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Mayan Pottery by Ricky

     From the time I was 10-years old through my 18th birthday, every December around Christmas time, I journeyed from South Lake Tahoe to Los Angeles via the Greyhound bus line. Each year the bus either went to Sacramento where I had to change to a different bus, or through Carson City, where I had a four or five hour layover before riding another bus to Los Angeles.

     Carson City had no lavish bus depot. It consisted of a small “office” with a small storage area for packages and unclaimed baggage. The bus driver had a key to the baggage area where he put my luggage but the office would not open until just before the scheduled arrival time for the north/south buses; in my case a four or five hour wait. I was ten when I took that first trip alone to Los Angeles via Carson City. I arrived at the still closed bus depot at 7:30 AM and had to wait until 12:30 PM to catch my bus.

     So I did what any 10-year old boy would do to stay warm and not be bored; I went street walking to find something to do. I was not hungry yet and I never ran across an open cafe. Carson City’s casinos were open but unavailable to me. Around 8:00, I arrived at an old building that resembled my schoolhouse from Minnesota. I stopped to read the sign, which informed me that the building was not an old school, but was the Nevada State Museum, formerly the U.S. Mint at Carson City.

     The museum was open and admission was free with donations accepted. Being on a very limited budget with enough funds for two snack meals to get me to my dad, I did not donate but entered anyway. I spent the next several hours in the museum wandering around and viewing all the exhibits that interested me.

     The first exhibit I saw was on the left side of the hall after entering. In a small room was a display of all the formal silverware presented to the navy’s battleship Nevada as a gift from the State of Nevada. Also on display were the ship’s bell and other items. All those items were returned or given to the state after the ship was selected to be the target ship for the hydrogen bomb test at the Bikini Atoll.

     Another item in the room was an old stamp or press machine, which actually placed the coin’s designs onto silver or gold coin “blanks.” In one side of the room was an old walk-in vault. The vault contained a permanent display of a private collection of gold and silver coins minted at the Carson City mint.

     I continued to wander through the museum for the next few hours reading all the posted display information and in general enjoying myself. I learned a lot about things not taught in school at the fifth grade level. The museum had an extensive display of Native American baskets and pottery, but no Mayan pottery or baskets. Eventually, I left through the basement exit mock up of a silver mine and caught my bus to Los Angeles. From then on, every time I ended up in Carson City to change buses, I spent my waiting time in the museum. I have been a “museumphile” ever since.

     As time passed and I visited other museums, I saw many examples of ancient pottery; ancient in this case meaning older than 500 years. The first ancient artifacts that discretely held my attention were not pottery, but wood, and came from Africa. It was a representative display of the various depictions of fertility gods, totems, or icons. These typically had either large breasts or over-sized and erect male genitals; a few actually had both.

     I have always been attracted to “images” that show or represent male genitals perhaps due to my adolescent fixation on all things sexual. I began to wonder how a museum could display such “naughty” things. It was many years before I understood the concept of understanding other cultures through anthropology. In other words, these cultures did not view these artifacts as being “naughty.”

     Many of the museums I visited had these types of displays and I was attracted to them all. When I finally arrived in Denver and visited the Denver Art Museum, I saw my first pieces of Mayan pottery (or at least pottery from Central and South America during the existence {and in the trading area} of the Mayan culture). Pieces on display came in various sizes, some small enough to fit on one’s palm and other pieces large enough to carry one or two gallons of liquid. Naturally, there were sizes in between the smallest and the largest artifacts.

Denver Art Museum — 4th Floor

     The ones of particular interest to me are the pieces with male genitalia. One of the larger items is a seated male in the act of masturbation. It is displayed in such a manner that anyone can see what the “man” is doing. It is prominently displayed on the bottom shelf of the display area, where any child can easily view it. On a higher shelf to the viewer’s right, is what appears to be an engraved penis perhaps used as a pre-Colombian sex toy or maybe venerated as a power symbol as did the ancient Romans and Greeks. This object is also within easy viewing of the young.

Denver Art Museum — 4th Floor
     Is it not strange that our “enlightened” culture can define a pottery man masturbating or an “engraved” penis as art, but proclaims a photograph of a real man masturbating or of a real erect penis as pornography?
© 16 December 2012

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”.



