Tag: A and E

Posted on

Happy Books by Ricky

I’ve read my share of gay sex books over the years and it didn’t take long to realize those types of books held nothing of interest.  After awhile, all the stories resembled each other so I lost interest and they no longer attract me.

On the other hand, returning to the original meaning of gay (a synonym for “happy” or “merry”) there are a few books that come to my mind.  As a child, I liked the Disney book Little Toot; which was about a small tug boat that caused a catastrophe.  He was then banished but he later saved an ocean liner and all was well. 

Another book that had a happy ending was Peter Pan.  I’m sure you all have either read the book or saw: one of several productions of the story from Mary Martin’s performances from the stage or broadcast live on TV last century; the Disney animated feature; school plays; VHS/DVDs; and most recently, a version using live actors.  As a result, I will not go into the story here.

Any of Edgar Rice Burrows’ Tarzan books also were “happy”. Naturally, the plots all involved Tarzan having a few adventures but always ending with a “happy” note.  Since most books follow that pattern, we can include under the definition of “happy” all of the books where a male or female protagonist triumphs over all the enemies or difficulties placed in their path.  There are uncommon books, which have a rather dark ending and I try to stay away from them. I accidentally read one of those a few months ago.  I would not have read it, if I had known that the main character was going to die at the end.  There was a “last minute” twist to the plot which resulted in his death but in so doing, he managed to protect a whole community from a serial killer. This story unnerved me for 3 or 4 days before it finally left my mind and my stress over it vanished.

Another type of happy books, are collections of poetry for children (and the parents who read them to their offspring). Two of our favorites are by Dr. Seuss; they are Tweedle Beadle (from Fox in Socks), and the other is In A People House.  My youngest daughter’s all time favorite poem was written by Ogden Nash; The Tale of Custard the Dragon.  At one time, both she and I had it nearly memorized, but alas, my memory of it is only bits and pieces so, I am reduced to reading it every so often; like right now.
  
The Tale of Custard the Dragon

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon,
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage,

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! Cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood,
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda’s dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets, but they didn’t hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim.
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I’d have been twice as brave if I hadn’t been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We’d have been three times as brave, we think,
Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

      ©  Ogden Nash

© 23 March 2011

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

Finding Myself by Phillip Hoyle

A search began when in my twenty-seventh year my friend Ted introduced me to the gay novel. That first book was Patricia Nell Warren’s The Front Runner (NY: William Morrow & Co., 1974), and Ted claimed it had just about everything in it. I took this to mean every gay theme. Reading it I discovered several topics and scenes of interest but was unable to find myself in the story. My own story included a life-long sexual response to men that lived peacefully alongside my commitment to a marriage and a largely conventional heterosexual life. The day I finished Warren’s book, I undertook a literary search for my gay self.
     
I read Robert Ferro, Edmund White, Paul Monnett, Richard Nava, Ethan Morddan, and many other authors of gay fiction over many years. Eventually I read Felice Picano’s book Ambidextrous and found myself. It wasn’t actually me, but the book described bisexual experiences and feelings similar to some I had as a child and teen and, thus, brought me relief that I wasn’t alone in the world. I was at least barely recognizable among gay males and no longer wondered if I was an outsider in this outsider existence. 
     
I was elated to find commonality with a writer who described the book as autobiographical fiction. I read more of his books including Men Who Loved Me and realized my sameness with Picano was limited. While I enjoyed his sense of spirituality and his vigorous personal searches for love, his stories included drugs—lots of them; mine was drug free. I continued to read Picano and other gay novelists who were being published in ever-increasing numbers looking for other glimmers of my life, hoping for a light to lead me into an unknown future.
     
My friend Bill told me he found himself in Paul Monnett’s Becoming a Man. He had been deeply moved by the book and felt it affirmed his experience. I read the book with interest for it allowed me a glimpse into the lives of the author and of my friend. I assumed that most details of Bill’s life differed from those in Monnett’s book, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t connect with the book very deeply although the beautiful, effective writing seemed very important as a gay statement. It simply wasn’t my story. I kept reading but mostly felt like I was still an outsider in the gay world that so fascinated me.
     
Then my life changed radically. I separated from my wife and then left my profession that I had found growing too gay-unfriendly for my taste. I began to live as a gay man and to write on a regular basis. In both, I set out to explore my life experiences in order to understand more about who I had become. I made interesting and helpful connections of diverse themes that seemed to make sense of my experience. As I wrote, I kept reading but didn’t find myself in these books, that is, until thirty years after reading my first gay novel. 
     
