Belief, by Will Stanton

So many people, far too many people, are convinced that belief is truth; belief is the same thing as fact. Nothing could be further from the truth. For centuries, most people believed that the earth was flat; the sun circled the earth. I am saddened by the fact that many people’s hard-held beliefs defy fact and reality, and too often with dire consequences.

To the horrific discredit of humankind, many Nazis believed that all Jews should be eliminated. Pastor Anderson in Tempe, Arizona, believes that all homosexuals should be executed, supposedly because the Bible says so. Some beliefs can be shocking and deadly.

Very often, people thoughtlessly quote the hackneyed expression, “Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs.” In addition to that quotation being bad grammar, I logically disagree with the statement. If a belief is false and can cause harm to others, I feel then that one is not entitled to harbor that belief.

Yet, we daily hear evidence that so many people hold false beliefs; and, in doing so, they cause among the populace suspicion, fear, distrust, disdain, hate. For example, “President Obama is not American; his birth certificate is forged; he hates America; all the generals and admirals are quitting because they are refusing Obama’s orders to bomb our own cities.” I view such beliefs as nothing less than insanity. For the life of me, I can not understand the depth and pervasiveness of such insanity. Yet, exist is does, and in abundance.

The idea of belief in religion also raises questions in my own mind, albeit anyone questioning religion at all is an anathema to many people. I have heard Christians say that the world is a better place with religion and point to, what they refer to as, “good works” as an immediate benefit of religion, let alone supposedly having an “afterlife.” A rational person, of course, will point out that good works can be performed without the adjunct of religion, regardless of the fact that many people, such a Bill O’Reilly, claim that such humanitarian works “do not count” unless the good Samaritan is a “person of faith.” Far worse, we all are aware that, throughout history, some religious beliefs have resulted in millions of deaths from war, Inquisitions, and terror.

My whole life, I have pondered the human mind. On one hand, I am amazed by the great, creative works some notable people have contributed to the world. Yet at the same time, I remain puzzled and saddened by the pervasiveness of distorted thinking and beliefs that are so common among the populace. Without being too technical, I am aware that researches have found that some people’s brains are more prone to clutching onto beliefs for a sense of certainty and safety, rather than rationally exploring all the facts available to them. Then of course, much depends upon what one has learned and how it was learned. I frequently have witnessed religiosity-minded people becoming defensive and hostile when confronted with facts that call into question their hard-held beliefs.

All of us, to one degree or another, have beliefs that we wish to maintain. I, for one, believe that the world would be a far better place if every person cherished life, always treated each other with empathy and respect, learned to love each other. Yet, I actually have been confronted with people who have stated to me that they do not share such beliefs.

I also believe in the benefit of moral behavior. For example, I believe that American politics would be far more constructive and tolerable if all concerned acted in a moral fashion without misrepresentation, lying, denigration, character-assassination, and even theft of elections or actual assassination. Yet, I have had conversations with several religiosity-minded people who literally do not comprehend the concept that I am proposing. They believe that only winning is important and that whatever machinations are required to do so are perfectly OK. My belief in morality is not shared by them.

On a lighter note, I can think of a belief that I have held that turned out to be true even without my initially having all the facts. For some time, I held a belief, based upon experience and some research, that not all music is of equal quality, that some music is healthful and, what I call, “pro-human,” whereas some aural experiences, called “music,” are toxic to humans and animals. Some people, aware of my belief, dismissed it with disdain, claiming that my belief had no factual basis. They claimed that all music is of equal quality and that what one listens to simply is a matter of taste and preference. Then to my surprise and, I admit, my satisfaction, recent scientific research with both humans and animals has supported my early belief, and definitively so.

So, sometimes beliefs can be accurate, even without all the supporting evidence that we would prefer to have. I should hasten to say, however, this may be true, but within reason. I still feel that I reasonably can dismiss the belief that President Obama ordered our generals to bomb our cities. So, when we talk about believing something, we really should be rational and accurately know what we are talking about. Do I believe that all humans eventually will think and behave in this manner? Not really. But as for myself, I make an effort.

