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Choiring and Singing; God Help Us All by Jon Krey

Yes,
I remember this subject from childhood.  As
I recall the songs they would sing usually had nothing whatsoever to do with my
need to hurry up and head home to the locked bathroom so I could play with my…uh…”Tinker
Toys.”  I was far better off “practicing”
there anyway rather than with the choir with all their screeching and hollering.  But too often sitting in the congregation
with Mom she would occasionally find me dealing with a very prominent stiff condition over which I had virtually
no control.  She’d grit her teeth, slap
me silly right there in front of other fine Christians and make me sit down.  Her slap never helped anyway though it did
occasionally make the situation more
rigid!  What was she to expect, I was
only 13 ½; a wet-with-sweat, tender and questioning youth. In the choir there
was one magnificent specimen, a muscular
tall blond football player from Junior High who sang a prominent tenor in the
choir and who, once in a while, looked in my direction…at me! Maybe that was the
basic cause of all my turgid grief. 
Otherwise, all the rest of that “music” coupled with the Hammond Organ’s
bass speaker right in front had a really bad effect on my auditory nerves.
Later
as an adult my ears were set to overload by disco music since I usually stood
in front of the bass speakers at dance bars trying my very best to look like
wallpaper.  I also lost some hearing due
to the fat kid next door’s Harley Davidson motorcycle with its “glorious” cacophony
of thunder which he referred to as “music to his ears.”  It wasn’t helped either when I was attempting
to qualify on the firing range without ear protection in ROTC.  The range officer didn’t particularly like me since
he probably knew my target wasn’t in front of me but usually right beside me
with his own large 45.  Ooooh! 
Consequently neither checked to see if I was…well…ready.  I was
but not for that paper target in front.
As
a result of all this, later in life, I probably couldn’t have “heard” the
difference between someone praising my magnificent high belted jeans from
Montgomery Wards and someone about to knock my “faggot block off.”
I
suppose lesser hearing may benefit me today in that I don’t have to hear most
of the harangue going on around me in “necessary” meetings, lectures, sirens in
traffic??, introductions to people I didn’t want to meet and/or  people
singing off key during a choir
practice.  So today, I find it much more
practical to just read lips and look at facial expressions.  It also helps me avoid something others tend
to refer to clandestinely as their “state wide prized choir.”  Besides, I can’t sing anyway and am too busy
listening to the ringing in my ears.

About the Author

“I’m just a guy from
Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”
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Baths by Gillian

There’s a city in England called Bath, and it has baths.
Does it ever!
It’s had them since the Romans settled there around the time of Christ, though there was a Celtic shrine there dating from about 800 B.C. 
By the 2nd century A.D. the baths were enclosed in a wooden building and included a caldarium bath, a tepidarium, and a frigidarium – no translations required, I think!

After the Romans left Britain in the 5th century the baths fell into disrepair but were later revived in several stages and the original hot spring is now housed in an 18th century building which contains the baths themselves and the Grand Pump Room where one could, and can, drink the waters.

Anyone who has ever read any Jane Austen has heard of Bath, and those watching the movies of her books have seen it on screen, as Austen’s heroine’s are inevitably off to Bath to “take the waters.”
In the early 1960’s you could still bathe and/or drink the waters flowing through the original Roman lead pipes, though for health reasons the waters have now been rerouted since the 1970’s. Just one more reason my brain is addled, I guess, as I was there lounging in the steaming water in 1963.

I was at a loose end, having recently graduated from the University of Sheffield with a degree in Geography – and what is God’s name was I supposed to do with that? In a shattered still-post-war Britain jobs were hard to come by and anything remotely to do with geography – cartography, geology, exploration in general – was male-dominated. I had a temporary job in Bristol, a city close to Bath, transferring eons of data onto Hollerith punch card – do not bend, fold, staple or mutilate – somewhat ironic as I spent most of my later life working for IBM where in the later 1960’s everything was taken off punch cards and put onto magnetic tape!

I met Lucie at a lecture. I have no memory of that talk, not even of the subject, nor how I got to talk to Lucie, but it was one of those immediate bonding moments. I might rather have thought of it as simply lust, or at best infatuation, on my part that is, but I had not come anywhere close to acknowledging such feelings for women in myself back then. We became friends, hiking at weekends, “doing lunch,” going off for picnics in her rattletrap old Austin 7 – something of an equivalent in Britain to the Model T in this country.
I was deliriously happy.

