Tag: Nicholas

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Are We in Indonesia Yet? by Nicholas

      I’ve heard it said that you have to learn
some language by a very early age—say, four or five or six—or you will never be
able to learn any language. And once you learn any language, you can,
theoretically, learn any other language. Of course, most of us have sat through
enough Spanish, French and German classes to know that that part of the theory
is questionable. The point is that one’s brain must develop its language
capacity early in life or it is lost forever, that part of your brain just
won’t grow.
      I sometimes feel that way regarding what
is usually referred to as “technology,” meaning computers and all their spawn,
i.e., iPads, tablets, nooks, kindles, iPhones, 3G, 4G, and, OMG, I don’t know
how many other devices or apps. Though I am at least primitively computer
literate, I fear that whole new languages are now in common use about which I
know nothing. And it may be too late for my aging brain to learn them.
      Over the years I’ve worked through a number
of stages in my personal relationship with technology. I’ve passed through the
stage of computers being interesting, useful, or even wondrous in their
capabilities. I’ve passed through the stage of thinking, OK, that’s enough—I
can write, cut & paste, send emails, crop photos, research questions, and
get on You Tube. I am tempted toward the stage of concluding that computers are
really a nuisance and I might just one day re-boot the thing out the door. But
then, emails are very useful and where else does one find porn these days?
      Now I am entering the stage of more or
less panic that if I don’t make some big technological leap I will be left
behind like a blacksmith on an automobile assembly line. Skilled but
irrelevant. I do know some basics of computer literacy, but…  Well, the fact that I’m using the word
“computer,” which nobody uses now, given the array of devices available, shows
how far behind the times I have sunk. My fear is that I will not be able to learn
the new language of the moment—they seem to change quickly—and I will be left
unable to communicate with anyone in the world.
      But rapidly mutating technology is just
one of the ways in which I am coming to feel like a stranger in my own land.
Culture shock is getting to be a daily occurrence. Most all pop culture from
music to television shows is a mystery to me. The obsession with money dismays
me. The fondness for states of unreality whether drug or television or church
induced leaves me alienated. And the poisonous and paralyzed political milieu
is depressing.
      I was once in a workshop of writers and a
woman author gave a lengthy description of her process in writing an essay. An
idea will come to her, she said, and she will mull it over for a while which
can be anywhere from a few hours to months. Then, she’ll jot down some notes as
the idea expands and facets of it come into view. Eventually, she will organize
her notes and develop nuances of her argument or narrative. At some point, she
will compose all these thoughts into a coherent essay.
      I thought, that’s me alright and all the
other dinosaurs still roaming the earth. Doesn’t she—don’t we—realize that
NOBODY DOES THAT ANYMORE!!?  This
leisurely process of developing your thoughts to explore nuance, is so
20-years-ago. One doesn’t pause to think things through or just walk around
with an idea until it jells or makes sense. Today, if a thought ever dares to
enter your head, you must get it out, like a virus, as quickly as possible
before it takes root and grows into who knows what. You spit it out as fast as
you can on your blog or text it to your million friends on Facebook. Keep
paddling around in the shallow water because you have no idea of what might be
out there in the depths. Could be something bigger than you.
      It seems that what’s on the surface is
thought sufficient, no need to get below the shiny surface. I remember in grade
school one day we learned how to diagram a sentence. I learned how sentences
were put together and acquired another tool to express myself. I thought, this
is power, knowing this gives me power. I know more about using my language.
Now, sentences are no longer diagrammed. In fact, they’re hardly even used.
What use is a sentence when you have only 140 characters to say everything. But
then, why would you need more than 140 characters anyway?
      I guess I just don’t know this place
anymore. I’m a stranger in my own country. I feel like I’m in a country I don’t
know, don’t understand, and actually don’t like. I might as well be in
Indonesia or somewhere.

