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Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had
explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the
public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when
fulfilling a project for school or work.
These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble
for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing
around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of
storytelling.
You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations
are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me
although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the
scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a
similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something
again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American
cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the
Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my
childhood imaginings.
© Denver, 2013
Magic Fan
By Phillip E. Hoyle
The clutch of feathers
worked magic, at least for the boy
Who slid them over the
back of his hand,
Between his fingers,
On the skin of his face
Transporting him to a
world of freedom
Where he was one of the Indians
he had read,
Who moved freely through
the life
Of prairie and forest,
Of hunt and survival,
Through the endless
tracks of his mind.
His room, his lodge
festooned with portraits
And costumes of leather
and feather
Faithful companions in
his world of flight,
This fullness of fancy
barely
Tethered by nearness of
family.
There in his lodge, he
worked his feathers
Formed into headdress,
bustle, and fan,
Costume for his great
dream
Of being an Indian
dressed up in style
That spoke of tribal
belonging.
The basement, the space
for a dance
Of adoption, the
footwork of fancy,
Steps made real by the
presence of
Feathers that moved air
and spirit
Through ceremonial smoke
of love and desire.
His dances were brief,
three minutes or less
—sad frontier of 78s—but
He practiced the joy
Shown in dip, turn, and
stomp;
The movement expressing
the life he could feel.
His fan led the way as
he pranced,
Swift feet moving in
moccasins that
Circled the room of
ceremony and smoke.
Bustles shimmering,
bells resounding
Sisters worrying, ‘He’s
at it again.’
In echoing basement his
beads bounced
His body the drum, the
people, the dream
Of roach and shirt,
breechclout and leggings.
Of such transportation:
The magic of feather and
fan.
© Denver,
2012 
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
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The Big Bang, by Gillian

Was
there only, ever, just one? The Big Bang, I read, created a new reality. So it
must follow that for something to be considered another Big Bang, or at least
analogous with it, it must change reality. Completely.
My
mind roves backwards over the history of our planet. Little blobs of floating
rock became continents which joined together and split asunder, and floated
from pole to equator. Talk about creating change! It was completely covered in
ice. It spewed out lava from deep fissures in it’s surface for millions of
years. It was bombarded by missiles from space, including the one which
created, literally, the big bang which is held responsible for the demise of
the dinosaurs. Surely no-one could deny that those events created new
realities?
It
seems to me that history is peppered with Big Bangs. Take just the short space
of human history. Invasions. Whether your little village on the Asian Steppes
was slashed and burned by Genghis Khan or your little village in the Andes was
hand-delivered deadly diseases by Cortez and his cronies, I bet it changed your
reality. Revolutions, from French to American to Communist to Industrial,
change realities. That child working twelve hours a day down the coal mine
surely had a very different reality from his parents who had slaved away their
childhoods in the fields. Every country invaded by another, from the Roman
Empire to British India to the U.S. occupation of Iraq, suffers an inevitable
change in reality. The World Wars altered huge swathes of the world, never to
be the same again. Yet so often, in fact, I suppose, always, there is some
previous contributing factor to these humanoid Big Bangs. So perhaps, they are
in fact the Big Bangs. 9/11 was a Big Bang all it’s own, but it became the
excuse for the next one, the invasion of Iraq. The justification for WW1 was
the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. If Princip had failed, perhaps there
would never have been that terrible war (though I suspect they would have found
some other excuse) so was the assassination the real Big Bang? Or does it go
further back? Probably it’s somewhere in that miasma of territorial, ethnic,
and religious struggles which seem to have plagued the Balkans for ever.
It’s
all too complex. I think I’ll stick, in blissful egocentricity, to my own
history, which seems to me equally liberally peppered with alternate realities.
I have already written about them; moving at a young age to to remote
countryside, leaving there to go to college. Emigrating to The United States,
most certainly a new reality. Marriage. Divorce. Coming out. Meeting my
beautiful Betsy.
Now
that was a real change of my reality. I had only come out, to myself and the
world, a few years before. Although chronologically in my forties, in lesbian
years I was a wacky teenager all set to sow that brand new bushel of oats. I
had NO intention of settling down with one woman for the rest of my life. In a
nanosecond Betsy burned through that reality, and, Big Bang, I settled down to
happiness ever after. Not that I’m too sure Betsy would care for being referred
to as my Big Bang. It does have a certain sexual slant to it. In fact, on
further reflection, it sounds like soothing you’d find on the bathroom wall.
I
guess you could think of death as the final Big Bang. If it doesn’t change
reality, your own, at least, I don’t know what does. But change it to what, is
of course the big question. In my new reality, will I be reincarnated as a
squealing newborn in Borneo, or one of those Amazon butterflies which change
realities around the globe with a flutter of their gossamer wings? Or will I be
….. nothing. Gone. No reality. Or a reality so changed it is way beyond my
imagination?
What
is reality, after all? For us humanoids it is what we must do to live; we must
have oxygen, food and water, and shelter. Down at the nitty gritty, that is
reality. Being invaded by the Mongol hordes or sold in slavery does not change
that. So perhaps there is only one Big Bang after all.
I
don’t even understand my own Big Bang theory. My head, which was beginning to
throb in the second paragraph, feels about to have a Big Bang of its own.
I
wish I’d never started this.
I
think I’ll just have a nice cup of tea.
© 20 Oct 2014
About the Author 

