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Lonely Places, by Lewis

I don’t know where to
begin writing about the subject of “lonely places” without first
distinguishing them from “places of solitude”.  There’s a distinct difference.  People often deliberately seek out places of
solitude for purposes of restoration, deliberation, and soul-searching.  They are places of respite and
retrospection.  They are for clearing the
mind of clutter, connecting with feelings–sometimes painful–that cry out for
exploration.  They are like a shower for
the soul.
In contrast, “lonely
places” are more like a pity-party for the poor-in-spirit.  In the real world, there are places where
solitude-seekers can be alone.  They
offer peace and quiet and are a place to get one’s head together and sort
things out.  They are far from being
“lonely places” unless made to be so by the individual occupying them.  In this entire vast and endlessly varied
world, there is not a single space that is inherently “lonely”, for
“loneliness” is not a physical condition but a state of mind.  If I so desired, I could be lonely on a
crowded city bus or at a fair or concert. 
Sometimes, feeling lonely
can feel safer than reaching out to someone. 
Loneliness is a trust issue.  If I
trust that others can respond to pain with love, there is no need to be lonely.  I suspect that people sometimes get stuck in
loneliness because they are afraid of risking rejection should they attempt to
make some kind of human connection.  If
one is so needy that they scare people away for fear of saying or doing the
wrong thing, they might well feel that they have been rejected.  The solution to this dilemma is to break out
of the loneliness sooner rather than later. 
One way to do that is not to pout but to pucker, not to slump or slink
but to sidle up to someone.
When Laurin died in late
2012, I lost my constant companion and lover. 
The pain was almost unbearable.  I
could have withdrawn into self-pity and made myself lonely.  I am not an extrovert; I’m rather shy,
actually.  I do not particularly like
parties or being in large crowds.  But I
do crave human connection.  I like doing
things for other people.  It’s difficult
for me to allow others to do for me.  But
that’s exactly what I did.  I attended a
grief support group here at The Center and a wellness support group at my
church.  I made a concerted effort to
make new friends and freshen older friendships. 
I had plenty of time to be alone, especially at night.  But I found that simply by being open to the
love and caring of others I had no time or predilection for loneliness.
Social media of the
electronic variety has made connecting with others easier than ever.  I would attribute the nearly pervasive
persistence with which both young and old today text, tweet, and instant
message to a desperate need to circumvent loneliness.  I hope its working.  But when it comes to feeling truly part of
the human community, there’s nothing like a warm hug–perhaps even topped with
a big, wet kiss.
© 11 Aug 2014 

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

Back
in the hippie days, when it was cool to be cool, I was not cool. The cool years
found me married – not cool, too traditional: raising four step-children – not
particularly cool: working endless overtime hours – certainly not cool,
for a major international corporation – just about as uncool as you
could get.
No.
I completely missed out on cool. Or it missed me.
The
only time I remember anyone using the adjective about me was some incident when
I came upon my oldest step-son and some buddies in the throes of one of his
many transgressions, they were so numerous and varied that I don’t recall
exactly what he was into that particular time. But I do remember him shrugging
and saying to his companions, “It’s OK. Gill’s cool.”
By
which he meant, of course, that I was not going to go off into some
unfathomable (at least to him) rage over the smoking or drinking or sex or
whatever it was; most likely all three and then some. That was exactly what his
father would have done, whereas I would prefer to attempt a calm discussion. By
comparison I guess I was pretty cool. But that was a slightly different use of
the expression. I was never to be a cool dude or a cool cat.
These
days, the term seems to have made a comeback – rather too much of one as it
pops up incessantly. One particular example has rather amused me. I have been
asked a few times recently, what Betsy’s relationship is to me. (As I very
recently went on a bit of a rave about this very topic I won’t say much here,
but honestly! Of what significance is the exact nature of our relationship to a
window salesperson and a colonoscopy receptionist??) Where was I? Oh yeah.  When I reply that Betsy is my spouse the
response seems inevitably to be, ‘cool!’ which I find unobjectionable but
nevertheless a little odd. When I was with a man and had some cause to state
that he was my husband, no-one ever found that to be cool. But I mulled it over
and decided it was rather sweet. People feel the need to say something positive
in response. OK. Cool.
But
then, when this topic came up for today, I realized that actually I had very
little knowledge of what it is supposed to mean, these days. I turned to
urbandictionary.com which informed me that cool is, among other things,
and I quote, ‘… a word to say when you don’t know what else to say …..’
And
that, in my book, if you’re talking about my marriage, is pretty un-damn-cool!
© 16 May 2016 
About the Author 
 I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have been with
my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.
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Carl’s Eulogy, by Cecil Bethea

