Tag: Nicholas

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A Love Affair with Clio by Nicholas

According to Greek mythology, Clio, the muse of history, is
the daughter of Zeus and Memory. She guides mortals in the art of contemplating
their pasts.
History happens in the present, not in the past; it’s an
interaction of the present and the past. History makes the past knowable. We
are sequestered in history, prisoners of our pasts, but while we are bound to
it, history liberates us from the past.
I wrote those words while in a doctoral program in history
back in the 1970s. I find them still to be true though I’ve lost all
involvement with academic life. I find them real on a personal level now.
When I finally decided to embrace my sexuality and came out,
shortly after I left academics, I saw that as entering my history. Coming out
was a getting into. Not only was I facing my own personal past and its hold on
my present, I was joining an on-going experience of countless people before me.
I was now a member of some vague thing called “gay history.” It was bigger than
me but also something I lived each small minute of each day. What went on long
before I came onto the scene suddenly was relevant to what I might do, the
dilemmas I would face, the opportunities I would have, the choices I would
make. Being gay is my entry point. It is my entry point to real life,
happiness, community and history.
I love history. I believe William Faulkner was right when he
said, “History is not the dead hand of the past. It’s not dead. Hell, it’s not
even past.” I loved studying history and always felt that the more I knew about
it, the more I knew about me.
When I was younger—college age and in my 20s—I very much felt
a part of another kind of history. Everybody did back then even without knowing
it. We were a massive movement to expand civil rights, end poverty, explore new
ways of relating to god and man and woman, and end a war that as unjust as it
was unjustified. Because of what we, a generation, did, the world was changing.
It was not my one voice but a generation’s, a culture’s. We were history. Win
or lose, we were making history.
The knowing of history and the living of it was in some way
to be in control of it. I had a sense of impact on something much larger than
me.
I’m not sure about that anymore. I don’t doubt history and
its force in shaping the present and future. And I don’t doubt that knowing
history empowers me in living my daily life. But as I age, I increasingly get
the feeling that history is simply passing me by. History passes up everybody,
of course, and every generation sees its dreams and accomplishments fade like a
vaporous cloud on a summer day.
Some I don’t care about—pop culture, for example, is too
superficial to worry about. Some I just think what fools people are not to keep
what is now dismissed as old-fashioned—like speaking and writing in full
sentences. We say we value communication but seem unable to communicate with
all our devices. New ways are not always better ways—as some old fart once said.
But sometimes I get anxious that if I don’t climb onto whatever
bandwagon is going by today, I will be lost in some cobwebby existence of
nostalgia, just me and Clio, my imaginary friend. I fear a day, for example,
when all life and all connections will depend on an i-phone or something like
it. Will I be friendless because I’m not on Facebook? As I’m writing this
piece, my home phone is out of order and I feel as though I am marooned on an
ice floe in the Arctic. Totally cut off.
History, I believe, is best met on a mundane level. It might
be global climate change but I will see it in my withering tomato plants that
just can’t cope with day after day of super-hot temperatures. That mundane
level is usually where history is lived.

© Sep
2012

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.
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Where Was I by Nicholas

          In the early 1960s,
I was in high school studying French, struggling with chemistry, hating algebra
and the jerk who taught it, but loving English Lit and the teacher who taught
that. High school was nothing until my senior year and then I learned to party
and enjoy myself. The promise of just getting out of high school was enough to
liberate my spirit. It was the great age of liberation with the civil rights
movement and its innumerable clashes on the nightly news every day.

          Liberation for me came in
drive down Interstate 71 from Cleveland to Columbus where I joined 45,000 other
students at Ohio State University. New people, new studies, new challenges and
suddenly I got to make my own decisions. OSU is where I took part in my first
political demonstrations, volunteered to work in a community development
project in Columbus, first doubted my Catholic faith, and first voiced
opposition to the Viet Nam War. It was also where I had my first disastrous
love affair that I didn’t even realize was a love affair until many years
later.  