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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Nobody Warned Me about This by Nicholas

          Maybe it was because my parents assumed that their kids
would just know better, I don’t recall my youth being burdened with parental
warnings. There was none of the hectoring others have told me that they got from
their parents about do this or don’t do that. My sophisticated mom and dad relied
on that mystical bond between parent and child in which good and harm are
communicated without words or maybe with the slightest gesture or frown.
          Oh, there were the usual admonitions to drive carefully
when I went out. And once when I was about to head off to college, mom asked if
I knew about homosexuals in an attempted warning that I stopped short. It
wasn’t that I feared I was one and she was going to out me but rather that any
conversation about anything sexual at age 18 with my mother was just too creepy
to let happen.
          Once I sort of asked for a warning. I was testing out my
new independence living away from home at college. Ohio State,
like every college campus in the country in 1964, was rumbling with movements
of change and I as a freshman jumped right in. It was a battle over the rights
of students to hear the free speech of forbidden speakers, namely Marxist
political theorists. Talk was there would be a demonstration with the
likelihood of arrests the next day.
          I mentioned all this to mom and dad in my regular weekly
phone call to see what they would say. Like, no, don’t do it, you’ll ruin your
future. But no such warning came. Mom thought about it and said that I should
do whatever I thought was best. Now, how was I going to rebel with an attitude
like that? I felt almost encouraged to get arrested. Maybe it was a trick. But
mom didn’t play tricks; she pretty much said exactly what she was thinking.
          So much for warnings. How is it then, I wonder, that I
turned out to be, as we used to say back then, one of the people my parents warned
me about. Free thinking, authority questioning, not too impressed with money
for its own sake, experimenter with odd drugs and even odder spiritualities,
totally supportive of people who go to great lengths to shape their lives, and
even their bodies, their way, and, to top it off, queer. It isn’t that I set
out to break all the rules, just the big ones. Perhaps mom and
dad knew that I was destined to break or ignore just about every admonition
they would have given me so they just didn’t bother.
          I joined radical political organizations, didn’t often cut
my hair, refused to join the army when told to do so, picked a pretty useless
college major instead of a practical one, never got around exactly to having a
career (I’ve had a few here and there, actually), ran away to San Francisco
twice, went to all-night dance parties when I was 35, and ended up marrying a
man.
          And in the end, I can say that taking risks and ignoring
even well-meaning warnings almost always pays off. If nothing else, I learned
some things I would never do again. I have sown my wild oats and they have
grown up to nourish me well over the years. I think Edith Piaf sang a song about
that.
          And now, though I went against most parental warnings and
admonitions, spoken or unspoken, I can say that the parents I ignored and shocked
many times are now my role models. We stayed together and sort of grew up
together—me changing and them changing. They too did things their way and they
aged well, remaining active though never failing to take naps, and learning new
things while steadfastly keeping their old familiar ways so that I say, yes,
they are my role models now.
Nobody
warned me that I’d come around to saying that.

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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How I Learned Some Turkey Anatomy by Nicholas