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

Five years old (or should I
say, “Five years young?) is very early for such a clear memory.  The experience must have had quite an impact
upon me to remember it so well.   The visual
aspect was powerful enough not to forget, but the excited feeling in my stomach
is what really affected me.
I was five, he was six.  He lived just two houses over from my
home.  To my regret, he and his family
did not stay there very long.  I have no
idea where he went after they moved.
I recall one spring evening
when I tagged along with my older brother to my neighbors’ home.  We didn’t actually play.  There were five of us there, and we simply
sat on the grass and chatted about whatever children of that age talk
about.  That I don’t remember, for it is
what I saw that captured and held my attention.
A traditional belief is that
children that age are not sexual, whatever is meant by that term “sexual.”  Sexual or not, I do know that, from a very
early age, I have had an unusually heightened sense of the aesthetic.  And, at the age of five, that came into play,
big-time.
The first thing that struck me
(and, the word “struck” certainly denotes the impact that I felt) was the
extraordinary beauty of his face.  The
aristocratic, finely sculpted features – – high cheek-bones, arched eyebrows,
narrow, straight nose, ideal line of the jaw and chin, and perfectly shaped
lips worthy of a Cupid.  I was
mesmerized.  As often appears to be the
case with the young, his warm-colored skin was flawless, and his richly colored
locks had avoided the shears and were allowed to flow downward toward his
eyes.  Those shining clear eyes had a
demure expression, not the more intense, self-confident look of the other boys
around him.  The others around him?  I barely remember them, almost as though they
already sat in the shadows of approaching dusk.
As the others talked among
themselves, he sat quietly, his long, lithe limbs side-saddle in the
grass.  I was not used to seeing boys sit
that way.  He seemed preoccupied with his
own thoughts.  Only occasionally did he
speak, and then in very soft tones. 
Those few moments of speech were music to my ears.
The full impact of this vision
raised strange and powerful emotions within me. 
I felt “butterflies” in my stomach, an adrenaline rush that was a whole
new experience for me.  It is that
shivering excitement that I felt which amazed me at the time and was so
indelibly imprinted upon my memory.
That remarkable moment
awakened in me a powerful passion for beauty in the human form that has stayed
with me my whole life.  It has inspired
in me the desire to express that passion through many forms of artistic
endeavor – – music, art, and writing, as I am doing now.  It often has dominated my feelings, perhaps
even plagued my thinking.  I often feel
like Gustav von Aschenbach in “Death in Venice,” overwhelmed by bitter-sweet
sensations each time I encounter beauty in human form.
Now that I am decades older
than that first experience at age five, even a generation older than von Aschenbach,
I sense no evidence that I shall change. 
Like Gustav, I shall be mesmerized by beauty to the very end of my days.
© 14 July 2015 
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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Forbidden Fruits by Ricky

Fruits I forbid myself: all fermented fruit products and any spoiled or rotten fruits. And while we are on the subject of forbidden I forbid myself from eating certain vegetables: asparagus, yellow squash, yellow wax beans, eggplant, and any other vegetable that I cannot pronounce or spell its name.

