Tag: Phillip Hoyle

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Feeling Loved, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college freshman I heard a lecture in which the
professor pointed out how Americans love many things, everything from cars to
mashed potatoes. We celebrate the love of clothes, looks, hairdos, decorations,
and cities. We love our ball teams. But we don’t expect most of the things we
say we love to love us. Mostly we limit the hope of being loved to our relationships
with other humans except, of course, our pets, especially our dogs who we are
sure love us in return. In this story I’ve made an incomplete list of my
experiences of being loved by that one someone who figures centrally into our
American mythos of being loved, but obviously I’ve expanded my list to more
than that one and only—woman or man.
I was deeply loved by Myrna my wife. I felt loved. And
I loved her in so many ways in this most complicated relationship of my
life—one with a professional career, children, parents and siblings and in-laws
and many, many friends over a period of many years. I was happy about it
basking in such warm and complete love.
About two years into that marriage I was loved by a
gay friend. I loved him, but I had no experience and didn’t understand the
order of things. He loved my wife and didn’t want to hurt my marriage. I loved
him but not in the way I finally realized he wanted me to love him. I was very
young. I think I hurt him deeply. Still our friendship flourished for many years.
In the meantime I fell in love with a man who probably
loved me but whose life was too encumbered, whose imagination couldn’t deal
with what that might mean about himself and his life. As a result his love for
me became stunted. I loved what feeling I received from him although I hoped
he’d never want me to give up my married life for him. I also knew I’d never
ask him to give up his married life for me.
Then I loved a man who may have loved me but had built
a barrier around his feelings. Oh he wanted sex with me but he didn’t want to
give or receive the feelings of it all. So when we started the sex, I agreed to
his demand there be no emotions since I realized the advantage of his program
to my marriage. Still I wondered at his request but like a good soldier turned
off my emotions—at least some of them—but not so much as to miss experiencing
the thrills our play created.
Then I loved a man who really loved me. I warned him
that my love, while real and deep, was quite different than his. Now I was the
one defending the two of us from one another for quite complicated reasons. I
loved being loved by him although I could not imagine living with him.
I was loved by a man who had nothing to offer me
except his adoration. We lived in two greatly different worlds, his with Okie
twang, mine with educated artifice. I was nice and kind but never in love with
him. Still I appreciated his devotion even with its great impediments. I was
relieved when he no longer pursued me.
I liked a man who seemed to like me. Eventually I fell
in love with him and he with me. The experience was new to me since I was
recently separated from my wife and could actually go live with him. He loved
me. We lived together. I watched him die. I grieved.
I loved a man who really loved me. Our love had all
the markings of classic falling in love: the ancient lover and beloved, the
medieval romance, and the extremely baroque and renaissance drama of an opera
plot. Sadly this love affair was also a tragedy although a gentle one. I
grieved unlike ever before in my life when he died.
Again I love a man with whom I live. He loves me. We
don’t match very well but do live together successfully. Neither of us is
especially romantic, but I seem to have a much greater proclivity for romance
than he. We have a nice social life with mutual friends. His mother lives with
us. I know I am loved, but again it is a new experience with dynamics unlike
any of my other loves.
Perhaps the nice thing about my loves is that my wife
and the man I first fell in love with and the man I first allowed my love to
grow with all continue to be my good friends. My current love is also a good
friend. I have come to realize that I love any number of men for any number of
reasons. I will refrain from counting the ways in this story. Perhaps another
day there will be a poem describing that matter! Of course, these listed affairs
of the heart are only one category of being loved. But I have always realized
that I am loved by many different people for many different reasons and in many
different ways. I really feel loved. I guess it proper to say the one-and-only
aspect of my being loved is to be found in the individuality of each loving relationship.
© Denver, 2013 

