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Emily Dickinson Lesbian Puritan Poetess by Louis Brown

I originally intended to do a report on the work of Constantine
P. Cavafy.
However, after I took a good look at who wrote what previously
on the Tell Your Story blog, I noticed that Colin Dale gave an even better
report on Constantine P. Cavafy than myself. His article is entitled “Details,”
dated 2-27-2013.  So I decided on my
second choice for favorite of the past and that was Emily Dickinson, before
which, however, on Cavafy:
When I was at SAGE New York,
I looked at the Community Bulletin Board, and I noticed that there was going to
be a public reading of the poetry of Constantine P. Cavafy. I guess over the
years we have heard some mention of gay poets, Alan Ginsberg, and in 19th
Century France, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine.  I wonder if Sylvester Stallone knows that his
character Rambo has the same last name a gay French poet?
When I saw the ad for the
reading of Cavafy’s poetry, I said to myself that an insightful gay libber did
a good deed in trying to popularize Constantine Cavafy’s poetry. Right now for
our community, he is the most interesting gay poet, the hottest potato, so to
speak, for several reasons. Like the work of 19th century homophile
writers John Addington Symonds in America, Magnus Hirschfield in Germany,
Edward Carpenter and Havelock Ellis in England, Cavafy’s poetry has a specific
reference to ancient gay history, that is to our golden age, ancient Greece.
Wikipedia: Constantine P. Cavafy (/kəˈvɑːfɪ/;[1] also known as Konstantin or Konstantinos
Petrou Kavafis, or Kavaphes;
Greek:
Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης; April 29 (April 17,
OS),
1863 – April 29, 1933) was a Greek poet who lived in Alexandria
and worked as a journalist and civil
servant. He published 154 poems; dozens more remained incomplete or in
sketch form. His most important poetry was written after his fortieth birthday.
He wrote in Greek.
+++
Emily Dickinson was a 19th
Century Lesbian Puritan Poet, called the Dame of Amherst. She was one of a
number of writers of the New England “Renaissance,” which include among others
two gay men Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Her years were 1830- 1886.
When I think about it, I could have done a report on Walt Whitman, n’est-ce pas? Considering the historical
period, we are talking about the Yankee defeat of the Confederate Army.
If Puritanism had not been
so repressive, I am sure Emily Dickinson would love to have said something
like, “When people ask why I never married, I would answer that I get a warm
feeling when certain women enter the same room I am sitting in.”  But of course she couldn’t because it was “Verboten”.
  
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us -don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

[This teaches us how to be skeptical of politicians].

+++
Because I could not
stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

+++
Snake
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him, -did you not?
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, –
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature’s people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

[Subtle resemblance to Edgar Allen Poe].
Moral of story: we need a Gay and
Lesbian school to popularize our literary past.

