Left and Right, by Ray S

He is
fourteen going on fifteen. Fresh from eighth grade graduation and thinking with
wonder what will freshman year at RBHS be like? Everything is really going
right in this springtime of adolescence.
Soon,
a couple of days, he and his best buddies will be bussed north to Muskegon and
eventually to YMCA Camp Douglas.
Swimming,
canoe lessons, a trip to the sand dunes, and terrorizing bouts of “King of the
Hill.” He soon learned it was no fun always being pushed down when it seemed
like he could make it halfway up. Another learning experience. Probably the
most memorable learning experience besides lanyard weaving was right in
our cabin. Double deck bunks, two on the left and two on the right with a
single cot in rear for the councilor. Always a wholesome, eager sixteen or
seventeen year old who kept pretty much to himself—the boys didn’t bother him
and the same could be said of him. Later it was learned that nightly a number
of these wholesome young Christians would take off across the lake to tryst
with the young virgins councilors at the nearby girls camp.
At his
age our graduate knew little about birds and bees and sex, but our need for
enlightenment was handsomely accommodated by one of the cabin’s more fortunately
advanced and endowed occupants. Two of the boys had returned to get some craft
supplies when they encountered sitting on a top bunk, legs hanging over the
edge and no shorts or skivvies on, just plain bare assed. “Hey look at this,”
he said, not the least bit shy. And they did. If they had been old or savvy
enough, they might have uttered an appropriate expletive, probably the OMG or
just “I’ll be an SOB” in wonderment.
That nerdy
little guy had been busy taking inventory of his genitalia—and there it was
swinging from left to right.
That
summer at Y Camp was memorable not only for the repeat of the usual expected
agenda of activities but also the added Nature Study curriculum foretelling
what happens to boys when they find that certain anatomical equipment is good
for more than standing with your buddies in a Pee Circle.
It
sure seemed that a lot of the right knowledge became very evident and
important even if some of the roommates wondered why they might have been left
out when the necessary parts were distributed. Remember, it isn’t always size
that counts, it is what the left side and the right side of your brain
processes that bodes success.
© 31 August 2015 
About
the Author
 

Exercising, by Ray S

What is fun about exercise? For me the word is synonymous with work. There is a sense of accomplishment, if not survival when you might have completed a certain number of circuits around the high school track—but then there is the end result—exhaustion.

Jumping Jacks, etc. were okay when you are all lined up doing the same movements, but then there is the really hard work of push-ups.

As a developing pubescent wimp, if anyone had told had told me how the weight room would have given me that classic Greek Apollo physic when I was old enough to be intrigued with other Greek gods’ bodies, I probably would have been so narcissistic I would beat the gym doors down to get started on that evasive body beautiful. Alas, I never met a barbell that I liked.

Team sports were my 6th grade downfall and ultimate lifetime avoidance of participating or watching. How validating it was to be one of the boys on the team, until my total lack of eye-hand-arms and -legs coordination disqualified me, especially after consistently striking out. Forget football; basketball—dribbling impossible. Wrestling and boxing meant you could get hurt and besides they were not only competitive, they were too aggressive for the timid soul.

It seemed I was destined to be like Ferdinand the Bull, all he could do was lie around and smell the roses. Without rigorous exercising how was I to become a man so that when the time became evident I might lie with a woman or better yet in the Biblical sense “lie with a man”?

Looking back on so many physical education failures I wonder that I have managed, in spite of myself, to live this long, loved so much, slept with wonderful people, and can still get up out of bed each day and put one foot in front of the other. Perhaps that might qualify as heavy duty passive exercising.

© 24 August 2015

About the Author

The Women in My Life by Ray S

Contrary to some, not all, there still exists the opinion on the part of some sociologists, psychologists, and worst of all the public citizenry that the shared lot in this life is the fault of the mother.

Not wishing to be branded a misogynist, God forbid I hasten to rise to the defense of all of the innocent, or otherwise, mothers that have brought forth a world of heterosexual beings and very special homosexual beings. Get serious, those fare ladies didn’t have the slightest idea of how that 3 minutes or 3 seconds of passion would turn out. Nowadays medical science has taken the surprise out of all that labor during childbirth and the proud parents know ahead of time whether it will be a son and heir to carry on the family name, or a Madam Currie’ or Lady Ga Ga. So what does this preamble have to do with our subject today? Guess!