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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Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had
explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the
public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when
fulfilling a project for school or work.
These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble
for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing
around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of
storytelling.
You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations
are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me
although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the
scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a
similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something
again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American
cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the
Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my
childhood imaginings.
© Denver, 2013
Magic Fan
By Phillip E. Hoyle
The clutch of feathers
worked magic, at least for the boy
Who slid them over the
back of his hand,
Between his fingers,
On the skin of his face
Transporting him to a
world of freedom
Where he was one of the Indians
he had read,
Who moved freely through
the life
Of prairie and forest,
Of hunt and survival,
Through the endless
tracks of his mind.
His room, his lodge
festooned with portraits
And costumes of leather
and feather
Faithful companions in
his world of flight,
This fullness of fancy
barely
Tethered by nearness of
family.
There in his lodge, he
worked his feathers
Formed into headdress,
bustle, and fan,
Costume for his great
dream
Of being an Indian
dressed up in style
That spoke of tribal
belonging.
The basement, the space
for a dance
Of adoption, the
footwork of fancy,
Steps made real by the
presence of
Feathers that moved air
and spirit
Through ceremonial smoke
of love and desire.
His dances were brief,
three minutes or less
—sad frontier of 78s—but
He practiced the joy
Shown in dip, turn, and
stomp;
The movement expressing
the life he could feel.
His fan led the way as
he pranced,
Swift feet moving in
moccasins that
Circled the room of
ceremony and smoke.
Bustles shimmering,
bells resounding
Sisters worrying, ‘He’s
at it again.’
In echoing basement his
beads bounced
His body the drum, the
people, the dream
Of roach and shirt,
breechclout and leggings.
Of such transportation:
The magic of feather and
fan.
© Denver,
2012 
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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Don’t Touch Me There by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t believe those words have ever come out of my mouth. I’m not kidding, but I don’t want to claim too much for I was a ticklish boy. Tickling made me laugh and squirm, caused my throat to constrict and tire, made me try to get away from my tormentor. And I especially liked it when Paul tickled me, Paul a tall, muscular man, family friend and member of our church, who worked construction or some other physical job. We knew Paul and his wife and daughter because the daughter, like my next younger sister, had contracted polio and went to regular doctor’s appointments in Topeka, Kansas, sixty miles away. Rides were shared by the two families, so we spent a lot of time together, and we kids got to know each other and each other’s parents. Paul was almost like a kid himself. He loved to play. He loved to tickle us. I loved to be tickled by him. I’d run from him; he’d pursue me, get me down on the ground or floor and tickle me until I squealed. I had no other such relationship with an adult, certainly not with an adult male and couldn’t get enough of his attention. This giant would grab me with his huge paws, lift me high, then lower me to the ground and tickle my ribs until I was laughing, screaming, kicking, and trying to escape. I loved the attention.

There were other men who paid me mind: my dad who encouraged my singing by accompanying me on the piano, my grandfather Hoyle who sat in his chair smoking his pipe but occasionally talking with me or driving me somewhere in his Pontiac, my grandpa Pink who when he drove the tractor would lift me onto his lap and kid me and tell me stories and sing me songs, Mr. Lown the preacher who talked with me about becoming a minister, Bob who took me along with other boys to powwows and taught me to dance, and Mr. Martin who encouraged my singing in high school. I had plenty of attention from men but no other adult ever played with me like Paul. Still I loved the attentions of all these men and none of them ever crossed the line, caused me to say, “Don’t touch me there.”

Of course I don’t know that I would have said it anyway. Writing this I feel a bit like my friend who complained that the priest he served with at the altar for many years never molested him. But now, really, I’m just kidding.

Denver, 2013

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

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The Wisdom of LGBT Identity, by Phillip Hoyle

Cecelia started it when she told me about a book she wanted me to teach. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron was no ordinary book but, rather, a spiritual process of self-examination, exercises, and disciplines to help the reader overcome barriers to self-expression as an artist. The content and activities were meant for writers, visual artists, performers, and just about anyone who wanted to explore his or her own artistic bent. I was skeptical, but Cecelia was persistent. Agreeing to share the task of facilitating the thirteen sessions, we settled on an approach that seemed well balanced.

A group of writers, poets, painters, illustrators, sculptors, musicians, and educators—all members of the church where I worked—assembled that first night. They received their copies of the book and listened patiently as we explained the process for both the group and the individual participants. The work focused daily on the infamous “Morning Pages,” periodically on completing short writing and art exercises, and weekly on “Artist Dates.” Oh, we read the book, too, and met each week to share our work, objections, pains, elation, pasts, and dreams.

What Cecelia knew and I hoped would happen did occur. We changed our views of ourselves, our appreciation of one another, and our ability to engage in creative work. Due to our weeks together, our lives have continued to change to this day.

For example, some seventeen years later I am still writing my three hand-written, first-thing-in-the-morning pages. I have been writing and painting on a regular basis. I know others have as well. Since that time I have led several other groups through Cameron’s process, often sharing the leadership with others as Cecelia taught me. People are still changing. But the most unexpected change occurred in me, and it wasn’t directly related to seeing myself as an artist.

The child, the inner child, a concept with which I was familiar, showed up prominently in The Artists Way. I had always been slightly put off by the concept, not because it made no sense, but because I heard it used so trivially so often. I read Cameron critically and did not find her explications very enlightening, but I did respond to her process. As a teacher I had pledged myself to engage fully in the process the book proffered. I answered all the questions the author posed, made all the lists she asked for, and on Artist Dates took my inner child to the museums, through parks, down streets of mansions, to mountain meadows, streams and caves, into paper shops, hardware stores and artist supply companies just like the writer instructed. During our times together I recalled many childhood scenes. Somehow Cameron showed me that my inner child is not just some kind of memory of past events but that I am still all that I have ever been at whatever age: confident or afraid, victorious or at a loss, praised or put down.

So I got reacquainted with my inner child’s hurt even though the idea seemed corny. Then I wrote about my fifth grade teacher who derided my Purple Cow illustration but offered me no help with my drawing. I was embarrassed and convinced I couldn’t draw. Two years later I enrolled in seventh grade woodshop instead of the art class I really wanted. But in shop I discovered I couldn’t do the projects very well not being strong enough to control the awkward tools I had to use. My only really fine work that year was the design I burned in the wooden bookends I made. I wrote about these things in the exercises and in my Morning Pages and grew more and more to love my hurt inner artist child.

