Tag: Pat Gourley

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School, by Pat Gourley

My formal education
stared in 1955 when I was a first grader at St. Peter Catholic School in La Porte
Indiana. My family lived on what was actually a real family farm of about 200
acres growing corn, soybeans, wheat and oats. We had a few milk cows, the
occasional pig, a few sheep and lots of chickens along with a dog or two and
several barnyard cats. The cats had escaped the fate of so many other barnyard felines
and not wound up in a gunnysack full of rocks at the bottom of a horse tank.
What can I say it was a different time and this cat population control was
usually done out of sight from us kids.
It was a short commute from
the farm to the town of La Porte that had three elementary Catholic schools. We
went to the one that served mostly Irish families.
My grandparents both
maternal and paternal were not far removed from Ireland and on my mother’s side
supposedly came from Roscommon County. I believe these grandparents were all
second-generation immigrants from the Emerald Isle, but unfortunately I do not
know this for sure. I should check this out though since if just one of your
grandparents was born in Ireland, even if neither parent was, you are eligible
for Irish citizenship.  This is something
that seems quite attractive these days.
The family had been in
northern Indiana for sometime but being Irish Catholics they had not always
been welcomed with open arms. Family lore included an oft repeated story of a
KKK cross burning at the end of the lane leading to my paternal grandparent’s
home in the early 1920’s. The Klan was very resurgent at that time and Indiana
was a hotbed of this activity. Along with African Americans the Jews and
Catholics were also on their list of undesirables.
By the mid-1950’s and
being quite cocooned in the environment of conservative Catholicism 24/7 we
were fairly sheltered from these blatant forms of racism and xenophobia. I mean
we were after all white living in the very white world of rural Indiana and the
KKK was on the wane by this time. The unrelenting religious brainwashing I was
subjected to in grades 1-8 was in hindsight a form of child abuse no matter how
righteous or well intentioned. Sadly generations had been drinking that religious
kool-aide. My parents, at significant financial cost for a lower middle class
family, felt the burden of parochial school for their kids was an act of love,
a duty even and therefore something necessary. It was after all a bunch of
Protestants who had burned that cross at the family farm several decades
before.
A little over half way
through my grade school years the rumblings of great social change were on the
horizon. For my family this was manifest in the fact that an Irish Catholic was
running for president and the ground truly began to shift when he was actually elected
president of the United States. It was a true miracle, JFK in the White House.
Even his assassination a few short years later could not slow the train of
change.
Again, thanks to
significant sacrifice on my parents’ part I was enrolled in a Catholic high
school in Michigan City Indiana in 1963 called St. Mary. This was a time when
my queer juices were really taking off though the environment of a Catholic
School in northern Indiana was not conducive to supporting this gay
flowering.  Then an amazing thing
happened late in my sophomore year and my family moved to a small farm outside
of Woodstock Illinois, a town best described as a suburban bedroom community
northwest of Chicago.
Thus began what in hindsight
I believe today to be my two most important school years.  Nothing like coming under the influence of a
very politically left-leaning, staunchly anti-war Holy Cross nun and seeking
guidance to deal with my ever emerging gayness from a school counselor several
decades older than myself who was to become my first sexual partner. These two
mentors did more to shape who I am today than all the many other teachers I
encountered over my long and often tortuous formal educational path.
I have written extensively
about these two individuals for this group and won’t reiterate those details
here. Suffice it to say though that my formal schooling continued for years to
come. Those academic adventures included 5 years at the University Of Illinois
at Champaign-Urbana, two years of nursing school at the University of Colorado
and another two years at Regis University here in Denver where I was awarded a
Masters Degree in Nursing Administration. That last one was truly a
masturbatory exercise in how to waste time and money for which I take total
responsibility, the faculty at Regis tried, and they really did.
So by my count that is at
least 21 years of formal education. There are really only two years of that
that mattered and those were 1966 and 1967 when I learned the joys of gay sex
and how to challenge the status quo. The knowledge of gay sex has served me
well, despite the little HIV issue. The importance of being a sexual adept though
seems to fade with each passing year but the ability to hit the streets and man
the barricades continues to be more salient than ever. As an often seen resistence
sign says these days “I can’t believe I
still have to protest this shit”
© 19 Aug 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.
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My First LGBT Acquaintance, by Pat Gourley

I saw that today’s topic was actually Dancing with the Stars. I am aware that this is the name of a long-standing television series of the same name that I think involves teams of contestants in competitive-dancing with often B-grade celebrities. And I must admit I have never watched a single minute of this show and I mean no offense to anyone who enjoys it. Really how can somewhat like me who is addicted to reruns of The Big Bang Theory and the Golden Girls throw shade at anyone else’s TV viewing habits?