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Goofy Tales by Colin Dale

It’s probably true for each one of
us, we sit down a few days before Storytellers, or the day before, or the
morning of, look at the topic and think, What the hell can I say about this
one?  I’ve said just about every other
Monday about how I had to scrounge for inspiration.  Somehow, though, sometimes with only an hour
to spare–and sometimes thanks to the dictionary, a memory, or
Google–something would suggest itself. 
Looking at today’s topic, Goofy Tales, right up to this past Saturday
morning I was thinking maybe I would just skip today, or take a pass and just
be a listener.  But then on Saturday…
I went to the first meeting of a writers’ workshop I’d
enrolled in.  The instructor had warned
us by email the previous week, in addition to the usual first-day
stuff–introducing ourselves, talking about our individual goals, and laying
out a plan for the coming four weeks–we’d do a half hour or so of free writing.  The topic would be revealed to us on the
spot.  So last Saturday morning, we met
at the appointed hour, did the go-round of introductions–seven women and
me–stumbled through defining short literary nonfiction, when the instructor
said, Okay, it’s time for some free writing. 
The topic is guilty pleasures.
“I want you to begin,” she said, “by thinking of one of your
guilty pleasures, and remembering one particular time when you were really
enjoying it.  I’m going to interrupt you
several times to redirect your thinking, but I want you to start by telling
us–in the present tense, create a scene, use dialogue if you like–what it
feels like, this guilty pleasure, to be really, really enjoying it.  And then, without warning, you’re
interrupted.  What do you do?”
Each of us pulled back into our own private worlds–the
seven women and me–and began scribbling.
Three, four minutes of head-scratching and panicky
scribbling and the instructor said, “The interruption is over.  You’re free to go back to enjoying your
guilty pleasure.  What do you do
now?”
A few more minutes of wild writing and the instructor
said, “Now think back to one time–an earlier time–when you were caught
in the act of your guilty pleasure-absolutely
caught.  Again, create a scene, but now
using the past tense, tell us what that was like.  What did you say to the person who caught you
in the act?”
Heads down, scribble, scribble, and we were done.  The reason I’ve mentioned already that the
workshop was made up of seven women–the instructor was also a woman–and me,
is because of what these other students had come up with for their guilty
pleasures, and what I’d written.  We
started around the table clockwise, reading aloud our free writing.  Denise–and here I’m using phony
names–Denise, a bank manager from Louisville, confessed her addiction to dark
chocolate.  Tessa, a Montesori teacher
from Golden, opened up about her secret love for reality TV.  Joyce, who introduced herself as “only a
housewife,” revealed her passion for celebrity gossip magazines.  The youngest workshopper, Karen, a sophomore
at Metro, said something about not being able to pass up Starbucks lattes.  Then they all turned to look at me.  The instructor said, “Well, Colin, what
have you written?”
I thought: dark chocolate, reality TV, celebrity
gossip, Starbucks lattes.  I looked down
at what I had written, with no time to change anything, looked up at all the
women–who all now looked like my mother, even Karen–and began:
“I have it in my hand
when they come in.  Surprised like that,
there’s no way I can put it away quickly. 
I do the best I can, though, and press it into my lap…

Back to the workshop. 
There were a few uneasy coughs around the table, and I could hear
folding chairs squeak–but I knew there was no turning back, so I read on…

“Luckily there is a copy
of Westword next to me, which I quickly slide over, making of it a sort of
paper apron.  ‘You didn’t knock.  You scared me,’ I say, joking.

“‘Yeah, boo,’ Gerry, the
jock asshole says, screwing up his nose. 
‘You got the paper upside down. 
Whatcha hiding?'”

“Tony, the assistant
asshole, who hangs back by the door, says, ‘We’re gonna go workout.   Wanna come?’

“‘Let’s see what you got
there,’ the jock asshole says, and grabs for the Westword.

“‘Nothing,’ I say,
letting the paper get taken, knowing in the split-second I had had I have moved
it deep down and out of sight.  ‘See?’

“‘Yeah, well, thought you
were hiding some good shit.’

