Clearly, by Pat Gourley

So clearly is an adverb that means without doubt or obviously. With that definition in mind it is a word I should “clearly” be very cautious in using. It should be admonition enough against using this word that the main school of Korean Zen I have followed for years preaches, “don’t know mind”. In a jacket blurb for Richard Shrobe’s 2004 book Don’t Know Mind author Jane Dobisz defines Don’t Know Mind as “our enlightened mind before ideas, opinions, or concepts arise to create suffering”.  Well, I guess that might explain why despite my privileged white male existence I feel I suffer so much.
Let me cast caution to the wind and most likely prove my Zen teachers right by sharing examples of where I at least quietly in my own head use the word clearly.  Multiple times a day I most often say silently to myself: clearly, you are an idiot. Or clearly, your driver’s license should be permanently revoked. When seeing the current White House Press Secretary at her daily briefs and saying out loud to the T.V. clearly a blind monkey did your makeup. And most frequently these days clearly the words ‘President Trump’ must just be part of a bad dream and I’ll wake up soon.
Putting the many ideas, concepts, and opinions aside that I so often attach the word clearly so there are somethings in my life that are fact and the use of clearly or its synonyms ‘without doubt’ or ‘obviously’ are quite appropriate. Without a doubt, my HIV meds are keeping me alive. It was quite obvious that the early symptoms of HIV infection and T-cells below 200 I was experiencing in the mid to late 1990’s were clearly related to poor viral control due to inadequate medications.
Without doubt, I have diabetes with my most recent HbA1c being 7.6. Clearly, this needs to be addressed or the ravages of high blood sugars will come home to roost sooner than later. Since I already take a butt load of pills every day the thought of adding diabetes’s medicines is in my mind something to be avoided if at all possible. Despite what I think is the obvious solution to a low fat whole-foods-plant-based diet and daily exercise I find this regime to be quite the challenge.
At times I clearly try to rationalize the recent HbA1c of 7.6 by blaming my HIV meds, which are certainly a contributor, but not something I can do without. My recent 6 weeks in San Francisco also proved to be a dietary challenge but the reality is there are plenty of grains, fruits, and vegetables for sale all over that City, really more readily accessible than here in Denver. Just because I spent my mornings fixing breakfast for B&B guests and serving them cholesterol bombs in the form of buttered toast and eggs along with that delicious class one carcinogen, bacon, I clearly did not need to sample the leftovers. Serving steel cut oats, almond milk and fruit for breakfast to most B&B guests would not result in many positive online reviews I suspect.
It is easy to say but for me hard at times to resist. The smell and taste of bacon must surely be the work of the devil, if I believed in the devil: clearly here nothing to blame but my own lack of self-control.
Another fact-based use of the word for me would be: clearly I am one lazy-ass writer. Though participation in this group has been valuable in many ways I am also confronted with my slothful writing habits on a weekly basis, merely coasting on residual grammar habits instilled by years with the Holy Cross nuns. The prompt of a word or two as impetus for writing about my life has for me in some ways been quite ingenious and on occasion productive. It does get me to put fingers to keyboard though most often just a few hours before group.
The lazy part comes for me in that I almost always have many ideas on a subject that would without a doubt require much more thought, energy and research than I am usually willing to devote to it. The excuse I most often use is to keep my word count less than 800 and I do find it a worthwhile challenge to get the point across in as few words as possible. A more honest reflection here might bring into question my need to use valuable time watching all 16 Dead and Company shows, each at least three hours long, on their current fall tour or my near-daily masturbatory dedication to online adult entertainment, many hours clearly thrown into that void. That would be the adult entertainment into the void and not the Dead, who are playing superbly this go around by the way.
So despite my shortfalls here the discipline of writing at least several times a month has clearly been beneficial. Thank you all!
© 20 Nov 2017 
About the Author 
I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised
on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40
plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener, and gay/AIDS
activist. I have currently
returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California. 