© 7 January 2016

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.

Depressed, by Ray S

Now, class, in order to understand better the many words that begin with the 4th and 5th letters of the alphabet please open your Depressed dictionaries to page number—oh no, you figure the page number with all of the clues I’ve already given you.

We need to start a list of the words that either begin with the 4th and 5th alphabet letters or sound almost like them and your interpretation:

Depressed—getting down low, or is it low down?
Digressed—not concentrating on your homework
Disappointed—oh well, better luck next time
Diverted—keep your mind on the ultimate climax
Demented—what happens when you have too much fun
Devoted—when you’re fortunate enough to find a loving partner
Demanding—watch out for those dominatrixes
Dormant—sorry, the wrong letters and a sign of my depressing condition
Distraught—at least I got the letter ‘D’ in there, and this word is more than enough to describe my depression
Depraved—well that is a matter of which way the pendulum swings when it comes to opinions and teachings of a lot of people about the Gay Way when in reality it is simply (though not always simple) another version of the Gods’ and Demigods’ way of varying the mix of the earth’s beautiful creatures. Also there is the constant reality of the depressing state of world and national affairs.

And then you could touch upon the despicable: like Donald Trump or guns in hands and who and what they kill, and of course, the Democrats and those elephant worshippers.

My, my, Class, you’ve done quite well with this exercise in DE words. For your next week’s lesson, I want each of you to choose one of the DE word subjects and prepare an essay to be read in class—no more than 965 words each.

Class is dismissed and perhaps Depressed.

© 7 December 2015

About the Author

Shopping, by Phillip Hoyle

We’d been out dancing together earlier in the week—Ronnie, my wife, and I–and were planning another outing. I liked Ronnie, thought he was really funny and cute in his own peculiar way. He was clever with language and image, always laughing, a serious two-stepper in his western boots twirling my wife this way and that with an ease I could never quite master. We’d go dancing, and she’d keep us both busy so teetotaler she would never have to stop and consider that she was dancing in a country western bar. That afternoon, while sitting in a booth with several employees at the Marie Calendar’s restaurant where Ronnie and my wife worked, I heard him say he liked to shop.

I phoned him to ask, “Were you kidding about liking to shop?”

“No.”

“Do you like to shop for clothes?”

“My favorite.”

“I need you this Wednesday or the next because I have several hundred dollars a friend sent me to buy clothes to wear at my daughter’s high school graduation. He doesn’t want me to embarrass her. I need to spend the money in one afternoon because shopping depresses me.” Ronnie agreed to take me shopping. We met at the apartment and went to a variety of stores.

He asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Grey.”

“No, no. We can’t have you in grey. Grey will just wash out on you,” he declared as he whipped down rack after rack of shirts. “Go to the dressing room and start trying on these,” he instructed as he handed me several shirts. So away I went, and down more aisles of TJMax he flew. Several more shirts in bright colors: turquoise, purple, and red were shoved through the door. I tried them on one after another. They all fit and to me looked really good. Then in came pants for me to try. Only one pair didn’t fit. It must have been mis-sized.

Usually I would go shopping alone and get discouraged after two or three tries, feel depressed, and take home clothes that didn’t really fit. This time Ronnie dressed me; everything fit. We went to Burlington Coat Factory where we decided on a silk sports jacket to go with the shirts and pants. I told him I wanted a belt I had seen at the Pendleton store in Old Town. We drove down there only to discover they didn’t have it in my size.

While there Ronnie tried on some western hats at my encouragement. He looked lovely; well I mean handsome; well actually sexy. I told him I’d buy him one that fit perfectly. He refused. I told him it wasn’t my money anyway, but he said, “No.” Around that time I wondered just what I was shopping for. We went back to the northeast heights to Ross’ and found a satisfactory belt. Then we looked at swim wear for the coming summer, and he let me buy him trunks and a t-shirt.