I was stunned and pleased when a few weeks ago I read the chapter “East of Ashshur” in Aryeh Lev Stollman’s The Far Euphrates (NY: Riverhead Books, 1997). Stollman’s character Alexandre tells the story as son and only child of a Rabbi and his wife living in Windsor, Ontario. In this chapter, the protagonist stated for the second time that he was not shamed by his homosexuality. I had heard the statement loud and clear at its first occurrence rather early in the book. Then in this chapter the sixteen-year-old Alexandre entered a period of study structured by his religious tradition. He embraced the practice but not its traditional goals such as becoming holy or knowing God. He moved himself into a world related to the Hebrew calendar and sought self-knowledge in the light of the moon. Daily standing before the mirror, he combined physical self-examination with intense reading of anatomy and physiology. In these twin ways, physiological and philosophical, he sought self-understanding. The statement’s repetition occurred toward the end of his year-long intense self-examination that included much more than Alexandre’s sexual feelings and led him to the affirmation of his sexuality that he could see might pose difficulties. Still he felt unashamed. 
     
My experience also has left me unashamed. Early on I knew I liked boys (eventually men) and understood it as a part of my life that I might outgrow. I did not reject it in my teens, and some fifteen years later I didn’t feel shocked when I fell in love with a man. During those intervening and following years I made an intense inquiry into the nature of human sexuality with a focus on homosexuality. I wanted to understand. My attempt was not carried out in a formal retreat like Alexandre’s. In making my inquiry I realized other folk were not interested or at least not at ease over my quest, for instance, my wife fell asleep when I wanted to read her the most interesting things I thought might be helpful enrichments to our sex life and others seemed afraid of my interest. So I did retreat into the relative privacy of my office, late night reading, library research, and internal thought. My reading spanned social science, sexology, biology, social ethics, philosophy, theology, literary criticism, poetry, fiction, and journalism. Like the teenager Alexandre, I observed myself and read about things I thought, felt, and experienced. Like him, my thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and like him, I was unashamed. 
     
My inquiry had begun way back in childhood when I started reading about American Indian culture, life, and history not aware I was studying myself. Then I added theology, then sexuality (my overt self-examination), then music history, and always exhaustive reading of novels—international works in translation, gay novels, Native American novels, murder mysteries, and more. 
     
I continue my reading quest, but most important, now I write to know myself, somehow to be true to my own self. Through my personal accounts and fiction I am seeking to express what I have learned and know. I write my childhood sex and friendships. I write my teenage fascinations with girls and boys. I write my marriage, one in which I dearly loved my wife while I became more acutely attentive to my homosexual needs. I develop characters who speak of my sexual values, reflect on my thoughts and feelings, and by their own adaptations, lead me into new perspectives about myself. I develop characters who do things I have only dreamed or never dared to dream, and in the writing become more aware of my needs and desires. I write how my life affects my work. I write how my self-knowledge creates tensions in my family and vocation. Still though, I see myself riding bikes with my best childhood friend as in Ambidextrous. Still, I stand before the mirror of self-reflection unashamed as in The Far Euphrates. The searching and finding continue as they surely will for the rest of my life.

Denver, 2011

About the Author

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

Posted on

Weather by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,

And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,

And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!
When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,

And, my friends, we’re still good-byeing,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! Wait! 
 I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. 

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

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

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he 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, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

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

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Posted on

Statues, Art, and Sensuality by Will Stanton

Michangelo’s David

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donatello’s David

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

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

© 08 April 2011

About the Artist

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Music and Memory by Nicholas

Some songs I associate with specific times and places. One note from the Swedish disco group ABBA takes me right back to my disco dancing days when we were all dancing queens.

The most evocative collection of singing that I have and rely on to recall a favorite era in my life, a time of enormous growth, is all the albums I’ve saved, and sometimes even replaced, from the 1960s. The rock music of that time captures my sense of those days with all their turbulence and delights.

The plaintive ballads of the Grateful Dead are still sweet to listen to. The harmonies of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young invoke American folk music and country western tunes. And those British bad boys, the Rolling Stones, take off in another direction with their raucous and violent lyrics and guitars and drums. Their song Gimme Shelter with its wild thumping beat has practically become my anthem over the years. “Oh, the storm is threatening my very life today.”