© 21 April 2014

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

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Don’t Touch Me There by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t believe those words have ever come out of my mouth. I’m not kidding, but I don’t want to claim too much for I was a ticklish boy. Tickling made me laugh and squirm, caused my throat to constrict and tire, made me try to get away from my tormentor. And I especially liked it when Paul tickled me, Paul a tall, muscular man, family friend and member of our church, who worked construction or some other physical job. We knew Paul and his wife and daughter because the daughter, like my next younger sister, had contracted polio and went to regular doctor’s appointments in Topeka, Kansas, sixty miles away. Rides were shared by the two families, so we spent a lot of time together, and we kids got to know each other and each other’s parents. Paul was almost like a kid himself. He loved to play. He loved to tickle us. I loved to be tickled by him. I’d run from him; he’d pursue me, get me down on the ground or floor and tickle me until I squealed. I had no other such relationship with an adult, certainly not with an adult male and couldn’t get enough of his attention. This giant would grab me with his huge paws, lift me high, then lower me to the ground and tickle my ribs until I was laughing, screaming, kicking, and trying to escape. I loved the attention.

There were other men who paid me mind: my dad who encouraged my singing by accompanying me on the piano, my grandfather Hoyle who sat in his chair smoking his pipe but occasionally talking with me or driving me somewhere in his Pontiac, my grandpa Pink who when he drove the tractor would lift me onto his lap and kid me and tell me stories and sing me songs, Mr. Lown the preacher who talked with me about becoming a minister, Bob who took me along with other boys to powwows and taught me to dance, and Mr. Martin who encouraged my singing in high school. I had plenty of attention from men but no other adult ever played with me like Paul. Still I loved the attentions of all these men and none of them ever crossed the line, caused me to say, “Don’t touch me there.”

Of course I don’t know that I would have said it anyway. Writing this I feel a bit like my friend who complained that the priest he served with at the altar for many years never molested him. But now, really, I’m just kidding.

Denver, 2013

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

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Alas, Poor Homophobes by Lewis

An Open Letter to Universal Haters Everywhere

These are the times that try men’s souls–at the very least those souls, male or female, whose salvation depends upon making other souls miserable. It must seem to you that the very forces of human progress are aligned against you, that every cause toward which you have given the last full measure of your devotion has almost overnight become politically incorrect. You must long for the day when it was acceptable to denigrate kikes, wops, niggers, slopes and whatever minority whose presence in your consciousness caused you so much consternation in the past. Then along came Nazi Germany and Martin Luther King, Jr. and, before you could shake a faggot at it, tolerance began to creep into American society. (Strange that 300 years of Christian dogma wasn’t doing the trick.)

It must have been quite an adjustment, having to look for new subjects toward which to direct your righteous anger for all that’s unfair in this life. All the easy-to-spot suspects were becoming off limits–the odd-colored skin, the funny dress, the strange accent.

So, it must have seemed that Providence smiled on you once again when you realized that, if you looked closely enough, you could actually spot a queer by his or her manner of dress or lisp or limp wrists. Unlike your earlier victims who could barely conceal their differences, queers often were terrified of being “found out”. They thought they could mix with ordinary people and kind of blend in. That idea must have really pissed you off. I mean, if they could pass for straight, didn’t that mean that someone might mistake you for a queer? No, there was only one way that you could clearly demonstrate that you were a manly man–bash, ridicule and call out queers whenever and wherever you found them.

What a blessing it must have been for you when AIDS came along. Not only did the disease become a litmus test for being queer, it thinned their ranks so you didn’t have to bother so much. I’m sure that made you feel quite smug. I could almost hear you saying, “What goes around, comes around”.