As an aftermath of my own coming out party, oh I don’t mean that October day some 80+ years ago, it dawned on me that in spite of my life long fondness for boys, consciously or sub-consciously, most of my best friends have been women, or girls when we were very young.

Sure, I yearned to be like and envied the guys I’ve grown up with–seeing them as role models I could never be–but it was then and is now that the women in my life that have made me what I am, well sort of.

I had planned to submit a list of all of my very own women’s names, but have run out of time and besides you all have your own special names in mind. So suffice it to say, “Where would we be without some special female of the species?” And that is meant literally as well as emotionally.

© 11/24/14

About the Author

Terror by Ray S

Seems like there is
almost too much TERROR to even write about. Come to think about it this
subject, terror is what even you or we choose to make of it.
It is sort of like what
FDR said long ago on a cold February day at our Capitol: “The only thing we have
to fear is fear itself.” Well, likewise, we have our very own terrors—it comes
with the territory.
Like suddenly waking up
from a nightmare where the demon is right on your back, and your feet refuse to
pull up out of the quagmire keeping you from escaping an unforeseen terror, or
being secured to a torture rack and a mad doctor is poised with scalpel to
attack and ultimately emasculate you–now that’s a really personal terror.  My apologies to the ladies, they have a whole
laundry list of terrors which again come with the territory.  Another bad dream.
Personally my little
terror recently has been clearing out the residue of family memorabilia,
another name for trash depending on how you look at it.  But the (you would think benign) terror that
I’ve been facing is not being able in clear conscious to discard all of those
family photo albums with pictures of people I have no recollection of, the
yellow newspapers someone saved marking the end of WWII, letters saved from
birth to deaths.  My terror has been
facing the necessity of this sorting out of family life so that I might save my
survivors from this same fate.
Not too important on a
world wide scale, but I dare say, it might be to you very deep down and
personal someday.
Good luck and sleep sans terror.
© 17 November
2014
About the Author
  

Me & Amadeus by Ray S

It has been a long time that Verizon & I have been in
my pocket either alerting me to a caller or trying to take a picture in my
pocket.  However, it was determined by
powers beyond my control that it was time for a replacement cell phone.
The ensuing trip to the local Verizon emporium, where all
the earnest busy-bee workers seemed to swarm all about a vast selection of
electronic necessities, resulted in the appearance of a little new black
virginal cell phone waiting to become my lifeline to the outside world.  But before it could spring into service or my
pocket, it required programing with the information from its predecessor.
Then the super-efficient automaton busy-bee informed us
that would not be possible as the two instruments were not compatible. …… A
really strange thing to us inasmuch both little tykes issued forth from the
same source.  One thing we were assured
of though, was that if accidently the right little button was activated I could
still take pocket pictures.
All previous knowledge had been lost, including the
delightful signal-melody that always announced to anyone in earshot that this
cell phone owner was extremely couth & cultured (artistic to say the
least).  No bells or horns, ribald
hip-hop, imitation old fashioned telephone “Ringy ding ding”, but the melodious
sounds of what was ultimately identified as a bit of Amadeus. 
Unable to track Amadeus down we substituted a snippet of
Figaro’s rather pretentious Wedding March. 
As you have probably gathered circumstances do become tedious and
tiresome for us dilettantes.  You know,
the artistic types.  But something had to
be done to get on with electronic progress. 
So Figaro took over as programed. 
After a couple of marches down the aisle with Figaro, something had to be
done to relocate the purloined original melody, but not being an educated
musician, just a music nerd who favored the classics (and of course, show
tunes) I could do no better than whistle an off key version of the tune.
This called for drastic measures to find Amadeus.  The search was begun to find the wizard of
lost melodies, the shaman of the ivories, the creator of crescendos, the
ultimate music authority (at least in my little world), Herr Doktor Bösendorfer!  I was successful in being granted audience of
such short notice, but this was an emergency and the doktor acquiesced.
After appropriate vetting to decipher the off-key hummed
melody as best as I could muster, my faith in the master was affirmed when
after research of the entire cabinet where Herr Mozart was closeted.  Eureka! 
The Sonata in C Major, K-545,
came to light.  And lest this
Philistine/dilettante remain forever ignorant of the complete sonata, the good
doktor gave the big black shiny Bösendorfer a run for its money by playing the total selection.  My subsequent joy was so great I threw my
arms about Herr Doktor’s ample waist & almost burst into tears.  Amadeus had come back to me, as I planted a
big kiss of gratitude on the maestro’s rosy cheek.
With my new found knowledge I was off to meet the enemy,
the Verizon automatons.  Thanks to the
Herr Doktor & Herr Bösendorfer there is renewed life for this music lover.  So ends this sincere “artistic” tale.  Cant you hear that sweet köchel right now?
Do I hear cries of “Author”, “Author”?
Thank you, Wolfgang A. Sylvester