          And then I
came out—to California, that is. Experiences in San Francisco and elsewhere in
California are what I associate with “what did you do in the 60s?” When the
‘60s began and ended is a matter of interpretation or maybe just mood. Like
many of the drug-induced experiences back then, the decade tends to wiggle and
undulate on and off the calendar. It is not contained in a simple ten year span
of time.
My political activism, however, was
short lived. I stayed on the fringe looking in. I was on the edge of the crowd
trying to escape the tear gas and bullets that summer day on Telegraph Avenue
in Berkeley, not in the thick of it getting beaten up by police. I was in the
back of the throng at the Altamont concert, kind of wishing I wasn’t there at
all, but thankfully not crushed in front of the stage and amidst some lethal
violence. I was stunned one day to see a friend appear in the bright California
sunshine when he ventured out of his heavily curtained, smoky sanctuary/den,
looking like a cadaver. But I wasn’t that drugged out cadaver and wasn’t headed
in that direction.
I would work for a few months and
then take off for a while, go hitchhiking, spend days climbing Mt. Tamalpais
and watching the ocean from a sunny meadow. I came to think that this is how
life ought to be. I would grow up, that is, settle down, commit to something,
have a career, later, I kept thinking. There was plenty of time for that.
My project then was to stay out of
the war and out of the army, a commitment based both on principle and downright
fear. The fear was as realistic as the principle was laudable. I was against
that war and couldn’t see myself joining in any war and when drafted to do so,
said, no.
The motivation for my and others’
actions did not stem entirely from a sense that we were acting out grand laws
of history as earlier revolutionaries might have but we came from a very
personal sense of what was at stake for us. Beyond mere egoism and
self-indulgence, it was an ethical standard based on me.
And there was music, always there was
the music. Rock music took on an artistry ranging from the Beatles’ tunes and
the poetry of Jim Morrison and the Doors to the blues of the Grateful Dead with
the exquisite guitar of Jerry Garcia and the hard rocking of the Rolling Stones.
From them I learned about Chicago blues, electric blues, hard and fast urban
blues.
So, where was I in the 60s. I was in
the city hearing black people tell their stories. I was on the all-night bus to
New York City for the first huge anti-war march. I was hiking through Point
Reyes on the Pacific Coast. I was filing appeal after appeal with my draft
board. I was discovering yoga and quiet and meditation. I was discovering brown
rice. I learned to bake bread. I was dodging cops to avoid getting arrested. I
was bouncing around Speedway Meadow in Golden Gate Park probably hearing the
Grateful Dead or Janis Joplin or Quicksilver Messenger Service. I was growing
up and life was good.

© 2 June
2014  

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.


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What Wisdom Is All About by Nicholas

          There will
come a day when I won’t have the strength to lift my mountain bike up the six
steps out of the basement to get out for a ride. My arms won’t lift it up to my
shoulder, my legs will feel weak, my back ache. There may come a day when even
the thought of riding will be too much.
          There will
come a day when I might not be surrounded by the good books I’ve read and have
yet to read.
          There will
come a day when I say even an hour’s work in the garden is too much and let it
go a little wild and a little overrun with weeds which I despise.
          There will
come a day when I won’t be able to settle down to an evening of reading with a
glass of Cointreau to warm my throat.
          There may come
a day when I won’t climb the stairs up to bed and will sell the house for a
smallish, one-floor condo to watch the world that I used to work in.
          There may come
a day when I no longer will want to or be able to cook up a whole dinner in my
beloved kitchen.
          I’m coming these
days to focus on letting go instead of holding onto. If a massive hail storm
shreds my lovely tomato plants, then, I told Jamie, I’m done with gardening in
this almost impossible climate to work in. Some things, I just am not going to
care so much about anymore.
At a point in my life when each
birthday marks not one more year but one less, I have taken to de-accessioning,
getting rid of stuff. Many people when they reach their upper years become
hoarders and collectors of everything, not wanting to part with anything. Not me.
I just took a stack of classical music cd’s to the Denver Public Library. Let
other people hear this wonderful music. I have other versions or am just tired
of it. I periodically prune my bookshelves to take advantage of Tattered
Cover’s trade-in program and get a new book or two.
          Call it
resignation and a sense of limitations, but I want to cut back and cut down,
give away and throw away. I want less. Less stuff, that is.
I also want more—more good times with
friends, more enjoyment, more fun, more commitment, more energy. Resignation and
acceptance doesn’t mean inactivity or laziness or carelessness.
There’s a prayer that goes something
like this:  Lord, help me let go of the
things I need to let go of and accept the things I need to accept and help me
keep doing the things I need to do and then let me know the difference between
the two.
          That, it seems
to me, is what wisdom is about.         

