Tag: Phillip Hoyle

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Hooves, by Phillip Hoyle

Hooves are more a fantasy than a reality for me, the sound of hooves on the ground more a live radio show trick than an experience of being near live horses. I guess that is part of my city life upbringing although our city had the grand population of 20,000 and sat in central Kansas. There were real horses nearby.
I remember my grandfather Schmedemann’s team of horses that pulled the hay wagon during bailing. I sat on Grandpa’s wagons and imagined flipping the reins to make those huge animals pull me, but due to their size, I kept my distance. I remember their stalls in the north end of the stock barn and the leather strips they wore on their backs to keep the flies off while they worked. I don’t recall just when they were no longer around, sometime in my mid-childhood, but I’m sure I learned the phrase “sent to the glue factory” around then. I don’t know if it was at all true. I did like their large hooves and the shoes they wore.
I recall real hoof sounds from horses in hometown parades, the Cheyenne Wyoming Frontier Days in 1959, and other parades and rodeos in following years, right up to Denver’s Pridefest Parade I started watching in 1999.
The only horses I actually rode besides the pony in a pony ring at an Estes Park resort were likewise in Colorado years apart, two trail rides. The first when I was a teenager I recall in vivid detail. The trail master shouted, “Pull your reins to the right,” to us not long after we’d begun the climb above the Big Thompson River. I didn’t understand or was too preoccupied with my daydreams not to even have heard him. My horse probably didn’t know that much English or looked to see the trail master. She walked the path several times a day all summer long but that afternoon saw off to our left the small bear that concerned the trail leader. I didn’t know what was going on but remember my horses’ hooves clattering on the rocks as she tried to push ahead of other horses on the trail. That’s when I heard the follow-up command shouted at me. “Hey you, pull your reins to the right,” and to everyone else again, “Don’t let them see the bear.” I did so and finally realized the problem. Both the horse and I were okay. The bear was probably laughing. Of course, I’d never even heard of a laughing bear.
The other ride was with a youth group I led. We were at a resort on Grand Mesa. Most of the kids wanted a trail ride. I joined them and held my very young daughter in my lap. About two minutes into the ride she fell asleep. I held her close to me as we went up and down steep slopes, jerking and jostling with the rhythm of the horse. She slept calmly the whole ride while my arms got very, very tired.
I can still play gallop like we kids did in childhood but I rarely do so these days. My grandkids grew up. I have some great grandkids but don’t know if they will ever want to play horse. Maybe I’ll find out at Christmas.
© 9 October 2017  
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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Workout, by Phillip Hoyle

I suppose we weren’t quite prepared for the mess although two summers ago Jim and I noticed the Honey Locust tree in the backyard was producing seedpods, a few of them. Last summer there were quite a few more. This summer the tree went crazy with its genetic demand to replicate and has produced hundreds of pods. They are not small, some measuring more than a foot in length and they hang in clusters of two to six. I thought them rather decorative like holiday ornaments. Our neighborhood squirrels showed up for the seasonal party and in the last week of August gleefully began their harvest.
If you know squirrels you realize they are as messy as teenagers, never cleaning up after themselves like the adolescent son in the comic strip Zits. I know about that because my daughter was one messy kid. Still is and so are her children. Luckily, I don’t live nearby so I’m rarely irked by them. But the squirrels live here. They’re as cute as my grandkids and, like them, never give a thought about the consequences of their messes. The tree rats focus only on their preparation for the oncoming winter with its cold temperatures, snows, and otherwise harsh conditions that challenge rodent survival. I don’t blame them, but I do have to contend with what they leave behind. The squirrels live here and interest me. I watch and then grab the broom; my partner just gets mad.
A week ago Saturday, I observed one of the three or four varmints who show up every day. She or he sat on a small branch harvesting. For twenty minutes the critter ate never having to prepare or even reach very far for its meal. She picked a pod, methodically removed the seeds, and dispensed with the rest. A pod landing on the clear plastic awning sounds like a low caliber rifle shot. The first hit was why I knew the squirrel was up there. I leaned back to watch. She chose a pod, worked it like I might an ear of corn except that she’d spit out the pod bites and keep only the seeds. When done in a few minutes or when she loses her grip, the pod falls. Bam. Then she may bite the stem of one of the compound leaves for a taste of something (perhaps flavoring) or strips off a bit of bark (her favorite) and then reaches for another pod. Perhaps due to my attention, she soon jumped from that branch to another and disappeared from sight.
I began sweeping the patio a few days ago. Each day I pick up two or three hundred chewed-on pods and dump them by the shovel full into the compost container. I tend to sweep when the sun gets low and the air begins to cool. The next morning reveals quite a few more pods on the patio, in flowering plants, sticker bushes, fountains, and on the awning. I hope this workout will be done before too many more days although I do get a bit of aerobic exercise and have improved my technique with the broom. But mostly I get a kick out of spotting our furry friends still at work high overhead.
© 11 Sep 2017  
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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Reading, by Phillip Hoyle