Lucie was extremely attractive and sexy. I’m sure I was not the only woman whose body parts twitched simply at the thought of her, and an endless line of men constantly offered to lay their lives at her feet. She went from one torrid affair to another, or sometimes indulged in them simultaneously, but every man fell short in one way or another.

So one day Lucie and I rattled off to Bath, not to take the waters – we had packed bottles of cheap chianti – but at least to lounge in them. For this purpose Lucie wore a very sexy very skimpy bikini that drove my heart rate up to what I’m sure was a dangerous level, especially while coming slowly to a boil in the “caldarium!”
She talked of her latest inamoratas, mainly grieving for one who had recently left to do a post-grad year at Rice in Houston. I had noticed with before that Lucie’s men were frequently viewed more favorably in absentia.

After a few minutes’ silence, bobbing about it the hot water, I was practically asleep despite my elevated blood pressure. Suddenly I heard Lucie’s voice, as if in a dream.
“Let’s go to America.”
I started and gulped and did in fact take the waters, if unintentionally.
‘Yeah. OK.”
And that was that.

Just as well for me that she wasn’t hankering after some guy in Baghdad or Darfur. My answer would probably have been the same.
Doesn’t it seem that the pivotal moment that changes the course of your life forever should be marked with something more dramatic, more insightful, than,
“Yeah. OK.”

©  10/22/2012

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After
graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered
Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965,
working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got
divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have
now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.
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Culture Shock by Donny Kaye

For all those years that I existed in
the closet I had an impression of what homosexual culture was.  My narrow
perspective was formed by the very same institutions and people that had
created in me the sense that who I was and the sexual energy that stirred in me
was wrong, something to be changed,  Something that even warranted a death
sentence.

I was confident that I would be regarded as dark and sinful and lacking in
moral integrity. I learned from the culture in which I existed there had to be
a sense of moral depravity on the part of those who engaged in homosexual
behavior.   

The culture taught that homosexuals were degenerates and even a threat to the
sanctity of American family values.  Certain politicians had identified
for the American public that homosexuals, especially those who asked for their
rights to marry were no different than terrorists.

Homosexual acts and those who committed them had always been described in less
than flattering terms. After all, gay men were the equivalent of dog fuckers!
Jokes abounded about the likes of homosexuals.  Homosexuals were seen as a threat to all
things decent and good.  Sodomites. Psychiatric nut cases.  Child
molesters. In the minds of some, homosexuals were regarded as “The Revolution”.

As a man of a certain sexual persuasion, I existed in the closet with greater
intensity, extremely fearful of the culture that I would enter if I were ever
courageous enough to step through the door that I had locked and sealed so many
years ago.  Even though I knew who I was, or at least of the sexual energy
that stirred in me, I felt the guilt and the shame from the cultural
understandings of homosexuality by association. 

The shock of the homosexual culture as described by the predominant culture was
so intense, disgusting and terrifying that the thought I could ever cross the
threshold of the doorway, kept me from the very essence of who I am. To enter
such a culture seemed an impossibility. 

At this time in my life the true shock for me that is experienced is in the
disgust I hold for those who perpetuate the lies, judgments and condemnation of
this culture, my culture. 