© 27 June 2014  

About the Author  

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

I hardly know where to begin to
write about my one-and-only mother. 
“Mother” is the last descriptor she would ever want to define
her function in life.  If she could, she
would surely prefer to be remembered for her contributions to education,
journalism, or faith than maternalism. 
If I had to choose, I would say she bore more resemblance to the Mary
Tyler Moore character in Ordinary People
than Barbara Billingsley in Leave It to
Beaver.  That is to say, she had few of
the maternal instincts that we normally associate with Midwestern families of
the post-World War II era.
Like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, my
parents slept in twin beds.  My dad
dressed in a separate bedroom, which also served as his office.  Although my bedroom was just across a narrow
hallway, I don’t remember ever hearing any sounds coming from their bedroom
that would suggest anything physical took place in that sterile space.  I never saw them hug or kiss, not even a peck
on the cheek.  My parents didn’t even
argue, at least, in my presence.  My dad
was a solid breadwinner, meek and mild-mannered as Clark Kent.  Together, they were the very model of the
modern, Middle American, Methodist couple–except for their fondness for a
highball before dinner.
Mother grew up in the small, rural,
southwest-Kansas town of Pratt.  She was
proud of the fact that Alfred Hitchcock’s one-time-favored actress, Vera Miles,
attended school there.  Her father, the
only grandparent I ever knew, was an engineer on the Rock Island railroad.  They raised chickens and a few cows on their
small property on the edge of town. 
There were six children, three girls and three boys.  Mother was the oldest.  As such, she had many responsibilities for
home-making and child-rearing.  I suspect
that that had much to do with her distaste for such menial labor in her
adulthood.  She had more dignified
aspirations.
Mother was quite intelligent.  She graduated from high school at the age of
sixteen with her sights set on going to college.  It was 1923, however, and her parents saw no
value in a daughter of theirs staying in school.  She was on her own.  She held a lifelong deep resentment over the
fact that her brothers, none of whom were in the least interested in further
matriculation, were given a car as their graduation present.
Denied any way of supporting herself
on her own, she soon married.  By the
time she was 23, she had given birth to a son and a daughter.  More and more, she was feeling trapped in a
hopeless and loveless situation.  She
wanted a career.  She was bright and
ambitious.  Living with a man who she
felt was never going anywhere in life and being saddled with two small kids was
like being entombed alive.  So, in 1936,
she filed for divorce.  Almost
shockingly, she did not ask for custody of the children.  In those times, it was almost automatic that
the children would be placed in the care of the mother.  Not so this time.  BJ and Joyce were placed with their paternal
aunt, also living in Pratt.
Before long, mom and another woman
had opened a beauty parlor above the Sears department store in Pratt.  She took the two kids to the movies every
Wednesday evening.  Sixty years later, as
Mom was brushing my daughter’s hair at our house in Michigan, she started
talking about the time she and the other woman ran a beauty parlor.  My daughter, who is bisexual, later related
that she was getting the impression that there might have been more than
business on the two women’s minds. 
Mother had told me some years before that her partner had, quite
abruptly, sold her interest in the shop to her and taken off for California,
never to be heard from again.  A lover’s
quarrel or a simple commercial transaction? 
I’ll never be certain.
The beauty shop was down the hall
from the office of the man who would become my father.  They dated and were married in 1940.  It would be 4-1/2 years before mom got
pregnant with me.  Perhaps it was the
turmoil of WWII.  My dad didn’t serve in
the war because of his limp from polio contracted when he was 20.  Mixed blessing, I would say.
On the other hand, my suspicion is
that Mom was just not interested in having another child.  By 1945, she was 38 years old.  She was still hoping for a career as a writer
or secretary or something.  My fantasy is
that on VE Day–May 7, 1945–my father swept my mom up in his arms and carried
her to the bedroom where they had their own private celebration of the
sweepingly historic occasion.  I was born
on February 3rd of the following year.  A
new era of American domination was dawning and I would be in on the ground
floor.
There were a few small hitches,
however.  Mom made plain many years later
that I was the child my father wanted–his one and only.  In addition, in her view, I was a
“deficit baby”, that is, a parasite that siphoned off the calcium
from her bones and teeth.  At the baby
shower in my honor, they played a game where the guests attempt to estimate the
birth weight of the baby.  All of the guesses,
duly preserved in my baby book, were on the low side, suggesting to me that Mom
may not have been taking enough nourishment.  
My actual birth weight was over seven pounds, close to normal.
One of my earliest memories is Mom
singing a lullaby to me.  The lyrics,
written by Paul Robeson, are, in part and adapted, as follows:
Evenin’
breezes sighin’, moon is in the sky.
Little man, it’s time for bed.
Mommy’s little hero is tired and wants to cry;
Now, come along and rest your weary head.
Little man, you’re cryin’, I know why you’re blue.
Someone took your kiddy-car away.
You better go to sleep now
Little man, you’ve had a busy day.
Johnny won your marbles, tell you what we’ll do,
Mom’ll get you new ones right away.
Sadly, that was a rare moment of
tranquility between Mom and me.  Most of
my recollections of close contact with Mom involved physical pain on my
part.  Not to paint myself as a complete
innocent, however.  Some of you may
remember my story of many months ago about climbing the neighbor’s
chimney.  Years later, there was the time
I walked home from school in a light rain without a jacket.  Mom was standing in the front doorway.  As I opened the door, she slapped my face,
hard. 
“How dare you not wear a coat
in the rain.  Do you want to get
sick?”
“I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking”, I said in complete
contrition, hoping to appease her anger. 
(After all, it had worked before when I suggested that mom stop worrying
and ask God to take care of me.)  Still,
I was blind-sided by her action.  Looking
back on it now, I believe that Mom resented being stuck at home as a lowly housewife
and my getting a cold would only aggravate her sense of obligation and
despondency.
When I had a spanking coming, it’s
delivery came at the hand of my mother. 
Her hands were good for other things, as well.  When I had ringworm of the scalp, it was she
who was stuck with the most unpleasant job of removing the hairs from a
circular patch of my scalp about two inches in diameter with a pair of
tweezers, one-by-one.  About five minutes
at a time was all either she or I could stand. 
When I got stabbed in the hand with a pencil at school, it fell upon Mom
to dig out the remnants of graphite with a needle.
I believe that Mom simply did not
have the disposition for being a caregiver. 
I remember her telling me about having to care for my paternal grandmother,
who was dying of colon cancer in the early 1940’s.  It was clear it was not something she found
rewarding. 
But Mom’s hardness was shown in
other, perhaps even less endearing ways. 
When I graduated from law school, my parents drove to Detroit from Hutchinson,
Kansas, for the ceremony in Ford Auditorium downtown.  With about an hour to go before the
procession began, Mom announced that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay
at our house.  I was terribly
disappointed but not surprised.  She had
been deprived of the opportunity to be a part of such an occasion in her own
right; how tough it must of been for her to look back on her life of nearly
three-quarters of a century as principally a home-maker and not feel big-time
self-pity.
Her predicament came most into focus
for me on her 50th birthday.  I was
practicing my Hawaiian steel guitar–hats off to The Lawrence Welk Show–in the utility room across the tiny dining
room from the kitchen, where Mom was ironing. 
All of a sudden, she burst into tears. 
I had never witnessed such a scene in our emotionally sterile
household.  Being gay–though closeted
even to myself–I wanted to rush over to her side to comfort her.  But I had not the slightest idea what to say
to her.  I had no clue what was going through
her head.  Had Dad said something before
leaving for work?  So, I just kept on
playing my syrupy music, which seemed to be of no help whatsoever.  Fifty years old, ambitious, and still ironing
in the kitchen.  That’s enough to depress
anybody.  I myself don’t iron to this
day.
On my parents last visit to Michigan
in 1989, Mom was sitting in the new family room addition.  At one point, she said, “I think I must
have left my cane upstairs”.  We had
no upstairs.
After my Dad died in 1990, my entire
family–wife, two kids and I–went to Kansas to take care of Mom.  It soon became apparent that Dad had been
covering for Mom for months.  She was not
able to live by herself.  We moved her to
a “progressive living” type of senior housing–independent living, assisted
living, and nursing care. 
Initially, we thought independent
living would be the best choice, as she was still able to do quite a few things
for herself.  Ten weeks later, we got a
call from the staff.  Mom was having
hallucinations about someone being under her bed and was not regular about
showing up for meals.  They suggested
moving her to the nursing section.
Within a week or two, we got another
call, one which caused my mind to harken back to my daughter’s story about my
Mom’s possible sexual orientation.  My
mother had gotten out of bed and dragged her roommate from her bed onto the
floor.  Then, Mom had sat astride the
other woman demanding sex, saying, “You are my husband and you owe
me!”  The institution informed me
that they had to tie my mother into her bed with straps and that she would have
to be moved to a different facility as they were not equipped to handle such
behavior.
Not only was Mom suffering from the
side effects of medications that lower one’s inhibitions, but she also was apparently
afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease.  It
was Christmas Season.  I had to quickly
find her a place with an Alzheimer’s patient wing.  The nearest decent one was in Wichita.  We moved Mom there as soon as the
arrangements could be made. 
At this point, I would have given
almost anything to have my old Mom back. 
Her disease may have dulled the loneliness and frustration of losing all
track of time and familiarity of face and habitat but I can only imagine that those
last three years were nearly unbearable, both for her and the staff and other
inhabitants, for whom Mom had nary a kind word to say.  It was during that period that my
half-brother–her son–died of lung disease at the age of 63.  I never told her.  How could I, when she kept saying that BJ was
coming to pick her up for a drive?  At
the end, she no longer recognized me. 
She died surrounded by strangers, pushing a walker down the hallway,
saying antagonistic things to those she passed. 
Was she ever truly happy?  Did I
ever make her smile?  Either I don’t know
or I can’t remember or both.  I do know
that I made my Dad smile and I guess that will have to do.