Mom read to us kids with expression she had developed in high school drama. The five of us liked our introduction to children’s literature and to poetry—especially the poems she had memorized—and others she read out of books. It took a long time for me to start reading much on my own although I did like books, studying the pictures, reading the captions, and sometimes reading paragraphs. Still I didn’t read many books for myself until 8th grade when I discovered historical fiction, chapter books in story form. I soon became addicted to reading stories, a practice that continued uninterrupted until about age 42 when I went on a book fast. For a year I determined not to read any whole books.

My confession: During my fast I did re-read one favorite novel (perhaps Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony) and then allowed myself one new novel (probably on a gay theme).

My success: I turned my free time into piano practice.

My practicality: I still consulted books when I had to teach a class or preach a sermon.

My learning: I already knew enough about the topics I was teaching so began relying more and more on my memory.

Perhaps I had read just too many novels beginning in junior and senior high school, during five years of undergraduate school, during three years of graduate school, and during two and a half years of graduate seminary. None of these books were required reading but they probably did help me keep balance in my life. I read many international books in translation thus broadening my view of the world. I read novels between semesters and years of schooling. I read on family vacations. Plus I read every assigned book and textbook and many more related to my studies.

I’m still at my reading although my practice has changed. I’ve added memoir to my list, also books about writing. I read quite a few books about visual arts as well, but now I spend more time writing and doing visual art projects. (Well I AM retired.) I’m reading books I borrow from several libraries, buy at bookstores, receive from family members, or find at ARC; and I keep reading and revising stories I have written. In my retirement I don’t read five books a week anymore but I often am reading five books at a time. In short, I continue my almost life-long practice of reading, and I love it.

Over the past several weeks I have been reading and re-reading Phillip Lopate’s To Show and To Tell, a fine book on essay writing. Lopate teaches non-fiction writing in the graduate program at Columbia University, NYC. On Tuesday I read through his very long suggested reading list and noted Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography. On Wednesday I stopped by a used books store and was surprised to find the book on their shelves. Now I’m reading it, tickled by its style, intrigued by its information, analyzing its writing given what I’ve been learning from Lopate and other teachers, and taking note of how one of the founders of our country understood what he was doing. I never expected to read such a book but am so pleased I knew about it, stopped to look through it, and paid the five dollar price. I’m still reading. This book may take awhile.

© 6 November 2017

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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Stories that Shaped My Life

Early on the nursery rhyme “Georgie Porgie puddin’ and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry, when the boys came out to play Georgie Porgie ran away” spoke to me because my mom sometimes called me Georgie Porgie. I may have been that little boy. But in my version he liked looking at the boys he sometimes ran away from. He learned to play with them also. Well you can imagine more parts to that story.

James Fennimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans grabbed my attention in 9th grade. I little understood it except to know that Indians were living where whites wanted to live and that Indians had Indian enemies and used the whites against them just as the whites used Indians against each other. While Cooper was a white, he opened the idea for me of becoming friends and benefitting from the Indians who knew the land so well and had their own ways of understanding and relating to it. Back then I understood little of the real conflict except to realize that these native people were being manipulated in ways I judged immoral. I was fascinated by the tribal ways of perceiving the world and appreciated their familial and tribal loyalties.