“‘Let’s go,’ says the
assistant asshole, and they disappear as abruptly as they appeared.
Back when I’d been doing the free writing, this was
when the instructor broke in: “The interruption is over.  What do you do now”?  Now, reading what I’d written, I looked up at
the women, each one with an expression of Oh, no, am I the only one who thinks
she knows what Ray is telling us? 
Confident my salvation is just ahead, I go back to what I’d written and
read on…
“From where I’m sitting
I’m able to lean forward and reach the door without standing.   Turning the twist-latch I feel a return of
reasonable privacy.  I reach down between
my legs, around the curve of my inner thigh, lift it into the light of day and
hold it with both hands: The Oxford Book
of English Verse.  My breathing
quickens as I open to Coleridge–back to The Ancient Mariner:

                 Like one that on a lonesome road
                 Doth walk in fear
and dread,
                  And having once
turned round walks on,
                  And turns no more
his head;
                  Because he knows,
a frightful fiend
                  Doth close behind
him tread.

“My guilty pleasure (I wrote) in this freshman land of asshole jocks is 19th-century romantic poetry. My 1942 Oxford goes with me everywhere.”

I got that far Saturday in my free writing about guilty
pleasures and I thought, Good Lord, this is silly.  And then, driving home Saturday from the
workshop, I also thought, You know, the story I just free wrote and then had to
read aloud–it wasn’t just silly.  It was
goofy!  But back again to
Saturday…  
Back to when we were free writing.  The instructor interrupted for the last time
and asked us to recall an earlier time when we had been caught–in no uncertain
terms–in the act of our guilty pleasures, I wrote:
“My father, who had no
interest in literature, and who was outspoken especially in his contempt for
poetry–fag lit, as far as he was
concerned–threw open my bedroom door, making the big posters taped over my
bed–my unframed Virginia Woolf and Walt Whitman portraits rattle like paper
flags.  And there I was, spread-eagled on
my bed, the Oxford in my hand,
savoring again my Ancient Mariner. 
Caught dead to rights in the act.

“‘Damn it, son,’ my
father said, a look of deep disgust on his face, ‘I’ve told you what that
shit will do to you.’

“‘But, Dad…

“‘Give it to me,’ he
said, thrusting his hand toward the Oxford. 

“‘No, Dad!” I
yelped, recoiling against the headboard. 
‘Please!’

“‘Stop with that shit
now, son.  Hand it over.’

“‘No, please, Dad,
no.  Please let me read my
Coleridge.  Please.  I promise, Dad, I really do, I promise I’ll
stop before I go blind.”
Here endeth the free writing.
And here endeth today’s goofy tale.

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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Deepest Passion by Gillian

Passion
is that whip-crack of thunder
following
the lightning flash across the sky
no
time to breath
It‘s
the forest fire of red white heat
urged
on by the winds flashing and cracking
no-one
can stop it
It’s
the wild wet waves crashing, smashing
against
the rusty red rocks
shattering
into wild wet pieces
that
re-form to recede at peace
only
to return
It’s
the early snow that softly falls
whispering
to dry autumn leaves
the
perfect flake clings to your skin
to
melt there
Passion
is a billion stars
in
an endless black night
and
the sudden lone howl of a wolf.
© August 29, 2011
 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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Three Little Words by Phillip

Love and marriage
Love and marriage
Go  together  like  a
Horse and carriage

     So we heard in the fifties; archaic expressions to bolster old-fashioned values. We didn’t think how the song was a commercial jingle rather than a poetic and musical reflection on human activity. It was show music for comedy. The simplicity of the words belied the complexity of the relationships, even the ones being portrayed on the screen. But this fanciful appeal to the medieval literary tradition of romantic love with its Lords and Ladies, royalty and riches, princes and princesses, troubadours and trouveres, lutes and loyalties, knights in shining armor riding trusty steeds and hoping to win the attention of the most important Lady of the realm; scenes from movies with white dresses, tiaras, and happily ever afters. It’s a dream of Edenic idealism based on the combination of three little words: I love you.