The more Artist Dates I went on the more artistic and the more gay I got! That’s when I remembered the comment a gay friend of mine said about my work in religious education. “It’s more like art than education,” he observed. I trusted the judgment of this fellow minister, educator, and artist but felt confused. Looking critically into my own experience I finally realized what was right about his analysis, that my play with religious ideas, symbols, and characters was enacted through art forms. And then I started to wonder if my fifth grade teacher was wrong. I quit planning art processes for children and began doing them for myself.

Cameron’s process expanded. She wanted us to costume on our Artist Dates wearing artsy clothes—surely black outfits with berets and scarves. She encouraged us to hang around with other artists. She suggested we introduce ourselves as artists. In so doing, she opened my imagination by encouraging an identity. In my response I discovered that not only was the artist child wounded in me but the gay child as well.

Then the goofy New Age intruded. Cameron wanted us to make affirmations, to write over and over certain sentences. I did so even though I hated doing it. But how else does one learn? I still write one of these sentences, still slightly irritated because, I’m sure, I hear a writing teacher saying not to write in the first person and because to me the affirmation seems exaggerated, not exactly true. Stifling my objections I write: “I, Phillip Hoyle, am a brilliant and prolific artist.” The first time I encountered it, I simply filled in the blank with my name, first and last, just as she instructed. Then I started writing it at the end of the Morning Pages sometimes as an additional page of mantra-like affirmations, at other times to fill out the third page when I felt like I was running out of time or ideas to write.

What I learned through identifying myself as an artist transformed me. I sought out other artists. I laughed when I dressed in black like our church organist. I continued the artist dates long after the thirteen weeks ended. I continued to write the Morning Pages. And the more I did all these exercises, I found my artistic intertwined with my gay. I was doubly identified. My hurt artist child was always an artist and was always gay. That’s me.

My mantra now included this: I am Phillip Hoyle. I am an artist. AND I am gay. I was always an artist, and I was always gay.

The advantage of this identity? I was able to change my life knowing a community of acceptance, understanding, and living. A way to see myself. A structure of self-acceptance and understanding. A way to find friends. The wisdom of LGBTQA coalition identity. Something more than politics. Rather the creation of a world-view of inclusion, tolerance, acceptance, relationship, and growth within diversity.

© Denver, 2012

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.”

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For a Good Time by Phillip Hoyle

I’m not easily manipulated by advertising. I can watch ads on TV, even enjoy their art, humor, and images, but I never buy their products. I can pour over magazine ads but end up only cutting them into pieces for collages rather than purchasing their wares. I knew this about myself for years, but I learned a valuable exception one night early in my coming out—during my first year living in Denver. I was at Charlie’s of Denver dancing with my friend Dianne. We’d go there once in awhile to practice our emerging bar-stool massage techniques, to drink some beers, and to dance. We were laughing and carrying on when I noticed a decent looking man standing by a table watching me. He smiled. I smiled. I went over to talk with him and invite him to dance with us. Before long he said to me, “Let’s go have sex.”

I responded to his direct message. Perhaps I was also attracted to his strong southern accent, his black hair, his darker skin (I assumed he might be Hispanic), his smile revealing clean, slightly irregular teeth, and his stature just a bit shorter than mine. He seemed my kind of guy although I really didn’t know I had a preferred type. He advertised no price tag attached to sex—just sex. We went to my place and figured out what to do together.

I realized that while I liked what I saw and otherwise sensed, and I enjoyed our simple negotiations, conversation, and other contortions, the good time I experienced really arose from my inner core. All my deepest pleasures originate from an introvert place and preference, although in this instance assisted by a shot of adrenalin, a combination of other hormones, and perhaps was bolstered by a bit of alcohol. They spoke from deep within.

Usually I am happy to be alone, but there are times I easily enough share myself more publically. For instance, there are things I enjoy doing with others, like the visit to the Denver Art Museum with my friend Dianne to see the Yves St. Laurent couture show. I probably would have missed it if she hadn’t encouraged me to take her. Dianne had modeled clothes in Paris in her late teens and twenties and did her first runway job for the designer whose clothing we were viewing as we walked through the rooms displaying his work. Her perspectives drew me deeper into the multitude of beautiful items on display and the world that had produced them. I liked that conjunction immensely.

Furthermore, I enjoy going on trips with Jim, like the trip to North Dakota (a place that requires a local guide for anyone to appreciate it at all). Jim showed me all the places he had lived and had loved way up there in the north, including the field where he sometimes saw moose sitting in the snow when as a child he walked to catch the school bus, the train station where he used to work for the Great Northern Railroad, and the statue of the world’s largest cow. His insistence on driving the whole way through Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, South Dakota, North Dakota and Wyoming freed me to pay close attention to the landforms where many scenes from 19th century American history were played out and where for millennia great herds of bison were hunted by tribes in their annual cycles of hunt and harvest. And I met many of Jim and Ruth’s family members. Furthermore, I got to know both my partner and his mother in ways I would have perceived only slowly if we had not travelled together. I enjoyed the trip and the things I learned by experiencing it with these two who have become so important in my life.