It must have felt good to put yourself in the position of being a champion for the sacred institution of marriage against the attempts of perverts to infiltrate the institution, even as the divorce rate was skyrocketing. One of your most memorable victories was the nobly-named “Defense of Marriage Act”, which scolded those states that dared grant full legal recognition of same-sex unions.

But here it is nearly 20-years later and the U.S. Supreme Court is almost certain to rule by the end of the month that gay people are deserving of the same equal protection and due process under the Constitution as anybody else, including you. I’ll bet that really gets your goat. Who would have thought such a thing could happen so quickly?

You must have shuddered recently when Wal-Mart threatened economic reprisals against states that passed so-called Freedom of Religion laws that would sanction faith-based bigotry against gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered folk. (I doubt that you can read that last sentence without gagging mentally but I thought the acronym, glbt, might be mistaken for a typo.)

“What happened to my country?” you might rightfully ask. Well, the answer is pretty simple, really. It’s the same thing that happens whenever two human beings have the inclination and the time to get to know one another before the labeling starts. It’s what happens when commonality overwhelms tribalism. It’s what happens when reality trumps preconception. The Jew, the gay, the black you know can’t always be the exception. In fact, they’re almost always never are the exception. Anne Frank may have said it best when she wrote in her remarkable diary–

“It’s a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart. It’s utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death.”

Freedom and dignity cannot be hoarded, like money. They are the birthright of every person. At least that’s the way it is supposed to be here in America. You cannot make yourself more free by denying anyone else their freedom. It’s not theirs to give away and it’s not yours to take. It is not yours to say whom I shall I love any more than you can deny me the same air you breathe. It’s not a sacrifice at all. In fact, you won’t even notice the difference. Once you let this sink in, however, you may notice something else is different. You may find yourself walking with a bit lighter step. And that would be good not only for your feet but for your heart as well.

© 15 June 2015

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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Death in Utopia by Gillian

When I rule the world, we will all have a sane, legal, choice of death’s time and place. Not everyone will make their own choice, but for those who wish to, it will be available.

Why must people be faced with detestable choices when they find themselves, for whatever reason, at the end of their rope? Blow your brains out and leave them all over the wall for loved ones to clean up. Die in a dirty stinking ally from a purposeful O.D. of drugs and/or alcohol. Drive your car off a cliff and leave others to identify the charred remains. Get in the bathtub and slit your wrists; only perhaps you don’t do it just right, or perhaps some well-meaning friend comes along and finds you too soon, so you’re left to struggle on with your disastrous life or try it again.

Why must those who chose the time of their passing, and those who love them, be forced into such indignity?

What do so many old people worry about?

Outliving their money. Outliving the effectiveness of their minds or bodies or both.

So why not remove those worries? If we outlive anything, and chose to go, we can. With dignity and serenity.

When I rule the world, there will be The Utopia Center available to you. It will be very much along the lines of Hospice, but with certain key differences. You check in to a pleasant, quiet room, and nothing can happen for 24 hours. It seems to me that a certain time to reconsider should be mandatory. At the appointed time, if you have had no change of heart, the end process is put in motion. If you wish to have loved ones with you, they can be there. If you prefer to be alone, it’s OK. They have a choice of CDs with music for you to play if you wish, or perhaps you choose to bring a favorite of your own. You lie peacefully on the bed and are gently administered some drug cocktail which will carry you painlessly away. I know Switzerland has something similar, but you have to have two doctors determine that you are terminal with some awful disease, or something like that. Why? Why can’t I simply say, I’ve had enough. For whatever reason. I’m ready to go. I shouldn’t have to explain or apologize. It’s my life; now I’m ready for my death.

What worries a place, a process, like that would relieve us of, would it not? Oh I know I am portraying a very simplified version. There would of course need to be controls re: coercion, undue influence, minors and third parties, to name but a few. But we could do it. But we never will. Religion, alas stands firmly between us and my sincerely held vision of Utopia, or at least one aspect of it. I fear it always will.