I could I suppose make a big stretch and turn ‘dancing with the stars’ into a metaphor for one of my past particularly enjoyable LSD adventures but instead I’ll write a few lines on last week’s topic: My First GLBT Acquaintance. Let me say right out of the box I have no idea who my first real GLBT acquaintance was since like all of us of a certain age I was birthed into the stifling cauldron of a falsely presumed heterosexual universe. We were in many ways unrecognizable to one another until we demanded to be called by our real names. A nearly universal experience we all relate to was the question of whether or not we were alone asking “am I the only one who is this way”. Our first acquaintance would I hope for most of us be a glorious answer to that question.

As I was writing this and had Pandora playing in the background I was unaware of any tune until Lou Reed’s masterpiece Walk on the Wild Side just came on. Released in 1972 this opus chronicles the adventures of a cast of characters all headed to New York City and a ‘walk on the wild side’.

I would take the liberty to say that through transexuality, drug use, male prostitution and oral sex they may have all been looking for and perhaps found that first GLBT acquaintance. Holly, Candy, Little Joe, Sugar Plum Fairy and Jackie all seem to have been based on real people from Reed’s life in NYC back then. All of whom I would say were very queer people.

We were fortunate in this SAGE Story Telling Group to get a glimpse of this albeit dangerous but deliciously exciting world Reed describes in his song through the frequent writings of a dear friend who died recently. As he related to us on several occasions his walks on the wild side started in the tearooms of downtown Denver department stores but would eventually be played out most emphatically on the streets of NYC. He often honestly provided glimpses into this world, that like it or not, is an integral part of our collective and frequently personal queer history. Thank you, dear friend!

For the sake of this piece I am going to say that “acquaintance” implies a mutual recognition that we are both queer as three-dollar bills. When using this definition the task of identifying my first acquaintance is much easier. This first person I suppose also represents my own personal “walk on the wild side”. As I have written about on previous occasions this ‘acquaintance” was a man 20 years my senior who I had been passive-aggressively courting for a year. We took a real ‘walk on the wild side’ and had sex (my first!) in the biology lab of my Catholic High School festooned with crucifixes on the wall. It was Easter week and I was a soon to graduate Senior. I am eternally in debt to this man for launching in very loving fashion my great ongoing gay adventure.

If there has been one thing that our liberation efforts the past century have provided it is that many but certainly not all new ‘recruits’ to the queer world do not have to have that first acquaintance involve a ‘walk on the wild side’. The fruits of success I suppose though work remains to be done and for some us perhaps a sense of nostalgia for a long gone but often very exciting times.

© July 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.

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I Don’t Know, by Pat Gourley

“It’s much more interesting to live not knowing than have answers which might be wrong.”

Richard Feynman, Physicist

Replying with “I don’t know” has become much easier for me than in years past. Particularly in my 20’s and 30’s I seemed to always be able to spout an answer or proffer an often-unsolicited opinion to any question. Rather than give the honest answer that I did not know I would come up with some sort of bullshit. Perhaps this is because I have simply become less enamored with the sound of my own voice but I would like to think it rather represents a more mature and honest way of replying, that is to often say nothing. There are so many things I really don’t know.

Part of the reason I am able to better accept the reality of not knowing, rather than offering-up the first thing that pops into my head, I attribute to my Zen practice with the Kwan Um School, from 1994-2009 approximately. This is a Korean sect and the teachings of Zen Masters Seung Sahn and Soeng Hyang (aka Bobby Rhodes) definitely laid the groundwork for my understanding of the “don’t know mind”. Much work on my part remains but I take the advice of Seung Sahn to heart: “try, try, try… for 10,000 years nonstop”. This quote is obviously a metaphor for perseverance on my part since I am not a big believer in reincarnation. What we are “trying” for here is encapsulated in this short quote by Richard Shrobe from his book Don’t Know Mind-Korean Zen: “Don’t know mind is our enlightened mind before ideas, opinions, or concepts arise to create suffering”.

If someone with absolutely nothing better to do was to look at my writings closely they could surmise that the more quotes I use is indicative of how at a loss for my own words I was on a particular topic, thank you Gillian. Today would be no exception so here goes with another one and you will need to stretch a bit to connect this to today’s topic but it is great quote nonetheless. This one from Stephen Hawking:

“ I have noticed that even those who assert everything is predestined and that we can change nothing about it still look both ways before crossing the street.”