     Back when I was nineteen, my girlfriend manipulated me into saying those words to her. Of course I had heard the words in movies, but not in the house in which I grew up. I had no doubt I was loved appropriately by my parents and that they loved one another. Their actions showed these truths. Still, they didn’t go around saying it. In fact, few people I knew said the words which were were groan words for us boys watching movies. We so hated that romantic syrup, and thus I was unprepared to say it to my girlfriend. With great difficulty I played my part in the fantasy and finally stuttered out, “I love you.”

     Analytical logic demands that I was unprepared because what I felt for her was something other than love. Oh to understand the relationship between words and feelings, something that’s always been difficult for me. Anyway, I did learn to say the three words in combination to my girlfriend. I believed them although the feelings I had were more related to sexual hopes than falling in love.

     So I married the woman who taught me to say “I love you.” I practiced and practiced. I loved her in practical ways that made for a fine marriage. We liked and respected one another. We treated one another with kindness and love. I didn’t use the words to manipulate, but I did employ them daily. I taught them to my children. I was judicious in their use, and when I fell in love with a man, I didn’t use them with him for quite a few years. Eventually, I signed my letters to him, “Love, Phillip.” He never fell into line with my practice; so I noted. We never talked about love. I came to love other people as well—women and men. I said the words to a few. One young man said them to me. I explained my perspective, that these words can never mean the same thing to two people. Feeling meets feeling. What fantasies arise from such feelings need to be handled with caution should a couple of people want their sexual attraction and deeper affection to grow into a lasting relationship.

     Gay male romance may focus more on “Harder, deeper, faster,” than on pledges of “love and marriage”, yet even “Harder, deeper, faster,” is a convention not original to gay men. It surely became a focus due to the combination of two testosterone-laden individuals getting together sexually. These days modern gay experience does play with hopes of love and marriage in a growing movement for equality before the law. Perhaps American gay men want to say to one another “I love you harder, deeper, and faster.” Still love, words of love, and that potent combination of I, love, and you have a long history, and most American relationships want it to become personal.

     Words have creative potential. It’s an old tradition from any number of cultures. The ancient Hebrews believed in such creativity. For them, Yahweh called into existence the moon and stars, earth and innumerable varieties of life forms. God spoke. It’s a metaphor with great power in the imagination.

     Shall we not sing the possibility of creative love? After all St. Valentine’s Day falls tomorrow and creative love is a romance, one to pursue in both feelings and thoughts. Perhaps we need to approach “I love you” with the realism of my late mother-in-law who advised her daughter about sex in marriage: “You’ll get used to it.” Yet even this practicality didn’t mitigate her daughter’s fairy tale fantasy about marriage. The advice probably did help her survive the separation and the divorce that ended it.

Denver, 2012

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.”

Read more at Phillip’s blog: artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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To Be Held by Michael King

Increasingly in my senior years I am more aware of the power of touch, human warmth and acceptance, with acknowledgement and sincerity in my interactions with others. I went to a study group thirty-six years ago and had a new experience. The male host, as I was leaving, grabbed me and gave me a big bear hug. I froze. Never had anyone except a close family member had ever done that. Even as a child there was seldom more than a pat or handshake. 

Slowly, as I became a father and had intimate relations with my wife, I was more and more affectionate and receptive of warmth and closeness that I’d seldom experienced as a child. However, I had never hugged or been hugged by a man and only by the women that I had dated or married. When Jim hugged me, my automatic stiffing and adrenalin rush became an obsessive mind blower over the next several weeks, something I’d never even thought about. Intellectually I knew that hugging was one of the things that everyone at the study group did as they said good bye. I wasn’t prepared emotionally. It is surprising how a single, seemingly innocent happening can be life changing.

At the time I could not have let myself think of having an emotional or physical interaction with anyone other than my wife and kids. I was now introduced to a group of people who showed each other their welcomeing, acceptance, acknowledgement and greetings by hugging each other, and doing so without any sexual or manipulative overtones. It took a while for me to adjust to this totally different way of interacting with others. This whole thing about touching and having different emotions and intensions became a new and complex learning experience, both mentally and experientially.

As the years passed and my last marriage dissolved I became more and more attracted to men, another challenging and mind boggling growth experience. I must be an awfully slow learner or had so much childhood baggage that it took many years to wrap my mind and emotions around the simple act of an affectionate, heart-felt hug or even being comfortable in intimate encounters, of which I hadn’t had much experience. Not only does our thinking change almost unconsciously over time, but so do our emotions, our attitudes, our beliefs and the naturalness of opening our arms, inviting a hug and having that contact that is warm and personal without the unwanted overtones.