© May 2014  

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.


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On Boredom by Nicholas

A woman I know tells me that she cannot sink. She dives into the lake and just pops right back up to the surface. She tries to dive down head first into the water and her feet stick out on top kicking air. She has even worn weights to help her plumb the depths. All to no avail. She just buoyantly pops up and floats on.

That’s similar to my experience with boredom. I can’t seem to get bored. I can’t sink into a quiet melancholia that comes with having nothing to do, nothing of interest or amusement. I have almost forgotten how to softly sigh in sad ennui. Oh, for some emptiness, I pine.

This is a problem. I envy those who can avail themselves of such delights. I wake up some mornings and say to myself, this is it, this morning I am going to do nothing, just get bored. Mope around the house with nothing on my mind except that there is nothing on my mind. Time to gaze at the ceiling or my navel and try not to think about it.

So, I head off to the coffee shop with my New Yorker and there’s the mistake. I’m sitting there all blank and bored and, idly leafing through the magazine, I find a piece about something I didn’t even know I was interested in. I can’t put it down until I’ve finished reading about people who spend weeks underground exploring deep caves a mile and a half below the surface of the earth. Oops, there I go again not being bored.

There’s always something to do–something I want to do–that I can’t find the time to get bored. Or should I say, I can’t find the interest in getting bored? I’ll go for a bike ride on a sunny, warm day down along the river. I’ll start a project in the yard like getting the garden ready for planting. I’ll draw diagrams of what I want to plant where. There’s always something in the house needing doing or cleaning or fixing. I have to get the guest room ready for my mother-in-law’s visit. And then there’s yoga classes, writing classes, preparing stories to tell on Mondays, and volunteer work at Project Angel Heart on Thursdays. And there are books to read, trips to plan, friends to have lunch with or coffee or dinner, plays to see, and art exhibits to stand in awe of.

When am I ever going to get around to being bored? Do I need to write it down in my day-timer? It’s set then—1 p.m., Tuesday: get bored.

It must take determination to get bored, I think, and I just don’t have it. But that seems counter to the whole idea. Isn’t boredom supposed to happen to you, like flu, not something you can plan and manipulate? Boredom is supposed to be unwanted, not sought after. Something to get over, not luxuriate in.

Maybe I’m easily distracted and easily entertained or just plain shallow and shallow people don’t get bored because we just don’t get it at all and go on being easily entertained.

Now, I’m not saying I’m always happy. That’s another issue entirely. In fact, I spent most of last year unhappy though not bored. That was the January my husband nearly died in surgery. His recovery was slow, long and difficult and for two months we didn’t know if he was going to make it. It wasn’t until one day in September that I realized that he had actually made it and recovered and therefore, so could I and a little happiness crept back into my life. I might even have gotten a bit bored then when I realized I was no longer a 24-hour, on-call nurse and had to find something else to do, like get back to my life. What did I used to do, I remember asking myself one day.

My quest to be bored doesn’t mean that I am against happiness. I don’t march around the house like Lady Macbeth saying, “Out damned spot of happiness, out!” although happy people can really get on one’s nerves. Like Starbucks caffeine jockeys who always want to know how my day is going so far. It’s none of your business and you don’t care, I want to say, and besides I’m trying not to be chipper because I’m trying to be bored and just hang and let my mind dry out in the breeze. Maybe caffeine isn’t a good idea here.