I went to the Missouri graduation outfitted in colors. I still enjoy looking at photos of me in my turquoise shirt playing with my grandson Kenneth. We had such fun. I was happy to get back to Albuquerque to see Ronnie and tell him stories of the success of my clothes. That’s when I clarified another level of my shopping, one that never made me depressed. So Ronnie and I started going out alone at times when my wife was working. We went to play pool even though neither one of us was any good at it. We’d go to those over-lighted straight places and share a pitcher of beer and play with lots of noise making: groans, cheers, and laughter. I suspect people thought we were a couple of irritating queers who insisted on being seen together in public. Finally one night when we were driving north on Wyoming Boulevard I rested my hand on Ronnie’s belly. Soon after that night we started playing sex games together.

I still don’t like shopping and every time I think about having to go buy some piece of clothing I think of Ronnie and our Wednesday shopping spree. I learned about color. I learned not to care about the money I was spending since it was marked for that purpose. I was happy to share the experience with a gay guy who loved to shop. I still don’t like to shop except for art supplies, but I do so when necessary. I miss my fashion consultant and all the things we did together back in those days.

We had fun, Ronnie, Myrna, and I. I had fun with Myrna. I had fun with Ronnie. I loved having a male lover, one close to home whom I could see more than two or three times a year, maybe even two or three times a week. I loved having a male lover who wanted to have sex with me often, and who liked the ways we played off each other. I liked being desired. I liked desiring this very funny man.

Such memories of shopping!

© 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

Depression, by Gillian

I have talked before of how fortunate, indeed blessed, my life has been, and certainly a large part of that is not to have been afflicted with depression. Sure, I have my ups and downs, sadness and loss; I’ve shed my share of tears. I’ve occasionally spent a few miserable days in what a friend calls a ‘mean green funk’. But when I’m low it’s the result of an identifiable cause; something that has happened. I have never suffered from long-lasting depression coming upon me apparently for no reason, though probably the result of some unidentified cerebral chemical imbalance, and most likely requiring some kind of medication to eliminate, or at least alleviate, the problem. Alas, I know too many people who do suffer from clinical depression to remain unaware of the depth of gratitude I must feel for not having been its victim.

I also escaped the Great Depression with all its miseries, not being born until 1942. But I find great similarities in the attitudes of those who survived the thirties with my own, learned in World War Two. Make do and mend, never waste anything, were the watchwords children in my world grew up with, as they were for the children of the Great Depression. Reading memoirs of survivors, the things they say could just as easily be said by Depression children as wartime kids.

I still turn off the lights when I leave a room. I save every little thing in case I might be able to use it sometime in the future. It was a great equalizer, everyone we knew was in the same fix.

We were kids: we didn’t know we had nothing, everyone had nothing. Our parents tried to hide the real hardships from us. One person collecting interviews sums it up, ‘Frugality: it is their middle name.’ Yes indeedy!!

Tropical depressions; I’m sure I have been in several, but so far have been fortunate enough not to encounter their more developed selves, hurricanes. Betsy and I came uncomfortably close to tornadoes here and there occasionally on our travels, but I have never been anywhere near a hurricane. I wish I may go to my grave saying that.

Depressions in the earth sometimes collapse suddenly creating sinkholes of various sizes. These have been known to swallow up cars, trucks, buses, houses and people. A police SUV fell into a sinkhole in Sheridan, Colorado, this summer. In 2014 eight classic Corvettes in the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky, disappeared into a sinkhole. People in Florida have fallen into sinkholes and never been recovered. And these things appear all around the world, not just in this country.

Depressions of all kinds seem, inevitably, to be ……. well, depressing. I looked for an appropriate quote as an ending to this piece, and found I was becoming ….. well, depressed. Then I chanced on this one by Emanuel Celler –

“The panic of the Depression loosened my inhibitions against being different.”

