is a
nude shopping spree at a local men’s underwear store on Broadway. Clothing
apparently not optional but a purchase does not seem to be required. It is
between 5 and 8 PM and I assume the store will be closed for this “private
event”. There is a modest membership fee to join the DAN-D’s but if you hang
out in front of the store you might be able to tag along in as someone’s guest
for the evening.
© September 2014
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.