One more tangential quote I happened on while prowling the Internet looking for guidance on something to write about today is from Mrs. Betty Bower. She is a humorist/satirist who bills herself as a Republican and America’s Best Christian. I highly recommend you follow her on Facebook. Her satire often comes with a hilarious dose of snark. A recent post:

“Dear fellow Republicans: It is so important to take every opportunity to remind other Americans that you are Christian. Otherwise how would they ever guess?”

I retired from full time nursing in 2010 but since then have had extended periods of part-time work often exceeding 20 hours per week. I have though for the past year and a half been able to stay fully retired. Probably the most irritating question I get these days is ‘well what are you doing?’ I often assume, rightly or wrongly, that the implication is that I am doing not much that is worthwhile. My gut, but rarely vocalized, answer is well “fuck you, I don’t know.” Admittedly this is a bit defensive and probably requires some more self-examination on my part as to how I do spend my days. My usual response though almost always does start with “I don’t know … but the days do fly by” or some such crap.

I could I suppose make up stuff like I am working tirelessly in various soup kitchens or I reading to the blind or doing volunteer hospice work with barely anytime to relax or sleep. Or I could be much more honest and say I am spending a lot of time watching Internet porn and perusing Facebook for funny quotes to fill up space in my SAGE writings.

Really I am not a total reprobate but I do not feel the need to offer up the really worthwhile things I am doing often helping those close to me. Perhaps the most honest answer to the question would be “I don’t know … perhaps I could do more. Do you have any suggestions?”

© July 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.

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Evil, by Pat Gourley

So just to be safe I might advise everyone sitting near me around the table to move to a safer space just in case. The reason for this is that I am beginning this piece on EVIL with a biblical quote and I would not want anyone to be smote by a lightning bolt on account of my atheist ass.

“Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn’t do it, sins.”  James 4:17

Particularly in grades one through eight when I was most intensely in the clutches of the Catholic Church 24/7 it seemed I was steeped in the seemingly endless ways I could sin or do evil. There were two broad categories of sin as I recall, those of “commission” and then those of “omission”. Being a good little Catholic boy I went to confession usually twice a month with the focus of my confessing being almost entirely on my seemingly endless sins of commission. In hindsight it seems that the Church overly focused on actual transgressions rather than on the “omissions”. Or maybe this was a refection of my own internal turmoil generated by the difficulty and shame of confessing to cussing, fighting with siblings or disobeying my parents as opposed to confessing a lack of efforts to help the overseas Catholic Missions save heathen souls with my meager monetary allowance.

To be fair the Church did say that faith alone was not adequate, you need some good works to go along with it. To not perform these acts of goodwill I suppose could be construed as sins of omission. Though I do not remember the emphasis on omissions being nearly as strong as the admonition to keep my hands off of my dick and the resulting emissions.

And of course when I had reached my early adolescent years the thought of confessing to anyone that I was masturbating daily was simply out of the question. That I was thinking about men much older than I when I was engaged in this ‘transgressive commission” was truly beyond the pale, and so began a slow decline into being an agnostic and then a full-blown atheist. I guess playing with oneself is the root of all evil.

To once again quote Ken Wilber’s truthful bromide “no one is wrong 100% of the time” this seems the case for the Catholic Church’s teaching around sins of omission. As I age I realize that I actually commit very few sins but the issue of omission becomes much more relevant and something I am frequently guilty of.

Over the decades I have been attracted to Buddhism primarily the Zen variety. I find their views on good and evil to be a bit more dare I say sophisticated and in line with the complexity that is human behavior. I recently stumbled on a piece written on Good and Evil and posted on the Soka Gakkai International site: http://www.sgi.org/about-us/buddhism-in-daily-life/good-and-evil.html

A short quote from that piece I think has a rather uncomfortable truth to it:

“Every single human being is capable of acts of the most noble good and the basest evil”.

I am also reminded of Thich NhatHanh wonderful poem, Please Call Me By My True Names, and the amazing stanza:

“ I am the twelve year old girl,
refugee on a small boat
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the pirate
My heart not yet capable
Of seeing and loving.”

So for me these days I think I am guilty of sins of omission when I am not actively engaging in resistance hopefully through acts of compassion. This does not necessarily only involve political actions, which can have merit but also present traps of their own. Acting compassionately and politically at the same time is often a challenge.

