Tag: Personal essay

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Changes I would like to see, by Gillian

There are plenty I’m reminded of every time I look in a mirror! This scraggly old turkey-neck could lose some wrinkles to start with. The bags under the eyes could disappear along with the gray hair, and there could simply be … well …. less of me. Many pounds less of me. But I have no intention of buying overpriced skin cream nor coloring my hair, and seem quite incapable of taking either diet or exercise too seriously, so I suspect the changes I see in the mirror will be those I would rather not see. On the other hand, the things I don’t see in the mirror, those things which make up my inner self, my soul, however you choose to think of it, I am pretty happy with. My psyche seems to be doing OK and actually going in the right direction, and I provide as much spiritual help as I can give it. I think that is why I don’t worry much about the negatives offered up by the mirror. They just do not seem important.

Looking out at the world through plain glass, however, is a very different matter. Perhaps because I so love taking photographs myself, some of the memories burned into my brain come in the form of photos I have seen over a lifetime. And they mostly represent things I hope never to see again. For humanity, that is the change I would like to see; simply never to see such things again. Never again to see photos of beautiful old cities carpet-bombed in the way The Allies punished Dresden, managing to kill an estimated 135,000 people in one nightmare nigh. I hope never again to see photos of thousands of refugee children, as in post World War Two Europe. The photos were posted in the hope that someone would recognize these poor tattered, shattered, bodies and souls, and return them to someone who loved them. I would like to see a world where we don’t look at photos of a little naked girl running from the napalm destruction of all she knows. The Siege of Sarajevo’s 20th anniversary was memorialized in 2012. Empty red chairs were set out in the main street, symbolizing 11,541 victims of the war. 643 of the chairs were small, representing the slain children. On some of them, during the day-long event, passers-by left teddy bears, little plastic cars, other toys or candy. I hope never to see a picture like that again. At one Storytime last year I passed around a photo I think says it all about the horror that is now Syria; a tiny little child, obviously near death from starvation, being eyes greedily by a hungry vulture. I won’t inflict it on you again today, but it still haunts me.

I very much want to see a changed world in which such terrible photographs represent an awful past from which we have recovered and moved on. Somehow I doubt that. In fact at this time, with two madmen with their fingers on red buttons, it seems less likely than ever. Being a political pessimist ain’t easy. And so, I’m back to me again. I started out saying I was pretty happy with the way I feel inside. But should I be seeking to change, at the very least, my political pessimism? No, I don’t think so. If I were a real true pessimist that might be different; it must surely be depressing always to expect the worst from life. But being a political pessimist I really believe brings me peace. It’s very much the philosophy of hope for the best but prepare for the worst which I find to be very practical political advice. I found a wonderful quote from Thomas Hardy, who said, “And as I am surely approaching that infamous stage of life, second childhood, I’m sure I’m much better off sticking with child’s play.”

© January 2018

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Empathy, by Louis Brown

Empathy, Sympathy and Psychological Projection.

Empathy [em-puh-thee] noun

1. the psychological identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.

2. the imaginative ascribing to an object, as a natural object or work of art, feelings or attitudes present in oneself:

By means of empathy, a great painting becomes a mirror of the self.

Sympathy

1. the harmony of or agreement in feeling, as between persons or on the part of one person with respect to another.

2. the harmony of feeling naturally existing between persons of like tastes or opinion or of congenial dispositions.

3. the fact or power of sharing the feelings of another, especially in sorrow or trouble; fellow feeling, compassion, or commiseration.

Projection: Psychology.

1. The tendency to ascribe to another person feelings, thoughts, or attitudes present in oneself, or to regard external reality as embodying such feelings, thoughts, etc., in some way.

2. Psychoanalysis. Such an ascription relieving the ego of a sense of guilt or other intolerable feeling.

Let us build a new Liberal majority Party

Through “empathy” we can identify other oppressed groups that we identify with for the purpose of building a broader coalition for the mutual benefit of all the oppressed groups. And remember, if you put all the oppressed groups together, you have a majority.

(1) Blacks have a grievance:

(a) Trayvon Martin’s assassin, George Zimmerman, goes free and shows no remorse. The oppression is overt. The murder took place 2-27-2012.

(b) The massacre of 9 church goers in a black church in Charleston, South Carolina. On June 6, 2015, there were nine black victims, church attendees. The perpetrator was Dylan Roof.

(c) The lack of real life-saving intervention in the Hurricane Katrina aftermath. Aug. 21, 2005-Aug. 31, 2005 White supremacy became obvious.