MOM’S TRIP TO SEE HER BABY BOY
Two to three months after I joined
the Air Force, Mom came to visit me at Lowry, in Denver.  Not only was this my first time away, it was
the first time her favorite son had left her. 
Gary was still Lend-Lease. 
I took her to breakfast at the
recreation center (a bowling alley).  As
we were proceeding through the line, choosing from the offerings, Mom saw a
dismaying sight, a kid, much like her own kid, had chosen glazed doughnuts and
was carrying them around the neck of real cold bottle of beer.
I told her, that I was to be in a
parade and where it was to be.  She went
to the parade grounds, seeing an empty seat in a small bleacher section, she
decided it had a nice view and sat down. 
Just before the parade started, the section started to fill, she started
to scoot over, but they insisted she remain.
So the seating order was squadron
commander, adjutant, base commander (a Major General), Mom, another squadron
commander and his aide.  When the troops
passed in review, they stood.  Mom did
too.

THE TRIP TO ELITCH’S
Soon after the first trip to Denver,
Mom and Dad took their first family vacation. 
They came to visit me at Lowry, in Denver.  Mom, Dad, Carol, Mary Jo, and Sandra stayed
in a motel.
CONSPICUOUS CONSUMPTION
I took them to Elitch Gardens a
Denver landmark (and amusement park). 
Admission was minimal, $.10 or such, but the rides tickets were $.05
each and a ride required 2 – 9 tickets.
There dozens of rides.  Carol, a jaded 14, didn’t think much of it.
Mary Jo and Sandra were prime targets for an amusement park 8 and 10-years
old. 
The 5 cent tickets were going fast,
and we were rationing them pretty severely. 
Each ride required reconnoitering as to its ticket worthiness.  Then we came to a loop-o-plane that had
riders in the upper cars but no one in line. 
The ride operator recognized me as a fellow instructor at Lowry and saw
my family – he beckoned us forth and installed everyone in the empty
seats.  It was the usual gruesome ride (I
don’t like amusement parks) but it was free.
A little while later Mary Jo came
running with a several foot long strip of tickets.  When asked, she said, “Carl’s friend gave them
to me!”  Mom, in an uncharacteristic
gesture said, “In a town this big, someone knows you?”  She hugged me and rest of the evening was
spent in spending free tickets.

OUR TRIP OVER THE PASS
Mom, Cecil, and I set out to see the
wonders of Butte in 1975.  We went to the
mining museum at the top of the hill (not the present museum).  There were some things of interest but not
enough justify a trip all the way to Butte. 
We walked through the parking lot to the east side and a took a gander
at Butte, laid out in all of its splendor beneath us, the head frames and
trucks were all going with great busyness. 
I looked about discovered Mom had found something much more interesting,
this was the site of the Butte landfill. 
The trash and treasures of Butte were totally occupying her attention.
When I pried her away from the trash,
I asked where else she would like to go. 
She said, “over Shakalo Pass,” (between Butte and the Bitterroot
Valley).  I asked, “If she hadn’t already
been there, done that?”  She replied that
this time she wanted to ride and see it. I asked what she had done on previous
visits.  She replied, ”Carried a rock”.
It seems that was a narrow, steep
road that the family was traveling to the Bitterroot to pick beans.  Mom’s and her sister Virginia’s job was to
walk behind the wagon and each carry a rock to place behind the wheel when the
horses needed a rest.
  
NOT “GOING TO THE SUN HIGHWAY”
Mom grew up in Montana but was not
well traveled there.  Cecil and I offered
to take her to and over the “Going to the Sun” highway.  She most strenuously declined, “That thing is
dangerous, there are always cars falling off and killing people.”  I told her, that if that were the case, it
would be full of cars by now and no great threat.  She was adamant and “would have no truck with
such.
We had no more than returned to
Denver than a letter arrived with the front page of the GREAT FALLS TRIBUNE
featuring a lurid aerial shot of the Going to the Sun and the path to
destruction of its latest two victims.
Mom never did see Glacier Park, but
she did see Yellowstone on her honeymoon. 
She, and her new husband, were accompanied by her mother – his new
mother-in-law.
© 6 Mar 2006 
About the Author 
Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I.  There are two
things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback.  Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
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Snow Falling on a Sleepless Night, by Carlos