I could be myself.

Okey dokey! We all know the importance of being yourself: different, free of inhibitions. So maybe depressions, whether cerebral, climactic, fiscal or physical, are not all bad after all.

I’ll try to remember that when I’m trapped in my car in a sinkhole in the middle of a hurricane and I can’t quite reach the glovebox where I left my Prozac.

© December 2015

About the Author

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

Compulsion, by Will Stanton

I suppose that it is human nature for many of us to succumb to compulsive behavior. If we attempted to list every possible form of compulsion, we would be here all day.

Eating certainly is one of the most prevalent compulsions, especially in America. I once was invited by a 400-pound man to join him and a few others for dim-sung dinner. I tried to avert my eyes while he ravenously ate multiple courses, along with everything left over from other diners at the table. I will never subject myself to that kind of disturbing experience again. America is so notorious for overeating that someone posted on-line a photo-shopped image of Michelangelo’s “David” supposedly after visiting here and eating too much American food.

Chunky David

I fell pray to overeating for a few years, all because of chronic stress. My partner died. He also was my business partner, and I tried to do both jobs. Further, in our profession, we were required to deal with many people’s ongoing problems, which was hard enough. I also had to be concerned with professional clinical and legal liability. Worse, most competing clinics were thoroughly corrupt, making tons of money, and stealing away most of my clients. Big stress.

For a while, a little place close by, B.J.’s Carousel, became the antidote to my own stress. I must have driven by B.J.’s 10,000 times before someone told me that there was a little restaurant in the back that served solid American-style food at reasonable prices. In addition, the regular patrons and staff were exceptionally friendly and accommodating. Frequently, patrons chatted with each other from table to table, fostering a warm, supportive atmosphere. The restaurant played soft, classical music, rather than the pounding drums and screaming that most restaurants play now-days. Also in the winter, they had a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room that made the area very cozy. That’s where I would go to unwind.

Once my evening therapy groups were gone, and I had discussed each person’s case with my contract psychologist, and I had prepared the individual sessions notes for the clinical files, I felt drained. I would jump into my car and race down to B.J.’s, which stayed open late, and order an excess of comfort-food – – meat, potatoes, salad, veggies, and (of course) desert. This went on for a few years, and I must have been oblivious to the consequence until it became more obvious. Fortunately, I rarely eat that way now. The fact that B.J.’s since has shut down probably removed a pit-fall from my path.

Over those many evening dinners and Sunday brunches that I had at B.J.’s, I got to know one of the other regular patrons. It turns out that this person had a life-long obsession with trains – – – real trains, model trains, train videos and DVDs, train paintings, train artifacts and clothes. He even chose what cities in which to work so that he could be around trains. His compulsion to continually buy train stuff resulted in his living in a house crammed so full that one would need a front-loader to clear it out. His having a lot of discretionary income in retirement, he could afford to buy a state-of-the-art Lionel “Big Boy” steam locomotive that lists for $3,000.

Big Boy Locomotive

I later found out that the front of B.J.’s was a bar that was known as the place where drag-queens could go and to be in occasional drag-shows. Although popular with some people, I never have had the slightest interest in that phenomenon and don’t quite understand the compulsion to dress-up like that. But, I could not escape noticing them on show-nights when some of them would wander through the back restaurant. I truly admire natural beauty, but I can’t say that any of those individuals fit into that category. I sense that most of them realize that they never will look like ravishing, natural beauties, and some probably dress up with some sense of satire. There may be those occasional individuals who do try to look like Hollywood models. B.J.’s, however, was not Hollywood nor Los Vegas, and I never did see anything appealingly eye-catching. Instead, homely faces, chunky bodies, big feet, ungraceful movements, and lip-syncing tended to betray any efforts to look truly attractive.
Drag-Queens
I recall one individual who, from time to time, would come stomping through the restaurant section in a most ungraceful manner, carrying high-heels, on his way to the dressing area. That poor person’s face looked as though he once had suffered a bad case of acne. Between those pockmarks and his usual grumpy scowl, I might have surmised that this sad person once had worked at McDonald’s and possibly had a compulsion to bob for fries.

