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Wisdom by Ray S.

In the 17th summer the rite of passage was upon me, slowly moving like a little boat with no oars – moving nevertheless.

We had only slept together once, without too much innovation, but I was certain I was in love. Then came the war and it wasn’t until after it that we could catch up about what life had exposed us to and what were we going to do with all of this newly acquired knowledge and especially the opportunities extended to us by our Uncle.

With little persuasion and renewed ardor I learned there was land between the great lakes and California, where the country dropped off into the ocean. Somewhere in the middle of the vast unknown a place with the romantic name of Colorado Springs floated at the foot of a mountain – Colorado what was that? He said, “follow me”.

We were roommates that 1st year of the higher education adventure and well on our way in search of wisdom.

My appointed advisor couldn’t go wrong after perusing my earlier academics with the direction to head for the nearby art center. It seemed so easy, like summer camp where all you did was have fun with paints and stuff. The Book learning on the other side of campus was the work.

Life drawing, introduction to medias, oil painting (acrylics hadn’t come on the scene yet). Design and advanced courses in practical arts. Interspersed with too much art history, a brief dalliance with a lovely older curator – a friendship that lasted long after graduation time.

Years later my greater understanding of all of that acquired wisdom came to the surface. Not just the doing of learning – I don’t mean to discount that reality, but the overview that comes from the passage of time and recognizing the wonder of the many experiences I had been exposed to. Seems to me that one can be so involved in the actual doing at the time that you aren’t aware of what is really happening to you. It all is taken for granted.

Those basic art classes were taught by none other than a successful all around artist & sculptor. The head of the school and art center was a world-renowned artist. An esteemed lithographer and teacher opened a door for me on a medium I had never even thought about; much less one I could acquire a working and creative knowledge of. I don’t think I was truly aware of the discovery and wonders of what he potentially guided me through until years later.

All of these men were established practicing artisans, but they had to have day jobs too. Most important they were our mentors.

Several years past, I came across the death notice of my artist/sculptor oil painting teacher. The listing of his accomplishments and works was remarkable to say the least. His legacy to the art world and society is acknowledged and respected.

Thumbing through at art dealer’s selection of prints and drawings one sunny spring morning I came across 2 small pages from an artist’s sketchbook. I was struck by the sureness and economy of line in the drawings. Not unlike those of Picasso. Nude couples in repose, thought provoking but not quite prurient. To my surprise and pleasure I discovered they were 2 original line drawings of my one time oil painting teacher. The long stored away memories of those student times flooded my thoughts – this time not of just the actual mechanics or doing them, but the afterglow, if you will, of all of the collateral WISDOM that resulted from that chapter in my book of life. Acquisition struck and followed.

The prints are at the framing studio now.

© June, 2014

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Forbidden Fruit by Ray S

For some of us bornagains or unbornagains we can attribute the source of today’s subject to what could be construed (depending on your point of view or philosophy) a Judeo/Christian’s earliest known erotica. The Adam and Eve fall from grace and all the ensuing details that have for eons been left up to the imagination of the true believers. Let’s not go there now. 

But that must have been some apple! At the risk of being labeled “chauvinist pig” by some of our fairer sex, I have to say “let’s hear it for the ladies.” They’ve always had the know how and upper hand when it comes to a really good siren song leading to the ecstasy of the flavor of that forbidden fruit.
Right then and there in that Garden of Eden (which has many lactations worldwide) the whole world of human relations got its snaky start. And like other humans’ addictions the apple tree is still bearing fruit as well as little bundles of joy. Even in the beginning it seems those prophets of old had to find a way to lay a trip on people kind. The idea must have been to promote “evil” so someone else could have sinners to forgive and redeem for practicing what comes naturally. Today the sages call it LIBIDO–it’s that damn snake again figuring ways to establish never ending power trips. There is always someone more powerful, more intelligent, more superior in all ways, lording it over the rest of us fruit eaters.
But, getting back to what has been condemned “forbidden” seems that right back there in little old Edenville the more forbidden, the more delicious the fruits became! And, of course, more desirous. Once that bite caressed the tongue, the acquired taste of the apple or fruit of your choice never wanes.
Seems like what this world needs is more delicious fruits and abounding trees of love for one another. Teach that snake to emphasize nice and naughty and cut way back on hate, guilt, pestilence and avarice.
One has to try so very hard to remember and practice that “LOVE MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND.”