When I was a kid, I remember getting bored late in the summer when it was really hot and the thrill of summer vacation had faded like the lawn I wasn’t interested in watering. Of course, we, the kids on my block, weren’t about to admit that we were ready to go back to school where we at least had something to do, so we just hung out and did nothing until one of our parents caught on and they always had a million things to do, like water the lawn. You never complained about being bored to your parents. That was dangerous and, besides, defeated the purpose of being bored.

Boredom seems to me to be a tremendous luxury. It’s not merely a matter of quiet time—though that’s hard enough to find. It’s more like a psychological desperation, a sense of being at the end of a rope. Nothing appeals. Nothing excites. It lets you empty your mind, let it go dry.

And then when the psychic rain does fall a new seed will sprout and you’ll go, “That’s cool,” and you’re off on a starry new trail of fascination. Boredom can turn around to a path to happiness. Find a new book to read, a new project to write, a new recipe to try for dinner. Something, anything to get out of the doldrums, put wind back into my sails and get my little boat moving.

But right now I need to stop moving, let the wind die down, let the clouds gather. I’ve been retired for five years and—though nobody believes me–what I need is a day off. To get bored.

© June, 2014

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.

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One Summer Afternoon by Nicholas

One summer afternoon I went to the Botanic Gardens to see what was in bloom and to watch the plants grow. They didn’t grow much while I was there so I sat in the Asian garden and jotted down some notes for future stories.

One summer afternoon I remembered the bike ride I took that summer morning to Washington Park going past Ray’s apartment, making a loop around the park past Steven’s house, and then back home.

One summer afternoon I took a writing class on how to put together a memoir that might interest readers. The instructor guided us through exercises on how to construct a narrative with plot, characters and dramatic tension. Just like writing a novel except you’re not supposed to make it up.

One summer afternoon I went to Cheesman Park and saw young men without shirts on running along the trails and playing volleyball. They did not seem to be having as much fun as I was.

One summer afternoon I took the bus into downtown to run some errands and hang out, read the New Yorker and have a really good coffee at Common Grounds on Wazee Street. Downtown is always full of people busy doing their things.

One summer afternoon I took a nap in our cool basement on the sofa that Jamie and I call “the couch of narcosis” because it will put you to sleep, guaranteed.

One summer afternoon I walked into the hospital to see Jamie for the umpteenth time and had a flash of familiarity as if this was just normal life. I told myself to stop that, I don’t want to think that going to the hospital is our normal life.

One summer afternoon Jamie and I stood in front of our house chatting with a neighbor about changes on the block and then some other neighbors who were walking their dog stopped by and filled us all in on some other gossip. We like our neighbors a lot.

One summer afternoon, I discovered that PrideFest is pretty irrelevant to my life. It seems that the crowning achievement of lesbian and gay liberation is skinny hairless young boys walking around in public in their underpants beneath the colorful logos of many huge corporations that want to sell them those underpants and other things.

One summer afternoon I picked fresh arugula from my garden for dinner that night.

One summer afternoon I cut the grass. Don’t mow your lawn in the afternoon; it is too damn hot.

One summer afternoon Jamie and I just fell into bed—and we weren’t sleepy at all.

One summer afternoon I flew into San Francisco International Airport, got on a train into the city, and spent a week of summer afternoons and evenings visiting friends and family, feasting on fabulous meals, going to museums, walking along the ocean, breathing fresh sea air, and eating chocolate cake.

One summer afternoon I went to the shopping mall not to do any shopping but just to wander through a cool environment on a hot day.

On this summer afternoon—and on many summer afternoons and in other seasons as well—I am sitting in a small room to hear what other people do with their summer afternoons.

© 17 June 2013


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.

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Going Shopping by Nicholas

I don’t like shopping. I’m a buyer, not a shopper. When I venture into the world of retail, it is for something specific that I need—socks, underwear, a new shirt or slacks, groceries or some such stuff. The basics of life. I don’t see shopping as entertainment; it’s more like a chore, an odious chore, at that. If I can’t help it, I will go to the store. Shopping is boring and other shoppers are a nuisance merely blocking me from achieving my goal.