At church, missionaries told stories of carrying the gospel to other lands. I didn’t want to be a missionary but I did want to meet the people who understood the world so differently. This story structure challenged me to be open to others from far-away places and to appreciate the otherized perspectives of those who lived nearby. Dr. Victor Rambo’s story of finding a true and useful medical mission in India made sense to me. Son of missionaries, he wanted to help Indian people. His first attempts were unsuccessful. He earned a specialty in ophthalmology and returned to be very helpful for many years. Emulating him, his determination and courage, I realized his practical approach could help guide my own personal and ministerial development. I realized I needed to see real people with real needs.

For a long time the David cycle in the Bible, those stories about the boy, the young man, even the older man who became King of Israel, helped shape my moral life. I liked the David stories of loyalty, bravery, friendship, love, sin, and most important, of being a person one biblical author described as “a man after God’s own heart.” I liked that and its great flexibility. I was able to pattern myself somewhat like David (although I had little power and never murdered anyone for personal or political reasons), and I often used his stories in religious education resources I developed.

The stories of my Cambodian friend Narin Oum inspired me with his collecting and valuing of various religious traditions, seeing their connection in his own life journey. His conversion model was very tolerantly Asian Buddhist as he studied and became a Muslim and later a Christian. Hearing his story opened my imagination to new outcomes for my own life. I learned to value all my experiences and to let them instruct me how to understand my new life.

Ethan Mordden’s series of books about gay life in Manhattan with titles like I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore, Buddies, and How’s your romance? helped shape my gay life. These stories, some of them extreme, opened me to a vast world of information that exceeded what I’d learned from other writers and from my gay friend Ted. I got a view of the diversity of what is sometimes called gay identity and community. I realized my own experiences would be a tiny part of what actually takes place. I did find my own space within this diverse world of my own people, one that embraces GLBTs and many other queer folk.

I’m sure I still little understand how all these stories came together even in my mind. Still they help me navigate my life and open my eyes to possibilities that were never directly part of the curriculum of any school I attended or any theological or philosophical approach I encountered.

I love stories and their power to transform. I hope to keep learning in my maturity and plan to keep listening to your stories told here at The GLBT Center of Colorado.

© 2 October 2017

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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Finding Your Voice, by Phillip Hoyle

I started out a soprano. Then on Sunday nights at church I decided to harmonize as an alto and learned to read the line and sing the part. When my voice cracked too many times in Glee Club, I became a tenor. I stayed with that for many years. Since I was a choir director, I learned to sing all the parts, SAT and B. In the choirs we worked hard to increase everyone’s tone and range using techniques I learned from one of my voice teachers. If a section was weak on a Sunday morning, I could bolster them with my own screaming. It may have horrified some people. Who knows? 

Finding my voice as a writer was another story, one that didn’t depend on timbre or range. In fact the discussion of that concept goes on. I developed a terse style for use in academic writing. I had to warm it up it for the church newsletter and did so with a little bit of success. When I accepted contracts for writing curriculum resources I got more at home with addressing volunteer teachers. The reading level for them was eighth or ninth grade. Writing for students of different ages was more fun and challenging. That work served as my introduction to creative writing. I experimented but still don’t know that I actually developed a voice. 
When I started writing for myself, I tried for something consistent and my efforts seemed to help. But I believe I didn’t really find my voice until I had written a couple of years of weekly stories for this Telling Your Story group. Meeting that weekly goal and encouraging others to do the same, telling stories to almost the same people each week, and having an appreciative audience and being a part of this group did something for my sense of voice. I like the entertainment part of that work that reminds me so much of talking with a group of children on Sundays during many years of church work. Sometimes I made up the stories on the spot and encouraged the children to help me tell them. That got me started. Many years later I feel like I have a rather consistent voice and am happy to share my many stories with you. Mostly they are accurate to the extent of my ability to recall, but you know how that goes with the years stacking up, hearing reducing, and eyesight dimming. I appreciate that the story telling group allows me to speak whatever my voice is, found or not.
Thanks for listening, or on the blog, thanks for reading. 
© 23 October 2017

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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Tears, by Phillip Hoyle