(2) Peaceniks:

(a) The George McGovern presidential campaign of 1972 showed most dramatically that a large percentage of the American public is dissatisfied with our right-wing foreign policy.

(b) Currently there are only two U. S. Senators who see the importance of future non-intervention policies. They are Rand Paul of Kentucky and Mike Lee of Utah, both are Republicans. The paucity of peace-oriented, non-interventionist representatives should be corrected. Mike Lee’s laudable isolationist policies are kept pretty much a secret.

(3) Gay men and Lesbians: us. We are mainly concerned with state legislatures passing irrational laws that discriminate against sexual minorities and are designed to intimidate us. We are concerned also with discrimination in employment and housing, for starters.

(4) Hispanics claim that lack of appropriate levels of assistance for the reconstruction of the infrastructure of Puerto Rico gives another example of white supremacy.

(5) The physically disabled claim cogently they are frequently subjected to discriminatory practices and are marginalized. See Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990.

(6) Women libbers claim on the work site abuse mostly by male supervisors. Also that women have been given the right to an abortion but male chauvinist conservative legislatures are taking this right away, mainly with dirty tricks. Their particular enemy is male chauvinism.

Women’s March on Washington took place on January 21, 2017, and much of their rhetoric and political positions were in opposition to the recently inaugurated Donald Trump.

(7) Muslims, Jews, Atheists all claim cogently to be oppressed minorities.

George McGovern from American historian

3. George Stanley McGovern was an American historian, author, U.S. Representative, U.S. Senator, and the Democratic Party presidential nominee in the 1972 presidential election. Wikipedia Quotes

4. I’m fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.

5. The highest patriotism is not a blind acceptance of official policy, but a love of one’s country deep enough to call her to a higher plain.

6. The longer the title [of any given public official], the less important the job.

© 27 November 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Patriotism, by Lewis T

· “See the USA in your Chevrolet.”

· “See America first.”

· “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.”

· “On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and Country.”

· “Duty, honor, country.”

· “Loose lips sink ships.”

These are all valid expressions of love and loyalty to our native or chosen country. It is natural and normal and expected that we feel some sense of obligation to the people and places that nurture and sustain us. That is why we sometimes refer to the United States as our Mother Country. It is why we usually react more strongly to reports of patricide, matricide, and, especially, infanticide than to other murders. How could anyone do harm to those who have given so much to us–freedom, opportunity, sustenance?

· “Love it or leave it.”

· “My country, right or wrong.”

· Manifest Destiny

· American exceptionalism

· Genocide

· Religious intolerance

· Prejudice

These are manifestations of extreme forms of love and loyalty to those places and people that have nurtured us. There is a flip side to that coin. Just as we love the nurturer (and, perhaps, question how worthy we are of that love), we tend to distrust the stranger, who may not be disposed to see us so favorably. In long ago times, it was the tribe to which we owed our loyalty. It was Arian against the Jew, the Montagues against the Capulets, the Hatfields against the McCoys. All others were with the favored tribe or against it. The “Other” was deemed less than human, disdained by God, fit only to be slaughtered and their bodies left to rot in the sun or be picked clean by vultures.

Thus, America can wage a geopolitical war on Viet Nam or Iraq on the pretext of threat to the homeland while counting only the American dead and wounded and ignoring the order-of-magnitude greater losses on the other side. We systematically and mercilessly brought the Native population of the United States down by 95% over 400 years–an estimated 11-3/4 million people, almost double the number of Jews murdered during the Nazi Holocaust. Every year we hold a celebration in honor of the white man who “discovered” America but about the near extermination of an entire race of humans we are silent. During World War II, we built concentration camps for 110,000 Japanese-Americans, 62% of whom were American citizens.

What constitutes a “tribe” these days is changing. Some Americans have figured out that there is a lot of money to be made by exploiting the very human capacity for pitting “us” against “them”. Thus, the NFL has become a multi-billion-dollar industry which uses human beings as the raw material, violence as the lure, and attachment to a geographical place as the motivator. Only within the past ten years or so have we begun to understand the toll that “cash cow” has taken on its gladiators.

Homo sapiens is almost unique in its capacity to devour its own. No wonder so many are unwilling to acknowledge the fact that we evolved from the primordial slime. How, if true, could we then think of ourselves as the “chosen people”? How, then, could we call others “gooks”, “slopes”, “niggers”, “redskins”, or “chinks”?

In the final analysis, we have to ask ourselves a few questions. Why is it so important to engage in countless hours of tedious research to be able to show that our ancestors came over on the Mayflower or, still less likely, Noah’s Ark? Wouldn’t it be more worthwhile to really get to know our relatives in order to understand whether they were worth giving them the time of day? What I want to know about a person is what they are like on the inside, not the outside. What things were like for them growing up, not where they grew up.