For a good time: in its popular usage connotes a sexual element and is often a prostitute’s come on complete with phone number and perhaps prices. In my two examples there was something sexual, even if deeply sublimated. Dianne is one of the sexiest people I have ever known. And of course I was having sex with Jim on our North Dakota Odyssey.

And then there are my good times with a Writers group, an Artist Trading Card gathering, and weekly meetings of this Storytelling group. I enjoy seeing friends for coffee or lunch, having sex with a lover, going somewhere to dance (Indian dancing at demonstrations or powwows in my school years, social dances in junior high and high school, two-stepping or rock dancing with my wife, or techno dancing with a good friend in my gay days). I like day trips to the mountains for short walks or visiting a tourist trap, some combination of exercise, shopping, sightseeing, picture taking, and eating. And of course, lots of gab.

For a good time: pleasure can only be defined by the person seeking or experiencing it. For instance, three people share an activity. One simply bears it, another one finds it just okay, while the third declares it was a really good time, one of the best. The pleasure itself is due to personal emotions and feelings, not due to owning an art museum membership or being able to afford an occasional trip. For me, the good time arises from being somehow transformed by the viewings, travel, thoughts and feelings when my social activities become a scene in a story or the inspiration for a piece of artwork. Then I feel even more deep pleasure, my deepest satisfaction. And that’s a really good time!

Denver, © 2013

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

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From the Pulpit by Phillip Hoyle

In the churches where I worshipped and worked, rants about homosexuality did not come from the pulpit but, rather, from the pew. In fact, the only homosexual statement I heard from the pulpit was a quote from an early 1950s semi-autobiographical novel, Go Tell It on the Mountain, by James Baldwin. The preacher made no allusion to Baldwin’s sexuality or any condemnation of the writer. He made no apology for using a quote from a literary best seller. What the preacher knew of Baldwin, I don’t know.

But there was a history in America, a tradition in Euro-American societies that made homosexuality more than a bad thing. Years of silence over the matter continued in the 20th century by sending homosexuals to counseling or to sanitariums. Folk who lived homosexual lives ran away to cities getting lost in urban concentration. Surely their condition was something foreign, out of the ordinary, and ‘here in our little Eden, will not be tolerated.’ Any change of public or even family perception of one’s sexuality caused folk to move away. Silence reigned.

Then the US saw the beginnings of the Civil Rights movements. With it came sensitivity training. The women’s movements, Black power movements, Gay Pride movements, and other liberation movements began to influence law making and law enforcement. They changed even the way the military went about its training and work.

Fears of these new powers fed the growth of conservative reactionary movements. Evangelical churches ended their lethargy and began focusing on influencing public life. They increasingly removed themselves from moderate and liberal denominations. For instance, many evangelicals left the United Presbyterian Church when that denomination’s Social Action committee helped fund Black woman radical Angela Davis’s defense in court. Then the same reactionaries rose up against what they saw as an attack on the modern American family. They wrote books on the way things were supposed to be. They were disturbed by their own children’s refusal to follow traditional ways. Their middle-class kids preferred to live with their spousal picks without the advantages of marriage. Someone had to pay. Very hurt, nice folk turned the accusing finger against gay males condemning them for trying to destroy the family with their gay agenda. Their vitriolic attack resulted in a split in public life.

While in college in the late 1960s I focused on reading about homosexual experience. Then I made my first adult friendship with another musician who was gay. Throughout the 70s I continued reading a rapidly expanding literature and minutely examined the nature of my own sexuality in which I was not really surprised to find a homosexual core. My self-consideration meant to create and maintain a balancing act of faith, morality, and ethics.

In 1968 the church denomination in which I worked voted to proclaim publically that gays and lesbians deserved the same civil rights as all other American citizens. I went to seminary a few years later. There I met more gays, fell in love with a man, read more about what churches were saying and doing, and costumed myself as a gay man when attending a minorities group at the seminary. I did so as a show of solidarity. Surely my actions were also a self-revelation of my own bisexuality.

As church clergy I started teaching my balancing act of faith, morality and ethics. My wife, children, and I were open and affirming of gays and lesbians. We welcomed gays and lesbians into our home. We travelled with two homosexuals to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. My studies embraced the issues. In one local congregation I led a seminar about human sexuality positing a bi-sexual norm for its consideration.

Finally I understood that I was going to live a homosexual life. My affairs with men pushed me into a much deeper understanding of myself. I was tired of church work. I didn’t know how to solve my domestic dilemma. I dropped out of church leadership and eventually of congregational life.

In my thirty-two years of ministry, I had observed a marked change in congregational attitudes toward homosexuality, particularly toward homosexual ministers. In fairness, I believe that lay attitudes didn’t so much change as they got expressed. In our denomination the discussion at times became vitriolic being attached to a larger fight for dominance between conservative and liberal factions.

I heard heated words: accusations of not being biblical, arguments arising from holiness code excerpts from Leviticus, assumptions that anyone involved in any homosexual activity must repent or go to hell, and so forth. Eventually I received messages from family members registering both their rejection of me while living in such a sinful life and prayers for my reconciliation and redemption. I had to receive them as truly hopeful but reject them as a path I might follow.