© 8 Sep 2014 

About the Author







Death: A Play on a Word by Ray S

Time: Anywhere, now, a pleasant sunny morning
Place: A coffee shop, maybe the Market on Larimer Square, or one of the hundreds of Starbucks, or even in a bistro in Paris.

(He is waiting for an appointment, but has already started on a cup of coffee and a sweet roll of some sort.
He looks up as a very gorgeous woman approaches the table.)

Woman: “Hi, hope I’m not too early or just on time.

He: “No not at all, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

Woman: “Well, sometimes I’m too early, but I’m never too late.”

He: “Please sit down and let me order something for you.”

Woman: “Thank you. I’ll have what you’re having–I always do.”

(He lets that go by, but wanting to break the ice says:)

He: I am an artist, and I must tell you how smart your outfit is. That color looks great on you.

Woman: Again, thank you, but I can tell you’re a little nervous about this meeting. Don’t be, let me put your mind at ease. I’m here to help not hinder.

He: It’s just that I didn’t expect such a really “knock out” beauty for a breakfast meeting.

Woman: “Happy you’re so pleased, I do the best I can–depending on whom I am meeting–you should see me in my Armani.

He: I bet, but do you often dress in men’s outfits?

Woman: Oh sure, just depends on which gender I choose for business purposes–you might say In-the- “T” in what is referred to in your GLBT world.

He: For what it is worth, you’re the best looking woman I’ve ever had the joy of feasting my eyes on, and your gender isn’t my first preference.

Woman: Oh that’s right, well listen honey you should see me when I switch to gay guy instead of lonely les. You see T is optional for me depending on whomever I have an appointment with. Now let’s get down to the business at hand. How are you doing at letting go of almost 90 years’ worth of extraneous stuff–material as well as emotional?
Have you ever started to sort out the good from the bad memories?
I suppose you have heard all the business about “the other side,” the light at the end of the tunnel; and coming back to pay friendly little visits to “those left behind”–that one is really popular around Halloween.

He: Boy! You really can load it on once you get started–and we hardly know each other.

Woman: “Au contraire, Mon Ami, I have been keeping an eye on you since the day you popped out of mummy’s tummy.
The purpose of this little coffee klatch is to clue you into a reality that despite what all the wise men through the ages have passed on to the “true believers,” none of you can be certain about what–if anything within man’s and woman’s experience is happening when you and I get together again. The most important thing for you to take away from this NOW, is not be afraid, and to spend your time in the NOW projecting all of the love for your fellow beings that is humanly possible. By living in the present you probably know there is no time to ponder the unknown. Enough of my little sermonette, would you ask the wait person to bring me another cruller?

He: Well, besides sorting through old photos and year books I have lined up a few really nice memories of folks that have meant an awful lot to me at one time or another. And I plan to pack them into my “old kit bag” and take them with me, that is if you’ll let me. IF not I can leave them at the door along with all the other stuff the airport security guys confiscate.
You certainly have a grasp at telling it like it is, and making it quite an interesting experience along with your charming ways and the color purple of your “dress for success” suit. Glad to see you like our meeting place and the comestibles. Let’s get together again–at your convenience of course and by the way is there a chance that at our next meeting you could be a naked man?

Woman: I like the way you don’t hold back when speaking you innermost thoughts. I’ll see what I can do, although we won’t have much time. The real challenge I am always faced with is dealing with the people that are always trying to steal my time and mission by having wars all over the place–they make me go on overload–what’s a girl–woman or a boy/man? You people have never gotten over the old Cain and Abel myth. What ever happened to “Make Love not War”?
Oh my goodness, look at the time, I’ve really enjoyed our visit and look forward to our next meeting, or should I say “liaison”? Take care and remember our NOWS. They are all we really have. Ta ta!