What I found, once I found agreement
within me to cross the closet threshold and enter the culture that I had feared
for so long; my judgments, my concerns and my fears were immediately disproven.
I read a quote of Dan Savage’s which
begins to address the experiences I am having as I coexist in this family I am
coming to know as my family of choice. 
“…what goes down under my roof is a social conservative’s wet
dream.” 
Within the container of my family of
choice I am in the experience of profound compassion, the expression of deep
caring and consideration, and a refreshing occurrence of people existing with
one another in truth. Yes, there are exceptions but isn’t that true
generally?  There seems to be an
increased level consciousness that I experience as I interact with my newest
family members.  I am realizing that for
the most part they act with integrity, openness and a deep sense of personal
responsibility.  They exist with dreams
and a propensity toward creating peace and living consciously. 
My Friday night experiences on the
dance floor at Charlie’s attest to the capacity of diverse people to coexist
with one another in a spirit of celebration and lightness.  Men dance with men, women with women in some
instances.  And at the same time there
are hetero couples moving about the floor, alongside men following the lead of
their female partners.  Some of the
individuals on the floor are dressed in drag, either feminine or
masculine.  Manly men, gorgeous women,
dykes, butch, fem, it doesn’t seem to matter. 
Old coexist with young.  Black
with white, all the demographics I was taught to fear move in unison to the
music, most significantly with engaging smiles, occasional winks and
always  a parting hug as the music stops
and couples move from the dance floor back into the whole of human kind. 
This is my culture.  It reflects consciousness and allowance for
each to be precisely themselves.  It is
sensible, and reflects hope and desire to live peacefully with the rights of
individuals, assured and respected. It is a culture that reflects true family
values. 

About the Author 


Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

    

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Weather by Colin Dale

Just before leaving home, for the fun of it, I checked the temperature in Elsinore, Denmark. The castle in Elsinore, you recall, was Hamlet’s stamping ground. Well, at 1 PM our time, or 9 PM Denmark time, the temperature in the courtyard of Hamlet’s old castle was 9 degrees Celsius, or a comfortable 48 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s about right for a Danish evening in June. Which makes me wonder if Hamlet ever had to put up with a string of super hot days like we’re having here in Denver.

Yet it was Hamlet who said, ” . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

I grew up in the Land of Ouch! I grew up in the Land of Ouch! and it has made me the man I am today, for better or worse. My mother and father were perpetual sufferers. They lived afflicted by demons, imagined, or if not imagined, then at least fed and made fat by my parents everyday fears. Now, before I say another deprecating word about my parents, let me say that I’m now old enough to once again respect and love them. I’m old enough to have made it through those long middle years when it’s common and, in fact, expected to loathe one’s parents. I see them now as the long-suffering strivers they were.

But long-suffering is the operant phrase. Long-suffer they did, and cry Ouch! at the most unexpected of times and at the most inconsequential of bad moments. As a kid growing up around my mother and father, I grew conditioned to vaulting from my room at all hours at the sound of Ouch! Or Damn! Or This is killing me! What I’d find arriving at the ambush site, time after time, was my mother or my father looking helplessly at a dropped slice of toast, or a slightly larger-than-usual phone bill, or a tabloid story of a crime wave happening a hundred miles away. I continued my Pavlovian response to my parents’ homicidal demons until my breakaway moment when, at 21, I allowed myself to be drawn, pretend-kicking, into the Army.

What, you have every right to ask, does all this have to do with weather? I’ll admit there’s some connecting called for here. To do that, I have to introduce what I call the Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights . . .

The Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights is a catalogue of entitlements earned when someone has lived at least three score years. You can tell if someone is invoking his Curmudgeon rights when he (or she) starts by saying, “When I was growing up, people didn’t [fill in the blank],” or “You’ll find out when you’re my age that [fill in the blank],” or “People today have no respect for [fill in the blank],” or some other clue of curmudgeondom.

But so far, you’re thinking, you’ve only told us about the weather in Denmark. True, but I’m getting close.

There’s yet another right, available to curmudgeons but rarely invoked–Clause 11.4–and that is to debunk anything said under the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights. Or, for that matter, to debunk anything said by anybody, no matter his or her age–any Ouch! or Damn! or This is killing me! said under the First Amendment.

Confession time: I subscribed to Clause 11.4–the debunking the debunking clause–of the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights long before I was eligible–soon after I left home, in fact, eager to escape the Land of Perpetual Complaining I’d grown up in.

And now, the long-awaited convergence: weather, with everything else . . .