I suppose that it is inevitable that, wherever there are drag-queens, there is a certain percentage of them who become titillated with the idea of toying with female hormones. For some time now, I have understood the theory of clinical transgender orientation, and I intellectually can handle that concept. These are the people who seriously think of themselves as the opposite gender, and their transition is carried out, over time, carefully and seriously, with the assistance and advice of professional doctors and therapists.

However, as naïve as I usually am and until recent years, I was totally unaware of the fact that, throughout the world, there is an amazingly large number of young guys whose compulsion is to take massive doses of female hormone, permanently changing their bodies but with no intention of surgically fully transitioning to female. They rashly do this with black-market hormones and without the supervision of professional therapists. Instead, they turn themselves into, what is crudely called, “shemales,” neither male nor female, but individuals with male genitalia and, in addition, breasts, wide hips, and large buttocks. These are the hybrid individuals who Robin Williams jokingly referred to as “The Swiss Army Knife of Sex.”

Finally made aware of this phenomenon, I have tried to intellectually handle well this phenomenon of hybrid gender, but I have a hard time handling it emotionally. What disturbs me most is that many of these individuals start out as very good looking young males; yet their masculinity is destroyed forever. To my personal way of thinking, that is a waste.

She Male


I also understand that such unpredictable use of hormones may not always turn out well. There was one tall, good-looking guy who decided to secretly take hormones. He told me that he always was afraid that his family might find out. Oddly enough, his day-job was as a tow-truck driver. He hid from his coworkers what he was doing by wearing heavy, loose clothes. Then he would change into women’s clothing and go to B.J.’s. Later, after he had developed breasts, I overheard him lament that he was sorry that he had taken those hormones because now he no longer could take his clothes off and go swimming.

More bizarrely, I saw one evening a short, previously normally built teenager, who had been named “Miss Teen Queen,” who, from taking hormones, quickly put on a vast amount of weight and ended up with huge, bulging belly, drooping breasts, and bizarrely wide hips. I found that sight very disturbing. I was very puzzled as to why that boy had such a irresistible compulsion to so dramatically change his body. Did he imagine the results being different?

Then, a skinny, drag-queen waiter told me that he once had considered taking hormones until he saw what happened to one of his friends who had succumbed to that compulsion. His friend took lots of black-market hormones and then (in the waiter’s own words) “really freaked out and totally lost it” when he saw how dramatically his body had changed and also realized that those changes were permanent, especially the expanded bone-structure of his hips. Just the idea of his doing that to himself freaks me out, especially since the friend obviously never thoroughly thought through what he was doing or sought advice from any therapists.

I guess that the “trains-on-the-brains” guy’s compulsion to continually buy model trains, train artifacts and clothes, especially since he has the money to do so, is pretty mild in contrast to the kid who totally freaked out. At least, compulsive train-guy can trade or sell-off his trains if he wants to. And as for me, I can fairly safely continue my obsession with classical music by spending an inordinate amount of time playing and listening to good music. The freaked-out kid, however, will have to live a long time with the all-too obvious consequences of his compulsion.

© 06 October 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.

Exploring, by Ricky

Boys and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and civil-unions because it is 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, bailers, 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 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 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

Where Do We Go from Here? by Ray S

Where Do We Go from Here? (or something like that)

“What are you thinking about?” my drinking partner Jack inquired. My mind wondered: this may be the last time we’ll get together here in the rosy glow of the pink neon—the trademark of the famous art deco watering hole. Everyone owes it to themselves to visit this Denver landmark in the equally landmark Oxford Hotel. The post-Prohibition décor is purported to be an architect’s interpretation of a cocktail lounge on the HMS Queen Mary. Enough background history.