Usually I do have a purpose, a mission. I make a shopping list. I know where I need to go and what I need to get. Far from meandering aimlessly and gazing at a bewildering array of products and stuff, shopping is one of the most directed activities I engage in. Whatever I don’t want is merely a distraction and I will not be distracted.

But then, there are those moments. Of course, it does happen, though very rarely, that my tight little system breaks down and I do go shopping. I mean just plain old aimless shopping. I resort to indulging in retail therapy. It can be fun to buy new things. Maybe once a year on a spring afternoon, I will head for the shops or even the mall and just browse around looking at all the incredible things I could have. I might even buy some gadget that strikes my whimsy or perhaps stumble across something that I really could use and have wanted something like it for ages. Some trinket, some teensy little fashion statement like a shirt of a new color. Just slap the racks. Sometimes it’s fun to wallow in the midst of all the over-consumption possibilities of this American culture. I go from boredom to over stimulation and back to boredom in minutes.

I have my weaknesses, however. I can at times go shopping, I mean, really just shopping, not aiming for anything in particular, just handling the merchandise. Bookstores, for example, are for me like candy stores. I can’t walk into a bookstore without buying something before I walk out. Browsing always leads me to some title that looks really interesting, something I must read and will read—someday. Maybe I’m hoping for immortality. As long as I keep adding to the unread books on my shelf, I won’t die and it’ll be a damn long time before I get to reading all of them.

This used to be true for music back in the day when there were record and CD stores. I could always find something. I miss those stores and I fear the day when the dwindling Tattered Cover will shut its doors. I don’t know what I will do then. Give up candy?

Well, then there’s my second weakness. If I won’t be able to put anything into my mind, I will, I hope, be able to put stuff in my mouth. I mean food and wine. The other afternoon, I spent a delightful time pouring over the wine racks at Marczyk’s to select wine from Argentina, France, California and Spain. Another favorite is the Savory Spice Shop where I love to walk into and just breathe in all the aromas. And Saturday mornings in the summer will always find me wandering through the farmers market gawking at all the good food to bring home and cook up and eat. I usually buy too much but not half of what I’d like to buy.

So, I do like to go shopping after all—but I rarely admit it.
© Denver, 2014

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.

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A Meal to Remember – Giving Thanks by Nicholas

It was our first Thanksgiving together in our first flat together in San Francisco. We loved the place up the hill from Parnassus Avenue above Cole Valley. The street was Woodland, named so, we presumed, because it ended in a small forest of eucalyptus that ran up Mt. Sutro in the heart of the city. The rent was a bit steep even then but we fell in love with the redwood shingle house of which we occupied the first floor. We were right at the usual fog line so we could watch the fog roll in from the ocean at the front and see the sun at the back.