October 2014

About the Author

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

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Scars by Betsy

I can hear it now. “She will be scarred for life if she tries to live a lesbian life-style.” Had my mother not died as a young woman, had she been present when I came out, I believe this is what she might have said. Her mother, my grandmother well may have said this too. The two women had a great deal of influence on me as I was growing up. Neither knew I was homosexual as they both died well before I came out.

They may have been right in making that imaginary statement, however. We all have scars—physical and emotional or psychological. Growing up gay in a homophobic society will inevitably produce wounds. Even after wounds heal scars can be left as evidence of the damage.

I have some scars on my physical body as well as my psyche. Most people do. One I acquired early in life represents a wound caused when I lost control of my bicycle going about 20 MPH down a hill hitting a curb head on, and landing completely unconscious by a street lamp. I was rescued by my dentist who happened to be looking out his window when the accident happened. I had a bad cut on my face which had to be sown up by a surgeon. The scar is still visible, but barely.

I suppose analogous to that might be that I was born into a world which had no understanding, certainly no acceptance, of gays or lesbians—most certainly not of their lifestyles. One might say the accident was that I was born homosexual, but I don’t see that as an accident—just the way it is. There are most definitely scars left from being born into and living in this non-accepting environment. As I have written before I have a passion for the truth and a great respect for living honestly and with integrity. Yet I lived half my life in a life-style that was a lie.

It was not an unhappy time of life, but it was basically flawed. That flaw of the fraudulent lifestyle is the wound. The wound is now healed, but a scar reveals that there had been a wound—a wound caused by an accident?

While I’m making analogies, allow me one more. Another scar is in the middle of my lower back, about a 10 inch line right down my spine. The reason I have this scar is because I had pain brought on by spondylolisthesis. Because I had pain a surgeon cut into my back and treated the source of the pain. The corresponding scar in my psyche might be represented as the result of treating a deep emotional hurt. The pain in this case I see as the years of self denial and the fear of rejection brought about by my unwillingness to express my true self that resulted.

All in all I think it is safe to say some scars, probably most scars, are good. Why? Because they are the result of healing. They are what is left of a wound or an adverse condition which causes pain. A scar implies that a fix has been made. The wound cannot fester and the pain is just a memory.

It is said that one cannot remember pain. I translate that to: one cannot reproduce a former pain, however one can remember that a particular wound or experience was painful. In this case HOLD THAT THOUGHT. Living freely the life style of one’s choosing is a precious thing.

It can also be a precarious thing. Never to be taken for granted.