What does their soul look like, not their skin. What makes us unique and wonderful cannot be seen with the eyes or learned from examining their DNA. If you must classify something, measure the temperature of their heart, the depth of their compassion, and the breadth of their wisdom. If these things measure up, then I don’t care if they come from Uranus.

© 11 November 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Rolling Thunder, by Ricky


As an 8 to 10-year-old boy living on a farm in central Minnesota, my 3½ year older uncle and I had to listen to the thunder that rolled across the rolling hills during rain storms. Many was the night when we had to sleep with the thunderous noise created by lightning strikes. As if that wasn’t enough, the flashes of lightning played havoc with the time it took us to fall asleep.

We were not overly scared of the lightning and thunder while in bed, or in the house. The farm-house we lived in had six lightning rods along the spine of the roof. My uncle and I slept together in a wire spring frame bed with metal head and foot-boards. We were well insulated from a direct strike to the house. At least, we believed we were safe from lightning. Now the storms that produced tornados, were another matter entirely.

On a side note, when I was 9¾-years old and sleeping in that bed, my uncle and I fondled each other once, two nights in a row. These events showed me the possibilities of male to male pleasurable activities. I am very fond of that bed.

J.K. Rowling receives thunderous applause at her presentations as did the first showing of Star Wars in Rapid City, South Dakota, which my spouse and I attended. As soon as the first space ship appeared traveling from the top towards the middle of the screen trying to escape the even larger ship chasing it, the fans of space movies began to applaud for about two minutes. Consequently, there was some dialog everyone missed.

North Vietnam and Laos received the fruits of Operation Rolling Thunder from 2 March 1965 until 2 November 1968. The effort was ultimately a failure as it did not achieve stated goals. See operation rolling thunder in Wikipedia for more details.

I have been seated in restroom stalls and often have heard “rolling thunder” from nearby stalls, and in all honesty, from my own as well.

Who can forget the rolling thunder of multiple bowling balls dropping to the lane and the subsequent crashing of the pins as they are knocked about. And, there is also the vibrating air as a railroad diesel powered engine, or two or three and sometimes four, pass by loud enough to be classified as rolling thunder (in my opinion).

Anyone who has witnessed in person the launch of a Saturn V rocket, carrying astronauts to the moon, could never forget the rolling thunder of the powerful engines pulsing across the water to the on-lookers 3-miles away.

© 13 November 2017

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Setting Up House, by Ray S

I am reminded of an old saying by today’s topic: “A Home Is Where Your Heart Is.”

When I take stock of the stuff I’ve gathered over the years it seems like just so much acquired materialism. Then after closer reflection every bit of the “stuff” sparks a memory. A memory of a friend, a memory of a particular time of your life, time place, or something that says “Hello, you’re home again and this is your place to be.”

Yes, it’s just stuff, some even qualifies as junk, but no matter if it is an accumulation of a lifetime or not more than a few surviving photos, it is what makes a house a home—no matter where or whose house you finally land in. Hang on to some sort of stuff, even if it is only in your heart and mind.

© 12 September 2016

About the Author

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Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

I find strange that crossword puzzles, including the New York Times, use Paradise as a clue for Eden. I hate to argue with cultural assumptions widely held, even if they come from a great poet like John Milton. But Paradise connects with a mythological afterlife in Christian terms, Eden uses a mythological origins story from the Hebrew tradition. To call Eden Paradise seems way too simple. The old garden was no utopia. The story makes that clear. Besides it’s an origin story for agriculture. The first humans tended the garden.
     The view of Paradise is a poet’s elaboration on a myth of afterlife. Utopia seems another matter altogether. A dreamer’s world of relationship. But both Eden and Paradise caution such perfectionist dreamers that problems will always be present. The need for change continues whatever the vision. 
     The main thing I like in utopian fantasies is the assumption that things in the world could be better. Well, you see, I’m schooled in the liberal tradition of democracies and the like. Yet I have a practical bent (Kansan perhaps) that cautions utopians not to suppose their ability to dream accomplishes what they are dreaming of.
     So this utopian-considering middle aged man left the trials and tribulations of straight life to live in gay life. He did not believe in salvation by gaydom, and it was a good thing he didn’t. He moved into the gayest part of the city, and started living in this new way in a gay environment only to discover gay was no less complicated than being straight. Oh, he and his ex-wife did agree living single was easier than being paired, but finding a perfect companion didn’t occur. There were none in this imagined utopia. And besides, gay men were people with traditions, inequities, and thousands of dreams—many unfounded—of what the gay utopia should be. Living there was as difficult as a career in marriage and church work. The only utopia he found was to get a job, continue to make friends, help neighbors, and laugh a lot. He’d already been doing that.
     Now this is not an essay to down anyone or any community. It is just about the non-existence of utopia except as a literary device of social critique, the theme of which is “things are going to get better” or let’s hope so anyway. 