©
2 December 2013 

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.
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Poetry Tree by Beth Kahmann

Some need Poetry like another
whole in their head,
Well, I certainly don’t need
another whole in my head, Beth said.
Others need it to fulfill a
proverbial scratch that needs itching
Or a needlepoint project that
needs more stitching
Others still ache and crave
And must partake and
create, 
In order to be saved.
Others, still, need it to
quench a gnawing thirst, just like a water balloon, ready to burst.
One common denominator or thread
seems to be that some cradle their Poetry, as if it is Communal bread. 
All I know is I get bursts
and phrases of conjunctions and dangling participles that randomly float around
in my head, even when I’m in bed
And when I am able
I sit at my table
striking pen to paper
creating, cultivating my own
little song, rhyme, Haiku or fable
Sometimes I awaken from sleep
or slumber or meditation, my mind firing with anticipation.
Then the words and phrases
spill forth before I say my morning affirmations.
I feel so blessed to see Poetry
as my passion and my friend.
I feel like a kid again
who gets a free snow day and
gets to play and play and play all day.
All I know is my soul is
saturated with utter joy.
Not unlike a Toddler Turning
Two who receives a brand new sparkling toy.
Not sure why the title of
this poem is Poetry Tree, well that’s because to me………Poetry is Rule Free!!!!