The First Person I Came Out To, by Pat Gourley

Strangely I find myself vacillating a bit on this topic. I
assume I would ordinarily not consider the first person I had sex with since
that would be a situation that would seem obvious to both of us. However in my
case it was with a man I sought out initially seeking an answer to the question
was “I gay or not”. More accurately what I was asking at the time was am I a
homosexual or not?
The person I sought out to help clarify whether I was really
a big homo or not was most certainly not an openly gay man.  This was after all 1965 in suburban Chicago
and he was on the faculty of a Catholic High school. It was a diocesan school
staffed by Holy Cross nuns and though several of those nuns were progressive in
the extreme there was no Gay-Straight alliance as an option for extracurricular
activity.
Initial contact with this man would have been in late 1965 or
more likely sometime in early 1966. Though I am not totally clear about this I
do think I was genuinely seeking him out, as one of my high school counselors
and a person 20 plus years my senior, to help me answer this perplexing
question with no pre-existing assumptions about his sexual preference. Even at
age 16 I was not seeking a cure but would have probably been very reassured to
be told it was just a phase and that I was actually quite a masculine straight
arrow.
There had certainly been lots of enjoyable nude swimming with
male siblings and cousins to say nothing of the nearly obsessive urge to see my
dad and the occasional uncle nude. These preoccupations proceeded by several
years my seeking out my guidance counselor for help and advice.  So I may have been drawn to him
subconsciously hoping he really was like me. And of course his Old Spice
shaving lotion and hairy physique I assumed, an assumption later validated, and
his being bald may have all helped to create a situation I would often in
future years find irresistible.
Minus the Old Spice aftershave, which thankfully faded from
the scene sometime in the 1970’s, I think the hairy and bald aspects are quite
accurate physical descriptions of both of my long-term lovers, both named David,
and they combined to occupy 30 years of my adult life. Why I remain today still
hard-wired to pursue the mature and preferably quite hairy older male is
interesting and a bit of mystery to me. So many of my queer male peers prefer at
least in their dream worlds something younger, thinner and less hirsute.
Some months into that year of counseling sessions before
fruition so to speak I decided this guy was really on my side and very sexually
attractive. Long story short we did it eventually and it was as I recall the
Friday before Palm Sunday after school in the biology lab. I absolutely did not
fall into spasms of guilt post orgasm but rather was on cloud-nine for days and
spent most waking hours relishing the thought of our next get together. I guess
when one has ejaculated all over another man you have then come out to them
certainly as someone with homosexual tendencies if not as full blown GAY.
The coming out process for many of us though is a recurrent
theme that we are required to play out repeatedly since the attitude of society
in general is that heterosexuality is always the unexamined assumption. I have
for years though preferred to always give everyone I meet the benefit of the
doubt and assume they are queer until proven otherwise.
© May
2016
 
About the Author 
I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled
by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in
Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an
extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Angels by Pat Gourley

Angels, specifically my own Guardian Angel, were certainly
part of the mythology foisted on my innocent little head in the early years of
Catholic Grade School. The mythology being laid on us actually reached at times
the absurd when we were asked by our nuns in the very early grades to please
scoot over in our desk seats so we could make room for our guardian angels to
sit down. I don’t remember this injunction much beyond the second grade. Perhaps
that was because of a realization on the part of our teachers that with the
existence of Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy going out the window for many of
us it might have been a bit much to keep pushing the idea of guardian angels needing
a break and plopping down next to you.
Catholic teaching, perhaps not the most sophisticated strain
of it even back in the mid-1950’s, taught that all souls get an Angel assigned
to protect and be your guardian if you will. Since I was well on my way to
being a little apostate at the age of eight I always thought the nuns were just
trying to get us to not keep our books next to us on our seats, which we would
frequently push off the seat and crash to the floor.  And of course in today’s age of significant
childhood obesity there would be many kids who couldn’t make room for any Angel’s
butt with their own barely fitting in the seat.
If anyone seriously presented me with the possibility of my
having a guardian angel today I might ask about the 1200 kids under 5 years of
age who die of malaria daily and where the fuck are their Guardian Angels. It
would seem like those angels are being quite the slackers and probably should
be fired. And there are other countless examples of various forms of hideous human
suffering that bring the whole concept of guardian angels into serious
question.
Belief in angels for me personally of course brings into
question all sorts of other queries about the spiritual and ending of course
with the real big one ‘what the hell does happen once we die’. If I play my
cards right will I be escorted into heaven by my own angel or much more likely,
if you buy this horse-pucky at all, will I be given a GPS map straight to hell
with my own guardian angel sadly saying ‘well I tried to save your sorry ass’
and waving good-bye, forever.
Most days I wake up pretty much a dyed in the wool atheist
and thankful for the daily Facebook posts by Richard Dawkins. I do though admit
to recently being drawn back to the writings and recordings of the great
philosopher Ken Wilber, who lives here in Denver by the way.
Wilber is no fan of the new atheists, Harris, Dawkins
Hitchens etc. but he does have a bit more sophisticated take on the possibility
of an afterlife than angelic escorts to the great beyond. I most recently have
listened and am re-listening to a series of over seven hours of CD interviews
with Wilber on the Future of Spirituality
conducted by Tami Simon in 2013, the wonderful lesbian woman who owns Sounds
True in Boulder.
When talking about the possibility of God existing it has
been difficult for me, and I think for Tami also, to pin Ken down on this. He
certainly implies a ‘spiritual’ force moving the evolutionary reality of our
Universe along its way. One of my favorite Ken takes on this is that it seems
highly unlikely that it has been simple chance that has led “from dirt to
Shakespeare”. Though I am still not completely buying this I am back listening
to him and we’ll see where it ends up.
For now I am left with the stark belief and extremely
non-momentous reality of my own impending demise and that that most likely will
be the end of me with no angel involvement happening. At our current state of
evolution it its so very difficult for us to imagine anything else going on
after we are gone. This is such a freaky thing for us to ponder that we have
conjured up Angels and a whole host of other deities and after-life myths since
we left the trees of the African Savannah.
The raw reality of it all is summed up nicely in these few
lines from of course a Grateful Dead song called Black Peter. It is a tune
about a guy dying of something nasty and coming to the following realization
about his own demise:
See here how everything
Lead up to this day
And it’s just like any other day
That’s ever been
Sun going up and then
The sun going down
Shine through my window.
Lyrics by Robert Hunter
I don’t mean to be a big buzz-kill here so if Angels blow
your skirt up by all means just scoot over and invite them to have a seat.
©
December 2014
 