I am tired of hearing people complain about the weather. Now, I’m not talking about people who are genuinely suffering, ill, or living in really stuffy, airless houses. No, their misery is real. I’m talking about 90% of the people I meet every day, my friends and neighbors, who seem to take perverse pleasure in kvetching endlessly about the heat. When I hear from these people–“Oh, this heat is killing me,” or “I’ve never been so miserable,” or “When will this hot weather end?”–all I hear, from my childhood, is Ouch! or Damn! After all, none of my friends or neighbors–ages young to curmudgeon–is hammering up plywood sheets against a Katrina or praying Godspeed! for a fishing crew lost in a Perfect Storm. For my reasonably healthy friends and neighbors it is merely hot. Stinking hot, yes, I’ll admit, it is stinking hot. But, for these reasonably healthy people, it’s not lethally hot. Or toxically hot. Or death-dealingly hot. For my friends and neighbors who, for the most part, go from one air-conditioned bubble to another, only occasionally sampling the real world, these temps in the 90’s and low 100’s are hardly going to make the black camel kneel down. They’ll survive this, my pampered friends and neighbors, to kvetch–a very few months from now–about the winter: “This cold is killing me!” or “I hate the ice!” or “Don’t we have enough snow already?”

I began by saying that growing up in the Land of Ouch! made me the man I am today. My impatience with the hale & hearty and their relentless complaining about the hot weather is neither right nor wrong. It’s just how it is. And who I am. It’s me invoking Clause 11.4: my debunking the debunker’s right.

Now, some of you are probably ready to hit me with That’s easy for you to say! In my defense, I’ll admit I feel this heat as much as any of you. I walk most everywhere. I drive with the air-conditioner off. I live in an un-air-conditioned house which, now that I’m retired, I’m in 24/7.

Okay, I’m done kvetching about spoiled kevetchers. I’ll back off my molly-coddled friends and neighbor and let them get back to complaining about the weather and everything else that simply is.

I do, though, apologize to anyone here who might be ticked off by my rant against Ouch! What I would do, if I’ve ticked off anyone, is encourage you to say To hell! with what I’ve said–which is your right–if you’re old enough–under the Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights: another rarely invoked clause (Clause 17.7): to say To hell! with even my self-righteous complaining, otherwise known as the debunking of the debunking of the debunking clause.

Remember Hamlet, the guy who said, ” . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”?

Well, I’m realistic enough to think even Hamlet, after a few weeks of temps in the 90’s and low 100’s, in his starched ruff, brocade doublet, and wool pumpkin pants, would have said, “All the thinking in the world won’t help, not when it’s this freakin’ hot!”

© 9 August 2012


About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

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Life After Truth by Carlos

I have been outed!

My partner, Ron, and I solidified our relationship on May 1st, entering into a civil union within hours after Colorado enacted them. In preparation for the historical event, we had our tuxedos dry cleaned, purchased new wristwatches to signal a new dawning, and planned a private celebration. I found myself strangely calm, that is until hours before the ceremony when I couldn’t cinch my cummerbund or tie my shoelaces. Suddenly, I understood why some people metamorphose into terrors just before their big day. It was becoming real. After all, I was committing to one man for a continued lifetime of discoveries…in real time.

Upon been ushered into the Wellington Webb Building, I inexplicably unleashed all fears, all doubts, all anxieties, and I became child-like with anticipation. Dignitaries congratulated the couples; families and supporters whooped it up; even tired agents at the Clerk and Recorder’s Office maintained genuine smiles of inclusiveness, conveying this was our day to declare that we in the LGBT community were taking another step closer toward full-fledged citizenship. I realized this was a victory in spite of it not offering full marriage rights.

Being so dapper, and hopefully so cute, every reporter wanted to photograph and interview us. Though we have never been in the closet, admittedly neither have we worn our relationship on our sleeves. That morning, we kicked the closet door open and agreed to every photograph, every interview. Only one reporter was ingenuous, an interviewer who forgot to mention she represented a conservative religious publication. Initially, her questions were innocent enough, perhaps to lull us into complacency. However, my suspicions were aroused when she queried us about whether the legalization of civil unions could in time lead to marital contracts by blood relatives or parties of three or more, arguments that have been used by homophobic institutions to prevent our forming legal families. I caught a whiff of the dankness from the rock from which she had crawled. Upon learning of the organization she represented, I unleashed a diatribe of impunities, informing her in no uncertain terms that as a former believer, I had long ago rejected its patriarchal, sanctimonious, we-are-the-chosen-of-God attitudes. To her credit she stayed in place as I defined the difference between those of us who embrace our spirituality and those of her belief who cater to their religiosity. I informed her that my unconditionally-loving God, was present and, no doubt, was at that moment dancing an Irish jig to a Mexican marimba band while singing in key of his sons and daughters whom He loved and validated and in whom He was well-pleased. I felt victorious as she slithered away, although I doubt that anything within her doxology had changed. After all, oppressors never see themselves in need of transformation, never realizing that bigotry wrapped in prayer is still bigotry. It is for us, the former oppressed, to raise our voices and our fists and repudiate their canons. Only when they feel the ire and the tension of our convictions, do they relinquish their self-appointed power…and then only grudgingly.