Snow fell last night
like silent doves descending
from heaven’s realm.
For one brief moment, the
voices of angry men subsided,
and the weary slumbered,
cocooned within folds of peace.
Empty promises and shattered
dreams flew off.
The recent dead again reposed
like opalescent bubbles in frozen lakes.
And spectral omens flew off,
declaring no more of darkness, no more of fears.
Prayers and hope for our land
broke out from wounded hearts.
Men and women of stolid hopes
again looked up, declaring,
We shall not fall as pawns.
We shall not despair the
ebbing of the light.
For like the snow quietly
descending from above,
so shall we our joy proclaim,
as we restore what we have
lost.
Let the bugle, therefore, rent
the clouds above;
let the snows purge the world
anew,
cloaking us with conviction,
that beneath a mantle of
pristine white,
we may again rejoice.
© 21 Nov 2016 
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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You’ll Never Know, by Betsy

I’m always fascinated by new information, new knowledge, new
happenings. There have been a lot of new things to think about particularly in
recent weeks— dramatic events taking place across the globe—much of this has
gotten everyone’s attention.  In recent years,
new knowledge about our universe, our solar system, galaxy, and outer space has
gotten my attention.
Take the universe, for example.  Science has recently learned that our
universe is expanding at an ever-increasing rate of speed.  It is because of this expansion, that our
universe will eventually die, they say—latest estimates are about 300 trillion
years from now. That will happen, of course, long after the death of our solar
system.  And that death will come long
after the death of our planet. Scientists believe the energy for this expansion
comes from dark matter. We used to think that space—the darkness between the
stars and other bodies we see in outer space—we used to think it was just
that—space, emptiness.  But now it seems
it is some sort of energy now called dark matter. The nature of this energy,
unfortunately and most likely, we will never know. Or maybe we will learn some
things about it in our lifetimes, but not much. 
What I do know is that in this current life I will never know, you will
never know, we will never know all there is to know about dark matter. Come to
think of it we’ll never know what it is that we don’t know, will we, or even
how much we don’t know.
Just as engaging are some of the recent events that have
taken place in the U.S. and around the world. 
The events are not so fascinating to me—horrific as they may be.  It’s people’s reactions to the events that
intrigue me—especially some of our leaders.
I am more than mystified that over 30 governors have stated
that no Syrian refugees will be allowed into their states. The rest of the
country says they are welcome. The 30 say it is to keep their people safe. I
understand wanting to keep your people safe, but I don’t understand why it is
Syrians who are the ones to be kept out. The Syrians are not the terrorists.
They are the refugees, most of them widows and orphans trying to escape the
horrors. The terrorists are from other countries. Yes, the ISIS headquarters
are in Syria at the moment, but don’t our governors understand that the
perpetrators are not necessarily Syrians?
If refugees are to be allowed entrance into the U.S. they
must be screened, re screened and screened again. This, I understand, is the
current process. But it does not make sense to me that while a Syrian family
sits waiting for 2 years for numbers of background checks to prove they are
harmless to Americans, anyone in the U.S—anyone and everyone—regardless of who
they are—almost anyone can buy an assault weapon—a weapon designed for killing
people. No questions asked.  Why do we
have a system like this?  I will never
know, you will never know, and we will never know.
Also on the list of mysteries is the responses of most of the
Republican presidential candidates to the acts of terror happening around the
world and how they would keep their people safe were they, God forbid, to
become president.  Rounding up all the
Muslims and kicking them out is probably the most outrageous. Again, that only
feeds the conflict, which  is what ISIS
and all the terrorist organizations are hoping for. 
How ‘bout we only allow Christians into the country. I don’t
need to describe the problems with that plan. What I will never know is how to
answer questions like: do they really think all Americans are Christians. I’m
mind boggled. 
What are people thinking? Or are they just not thinking? Or
are they just playing politics.  I wonder
if I will ever know, if you will ever know, or if we will ever know.
© 23 Nov 2015 
About the Author 
 Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Hysteria, by Will Stanton