I now have a reputation for being a hugger. It is amazing how starved people are for acceptance and acknowledgement. Yesterday I was with someone I hadn’t seen for a couple of months. We greeted each other and gave each other a hug. It was so natural and caring and she said what I so often hear, “I really needed that.”

At the GLBT Center, Prime Timers, and in other situations when it seems comfortable, I usually invite hugs and often a kiss. Most of the time a hug is accepted and I think, appreciated. Receiving that acceptance and affection for me is a joy and a boost. It makes being so much more meaningful and positive. I feel uplifted, accepted and appreciated.

I’ve heard that it is a gift to someone to offer your friendship and affection. I believe and experience that as true.

I would also mention that to wake up in someone’s arms is one of the most comforting and fulfilling of experiences.

Living a life filled with love is what I am most thankful for among all the other wonderful blessings that are now a part of the joys of my beingness.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 4 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities, “Telling your Story”,”Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio,” I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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Details by Peg

Without details you wouldn’t have stories. Without details, life would be missing all its color and purpose. Relationships are all about details, how could you like someone if it weren’t for the person’s characteristics; their appearance, your common interests, or purpose, personality and chemistry.

Details bond families. With conflicting details; blood relationships fail and friendships dissolve. Wars are fought over details; contracts are all about details, without them laws would be impossible.

This short essay is about relationships that cannot flower because necessary details are missing.

I have grandchildren, two are my son’s, and two are of a previous marriage. I have not seen any of them for over eight years, and the reason for that long absence is the desire of their parents. A certain detail, my being Transgender is the core of their decision. Fear of what might happen IF, the father of the older two children were to find out that me, the grandfather of my son’s children is Transgender, and with that information, he MIGHT cause trouble for the family.

Another detail is how to explain me (now a woman) to the children and what they might do with that information. The existence of me (the missing grandfather) has been questioned but never honestly answered.

I know the children only by what their grandmother tells me, and the pictures she brings home with her. I don’t hear their voices, see them at play, or listen to their interests. I can’t watch them grow from the toddler and two year old they were the last time I saw them, develop into the people they are now or will become. Without all of those details, a relationship with them is impossible.

Still, I feel them, they are a part of my being, yet they might as well be someone else’s children and if I were to see them on the street; I might not recognize them without an introduction. I love them though they don’t know anything about me; a great void exists because…we don’t know any or all the necessary details.

About the Author


I was born and raised in Denver Colorado and I have a divided history, I went to school, learned a trade, served in the military, married and fathered two sons. And I am Trans; I transitioned in 1986 after being fired for “not fitting in to their program.” 18 years ago I fulfilled my lifelong need to shed the package and become female. I continued working in my trade until retiring in 2006. I have been active in PFLAG Denver and served five years on the board of directors, two years as President of our chapter. Living now as a woman has let me be who I always knew I was and I am genuinely happy.

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I Do Deviate by Nicholas

     I am not terribly fond of the term “queer.” I do not share the enthusiasm for that word that many younger gays and lesbians seem to. I came out in the great age of gay lib when we most wanted to show the world how not-queer we were. I needed also to show me how not-queer I was. 

     “Queer” depends on a context. It needs a norm to deviate from. It needs a norm from which to accuse others of not measuring up to or violating. Queer back then meant weak, inadequate, incapable, diseased, shameful. A queer was one who couldn’t live a healthy life. A queer was sunken in lust and incapable of rising to the romantic heights of love.

     I’ve had my lusts for sure but have known and given love as well. The problem for me is that while I do not identify as queer nor take any pride in being queer, I am definitely not normal—normal as defined by present day American culture. I do deviate. Let me count the ways.

     Sex, of course. I, a man, have sex with men. Not normal, though I hardly see it as queer. Most of that sex is currently with one man—my husband—in a sort of nod to normality. But I guess that is queer, for me to talk of a husband.

