Posts

Posted on

Good Hunting, Nicholas

For the last few years I have been compiling memories in the
form of memoir essays. It’s fun and interesting to recollect what I have done
with my life over the years. I do not see myself writing an autobiography, however,
but rather being selective on episodes to delve into. I do not begin at my true
beginning with my childhood which, to me, seems as uninteresting now as it was
then. A pretty ordinary stretch of life filled with good memories but little
drama, a time that I don’t see as worth writing about.
So, it’s not really my life story that I am filling pages
with but reflections on where life has taken me. It has taken me many
fascinating places. And I enjoy remembering where I have gone. Memory is, to
paraphrase a common saying, like drinking sea water—the more you drink, the
thirstier you get. Writing a memoir is like a quest. You might say, I am
hunting my past.
I was remembering an episode in my past last week and the
more I thought about it and wrote out the story, the more that came to me. The story
was about the day a kind, older man tempted me out of my closet. He didn’t
succeed. I was foolish enough to pass up the opportunity he offered. I thought
I had written out the story. But then, wait, something else happened back then.
He said something to me. What was it? I plied my memory until it started coming
back to me. He said something like, “You don’t have to be alone, you know.” I’d
forgotten that last part.
The tools I use in this hunt include not only my memory of
events—fond or not so fond—but also documents, old journals, and, lots of
published clips from my days as a journalist in San Francisco. I sometimes even
do some research and fact checking.
I have all the documents, for example, of the struggle with
my draft board from 1968 to 1972 that culminated in my refusing induction into
the U.S. Army. Having long had a fondness for writing, I wrote for some
underground papers in California back then and actually found copies in the San
Francisco Public Library. Some of those pieces I’m proud of and some I dismiss
as just getting carried away with the rhetoric of that era. Did I really call
the President of the United States a pig? Well, he probably deserved it.
The only time in my life that I kept a personal journal was
when I began coming out. I wrote in it faithfully almost every day for a few
years and found it a great way to see who I was and how I was changing. Some
memories are flattering and some are not. At times, I am roaring with happiness
from new found friends and experiences. Other times, I am wishing it would all
go away and I could just be normal, whatever that might mean. It helps to see
the bad with the good.
My hunt has produced results, maybe I should call them
trophies. I am seeing patterns that I like. It seems to me that my life has
been blessed with two Spring times and maybe even a third. Twice I have felt
desperate and besieged by forces beyond my control and twice I have responded
to those challenges by entering a time of creativity and change. The first time
was when I decided to drop out of college and take on the military draft. That
led to a multitude of incredible experiences. The second spring came of course
when I embraced being gay and found friendship and love, challenge and
strength, community and history.
And the third spring? Well, it seems to be right now. As I’m
growing older, I find myself again in a period of challenge and change and
great creativity at the same time. I like remembering my past, chasing it down,
writing it down. This hunt has its satisfactions in knowing the ground on which
I now stand. Where I’m headed is growing out of where I’ve been. I like being a
hunter and the hunt goes on.
© 19 Sep 2016 
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.

Posted on

Help, by Louis Brown

Basically
the Beatles lyrics speak for themselves. I was thinking “Help” could
also mean “the Help”, the servants as in a turn of the century upper
class household. Think “Upstairs, Downstairs.” A study of social
class structure in England, back then. I wonder if the other authors of our
group have thought of the Beatles. Some have, I bet.

I Get by with a Little Help from My Friends
Help!
When I’m Sixty-Four



[Here is a link to see the lyrics to the above songs. Ed.] 
© 16 Sep 2016 
About
the Author 
 I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
Posted on