Then there are the romantic and psychedelic imaginations of the Moody Blues and Steve Miller and the Doors. The Moody Blues are just dreamy like many of the idle, dreamy days I spent back then (and now) conjuring up another world. Steve Miller and his band sang goofy songs about the Last Wombat in Mecca with his Texas twang. But it was Jim
Morrison of the Doors who was the most remarkable poet of ‘60s rock after Bob Dylan. “Strange days have found us; Strange days have tracked us down,” he wrote. “We shall go on playing or find a new town.” All powered by magical drugs and a bit of genius.

A lot of the music of that era came out of the politics of the time—the movement against the war in Viet Nam, civil rights struggles, early environmentalism, and the once and future youth revolution. We were going to remake the world and in many ways did and the starting point was the music. I don’t know how many anti-war rallies I took part in that began with Country Joe and The Fish singing I Feel like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag that told mothers and fathers that they could be the first on their block to bring their son home in a box and other sarcastic lyrics protesting the war.

I was a great fan of Quicksilver Messenger Service, one of those San Francisco bands that combined blues and country and lots of politics with a catchy rock beat. There’s a song of theirs popular in 1968 that I find myself humming more and more now. It was youthful protest then but poses the question of what are you going to do about me. We have to do something, the refrain goes, about pollution, media lies, war, lousy jobs, violence, injustice. “I feel like a stranger in the land where I was born,” they sang, and I still feel that 40 years later.

Jefferson Airplane sang a mix of ballads about protest and the revolution that never happened. But we thought it would. In 1970, a lot of people hoped or feared that revolution was exactly what we were about to face. So the Airplane (their name is of course a reference to drug use) called for revolution in its Volunteers of America rant right after they sang that we could all be together. We didn’t worry about contradictions back then. Unfortunately, their call to revolution came closer to the end of the movement than at the beginning of it.

I’m not waiting for the revolution any more. But I do still listen to this music. I listen to remember those times and the urgency of our calls for peace and justice. I also listen because the music is just plain good. The musicians and singers were top notch and they pulled together so many musical styles like jazz, rock, blues, country and sheer poetry. These songs are part of my history and I do not walk away from my history.

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

The Painting by Will Stanton

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

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

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

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

The Musicians by Caravaggio

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

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

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

© 26 July 2011

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Neverland by Will Stanton

The document that I am reading is a transcript taken from a 2002 video tape of a home security camera placed in an exclusive mansion.

The transcript documents the sound and movements recorded on the video.
[Transcriber’s note: the room is very large and the ceiling is tall, but the camera covers the entire area.]

9:00 PM, no sound no movement.

9:10, a slight scraping noise is heard near one of the windows, followed by a “click.”

Outdoor sounds now can be heard.

Recording picks up soft fluttering and tinkling sounds.

What appear to be tiny golden sparks quickly stream from the window across the room, making a few circular movements, then landing on a high shelf.

A small figure appears in the shadows of the window.
The figure slowly floats into the room and gently lands upon the carpet.

The figure appears to be an adolescent boy, blond, slightly built, and oddly dressed in some material that looks like green leaves.
The boy’s face now can be seen clearly:

he seems to have an expression of excitement. He speaks:

“This is a part of Neverland I haven’t seen before. It’s all different and new to me. This should be a great adventure. Let’s explore!”

The figure moves about the room, picking up various objects, studying them, and then discarding them.

The golden sparks on the shelf suddenly move and fly around the room from shelf to shelf, finally settling upon a tall bureau.

The boy picks up two objects and again speaks,

“Look at those, Tink. I wonder what they are for.”

The figure moves to a desk and sees a large photo album.
He opens it and is studying it.

There is a pause.

The boy suddenly jumps back and then shoots straight up to the ceiling, plastering his back against the corner.

The boy seems to have a terrified look upon his face.
He shouts:

“Tink! I’m in terrible danger!
This isn’t Neverland. This is the Neverland Ranch!”

Both figures shoot out the window.

9:15, all is quiet; nothing to report.

[Image from video tape attached.]

© 11 March 2012

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

The Opera House by Ricky

In A People House © by Dr. Seuss and The Tale of Custard The Dragon © by Ogden Nash.
With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):

The Opera House

La Scala – Stage View


Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.

Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.

There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.