     On to politics and the queer thing shows up again. Though I see many of my political views as fitting easily into mainstream liberal American thinking, I can’t help but feel that is getting queerer and queerer. For one thing, I value intelligence. So that by itself pushes me off the political stage. I tend to be critical of politicians, all politicians, even those on my side. I don’t believe Barack Obama can fix the economy and certainly not in ways I would think essential—like helping poor people instead of rich ones. But Republicans on the other hand would only make a bigger, more inequitable mess of it. I would really rather see an American president talk about investing more money in public transit than giving nice speeches about gay marriage. Go figure. I must be queer.

     I do see myself as part of some larger things like a community, a society, a world, a natural system. That’s queer in the individually greedy USA. I don’t mind paying taxes and think that more people (i.e., those who have fed hugely from the money trough) should pay more so others can count on a decent life. Now that’s really queer. My lavender is now turning pink, as in pinko.  

     I can’t leave out religion because this is where I get really queer. My soul pulls me in to be part of one though I remain highly skeptical of it. I guess I’d call myself Christian though I prefer to follow the example of Jesus Christ as a man seeking to include everybody in his fellowship. I find it intriguing that Christ taught with stories and parables and not the heavy-handed lectures that his followers prefer today. I think that the “Jesus is my personal savior” approach to spirituality as kind of preposterous and egotistical and the body and blood stuff is just gruesome and distasteful. 

     I see the Christian message as one inspiring humans to be kind, do good, practice humility, and restrain egoism. It is a way of questioning, not of imposing answers on others, not a way of trumpeting ego and excluding people you don’t like because of something handily called “god’s will.” I am so queer, in fact, that I like to say your faith is only as strong as your doubts.

     Well, it seems that I am more queer outside of bed than in it. And that is a status that I highly cherish and value in friends as well. One is better off being queer not only because the sex is actually better but so is the rest of life. Be yourself means, always be yourself, that unique person with your unique perspectives. It’s a full-time job being queer.

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.
  
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The Painting by Will Stanton

Among that modern, minority population who are familiar with great paintings and appreciate their beauty and historical significance, the late-sixteenth-century artist Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio holds an important position.  His revolutionary, true-to-life style amazed and sometimes even shocked his contemporaries.  Today, anyone who might happen to stumble upon one of his portraits or Biblical scenes might be more accepting because, unlike abstract works of art, his realism is readily understood.   Of course, those people with religiosity minds who are horrified by reality and especially nudity may not be very accepting of his paintings.
  
A well known Caravaggio’s painting is “The Musicians.”  In addition to the great technical skill and beauty of the painting, it also represents an art form most often thought to possess even more power to move human minds and emotions, the music created and sung during his time and many decades thereafter by musicians the likes of which we have not seen in over a century. 

Caravaggio was born in Milan in 1571.  As a youth, he trained with a student of the famed painter Titian.  When 21, Caravaggio went to Rome where he worked for painters ironically often less talented than he.  He also took exception to the reigning style of painting religious and aristocratic figures in an idealistic manner.  He felt strongly that the figures should be more natural and frequently took models right off the streets, a habit that continued throughout his career, often to the dismay of church authorities and  patrons.

By the age of twenty-four, Caravaggio began to sell his own paintings through a dealer who, fortunately, thought them sufficiently worthy to bring them to the attention of the influential Cardinal Francesco del Monte, who then provided Caravaggio with lodging, board, pension, and protection.  The cardinal purchased forty works from Caravaggio. Among them was “The Musicians.”  

At first glance, the viewer observes that one figure is quite different from the other three: that one individual has the more normal, darker skin tone and perhaps somewhat less refined facial features.  That is the young Caravaggio himself.  He began a habit of often using his own likeness in paintings even to the point that, in later paintings of David and the defeated giant Goliath, he even portrayed himself, when older, bearded, and even more swarthy, as the severed head.  Perhaps Caravaggio’s self-deprecating habit resulted from his realization of his own fiery temper along with some remorse regarding the fights and serious troubles which later plagued his life.

The Musicians by Caravaggio

The other three figures actually were musicians in the employ of the cardinal, and some of them appear in other paintings by Caravaggio. These three musicians undoubtedly were (in polite terms of the time) musici, part of an entourage that the cardinal kept in his service over his lifetime.  Apparently the cardinal was generous with Caravaggio; for the figure with the lute, Mario Minniti, also apparently became Caravaggio’s companion while the artist was in residence.