For me it is a sin of omission to not be out marching and demonstrating and certainly not voting. The sins of omission I currently am guilty of though most often involve rather mundane day-to-day activities.

I need to engage more with some of the homeless I encounter daily maybe give them a few bucks, or call a friend for lunch or reach out to an old buddy trying to contact me on Facebook. Perhaps help an older friend get moved out of his apartment or get off my ass and write something and then just show up at Story Telling to listen to what everyone has to share.

© June 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.

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Don’t, by Pat Gourley

“ Do or do not. There is no try.”
The Buddha
This quotation,
ostensibly from the Buddha, is on my current favorite t-shirt. This is my
favorite shirt since it has a long tail and easily covers my big belly. The
belly fat is due in large part to two things: my major sweet tooth that seems
to primarily kick in between seven and nine PM every night and my HIV meds that
rapidly accelerate the metabolic syndrome that leads to abdominal fat
deposition. My protruding belly is in stark contrast to my gaunt, wasted
looking face that makes even Keith Richards look good on his worst days. I
won’t even address the current sorry state of my ass.
The above quote may
remind some of you of a line from Star Wars spoken by Yoda. The Yoda version also
goes something like this just with more dramatic punctuation: “Do. Or do not.
There is no try.” (The Empire Strikes Back).
Supposedly
Yoda lived to be 900 years old but the Buddha still has him beat by living at
least several millennia prior, so I am going with Buddha as the originator of
this famous line. This I suppose could be a phrase comparable to the infamous “shit
or get off the pot”. No hanging out on the throne reading the paper. For
god-sakes focus and commit to the task at hand or not.
At first
blush with this topic I thought I want to be a ‘doer’ rather than responding to
the often-harsh command: don’t! Then it quickly occurred to me that there have
been many “don’t-directives” in my life that I have to say have proved helpful.
A few that come to mind are: don’t play in traffic, don’t own a gun, and don’t
eat lead paint chips, don’t pick-up that snake or don’t sashay into a straight
bar on Bronco Sunday afternoon and ask, what ya watchin’ fellas?  And the one that I saw recently on Facebook, “don’t
come out of the bathroom smelling your fingers no matter how fragrant the hand
soap was you just used.”
Perhaps I
was overly primed to see the following based on today’s topic but in reading a
nice long article on Larry Kramer in the NYT’s from last week I was
particularly drawn to several quotes by Kramer using the word “don’t”.
I’ll get to
the quotes in a bit but for those of you perhaps not familiar with Larry Kramer
he first came on the national gay scene in a significant way with the
publication of his prescient 1978 novel Faggots.
The novel was a rather unflattering though brutally honest look at the wild sexual
abandon of gay male life in the later half of the 1970’s.  Kramer as a result was persona non grata in
the gay world but with the onset of the AIDS nightmare a few years later Faggots took on an air of prophecy.
Kramer also
has significant accomplishment’s in the worlds of film, theatre and literature
but perhaps in some ways most impacting were his successful efforts around AIDS
activism. He was a seminal founder of both the New York based Gay Men’s Health Crisis and a few years
later of the iconic and change creating movement called Act Up. I have included a link to this NYT piece on Kramer and
highly recommend it as an important historical snapshot of this great gay man
and his many accomplishments. He is a consummate example of the real life
advice contained in the phrase “don’t be afraid” or to again shamelessly
exploit an old Buddhist bromide “leap and a net shall appear”.
Quoting Kramer
from the NYT’s article: “I don’t
basically have fences to mend anymore. The people I had fights with down the
line, some are dead. But even when we fought, I think we were always — I love
gay people, and I think that’s the overriding thing in any relationship that I
have with anyone else who’s gay. Never enough to throw them out of my life.
I’ve never had huge fights with anybody. Much as I hate things about the system
and this country, in terms of the people I deal with, I don’t have any.”
I have been
keenly aware of Larry Kramer and his many bold and often at times very
controversial proclamations and actions since 1978.  He has pricked my conscience on numerous
occasions shaming me actually to do more than I would have without his kick in
the ass but still never achieving his level of fearless integrity. I still
today in many ways lamely persist with my own at times crippled activism.
It is 2017,
almost 40 years since the publication of Faggots,
and as Larry reminds us, at age 81, in his last quote in the article the
struggle continues: “I don’t think that
things are better generally,” he said. “We
have people running this government who hate us, and have said they hate us.
The fight’s never over.”
© 21 May 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. 
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Sorting It Out, by Pat Gourley