Stage Action: The man at the cafe table finishes his coffee (2nd cup), and pays the tab and tip. Walks off left stage as the lights on the set dim.
The curtain falls on the end of the second act. There will be a short intermission followed by the third and last act whenever the stage is set!

© 13 Oct 2014

About the Author

Lonely Places by Ray S

The irony of this subject’s title when I first thought of it is, if you replaced the letter “n” with “v”, would the subsequent story be more readily at hand or mind?

Have you ever been in a lonely place in a crowd? Aloneness can be desirable when you need peace and quiet. Then there are those contemplative times and places like the September day when you go halfway up the pass to the glorious splendor of a grove of golden aspens bordering the rushing creek where once upon a time they scattered your loved ones’ ashes.

This lonely place belongs to everyone at one time or another and then maybe it is not so lonely. It is God’s place, if you might be a deist, or perhaps the realm of Mother Nature, whenever you’re there alone with your memories and thoughts, and of course, those of the “creator” of your choice.

Here’s the point, you are never alone or lonely when you’re able to get your head and heart in the right place, He/She is always there, just open your eyes and heart.

There is another lonely place too. Think of a great big box or room so big it has no visible boundaries, not even a little closet to crawl into. It is so lonely in there, except you’re in this space with all of the smallest personal to largest imagined or real horrors of how we have totally messed up our life with miserable choices or world shattering war and corruption.

Strange bedfellows for a lonely place, and facing these apparitions simply reinforces how lonely and maybe helpless it all is. If this has all the hallmarks of depression, you’re well on your way to finding space in this vast lonely place. Is there any way out?

Should you sometime find yourself pondering all of this, then that will make two of us in this lonely place and then we won’t have to be lonely.

© 11 Aug 2014






About the Author 







Travel by Train by Ray S

Sometime between 3:30
and 4:00 AM you can you can hear the low but urgent call of the diesel coal
train winding its way from Wyoming through Denver to somewhere south on the
Santa Fe (now Burlington-Northern-Santa Fe) railroad line.
That familiar horn brings
to my mind the first time I thrilled to that same sound.  It was the year of the “Chicago Century of
Progress” World’s Fair 1933.  The
CB&O ( Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Rail Road) ran west through my
hometown, a suburb of the Windy City and every day that new sound of the diesel
horn warned the passing of the “City of Denver” Zephyr.  It was a custom for the kids, unbeknownst to
their elders, to place copper pennies on the track anticipating the arrival of
the premier silver streamliner, and then retrieve the flattened coin as a
souvenir of the great new advance in modern passenger rail service.
Many years and various
national and international conflagrations, marriages and births our family rode
the Zephyr from Denver to Chicago to visit family.  That train carried the four of us as well as
all the other passengers on the final run of the CB&O Denver Zephyr.  The tracks were the same but the advent of
Amtrak and “The California Zephyr” had arrived and were different.  Chicago’s Union Station marked the conclusion
of a long and marvelous historical railroad train trip for us and the
Zephyr. 
Another time, another
place and another train trip.  Just a
kid, barely 18 years old and almost Christmas in 1943.  The “bigger war” had been going on since Pearl
Harbor and ’41.  Either wait for the
draft and whatever fate it held or enlist in a military service of your
choice.  What could be more glamorous,
adventuresome and heroic than becoming an air cadet in the United States Army
Air Corps?  None of the above adjectives
quite fit my personality or abilities, but “Off We GO, Into the Wild Blue
Yonder,”  or went.
After necessary
induction processes at Chicago’s Great Lakes/Fort Sheridan installation the
newly hatched cadets were outfitted with all the appropriate clothing
necessities, either on your back or in the ubiquitous barracks bag and off to
the south side of Chicago and the Illinois Central Railroad station.  Then my first and only really troop train
adventure.  No, not cattle cars, a great
number of coach cars and even some of Mr Pullman’s sleepers, but no porters to
make up your births.  A mess hall was in
a converted coach car and you passed through it to receive whatever they
prepared in the way of portable food to be carried back to your respective
car.  The I.C. (Illinois Central R.R.)
rolled on and on finally depositing the potential air warriors at a cold, dank,
coal smoke clouded (potbellied space heaters in each barracks were the only
means of heating) Gulfport Field, Mississippi.
The trip continued to
cover needed physical exams and intrusions, shots, and. of course, six weeks
plus of basic training and then as they say, “at the convenience of the
government,”  the cadet program was
declared over-subscribed to.  The hundred
or so fledgling flyers were assigned to various other Air Corps tasks and
dispatched to their new homes for various “military careers.”
So the story goes of
this train trip–from potential “fly boy” to guard duty in a Military Police
company.  The closest thing to flying was
midnight patrol of a deserted flight strip in North Carolina.
A train trip never to
be repeated and hardly ever remembered.