When Ron and I were finally ushered into the magistrate’s arena, my stalwart, stoic bravado betrayed me as tears bubbled up in the corner of my eyes, and we solemnly repeated our vows and exchanged rings. It was finally real; it was now official. Reflecting over the last few days, I feel different. For some reason that I am only now beginning to understand, I feel so much closer to my beloved. Our union bonded us as though we were enveloped in a lotus of love.

The next morning I was awakened by the ringing of the phone. Groggily, I answered. Friends were calling to inform us that our pictures of the night before were posted on the internet. My initial reaction was one of nothing-good-can-come-from-this, much like Howard Brackett’s reaction when outed in the romantic comedy In and Out. Apparently, people we have influenced throughout the years were heralding our exodus from behind the closet door. We had been fully outed, no ifs, ands or buts. Therefore, we accepted the inevitable, recognizing that in spite of ourselves a new chapter was opening up in our lives. There was little to do except be grateful for an act of synchronicity. Anonymity was no longer an option. Thus, we accepted our outing with courage, knowing honesty and love can never be wrong.

A new sun has truly arisen, and something good has emerged from it. Therefore, let us live our lives as though we have been outed. Let us finally be free, free, free. Let the echoes resonate in every nook and cranny as we slam the closet door behind us and build a new foundation for a brave new world.

© 20 May 2013

About the Author



Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.


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The Interview by Betsy

“So, Betsy, what makes you think that
your soul should be allowed to move forward and take residence in a higher
creature, a creature better than yourself?”
“The application for elevation of my
soul that you sent me says I must demonstrate that I have made a supreme effort
to be honest, trustworthy, loving to my partner and family and friends, and
sensitive to the feelings of others.   It
may have taken me a lifetime, but I am quite confident I have done this and that
I qualify for elevation.   And the effort
has continued throughout my life.  I try
to be loving to people I am close to. 
Sometimes I do get wrapped up in my own activities and I forget to be
considerate to my partner, but mostly I am loving and I do try. 
“I have been conscientious about following
the rules.  Actually, I did follow the
rules early in life.  I suppose they were
my parent’s rules; but when I became an adult I realized the rules were
different depending on who made them.  I
mean, I was married to a man because I heard that marriage is only between a
man and a woman.  But then, I learned
that that rule wasn’t the truth.  And I
tried to follow the guidance of my soul. 
Yes, I did have to hurt the man I married, but he got over it and is
better off for it now.  The important
thing is it was not my intention to hurt him. 
“I’ve always tried to be as honest as I
possibly can.  Yes, I know. I Iied to my
parents about eating the candy before dinner and well, yes, I know, about
having to be sent to the cloakroom that time in the third grade, and about not
doing my homework, but that was just once; and that was before I understood
that I have a soul and that I have an ego that can lead me astray when I am not
paying attention.  And punishment is so
hard on my ego.
“The application also says I must show
that I have made a positive contribution to society during my lifetime.  I bore and raised three children. I am rather
counting on them to make significant contributions to the world. They are smarter
than I, and they work hard.” 
“Well, Betsy, I do believe we can put
you on the short list, but the committee will have to make the final
consideration as to the direction your soul will take.  In the meantime, we recommend you do your
best to follow the straight and narrow. Actually, in your case forget the
straight, but keep that ego in check. 
After all, it’s only an ego.  It
has nothing really to do with your soul. 
You wouldn’t want to sabotage your soul for all time just for the sake
of your silly ego which is a temporary thing. 
Remember, you still have a bit of road to travel before the final
judgement is made.  We’ll get back to you
then.”
©
16 July 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Statues, Art, and Sensuality by Will Stanton

Michangelo’s David

An art teacher in Dallas, Texas, took her class for a tour of the local art museum.  One statue was nude.  One student mentioned it at home. The mother complained to the school.  The Dallas school board fired the teacher.