On seeing this topic for today’s Story Telling Group the
first thing that popped into my head was how often I hear the word “sorted”
spoken on the several English and occasionally Australian shows, often murder
mysteries, I watch on Netflix.  I was
left to wonder if the phrase “sorting it out” is just not the American version.
Checking the Urban Dictionary,
the number one definition for “sorted” was using it in reference to be
completing a task or an idea. For example, I have got it “sorted” mate or will
you “sort” that for me mate. I must say I much prefer hearing “sort or sorted” in
an English accent than I do the mundane mid-western American version: “I’ll
sort that out for you”.
There are also many other, some much more colorful, definitions
of “sorted” that are apparently part of British slang. For example, it can mean
to be under the influence of Ecstasy or that one’s class A recreational drugs
have arrived or perhaps my favorite usage getting fucked up but not to the
point of blacking out. I am sorted!
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Sorted
I will now make a sharp left turn and return to the specific
phrase “sorting it out” and how this may have relevance in my current life.
Though I am relatively comfortable with my lack of belief in a god or gods,
which I guess, makes me an atheist, I do at times get a bit squishy with this
world-view and fall back on maybe being an agnostic. The word agnostic conjures
up a phrase used by the Korean Zen Master Seung Sahn “Only Don’t Know”. His use
was, I am sure, more sophisticated than my superficial view around whether or
not there is a god, but I can honestly say when pondering the Universe and how
the hell we all got here I really “only don’t know”.
To be very honest though I am still sorting this “god-thing”
out. Oh, I have absolutely no problem throwing out the overwhelming mythical
teachings of all the world’s great monotheistic religions, Hinduism and even
much from certain Buddhist schools. In hindsight it was harder to give up a belief
in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny than it was to jettison many of the tenets
of the Catholic Religion I was indoctrinated in.
Those original questions Harry Hay used in helping to
challenge and flesh-out our queer identity, that of our being a real cultural
minority he believed, seem pertinent for me today in “sorting it out”: Who are we, where did we come from, and what
are we for.
Questions it seems that can easily be expanded beyond just
coming to grips with and adding meaning and substance to being gay.
Which brings me to why I am reading two books currently. Both
are by men who have been intellectual, and dare I say Spiritual, influences on
me over the years.  These are authors I
have read seeking answers on this whole supreme-being thing or a more
sophisticated question perhaps being: Is evolution, not only of life on earth
but of the ever-expanding Universe as a whole, really spirit in action and what the hell are the implications of that,
for me of course.
The first book is by Stephen Batchelor and is titled Secular Buddhism – Imagining the Dharma in
an Uncertain World (Stephen is also the author of Buddhism Without Beliefs and Confessions
of a Buddhist Atheist among others) and the second is The Religion of Tomorrow by Ken Wilber. Wilber’s book clocks in at
806 pages with relatively small print and no pictures. So, if this tome
provides guidance for me in “sorting it out” don’t expect an update for
probably at least six months and most likely much longer.
Actually, I am most likely reading both of these books
because I am just a lazy fuck looking for a short cut – an answer to the
question of what is our true nature and that of the whole amazing Universe.
Both Wilber and Batchelor have decades of very disciplined meditative practice
informing and guiding their views. I on the other hand have spent more cushion
time than the average bear but in comparison to these two guys my effort is
like a single grain of sand on the beach. All of this reading of course may
well be folly if I am not willing to do the work. I wonder sometimes what is
‘faith’ really but a con foisted on folks i.e. no need to do the work just
accept our word for it and it will all be fine.
“Stay tuned to this space.” — Rachel Maddow
© 8 May 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.
Posted on