14 July 2014 

About the Author 

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about
poetry.
She owns Kahmann Sense Communications (bethkahmann@yahoo.com).
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Keeping the Peace by Will Stanton

In 1967 when I traveled through Yugoslavia, all
the diverse states and ethnic groups were unified under the stern, deft hand of
Marshall Tito.  Keeping the peace
required a person of his universal admiration, status, and cleverness.  Although I was, at the time, quite young and
not particularly well versed in world affairs, even I could see the underlying
signs of entropy and conflict.  Sewn together
at the end of World War I into a makeshift nation, differences and suspicions
between Muslims, Orthodox Christians, and Roman Catholics, were just too deeply
engrained for the nation to last once Tito was gone.
The western-most state of Slovenia had more in common with Austria
culturally and ethnically than it did with its eastern counterparts.  Also, for a so-called communist state, it was
very democratic, in some ways even more so than America.  Upon my entering adjacent states, I noticed
differences in the cultural,
religious, and political atmosphere. 
During World War II, the Croatian Republic of Herzeg-Bosnia
claimed to be an independent fascist state with an uneasy mix of Muslims and
Christians.  Farther east, Serbia seemed more
primitive and populated by stern, dour people who easily adhered to
communism.  Muslim minarets were in far
greater evidence than in the western states. 
I had no idea that, after Tito’s death, my perception of Yugoslavia
being an uneasy alliance of very different peoples would prove to be so
prophetic.
I recall in particular the ancient
town of Mostar in Bosnia.  I took a picture of the world-famous stone
bridge that arched over the deep ravine of the Neretva River. 
16th Century Mostar Bridge
Of
my  more than three hundred slides from
that year, that color slide of the old bridge and the stone buildings on either
side of the ravine was one that literally was of prize-winning quality.  The Ottoman architect Mimar Hayruddin built
the narrow, stone bridge in the 16th century, and the bridge was the
subject of many paintings and photographs over the centuries.  During the early 1990s, however, neither the
bridge nor the peace stood.
In 1992, the area of Bosnia and Herzegovina declared independence
from Yugoslavia.
The central government in Beograd,
Serbia, retaliated.  Mostar was subjected to an eighteen-month siege by the Yugoslav People’s Army.  They first bombed Mostar in April, 1992.  The Croatian Defense Council
responded.  Continued shelling destroyed the
iconic bridge, the Franciscan
monastery, the Catholic cathedral, the bishop’s palace (with a library of
50,000 books), and a number of secular institutions as well as fourteen mosques. 
Civil War Destroyed the 16th Century Mostar Bridge
It took the intervention of the
United Nations and the European Union to attempt to bring relative peace to the
area by forming a Croat-Muslim coalition and then trying to convince the Serbian
government in Beograd to accept a peace
plan.  The Army of the Republic of
Bosnia and Herzegovina was comprised of a majority of Muslims and a
minority of Christians.  Fighting broke
out among them, too.  Before the
agreement could be signed, the Muslim-led forces fought bitterly against the
Christian Croats in attempt to control Mostar.  The Christian Croat forces
dominated Mostar, controlled the  western
part,  and the Muslim Bosniak population was
expelled and driven from their homes to the eastern side.  Peace, empathy, and humanity crumbled among
the ruins of Mostar’s stone buildings.
Finally, a U.S.-led agreement was
signed, and Mostar was placed under E.U. administration with the German mayor
from Bremen
governing and a British general in charge of U.N. troops.  The peace accord resulted in a very shaky
union of two autonomous regions, the Serb
Republic and the Bosniak
and Croat Federation.  Decision-making
was run by a system of ethnic quotas that has stagnated making agreements and
has stifled economic recovery.  The
editor of an independent Mostar website has stated, “They never will reach
agreement.”
Nine billion Euros have been spent
rebuilding the region including Mostar’s bridge and city buildings, but there
still is no reconciliation among the inhabitants.  The two city-sections each side of the river
still have their own electricity provider, phone network, postal service,
utility services and university.  Croat
and Bosniak schoolchildren attend separate classes, studying from different
textbooks.  The Croats, in the majority,
want the town unified.  Suspicion and
hatred are so deep that there appears to be little chance of that.  In January, the situation took a violent
turn, when a bomb blast toppled a monument to fallen soldiers of Bosnia’s
Muslim-dominated wartime army.
Such hate and violence is not
unique to Bosnia.  I have pondered long and hard about the
failings of humanity, its capacity to hate and to harm its own kind.  For one contributing factor, I am well aware
of the continuing debate concerning the relative merits of religion, good versus
bad.  Muslim, Christian, Jewish,
whatever, sometimes I wonder if Bill Maher is right; the world would be better
off if there were no such thing as religion.
But, that is only part of the
problem.  Much of the blame is placed
upon individuals, their failure to grow into informed, wise, caring people who
feel genuine empathy for others.  Inflexible,
unquestioning belief in one’s own religion or politics and denial of other
people’s religion or politics is symptomatic of just one aspect of the
religiosity-mind, a mind so entrenched in one’s own beliefs, even if they defy
fact and reality, that any attempt to see beyond them is hopeless.  Any attempt to prompt such people to look
beyond themselves and to consider other people and their ideas is met with strident
resistance, anger, and sometimes even violence. 
We see such toxic mindlessness today even in our own Congress and among
the voters and media-pundits who support them.