Early on in my ministry I realized I might get in trouble over homosexual issues in the church when I suggested to a man I really liked that he shouldn’t use anti-homosexual humor. I did so because he was using it among the men in the cast of a play we were producing for a Maundy Thursday service. The young man playing the Jesus role was homosexual. The man I criticized was playing Judas. There was the obligatory kiss. Perhaps my Judas was simply playing out his part or perhaps he was also secretly homosexual. I have no idea and say none of this as accusation. Both men were beautiful to me. I didn’t want the church member to be making the guest Jesus uncomfortable. I also realized that my non-public warning to the jokester might be just the kind of thing that I would pay for. Still, for the greater good of the play and of the persons involved, I suggested such humor was out of place.

I saw this kind of thing several times in my career. I tried to keep an even keel for the old ark of the church, one that didn’t alienate the more conservative but also made a place for the more liberal or, as some conservatives thought, the more sinful or worldly. I preached that the world and the world of the church was very large encompassing unimaginable diversity. I encouraged loving forbearance and acceptance of that diversity. I quietly preached such a doctrine for thirty-two years. Finally I had preached enough.

I have read and heard the anti-gay rhetoric. I have analyzed the pick-and-choose approach of scriptural proofs. I came to realize I had made different picks and choices of proofs to maintain a consistent logic in a commitment to the image of the creative and ultimately loving God. I declare myself a Christian, and although I’ve retired from the clergy and haven’t preached in a church for over fourteen years, I have one last sermon to preach. Listen.

Some folk seem to think that one cannot be Christian and gay. Well, I’m announcing from my pulpit that I am one such person, a gay Christian. There are thousands, tens of thousands others like me, who do not accept the rejecting authority of would-be representatives of the Truth. These accusers assume the role of the god in their communications of condemnation. Tens of thousands like me also reject the more subtle settlement of many churches that one can be homosexual but cannot live in that way. These judges condemn having sex with a person of the same sex even in a committed marriage, itself anathema in their view.

My pulpit announces the beauty and norm of gay marriage or any other loving, living arrangements. My pulpit announces the end of the holiness code like any self-respecting dispensationalist preacher should. My pulpit announces a new beginning of the ancient standards of love, felicity, and creativity in all human relationships. Oh well, lest this sermon go on too long, I’ll follow the advice of one preacher’s wife who told her husband when he was done, he should simply say “Amen” and sit down.

Amen.

© 2015

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

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Horseshoes by Phillip Hoyle

Both my dad Earl and my maternal grandpa Charley had horseshoes. Dad had large ones he threw at an iron rod hoping to make a ringer. He smiled when he played and enjoyed his conversation with the other men. But I liked Grandpa’s horseshoes better for they represented something more essential than a game even with its skill and camaraderie. Grandpa’s horseshoes represented a way of life, one close to the soil, close to history, actually an extension of that history. The imagination of living on a tract of land that had been farmed for hundreds of years by American natives and nearly one hundred years by American immigrants from German and Sweden held more attraction for me. Grandpa’s farm and life invited me into a world in which horseshoes were actually worn by horses. I really liked that.

My father’s life was much more disconnected from the essentials of a farm. Oh he sold groceries, sometimes even local produce, but he sold them, not raised them. He worked hard, dealt with many people, hired quite a few employees, and following the example of his grocer father, sometimes gave groceries to folk who were too broke to afford them. He offered monthly credit to many people who lived on monthly-paid incomes. His life did exemplify a deep dedication to people. But his horseshoes were stored in a box on a shelf in the garage and taken out only when he and some other men were meeting at the park for a game. Grandpa’s horseshoes had holes in them to accommodate real nails to be pounded into horse’s hooves; dad’s horseshoes were only for sport.


Because of its difference from city life, the farm was magical for me. I was amazed by all its elements that didn’t occur in our home on a city lot: its location alongside a gravel road and a ravine, its tall barns and squat hen house, its underground cellar and the large wood stack, its wood-burning stoves and deep wells, its tractor and truck. The farm seemed nearly foreign when compared to the things I knew. We had cats at home, but Grandpa had dogs that brought in the cattle each evening, cows that gave milk. He sometimes had calves that were auctioned off at the local sales barn. In the cellar sat large cans of milk and eggs that Grandpa took to the mill each Saturday. The chopping block next to the wood stack displayed the heavy ax that he used to split logs for cooking meals and heating the house. And the place had stories of an ancient ceremonial ground down by the creek, a place that was used annually by the native folk who had lived there before my great grandfather. There were also stories of the old sod house my forebear built when he homesteaded the place in the 1870s, of Indians stopping by to trade, of the old two-story house that used to stand there but that burned down when two girls were playing and lit a fire in their play oven. I treasured these stories; the farm captured my imagination becoming the site of my dreams. In addition to dreams, I clearly recall the saddle that hung in the central part of the barn, the leather, wood and metal gear to hitch the horses to the wagons, and the lucky horseshoe Grandpa had tacked to the barn wall. I liked Grandpa’s horseshoes.