Resist, by Pat Gourley

In one of my recent
meanderings through Facebook, which sadly has become something I do multiple
times a day, I happened on the following little ditty posted and credited to a
web site named sun-gazing.com:
“I’m too old for
this shit
I’m too tired for
this shit
I’m too sober for
this shit
I don’t have time
for this shit”
sun-gazing.com
My initial reaction was
that this was a funny and perhaps poignant statement from someone on the current
state of America and the seemingly endless political nightmare we find
ourselves in. Something though slowly began to bother me, especially the last
line: “I don’t have time for this shit”. 
I decided to check the web site and clicked on their “About Us” page,
where right at the top was the following sentence:  “The Sun Gazing Community was born out of a growing awareness that
suffering is an optional state of being”.
Let me go on record
calling “bullshit” on this unexamined bromide and suggest that perhaps the
authors have gazed at the sun a bit too long or have way to much privilege
coming out of their ass. There is no way I can distort the image of this little
boy’s suffering into an “optional” choice on his part or even perhaps more
perverted “God’s will”
https://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/22/world/middleeast/syria-omran-photo-children.html?_r=0
The above statement that
suffering is something that is optional to me smacks of smug privilege. In
looking at my own attempts to ‘resist’ the Trump regime I need to carefully “resist”
personally falling into the trap of complacence. I have my Social Security and
Medicare and enjoy many of the benefits that seem to effortlessly fall on many
white males in America even many of us queer ones.
Can I just sit this out
for four years of Trump with the perhaps sad realization that my life may not
change much at all? Is it enough to assuage my conscience, as last Saturday
night’s Louis C.K. SNL skit pointed out, by sitting on the couch and posting
and sharing anti-Trump memes on Facebook or adding Black Lives Matter to my
profile? The obvious answer in this great piece of satire is that it certainly
doesn’t cover one’s sad attempt at ‘resisting’.
One of the things you
sometimes hear these days is “we survived Nixon and Reagan and we will survive
Trump too”. I have a couple observations on that statement. It may not apply to
the 55,000 Americans that died in Vietnam to say nothing of the millions of S.E
Asian lives lost during the Nixon presidency. And it behooves us to remember
how gay men fared during the Reagan years. This is poignantly brought home in
this photo of the small handful of members of the San Francisco Gay men’s
Chorus who survived the worst years of the AIDS epidemic in that City.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10154952908052457&set=a.480735837456.252618.518017456&type=3&theater
Even if I personally may
get by the next four years relatively unscathed many will not. My personal call
to resist needs action to go with it or it is just self-indulgent masturbation.
This was brought home to me very directly with a sign I saw at the Women’s
March in San Francisco this last January, it was being carried by a frail and very
elderly women and read: “I can’t believe I still have to protest this shit”. A
much different sentiment than “I don’t have time for this shit” don’t you
think.
© 10 Apr 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.
Posted on

Anxious Moments, by Pat Gourley

If you get confused just listen to the
music play
Some come to laugh their past away
Some come to make it just one more day
Whichever way your pleasure tends
If you plant ice you’re gonna harvest wind
A
few lines from Franklin’s Tower. Grateful Dead (Garcia/Hunter/ Kreutzman)
Let me just
repeat that last line for emphasis: “If
you plant ice you’re going to harvest wind”.  More on that further on.
Writing about “anxious
moments” in June of 2017 now 7 months into Donald Trump’s presidency presents
itself as a herculean task. I mean where to start? For me perhaps it is best to
start with a bit of self-examination of what may be causing my anxiety.
If my privilege allows me
to simply weather out the storm of the next four years with little or no
personal damage, and sadly that seems it might be the case, I must say that it
is very tempting to just put my head down and go about my daily routines.  That would be much less anxiety provoking I
think.
I have Medicare and not
Medicaid.  Paul Ryan and his bunch would
certainly like to get rid of both but Medicare seems a reach to far politically
even for that crowd. Medicaid on the other hand serves a much more vulnerable
and powerless group of Americans. The strong and largely elderly voting block
represented by Medicare recipients is somewhat of a bulwark against Republican
intrusions – Medicaid not so much.
I also get a small Social
Security payment and a pension from the City and County of Denver. Both of
these are fairly solvent entities that I expect to last for my remaining years.
That is perhaps delusion on my part but rather than get “anxious” about it I
prefer to just blithely skip along. I acknowledge this view may really be from looking
out on the world from my relatively privileged window. There is of course any
number of ways the whole really fragile edifice could come crashing down on all
of our heads. So I am choosing to resist
on many fronts anxiety provoking or not. 
Let me relate a very small, and perhaps even a silly way, I am
resisting.
Significant marijuana tax
revenues going to Colorado coffers are adding to the overall financial health of
the State and our City in very major ways, indirectly helping keep my City
pension solvent, a tax tide sort of floats all boats. I am choosing to do my
part by exploring marijuana edibles in earnest purchasing recreational rather
than medicinal and paying the larger tax. 
I could of course legitimately play the HIV card and get a medical
marijuana license but for now I can afford the higher tax on the recreational
herb. Taxes really are the cost of living in a civilized society and it would
only add to that civility I would think if a significant portion of us gets
stoned on occasion.
So what else, other than
getting high, am I trying to do to counter the toxic miasma of the Trump
presidency enveloping us all? Well I am trying not to ‘plant ice’ and by that I
mean I am acknowledging that nobody is wrong 100% of the time (thank you, Ken
Wilber). Well that may not apply to Trump but I am willing to give nearly
everyone else on the planet a pass.
Without getting too deep
in the weeds and stretching the metaphor to death you can simply think of the
phrase “if you plant ice you’re gonna
harvest wind” as another way of saying don’t be an asshole. That behavior often
causes anxiety for others and yourself eventually, adding however small to the
anxiety burden of the planet.
A recent personal example
of my regrettably ‘planting ice’ was when I encountered Human Rights Campaign
(HRC) solicitors out in front of the Trader Joe’s near my house. It was a warm
day and I suppose I was cranky from the heat but I decided to give these young
20-somethings a bit of crap around HRC’s early endorsement of Republican Mark Kirk
over Tammy Duckworth in the Illinois U.S. Senate race last fall.  HRC switched to Duckworth a few weeks before
the election supposedly due to nasty things Kirk had to say in a debate about
Ms. Duckworth and her family but the damage had been done in my mind.
Initially I felt mildly
righteous for sticking up for my longstanding belief that the at times too
conservative HRC was not my Radical Fairie cup of tea. By the time I got home a
couple blocks away I started to feel somewhat anxious about the interaction
though albeit it was pretty tame, no stone throwing or cursing had occurred. I
began to worry, a great hallmark of anxiety, that maybe I had not made myself
queerly obvious and they thought I was some old homophobic jerk. So I put my
groceries away and walked back down the street. After assuring the two I was
not stalking them I explained further my issues with HRC and threw in a few
other things to firmly establish my gay cred. They listened politely, nodding a
lot and I am sure hoping this crazy old queen would soon move on. I ended by
saying that I appreciated and admired their being willing to be openly and
politically queer on a public street. Not something I would have done in my
early twenties.  This proved to be one
more instance in my life where I realized if I were going to plant ice I would
soon be harvesting wind.
© 11 Jun 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.
Posted on