Long Ago, Far Away, by Lewis

[The following is a confidential
memorandum, dated May 25, 1998, which I delivered to The Rev. Jamie
Rasmussen, then-pastor at Grace Community Church in Detroit, Michigan, after
listening to a tape of a sermon he delivered titled, “What Would Jesus Say
to Ellen DeGeneres”.  This was
shortly after Ellen came out on her TV show.] 
Although we did not
exchange names, we met this past Friday when I came into Grace Community Church
to buy a tape of your sermon titled “What
Would Jesus Say to Ellen DeGeneres?”. 
You were surprisingly young and full of sunny energy as we passed in the
office doorway.  You asked me what tape I
wanted.  I told you and you said that you
had given that sermon and told me to let you know what I thought of it.  I thanked you and went on my way, tape in
hand.
I have listened to the
tape three times now and would be happy to share my thoughts with you.  Let me begin by saying that I am a gay man of
52 who has been in a monogamous marriage for 25 years.  I have two adult children and a very
comfortable life, at least on the surface. 
The fact is that my wife and I have decided to begin a gradual separation
process because I have come, finally and almost inevitably, to the conclusion
that I can no longer feel happy and fulfilled living without the love of
another man.  For most of my adult life,
I bought the popular myth–as I believe you have–that homosexuality was a
“lifestyle” which involved choosing whether I would engage in sex
with a woman (my wife) in the context of a loving, caring relationship, or with
a series of men, always without real human connection and love.  Placed in this context, the choice seemed
rather simple.  After all, weren’t these
urges I felt merely lust, a desire for a quick fix of heated passion followed
by days and weeks–even months–of desolation, guilt, and shame?
Though you may not
believe it, let me tell you that no heterosexual can possibly understand the
torment that came from trying to live my life ever faithful to what society
expected of me and in complete sublimation of my truest inner nature.  I felt like the Ugly Duckling who never, ever
sees a swan but always thinks of himself as different, degenerate, inherently
unlovable.  Over the course of the past
half-dozen years, I have been gradually emerging from my cocoon of self-hatred
into the light.  I have discussed my
orientation with counselors, friends, clergy, family, and co-workers.  I have become active in the politics of
gender identity and sexual orientation.  I
learned that my own internalized homophobia can be overcome and that I, too,
sometimes misjudge people by stereotyping them as “homophobic”.  My wife and kids know that I am gay and love
me just the same.  (I told my wife even
before we were married that I was attracted to men.)
You need to hear that I
WAS NEVER CONFUSED ABOUT MY SEXUAL ORIENTATION–at least since the age of
13–but only terrified of being discovered. 
In your sermon, you keep referring to gays and lesbians as
“confused”.  They aren’t the
ones who are confused.  It’s you and
people like you who are confused–confused about what it means to be a
homosexual.  You seem to feel, if I interpret
your words correctly, that gays and lesbians are “OK”–that is,
worthy of “unconditional love”–as long as they don’t act on their
feelings of attraction.  Can you imagine
someone saying to a heterosexual, “I love you as a person but I hate it when
you act on your feelings of attraction to a person of the opposite
sex”?  What you are asking of gay
men and lesbians is to do one of two things: 
1) get married to a person who may or may not know what they are getting
into and live a false existence for as long as the marriage lasts; or 2) remain
celibate (and, therefore, essentially loveless) for life.  What a choice!  Both essentially deprive a person of the
greatest joys of human existence while condemning them to countless hours of
pain and self-recrimination!
Your kind of
“unconditional love”–loving the “sinner” but hating the
“sin”–is pretty cheap!  We
know that Jesus loved the thieves who died with him on the cross, as well as
the men who caused his death.  He forgave
them and welcomed them into the Kingdom of Heaven.  Are we to believe that a lesbian or gay man
who commits an act of love with another human being, regardless of gender, is
less worthy of acceptance than these are? 
The Jesus I know is SILENT about homosexuality.  How do you presume to speak for Jesus when he
himself was silent?  He did say that the
greatest commandments are these:  to love
God with all my heart, mind, and soul and to love my neighbor as myself.  Is it possible that he thought of all
people–straight or gay–as “neighbors”?
On the subject of
homosexuality as “sin”, I rely on John Boswell’s Christianity,
Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality (still in print and available at the
Grosse Pointe Public Library and at Barnes & Noble).  On pages 100 thru 114, he addresses all three
scriptures you cite in your talk, going back to the original language for
contextual meaning.  He concludes, with
regard to the citation from Leviticus,
that the Hebrew word “toevah”,
there translated as “abomination”, as in “Thou shall not lie with
mankind, as with womankind:  it is an
abomination”, does not usually signify something intrinsically evil but
something ritually unclean for Jews, like eating pork or engaging in
intercourse during menstruation.  Boswell
points out that the word “toevah”
is used throughout the Old Testament
to designate those Jewish sins that involve ethnic contamination, as in the
stock phrase “toevah ha-goyim”,
meaning “the uncleanness of the Gentiles”.  Such an interpretation would have no
significance for Christians.
With regard to the Romans I citation, Boswell argues that
the persons Paul condemns are manifestly not homosexual.  He is speaking of homosexual acts committed
by apparently heterosexual persons. 
“The whole point of Romans I,
in fact, is to stigmatize persons who have rejected their calling, gotten off
the true path they were once on.  What
caused the Romans to sin was not that
they lacked what Paul considered proper inclinations but that they had
them:  they held the truth, but ‘in
unrighteousness’ (v. 18) because ‘they did not see fit to retain Him in their
knowledge’ (v. 28).  [I]t is quite
apparent that…Paul did not discuss gay persons
but only homosexual acts committed by
heterosexual persons [emphasis in the
original].
Finally, as to the
citation from 1st Corinthians 6:9,
Boswell’s argument is purely semantic. 
Of the two Greek words used in the original and now taken to indicate
that “homosexuals” will be excluded from the Kingdom of Heaven, one
applied, up until the 20th Century, to masturbation–a “sin” no
longer widely considered worthy of condemnation to Hell–and the other, best
evidence suggests, meant to Paul’s generation a “male
prostitute”.  Thus, we see that upon
close examination of the cited passages, nowhere does the Bible actually
condemn homosexual acts between committed, loving, lesbians or gay men–at
least, if they are Gentiles.  I encourage
you, Jamie, to study the Roswell text yourself in its entirety.
You almost had me fooled,
Jamie.  I was ready to concede that you
really cared about gays and lesbians. 
Your voice has such a compassionate ring to it.  But near the end, you betray your real
feelings when you announce your opposition to the efforts of gays and lesbians
to secure the same rights to be free from discrimination that you and other
heterosexuals take for granted.  You even
raise the tired, old red flag of protecting the children!  What of those gay or lesbian children who may
have been in your audience?  Evidence
shows that many gay boys realize their orientation by the age of 11.  How would they feel about themselves after
hearing your speech?  What kind of a
future can they look forward to–either devoid of intimacy or condemned by
God?  Why wouldn’t suicide seem
attractive?  You’re right to be concerned
for the children but the threat comes from the vibes of your own sound system,
not from some faceless gay pedophile.
[In researching what Rev. Rasmussen has
been up to in the interim, it appears that my excoriating memo did nothing to
damage his career in the ministry.  The
very next year, he left Detroit to lead an old, historic church in London,
Ontario, in transitioning to a “small-group-based, outreach-focused”
one, whose membership grew by 29 per cent in the two years he was there.  In 2001, he left London for Chagrin Falls,
Ohio, where he pastured at the Fellowship Bible Church for six years, growing
its membership from 650 to 1400. 
“Chagrin” is an apt word for my reaction upon learning that
since 2007, “Jamie”, as he prefers to be called, has been the Senior
Pastor of Scottsdale Bible Church with its 6000 adult members and 10- to 12,000
subscribers to the church’s newsletter. 
He has a staff of two dozen pastors and ministers and 100
employees.  Incidentally, he never
responded to my memo.]
© 16 Sep 2013 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
Posted on