Our flat was elegant. Old wood trim, arched front window with beveled glass, neat little kitchen with lots of counter space that was a deep, lustrous purple. I loved those deep purple countertops. That was the first kitchen that I loved to cook in.
Being our first Thanksgiving in our own place, we decided to entertain at home with friends coming over instead of joining Jamie’s family in Menlo Park, an hour south. It was kind of a statement of independence from the family and a statement that holidays were ours. So, we invited a bunch of friends and began planning dinner for eight on Thanksgiving Day. We asked each person or couple to contribute something like an appetizer, a salad, a side dish, dessert, wine. We ordered the turkey and would roast it and make stuffing.
We got a 12 pound bird and studied up on what to do with it. What’s to cooking a turkey, we thought. You throw it in the oven early in the morning, check it now and then, and, voila, dinner was ready. Truth is, this wasn’t the very first turkey I had cooked. A previous boyfriend and I had cooked a turkey one holiday so I thought I knew what I was doing. I should have learned more from that turkey, I mean, the boyfriend. 
With the bird in the oven in plenty of time, we thought we were in fine shape to get other things done. Jamie decided to call his mom just to wish her a happy holiday and remind her of what a wonderful time we were having. Mom, being mom, couldn’t leave things alone and had to start asking questions about what was, to her, our cooking experiment. Had we washed the turkey, had we wrapped it in foil or a roasting bag, had we made stuffing, had we gotten the giblets and other parts out of both ends.
Wait a minute, I said, both ends? Turkeys have two ends? I know they do in nature but in the supermarket? I had pulled some extra body parts out of one end, where was this other end and what was supposed to come out of it? Humbled and desperate, we dashed to the oven and yanked the damned bird out of the heat. The cavity was empty, as it was supposed to be. We pried open the other end, having discovered that indeed there was an opening there too. That’s when we realized we were in trouble. The back side, or maybe it was the front, was still frozen solid. I neglected to mention that we had gotten a frozen turkey and had given it what we thought was a proper 2-3 day thawing, but the damn thing was still ice inside.
We threw it back into the oven, cranked up the temp and hoped it would cook. Guests were due to arrive soon. Turkeys are slow birds, especially in the oven. Hours seemed to go by and it was only warm. 
Since we’d planned a leisurely meal, we told people to come over early so we could nosh. We did just that. Guests and their dishes arrived to great cheer and our anxious announcement that dinner might be a little later than planned. We did not elaborate.
We opened the wine. We ate the appetizers. We ate the salad. We opened more wine. The turkey was gradually getting warmer, even starting to cook.
Then the second disaster of our elegant holiday feast arrived. The friend assigned to bring a nice dessert showed up late, though that was no problem compared to the one in the oven. “What did you bring for dessert,” we asked. He proudly pulled out a five-pound bag of apples, just apples, like from a tree. He said it would be a healthy dessert. I said, let me show you where the flour, butter and sugar are and you can bake a pie, like now. Or, I gave him a choice, I could put one of his apples in his mouth and throw him into the oven so we could have two turkeys. He opted instead to go out and buy something.
We were just about ready for dessert by then anyway since we had consumed the entire meal including sweet potatoes and vegetables when at long last the fucking turkey was ready to eat.
We did have our lovely Thanksgiving dinner though the order was slightly reversed with the main course last. I’ve never again purchased a frozen turkey but have successfully cooked fresh, never frozen birds to the delight of hungry guests. I do not recommend buying frozen turkeys.

©
March 2014

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.

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When I Decided by Nicholas

Decisions, decisions: the choices I have made mark the chronicle of my life. When I decided to do something, many times after long procrastination, my life took on a new direction with momentous consequences. And maybe my memory is playing tricks on me but the most significant decisions I have made have all turned out to be success stories. If I have forgotten the disasters, let them stay forgotten. I will talk about my successes.

1964: After 12 years of Catholic schooling, I decided that I wanted to see the world, so I chose not to go to the Catholic college that most of my high school friends cheerfully enrolled in. I wanted to meet the world and I found it at Ohio State University. And I loved it and grew there.

1968: Had to take a break from college but my student deferment was saving me from going to war in Viet Nam, so I hatched a plan to leave school and fight the draft. I moved to San Francisco where I learned a lot about life–and me.

1973: Again at loose ends, I decided to join VISTA, the domestic Peace Corps, where I trained as a paralegal advocate to help free crazy people from wrongful confinement in a state hospital. They really weren’t that crazy.

1975: Falling in love with history, I decided to go to graduate school.

1977: Falling out of love with grad school which had become an expensive hobby with slim chance of meaningful employment, I left it when an interesting job came my way working on school desegregation in Cleveland. That job launched my career in journalism.

1978: When I decided I’d been alone and sexless long enough, I made that phone call to a gay helpline in Cleveland, found a community, came out and promptly fell in love.

1979: I decided to return to California to continue growing, have lots of adventures (some in dark places), fall in and out of love, find out what having fun really means, and how to help some friends struggle with a horrible disease.

1985: Despite doubts about my ability to do the job, I decided to take up the offer to be news editor of San Francisco’s gay newspaper, Bay Area Reporter. Best job I ever had in an exciting time for the LGBT community.

1987: Met Jamie. I decided, after nearly missing all the cues, that this time was different. As a friend put it in a poem: I heard his song and he heard mine. He was a keeper, as they say. So, he kept me.