© 25 Aug 2014  

About the Author 








The Gayest Person I Ever Met by Ray S

Of all the personalities in the history of mankind and
womankind such as the arts, science, politics, athletics, and some
miscellaneous criminal miscreants that qualify for membership in our GLBTQ
community – the one I find “most gayest” is my intimate acquaintance with a
very classic “closet case”.
It is a story of a gay man and actually nothing out of the
ordinary. As he relates the story it all started at the age of three or four
when a little girl from next door got them naked and compared minute genitalia,
5 & 6 years old found the usual little boys discovering each others
equipment. It wasn’t until he and a close boyhood family friend discovered the
fun of mutual sexual gratification – the manual method.
As he remembers about the advent of puberty did he learn that
these little pleasures were socially unacceptable in the yes of the straight
and narrow. And so sin arrives on the scene to raise its ugly head – no pun
intended.
The reality of learning how to reconcile little pleasures and
fitting in with mainstream conventional middle class America, i.e. what boys do
with girls, getting married – boys and girls style, making the future
generation, educating the little buggers, paying for the weddings and maybe a
divorce or two. Countless birthday cards to all of the family and extended
families. Making a living which includes figuring out what he thought would
possibly be lucrative, socially acceptable – never mind not doing something he
really wanted to do – if he ever figured that one out.
Does all of this sound familiar and routine – “been there
done that”. I began to really get weary as this story droned on and on.
He discovered at some point in this drama that sometimes the closet
door slammed back and hit him square in the ass. Such were the perils of
tripping on the tight rope of life in the gay light way.
Eventually, various resolutions over which he tells me he had
no control blew the closet door off its hinges (again no pun intended).
I am happy to report to all of you who are still listening –
those who excused themselves I sympathize and understand – if I hadn’t had to
feel compelled to tell this story I’d be gone too.
Suffice it to say like so many other late bloomers, he’s
wrapped himself in a rainbow flag and is attempting to live a most gay life –
but of course in good taste, quietly, and only as wild as his advanced years
will tolerate.
Moral: like the salmon swimming upstream on its way to spawn
– life goes on and then you die with a smile on your face.

© 14 July 2014  

About the Author






Beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star While Navel Gazing by Ray S.

Six-thirty AM, do you
wake up one eye at a time, or both at the same moment?
Another day has been
gifted to you what are you going to do with it?
Can love prevail over
so much hate?  The sign on the wall reads
“God is Love.”  Well, who is your god or
goddess or whatever name you have for the ultimate motivator–or is there an
ultimate in your existence?
Feels like it will be a
hot one today in spite of the morning coolness. Your reverie is intruded with the
crash of garbage trucks loading.
Maybe they could carry
away some of the trash in our heads–clear a way for beautiful thoughts and
deeds. Do a little “Do unto others” stuff for a change. Do you, do I have a
consciousness to guide us through this new beginning?
Climb up out of my
navel and fall lock-step into the same old pattern of activity until life or
whatever intervenes. The outside world–it is here and now. Deal!
The butcher, the baker,
the climate change, the wars, the bomb, the screwy religions that have their
own monopoly on a god that neither you nor I can lay claim to. At times it
feels good to be damned by those people.
                                    I am in
good company
                                    Belonging
is everything
                                    Join the
tribe.
                                    To each
his/her own!
Make the coffee, brush
your teeth, etc, etc. Settle down and think what I might have to do and what I
can procrastinate about.
Have a cup, an old
scrap of toast.
Do not move too
quickly, waking takes a while.
It is a good start, the
navel isn’t as full of miscellaneous wool as when my one eye and then the other
opened.
I’ve affirmed for a new
day that Love: i.e. God, the Buddha, Thor, Apollo, Venus, et al. are still in
their heavens patiently waiting for me and you to find It, Him, or Her.
In light of so much of
this self-revelatory navel gazing and wool gathering it may be time to go back
to bed and get a navel refill.
As the poetaster is
wont to say, “Have a nice day.”
  

© 30 June 2014  

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