The wide difference between well
informed people with good critical-thinking skills versus those persons with
religiosity-minds astounds me.  The
famous philosopher Schiller once stated, “Against stupidity, the gods
themselves labor in vain.”  I realize
that medical researches have found actual evidence of certain differences in
brain structure between people that give an indication of which way one may
think.  I also realize that learning
plays a large part in how one develops his beliefs and method of thinking.  I can only dream of a cure for the
religiosity-mind, some medical procedure perhaps on the genetic level so that
all those born in the future will develop inquiring, thoughtful, empathetic
minds.  Perhaps only then will the world
have a chance of keeping the peace.

© 13 May 2013  


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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Poetry of the New Jersey Turnpike by Ron Zutz

I hope that I shall never see
A restroom stop named for me.
A stop whose hungry drains are pressed
Hoping for my bladder’s best.
A pit that stares at crotch all day,
Awaits my trembling hose to spray;
Urinals that in summer’s rush
See some sights that would make me blush;
Over whose mouth men have rained;
Bladders no longer filled with pain.
Piss is made by fools like me,
But pissoirs named after Joyce Kilmer — only
in New Jersey.

© 30 June
2014 

About the Author 
Ron Zutz was born in
New Jersey, lived in New England, and retired to Denver. The best parts of his
biography have yet to be written.
Posted on

Depraved by Ricky

          The word depraved
comes to us via the 14th century AD (1325-75 to be less precise).
The Middle English (or was it Middle Earth???) word depraven (Anglo-French)
which in turn was descended from the Latin depravare.  But then who really cares about that.  Does that make me depraved because I don’t
really care from where the word came?
          I sort of enjoy the
obsolete usage of the word, as in; The Republicans keep depraving President
Obama’s efforts, citizenship, and religious faith.  Especially since their real reason for
attacking him (beyond being power hungry) 
is not his politics but his skin color. 
They are afraid of losing the support of Black Republicans who could
vote as a block for a black candidate. 
          The more common
usage of the word falls into three primary categories: 1. to
make morally bad or evil; 2.
to vitiate; and 3. to corrupt.  So here’s the problem with these
definitions.  What is morally bad or
evil?  In Christianity the moral code is
fairly standard among the various sects, but not entirely.  Other religions have other criteria.  In Christianity it is morally wrong to lie
and bare false witness against someone, but does that make homophobe closeted homosexual
preachers “depraved” or just lying hypocrites? If a husband or boyfriend lies
in answering the question, “Sweetheart, do you like this new lamp I bought?” to
avoid hurting the feelings of his loved one OR to avoid an argument over the
lamp, is he depraved for not telling his honest opinion?
          What is
evil?  Most religious people would agree
that the Devil is evil, but what acts does he do that are evil?  Tempting people to violate the moral
code?  If tempting people is evil, then
all people who encourage others who are on a diet to eat something “just this
once” or talk an alcoholic into having just one little drink would be
classified as evil.  I doubt most people
would agree to that.  Is Ted Haggart evil
because (before he was allegedly “cured of his homosexuality”) he “was” a hypocrite?   If the Devil is evil because
he says there is no God, what about parents who declare Santa Clause or the
Easter Bunny real to their children, or people who lie and cheat on their
income taxes? Are they all evil too? 
What about the case of political parties or individual political groups
who lie about and distort the truth about another candidate?  Are they also evil?  If Americans cannot yell “FIRE” in a theater
as a joke without being punished, why can people in political campaigns slander
an opponent with no legal consequence? 
Isn’t slandering a good man “evil”.
          I really don’t
even want to discuss the “to vitiate” and “to corrupt” categories, so I am done
ranting except for one more thought.  If
there is no God or Supreme Being or etc., how can there be a legitimate moral
code to base our laws upon.  Where can a
person go to find a place where his so called “depravities” are his “pursuits
of happiness”.
Origin: 
1325–75; Middle English depraven  (< Anglo-French )
< Latin dēprāvāre  to pervert,corrupt, equivalent to dē- de-  + prāv ( us )crooked + -āre  infinitive suffix

de·prave [dih-preyv] 

verb (used with object), -praved, -prav·ing.
to make morally bad or evil; vitiate;corrupt.
Obsolete . to defame.