          It was our first Thanksgiving together so we invited a
bunch of friends over to share a dinner. Jamie and I were to cook the turkey
and other people were assigned other courses for a sumptuous meal.
          We got the bird which was frozen but no problem, we knew
enough to leave it in the frig for a few days to thaw out. It seemed to be
doing so nicely and on Thanksgiving morning as I prepared the stuffing and
prepped the turkey, things were moving along smoothly. Turkey in the
oven, we were on our way to a feast.
          The first sign of trouble came innocently enough when Jamie
was talking to his mother about our celebration. I should point out that this
Thanksgiving was a kind of late rebellion on his part. We had decided not to go
to his parents for dinner, even though they were nearby, so we could have our
own gathering with friends. But mothers have that knack for asking questions
that can throw your plans right into the rubbish.
          Bragging about our turkey in the oven, mom posed the
question, “Did you get the giblets and stuff out of both ends of the turkey?”
          What “both ends,” I demanded. Of course we’d pried out a
bag of turkey parts from its hollow innards. But was there more in some other
secret cavity? Was there something stuffed up its ass, too?
          So, we hauled the bird out of the oven and poked around its
backside to find out that not only was there another pouch of miscellaneous
bits but that our future dinner was still, actually, frozen. Well, it did seem
a little stiff when we stuffed it but now we realized we had a still frozen
12-15 pound animal and all bets were off as just when dinner would be served.
          We threw the thing back into the oven and cranked up the
temperature. Nothing much happened. We turned the oven up higher. Still, not
much changed. It was turkey’s revenge—it would cook in its own time and never
mind our plans for dinner.
          Our guests started arriving and our main course was just
thawing out. We had appetizers and wine and conversation while the bird began
to show some sign of cooking. We reversed the order of the meal and served other
courses like salad, potatoes and vegetable and more wine until at long last we
pulled from the oven what we hoped was a cooked turkey. I can’t even remember
what it tasted like. I guess it was good or we were all too hungry to care. Everybody
ate it, nobody got sick. It was a fun time, even though a disaster.
          My first venture into real cooking did not augur well for
pursuing culinary delights. But, as it happens, one gets hungry and has to
repeatedly do something about it. Peanut butter sandwiches as a diet are not
that appealing. So, despite being shamed by a turkey, the lowest form of
conscious life on this planet, I did go back into that kitchen with the intention
of turning food into meals.
          I am happy to report that success followed my persistence.
Hunger is a good teacher and I have come since to associate the kitchen with
many satisfactions and pleasures.
          I love to indulge myself and what higher form of indulgence
is there than food. And food grows ever more satisfying with age. Taste grows
more complex and nuanced with age and taste buds, unlike other body parts,
actually work better as you grow older. Kids can be finicky eaters, it has been
said, because their underdeveloped taste buds aren’t working to their full
capacity with just sweet and bitter dominating their little palates.
          I like food. I like everything to do with food—shopping for
it, growing it, picking it in the garden, preparing it, cooking it, eating and
sharing it with others. I like reading about food and cooking; I like planning
big meals. My favorite store in the whole world is the Savory Spice Shop down
on Platte Street.
Walking in their door is entering a different world full of wonderful aromas
that hint of countless flavors from the dozens of herbs, spices and exotic
salts on the shelves. The variations and sensations are near endless in my
imagination.
          Cooking is now part of my identity. I love to cook. Well, I
just love food. Cooking is now a creative endeavor as I tend to use recipes not
as instructions but for inspiration and as suggestions as to what goes well
together and in what measure. Many times I simply dispense with recipes and
make it up on the basis of what’s in the frig and hunches. The hunches—like
adding paprika and dry mustard to a stew—usually pay off, i.e., are edible, but
sometimes they do not turn out so well. Those I won’t go into.
          Food has its rituals that can be likened to religious
liturgies culminating with the sharing of sacrament. Food is work and joy, is
nourishment and pleasure and connotes special relationships to those you share
it with and to the earth it comes from.
          So, let me officially launch this great season of holiday feasting—my
favorite time of the year—with the words: Ladies and gentlemen, start your
ovens. Let the eating begin!

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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Brave, Braver, Bravest by Nicholas