Loveland, Colorado, is noted for its sculpture park.  In addition to displaying a few pieces of statuary throughout the grounds, annual art shows and sales are held there and have proved to be both popular and profitable. Unfortunately, a number of very righteous citizens complained.  Apparently, there was one statue depicting a mother holding her child that they considered to be obviously obscene and a corrupting influence upon the youth of Loveland.  Despite the fact that the statue was not highly detailed because the artist stylized it through simplified lines, the statue was removed and placed in a far corner of the park, unfrequented by most visitors.

Apparently, these events are just more symptoms of skewed concerns and perhaps even rampant insanity in America.  “Of course, I realize that God abhors human nudity.  That is why we are born fully clothed and without genitals.”  I did not find this to be so in many of the older, more mature countries that I have visited in the past. 

I not only appreciate all forms of beauty including sculpture and the human form,  I, of course, am referring to the most admired examples of the human form, not those images that I receive on-line showing Wal-Mart shoppers in Tennessee.

Actually on the contrary, sane theology scholars (including relatively recent statements by Pope John Paul II) make quite clear that nudity in Christian art is acceptable when purposeful, done so with an element of philosophical modesty, and not solely to cater to the prurient interests and desires of the viewers.

Personally, I would have to have a brain of a brick and a heart of stone not to perceive the physical beauty in the David statues of both Michelangelo and Donatello.  I realized that, long ago, that David had become somewhat of a gay icon, an archetypal form of beauty often found in cheap, miniature imitations displayed in apartments and homes.  I had the good fortune to admire both in their original forms.

Michelangelo’s Renaissance masterpiece was created between the years 1501 and 1504.  The fact that it originally was destined to be but one among a series of monumental statues to be placed along the roofline of the Florence Cathedral accounts for its seventeen-foot size. The statue was placed instead in the public square near the seat of civic government and later into the Accademia Gallery. The strong, athletic build of this David, along with the steady gaze of his eyes, became to symbolize the strength of the Florentine city-state and a warning to stronger, contiguous cities.  The fact that this David also resembles a young, Greek god, does not hurt its aesthetic value either. 

What a different response Donatello’s David provides us.  This is no macho David, reliant upon his own physical power to vanquish the giant Goliath.  On the contrary, had Goliath captured David, Goliath might have been more prone to bed young David than to slay him.  If they had lived during Florentine times, this most likely would have been the outcome, and not to anyone’s surprise.  

Donatello’s David was created in bronze somewhere between the years of 1430 and 1460.  This five-foot bronze with gilt accents is said to be the first fully nude, male statue since the Greco-Roman times, although David’s wearing a cute hat and boots are anomalous.  Viewers with admirable sensibilities cannot help but admire this astonishing, artistic creation.  One would have to be a real “Bible-thumper” or a member of the Dallas School Board to be outraged and disgusted by this work of art. 

Admittedly however, there are some aspects of this David that might create confused feelings in male viewers, and quite possibly extremely disturbed feelings among homophobes.  To begin with, it is an understatement that one can not claim this David to be “macho” and physically powerful.  On the contrary, this adolescent, male form is notably androgynous, even to some degree feminine, and peculiarly sensuous.  Why so?

For the casual observer who has a rudimentary knowledge of Florentine history, one might conclude that this high degree of sexual sensuality merely reflects the pervasive tastes of the population at that time.  There is more truth to this than many people realize.  Sexual attraction and relations with young men were so prevalent that one cannot declare the practicing population to have been a “sub-culture.” One might almost conclude that they were the culture of the time.  But, could there have been a symbolized message within Donatello’s statue beyond the possible homoerotic interests of the artist and the person who commissioned the work?

I suggest that it does not take a Tom Hanks to figure out the meaning of the statue.  To begin with, young David did not rely upon his own powers and physical strength to vanquish the giant Goliath, nor was a single stone aimed at Goliath from some distance a sure thing.  Art historians state that, quite possibly, Donatello was expressing the belief that the power of God slew Goliath, not the physical prowess of an ephebe.