© 21 April 2014

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Stories of GLBT Organizations by Ray S

When I noted the address, 1301 East Colfax Ave., I thought it was the new location for Pleasures. Interesting, but that didn’t make sense with the info I had from a recent edition of “Out Front” a newspaper which I had surreptitiously read when no one was around. My mission was to learn what, where, and when about some sort of conference about “adult” (nice-speak for “old”) gay folks being held this weekend.

Cautiously my closet door creaked open just a bit and barely sticking my head out I bravely made my way to the address which turned out to be some place named anonymously “The CENTER.” Then if you looked close in fine print you read “Advancing LGBT Colorado.”

Long story short a really nice guy, I thought he was straight, clued me in and took my registration fee.

The next day I arrived at the conference site hotel to have a whole new world open up for me.It was wonderful to observe the diverse (overused word but accurate) crowd. Mr. “Center-Ken” had put this really first class show together with lots of dedicated volunteer help. People manning or “woman-ing” booths hawking pertinent products or information of all kinds. It was SAGE high on some really good stuff.

At one presentation the group–we had all signed up for various subjects regarding gays far beyond the millennium age–was hearing all about preparing for some financial or medical eventuality adult GLBT’s will be confronted with. When I asked the young man sitting to my right (he had to be 30 or so and that’s young!) if he knew what these folks were talking about, it didn’t matter what the answer was because suddenly I was smittten with an instantaneous crush. Could he possibly be interested in Daddy? I hardly qualified for lack of the necessary sugar, but I felt my ardor rising. See, you can teach an old dog new tricks.

Turned out after luncheon and the speaker, we broke up into small groups again for various “learning experiences” and low and behold the new object of my affection was leading one on the subject “self esteem,” right up my alley.

Needless to say my love light had flared brightly for at least the duration of the lunch hour, then flickered out with challenges of trying to locate something called self esteem and learning his partner was a famous drag queen, on top of experiencing hovering in and out of my cozy closet.

Once the whole Dog and Pony Show had terminated I was aware I had found a new friend and was resigned happily returning to my pre-baby boomer age group. I could see the bright light under the crack between the floor and the bottom of the closet door. Somehow between Mr. Ken-Center and the SAGE Sheraton Downtown a new life had begun.

Footnote #1, with apologies to Mr. Oscar Wilde

The Picture of Dorian Gray ne’ me that appeared in a recent edition of “Out Front” has come back to haunt me, but delightfully so. Last night after I had finished this testimonial, my cell beckoned around 8 PM. The voice of my “friend” from far away St. Louis called to tell me how happy he was to have received a copy of said publication and the SAGE OF THE ROCKIES STORY TIME stories. This coincidence was doubly welcome when my young friend (he must be 35 by now–just a kid) told me we would get together when he is passing through on a business trip to Wyoming in May. Does hope spring eternal or at least stumble a little?

Footnote #2 Germain pg. 45

“Life is a mirror which riddles the truth;

Age is but an excess of youth.”

April 7, 2014

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Gay Music by Ray S.

If I could sing “My Favorite Valentine” to my GLBT lover would that qualify as Gay Music? Last week my friend inquired as to how I was progressing with the very esoteric subject of this week’s story time. In response I allowed as how I was relying on procrastination, presently.
What I was really thinking to myself was what qualifies as Gay Music? Who might have been the provocateur that thought this subject up? It’s been really interesting to hear what all our muses fabricate.

I am reminded of the repetitious beat of gay porn film background music, if you’re not familiar with this genre, think the beat goes on and on. Then there is the highly syncopated rhythm of the music used by drag queens, attributed commonly to the old burlesque theatre–Let Me Entertain You.” Does lip-syncing qualify as gay music. Guess it depends on the performer’s abilities.