© 22 June 2015

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

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The Norm, by Will Stanton

Webster’s dictionary lists
several possible definitions for “the norm.” 
Two of them are as follows: “Something that is usual or expected,” and
“A widespread or usual practice.”  Based
upon those two definitions, I certainly am not “the norm.”  Who knows why?  I’m sure it’s mostly inborn.  Perhaps I have inherited more unusual genes,
or perhaps I even have alien genes from some other planet.  All I know is that I certainly am not like,
what seems to be, the usual American person.
To begin with, I can watch
football – – – if I have to, but I never have become screamingly excited about
the commercial mega-business of football where the NFL commissioner makes
forty-four million dollars per year and has a special relationship with the
owner of the Patriots who helped him get that job.  The local football franchise, win or lose,
does not affect my life.  If they win, I
don’t receive a check, and I never have received an eleven million dollar
signing bonus.  I just am not like, what
appears to be, the majority of Americans who live and breathe football.  I’m not part of that norm.
I also never have felt
inclined to riot after a game, becoming drunk, joining a mob in the streets at
midnight, jumping on cars, and burning couches. 
It happens so frequently, especially with young people, that it seems to be the norm, but I’ve never been
part of it.
In contrast, for example, I
enjoy diverse forms of music: jazz, bluegrass, folk; but I have an especially
deep understanding and passionate love of serious music.  It’s just part of me; I was born that
way.  I don’t have the physical
capability to be a great pianist or superb singer, but I am capable of
recognizing those relatively few, fortunate individuals who do have those
gifts.  Also inborn, I have a natural
aversion to that large percentage of painfully untalented rock-noisicians and
screaming pop stars, those who have deluded themselves, along with huge mobs of
fans, into believing that they have great musical talent.   I never have been part of those mindlessly
enraptured and drug-intoxicated mobs.  I
am not part of the norm.
I have a deep appreciation
for innate quality as opposed to superficial value.  This is true with humans as well as material
goods, architecture, and fine arts.  For
example, the Wall-Street huckster who used eighty-seven million dollars of
government bail-out money to refurbish his office does not garner my
admiration, even when he looks good in two-thousand-dollar suits and drives a
Ferrari.  It seems to me that most people
are easily impressed with wealth and power. 
I’m not; I’m not part of the norm. 
There are people in this room with love in their hearts and who have
credited themselves with acts of kindness whom I admire far more.
Over the years, we all have
seen, far too often, examples of politicians and business people lying,
cheating, and committing acts of character assassination.  Greed and corruption appear to be so
prevalent that it now appears to be the norm. 
I cannot be part of that norm; it’s just not within me.  I could not be, what often is thought of as,
the “successful business tycoon” because I do not have barracuda or shark
blood.  I could not be an influential
politician because, the moment I tried manipulating people or lying, I’d turn
green and throw up.
Oh, I know that there are
good people, people whom I would admire if I met them and some that I have met
and do appreciate.  They may not be the
majority of the world’s population, but there must be a good number of them.  Separate them out from the masses, let them
stand alone, and I’d be comfortable being part of their norm.
© 30 January 2015 
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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Acting by Ricky

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.


Did I mewl as an infant? Of course. All infants do; but I refused to puke “in the nurse’s arms,” because I had class even as an infant. Because I had class, I only burped up on my parents.

Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.


As a schoolboy I never carried a satchel, just a binder and a handful of books. Those were the days before backpacks became popular to carry school supplies. Naturally, I never, never whined about school; only about having to walk 5 miles to school and back in 3 feet of snow, uphill–both ways. Even then that was only to my children not other school mates and only for those times I missed the school bus.

And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.


Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Down here you fool. The ladder broke.

(I’m just playing my part as the group’s smart alec.)

I must admit I was hot with passion to and for my female better half and my coming out was quite woeful but I just couldn’t put it into a ballad. Somehow singing, “I’ll be coming out the closet when I come. I’ll be coming out the closet when I come,” just didn’t seem appropriate. Unfortunately, while my ladder still works, it just doesn’t reach the balcony anymore.

Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 

Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.

I hold that being an officer in the Air Force is better than being a soldier, at least comfort wise. In any case, we did take an oath and we couldn’t have beards “like the pard.” (A “pard” is a literary noun meaning a leopard or panther.) There is much emphasis on honor in the military and in-fighting or back-stabbing among members who should be cooperating with each other is also common. Even when facing the “cannon’s mouth” soldiers will defy logic and do the most selfless and heroic deeds but not to advance their reputations; that honor goes to the leaders who order men into foolish battles.

And then the justice 

In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part.

I’m not sure my children would agree that I ever meted out justice. They would agree about the round belly but the “fair” part is questionable. My eyes are not severe (unless I’m angry) and once again I have no beard–this week. My wise saws are mostly interpreted to be wise cracks, but I do play my part.

The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.

I’ve definitely arrived in this age but still passing through. I wear slippers and also wear sleep-pants which in my opinion can pass for pantaloons here. Clearly I wear spectacles on my nose but my pouch is a paunch and is in front. My youthful hose I abandoned long ago when they began to smell up the house. Fortunately, I’ve not lost my big manly voice, yet and I’m not looking forward to it either.

Last scene of all, 

That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness and mere oblivion, 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

I’m not sure I ever left my first childishness but when I get to the “last scene,” I suspect that I will not be in any condition to recognize it — or any other actors still on stage with me.

© 29 Mar 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 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