In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.

Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.

From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.
Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.

An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.

Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.

Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.

Composers remembered from times long past
Now drift through the air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.

An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.

Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.
Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.

Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.

La Scala – Audience View
© 30 October 2011



About the Author
Emerald Bay – Lake Tahoe, CA

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

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

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

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

Fingers and Toes by Will Stanton

A Parody of the
Song Lyrics to Ribbons & Bows
A long
ago…uh…what’s his name?
Yeh, spilled out
on the road like a bucket of brain.
You know, I
didn’t come to.  You know my mind
It’s ‘cause I’m
stoned; gotta sleep for a time
Play with your
fingers and toes,
And let your hair
hang greasy and low; and oh,
On a sparkly
cushion we lie, its’ like,
Like, a blown
state of mind.
Yeh, it’s a new
state of mind.
He was the newest
thing in the shortest skirt .
(Hey, ain’t
askin’ him to know my mind).
I promise never
again to tell how it hurt.
(Your tears are
mine)
Yeh, but as my
mind goes dancing while the Jack picks the tune,
Hitch your ride
to my wagon, I’ll bring you the moon.
Lick those
fingers and toes, 
And let your hair
hang greasy and low, and oh,
On a swirling
cushion we lie, it’s like,
Like a far-out
state of mind.
Yeh, it’s a weird
state of mind
Suck on those
fingers and toes,
And let your hair
hang greasy and low, and oh,
On a flying
cushion we lie, it’s like,
Like a spacey
state of mind.
Yeh, it’s an
LSD-state of mind.
Where are my
fingers and toes?
When I’m beat and
down, I got a joint; we can go, and oh,
On a flying
cushion we lie; it’s like,
Like, uh, where’s
my mind? (I’ve lost my mind.)
Yeh, it’s a
blousy state of mind. (Is my mind my mind?)
I didn’t mind my
mind. (My mind didn’t mind.)
I think I’ve lost
my mind .
© 26 April  2012

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

With Oxana on Waterloo Bridge by Gillian

In the early 1990s, right after the words glasnost and perestroika entered our vocabularies, I spent some weeks in Russia as a USAID volunteer.
I worked for a company located right in the middle of Leningrad, shortly to return to its pre-communist identity of St. Petersburg, on the edge of the Nyeva river. I had a tiny attic room in an apartment belonging to Vadim and Ludmila Desyatkov, and the wonderful Ludmila had provided me with a season pass to The Hermitage museum.
          So every lunchtime, while my male Russian cohorts tossed back a few vodkas in the nearest bar, I walked, or let the old rattling tram take me to the orgy of magnificent creations that is the Hermitage.
On my third day of discovery I walked through one of the innumerable doors into one of innumerable little rooms and found myself alone with Waterloo Bridge. Effect of Fog. By Claude Monet. Oil on canvas, 1903.