Along those lines, we can’t overlook the music preempted by the Gay World of Judy and Barbara. Some of their works almost amount to gay national anthems.

Then their are the naughty “wink, wink” creations of song writers such as Noel Coward, Cole Porter and let’s see who wrote, “Let’s Do It” and the titles of Tin Pan Ally that lend themselves so aptly to parody, like “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”

When it comes to the classics, the LGBT scene was very much alive but not so much musically as was the lifestyle of some of the composers. And of course most of the creative time on the QT.

Belonging to another generation and not into the bar scene. I understand that the popular idioms that pass for music employ a real extensive list of raunchy lyrics–how many could qualify as gay is questionable, but as the old adage goes “beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.”

So, strike up the band and start dancing with of without a shirt on and with or without a partner. After all it’s a liberated but crowded dance floor and who knows what the gay music will produce. For instance, “Do you come here often?” “Can I have your number?” “Sure, bring him along.” “What did you say your name is?” “God, you’re so hot,” and on into the night of gay music.

Denver, February 10, 2014

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Second Honeymoon by Ray S

Over a cup of coffee (1/2 regular and 1/2 decaf) In the kitchen of Marcella Norton’s Victorian home in Georgetown, Colorado she casually suggested Pat and I visit her the coming August in Escanaba, MI. Of course, she added, I’ll put you to work when you get there–adding “It is a beautiful time of the year in the UP–upper peninsula to us non Michiganders.

We thanked her for the invitation and wondered to ourselves how, when, and where, and maybe why? Out came the maps and discovery of the best route. to that part of Michigan, our northernmost venture in that part of the mid west having been Green Bay.

But look it is not too much further to our old stomping grounds–Chicago land. Maybe we should stretch this trip to a few days in the Windy City–well, maybe.

I digress to a blustery March day in 1951 when the two of us departed the site of our nuptials, headed for the first act of our 55-year marriage drama. We spent that night at a vintage 1920’s Hotel Baker in Aurora, Illinois. I mention this memorable occasion only because on this road trip to the UP, it was a close as we got to Chicago. For old time sake, as they say, we returned to the scene of the crime and checked out to Baker to see how much it had changed, if at all. And yes there were some marked but few changes. The dining room had been transformed from a glamorous 1940’s glass block dance floor illuminated from below by colored lights to something more acceptably 1970’s Neo-Mediterranean villa. Again giving into a bit of nostalgia we had lunch suitably spiked with the waitress’s story of her times at the Baker as well as ours.

As if that were not sufficient time spent in Memory Lane, we headed for the little historic Illinois City named Galen. The name means “tin” for which it at one time was a financial center and port, since the days the river silted up and the city has slept quietly, except for its other claim-to-fame. It is the home of General U.S. Grant. We had reserved a room at a B and B perched on the side of the hill that sloped down to city center and what had been the tin boats docks on the Fever River, a tributary of the Mississippi.

Galena has grown into a tourist haven and a very charming historic old place, if you happen to be a history buff. We enjoyed scoping out the museum, post office of Civil War note, appropriate restaurants and bars. But the real highlight of our pre-work/vacation in Escanaba was that first morning at the bit of Victorian splendor when we made it downstairs in time for breakfast.

Our hostess inquired if we had rested well as she served us a very nice breakfast of fresh fruit, coffee, and quiche Lorraine. Our reply was positive, and exclaiming that the bed could have been one of Mr. Lincoln’s but much more comfortable. She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

As a matter of fact we finished our breakfast, went upstairs and back to bed.

So much for Escanaba.

© 3 February 2014

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Camping: With Apologies to Certain HOMOPHOBIC Boys Organizations by Ray S

The stair treads creaked and groaned when I took another step up to the attic storeroom of my grandma’s old Victorian house.

When I was a kid my folks, my brother, and I lived with Gram for about three or four years. Dad had been transferred from his post at Rocky Mountain National Park, back to the Park Service headquarters in Washington, D.C. It was supposed to be a temporary posting, so Gram’s house in an Annapolis suburb was where we all lived. My brother and I joined the Boy Scouts of America having already completed the prerequisite Cub and Webelos servitude back in Estes Park, Colorado.

