Tag: Utopia

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Utopia, by Pat Gourley

The first thing that comes to my mind with the word Utopia is the Chinese café in San Francisco’s Chinatown located at 139 Waverly Place aptly named the Utopia Café. I stumbled on this sometime in the early 1990’s I believe though I could not find a date when it was first opened as a café despite a rather extensive Google search. I am quite certain though that I was there at least once with my partner David who died in 1995 and many times since. Any trip to OZ, and there have been many, almost always entails a trip to this eatery.

David and I may have happened on Waverly Alley trying to escape the crowds on Grant Street the main tourist drag through Chinatown. We were probably cruising through Chinatown one day killing a few hours before we headed south in our rental car for a Grateful Dead show down the peninsula in Mountainview at the Shoreline amphitheater.

Several of Chinatown’s most interesting alleys are just to the west of Grant, between Stockton and Grant. Or perhaps we ended up in Waverly Alley following a tip gleaned from Amy Tan’s wonderful novel The Joy Luck Club that was published in 1989.

The Joy Luck Club is the story of four Chinese immigrant mothers and their four American born daughters and their often-complex relationships entailing the dynamic push and pull between old world China and west coast America. The mothers formed their group and called themselves the Joy Luck Club in 1949 and began meeting at the First Chinese Baptist Church located at 15 Waverly Alley. They obviously met for camaraderie and emotional support but also for conversation, to eat good food and play Mahjong. All activities relished by concerned immigrant mothers raising daughters in post WWII California.

A simplistic description of Mahjong would be to think of dominoes and that would not be the pizza. Playing for money was often involved. Many of us Sage folk may know what dominoes are all about and may have actually played. My father had a set and I think they were made of bone and not Ivory, at least I hope that was the case. Though growing up in conservative rural Indiana in the 1950’s concern for African elephants or artic walrus would never have crossed my mind.

Mahjong was also popular particularly post World War II among Jewish American women. Both Jewish and Chinese women were seen as using the game as a vehicle for bonding and community building. Similar I suppose to men playing poker but without I assume the beer and cigars and I’ll bet the food was considerably better than you would find at most card games.

When walking up from the south on Waverly Alley on one’s way to the Utopia Café you will pass the Tin How Temple. It is the oldest Taoist temple in San Francisco. It is located 3 flights up from the street. The temple provides a sensory burst of stimulation in the form of many colorful displays of tribute to Mazu the Chinese Goddess of Heaven all enveloped in shrouds of pungent incense. On the several visits I have made to the shrine it seems to most often be tended by elderly Chinese women who smile pleasantly especially when you drop a dollar or two into the donation box, with no words spoken. They do seem though to exude the three treasures of Taoism: compassion, frugality and humility.

It took me several trips up Waverly over the years to correctly identify the clicking sound I would hear often in conjunction with animated Chinese dialects I certainly could not identify. It turns out the clicking sound, often emanating from open basement doors, was the sound of clicking Mahjong tiles.

On my most recent trip to San Francisco, the last two weeks of February, I again made my pilgrimage to the Utopia Café; sadly no clicking Mahjong tiles were heard. It seems to have changed hands and undergone a modest remodel in the last year or so but the menu changes, primarily to a variety of noodle dishes, did not disappoint. Per usual I was the only non-Chinese person in the restaurant and had to wait a bit for a table to open. Shortly after being seated at the two-person table a young handsome Asian man was seated across from me. Other than quiet nods we did not speak throughout the meal. He actually never looked up from his phone except very briefly even when scooping up steaming noodles. As he was getting ready to leave, having eaten much faster than I and being more adept at chop sticks and spoon I noticed a Bronco decal a on the back of his phone. I was left to ponder whether or not he was from Denver and maybe visiting family. However seeing him in the Utopia Café was further validation that this was a restaurant worthy of even out of town Chinese clientele.