1990: Now we made decisions. We decided to leave San Francisco for sunny, warm and cheaper Denver and a new life.

2008: We decided to get married and live happily ever after.

2009: Now in my 60s, I decided it was time to stop working and begin a new adventure to expand my life, not “retire” it.

It could be my mantra: when I decided.

March 2014

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.

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Competition Is No Good Except Sometimes by Nicholas

Competition is something I don’t like. I have no use for it. I think it brings out some of the worst in people, not the best. It turns people against one another instead of turning humans to one another for support. If competition produces accomplishments, cooperation and mutual support can produce much more.

In the just-finished Winter Olympics, we saw what competition leads to—a lot of hoopla for very little. If anything, modern Olympics games have lowered healthy competition to the point of absurdity. Athletes strive relentlessly, work their whole lives, push their bodies and minds to their absolute limits to win by hundredths of a second. But then many people don’t watch the Olympics for the competition; they watch to see the spectacular stumbles by elegant figure skaters and crashes by downhill racers at stunning speeds.

But what do I know? All my life, I’ve had that gay boy syndrome of “I can’t do it anyway, so why bother? There are so many more fabulous things to do.” It’s a form of self-protection. You’re not going to get picked–you really don’t want to get picked–for the team, so look the other way. I spent many a recess on the school playground muttering, “Don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me.”

There are things I will definitely not compete for.

> Love: There’s plenty to go around; why would one compete for love?

> Money: I have plenty, thanks, no need to get greedy.

> Medals: They just become so much dust-collecting stuff.

> Recognition: I’m already recognized in enough places.

> Parking Spaces: Unless I am driving a Humvee or a tank with a ram on it.

> Spots in line at Trader Joe’s.

> Prizes: More stuff to dust every now and then.

On the other hand, some things are worth competing for, such as:

> A seat on the bus: fine, if you must stand at the front of the bus, but just get out of my way, please.

> A spot at yoga class: how else am I to find the peace of Buddha?

> The bathroom in the morning: you’d better get out of my way now.

> A viewing point to at least try to see a great painting at a crowded Denver Art Museum exhibit.

> My favorite table at my favorite coffeehouse (no, I’m not saying where because you’ll probably try to take it.)

> Chocolate: anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

Though I exude gay disdain for competition, I do nonetheless indulge in it from time to time and then with determination fit for a queen. Life is complicated.

March 2014

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.

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Endless Joy by Nicholas

At a time in my life when I realize that nothing is endless, least of all joy, though perhaps torment is endless, but really not even that, I do not know what to say about endless joy. Is it possible? Would I even want it? Wouldn’t it become boring? Would it be bearable?

To conceive of something endless is not really possible, is beyond the capacity of our finite human minds which, if not finite themselves, can deal only in the finite world. This is what we mean by “getting my mind around” something—containing it, roping it in. Endless is not possible and is not even appealing. Endless is kind of an absurdity and joy can be even more problematic. Joy can be hard to find and quick to lose.

I have had from time to time a sense of what seems like eternity, a sense of timelessness. I can get so wrapped up in the now of whatever I’m doing that awareness of time passing simply escapes me. That’s how I imagine eternity, a perpetual, timeless now. We’re entering the boggle-sphere here. Concepts that just boggle the mind.

Now, if the topic were constant joy, I could list many things that fill my life with happiness. Being with Jamie for one. Celebrating holidays or anytime with good friends and family. A walk in the snow. Seeing the snow go away and flowers bloom. Cooking, eating, drinking wine. Riding a train. Sipping a cup of hot chocolate on a cold afternoon. Bicycling on a summer morning. Reading a good book. Dreaming of writing projects—actually doing them, that is.

But. Nothing is endless except endlessness itself. The universe has many endings but goes on and on. Time has many endings but goes on. Winter follows autumn and then spring follows winter and then summer and then autumn again in that endless cycle of beginnings and endings. The now-bare forsythia bush by my back door will one day sprout buds and then brilliant yellow flowers as it follows the perpetual, plodding and exhilarating cycle of life and seasons endlessly. And that is the source of joy.

January, 2014

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.