Now, some twenty-two years later I return to Londontowne, MD to help with the disposal of the house’s furnishings in preparation for the sale of the house. Gram had decided to check up on our grandpa and see what shenanigans he might have gotten into since he had died some seventeen years earlier.

I reach the room that had always been set aside for storing old steamer trunks and miscellaneous luggage, out-of-style clothes and furniture, baby diapers (just in case one of the grand children produced another leaf on the family tree), old school books, high school and college yearbooks. There even is Gramp’s Army Air Corps uniform.

Digging around in a far corner I find my old camping stuff—the mess kit, canteen, and a number of merit badges that were never sewn onto our uniforms. Gram used to say: “Never know when these things will be needed again” or “Waste not, want not.

There it is—my official BSA pup tent! My search was over. My mission to the attic jungle room was to find the little tent to give to my neophyte Boy Scout nephew just in time for the upcoming Jamboree this summer.

Boy, does this bring back memories. I learned a lot more than knot tying and lanyard weaving in the clandestine shelter of that two-boy tent. Scouting covered a lot more territory than hikes, campfires, and all the pages in the manual. Adolescent boys came to Scouts but left Scouts—for better or for worse—as budding young men. Any vague acknowledgement in the manual, relative to sex education was unheard of and besides what hadn’t you already picked up in the boys’ room at middle school?

There was stuff you knew, you were warned about or outright threatened over and forbidden to do. Of course, that said, the warnings made it all the more tempting, even if some of us were just following the leader. The high point occurred when four or five of our troop hung out in the dark of a vacant garage was what is poetically named a “circle jerk.” Curiosity always spurred you on to pursue the forbidden fruits or in future years of the joys of hetero-, homo-, or bi- or just plain fooling-around sex.

Scouting camping is such fun, character building, healthful, teaches you how to get along with your fellows. Hopefully discouraging bullying and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Scouts Honor! And so many more virtues, and believe it or not, some of these do rub off (or in) to keep the spirit of “Love thy neighbor” alive in you all your life.

Of course there is a hidden disclaimer, just like the TV ads for miracle drugs, for all of the above; Parents, do you know where your little Boy Scout is or was?

Any volunteers for a sleep-over in a two-person pup tent on a camping outing?

© 17 March 2014

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My Favorite Literary Character by Ray S

A footnote to our
storytelling: Don’t forget Peter Rabbit, Peanuts’ Charlie Brown, or Alice. “It
is an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San
Francisco.” Oscar Wilde.
Seven a.m. and
it’s my Monday morning challenge. No, not that—my muse and I have been fooling
around since last Monday with today’s subject and it’s been difficult to boil
down the vast numbers of characters, if you count the fictionally named heroes of
gay porn. But that’s a matter that does not qualify for the highly intellectual
subject matter for today.
As a child having
a reading difficulty, my character inventory was limited to the delightful
poems of Mr. Stevenson and his “A Child’s Garden of Verses”. What fond memories I
have of “The Land of Counterpane.”
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
Oh, and yes from a
more recent time when I used to read to my kids the adventures of Maurice
Sendak’s “Nutshell Library,” “Alligators All Around,” and “The Moral of Pierre
is: CARE” and many more.
My literary life
didn’t include Oscar or Gore, but with the advent of my SAGE time of life I
have discovered and learned to love a truly fabulous cast of characters through
the offices of the genius of my hero Armistead Maupin. I shall never forget the
tale of the long journey from the Blue Moon in Winnemucca, Nevada to the house
of Barberry Lane. That’s how I met my most favorite literary character—and
first acquaintance with the “T” in GLBT, the Queen of 28 Barberry Lane, Mrs.
Anna Madrigal. She is a role model for everyone—no matter which way you swing!

© 10 March 2014, Denver


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My Revelation/Theatre by Ray S

You may believe that a revelation is some sort of epiphany, miracle, a Bible book with all of its fortunes and predictions. It is just a word until you attach yours or someone else’s content to it; and that includes the scripture.