Though it would be somewhat over the top to describe this modest café and its simple fare as ideal perfection it has on several occasions come pretty darn close. A warm bowl of noodles nestled in a tasty broth and topped with greens served with hot jasmine tea on a cold rainy San Francisco winter day sounds pretty Utopian to me.

© March 2018

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

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

© 4 February 2108

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Utopia, by Louis Brown

(1) Who was Rosemary Gianuzzi?

(a) She was my close friend who lived in Whitestone, NY, with husband Frank Mershon.

(b)Rosemary is quadriplegic.

(c) She died last Tuesday of sepsis, blood-poisoning.

(d)She was an effective advocate for the rights of the physically disabled. That was her search for Utopia.

(2) The Paramahanda Yogananda Self-Realization Center is located on Garrison Street in Lakewood. These yoga people are searching for Nirvana, their spiritual utopia.

(3) Communists are Utopians. What was the psychology of Ho Chi Minh? Politically and in the area of ideology, he was a French communist. Did he achieve his version of Utopia? No. He died 9-2-1969 of congestive heart failure before the Tet Offensive was completed though that began Jan. 30- 1968.

(4) I heard that the Italian communists are helping and advising the communist rebels in Colombia, South America, that 1/3 of Colombia is run by the Communists, another 1/3 is run by the drug lords and the other 1/3 is run by the right-wing, so-called “pro-American” government.

(5) I also heard that southern Mexico is run by a communist insurgent force called the Chiapas. Is that still true?

(6) Venezuela. Nicolas Maduro claims to be a socialist, a sort of Utopian. He is still in business. Will he be able to maintain what he perceives as his utopia, a socialist Venezuela?

(7) My personal search for Utopia included trips to the Dominican Republic, Charleston, S. C., Nancy, France and more recently Wheat Ridge, CO. A lot of war protesters went to Canada in the 1970’s.

(8) Gay Utopias:

(a) Cherry Grove: a real estate venture that was started in the 1920’s. Although it is basically a summer resort, there turned out to be broader implications. It is or was a true gay and Lesbian Utopia. It consists of a long boardwalk, and grocery deliveries are made with a motorized wagon; but otherwise there are no automobiles or motorcycles. Just Nature and geographical isolation.

(b)Nearby Isle of Pines: an even grander seaside resort which is a utopia of bisexual homeowners.

(c) New Hope, PA, and Provincetown, Massachusetts. Like San Francisco the heterosexual majority is very tolerant of gay people and support our civil rights. The gay businesses are integrated into the whole community. 

Is this Utopia?

© 29 February 2018

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

Perhaps I’m too practical to be interested in utopian fantasies. They’ve never appealed to me. After all, I grew up in Kansas and even the Wizard of Oz lived somewhere else and, when found, was shown to be a fraud. I had a friend who grew up near Liberal, Kansas, right there in the center of Dorothy country. He was brilliant, talented in music and organization, a teacher, and probably had red slippers in men’s size 12. He was gay and came to understand life was never utopian although he could dream. I had a different kind of Kansas imagination, but we liked each other and were fine friends for many years. He fled the wheat fields of southwest Kansas. I left the state for more education. We met up in Colorado, Texas, New Mexico, and eventually San Francisco. Now this latter place seemed utopian to him and opened him wide to his sexuality. He lived high on the hill on Castro Street, could watch big ships move in and out of the port, had lots of fun, and felt the kind of acceptance he needed. But it was no utopia. He loved it there, but life in gay San Francisco was not without its hazards. To me it seemed he lived rather fully into all of those hazards. They took their toll, and I made my last trip there to memorialize him, a man who lived and worked to make a gay utopia deliver the goods so Kansans and other people could enjoy who they were or who they wanted to become. I applaud his efforts; I miss him still many years after his memorial service.

I don’t tell this as a sad tale. Of course I cried at my loss of him. I too understood the attraction of the utopia out there by the western sea. I loved being with him walking up and down the steep hills, hearing great musical performances, visiting parks, strolling along the beach, hiking out to Land’s End, talking about life and his life and my own.