But why the sensuality, and that silly hat, and those little booties?   And even more so, why is there a long feather from Goliath’s helm riding up David’s thigh?  And what about that soft tuft of Goliath’s beard wrapped about David’s toes?

Donatello’s David

Ah ha !   A well known custom of Florence was for men to steal the hats off the heads of comely lads and to refuse to return their hats until they agreed to be the recipients of the men’s advances.  A good looking youth still wearing his hat meant that he had shown enough moral fortitude not to lose his hat and that he had been vigilant to protect it. Donatello’s David still wears his hat. David could not be vanquished!  Could this be the possible answer, or is this explanation a stretch?

So, what response does each, individual viewer derive from these nude statues?  Are these Davids simply expressions of Christian themes? Or, is it that some people simply regard these statues as just rather sexy ?  

© 08 April 2011

About the Artist

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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Getting Caught by Ray S

What a vast subject–depending on what you get caught at or doing. Certainly someone will recall, as I did, the old saw “getting caught with your pants down.” (Don’t you wish.) Caught by the boogy man in a bad dream when you were a kid. You remember. Running, running, running, and the harder you tried the more your feet were stuck in the mud-like glue on your path. Finally kicking and screaming you wake up escaping a horrible fate.

There were numerous times when you thought you didn’t get caught only to live with lingering pangs of conscience. With effort and appropriate therapy this too passed.

Then there were those delicious times when you were engaged in an activity in which you were tempting fate at getting caught. Those are the memories of “caughtness” that enrich our life experiences.

It all boils down to caught-positive and not caught-negative, so for me and maybe you I’m still out there catching that falling star.

2-4-13

About the Author

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Cookie Monster by Phillip Hoyle

     During my rather long life I have tasted an endless assortment of cookies. They cause me to smack my lips, salivate, and obsess, so much so that I freely identify with Cookie Monster of Sesame Street. I smell cookies; I see cookies; I want to eat cookies. I do eat cookies, way too many of them. But every so often I seek to stem the cookie tide in order to gain control of some little part of my life. Then I quit eating cookies along with other wonderful desserts in hopes of stemming my appetite. Cookies, you see, serve me as a stimulant for further eating. Cookies turn me into a ravenous food monster that isn’t pretty or couth or sharing. So every once in a while, Cookie-Monster-me wants to give it a break so I can enjoy some other possible satisfactions such as easily fitting into my clothes, having more breath, saving money, and not getting so exhausted when simply walking through a day.

     After feasting on cookies all year long and sometimes using them as a substitute for getting anything done, I have, this year, set aside my cookie pleasures. I’m doing well but my thoughts sometimes turn towards cookies. I’ve asked Ruth, with whom I live and who herself is a Cookie Monster albeit a dainty one, to quit leaving cookies in plain sight. Too often they sit in translucent boxes on the round table in the breakfast room. When I see the box, I have to run upstairs to fetch some chewing gum to keep my mouth busy and cookie free. Also, I shun buying cookies at the 7-11 across the street from work or the tea shop down the block or one of the many coffee shops I tend to visit. I’m cookie free (for several days) but my mind has turned towards them with such great force, I am going to list the cookies that have most preoccupied my eating habits during the many years from childhood to older adulthood. Perhaps the imagination of their flavors and textures will suffice for me, at least today. Here, according to my taste buds, are some of the very best, both commercial and homemade:

Hydrox cookies
Pecan Sandies
Wedding cookies (with pecan bits and covered in confectioner sugar)
Toll House cookies
Black and white sandwich cookies (the cheaper the better)
Macaroons
Peanut butter blossoms (with their big chocolate centers)
Snickerdoodles 
Shortbread cookies
Raspberry filled sandwich cookies with chocolate drizzled on top
Myrna’s Power Cookies (big oatmeal cookies with raisins & chocolate chips)
Ruth’s frosted sugar cookies
Ruth’s Cry Babies (soft ginger cookies with icing)
Lemon bar cookies
Seven layer bar cookies
Key Lime bar cookies (I used to get at Alfalfa’s bakery)