vi·ti·ate [vish-ee-eyt] 

verb (used with object), -at·ed, -at·ing.
to impair the quality of; make faulty;spoil.
to impair or weaken the effectiveness of.
to debase; corrupt; pervert.
to make legally defective or invalid;invalidate: to vitiate a claim.

©
5 Dec 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

Beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star While Navel Gazing by Ray S.

Six-thirty AM, do you
wake up one eye at a time, or both at the same moment?
Another day has been
gifted to you what are you going to do with it?
Can love prevail over
so much hate?  The sign on the wall reads
“God is Love.”  Well, who is your god or
goddess or whatever name you have for the ultimate motivator–or is there an
ultimate in your existence?
Feels like it will be a
hot one today in spite of the morning coolness. Your reverie is intruded with the
crash of garbage trucks loading.
Maybe they could carry
away some of the trash in our heads–clear a way for beautiful thoughts and
deeds. Do a little “Do unto others” stuff for a change. Do you, do I have a
consciousness to guide us through this new beginning?
Climb up out of my
navel and fall lock-step into the same old pattern of activity until life or
whatever intervenes. The outside world–it is here and now. Deal!
The butcher, the baker,
the climate change, the wars, the bomb, the screwy religions that have their
own monopoly on a god that neither you nor I can lay claim to. At times it
feels good to be damned by those people.
                                    I am in
good company
                                    Belonging
is everything
                                    Join the
tribe.
                                    To each
his/her own!
Make the coffee, brush
your teeth, etc, etc. Settle down and think what I might have to do and what I
can procrastinate about.
Have a cup, an old
scrap of toast.
Do not move too
quickly, waking takes a while.
It is a good start, the
navel isn’t as full of miscellaneous wool as when my one eye and then the other
opened.
I’ve affirmed for a new
day that Love: i.e. God, the Buddha, Thor, Apollo, Venus, et al. are still in
their heavens patiently waiting for me and you to find It, Him, or Her.
In light of so much of
this self-revelatory navel gazing and wool gathering it may be time to go back
to bed and get a navel refill.
As the poetaster is
wont to say, “Have a nice day.”
  