“Well,” I replied, “you’re leaving for Phoenix and a new home and a new life.” I thought to myself, as long as he can keep the cancer at bay. I wanted Jack to be my friend from the first time we met, and he is that, but now he is slipping out of my life as effortlessly as he slipped in. Where do we go from here? With that, Jack excused himself to go to the Men’s.

Almost magically, Harry the bartender set down two new Martinis—each a one olive and Tanquary up. My thoughts moved from the loss of my friend Jack to the last part of my question, “Where do we go from here?” Jack knew and I realized, like the rest of my past life, I had not inkling. If I woke up in the morning, I only knew to make a pot of coffee—from there on it was up for grabs—once I finally gained consciousness. Unless someone had engaged me for some sort of business, it always was me on call or demand. That is the way I was, am, “housebroken or trained.” Seemingly never having to make an important decision on my own—someone or circumstances always did that for me. When my Day Timer was full each day I could just move from one hour to the next until the dance card was filled—no thought, just move on.

Lost in thought, I stared at that olive at the bottom of its sea of gin and willed it to come up and jump into the little bowl of munchies next to my glass. Better drink some so I can save that poor olive from a possible drowning.

The other day a friend was telling me about discussion with his son the subject of always looking ahead and having a goal, and then go for it. Easier said than done for me, especially when one’s parents hadn’t alluded to any such philosophy—let nature take its course, and I have stumbled on in the realm of being the reactor, always in the state of “ignorance is bliss,” but at this age and the advent of another year to what kind of bliss? Seek a goal seems much too late, besides I don’t think I would be able to recognize a goal, even if that olive made its trip.

Where do I go from here? It is like standing at forks on this road of NOW. The signposts are myriad.

The Yellow Brick Road—but I never got Over the Rainbow.

The Road Home—You Can’t Go Home Again.

The Primrose Path—not all it’s crocked up to be.

The Road to Shangri-La—no way, it’s too cold a trip.

The Road to Mandalay or to Loch Lehman—don’t like to travel abroad

There’s a Long, Long Road a ‘Winding—now there’s one I’ve been on, and haven’t come to its destination yet. Not certain when, but this I am sure of: it will end when you’re not planning for it. You see someone else will make that decision for you.

The hotel restrooms here are a long way too, but Jack made the return safe and sound. “Did you notice the original antique features? Part of the ‘charm’ of this old place?” Those urinals were built for some by-gone giants. You had to be careful; you were a goner if you fell in!

While my friend began a detailed description of what he had learned about the old place, my mind wandered to my recent escape from my self-imposed closet. Finally, a decision I made of my own volition. Ironically, along with the joy of liberation, discovering a loving community, finding and acknowledging the real me, the monkey on my back, self loathing, is still with me.

The Gay Road was a good choice, now which road leads to this self love/hate resolution?

“Hey, snap out of it, you’re missing my Cook’s tour of this place, and put that olive back in the glass.”

© 4 January 2016

About the Author

Mushrooms, by Phillip Hoyle

I read a lot of Carlos Casteneda, his reports and stories of learning about healing plants used by Yaqui healers and magicians. I wondered about the drug effects, but they were not a part of my life in Kansas or Texas, Missouri or New Mexico, Oklahoma or Colorado. But in those same places his ideas and experiences were emulated by others, even by people I knew. I read—I do a lot of that—but I didn’t experience firsthand what these others knew. Oh, I did occasionally use mushrooms in salads or omelets; I ate them on steaks. I liked them but always thought of them as a luxury, a kind of decadent French sort of thing. But of course those were simple mushrooms with no powers beyond pleasing the pallet or filling the stomach.