I’m writing a memoir about my too-brief relationship
with Rafael Martínez who provided me my first experience of falling deeply,
hopelessly in love. Part of my preparation has been to study what writing
teachers say about memoir and, just as important, to read several memoirs. I
read Frank McCourt’s ’Tis, Kay Redfield Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind,
Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays with Morrie, several excerpts from other memoirs,
and am currently reading Paul Monette’s Borrowed Time.
I began the Rafael project years ago but realized I
was not yet ready to deal with organizing and writing about the experience of
love and loss. The grief was too keenly edged for me to be honest about myself
and fair to everyone else. The events took place fifteen years ago.
Two years ago I started readdressing the project. About
three weeks ago I started reading Monette’s AIDS memoir, a book I had read
years ago. I hoped I might learn a lot. A wealthy gay couple living in southern
California, Ivy League educated, driving around in a Jaguar, an attorney, a
Hollywood film writer living a rather high life seemed like a lot to take in. I
wondered if this story would even touch me.
By contrast, Rafael was HIV positive and poor, helped
a lot by Colorado AIDS Project. His doctors estimated he had about eight years
to go, but what they didn’t know was that he had full-term Hepatitis C. It was
diagnosed only three weeks before it killed him. Monette, while not my favorite
gay writer, skillfully took me to their home, clinic after clinic, test after
test, all experiences I knew too well for I went to such places with two friends
and with two lovers—just not in a Jaguar. Writing about Rafael while reading
this book opened my tear ducts, and I wondered: did I not cry enough fifteen
years ago? It seems likely.
My early weeks with Rafael showed how much we loved
one another and how practical and romantic we could be. I told him I would like
to meet his family before he ended up in the hospital. I was earnest though we
laughed. We thought we had time, but we were wrong. Too soon he was in the
hospital. There I met his younger brother, a very nice Mexican man who came north
on behalf of the family. The parents had learned that Rafael was gay and HIV
positive only six weeks before this hospitalization. The family’s life was in
crisis. Rafael got out of the hospital but then went back in with another
problem. Eventually more of the family arrived. I was caught between my lover
and his family; between Rafael’s insistence that they treat the two of us as a
family of our own, they being guests in our home, and what I saw so clearly in
his mother and father, the needs of shocked parents facing an illness they
didn’t understand and the possibility of losing their son altogether. In short,
I was pushed into an interpretive role of supporting both my lover and his
parents and siblings. I walked that tightrope, one that my ministerial experience
had so well prepared me to walk. And I was helpful. I cried but not much; there
were too many other people needing to be consoled and reasoned with and their
English was so poor and my Spanish functionally nonexistent.
We made it through. I helped them as Rafael was dying.
Still Rafael was strong and helpful and insistent. I was so proud of him. He
took care of his family. He reached out to nurses who were having difficulty.
He reached out to me. And of course, I cried, but not very much, not enough I now
am sure.
I’m carefully reading Monette’s scenes of bedsides,
hospital corridors, tests, last minute trips to favorite places, accommodation
to losses. I read; tears gather and fall.
I’m crying now.
© 16 Oct 2017  
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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Group Grief, by Phillip Hoyle

Group grief again. I am not looking forward to our grief while I also anticipate receiving support from the SAGE Telling Your Story group. That’s an enigma, one I can live with.
Randy Wren felt close to the church, somehow to his faith. He liked the Episcopalian Church although in him I sensed little religious doctrinal fervor. In his telling, that church was the “A List” of non-Roman Catholic organizations. I say this only as a description. Randy’s life was lived; his stories of that life were actions and various relationships. He shared them without shame, fear, or regret, and in this, he was my teacher. He seemed to like the way words sounded together rather than how such combinations might reveal a philosophical truth. He didn’t seem to worry, not even when he thought he was having a heart attack. Some kind of enthusiasm seemed always to be bubbling inside him, and each bubble led him immediately to a recalled similarity whether a person, address, relationship, or experience. He wove webs out of these materials as he freely shared his story. While he cavorted with the rich and famous as it were, he never projected disdain for the plain and simple. He was too full of life for that. I liked Randy Wren and I appreciated what he brought to this group. He told me often that Monday afternoon was the best time of his week.
Thanks, Randy Wren. We’re missing you.
© 17 July 2017 
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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I Don’t Know, by Phillip Hoyle