Slippery Sexuality, by Gillian

Sex itself is of course
physically slippery, as designed by nature. Metaphysically, metaphorically,
sexuality can be every bit as slippery.
It took me about forty
years to get a good grip on mine.
In my early years, I
would catch tantalizing glimpses of it, slithering sneakily about, just under
the surface, but before I could even reach for it, it plunged back down into
the murky deep; out of sight but never quite out of mind. Certainly, never
completely absent from other body parts. I felt its presence but could not, or
would not, identify it.
In my thirties, it began
making itself more visible; more identifiable. Like a dolphin beside a boat it
now skimmed alongside me, only occasionally disappearing beneath the surface waves,
and more often leaping into the air in full view. It taunted me, it beckoned
me, this beautiful slippery temptation. It called to me, come on, come on,
come out and play! Sometimes it led, sometimes it followed, but it never fell
behind. Occasionally it forged ahead, leading the way with its blissful
athletic leaps. This way, this way! For the most part it stayed by my
side. Sometimes the joyous frolicking threatened to capsize my boat.
Only with great effort did I keep it afloat.
It was a mirage, I knew.
This was no reality. Not my reality. No reality I wanted any part of. I blinked
and shook my head, and sure enough it was gone. The glorious creature
disappeared, no longer leaping before my hesitant self to show me the way. I
was left adrift on a sunless sea, once more becalmed and rudderless. It would
return to beckon me again and again, each time looming a little larger, but
although I occasionally reached a tentative hand in its direction, more rarely
even touched it, still it slithered away. I could never quite grasp it. The
leviathan returned to the deep.
Approaching forty – a
little early for a mid-life crisis, surely? – that seductive dolphin somehow
grew, matured, became huge, became that whale, that very leviathan which I had
somehow always sensed it to be. And I became that legendary mermaid. Despite my
slithery tail, I was suddenly on its back, hanging on to the slippery creature
with all my strength as we crashed together into the waves. Then we were no
longer two entities but one. I had embraced it fearlessly, wholeheartedly, and
become one with it. I was a part of it and it was a part of me. I swam against
the tide: against the waves, against the currents. They were powerless to stop
me, powerless to redirect my journey. I knew exactly where I was going and I
had the strength to get there.
Now I lie in the sun on a
beautiful beach. I snuggle into the caress of the warm white sand, just as I
cuddle into the warm caress of the wonderful woman I love; my partner of almost
thirty years, my spouse, my wife, the love of my life.
I am home.
© 16 Apr 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.
Posted on