© 4 February 2108

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Hooves, by Pat Gourley

“That horse has left the barn”

When I hear the word “hooves” in nearly any context I think of horses though many different mammals have hooves. My early days on the farm never involved horses so I may have made the association of hooves with horses after watching Gene Autry and Roy Rogers on 1950’s TV.

I remember that the often ridiculous and blatantly racist TV westerns seemed to distinguish between native American horse-hoof prints from those of the always white settlers, American law men and cavalry by noting whether the horses had been shod or not. Native horses had no shoes where as those of the white folk always did, a simplistic view since many native tribes were quite adept at acquiring horses from settlers and others who shod their horses. On these TV shows blacksmiths were often shown dramatically forging by fire while shaping the shoes and then nailing them onto the horses’ hooves. This really is the extent of my connection with the word hooves, though I do vaguely recall older male relatives on occasion playing “horseshoes”. That was a game though that never caught on for me personally.

Another memory of hooves was the apparent use of fake cows’ hoofs being used by moonshiners wearing them to throw off federal agents chasing them during Prohibition. Not sure exactly how this worked since cows have four feet and humans only two. However wasting time on thinking about this application of hoof-foot-wear as a means to sneak to one’s moonshine still in the woods will do little to address any real world problems these days I am afraid.

I can though make a tangential leap from hooves by way of horses and cows to the phrase: “That horse has already left the Barn”. This implies of course to the after-the-fact reality that it is too late to do anything about whatever. If one adapts this as a world view these days there are many things that seem too late to do much about whether we want to admit that reality of not.

Climate change sadly is one reality that it may very well be too late to do much about. That horse seems to have galloped away and kicked the door shut with both of his back hooves. Still in my more optimistic moments I can’t help but think that if we were to embark on a Manhattan Project to save the planet that salvaging an at least livable, though probably less than desirable, planet might be doable.

Laughably perhaps I can hope that the recent hurricane evacuations for both Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate and Rush Limbaugh’s beachfront properties in Florida might turn into teachable moments. That however does not seem likely.

My go to person around all things climate change and how this is intimately tied to capitalism specifically is Naomi Klein.

I highly recommend her two most recent works: This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The Climate and “NO is Not Enough” subtitle “Resisting Trump’s Shock Politics and Winning The World We Want”. Here is a link to these works and Naomi in general: http://www.naomiklein.org/meet-naomi

It isn’t that the Donald Trump’s and Rush Limbaugh’s of the world don’t believe in climate change, I actually expect they do. It is that they realize better than many of us that the only effective possibility for addressing this catastrophe is a direct threat to their worldview and way of life. That their greedy accumulation of goods and capital will save them from the resulting hell-scape in the end is truly delusional thinking on their part.

I feel the only viable solution being an acceptance of the socialist ethos: From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.

© October 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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Tears, by Gillian

I saw my father cry three times.

When I was four or five we had a tiny 6-weeks-old kitten. He was all black, and sadly found a shaggy black rug a cozy place to sleep. My mother, no idea he was there, stepped right on him. We heard the terrible sound of crunching tiny bones. Tears were running down my dad’s face as he scooped up the screaming little body to take it outside and put an end to its suffering.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

When our old dog, for years Dad’s constant companion, died, my dad cried.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

For very different reasons neither of us cried. I, even as a child, somehow was playing a part; not being the real me. So, until the time I came out to myself in my early forties, when I did finally become the real me and no longer was simply an actor on life’s stage, I felt very little real emotion. I do not remember ever crying as a child.

My mother never got over losing two children, ages two and four, before I was born. She shut down. She refused to let herself feel any more personal sorrow. She did cry, quite frequently, but never over anything personal; anything really in her life. The first time I remember her doing this was when horrific newspaper photographs accompanied the stories of Allied troops liberating Hitler’s death camps; and why not, that was plenty to cry about. But she also cried at sad plays on the radio, or newspaper tales of abused animals or injured children – anything not actually personal to her. The few times I hurt myself pretty badly, as children do, neither of us cried.

But my dad had tears in his eyes when he carried a toddler me home from a pretty bad fall.