Journaling in the Age of Dick Pics, by Pat Gourley

I have never had the discipline needed for any form of consistent journaling or diary keeping. The closest I have ever come to writing with focus has been this SAGE Story Telling Group. I suppose you could say my writings on AIDS were a focused personal collection of my observations and reactions to that nightmare, a journaling of sorts. My AIDS writings though when looked at over nearly three decades beginning in 1981 were actually quite sparse and spread out.

Looking at my expanded title for this topic you may wonder how I am going to leap from “journal” to “dick pics”. It is not going to be very smooth but is being driven in part by a strong desire to document a few of the crazier statements, actions and proclamations, often sexual in nature, that I have run across lately in my excessive Internet browsing and cable news watching. Further documentation, as if we needed any more, that in 2017 the world has gone totally insane.

One phrase I want to immortalize in particular really sticks out and that is “ the smoke of Satan”. This one is perhaps originally credited to Pope Paul VI. He was reacting to what was, and still is, apparently quite significant ongoing and organized homosexual activity amongst the Curia in Rome. Surprise!

This smoke of Satan business has now gotten even worse under the current Pope Francis per some observers. The whole phrase was “the smoke of Satan has infiltrated the Church”. We queers have been called by many names throughout history but I must say “the smoke of Satan” may be my favorite.

I mean what does that even mean? Perhaps Satan is fond of a post-coital cigarette? Or something a bit more-kinky involving blowing smoke up someone’s ass, which is well documented in gay male internet porn often by those with a cigar fetish. I think though the phrase remains open to interpretation, let your imagination run wild.

So the next odd turn of phrase that I think deserves journaling on my part comes from a Republican Congressman named Buddy Carter from Georgia. Referring to the Senate being unable to address health care he recently said, “Somebody needs to go over there to that Senate and snatch a knot in their ass.” At first blush I thought maybe he was referring to anal beads. Pondering further I guess I again have no idea what is being referenced here. If you have Internet access and time on your hands I have included a link to an article detailing the apparently long history of the phrase. Not to cast any aspirations but it seems to be Southern in origin. http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2017/07/27/_snatch_a_knot_in_their_ass_explained.html

And of course what sort of chronicling of the salacious would not include the current vivid description of someone in the White House supposedly being pre-occupied with sucking his own dick. Though I think the comment was meant to be mean-spirited it has been great fun watching various pundits, often on live TV, trying to address this one. Several commentators, mostly women I might add, have tried in part to dismiss the act as ridiculous and physically impossible. Au contraire!