By contrast, Dad’s horseshoes represented another world of sports and competition. They went to church picnics at the city park. I watched the play, even tried it but was neither strong nor accurate enough in my tosses. Even as I grew my game did not improve for I still threw the shoes wildly, rarely hitting the rod or making points, certainly making no ringers. I did like watching the older guys—my dad and others—toss them. The players had their own techniques: how they held the horseshoe, how they tossed it, how they followed through the throw, how they cheered or rued the results. They relished their sport with Sears and Roebuck fake horseshoes. Although my dad liked sports and mild competition, I never got into it.

Growing up I saw my grandpa work. Farming allows that; at least on family farms where the children help. Actually I helped Grandma mostly in her garden and sometimes collecting eggs. Still, Grandpa was always around—milking cows, making things in his shop, working fields, keeping his equipment in good order. He invited me to ride with him on the tractor or to go with him in the pickup to a nearby mechanic’s shop. By contrast dad’s work took place away from home. For years I rarely saw Dad’s work at the store, only occasionally a bit of bookkeeping on a Sunday night when the store was closed. What work I did see him do was at church where he played the organ for two or three services each Sunday. I thrilled at his playing and singing, his accompanying and service music, his improvisations on hymns and gospel songs, and his tasteful selections of classical pieces. But soon I was sent off to children’s church and didn’t hear him except on Sunday evenings. When I was in junior high choir I did again hear the morning service, and in the 8th grade started conducting the choir calls to worship and amen responses to prayers. In this I got to collaborate with Dad; I liked that—very much.

Grandpa died while I was in 5th or 6th grade. I matured without him. He remained a wonderful element of my imagination inspiring me with his love, humor, and gentle kidding. Soon after his death I entered dad’s world of work at the store and, thankfully, his world of music and artistry at the church.

I keep alive a great memory of hunting with dad and grandpa. They carried shot guns. I walked along and I carried the rabbits they shot using a handle Grandpa fashioned from a branch with just a few cuts with his pocket knife. I loved that afternoon even though the rabbits got very heavy. I cherish my memory of hunting at the farm with these two men who loved me and whom I adored.

Denver, © 2 March 2015

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.” 

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From My Queer Point of View, by Phillip Hoyle

From my point of view, this presentation is a story and a rant. Behind it is an assumption that in comparison with the points of view espoused by others around me, my perspectives seem to me more artistic, open, religious, educational, intellectual, personal, flexible, and independent. And in one particular way more defended. But perhaps the most distinctive aspect of my point of view comes from fifteen years of giving massages.

The Story

I had poured beer at the bar in times past, refilling plastic glass after glass of cheap beer on a beer bust, volunteering there in order to raise money to help fund an annual retreat for people living with AIDS. I was sure my mother would never approve, but I did it anyway and enjoyed the snippets of conversation, the beauty of some men I poured for, and the humor of some fellow pourers. I liked being in a gay bar with something practical to do.

But that afternoon I was at the same bar, the same Sunday beer bust, but there as a guest attending a birthday party, there with my partner and several friends. I talked with our host, the birthday honoree, and my companions. The latter and I had just moved onto the patio to enjoy the sun when I saw a man I knew from the annual retreat and went over to talk with him. That’s when I noticed another young man in the yellow tee shirt that advertised an animal shelter, the not-for-profit organization he was pouring beer to benefit. I found him attractive. When he stopped to ask if we needed more beer, I noticed his healthy looks, warm smile, hazel eyes, sturdy build, and his language—real English, clever, sparkling, and engaging. I thought what a pleasure to have this fine looking youngster in a yellow shirt pour my beer while I talked with this other fine looking blue shirted and blue eyed young man I knew from the retreat. Some afternoons seem just so fine. I recalled that when I poured for the retreat beer bust I tended to go back to the same place to pour, so I was not at all surprised to have the youngster in yellow keep returning. Was he paying special attention to me? I laughed at my thought. Then I wondered at and dismissed the perception that perhaps he was paying attention to me. How pleasant it seemed and how funny. But I knew more. I knew my desire; laughed at it; and like always, enjoyed it. Being served beer by a nice young man on a sunny Sunday afternoon is never negligible.

Finally I had to excuse myself from the retreat friend due to the insistence of my aging bladder and made my way indoors to the restroom. As I was returning to join my friends outdoors, the good looking server greeted me. He asked if I needed more beer. I turned him down, but he continued talking wanting to know what kind of work I did. When I told him, he asked, “Do you have a card? I’m looking for a massage therapist.” I handed him a card, knowing that one rarely hears from card gatherers. And of course I didn’t hear from him, but about two months later at another bar, I saw the same good looking young man who remembered me and told me he still had my card and was going to call me. I smiled warmly and encouraged him to do so. And within a week or two I received his call. We arranged the massage. I gave him the massage registering how fine it always seems when massaging young men with their fine skin, supple muscles, and in this case attractive personality. We hugged at the end of the session. Again I wondered if I was being in some way interviewed for a relationship but laughed at the idea.

“I knew he was looking for an older man,” one of my friends said of the young man later when he became the topic of conversation.

“Yeah,” another friend asserted, “he wants a sugar daddy.”

Now of course there are young men who want to find an older man to take care of them. Had this been the hope of this young man in relationship to me, he’d have been sorely disappointed. I have no money, work only part-time. I’m one of those older guys who has to sing the lyrics, “I can’t give you anything but love, Baby.”