I
delayed writing about this subject longer than I normally do about selected
topics because I was torn between writing about a painful truth regarding my
mother or resisting it and writing something fictional and entertaining, simply
as an antidote.  I finally decided to
stick to facts but to keep it as short as possible.
First,
you have to understand my mother’s background. 
Several terrible events combined to damage her emotionally.
First,
apparently, her own mother was very fond of her first-born daughter but did not
express much love or support for my mother. 
This only enhanced my mother’s deep attachment to her father, evidently
a very caring, loving man, who also was highly admired for his many skills and
successes.  He was a professor of physics
and chemistry, kept bees, took the family on long camping trips (which included
Colorado back when it had mostly dirt roads), collected Indian arrowheads, and
played classical violin.  Unfortunately,
he was exposed to radiation from his early lab experiments and died painfully
of cancer at age forty-eight.  My mother,
at the time, was at that critical age of fifteen and deeply suffered the loss
of her father.
Next,
her mother developed the strange notion that she needed to remarry but retain
the same surname.  Consequently, she
blindly married her late husband’s uncle, until then unmarried and a whole
generation older.  It turned out that
this man became the “stepfather from Hell.”
To
start with, he decided that the family must abandoned their beloved home (once
owned by Mary Todd Lincoln’s family) and move to his home-town.  My mother packed her few prized possessions
into a trunk in anticipation of the move. 
The stepfather, however, left the trunk behind, later stating that “there
wasn’t enough room to take it.”  My
mother was very hurt and never forgot the callous loss of her possessions.
Everything
went from bad to worse.  Very quickly, my
mother and grandmother discovered that this man had a violent temper and
frequently exploded into tirades of verbal and even physical abuse, hitting
them.  When the stepfather discovered
that my mother was saving a little money during summers working as a waitress
so she could go to college, he stole all her money to pay for ill-chosen stocks
that he had bought.  He lost all the
stocks and money in the Great Depression. 
This man chose not even to keep his disdain for the family private.  He frequently spoke ill of them to friends
and neighbors, telling terrible falsehoods about them.
It
wasn’t until many years later when I was in my forties did I hear hints from my
mother that this “stepfather from hell” had gone every morning into her
bedroom.  Apparently, my grandmother
never knew or was too afraid to do anything about it.  My comprehension of this trauma became
clarified by my father, who spoke to me shortly before his passing.  He stated that, for a while after he and my
mother were married, she would wake up every morning, screaming.  I was absolutely shocked.  In retrospect, I realized that this hysteria
had been expressed in many ways during my childhood.
Throughout
my childhood and adult life, I witnessed my mother’s deep-seated fear and
anxiety.  I realize that, no matter how
hard she struggled to do the right things with her life and her family, to take
on and excel in numerous activities, she continually was plagued by those fears
and anxieties.  She feared the world; she
feared people.  Many times, I heard her
bitterly declare, “I hate men; I just hate men.”  She feared anyone whom she did not
understand.  She feared blacks and
foreigners.  She feared and disliked
homosexuals.  Once, when I was watching a
documentary on Africa, she rushed over to the TV and turned it off, stating, “I
don’t want you to watch that.  All
white-hunters are homosexuals.”
As
another consequence, she tried to control all people and the world around
her.  Anyone or anything that she could
not control upset her.  Everything had to
be just the way she thought it should be, otherwise she would worry, sometimes
even panic, and become hysterical.
An
unfortunate, known psychological phenomenon is that one way traumatized people
attempt to cope is to adopt many of the same hurtful behaviors that had caused
them harm in the first place.  This was
true with her.  When I was young, she
once said that she hoped that she never would become like her stepfather – – –
but she did.  Very often, when she feared
that she was not in control, she shouted in rage.  I recall seeing her screaming at my oldest
brother and beating him.  She hit my
father so hard that she burst his eardrum.
When
I went to university in Europe, my parents drove me to the university
campus.  It was late evening and becoming
dark.  My father took one wrong turn
where there was very little street-light and no outlet.  He had to turn around.  Simple enough; however, my mother panicked
and began screaming hysterically.  At the
time, I did not understand.  Now I do.
My
brothers and I have realized for some time that, even though we were, what
psychologists call, a “looking good family,” word got around about my
mother.  New neighbors were warned to
avoid getting to know my mother.  We
brothers and my father suffered long-term damage from that environment.  My father, early on, withdrew as much as he could
into his own world, finding every reason to go to his office, take the car for
a wash, or do some other chore that would take him away from the house.  My oldest brother adopted the same
dictatorial and controlling behaviors with his family.  He also eventually disassociated himself from
our parents and never went back to see them, even at their funerals.  My middle brother became the rebel and stayed
away from the family as much as possible, even disappearing for some years
after his marriage.  My late friend Dr.
Bob observed in me, what he said was, a rare trait of reacting to my past
experiences by instinctively developing an unusual degree of sensitivity and
empathy for other people, something that apparently helped me to be affective
in my profession.  Apparently, I was good
at taking care of other people, but not myself.
Yet,
despite the damage done to our family, I cannot but help but feel great
sympathy for my poor mother.  She
suffered greatly in her childhood, and I am not sure how much true joy or love
that she felt in her life.  As for me, I
know that, as they say, “I’ve carried a lot of baggage throughout my
life.”  It took me some years to
understand why. 
And,
now that I have told you this story, I will put it on our blog for others to read
and to think about.  But, for myself, now
that I have read this unhappy tale to you, I will dispose of it and remove it
from my computer.  It is too painful for
me to keep or to read again.
© 14 June 2016 
About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Communication, by Ricky