     In conclusion, I must admit I always return to Toll House cookies when my taste changes. I like cookies. I hope to lose enough weight to make a moderate return to cookies, but being the Cookie Monster I am, I find it hard to imagine life with such advanced self-control. If you ever see me reaching for the cookie jar, simply clear your throat and raise an eyebrow or, better yet, join me for an ultimate cookie pleasure.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

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Memorials by Ricky

In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)

          One of my early girlfriends narrowly missed being a casualty of the sniper at the University of Texas–Austin on 1 August 1966.  Thus, I find the topic “In Memoriam” depressing when I think about it too long, or in too much detail (like trying to write this life memory story).  Since 1981, my blocked negative emotions are returning and I am increasingly more sensitive and emotional over sad and tragic incidents and events.  Undoubtedly, at some point while writing this, I will stop to regain composure and dry my eyes.
          There are individual and personalized types of memorials.  To honor our mother after she passed away, my brother grew the fingernail on his left little finger to a little over ¼ inch in length.  He kept it that way right up to his passing in 2011.  At his death, his twin sister installed a flagpole in her front yard and placed an engraved plaque on it to honor him.  His ashes are on top of our mother’s grave and a Veterans Affairs plaque marks his location.  I occasionally wear a violet wristband in remembrance of the slain Matthew Sheppard, a hate-crime victim.
          The most horrific memorials to my mind and causes me a great deal of sobbing, are the ones dedicated to those senseless killings of innocents attending colleges and schools.  Since that August 1966 sniper in Austin, the shootings at schools and colleges did not stop and governments did nothing effective to stop the violence.  What is worse is the voting public did nothing to force legislators to act.  Living in metro Denver, I clearly remember the Columbine shooting (20 April 1999) and I have been to the memorial. 
Columbine Memorial – Never Forgotten

           No government did anything productive to prevent future violence.  Between the Columbine killings and the recent murders at Sandy Hook Elementary, there were 55 additional school shootings in the US (including three in Colorado: Bailey (Platte Canyon High School), Littleton (Deer Creek Middle School), and Aurora Central High School).  Neither governments nor the people did anything effective.  After the Sandy Hook shootings (as of 2 November 2013), there have been 18 more school shootings with 16 more fatalities and 21 more injured.¹  Perhaps governments and the populace will take effective action this time.

          Why did it take the mass killings of 6 and 7-year olds to motivate Congress to try and solve the problem?  Is Congress not concerned about the adult and teens that died at Columbine (or for that matter anywhere else since the 1970’s)?  Do members of Congress place their highest level of concern, and highest priority, on staying in office and increasing their party’s political power over serving the nation?  Do they even care about what is good for the people and nation?  In my opinion, their inaction cheapens the value of the lives lost.  [NOTE:  On 17 April 2013, Republican and Democrat members of the U.S. Senate once again turned their collective backs on the safety of the citizens by “killing” a bill to close background check “loopholes” in firearms law.] Since inaction speaks louder than words, it appears they really don’t care about us or US.
          I hope the following photographs forever haunt the dreams of our Congress’s heartless, soulless, and cowardly elected members who voted down (or blocked) the background checks bill. May they never have another peaceful night of sleep!   

In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)
The Adults
Rachel D’Avino (Teacher’s Aid with her dog)
Dawn Hochsprung (Principal)

Nancy Lanza (Mother of the murderer)

Anne Marie Murphy (Teacher)

Lauren Rousseau (Teacher)

Mary Sherlach (School Psychologist)

Victoria “Vicki” Soto (Teacher)

The Children
Charlotte Bacon 6

Daniel Barden 7

Olivia Engel 6

Josephine Gay 7

Dylan Hockley 6

Madeleine F. Hsu 6

Catherine V. Hubbard 6

Chase Kowalski 6

Jesse Lewis 6

Grace McDonnell 7

Ana Marques-Greene 6

James Mattioli 6

Emillie Parker 6

Jack Pinto 6

Noah Pozner 6

Caroline Previdi 6

Jessica Rekos 6

Avielle Richman 6

Benjamin Wheeler 6

¹ For a list of school shootings in the U.S. from 26 July 1764 through 2 November 2013 visit:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_school_shootings_in_the_United_States
© 29 January 2013, revised 18 March 2013, 27 April 2013, 5 May 2013 and 9 November 2013. 

About the Author

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.