Let me restate that: from me one can get love and a good massage. So when he called for an appointment I gave him love and a massage, the kind of love I give all my clients whether male or female, gay or straight, intellectual or developmentally challenged. And of course I noticed that he was as beautiful unclothed as clothed, intelligent, warm and probably needy although I knew little about just what he might need. I must add that I felt a strong attraction similar to when at a bus stop I met Rafael years before, an attraction to the beauty of his body and spirit, to his ability to express himself verbally, and his openness to others around him. I was somewhat stricken but not so much as to reveal all this by shaking while I rubbed him.

The next time I saw this beautiful young man, he was accompanied by an older man who was quite handsome with his silver hair and nice clothes. I suspected he was well heeled and thought how nice for the younger man whatever his needs and motivations. As I shook hands with the elder, I projected warmth and pleasure in the meeting. I told the younger how good he looked and quietly affirmed my approval of his choice of companions. A few weeks later I again saw him in the company of the older man. They both looked pleased to be together. Again I stopped to greet them.

About two months later, around the year-end holidays, the young man was at the same bar alone. I went over to talk. I discovered his partner was out of town for the holidays and heard about the youngsters’ upbringing in a rather wealthy family and his plans to visit them in the coming week. While I didn’t get many details—I’m loathe to ask for such things—I did get picture enough to realize just how hopeless the superficial judgment that any younger person who shows interest in an elder is looking for a sugar daddy.

The Rant

How demeaning and objectifying the assumption is of the accused. In gay male relationship it reveals deeply held misogyny and a cultural prejudice that what makes an American male a real man is his ability and drive to be financially successful. I’m confused that men who themselves have suffered the same verbal put downs should dis some youngster for being a gold digger, a woman (as if that’s an insult), and a flop at manning up to the responsibilities of true manhood. From my point of view the assumption does not consider the following important possibilities:

* That the younger man may simply prefer to live around older men.

* That the younger man may have resources plenty or more than plenty for his own maintenance.

* That the younger may be seeking for the nurture of an older man since he may have got little from his father.

* That the younger man could have been raped as a child and thus as a young man is looking for the nurture of an older man who could heal him with love.

* That the younger man could be acting out of a need for survival.

* That the younger man could be victim of mental or emotional illnesses.

I know about these things from listening to my clients for the past fifteen years. The list can go on and on and still hasn’t asked any questions concerning the motivations of the older man who seems to be responding to the younger. What’s the old guy up to? Is he looking for a sugar baby? And whose business it is anyway to have such opinions about another person’s life? Well, that’s at least one interesting point of view from this old man.

I don’t say any of these things to pick on my friends because even in speaking this way I am somewhat defended. Seriously so. My defenses arise from what I consider to be the essence of my life’s religious assumptions, that when I accuse I am indicting myself in the accusation. So I usually choose to keep council with myself and not project onto others my own weaknesses and pathos!


Denver, © 2013

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

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Revelation, by Phillip Hoyle

Some
biblical and artistic revelations combined for me in a most important way, one
that helped me realize the ultimate revelation of God’s love. I begin with the
image of a boy drawing illustrations of several visionary creatures in the
Bible. These word monsters had origins in the apocalyptic literature of the
Hebrew prophets, especially Daniel and several others whose writings were
deemed apocryphal or became part of the extra-biblical collection known as the Pseudepigrapha.
Jesus as a prophet was credited with some such images related to the
destruction of Jerusalem, and due to a fourth century CE decision, the New
Testament ends with one such: the memorable book, The Revelation to John. We
didn’t hear much about these writings in our church until Stan Lecher preached
a meeting one spring. He specialized in prophetic speculation in order to raise
a crowd. The magical world of knowing the future held great appeal and Lecher
knew how to use it. Although in my childhood I was too scared to be interested
in monster movies, I did find these images in the Bible quite intriguing, not
so much for their meanings about the future but simply for their inclusion in
the sacred book. For me, the phenomenon seemed much the same as when I later discovered
the Goodspeed translation of the Bible that used such clear words as ‘rape’ or
the erotic images in the Song of Solomon, or the image of God’s love for Israel
compared with the hopeless commitment of the prophet Hosea to his prostituting
wife. I was fascinated by the unacceptable being found within the content of
the holy. I still am.
So when
sermons got boring I paged through the Revelation and entertained myself by
drawing these wild monsters: for instance, in Revelation 12 a great red dragon
with seven heads and ten horns and ten crowns on his heads and a tail that
swept down a third of the stars of heaven and threw them on the earth and whom
Michael and his angels fought; or in Revelation 13 a creature that rose from
the sea and looked like a leopard with feet like a bear’s and a mouth like a
lion’s and with horns and ten crowns; or in the same chapter another beast that
rose out of the earth and featured two horns like a lamb and the voice of a
dragon. I knew nothing of metaphor and symbol for I was a child as literal as
he could be. I didn’t know what else to do with these visions except to draw
them.
Mom was
interested in my drawings, at least enough to put them in her purse. I don’t
know what became of those scratchings, but I do remember not knowing how to distribute
horns and crowns among the various heads of the angry monsters. Such is the
life of even the most literal of illustrators. Too many decisions, too much
specificity, and the revelations became a problem of literality and meaning.
But my memory of the experience is one of artistic decision making not unlike
what I face now when I am making paintings of centuries-old visions of the Ute
artists of Shavano Valley in western Colorado or of Cherokee interpreters at
Judaculla Rock on the Tennessee River in western North Carolina. I was making such
artistic decisions as a youngster. All those years ago I was an artist and, of
course, a frustrated one just like my son Michael years later when in disgust
he threw away some of this drawings because he couldn’t get them perfect. I
told him then what I wish someone had told the young me, that the art arises from
incorporating your mistakes, trusting that they may be as important to your
work as what you deem ideal. And to imagine that I was thinking somewhat that
way even as a youngster trying to fathom the images and truths of the wildest
symbols in the Bible.
The art is
in the process. For me, the art of living religiously grew to mean being able
to incorporate the common with the holy not to accommodate the sins of my own
life within a vision of a perfect God but rather because the authoritative book
of my religious upbringing declares that the murdering King David was in fact a
man after God’s own heart. My deeply artistic and deeply gay heart knew life
must recognize the good in all, in me. What a revelation!
As I
mentioned before, I still feel that way.
© Denver, 2014
 