The experiments for this kind of utopian life continue in urban centers far beyond the reach of his lifetime. Anytime I am involved, I recall Ted’s contributions. We made music together, danced, and laughed in the little utopia of our friendship. Such utopias are necessary. Their pursuit brings quality and love into human relations. Their possibility asks us to be kind to one another, to applaud all human efforts for equality and freedom, to create pockets of such mutual respect in order to keep hope alive. With this account I memorialize a deceased friend to an extraordinary group of elders and in this most appropriate place where we celebrate our comradeship through telling stories and listening to the stories of others. Our sharing keeps alive the necessary and possible kind of community to support our lives in freedom and in love, even if that community is somewhat less than utopian.

© 5 February 2018

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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Illegitimi Non Carborundum, by Carlos

“Illegitimi Non Carborundum …


Don’t Let the Bastards Grind You Down”

She had been a nun, a shadow of a woman who had infiltrated the cloistered nunnery not to be the voice, the hands of God, but rather to introduce darkness into the core of light. In the years she sidewinded among the devote sisters, she sowed the seeds of discord and fear, being immune to the beatific acts of devotion surrounding her. Rather than offering healing and solace to a community long in need of these virtues, she concocted a bubbling blasphemous brew. And thus, she was released of her vows and cast out into the realm of unsuspecting men and women. And for years, she became a contamination amongst citizens in her neighborhood, infecting them with her mellifluous words and her soulless deeds.

Death finally claimed the hellkite, but the aftermath of her deeds continued to radiate out like heat from an untended firepit. For so many decades, the neighbors had been in danger of sacrificing their immortal souls; even now that the corpse moldered in its grave, her influence continued to demand their attention. Although they had been freed from her shackles, they remained imprisoned by memories. Some even considered the possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, they were tainted by the malignancy that still blighted them.

One day, a bright amber cart guided by a dappled mare rolled into town. At the seat of the wagon sat an old man with a grizzled beard and a booming voice, announcing his presence. His voice resonated throughout the valley, yet it was as gentle as the wool of a newly shorn lamb, “I am Raphael, a seller of treasures long sought after but rarely found. I offer them to you but for a few paltry coins, yet your investments will reward you unmeasurably as do the beams of light from the stars above. Come close, dear friends, and accept my offerings. Come forth, brothers and sisters, and cast down the anchors that weigh you down. Come forth, righteous men, women and beasts and drink from the font I offer you.” Needless to say, the citizens were intrigued, perhaps inspired, and one by one they approached the peddler, curious to learn his ways.

The first to approach was a massive cinnamon brown dog with its tail tucked between its legs. As it nervously approached the wagon, it pulled back its lips, revealing menacing, sharp teeth. The peddler held out one hand and whispered, “I know, dear one, that you have been abused and abandoned. Alas, the world knows not that all creatures great and small are in Spirit’s embrace.” The dog lowered its head and gingerly approached, the magnificence of the itinerant peddler now evident. “Sir, I have nothing to offer, yet, I long for so much, for the gentle touch of my beloved caretaker, for the tender loving words ‘Good boy’ whispered into my ear, for the freedom to love unconditionally, even as I am loved unconditionally.” I have been injured by one who no longer walks amongst us. Her curses and threats have seared my soul and made me fearful of humanity. In sleep, she still hovers nearby as I am consumed by spasms of fear and despair.” The peddler teared up and offered wisdom. He replied, “I know not why evil is incarnate. I know not why good is the world highest code. What I do know is that unconditional love will be rewarded, in time. Allow me to offer you a blessing on your head that you may always know that love will always reign supreme.” The dog, now smiling, genuflected before his benefactor, arose and trotted off into the shadows, knowing someday, someday but in the blink of an eye, he would awaken to the eternal caress of love.