I’m not a big fan of reality. Especially when it intrudes on my preferred and prolonged dream state that I like to call my life. I know there are seasons to life and, as Ecclesiastes says, a time for everything.  
Given my reluctance to face reality, it’s understandable that I do not see myself as a brave person. My husband and I have a saying about facing unpleasant situations and tasks. We joke about grabbing the bull by the tail and facing the situation head on. Bravery is mostly just not ducking when you really want to. 
I remember my first trip to Europe when I joined the backpack brigades of young Americans hitchhiking through foreign lands. The wheels of the plane were barely off the runway in Cleveland when the doubts popped up as I headed for Ireland, the first stop on my fairly loosely planned six week jaunt. I sank back in my seat in complete dismay and anxiety, saying to myself, what am I doing here? 
Well, I don’t know if that constituted any act of bravery on my part since I couldn’t really do anything about it like say, hey, can you stop the plane, I changed my mind, this is too scary. I don’t even speak the language of where I’m going. But I went on. The trip turned out to be a mix of fascination and misery. Fascination in meeting people from all over the globe, many of whom helped when I needed it, and misery in getting stranded on a cold rainy night in Paris when I couldn’t find my recently met French friend who promised me a place to stay. Never did find him. But I got to love Paris. 
I found that if I just hung in there long enough, something was bound to happen. Just go. Just do it. I moved to San Francisco in that spirit. I landed there with a few hundred dollars in my pocket and nothing else. And I found happiness, prosperity and even love. Just do it. 
I guess one element of bravery is forging ahead on something you feel you must do even though you’re not sure what exactly is going to happen next. You don’t know what lies ahead but you go ahead anyway. When an ex-boyfriend Wayne called me one night and said he’d been diagnosed with AIDS—this before any treatments existed to even alleviate the suffering—I was fearful for him and I was afraid for me and felt directly exposed to that disease. I felt like saying, “Oh, come on, Wayne, you’re ruining my dream.” But instead, I said, let’s get together. What am I going to do, I wondered—I don’t even speak the language. He was the brave one, I thought. I just had to swallow hard a few times.  
There was one time in my life when I did something that I would call brave—at least nervy—one time I deliberately dared the wrath of the empire. In July 1970, I refused to be inducted into the US Army. Years before I’d set into motion the process that lead up to that day and there I was to defy society and its power.  
Coming out was like that too. Although I did learn the language for that.  
What’s brave and what’s foolish are not always that far apart. You really can’t tell which is which many times until long after what’s done is done. I don’t have any stories of charging into burning buildings to rescue babies or puppies or risking all to save a drowning man and, frankly, I hope I never do. For most of us it’s the little everyday acts that catch you off guard and turn out to be brave whether you want them to or not. Like taking Jamie to the ER one day and answering the nurse’s question as to what my relationship was to the patient when I said, “He’s my husband,” not partner or friend or any vague nonsense. 
Bravery is plunging ahead to do right even though you don’t know where exactly you’re going to land. 

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

Till Death Us Do Part by Nicholas

Jamie and I never thought we would get
married. Through all the debate over gay marriage, we never felt really drawn
to it. We never thought about going to Massachusetts or to Canada as friends of
ours had to get hitched. We didn’t jump onto an airplane in February 2004 and
head to San Francisco when Mayor Gavin Newsum started issuing marriage licenses
and Jamie’s mom inquired as to whether or not we would—as I’m sure she deeply
wished. Long active in the struggle for gay marriage, she had flung herself
into that fray by driving up to the city from Menlo Park to volunteer as a
witness for couples who showed up at San Francisco City Hall. Her fondest hope
was to see her gay son married someday.
Jamie and I always said that, yes, we would
like to marry but only when it became immediately and practically real where we
live—in Colorado—and that did not look too likely in our lifetimes. We knew who
we were and we were confident about our love for and commitment to one another
so until legal realities caught up with our reality, we stayed home.
We did take care to put in place any legal
arrangements available to protect our relationship. We had our last wills and
testaments, legal powers of attorney, medical directives, medical powers of
attorney, house ownership agreement, and even, our official certificate of
domestic partnership from the City and County of Denver. We even carry these
documents with us in our cars should we ever need them in an emergency without
time to go home and retrieve them. We were set.
Of course, it all depended on the whim of whomever
might challenge us as to whether any of our documents and legal constructions
would work. Because, of course, we weren’t married.
Married couples don’t ever have to produce legal documents to justify
themselves.
Then May 15, 2008 happened. The California
Supreme Court ruled that the State of California had no justification to
prohibit the marriage of two people of the same gender. It amounted to
discrimination. California was liberated.
When I heard the news flash on the radio, my
instant response was: Let’s go home to California, where we used to live and
still had family and friends, and get married.
That day, Jamie was with his mom in Minnesota
visiting friends and relatives and my big worry was that she, with her activism
for marriage equality, would start lobbying for her son and prospective
son-in-law to do the wedding march ASAP. That, I feared, would only spark
Jamie’s resistance—we had so often said that marriage was not for us until some
unspecifiable time in the future, i.e., probably never. And there’s nothing
like a nagging mother to produce a quick “No.”