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.”
Posted on

A Travelogue of Terror, by Phillip Hoyle

I suppose I’ve always held an
exaggerated sense of the word terror and an exaggerated sense of my own safety.
Still, I do recall one dark night thirty years ago when I realized some of the
big things might not go well. It was during a family trip to celebrate Christmas
in western Colorado. Packed into our VW Jetta, we left our home in mid-Missouri
stopping overnight at my parents’ home in central Kansas. The next morning we
continued on our way with my sixteen-year-old son Michael driving. I wanted him
to experience driving on a long trip since in my teen years I did the same
thing. I recall that while driving those long hours I had become used to where
the car was on the road and no longer had to calculate its position by keeping
the white marks on the right of the lane lined up with a certain point on the
fender. It worked for me and I hoped it would for him. He drove well, but on
our approach to Limon, Colorado, a light snow began to fall. “I’m not ready to
drive in this,” Michael announced, so he and I switched places. Like a good
navigator, he tuned in the radio for more information about the storm. Since it
was moving toward the southeast, I decided we should change from our plan to
drive through Colorado Springs and continue on I-70 through Denver and over the
mountains. I couldn’t imagine crossing the high plains country on US-24, a
two-lane highway that had always seemed rather narrow. I didn’t want to risk
getting stranded out there with its few small towns and few snowplows. Certainly
I didn’t want an accident. I hoped by going northwest we would drive out of the
storm.
The snow picked up just west of Limon
in that high country known for its terrible winds and difficult driving
conditions. In fact it became so bad we saw lots of semi’s jackknifed in the
ditches along the road. I had driven in snow many times, so confidently and
carefully we continued west. As we neared Denver the snow on the road got
deeper and deeper and the Interstate became nearly deserted. Since I didn’t
want to get stuck in Denver for Christmas, I proposed we stop briefly for
gasoline and a quick meal.
We got back on I-70 as evening darkened.
The snow kept falling, the driving conditions steadily worsened. As we started
into the foothills, I said to my family, “I’m going to follow that tan 4-wheel-drive
vehicle. Its big tires should keep a track open for us.” My idea worked well
enough. Then we were climbing the incline past Georgetown, still in the tracks
of another SUV. Entering the Eisenhower tunnel at the top of the divide gave me
a great sense of relief. With no snow falling, the windshield warmed up and I
felt calm; that is until we emerged into a whiteout with 20-miles-per-hour
winds and a minus 20° F temperature. Immediately the windshield frosted over.
All I could see were the out-of-focus red lights on the car in front of me. “See
those lights?” I told my family. “I’m going to follow them and hope for the
best.” That road is steep, a fact I was all too well aware of as I downshifted and
said my prayers.
We made it safely to the bottom of
the incline, exited the road at the first opportunity, and pulled into a
service station with a restroom. I ran inside only to find a long line of
people impatiently waiting to use the all-too-inadequate toilet facilities. The
terrifying ride into Denver, up the divide, and back down was bad, but the wait
in that line with the prospect of wetting my pants was for me an even greater
terror. By the time I got into the restroom, I was shaking. Some minutes later
more relaxed, a thankful man emerged. I ate some unhealthy but comforting snack
food, drank a Coca Cola, filled the gas tank, and gathered the family again to
travel on to Battlement Mesa. Thankfully the snow gave out on Vail Pass. The
snowplows kept that part of the road passable. We spent the night at the home
of one of my wife’s relatives before driving the rest of the way to Montrose the
next morning in full, dazzling, comforting sunlight.
That’s about as close to terror as I
have come, and I freely admit it was quite enough for me. Furthermore, I
realized far beyond the fears of driving snowy roads that needing to pee and
not being able to do so presented a new threat of terror to a middle-age man.
Now as an old man, I have known that terror way too often.
© 28 Oct 2014 
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