Even a cursory perusal of gay internet porn, using the search term of ‘auto-fellatio’, will show that for some it is truly quite possible to suck one’s own dick. Albeit it helps a lot to be rail thin, flexible like a yogi master and have a long shlong. This slight was directed at Steve Bannon though and of course he is most likely not well endowed, an adept yogi and certainly not rail thin.

One last mention of an activity that certainly warrants a deeper dive into the psychology of it all is the “dick pic’. The current flap surrounds again some jerk working for Fox News apparently harassing female co-workers with snaps of his junk. Without really giving it much thought I wondered if at least the first phone pic of a dick did not come from a cruising gay male. I mean after-all we have been for millennia in the forefront of facilitating hook-ups. A ‘dick pic’ certainly cuts to the chase for some and we have after all perfected the art of non-verbal sexual communication. Perhaps this is just one more thing co-opted by the straight male.

In researching this piece, and yes this did take a bit of legitimate research, I happened on this tongue-in cheek but delightful YouTube video on the history of the ‘dick pic’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sFnktGzxCs

Enjoy!

© August 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.

Posted on

Connections, by Pat Gourley

Once again in writing on the early years of Harry Hay’s queer activism, the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, I am relying heavily on the wonderful collection of Hay’s writings edited by Will Roscoe from 1996 and aptly called Radically Gay. Do check out Will’s web site for further info on Radically Gay and Will’s many other books and writings: http://willsworld.org

In thinking about the topic “connections” I pulled Radically Gay off my bookshelf this morning to re-explore Hay’s concept of subject-Subject Consciousness, a profound and co-equal form of human connection, as opposed to subject-to-object. In scanning the book I came across the story of Hay’s first attempt at a call-to-arms to try and get homosexuals to begin organizing themselves. This manifesto from 1948 was rather awkwardly titled: Bachelors Anonymous (Radically Gay. Page 3.). Now that is a name describing gay men I think we can all be glad did not catch on. Two years later, with his then lover Rudi Gernreich and several others, the Mattachine movement was launched and the rest as they say “is history”. According to Roscoe within a few short years there were an estimated 5,000 homosexuals in California involved in one form or the other with the Mattachine movement. Remember this would have been in the early 1950’s in the era of McCarthyism.

Many would say that Hay’s greatest contribution to the LGBTQI movement was his insistence that we are a cultural minority. To quote Hay from Radically Gay:

“We are a Separate People with, in several measurable respects, a rather different window on the world, a different consciousness which may be triggered into being by our lovely sexuality” (Radically Gay. Page 6.)

I would contend that one of the “measureable respects” in how we differ from heterosexuals is a mode of communication, a form of connection, Hay called subject-to-Subject. In a position paper he wrote in 1976, while living in New Mexico entitled, Gay Liberation: Chapter Two- Serving Social and Political Change through our Gay Window, Hay lays out his vision of subject-Subject Consciousness (Radically Gay. Pages 201-216). I encourage all Queers to get the book and read especially this chapter.

Right out of the box he owns that this essay puts forth a Gay Masculine point of view while acknowledging that Feminine Consciousness also exists but is something quite different. I will go way out a limb here and suggest that the lesbian-feminist movement of the 1960’s and 1970’ was all over this non-objectifying form of connecting woman-to-woman.

The essence of subject-to-Subject is that of equal to equal. My very simplistic interpretation of this form of consciousness is that we gay men have a leg up on the hetero world in that we as men relating to men and women relating to women are better able to approach one another as equals without the burden of centuries of institutionalized objectification and sexism i.e. crudely put “Me Tarzan you Jane’.

However, even we as gay men, as opposed to straight men, approach relating to one another with a fair amount of objectifying cultural baggage. It may not involve the competition that comes with landing a mate for procreative purposes but we do often indulge in only hooking up with someone of the ‘right age, skin color, cock size, class background’ etc. This is an area where we need to go back in our lives to that first almost always non-sexual attraction to another boy that was so electrifying. That realization that even though I am ‘other’ so is he. A genuine sense of “equal to equal, sharer to sharer”, we are truly kindred spirits. What an exhilarating form of connecting that was for so many of us.

Gay men in particular still have as much work to do in this area of personal subject-to-Subject relating as we ever have especially once the roiling hormones of sexual attraction bubble to the surface. I am not sure that Grindr could not aptly be renamed “Bachelors Anonymous”. Though that first impulse for out of the box subject-to-Subject connecting still remains and hopefully is the essence of gay liberation. It remains our real gift to the world in this age of Trump regression and insanity.

© April 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.