Christmas 1905, by Cecil Bethea

Christmas should be a joyous
time when memories from years long gone bubble up in our minds.
We have honed the past
into a golden world never marred by human
excess.
Historians
know there are exceptions to this ideal.
For men at Valley
Forge, Christmas could have been another day of hunger and misery.
When the armies in blue
or grey along the Rappahannock near Fredericksburg,
Fought
by day and sang in unison by night,
Christmas could have been a day of dread.
The
Dust Bowl seared
© 5 Dec 2005 
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.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.
Posted on

Where Do We Go from Here?, by Betsy

If you take this to mean where do we go when we die—I don’t
have much to say about that. People have many different beliefs about an afterlife, beliefs which require a leap of faith. 
Although some of the beliefs I have heard of have a certain comforting
appeal to them, I do not actually believe in any of them. I don’t deny that
anything is possible, but I always seem to end up going with what I know to be
a fact. The only thing I know about where we go after death is that I don’t
know.  That I know to be the only truth
that I am currently capable of understanding or of knowing.
Where we go from here, in my view, is a question better
applied to our life here and now as mortal humans.  I like to know where I am going. For example,
after story time today I will get in my car and go to my daughter’s house after
doing a bit of shopping at Sprouts on the way. After that I will go no where
until tomorrow morning when I will go to my closet, put on some tennis clothes
and drive to the Denver Tennis Club and I will have no trouble finding my
court. After tennis I will do certain things most of which I had planned ahead
of time so, let us say, I know where I am going in my own world in so far as I
am in control of it. Now if the weather does not permit, then I will not do
what I just described. So I guess where we go from here often is conditional.
I like to at least have a sense of where my group is going as
well. I believe it is important for citizens and their leaders to know in what
direction their community, state, and country are headed. A good thing to know,
but not always palpable.
There are other factors that make our futures uncertain and
therefore make us feel a bit uneasy. This is an uncomfortable time for our
country, I believe. It must be because so much campaigning is going on we are
all very much aware that our leadership will be changing soon. I must admit, I
am more than uncomfortable about where we would be  going if Mr. Trump is elected, or any of the
Republican radical extremists who are running for president.  Then the question becomes “Where do I go from
here?”  Europe? Canada?  I don’t think so.  Bad leadership is a good reason to stick
around  and fight for what I believe in
and to be sure to vote in upcoming elections, including the local ones. 
I like some structure in my life and so I am a tad
uncomfortable not having a plan for my day—even if that plan is to sit around
and read a book all day long.  I like to
know where I am going both in the short term and the long term. I’ve noticed
that when I don’t know where I’m going—one of those brief lulls in the day when
I have finished something and don’t know what I am doing next—I often find
myself going to the refrigerator and not because I’m hungry.  Now what good does that do?
 I play tennis year
round outdoors. I have to admit I am not comfortable in the winter and bad
weather not knowing from week to week whether we will  be playing or not.  So much for short term planning. I’m not
averse to spontaneity, but generally I like to know where I am going.
I haven’t always known where I was going. There was a period
of time looking back when I was not too sure how to put one foot in front of
the other. Growing up gay certainly added tremendously to the confusion. Our
adult role models help guide us as to where we are headed, but growing up gay
in the 40’s and 50’s there were no lesbian role models—at least not in my life.
Of course there were lesbian women out there, but they could not allow
themselves to be known publicly as Lesbians. 
Once I accepted, and acknowledged to myself that I was a lesbian I had a
lot to learn suddenly about where to go from there. I didn’t even know any
lesbians. Once I started looking, however, I did find some friends who helped
“show me the ropes” so to speak. Soon I had many friends, but also I was part
of a movement. Nothing like being part of a movement to help you find your
identity and your place in society. Mostly ‘though where I went after
acknowledging my sexuality was in the direction of the coming out process. This
in itself has proven to be a journey, 
quite a long one—at times both rough and arduous as well as smooth and
easy along the way.
As I said in the beginning, I know where I am going from here
today and maybe tomorrow I know where I’m going or supposed to go. But thinking
about it I realize that except on a day to day basis, I haven’t known where I
was going.  Especially going into
different phases of life.
When I married my husband, I didn’t have any particular plans
for the future. Only for the short term. 
I don’t remember even planning to be a mother—not until I became
pregnant.    As for a job, I sought a job
in the field of work I wanted, but mostly I took what was available at the
time.
When I retired, I did not know in the long run where I was
going except to say that I would now engage in the things I like to do and
pursue my interests only now in retirement, full time rather than only when I
had a chance.  I didn’t really plan where
I was going. I was going to live life as best I could.  I honestly think most people conduct their
lives this way.
 When and if one does
make the choice as to where to go from here the question arises: “Do I ever
arrive?”  I don’t think we ever know our
destination—just the direction to take, the road to take. And that choice is
determined by our basic character—our morals, the strength of our convictions,
our sense of justice,  our values.
Some have said the
journey is more important than the destination.
The way I see it life is a journey with no ultimate
destination. It’s more of a journey with pit stops where one perhaps chooses a
new direction or a different road from time to time.
In my old age I would like to take the road that keeps me
healthy and happy. But roads often have their barriers and their potholes.  So again for the long term I
don’t know where I go from here. But I do know the direction I want to go.
Beyond that I don’t know what happens after this life, but whatever it is I’m
quite sure it’s good.
© 4 Jan 2016 
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.