          “What we‘ve got here is …. failure to
communicate“ is a movie line from Cool Hand Luke spoken by Paul
Newman that is perfectly delivered, humorously and sarcastically, in keeping
with the character’s personality. 
Unfortunately for Luke, the senior guard was not amused, receptive, or
tolerant of the mocking of the Captain’s phrase.  Herein lies the difficulty with communicating
with anyone; words.
          The
Captain and the Boss were communicating a message to Luke but their words were
not precise enough for Luke to clearly understand.  Thus, the Captain and the Boss were the ones
who failed to communicate.  They should
have made it perfectly clear that if Luke tried to escape again, he would be
shot dead; they didn’t and Luke died.
         
          Words
arrive containing varying numbers of syllables, shades of meaning, and ease of
pronunciation.  The definition of words
can be modified from the original by common usage, which tends to happen
because members of society do not learn enough vocabulary so they can pick the
perfectly accurate but seldom used word. 
Some people use many long words and complex sentences to communicate
simple ideas; a practice which often leads to misunderstandings.  There are yet others who can communicate
powerful ideas using simple and everyday words. 
An example is Abraham Lincoln’s statement, “You can fool some of the
people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot
fool all of the people all of the time.” 
Do you suppose Lincoln was warning other politicians, warning the
public, or giving politicians a tip on how to get elected?
          Some
communications take on a life of their own and are so common in usage as to
become clichés.  “Houston, we have a
problem.” is one of those. The phrase originated following the Apollo 13
disaster.  Unfortunately, no one ever
said those words.  Here is the actual
conversation between the Houston command center and Apollo 13.
John Swigert: ‘Okay,
Houston, we’ve had a problem here.’
Houston: ‘This is Houston. Say again please.’
James Lovell: ‘Houston, we’ve had a problem. We’ve had a main B bus
undervolt.’ 
          For
dramatic effect, the movie of the events surrounding Apollo 13, altered the
exact words.  The incorrect phrase was
picked up by the movie going public and now is commonly used to indicate any
problem not just very serious ones.
          Likewise,
“Beam me up, Scotty” is a catchphrase that made its way into popular culture from the science fiction television series Star Trek. Though it has become
irrevocably associated with the series and movies, the exact phrase was never
actually spoken in any Star Trek television
episode or film.
          “Beam me up, Scotty” is similar to the phrase,
“Just the facts ma’am”, attributed to Jack Webb’s character of Joe
Friday on Dragnet; “It’s elementary, my dear
Watson”, attributed to Sherlock Holmes; “Luke, I am your
father”, attributed to Darth Vader; or “Play it again, Sam”,
attributed to Humphrey Bogart’s character in Casablanca; and “We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!”
attributed to Gold Hat in The
Treasure of the Sierra Madre.  All five
lines are the best-known quotations from these works for many viewers, but not one is an actual,
direct quotation.  Yet each of them
conveys an idea, concept, and image that communicates very well because a large
number of people have seen the source of the misquoted dialog and the erroneous
version has become ubiquitous in our culture. 
          Communication also suffers when the sender and the receiver
are not talking about the same concept or idea. Remember the dialogue between Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Perkins in the
movie “Big”?
          Susan: I’m not so sure we should do this.
          Josh: Do what?
          Susan: Well, I like you … and
I want to spend the night with you.
          Josh: Do you mean sleep over?
          Susan: Well, yeah.
          Josh: OK … but I get to be on
top.
          One conversation between two different people, but on two
incompatible topics.  This particular
conversation also illustrates the effect differences in age and experience (or
lack thereof) can have upon the inferred meaning of the words heard.
          Yet another problem with communication arises when one
party doesn’t understand the clear and plain message he was given or does not
take it seriously.  While in the Air
Force, one of my commanding officers was a colonel and a pilot.  He related to me the following.
          Before becoming a pilot he was a navigator on a military
transport aircraft approaching his U.S. destination after crossing the Atlantic
Ocean.  The plane was understandably low
on fuel.  Their primary destination had
bad weather to the point that they could not land and there was just enough
fuel to make it to the alternate airport. 
The navigator called the traffic controller for permission to depart for
the alternate destination.  He was told
to standby to which he replied that they needed to leave now or not have enough
fuel to make it.  Again, he was told to
standby.  He repeated the situation yet
again and was told to standby.  At this
point the pilot called on the intercom asking if they had permission to depart
for the alternate airport.  The navigator
told him “yes” even though no permission was given.  The person on the ground did not appreciate
the gravity of the situation and let himself be bogged down with control
issues.
          Sometimes the person initiating the communication sends an
accurate message composed of factual data but in reality doesn’t state the
actual issue.  For example, when I was
young I once told my mother that my urine was runny (a fact), which did not
impart any information to her.  The real
issue was I had diarrhea.  Another
example would be the numerous politicians who when asked a question answer with
information not directly related to the question.  I think they have a condition known as
“Diarrhea of the Mouth”.
          The moral of this essay: 
Be gay when the concept or idea or message goes through without
resulting in chaos.  The word “gay” is
used correctly, but did it, the other words, and the sentence structure combine
to confuse or clarify the message?  This
is yet another example of the potential for a message to get “lost in
translation” when there is a poor choice of words and grammar by the sender.
          The real moral of this essay:  In your next life, pay attention in language
class.
© 22 April
2012 
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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001
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