One of my friends used the other kind of mushrooms for quite a few years. He always seemed on a quest for esoteric knowledge. Once he told me that if he wasn’t drugging, his quest went flat. High he could convince himself that the worlds of ESP, Zodiac, and other mind-bending pursuits and readings seemed wonderful: the Truth. Later, when seriously addicted and then having a cancer removed my friend was scared away from the drugs he had used and abused. Now he uses only prescribed pain killers and some un-prescribed alcohol. He’s calmed down and in his drug-lite life is saving enough money to pay off his school debts. He’s changed and seems unconcerned about special knowledge. He may feel like he’s once again living life in small-town Mid-America. I suspect, though, dancing to techno music with a light show in some cool bar could easily transport him back into the world of visions, but without the drugs he’d still be saving a lot of money. (Perhaps I’m a bit too hopeful and way too practical.) My friend’s doing well now on a path of self-preservation rather than destruction. His mind is keen. I hope he can keep it that way. Still I fear post traumatic stress reactions could become too much.

I’ve never seemed to need any kind of hallucinogen to get my mind rolling with images of the exotic, unseen, and overwhelming excitement. Always a daydreamer, I experience the unusual and incorporate those ideas and images in my teaching, writing, and artwork. I have done so not to escape, not to clutch or control power, not to become extraordinary; I have done so because the acts and perspectives seem to be what I am. Look at my life: I may seem strange.

See me…

Standing there looking at landforms I somehow love, like the relatively flat tops and steep slopes of the Kansas Flint Hills; OR

Dancing like a traditional American Indian decked out in leather and feathers, wool and beads; OR

Frightening preschoolers when I am wearing an African shaman’s mask at church; OR

Looking at a painting in the Denver Art Museum while I imagine that I am riding a horse across the high plains; OR

Dancing in rehearsal to get my middle aged and elder white choir members into the rhythm of an African American spiritual; OR

Standing alone on a hill at age twenty feeling filled with wonder at my body’s sexual relationship with nature; OR

Smoking my annual cigar at a retreat while I take in the act with a sense of exultation; OR

Sipping a beer while I prepare paints at the outset of an art project in my studio; OR

Prancing with wild abandon while I dance with a friend or alone in a techno bar on an urban Saturday night; OR

Standing on a western Colorado escarpment surrounded by hundreds of petroglyphs imagining that I can hear the horses, smell the fires of piñón and juniper, hear the chant of the singers, respond to the beating of the drum and ratcheting of bull roarers, and watching the lines of dancers greet the vernal equinox; OR

Sitting in my room as I imagine bears emerging from their winter caves to begin the seasons of warmth; OR

Seeing hunters track the deer, the sheep, and the buffalo; OR

Watching a poet friend prostrate himself before the dancing Shiva in the temple of his lonely Denver apartment made full, light, and lively by the divine presence.

I feel, see, smell, touch, taste the world, common, daily, and extraordinarily a swirl of life and love.

Guess I’ll forego the mushrooms and simply close my over-active eyes to explore some other part of my mind.

Well, something like that.

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

Compulsion, by Lewis

According to Wiktionary, the word “compulsion” means “an irrational need to perform some action, often despite negative consequences”. Standing up at full length and looking back upon my lifetime with eyes wide open, I can find nothing in my past that comes even close to an act that might reasonably be characterized as a compulsion.

I am reminded of a movie I once saw with the title of Compulsion. It told the story of Leopold and Loeb, the young privileged Chicagoan youths who, the 1920’s, murdered a boy for the sense of power and superiority it gave them. Of course, not all compulsions are so grim but all, it seems to me, have a negative connotation. Compared to Leopold and Loeb, my fondness for candy and salty snacks seems downright trivial. Yes, such indulgences can have negative consequences but only for me. But there is nothing unnatural about liking such things, as millions feel the same way. Jaywalking can have negative consequences but it is a rational act.

[I am cutting this essay short, as my Microsoft Word is behaving irrationally and–dare I say it–compulsively.]

© 9 November 2015

About the Author

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

A Defining Word, by Gillian

We need some new words; new defining words.