Posted on

Movies, by Will Stanton

My taste in movies is somewhat eclectic, yet I do insist
upon good quality in order for me to thoroughly enjoy them, rather than merely
tolerate them. To me, good quality means intelligent thoughtfulness and
experienced creativity in all aspects of film-making.  Among other criteria, the movie should have a
theme that is worth watching and considering. 
That usually means adult topics. 
I will clarify what I mean with a few just a few movie examples.
Already, that leaves out so many Hollywood movies of today
that are based upon comic books and their almost endless sequels, impossible
action-adventures with superheroes and villains. Apparently, the scripts are written by
Southern-California twenty-year-olds with little formal education and virtually
no cultural upbringing.  They are not
interested in making good quality movies; they just want to make lots of money,
catering to easily satisfied audiences.
I also have developed over the years a concerned sense that
such “100% good guys versus 100% bad guys” themes indoctrinate Americans, e.g.,
adolescent boys with limited rational capabilities, into believing that all
challenges in life are threatening and physical, as opposed to cerebral and
spiritual, and that we must attack and kill the enemy to solve all of our
problems.  The degree of gratuitous
violence in so many movies worries me. 
It stands to reason that this general behavior now is reflected throughout
our society, ranging from pervasive lack of civility, pervasive crime, mass-shootings,
unwarranted wars, and bad votes.
I also find even the dialogue and acting often
distasteful.  So many young American
actors regularly are supplied lines that are supposed to sound clever and cool,
reflecting affected self-assuredness, hubris, and arrogance.  Also, their facial expressions and
body-language are so affected, portraying arrogance or even physical threat to
others.  I cringe each time I hear and
see such behavior.  I prefer natural,
unaffected portrayals.
In contrast to banal films,
there have been many movies and television series that I have admired and,
consequently, often have watched more than once.  Some are from independent film-makers.  A good number of these have been British or
other foreign film-companies, writers, directors, and actors, who demonstrate a
high degree of maturity and professionalism.
For example, the superlative
1979 BBC series “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” is one of the all-around
best-quality productions I ever have seen. 
To begin with, the superb writer of the book, David Cornwell (pen-name
“John le Carré”), has worked for both British MI5 and MI6, most likely has
continued his contacts, and obviously knows what he was talking about.  Secondly, this well-informed, highly
intelligent man writes honestly, reflecting the good, bad, and often mediocre
behavior and character of governments and human beings.  Then, the screenplay-writer also was
excellent, as well as the director and all of the crew.  For the leading role, they chose the
consummate actor Sir Alec Guinness as George Smiley.