“I don’t know.” What a topic, so open. It reminds me of doubt, the inability to choose, even loss of memory. Not knowing was a common experience for me as a kid. I recall looking at souvenirs in an Estes Park shop one summer afternoon. I had money and wanted to buy something with it. I looked at animal figurines wondering which one to select. I didn’t know. Finally, I bought a bear. As an adult, I reasoned I did so because of its connection to Native American life and lore. I never regretted that choice and the bear turned out to be an interesting animal and somewhat a symbol for me.
I am quite aware of the problem of choice for late teens who may have vocational interests, talents, and potential. I certainly was one of those. Having been recruited for ministry, I watched that world carefully. I had many other interests as well but finally went with the church work. That choice was much more important than deciding between kinds of candy or cookies or figurines. I didn’t regret my ministerial choice or career even though I eventually left it. At age 50 I chose to get out of it having tired of the incessant meetings. I knew when to leave.
In other ways, I said, “I don’t know,” but when I did, I believe saying so might have been a dodge, a frustration, or sometimes the truth. Still, I think about it; I have to make decisions. When I choose, I try to stick with the program, and I am a pretty good sticker: witness 29 years with my wife, 32 years in church work, many years directing vocal ensembles, 20 years developing curriculum resources, years of work on several manuscripts, 15 years with Jim and Ruth, quite a few years with SAGE’s Telling Your Story, almost as many years the SAGE blog, on and on. I feel I just don’t know so often, yet I do know. My doing is related to a belief fostered by Mother who led Girl Scout troops, reared five children, presided over the PTA, taught leadership skills to adults and youth, and organized in the community. She said, “You set your mind to the task and do it. You can do it.” So that’s what I have done. I may know that I don’t know. I certainly didn’t know anything about blogs, but now I have two of them. Too often when I turn on my computer I can’t get into the program. I don’t know, but I think it through overcoming my frustration and eventually complete the task at hand.
Ninety-five-year-old Ruth often says to me, “I don’t know.” While we are working on our jigsaw puzzles—we’re in our fifteenth year—I ask about her past, her ideas, her kids. In answer to many questions, she simply says, “I don’t know.” I envy her. If at age seventy I said “I don’t know” as often as she does, they’d hurry me off for a brain scan and some therapy. But at 95 you can say what you want. Nobody will argue. I told Ruth our topic for today and said I wanted to tell a story about her. She scrunched up her face in distaste. “But, Ruth,” I said, “the group loves when I include you in my stories.” I made no promises to her. You see, for me “I don’t know” is the best line from a 95-year-old who looking me straight in the face said, “You’d better not.” Apparently, I didn‘t know how to be scared of her.
© 10 July 2017  
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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Empathy, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college student I learned a distinction between sympathy and empathy. The contrast arises from the two different Greek words. It also is influenced by psychoanalytic theory and practice. In most discussions empathy is considered to be more finely tuned than sympathy. As a minister I was called upon to do many tasks including hospital and care-home calls on members of the church. I did this work thoughtfully and, I believe, with sympathy, and on good days a measure of empathy! People liked my visits and humor. We laughed and prayed together.

In the church work I was motivated as much by duty as by sympathy and empathy. And I was appropriately trained to be helpful with patients and shut-ins. Apparently I provided sufficient care in my communications and mainly in the fact I showed up at all. Perhaps that is the way of it when one has too many people to serve.

The caring emotion for me occurred most clearly when I was in a hospital room with someone having a difficult time. I also noticed how my empathy was amplified when I liked the person, occasions in which other emotions and feelings added to what I was experiencing, for instance, the time an elder woman introduced me to her nephew when she and I were the only persons present made me wonder at the drugs the medics had given her for pain and the need to suppress a feeling of humor at the situation. (I was fine; she got better.)