The third time I saw my dad actually cry was after I had come out. I was the authentic me. I had been back to England for a visit and when the day to leave arrived, Dad drove me to the train. As it pulled out of the station and I leaned out of the window to wave, I saw that he was crying. One of several things over my lifetime that I would rather not have seen, but you cannot unsee things.

I sobbed all the way to London. How much easier my former life spent playing a part had been, feeling emotions at best superficially.

Now, I cry at so many things, tears of sorrow or tears of joy; though tears do not necessarily flow. I find the feelings to be much the same whether in fact I literally cry, or cry just on the inside. I cried at the sight of The White House lit up in rainbow colors after The Supreme Court ruled on behalf of Marriage Equality.

I cried for the loss of Stephen and Randy, of this group, as I cry for every loss of yet another friend. I even cry when friends’ pets die.

I cry for our country which currently feels like one more loss, as I cry for the planet as we know it, which is another.

But I have no regrets for my tears. Having lived for so long without them, I welcome them. I almost revel in them; celebrate them. They serve to remind me, I am really me!

© October 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Fairy Tales, by Ricky

I know I’m not the only one who noticed how fairy tales are used to teach safety, appreciation, and “standards” of conduct. The brothers Grimm and Aesop are perhaps the best known to my youth. The Grimm’s tales were often rather grim (pun intended) and Aesop is known for the “moral” aspect of his tales.

While the overall stories seem adventurous enough for small children, the overt warnings are clear–all step-mothers are wicked (Cinderella, Hansel & Gretel, Snow White), witches are evil (Snow White, Hansel & Gretel), never take candy (or gingerbread) from strangers (Hansel & Gretel), the woods are dangerous places (Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel & Gretel, Wizard of Oz—which is just a very long fairy tale).

Then just when a child has it all internalized, the contradictions become apparent. Not everyone in the woods is evil or bad (Snow White’s dwarfs, Little Red Riding Hood’s woodsman, Wizard of Oz’s Tin Woodsman). All princes are handsome and heroic (Snow White & Cinderella, but not the singer Prinz). Mothers believe their sons are not very intelligent (Jack and the Beanstalk) nor do they believe in magic. Adults (who trade beans for cows) don’t believe in magic even when they say they do (Jack and the Beanstalk). Children do believe in magic, that’s why the beans did grow.

The fairy tales tell of justice served, if not always measured. Wolves get killed and grandmas rescued (Little Red Riding Hood). Bad little boys get eaten (the Boy Who Cried Wolf). Evil witches are destroyed, some in ovens and some by falling houses (Hansel & Gretel, Wizard of Oz). The ultimate “justice served” is of course the “Happily Ever After” part.

Now the third most important question concerning fairy tales follows. Except for Glenda in the Wizard of Oz, “Why are there no good witches in fairy tales?”

The second most important question is dealing with fairy tales is, “Why are there no wicked step-fathers?” Perhaps because men wrote or told the stories???

I will now answer the most important question. The answer is “Peter Pan.” Why? You ask. Because that is my favorite fairy tale, (Tinkerbelle is a fairy so it counts as a fairy tale). I don’t know why it is my favorite, it just is. Hmmmmmm. Let’s see—Peter Pan, playing with the Lost Boys and a fairy. Hey! Peter Pan is gay!!!

© 2011

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Figures, by Ray S

It’s 6 AM, my eyes creep open, throw back the covers, swing my legs out of bed, checking to see if I can stand surely enough to hit the head.

Ah! I made it and as I addressed the American Standard porcelain I wondered what “Figures” of mine would be interesting to my woman- and man-kind enough to avail them with. I began to list some in my mind. To me the word Figures means the visual arts, Michael Angelo’s David, Winged Victory, the Statue of Liberty in NY Harbor, the acropolis, Mona Lisa, Rodin’s sculptures, something you can see, feel, or imagine.

What about numbers? Well, look how our fearless leader spurts out the “thousands, “millions” and “trillions” at the drop of a twitter, yet stumbles on into one of his own cowpies after another. That’s some American First figure.

Numbers, numbers everywhere, if I could only translate them in my mind into something meaningful. Having limited mathematical skills from a bout of childhood dyslexia, I could visualize the measurements of a yardstick, but talk miles or heights of mountains, depths of the oceans, and those figures escaped me. I was and still am proud that I mastered my 3rd grade times tables.

Today, figures like names of places and people escape me. Is it a sign of dementia or just plain forgetfulness? You know! I just can’t figure all of this out, so I’ll simply continue to count the petals on the daisy and not figure how many there are. Life’s too short, or too large; go figure.

© 5 June 2017

About the Author