Once word of that selection got about, the casting-director
had his choice of the very best actors in all of Britain.  In addition to their great experience and
professionalism, their appearances, voices, and mannerisms fit the roles like a
glove.  Unfortunately, a discerning
viewer must obtain the uncut, British Region-2 DVDs for the best experience and
clearest plot-development, for some crucial scenes were cut for U.S. audiences in
order to force the episodes into one-hour time-slots; and the idiots used those
shortened episodes for the American DVDs. 
Also, don’t bother to watch the more recent movie-version.  I gave it a C- rating in my review on Amazon.
For theater-movies, I admire
many aspects of New Zealand director Peter Jackson’s “Lord of the Rings.”  For the thousands of people involved over
several years in this major project, this effort was a labor of love.  So much care went into making these films that,
for example, the set for Hobbiton was constructed and planted way in advance of
filming so that the flora would have a chance to develop.  Professional sword-smiths were hired to
create masterpieces for the major characters. 
Fine-tuning the script continued to the very last minute, requiring the
London Symphony Orchestra to also 
fine-tune their  sound-track recordings.
 Even after Jackson won the Oscar with
the final episode, “Return of the King,” he had his crews continue filming to
make improvements for the DVD sets to come. 
I know of no other film-project that has done this.
American independent
film-makers and foreign film-makers have made many films over the years that
explore human nature and realistic situations, such as docudramas like the
acclaimed, German film “The Bridge.” 
Based upon a true, 1945 event in the last days of the war, schoolboys
were forced into uniforms and ordered to guard a small bridge in their own
village, the very route American tanks were approaching.  One boy was severely wounded.  All the others perished.  The western allies required Germans to view
the film to further emphasize the terrible consequences of their too easily
having let themselves be led in to a catastrophic war.  “The Bridge” is considered to be one of the
two best anti-war films made.
I also appreciate serious fiction, such as the British
“Remains of the Day” that explored the unnecessary self-denial and repressed
emotions of an all-too-traditional butler. 
I realize, as much as I appreciate these films, that many people who are
used to hyperkinetic, childish adventure-films, don’t care for mature, cerebral
films because these are regarded as “too slow, too boring.”  As a matter of fact, just such a person gave
me his copy of the “Remains” DVD because he was disappointed that it didn’t
have more action and wartime violence.
One of my all-time favorite
films is Italian director Luchino Visconti’s prize-winning “Death in Venice”
based upon, what many literary critics declare to be, “the best novella of the
twentieth century” and written by “the best novelist of the twentieth century”
Thomas Mann.  The Cannes Film Festival
awards once held a retrospective contest covering films from a quarter of a
century.  “Venice” won the grand prize
and was declared “a masterpiece.”  The
cinematography alone is a masterpiece with many scenes resembling tableau-artwork.   The lead actor Dirk Bogarde deserved  “best-actor” 
awards from all such contests. 
Most of the sublime accompanying music is by the great composer Gustav
Mahler.

Because of my interest in the remarkable voices and music
of the European Baroque era, I like the unique, Golden-Globe-winning film
“Farinelli,” loosely based upon the reputation of the acknowledged greatest
singer in history, Carlo Broschi, stage-name “Farinelli.”
As entertaining as the film
is, anyone who has bothered to learn history knows that the screenplay
accurately reflects only about 10% of the real person, 20% based upon the
reputation of other contemporary singers, 20% based upon the Baroque culture
and opera of the time, and 50% simply made up to entertain the audience.  Even so, I enjoy the film.  There is no other like it.  I recommend the music CD.
I do admit, however, that not all the films which I enjoy
are worthy of winning Cannes’ Palme d’Or, perhaps the most prestigious
film award.  Even my most sober friends
and I have enjoyed the “Harry Potter” movies. 
In addition to their being very imaginative, they seem to succeed as an
antidote to the banality of the real world, even despite the scripts’ frequent
egregious errors in diction, grammar, and style.  And, I have to admit also that I often have
watched some good quality films and DVDs simply because I am inclined to
identify with attractive characters whose attributes and lives appear more
interesting and satisfying than, too often, my own life.  I’m not sure that the practice of watching
such films is of any practical purpose, but they are a captivating distraction.  Still, some are included in my DVD
collection.
And, last of all, if I suddenly became a billionaire, I
would like to produce to perfection several films based upon topics dear to my
heart.  Of course, that is a real
fantasy.
© 31 May 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.
Posted on

Bravest Things, by Ricky

Bravery can come in large or small packages. Some involve great deeds while other deeds involve only moderate or even insignificant events; any of which could be public or private.

The very first brave thing I can remember doing was also the first dumb thing I remember doing. Of course I didn’t know I was being brave or dumb; I was only 10; in the 5th grade and on my way home from school. In case you all have forgotten, I have a powerful attraction to ice cream. So strong it is that back then, if anyone had wanted to get into (and me out of ) my pants all they would have had to do was invite me to their place for ice cream, but no one knew that. You might have even seen me transform into an “ice cream-zombie”.