Choices, by Ray S

  
Never had
to make a choice or decision because my mother always did that for me. That’s
what mothers do.
The US
government decided I was draftable like all the other boys my age in 1943.
Faced with making a choice as to what branch of the service would want me, it
resulted in a trip to the US Army Air Corps office and enlisting in their air
cadet program. It seemed the best choice of all evils and besides I didn’t think
I’d fit nicely into a tight white sailor suit.
Footnote
here: Can you imagine me flying an airplane? I couldn’t even drive a car then.
The Air Corps was making all of our choices now having replaced Mama. As good fortune
would have it, the cadet program was oversubscribed, so the powers that be (or
were) scattered all of this wet behind the ears pubescent material to the
winds. The talented ones went to aircraft mechanics school.  The rest of the class members, having
finished basic training in the wilds of Gulfport, were shipped off to a
military police contingent where they were assigned to 11 pm to 7 am guard
duty. Here we could reflect on our recently basic training that had taught all
of the little boys how to be good little soldiers, drink beer, smoke
cigarettes, strip down and reassemble a carbine, report on parade grounds at 6
am dressed only in your issue raincoat for “short arm” VD inspection (and he
wouldn’t show us his), learn the intricacies of KP duty, and checking the
scenery in the barracks shower.
Eventually
through discovery, familiarity, or unknowing choices, the appearance of latent
libidos or the right time and the right place, this boy found out what people meant
by the pejoratives “queer” and “fairy.” However there was a conscious effort
called ‘in denial’ to not own those words openly for some thirty to forty years
hence.
Dating and
girls:
It was a
blind date that never ended until she delivered an ultimatum. The morning of
the wedding the butterflies kept saying, “Do you really want this?” But, the
die was cast, no choice, just make the best of it — for fifty-five years. And there
were many good times and some not so good.
Is chance a
choice or is choice a chance? A sunny day in June, crowds gathered at Civic
Center Plaza, and I chose to hang out on the perimeter of all the action
observing what PRIDE was all about.
Another
CHOICE, after all of this time it was becoming easier—attending a SAGE of the
Rockies conference. Meeting and learning to know there was a place for me in
this beautiful tribe; and I belonged. Knowing I could reach out and love freely
and openly. Finding I finally could come out of a closet I had lived in all of
these years. I realize now that I might be the only person that didn’t know or
suspect I was and am queer—in the most positive sense. My closet like many
others suffered from structural transparency.
Now I am
faced with another CHOICE. Trying to determine is this ‘indiscriminate love’ or
‘unconditional love’ that I feel for all of you; and is there really that much
of a difference?
© 11 July 2016 
About the Author 
Posted on