But we’re creating them daily, probably hourly, I can hear you thinking. And that’s fair enough. Just how recently did I adopt, or adapt to, words like server and processor, not to mention bits and bytes and firewalls and apps. But those are all techie terms. I’m talking about sociological terminology which seems to be mired in the mud of decades.

I find it very strange, for instance, that in the English language there is no word for a parent who has lost a child. We dignify the situation of one who has lost both parents with the noun orphan. You lose your spouse, you’re a widow or widower.

But surely the loss of a child is one of the worst things that can happen to a person, and yet our language offers no linguistic easy way out. A wife who has lost her husband can simply say, I’m a widow, and leave it at that if she wants. But a parent must stumble through some agonizing sentence, even if one as clipped as, I lost my only son.

The author Karla Holloway, in an essay on NPR back in 2006, addressed this topic.* She expressed it as needing to ‘name the pain’ in order to assist in healing. I saw what the loss of two children, before I was born, did to my parents in the long-term. I wonder, had there been a single word to express what had happened to them, if they might have found a way to tell me, instead of leaving it to my aunt eventually to clarify for me the presence of that huge elephant never absent from our home.

There is considerable on-line chat (surprise, surprise!) on this topic, and from it I discovered that few languages have such a word. The exceptions are, apparently, the semitic languages. German has an expression I find very touching, it translates literally as ‘orphaned parent’ but still it is not incorporated into a single word. Why is a single word that sums up this horrific situation so rare?

A few ideas are offered on line. Some suggest that it is only recently that infant mortality has dropped sufficiently to make it an unusual situation for a child to pre-decease his/her parents. That does offer a certain uncomfortable logic I suppose, but I don’t see how it translates into the absence of a word. Someone else offered the explanation that, with it having been such a common situation until recent times, and still being sadly frequent in much of the world, having a word for it would be redundant, like, this person, obviously a MAN, says ‘having a word for a man with a penis.’ The insensitivity of this analogy angers me, but then if I am going to be so precious I need to stay away from posts on the internet.

Another, herself a bereaved mother, suggests that it is something too terrible to be put into words. I sympathize with the idea, but we have words for so many still worse things, just take infanticide and genocide for instance, that I can’t go along with that explanation either.

Others believe the absence of the word is due to the broader social insignificance of the event. Becoming an orphan, widow, or widower, changes a person’s status in society, whereas losing a child does not. I find that incredibly hard and cold, and don’t want to believe it. Are we, the majority of the world’s population, so calculating that we only see sorrowful events which change people’s lives in the light of how they might affect us? Now we might have to support that child, give that widow a pension, or marry that widower. But we are not affected by the death of a friend’s child so consider it unimportant? Even at my most cynical, I truly don’t believe that most of us are so uncaring; so unaffected by the sorrows of our friends and neighbors, or even complete strangers.

So I remain simply baffled by the lack of this, what I consider very important, word. Someone on line suggests adopting the word ‘shadow’ because anyone who has lost a child becomes a shadow of his or her former self. Personally, I like it. It certainly describes my own parents. I have so often wished there were some way that I could know what they were like before they lost two children. But I can only extrapolate from the parents I knew, and from old photographs in which they looked so much happier than I ever saw them in my lifetime.

But I don’t expect this or any other word to appear in general use any time soon. Only technology will continue to toss new words at us faster than we can grasp them, and I shall go on struggling with Dvi/Hdmi adapters and why my Thunderbolt port doesn’t work and does it matter? Or maybe I have a vga port and does that matter?

And are these all defining words? Only my computer knows for sure.

* http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5511147

A postscript from Gillian –

After I read this to our group, Ray S. suggested using a new adjective rather than a noun.

Just as we say ‘childless’ of a person or couple without children, we could say ‘childloss’ of those who have suffered that terrible bereavment.

Thank you, Ray, I find that moving and beautiful in it’s simplicity.

© February 2016

About the Author

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