I hastily phoned him on his cell hoping to
short circuit what I imagined to be my mother-in-law’s certain campaign. Yes,
he and mom had heard the news and talked about it, he said. But, no, she hadn’t
been urging him/us to wed. She must really want this to happen, I thought;
she’s laying low. The motherly artillery was for now quiet.
I had my opening. I asked Jamie if he wanted
to go to California and get married, the closest to a proposal I’d ever make.
And he replied, to my surprise, that, yea, he would, the closest to a yes, I’d
ever hear.
I can’t explain this sudden turn about in
feelings toward getting married. We still would gain nothing in the state where
we lived. In fact, marriage was still as legally empty for us as it ever was.
Nothing would change. Maybe because we met and lived together in San Francisco
before moving to Denver and still had family and friends there and are always
going there that California is still was kind of home. It just felt like the
right thing for us to do. And that’s how we entered the dazzling world of
wedding planning. We were going all the way—a church wedding and catered
reception. Mom was paying.
From indifferent to ardent believers in 30
seconds. I’ve heard all the jokes—and told them—about marriage being a
wonderful institution but who wants to live in an institution. I guess we just
gave into the romance of the idea. Isn’t that why people get married
everywhere? It’s the romance, never mind the legal goodies, which, after all,
we now qualified for in at least 6 states and the District of Columbia. Of
course, we were also entering a legal Alice in Wonderland as to which rights we
had depending on which geographical location we were in. We could get bigger
and then we could get smaller.
We’ve never regretted our marriage. In fact,
we were both kind of surprised that it did seem to make a difference. We began
to think of ourselves in different terms as more than a couple, but a
recognized and sanctioned couple. It isn’t just straight people who have to
adjust their idea of marriage to include gay and lesbian couples. Now that we
have something we never in our wildest imaginations thought we would ever have,
we too wonder what this means. Are we changing the definition of marriage, like
the gay-haters say? Well, I hope so.
What, for example, do we call ourselves?
Spouses? Husbands? I don’t like the term “husband”—it implies there’s a “wife”
somewhere—but it does spell it all out in just one word and we’ve come to use
it. We love each other, we’re committed to each other, we share property, we
can make decisions for each other, and we have sex. No explanations are needed
as to who my “friend” is.



There’s a catch, though, Here’s the catch. We can’t get divorced. Anyone can go to California and get married. Only legal residents of California can use divorce court. We’re not residents. So, we are stuck. Stuck with each other for life. But that’s just where we want to be.

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

Elder Words by Nicholas

What
are “elder words?” Words that are old like old sayings, ancient poetry,
scripture?

          Are “elder words” words of wisdom to be imparted to recipients
of wisdom like “be kind to dogs, you might come back as one?”

          Or are these the words used to describe old people? In that
case, there are many. Let me count the ways.

1.   Seniors—Takes
me right back to high school.

2.   Senior
Citizens—Since I don’t care much for the citizenship I have, I prefer to think
of myself as a citizen of the Land of Serendipity and one is never a senior
citizen there.

3.   Elders—Sounds
like being kicked upstairs to the House of Lords or some such esteemed but
useless position where one can be honored and ignored.