A Stroll at the Denver Art Museum, by Phillip Hoyle

Artists sometimes open our eyes to realities and injustices
the society tolerates. Friday at the art museum my granddaughters Rose and
Ulzii took off on their own. I walked with my daughter-in-law Heather, one of
the most intelligent and creative persons I have ever known, also one of the
most open personalities I have ever spent time with. She and I have been good
friends ever since the day my son Michael brought her and her three-year-old
son to our house. She’s highly educated, teaches writing at college and
secondary levels, and with my son has reared a quartet of unusually bright and
talented youngsters: two boys, two girls.
Heather and I sat in chairs in the ‘Matisse and Friends’
gallery on the first floor of the Hamilton Building of the museum while the
girls went their own way. They had become tired of Mom and Grandpa talking so
intensely over the previous two days! Sitting there Heather and I discussed the
art and our two days of visits and interviews at culinary schools, of bus and
light rail trips around metro Denver, of meals and walks, and of her children,
the boys as well as the girls whom we had accompanied the past two days.
Then I suggested we take my favorite stroll through the
museum accessed by riding the elevator to the fourth floor. There we saw mostly
empty walls since most of the area was being re-hung. We walked down the huge
staircase beneath the impressive Calder mobile. At the foot of the stairs we
turned to the installation with grey foxes cavorting in a red café. Heather was
especially thrilled with this work. We walked on through the narrow north
hallway and entered a gallery that usually offers some kind of audio-video
experience. Although I had seen the current installation several times, Heather
had not. She caught the title “Lot’s Wife” and with her deep curiosity took in
the tall mannequin with white skin, white clothing, and long white hair, a
figure that from her meadow-like setting gazed at a projected lakeshore.
Heather read it as a depiction of Lot’s wife after she had glanced back toward
Sodom, the hometown she and Lot were leaving, a glance against Yahweh’s
command. In the ancient story from Genesis due to her disobedience, the wife
turned into a pillar of salt, thus the white the artist selected. Then Heather
noted the thick, muscular neck of the figure, then the very male profile of the
face. The artist wants to push us! Oh my God! Was Lot’s wife a man? Was Lot
homosexual? Was his wife transgendered or a cross-dresser? The questions piled
up. The rationalizations multiplied. The objections flourished. And finally the
truth of it settled on both of us. Gay folk cannot turn away from who they are
even in the face of nearly universal opposition!
I know from a careful study of the ancient text and its
ensuing interpretation that the story’s meaning is not anti-homosexual. It’s a
story about lacking hospitality, but of course these days that sounds too
wimpy. The Hebrew God demanded hospitality to strangers not rejection. That
demand is at the heart of biblical story after biblical story in the Hebrew and
Greek bibles. But our artist, Canadian Kent Monkman, wasn’t worried about
historical interpretations. He, a Cree Indian, is concerned about the deeply
embedded prejudice inherent in our culture and society that fears anything
Native and homosexual, anything queer, or as Wikipedia defines it in its
article on homophobia, anything LGBT! Whoa! LGB and T. Yes.
Heather ‘got it’ as my artist friend Sue would say.
Gods can often seem unfair, especially ancient Gods evaluated
by post modern humans. It just doesn’t seem right that when Apollo couldn’t
resist looking back at Eurydice that she then disappeared and couldn’t
make the trip from Hades to be reunited with her husband. It doesn’t seem right
that when Lot’s wife (of course they left out her name—which in this
interpretative context seems like double trouble!) glanced backward at her
hometown she was leaving to avoid its destruction that she was destroyed
anyway.
The artist now seems to be telling LGBs and Ts to watch out.
Don’t look back at your fears; don’t doubt the truth of your own reality; don’t
get scared at what you are becoming—or you may become a pillar of salt or melt
into nothing. DON’T BE AFRAID.
So my little stroll through the museum challenged me to leave
my own homo fears and embrace this new life, one of possibility, challenge, and
hope.
Watching Heather process the installation gave me hope for
our family of young adults establishing themselves in creative work, of the ability
of the supporting generations to help them, of myself to keep getting over the
deeply hidden fears generated by being so truly queer.
* * * * *
Here’s my testimony!
In addition to being deeply loved by a number of men I have
never been so assisted in this fearless task so much as I have by coming week
after week to this SAGE storytelling group—telling my stories and hearing
yours.
The process of community, sharing, paying attention, working
to express exactly what I have experienced and mean conspire to keep away the
fearsome temptations and to clarify just what I need to pay attention to as I
continue to grow as a truly Queer, truly LGBT person.
Thanks to you.
Thanks to artists like Kent Monkman.
Thanks to a changing social scene that supports even more
changes in the lives of LGBTs as Qs, and more.
© Denver,
Dec 2014 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
Posted on