So, one particular week previous to my act of bravery, I had been stopping by the local grocery store where my parents shopped. I had left over lunch money and my purpose for stopping there was to buy an ice cream sandwich at a cost of 10-cents; eating it on my way home. More accurately, eating it within 20 feet of the door after exiting the store; sooner, if I could get it unwrapped while still walking to the exit.

The week following I had no left over lunch money but the attraction to ice cream was still as powerful as ever and I stopped by the store. I searched everywhere in my pockets and book binder while walking up and down the aisles but try as I might, I just could not find the money that was not there. So I became brave and dumb; I turned into a stupid kid. Carefully scanning for potential witnesses and hoping no one could hear my pounding heart, I quickly opened the ice cream cooler, removed one ice cream sandwich, placed it into my book binder and left the store.

I waited until I crossed the highway before I removed the thing, unwrapped, and ate it. On the bright side, I did throw the wrapper into a trash bin I was walking by; after all I’m no despicable litter-bug. The next four days found me doing the same thing before guilt overcame attraction. It is said by some that males think with two brains; or rather only one of the two actually thinks and the other just acts. But I learned from these experiences that males (especially boys) can hear the “siren call” of inanimate objects quite clearly, objects such as ice cream sandwiches, or firearms, or fast cars, or any baseball/football games in their vicinity or on a TV, or the call of a video game console.

This story does have an ending but not until 1969 after I joined a church while in the Air Force. I had carried my shoplifting guilt with me for all those years but it was not causing any problems until then. My homosexual acts didn’t bother me much but the shoplifting did as I joined the church. So, I wrote a letter outlining my theft, put it in an envelope along with $10.00 to cover interest on 40-cents over 10-years, and mailed it to the grocery store. I never heard back from the store, but I felt clean before God. Mailing that letter was the bravest thing I ever did out of two events to that point in my life.

The 2nd place bravest thing I had done up to 1969 occurred while I was working as a 16-year old staff member at Camp Winton, a boy scout summer camp. Our rival camp was Camp Harvey West located at the top of Echo Summit just 10 miles from my home at South Lake Tahoe. On one of my weekends off, I dressed in black and as dusk approached I set out alone to raid their camp.

I had made a white flag with the words, “Camp Winton is Best” and emblazoned it with our camp’s logo, back-to-back “W”s surrounded by a circle. It looked like two “X”s side by side but was really “W”s for the two Winton brothers; the logo of the Winton Lumber Company. The trail to the camp passed on the west side of Flagpole Peak. I climbed up to the peak where there was the stump of an old flagpole. On the west side the climb was very easy. At the end of the trail, I had to side step along a narrow ledge with both hands on the peak’s ridge to my front and a modest 50 to 100 foot cliff to my rear. As I closed in on the actual top where the flagpole was my hands had to be raised higher and higher.

I finally reached the top. At this point my arms were stretched out to their maximum length over my head. I couldn’t place my flag from this position, so I did another brave thing and another dumb thing. I grabbed the bottom of the flagpole and pulled myself up so I was straddling the peak with the pole between my legs. I was facing north. To my right was a shear 200-300 foot cliff, but it looked like a mile drop. To my left was that modest 50 to 100 foot drop which suddenly looked much farther than 100 feet.

I tied my flag to the pole, enjoyed the view for a minute or two and then decided that I’d spent enough time up here and since the sun was beginning to disappear, it was time to leave. I looked to my left to make sure I knew where to put my feet on the narrow ledge I’d arrived on but ….. the ledge was gone! Panic set in; it was getting dark and I had no way to get down; “½ a mile” drop on one side and a “two-mile” drop on the other. I sort of enjoyed the view for a couple more minutes before my brain calmed down and started thinking sense to me.

The ledge WAS really there, I just couldn’t see it because the peak was a little wider just above the ledge and narrowed to the top of the ridge I was dangling my legs on either side of. The traitorous sun kept setting and light was fading fast. I finally decided to trust my memory and swung my right leg over the ridge and ended up dangling over the left side of the ridge still hanging tightly to the pole. I still could not see or feel the ledge; a bit more panic followed until I remembered that my arms had to be fully extended before I could get up to the ridge in the first place, so I must be fully extended to get down. I relaxed my biceps and sure enough the ledge was there and I was able to return safely to the trail and complete my raid.