© 30 June 2014  

About the Author  
Posted on

Military Me by Phillip Hoyle

I didn’t serve in the Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force,
Coast Guard or Reserves. I dropped out of Boy Scouts after moving up several
classes and earning lots of badges. Although I liked singing in the choir at
Boy’s State I pretty much detested its political plotting, campaigning, and
especially marching. I wasn’t military material; not competitive, obedient, or
strong enough. Still I had a strong military background; I grew up in a
military town, Junction City, a railroad town next to Fort Riley in central
Kansas. I grew up next to where General George Armstrong Custer with his
Seventh Cavalry planned military campaigns against aboriginal folk. I grew up
next to military games of the Seventh Cavalry Armored Division that in my time
featured jeeps, tanks, big guns, infantry, and nighttime flares. I grew up
knowing my great grandfather had worked at three Kansas forts when he first emigrated
here from Germany and that two of my uncles had served in the military. I grew
up in schools peopled with the children of Army officers, GIs, and civil
service employees. I sat in classes with kids who had lived the past three
years in Germany. I attended school with girls who grew up in Europe and spoke
heavily accented English. Daily I heard the chop, chop, chop of overhead
passing helicopters from the base airport. When we drove through the Fort I saw
barracks, parade grounds, war memorials, historic officers’ houses, weapons, and
armories. I saw the PX and the Commissary. 
I went to church with folk from the Fort. I carried out groceries to
cars owned by soldiers. I watched my neighbor polish his boots to the most
unbelievable shine. I got to know his Japanese wife. I shopped in Army surplus
stores, daily walked past GI bars, and on payday night saw lines of enlisted young
men waiting to enter whore houses on East Ninth Street. I saw silk jackets with
wild-looking dragons on their backs brought home from Asian assignments. I heard
stories, saw military parades, and watched as convoys passed by on Interstate 70.
I played Army with my neighborhood buddies using either plastic soldiers or our
own play guns. I viewed endless military newsreels while awaiting my turn at
the Saturday morning gun club in the basement of the Municipal Auditorium where
local police took their target practice, in the same building that housed the
USO. Army was everywhere, even in my imagination, but I couldn’t feature
actually entering the service in any of its forms. I wasn’t a good match.
Dad told me of a worship service when America was on the
brink of war, probably at the onset of the Korean conflict. The preacher that
Sunday had waxed eloquently about the terrible enemy that was threatening our
values and safety. After Dad had turned off the organ, stowed his music scores,
and said goodbye to the choir, he stopped to shake the preacher’s hand.  He asked, “Why is it that preachers preach
peace until the nation is on the brink of war and then preach war?” He said the
preacher got really red in the face, but he didn’t tell me the man’s response
to him, or if he did I have no memory of it. I was fascinated with Dad’s
ability to support and confront, a natural counseling approach he had never
studied. He did so out of a sense of conscience, a tribute I suppose to his
father’s being reared Quaker. His people were thoughtful and honest. Coming out
of high school in the early thirties, he was unable to attend college, but he
was an avid reader, a theologically curious church lay leader, and very bright.
I don’t recall Dad leading me away from military service, but I do remember his
interest that I become a preacher. Perhaps he wanted me to preach peace.
In a Christian Ethics course in Seminary I developed a
great interest in how decisions are really made, at least that’s how I
expressed it. I opined over and over in the class the function of emotions in
moral judgment and action. I criticized our texts that said little about their
roles. I studied extensively in nineteenth and twentieth century philosophical,
theological, and psychological theory of the passions to find out all I could.
The teacher of the course liked to quantify our responses to ethical problems.
“On a scale of one to ten,” he’d say, “where do you place yourself…?” We were
supposed to choose a number. War was one issue. I refused to quantify my
response but, knowing myself, explained that if I were faced with an enemy I
would probably defend myself and my family. Having lived around the military
all my childhood, even without being interested in becoming a soldier, I
realized I’d probably want to defend my loved ones and country in some way. I might
declare myself a pacifist theoretically, but if the enemy was crossing the
border with guns aimed at me, I’d come to the defense. I was pretty sure that my
response would be visceral. Visions of helicopters and jeeps, guns and GI’s
still played out their power in me even fifteen years after I’d moved away from
the Fort. I guess that’s just old military me.
On the other hand I pretty much believe in the sanctity
of all life. Also I can pretty much be a wimp. Maybe I’d argue with myself as
the enemy approached and have no chance to use a gun I don’t know how to shoot,
be run over by an enemy who is stronger than I, or otherwise fight without any
chance of winning. And if I lasted very long, I’d surely wonder “winning what?”
Now that is really old me even though I can still hear the big guns blasting
off in the distance of my childhood. Guess I’d better stick with philosophy.
© 23 Nov 2011  

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

Forbidden Fruits by Pat Gourley

“ First they ignore
you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you…then you win”