I visited a good looking single young man who had a stubborn bone infection. I know that a sexual attraction increased my sense of his pathos. It alerted me to how others might prize him emotionally and their sense of fear surrounding his illness. My empathy extended to his family and friends. He eventually did recover after receiving loads of highly potent antibiotics.

Several times I visited an elder woman, very worldly and professional, with a bright personality and deep determination to recover from a major stroke. One day several weeks into treatment she appeared to have made a turn for the better. I was excited on her behalf and expressed how much better she looked. She tempered my enthusiasm, though, by saying, “Phillip, I finally felt up to putting on my makeup.” We laughed together. I said, “You are getting better.”

My empathy was sincere in all these cases yet certainly amplified by other emotions. And in all these visits I was present because I was a minister from their church.

One inactive church member, a real sot, was driving home from the VFW on an icy night and being rather drunk, crashed his car into the west entry to the church building. I didn’t see the car but did see the damage to the steps and more. The Sr. Minister, Jack, wasn’t sure what to do. I volunteered, “I’ll go to the hospital and see how he is.” I’d never met the man and really didn’t know much about alcohol or alcoholism. I went in simply as a visiting minister. “So they sent you,” he said eyes twinkling.

“Yeah. It’s my day to make the rounds,” I said to underplay the situation. I asked how he was doing. He said, “Fine,” and seemed totally sober at that point, perhaps from the trauma. I realized he might even feel ill at ease and said, “You just rest and recover.” I shook his hand, smiled saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and don’t worry about the church stuff.” I may have visited him later, I have no recollection. I never saw him outside the hospital, certainly not in church. His collision with the front steps was no conversion.

Was I sympathetic or empathetic? I have no real idea. As a massage therapist I felt empathy with most of my clients in their pains and diseases but not always in their gripes and in some of their expressed needs. I did smile often and sometimes cried. I mostly tried to deliver an effective massage and must have done that pretty well. Many of my clients came to me for over fourteen years. Perhaps I was sufficiently empathetic. And my real hope is that I was never just plain old pathetic in these contacts.

© 27 Nov 2017

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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Revenge, by Phillip Hoyle

Sages of the East and West, North and South have advised against revenge. I’m sure we can add SAGES of the Rockies to the list of wise ones. Revenge will never satisfy. It begins a feud that will never end. It will define a life, not improve it. I’m old but have no experience of revenge and thus no story to tell.

But I have noticed something I want to tell you about. You’d never believe how much sex takes place in our backyard and the alley beyond. It’s a wonder we haven’t been pushed out of the neighborhood so seedy is that space in a rather quiet district of Denver where more and more children are being born and reared. I won’t try to justify what takes place in our backyard but simply describe it. Frankly, I have been surprised although I’m not sure why. Perhaps I am just a tiny bit jealous? Probably I should consider it an inspiration. I do want to mention before I continue this story that in it I’m simply a voyeur.

Sometimes out there couplings occur; occasionally a ménage a trios. I’ve seen necking that surpasses anything I ever saw or did on the top of Bluemont, that Kansas State University make out spot for undergraduates and who knows who else. I sometimes hear screams and can never determine if they are from pain or pleasure or simply the intensity of the moment. A rhythmic chant sometimes seem to say, “Won’t you come and put it to me?” Sometimes it is repeated over and over until, for me at least, it loses its allure. But the beat goes on. I’ve seen dances, flurries of activity, showing off, flirting, teasing, urging, and suggesting. I’ve seen mountings and heard noise making I don’t know how to describe. I’ve seen dirty dancing that more than rivals what I saw for years on Saturday nights at The Denver Compound and Basix dance floor. I’ve seen things done out in the open that would get a Republican to warm up.

Well, I can tell it’s time to end this tale of what my prim sister would call lewd conduct, but it seems unadvisable to criticize Mother Nature right out there in the open. The sparrows started it all years ago. Then the flickers got deep into the necking dance. You’d never imagine how noisy that gets or how enticing. Now robins come around and just yesterday some very excited chickadees—a ménage a quatre—put on the most spectacular and noisy demonstration I’ve ever seen. It’s wild out there in the backyard. What’s it like in your neighborhood? Inspiring? Invite me over.

© 14 August 2017

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