Movies, by Pat Gourley

Unlike many of my gay
male brethren in particular, I am not a great fan of the big screen.  A consistent theme in my life has been to
almost exclusively read non-fiction books and that spills over these days to
rarely seeing any movie that is not a documentary. I am fond of anything
dealing with political themes but in rather cowardly fashion I suppose I do avoid
films on the climate crisis. I find them very valuable but so disturbingly truthful
and realistic I can’t watch. I suppose I do watch documentaries because I am
lazy and it’s easier to just sit back and have it all laid out for me. Reaching
for the popcorn is easier than reading and having to continually turn the page.
Perhaps this avoidance to
film dates back to the first movie I ever saw in a theatre and that was
Disney’s Old Yeller. A quick
refresher: the movie takes place in Texas in 1869 and the star is a loveable
yellow lab, who would put Lassie to shame any day. Yeller of course had the
advantage of being teamed up with a much more relatable friend in 15 year old
Travis. Lassie was burdened with Timmy who seemed destined in every episode to
make really stupid choices that only his dog could save him from. What of
course so seared Old Yeller into my
psyche was that he gets rabies fighting off a predatory wolf and has to be shot
by Travis. I never really got past this despite the Disney attempts to soften
the ending with a new puppy for the family. Sorry, the damage was done. I
actually don’t think I saw any movies after that until the James Bond movies
came out and the obvious draw for me to these films was James and not any of
the Fox-News-personality-type female sexual partners central to every Bond
film.
I do though appreciate
how important film is to the LGBT community and the tremendous impact this can
have in both very positive ways and damagingly negative reinforcement of out
internalized homophobia. So much of our early coming out is the struggle to find
the “other”, a soul we can relate to. The search to find someone else like us
is often relentless. The game-changing realization that I am not alone is
certainly a recurring theme bringing us back again and again to celluloid
escapism as a way to soothe our pain. Gay men in particular may want to be fucked
by the leading man but it is the strong female leads that have been our succor
for decades and we grasp at any hit of a queer character or theme.
Perhaps the singular
patron saint of the tortured history of Queers and their portrayal in film was
Vito Russo. He is best known for his landmark book the Celluloid Closet, still easily available and I suspect or hope a
copy or two is in The Center’s library. Russo
was one of the founders of GLAAD in 1985; previously know as the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation.
In recognition of bisexual and trans-persons the organization is now just GLAAD
and no long an acronym.  GLAAD was
initially formed in response to the hateful and vile portrayal of persons with AIDS
by the New York media particularly the New York Post. Vito Russo himself died
from AIDS in 1990.
GLAAD remains quite
active today keeping a watchful eye on all forms of media for inaccurate
portrayals of Queer folk. They have developed their own criteria for analyzing
how LGBT characters are portrayed called the Vito Russo Test. This link is to
their web site: http://www.glaad.org
This Vito Russo Test is
patterned after the “Bechdel Test” which is used to look at how women are
portrayed in film. I have included the criteria for the Russo test and they are
as follows:
1.The film
contains a character that is identifiably lesbian, gay, bisexual, and/or
transgender.
2. That character
must not be solely or predominantly defined by their sexual orientation or
gender identity. I.E. they are made up of the same sort of unique character
traits commonly used to differentiate straight characters from one another.
3. The LGBT
character must be tied into the plot in such a way that their removal would
have a significant effect. Meaning they are not there to simply provide
colorful commentary, paint urban authenticity, or (perhaps most commonly) set
up a punchline. The character must matter.
These criteria are taken from GLAAD’s 2016
Studio Responsibility Index. Unfortunately, this year out of 22 films with
significant LGBT characters only 8 or 36% have met these criteria and that is
apparently a significant decrease from recent years. http://www.glaad.org/sri/2016/vitorusso
Our struggle continues; so to the
barricades brother and sisters or at least to the theatres with a
discriminating eye.
© 25 July 2016
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.