Well for me, my revelations are the ones that manifest themselves in my weary subconscious at the most inopportune moments. Those times when my body is overcome with fatigue or some physical disorder—that is always the curtain call for all the detritus that’s been hidden away like the curtain that’s drawn back to reveal the Wizard—or in this case all of the thoughts or memories that you have ignored because of varying degrees of guilt, regret, a smattering of self-loathing for good measure, and general lack of good will for anyone concerned.

Each thought negative or it may be just pops up in your mind’s “letter box” under “unfinished business” or just WHY?

None of this procedure does little to set one’s mind at ease; it just seems to amplify the matters.

In the morning waking hours there is an overpowering desire to fight waking up to another dreary routine. This is followed by a reaction to the above that restates how fortunate you are that you have woken. A lot of good that does when you’d just as soon pull the covers up and over your head.

You lie down on your back with your hands crossed over your chest and wonder if you could will yourself out of the present anguish du jour. That would be such an easy solution, leave all of your worries and stuff for them to deal with—but what if this solution wasn’t as easy “you know” die with a smile on your face? The best detriment to suicide thoughts then takes center stage asking how are you going to do it and knowing your record of bad successes that it won’t work and you’ll really be “expletive” (F word).

Somewhere the wee small voice is heard reminding you of what the hell are you so down about? Think of the starving, fighting, dying, and terminally ill out there, and you have the gall to sit on your pity pot. Well, get over it; you’re still breathing, well cared for, etc., etc.

Okay. Okay. I guess you’re right, but why do I still feel this way?

The voice behind the curtain reminds you that you’re a pretty ungrateful SOB, but after all rebuttals it possibly seems that all my subconscious revelations have taken their bows, returned to the green room, waiting for their next “on stage” time; and I can finally get out of bed, put my feet on the cold floor, stand in front of the toilet, and get on with the day.

February 24, 2014

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Flying by Ray S

So what’s flying?
Well it’s a word for starts.
It’s what birds do and Icarus did.
Never fly close to the sun or temptation.

Some people do it in airplanes as transport.
Sort of like skipping on board in steerage class like the folks on the Lusitania; but now they only have three classes.

One can have worldwide war by flying.
The Walendos do it all the time; and so do the Cirque people.
There are two commonly used expletives that are flying all the time.

Didn’t you ever have fleets, as in flying of fancy?
Flying from reality, sorrow, lost love, and lovers’ unmet expectations.
Freedom when you fly out your worst nightmare, your dark little closet, ad infinitum. 

See how love flies at your heart and other vital body parts.
Sometimes I fly with you when your memory is close to me.
Those sweet moments we shared: our first Christmas, your tears when I showed you our first apartment in a basement with US Army surplus bunk beds, the two times we went to meet our social worker and collect our new family; first Jimmy and then Carolyn.

Flying can be the way we feel when the music of the symphony envelopes us.
Or the home team wins,
Or when a wrong or injustice has been righted.
Do you see that star flying across the midnight sky? I wonder if it is one of our loved ones. They say the soul is forever and when it wants to, it makes itself known to you.
When is the last time you flew into a rage?
Usually that amounts to a pointless solution and a lousy flight.

Flying is what I like to do on my magic carpet. Come on board with me, there’s plenty of room.
To quote Margo Channing of cinema fame: “Fasten your seat belts; it’s going to be a rough ride.”
But that’s what flying through our respective lives is all about.

—Happy Landing! 

9/30/2013

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Still Learning by Ray S

Concerning today’s topic here are some words of wisdom from a wise old elder of the tribe.

The saying goes “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks (depending on the trick)” but here’s a selection of learned gems to remind us what we may have already learned or can still work on for our own enlightenment.

1. Compromise is what you do when you think you have to.

2. Seems like it is never too late to try something new and learn from it.

3. Did you parents know what they did with you and where did they learn it?

4. Life is learning. A lot like a pin ball game. You bounce from one pin to the next and ultimately end up in a hole.

5. Learning’s most beautiful aspect is the acquiring of the ability to love one another and the defeat of learned guilt.

6. Still, learning is knowing oneself and how to love yourself and knowing that in the end everything’s OK. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.

The End.

© 18 November 2013

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