Lowering myself to the fullest extent of my arms is the 2nd place bravest thing I had done up to 1969. I have done other dumb things and brave things since 1969 but if I hadn’t found the courage to write that letter about the shoplifting, I doubt I would have ever found the courage to do the other brave things.

© 4 Mar 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Hysteria, by Ray S

I wonder how many of my friends here resorted to the same tactic as I have done? That is to look into what Mr. Webster had to tell me about today’s topic, Hysteria. 

HYSTERIA, Noun [Greek, hustera, uterus, orig. Thought to occur more often in women than in men] 1. A psychiatric condition characterized by excitability, anxiety, the simulation of organic disorders, etc. 2. Any outbreak of wild, uncontrolled feeling: also hysterics, hysterical, or hysteric, adj.,–hysterically adv.

After some pondering those defining words I had a “Eureka moment” and determined how I wear this hysteria word garment.

My thoughts and studies about who and what I am as a so-called QUEER concluded: an in-between creature, a genderless in-between combining masculine and feminine energies.

Permit me to subject you to another stolen quote lifted from the pages of an old copy of R.F.D., the magazine of the Radical Faeries:

“We embody masculine and feminine energies in a unique way… the unconscious regenerative Earth Mother and the conscious constructive Sky Father…. Our work as fairies is to bring harmony between the two—to take the gifts of the Father back to the Mother.”

With this new knowledge I now can continue my life’s journey, realizing that my feminine side is simply experiencing a fit of hysteria.

#

Let’s hear it for some uncontrolled feeling—more power to you!

© August 2016

About the Author

Posted on

Alas, Poor…, by Phillip Hoyle

“Alas,” poor Myrna may have said after twenty-nine years of marriage with me. “Alas, my husband is a gay man.”

Surely she said something like that at some point. Before we separated she lived for over two years knowing of my infidelity. Of course that infidelity had been going on many years more. Her first hint of it must have occurred when I was thirty years old and only flirting. The unmistakable certainty came many years later. I know this because around the time we separated she told our daughter, “Your dad is gay, and I’ve known it for twenty years.” I don’t know just what she knew about homosexuality when we were 30 years old, but I assume that she realized that I had experienced a change in feelings and showed a new kind of interest in someone else. Perhaps she assumed I had lost my love for her or I wanted out of our marriage; she feared separation and divorce. My continuing interest in our own sexual relationship during those following twenty years may have led her revise her cry to, “Alas, I have married a bisexual.” When we talked, she said of homosexuality that she had no problem with it. She added, “But it’s not supposed to be your husband!” (I‘m sure the explanation point I’ve used was there in her voice.) Alas.

My own “Alas, poor…” relates to the same matter but from an institutional perspective. I say, “Alas, poor churches…” given the unreality of a common American, rather liberal church stand on issues gay. These churches seem to be saying, “It’s not supposed to be your Sunday school teacher, spouse, scout master, board chairperson, or minister.” Even more curious than that, a number of churches seem to be wringing their hands over their positions on homosexuality by retreating into an assertion of sin as action, relegating homosexuality to be somehow a problem of original sin or something similar if you don’t believe in original sin? You may be homosexual, which in itself they say is not a sin, but you cannot do it, meaning have sex with a person of the same sex. I first read the idea in a United Presbyterian Church statement back in 1978. Since then the statement has appeared in United Methodist papers, sometimes used by Disciples of Christ and others, then surprisingly to me lately adopted by the rather conservative Roman Catholic Church, and even more surprising to me recently touted by the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Alas, just what are they thinking? It’s difficult for me to fathom, but perhaps it’s a complaint on their parts. Something like, “Alas, those pesky homosexuals are everywhere.” I haven’t even spent time imagining their comments related to bisexual and transgendered persons. Still I say, “Alas, those poor theologians, scholars, clergy, and committees assigned the task of writing something that can be accepted across the storm waters of their denominations’ theological diversities.” Even the rather theologically liberal National Council of Churches couldn’t figure out how to be nice to the queer Metropolitan Community Church denomination when it requested membership.

Alas, will it ever get better? Can councils respond only to majority votes? You know, It’s not supposed to be your husband; not you wife, certainly not your minister.

I say “Alas, those poor folk who cling so closely to traditions that stifle the change that’s going to happen anyway.” And, of course, that includes me. I am in no way perfect. My challenge has been to provide as much continuity as possible in all the change and do so in ways that embrace both the change and the best potentials from the past. Alas, woe is me in trying to explain such a convoluted philosophy. But let’s just decide to play together anyway and keep seeking joy in one another.

© 2014


Denver, 2015

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