About the Author 
I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled
by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in
Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an
extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California. 

Clothes by Pat Gourley

I really was never much of a clothes person. Growing up on a
farm did not lend itself to high fashion and certainly not in rural Indiana in
the 1950’s. My family could certainly be considered lower middle class even in
the heady economic postwar years and clothing budgets were always tight. Also
attending Catholic grade school and continuing on with the Holy Cross nuns
through high school dress codes if not uniforms were required. I wonder in
hindsight if perhaps my parent’s real motive for insisting on Catholic
education wasn’t that the dress codes really cut down on clothing expenses?
I often did farm chores in the morning before catching the
school bus and the most important thing on my mind was not my regimented
clothes for the day but making sure I did not smell like pig shit going out the
door. As soon as I got to college my hippie days started in earnest and we know
what fashion mavens’ hippies can be.
Thanks to some rather ironic and unfortunate body changes due
to HIV medicines where one wastes extremity fat but seems to pile it on in
one’s mid section viscerally I have become a total fan of scrub pants, which
often come with an elastic waste band. The elastic waistband is one of the
great inventions of modern civilization. 
And nurses bless their hearts have made this the primary mode of work
dress. That has meant for years now that I can live almost 24/7 in relative
comfort. I have in fact incorporated wearing black scrub or chef’s pants to
nearly any social outing I participate in. I do own a few sport jackets but
these most often get paired with a tasteful t-shirt and the subtlest black
scrub pants I can find. T-shirts are of course another modern clothing
invention worthy of praise.
As far as shopping for clothes go I would really rather watch
paint dry. They just need to be baggy and loose fitting and of course comfort
rules always over fashion. This is a fashion statement that also endeared me to
the Radical Fairies. Especially when Harry Hay put out with the first call for
a large national gathering and in that call said something to the effect that
if clothing was to be worn at all it needed to be and I quote “flowing
non-hetero garb”. Since this first Radical Fairie gathering was in southern
Arizona in late summer the nudity won out over even the flowing non-hetero garb.
The opposite option to clothes I suppose is no clothes or
that wonderful word ‘nudity’. This option was truly reinforced for me in my
bathhouse days primarily in the 1970’s. The bathes were such a great gay male
creation. I mean lets all get together in place where clothing is truly frowned
on and actually considered rude. Nudity even if a bit of towel is involved
really does throw all pretexts for why we are here out the window. The lack of
clothes in the bathes really was a great facilitator for the main course if you
will, a great time saver.
The bathes though took a real hit in the mid-1980’s with the
AIDS epidemic beginning to really pick up steam and for me personally they were
no longer a legitimate avenue of play. I did miss the communal nudity with many
other gay men and perhaps that is why I was briefly attracted to a group called
the DAN-D’s, an acronym for “Denver Area Nude Dudes” that described itself as a
“nonsexual, social naturist club” in the early 1990’s. I did though only attend
a couple of their events the most memorable being a nude bowling outing
somewhere up in Northwest metro Denver. Trust me even the most buff individual
can look a bit strange pitching a bowling ball down the alley and jumping for
joy at a strike.

I was though delighted to find the DAN-D’s current web site
and that they seem to be thriving almost 25 years after being founded in 1990.
They actually have an event this evening if anyone might be interested. It is a
nude shopping spree at a local men’s underwear store on Broadway. Clothing
apparently not optional but a purchase does not seem to be required. It is
between 5 and 8 PM and I assume the store will be closed for this “private
event”. There is a modest membership fee to join the DAN-D’s but if you hang
out in front of the store you might be able to tag along in as someone’s guest
for the evening.
© September 2014
About the Author
I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled
by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in
Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an
extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.