The peaceful scene of this painting belies the dramatic and traumatic life that Caravaggio would lead later.  Often having to flee from one city to another because of various public altercations and attacks upon others, one case even resulting in death, he frequently seemed to be able to ingratiate himself with local authorities and receive commissions, that is, until his next troubles forced him to leave.  Finally, severely wounded himself from an encounter and after a long convalescence, he attempted to return to Rome; however, he again was arrested on the way.  By the time he was released, he had missed his boat with all of his belongings.  Attempting to overtake the ship, he arrived at Port’Ercole.  Having contracted pneumonia, he died on July 18, 1610, three days before the arrival of the document he so eagerly had awaited, the document from Rome granting him clemency.

Although Caravaggio did not live to see his fortieth birthday, his fame has withstood the test of time.  Numerous books have been written about him, and his surviving paintings hold places of honor in various museums and churches.  And, should you locate one of his paintings that have disappeared over time, your own fame and fortune surely are assured.

© 26 July 2011

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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Bravest Things by Ray S

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is to humiliate yourself in the presence of others by acknowledging your mistreatment of a friend or owning a personal failure. This isn’t the conventional concept of bravery, but it is real, deep down inside.

Then there is the bravery you feel as you proceed to follow a base impulse and move on ahead to who knows–a tragic mistake or absolutely exhilarating, spine tingling successful wild chance that leaves you dancing on clouds celebrating your brave choice. Sound familiar?

Could be acing a final exam, winning an athletic competition, or a coming out on top in a brawl, winning the favor of new mates–even sounds like sex. Dream on bravely.

The bravest thing could be facing your worst enemy–yourself. That is where it all begins and ends. It is up to you, so be brave and forge on.

About the Author




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Mayan Pottery by Betsy

There’s MY an’ YOUR pottery, and MY an’ YOUR china, and MY an’ YOUR cutlery, and MY an’ YOUR household items of every variety.

When my beloved and I decided to live together, we, of course, were forced to merge many of these above mentioned items. So into the common household they went. Over the years most of the pottery, in particular, stayed in cupboards. Occasionally the need would arise to pull something out, dust off the cobwebs, and put it to use, then put it away for another few years after the guests left or after the special occasion was over.

This is how the conversation would go.

“Do you remember where we put the glazed pot–the one that’s about this size?” Indicating with hand gestures what the thing looks like. “It ‘s the one my grandmother gave me when I was married.”

Depending on who came up with the question, the other would reply, “Well, if it’s the one I think you mean, it’s not blue it’s green and it was given me by my mother.”

“Surely, we can’t be talking about the same piece. The one I’m thinking of would be perfect for this occasion because it’s blue. The one I’m thinking of I have had forever and I can remember the day my grandmother gave it to me.”

“Let’s find it and get it out and then decide if it’s the one you are thinking of or the one I’m thinking of–the green one my mother gave me.”

The piece under discussion is pulled out from the very back of a cupboard. It turns out that it is neither blue nor green but very old.

We both scratch our heads and mumble under our respective breaths, Well, I could have sworn…….and I know it’s mine.” Then out loud, “But it doesn’t matter does it.”

And so it went–many such discussions and discoveries–the origin or ownership of the item never resolved.

Then, sometime around the turn of the century, it came to us almost simultaneously. 

My honey and I were about to have another of the above discussions when we realized that we had been together a long time and furthermore planned to stay together. These household items we talk about are OURS–not mine and yours.

The business of separate ownership is a problem that comes with middle-aged marriage. Each has accumulated stuff and that stuff goes with you wherever you go.

The mystery of past ownership is now, we both agree, a moot point. For some reason it was the new millennium when this dawned on us. Perhaps because we were approaching almost 20 years together. Maybe it was that, or perhaps our respective memories were becoming less and less reliable and we were able to admit that of ourselves and of each other.

I don’t know the reason for sure but the discussions are a thing of the past. MY an’ YOURS had become OURS. And so it will continue to be, I expect, until the end of our days.

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.