Waterloo Bridge. Effect of Fog. By Claude Monet.
Oil on canvas, 1903
I had never been so completely transported by any work of art in my life.
         I had seen prints of this painting, and I had seen enough other originals by that time to know that no print ever comes close, but for some reason this one left me speechless.
         I gazed in wonder. The lavender fog swirled around me. I felt its fuzzy coolness envelop me.
I moved forward.
I was jolted from by reverie by a shockingly loud sound behind me.
Almost unable to tear my focus from the painting, I slowly turned.
In the corner a tiny little old lady sat on what looked like an old kitchen chair. She was rapping on the ancient wooden floor with an ancient wooden cane and staring admonishingly at me from shining coal black eyes. The term giving someone the evil eye leapt into my mind.
Both my hands shot up in the air of their own free will, surrendering and simultaneously demonstrating that they had no intention of touching the painting. I felt much more fear of her than could ever have been instilled in me by one of our uniformed, armed guards.
What smattering of Russian I possessed fled from my brain. I reverted to that best of universal languages and smiled. She scowled. Those bleak black eyes continued to bore right into me.
I left.
Of course I couldn’t stay away.
And anyway, ferocious little old women abound in Russian museums. There is at least one stationed in every room, where they perch on rickety old stools and chairs, their hands never still as they slave diligently at their tatting, knitting, embroidery. There never seem to be any men, but then most Russian males wisely drink themselves to death at a considerably younger age.
I returned the next day, and those that followed, better prepared. Every day I flashed my very best smile and offered a cheery dobroye utro, which was received with the same stern glare but I remained free of cane-rapping as I drank in my new obsession from every angle, soon forgetting anyone else was there.
This was a small room, perhaps twelve feet square, and what I now thought of as my painting, hung in splendid isolation as the only work in the room. Often the little room, my room, was empty of other visitors. It was January, the weather was miserable and it was well before the start of the tourist season, in all senses, as tourism had not really reached Russia at that time.
A couple of weeks later I had made almost daily visits to my painting and had graduated to not only a Russian good morning but also goodbye and thank you in what I’m sure was a deplorable Russian accent. All I ever got in return was that evil eye.
Dasvidaniya, I said one more time, turning regretfully to leave.
Spaciba.
The wrinkled brown face broke into a wide smile.
Our relationship zoomed off into fast forward. Only three weeks of smiles went by before we graduated to light touches, a hand on an arm, and eventually an offer for me to admire her handiwork. It was some kind of doily and I was a little unclear what it would be when it grew up but I admired her embroidery skills and there was nothing fake about my oohs and aahs of praise.
Now there was no stopping her. Only a few days later she stood, placed her embroidery carefully on the vacated seat, took one of my hands in hers, held it to her old sagging breast and said, ‘Oxana Kalashnikova.’
‘Gillian Edwards,’ I solemnly replied.
Each day from then on, she rose when I entered the room, placed her embroidery neatly on the seat, took both my hands in hers and stated almost reverently,
‘Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’
‘Oxana Kashlikova,’ I replied.
These mutual assertions were followed by a nod of the head, almost a bow, in what seemed to me a strangely Japanese ceremony.
I never saw anyone else in Russia doing this, I think it was a little ritual Oxana herself devised.
And, yes, her name was actually Kashlikova, not Kalashnikova but I always preferred to think of her as the second. I know ova means daughter of, and the thought of some ancestor of hers slaving in his workshop to invent the infamous Kalishikov AK-47 greatly appealed to me.
With Ludmila’s help I began delivering small gifts to Oxana. Nothing extravagant, and mainly food in some form as Ludmila insisted that was what she would really value. After Communism collapsed, the Russian people lost the safety nets previously provided by the system and with inflation running around a thousand percent many people were desperately poor. Most of the store shelves were empty, and what food there was few could afford.
She opened the rough paper bag holding my first gift, peeked inside, and when she turned those hard black eyes to me they were filled with tears. She thanked me profusely in a stream of Russian which had no need of translation, then neatly folded over the top of the bag, placed it in her apron pocket, and resumed her work. Of course I hadn’t expected her to eat it there, the very thought of the look she would bestow on another caught eating in the museum made my blood run cold, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she would actually eat it herself, at all, or if it would be shared out meticulously among several family members or maybe slipped to a favorite grandchild.
After three months it was time to leave. With the help of my pocket calendar, which happily contained a tiny map of the U.S., and various childlike flying gestures, I conveyed to Oxana that Friday would be my last visit to my painting, and on Saturday I would fly back home.
It was with truly heavy heart that I entered my room for the last time. Three months is long enough to spend alone in a foreign country where you understand little of the language and in some ways even less of the culture. I was ready to leave, but I wanted to take my painting with me. The prospect of never seeing it again was like losing a loved one or a body part.
And, yes, the thought of never seeing Oxana again filled me with sadness. Where else would I find someone to greet me every morning with clasped hands, a little bow, and that reverent utterance,
‘Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’
I handed her my last paper bag, and without a peek she stuffed it into her voluminous pocket.  I was relieved she had not looked as I had tried to hide the last of my rubles and a $20 bill, a pearl beyond price at that time in Russia, under the stack of ponchiki, a kind of anorexic donut.
Silently she handed me a similar paper bag.
Snacks for the plane? I wondered a little hysterically.
Then I noticed that for the first time ever, she was without her embroidery.
Enough of the protocol.
I threw my arms around her, we both wept a little, and I walked out of the little room with its solitary wonderful painting watched over by its solitary wonderful guardian.
I have never managed to find a real use for that gift that means so much to me.
         But every time I look at it I see my painting, in my room, watched over by my babushka.
And her final words echo in my memory.
‘Gooood-bye, dasvidaniya,  Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’

After I read this story to the group, Ray S. painted his own version of Waterloo Bridge for me. I treasure it. Thanks for the painting and permission to show it here.



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.