4.   Old—‘Cause
that’s what we are.

5.   Old
Farts—‘Cause that’s what we are.

6.   Dotage—If
that’s not where we are, it’s probably where we’re headed.

7.   Curmudgeon—What
some of us aspire to.

8.   Retiree—I
sometimes hesitate but I am really not the retiring kind.

9.   Parasite
living off Social Security—Well, finally!

10.              
Third Age—From the French Le troisieme age which I think refers to
the period in life after childhood and adulthood. The French have some respect
for their elders since they’re the ones who know how to cook.

11.              
Here is my favorite and how I prefer to be
labeled: Post-Adulthood. This means you can take what you want from childhood,
adolescence, adulthood and old age and make of it what you wish. It’s a time
for whimsy, play, new responsibilities, delayed major projects, naps, your true
life’s work, re-decorating the kitchen, whatever you wish. You get to decide
now.

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

Learning to Dance (According to Mother Goose) by Nicholas

Girls and boys, come out to play,
The moon is shining as bright as day.

Leave your supper, and leave your sleep,
And come with your playfellows into the street.

Let me tell you a story. It’s a story about
princes and princesses and queens. There’s magic and elegant balls and fancy
costumes. Carriages take us to places of great imagination. And we dance all
night till dawn’s dim light.

Dancing, I mean disco dancing, was a part of
my liberation. Getting myself out onto the dance floor to shake and writhe was liberating.
I had spent plenty of time watching the sensuous moves of dancers wishing I
could just step out and let go and give in to the music. I think that disco
dancing in the 1980s was to gay men what going to church on Sunday was to black
women. Release me, oh, sweet Jesus, release me.

          Swaying, twisting, turning, stomping,
and waving arms to those simple rhythms and an overwhelming drumbeat at
deafening volume produced a sense of reverie. You could do anything and call it
dancing. You didn’t even need a partner. It just took some nerve to go out onto
a dance floor and shake your booty and other body parts.

          What got me dancing was hanging out
with Jack, Steven and Bill (whom we called Chester). We worked together at
Macy’s in San Francisco and we would go out after work. Friday saw us head to
Trinity Place, a downtown bar that featured cabaret shows. Then it was on to
get something to eat and then out dancing. These guys were light years ahead of
me. They didn’t just dance, they had moves, fancy ones, sometimes with fans or with
their stripped-off shirts. It was a performance to behold.

          On Halloween one year there was an
all-night extravaganza at the Galleria, a designers warehouse with a five-story
atrium. Entertainment was some disco diva headliner, the place was ablaze with
a continuous laser light show, and the best dance music in the world pulsed through
the night. We paid the high price for tickets, acquired the right wardrobe, and
did the right drugs so we could dance frenetically all night long.

          For Halloween everybody was in
costume. Jack loved the theatre and was adept at sewing so he
volunteered—insisted, actually—on making all our costumes. We decided on a
Renaissance courtier theme, with tights, puffy-sleeved velvet doublets, magnificent
capes and flouncy hats with feathers. Mine was midnight blue and grey with
ermine trim, of course. Our regal carriage—a grubby San Francisco taxi—took us
to the ball. There were no pumpkins and no mean sisters. It was all glamour,
like something out of a fairy tale.

          They’re all gone now and my dancing
days are over for sure. Chester was the first to go. I took him to see my
doctor because he didn’t have a doctor. But there wasn’t much to be done and he
died before they even named his illness. Steven went dancing into eternity next.
Jack hung on the longest, righteously angry that his life was being cut short.

          I don’t know what this has to do with
Mother Goose. There may be no rhymes here but I and my “playfellows” left our
supper and left our sleep and danced all night, seeking that release. This tale
of princes and magic and carriage rides into the night and back again with the
rising sun was one of those rare moments of wonder that stand out from
day-to-day life. Not all Mother Goose rhymes have happy endings—like “down will
come baby, cradle and all.” But though baby came to a hard landing, he enjoyed
his time swaying high in the tree top.

Rock-a-bye, baby,
   In the tree top:
When the wind blows,
   The cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks,
   The cradle will fall;
Down will come baby,
   Cradle and all.

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.