Mahatma Gandhi
This famous quote from Gandhi seems to aptly sum up our LGBT history
as society’s forbidden fruits.  If you
Google the word fruit and then add ‘slang’ to the search the Wikipedia post is
quite worth the read. The word “fruit” as derogative slang for LGBT folks has a
long rather bizarre and cruel if not at times a hilarious history.  In the spirit of making these stories
personal tales I won’t go into much of what is said about the word except for
one example that is simply too delicious to not share.
Believe it or not the Canadian Civil Service used what they
called the “Fruit Machine” to detect infiltrating queers especially into the
Canadian Mounties. The “machine” would often consist of exposing recruits to
erotic male imagery or sexually charged homoerotic words and then attempt to
measure the response of prospective candidates. I think it was just nervous
twitching, sweating and flushing responses and that electrodes were not hooked
up to a penis. This ‘fruit machine’ was actually in use from 1950-1973!
It would be egotiscal thinking on my part to try and remember
when I was someone else’s ‘forbidden fruit’. I suppose though that I might have
fit that bill somewhat in the 1970’s when married men looking for a quick
noon-hour fuck pursued me at least for a few hours at the bathes. I was
certainly forbidden to them and definitely a fruit.
For me personally my tastes in forbidden fruit-like things of
a sexual nature have always drifted toward the leather and S/M scenes but I
must say I have only nibbled at the edges around those communities. I was
certainly headed that way in the early 1980’s but that whole HIV thing kind of
slowed new avenues of sexual exploration for me. Though I suspect I could be
easily seduced even today with the promise of some creative verbal abuse and a
good ass whipping, pretty vanilla I know but I am still a novice in this area
of ‘forbidden fruit’.
To shift gears here rather rapidly I read a piece recently
from the British journal The Spectator
where a London Physician, rather provocatively I suppose, said that he would
these days rather have HIV than diabetes. I think he was actually serious and
gave several examples of how well controlled HIV was actually less of a health
threat that diabetes which he described as not only a chronic but also a
progressive illness. His point overall being that HIV alone is now considered
to simply be chronic and not progressive or interfering with living a normal
lifespan. For the record I do not believe that Type 2 diabetes is necessarily progressive
either.
So what the hell you may ask is the rather loose association
I am making with forbidden fruit. Well, and bare with me here, I find it very
personally ironic and quite unjust that I am now looking at pre-diabetes with a
recent HbA1c of 6.0. That mind you after well over thirty years of HIV
infection and the resulting metabolic derangement I lay mostly at the feet of
HIV meds, even as effective as they are at controlling the virus. As the
Grateful Dead so often sang, “if the thunder don’t get you the lightning will”.
So forbidden fruit for me has left the carnal realms of the flesh and moved
into actually eating fruit, or more accurately drinking fruit juice.  Juice is now something forbidden if I want to
try and control the metabolic syndrome fueling my early diabetes with diet and
exercise rather than with medicines.
I have become in the past couple years even more of a
voracious reader of diet and diet theory related books. My heroes being many of
the leading vegans, Neil Barnard, Rip Esselstyn, T. Colin Campbell and some of
the less strident diet advocates such as Robert Lustig and Mark Hyman. All of
these authors, several being noted physicians, believe Type 2 diabetes is
reversible with diet and exercise. The diet they espouse of course is not
standard American fare and is full of forbidden items not just fruit juice.
Fruit juice, even fresh squeezed for example, has as much sugar as the same
amount of Coke or Pepsi. I needed to come to the realization that my pancreas
and liver don’t give a fuck where the sugar comes from. It is the same poisons
whether honey, high fructose corn syrup, Agave nectar or table sugar.
My personal guru around things diet these days is the aforementioned Robert Lustig, a pediatric endocrinologist from UCSF, whose excellent
book Fat Chance lays it all out in
plain English with of course rather long lists of the forbidden. His advice for
controlling metabolic syndrome and its evil sequelae can be summed-up easily: we
just need to eat real food. He suggests never buying anything with label on it.
Another of his pearls is that we have a choice in life, we can be fat or we can
fart. His reference to farting of course is related to the need for lots of
fiber in our diet, which only comes from real, unprocessed food.
So, for me now, in my mid-sixties, what have become forbidden
fruits are certainly much different than what they were in 1979. Ah, for the
simpler days when the choice was not between farting and unwanted visceral fat
but rather will it be an afternoon delight at the tubs or perhaps an evening
spent in a sling in the basement of dear friends. 
© April 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.
Posted on

What Wisdom Is All About by Nicholas

          There will
come a day when I won’t have the strength to lift my mountain bike up the six
steps out of the basement to get out for a ride. My arms won’t lift it up to my
shoulder, my legs will feel weak, my back ache. There may come a day when even
the thought of riding will be too much.
          There will
come a day when I might not be surrounded by the good books I’ve read and have
yet to read.
          There will
come a day when I say even an hour’s work in the garden is too much and let it
go a little wild and a little overrun with weeds which I despise.
          There will
come a day when I won’t be able to settle down to an evening of reading with a
glass of Cointreau to warm my throat.
          There may come
a day when I won’t climb the stairs up to bed and will sell the house for a
smallish, one-floor condo to watch the world that I used to work in.
          There may come
a day when I no longer will want to or be able to cook up a whole dinner in my
beloved kitchen.
          I’m coming these
days to focus on letting go instead of holding onto. If a massive hail storm
shreds my lovely tomato plants, then, I told Jamie, I’m done with gardening in
this almost impossible climate to work in. Some things, I just am not going to
care so much about anymore.
At a point in my life when each
birthday marks not one more year but one less, I have taken to de-accessioning,
getting rid of stuff. Many people when they reach their upper years become
hoarders and collectors of everything, not wanting to part with anything. Not me.
I just took a stack of classical music cd’s to the Denver Public Library. Let
other people hear this wonderful music. I have other versions or am just tired
of it. I periodically prune my bookshelves to take advantage of Tattered
Cover’s trade-in program and get a new book or two.
          Call it
resignation and a sense of limitations, but I want to cut back and cut down,
give away and throw away. I want less. Less stuff, that is.
I also want more—more good times with
friends, more enjoyment, more fun, more commitment, more energy. Resignation and
acceptance doesn’t mean inactivity or laziness or carelessness.
There’s a prayer that goes something
like this:  Lord, help me let go of the
things I need to let go of and accept the things I need to accept and help me
keep doing the things I need to do and then let me know the difference between
the two.
          That, it seems
to me, is what wisdom is about.         

© May 2014  

About the Author  

Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.