A widow dressed in black garments approached slowly from behind a copse of weeping willows. Her gentle husband had died in a tragic accident in the wooded glen near the village a few months earlier. Going out into the countryside one summer morn, his horse had vaulted when a lion materialized unexpectedly from behind an oak, and the man tumbled off the horse. Though the lion ran off, the man was ushered unto gentle death surrounded by a quilt of overhanging firmament. His wife grieved unabashedly, withdrawing from the eyes of her neighbors. Alas, sensing that the widow was an easy target, the old woman snarled out bitter words, “I see, your ill-fated husband has abandoned you, leaving you to live out your years in utter misery, hoping for ultimate reunion. You know, of course, that he has flown away to a dreamless land, never to awaken. And as for you, the same inky nothingness awaits.” And she flew off cackling and chortling a demonic laugh, knowing she had unraveled the widow’s faith. Knowing the widow’s heart had little residue of hope, the peddler approached and offered her a tiny glass bottle containing a single grain of rice, girdled by a golden thread. As she looked at her offering, she noted her name as well as that of her husband etched into the grain. “What be this?” she asked the affable gentleman whose eyes sparkled with the inviting light of the sun. “Your faith, your love, your souls are conjoined for all time. Be patient and go out and harvest strawberries and rescue fledging sparrows fallen from their nests. In time, you will be rewarded with a table set with delights sweeter than the sweetest of honey and your heart will nestle within its own comforting nest. Be patient and live life like sunflowers unaware of winter’s approach,” he replied. Being unable to pay for her gift, she asked, “Since I have no coin, may I go and find the reddest, sweetest berries hidden beneath the shadows of a grove of white birches as a modest offering?” He smiled and nodded. She ran off dancing in the wind, knowing that the blade that cleaved her heart had been extricated, knowing that even now the scar was closing as two hearts, separated by the schism of time and space, pulsed with synchronicity anew.

Finally, the evil doer’s worst victim stepped forth. It was evident that his heart was heavy with grief, an affliction resulting not from the death of the neighbor, but rather from the pain he carried, believing that his vindictive thoughts had damned him. For years, she had tormented him because he was different, that is, a man who genuinely radiated light. In him, she recognized what she could never be. Thus, the only way she could deal with the mirrored reflection that taunted her psyche was to attack. He sought to ignore her assaults, to deflect the pellets of spewed hatred, to heal over the sullied wounds, but over time, being a man, bitter acrimony erupted from within. For the first time in his life, he envisioned doing harm to another, witnessing his tormentor’s dying the death of a thousand cuts. He wanted to look into her eyes even as her life force ebbed away, and see terror in her eyes, a terror of knowing that as she had sown, so must she now reap. It terrified the boy so thoroughly that his soul had morphed into such an absence of grace, that he feared the sun itself had turned its back on him. The peddler offered the boy a handkerchief as the boy wept bitterly. Finally, the boy said, “Forgive me, forgive me, for I am immerse in sin, a sin so bottomless, I know God Himself weeps for me.” Then he fell upon his knees in a bout of anguish so severe, the spasms within his chest became like bellows stoking a raging furnace. The peddler kneeled before the boy, held him up, and enveloped him within his mighty chest. “Mijo, cry not, for your acknowledgement of fault and your desire to exorcise it have saved you. I offer you, the mightiest of gifts within my wagon, a small seed of the sacred tree that once grew in a desert far away. Under this tree, the enlightened sought redemption and were offered healing water. And they arose, forgave the world, forgave themselves. You have proven worthy. Now go out into the wilderness and find a small plot of loam where this seed may germinate. Watch over it, nurture it, let the world come to partake of its fruit. Tonight, my son, God Himself shall dance joyfully, for today, your free has released evil.” Now afoot, he found himself alone amidst the chirping of crickets and echoes of the constellations, questioning whether he had just awakened from a dream. Opening the palm of his hand, one single seed rested within his hand. He stepped forth into the wilderness, never to be seen again. Yet, in an undisclosed primeval forest, a healing tree flourishes, jettisoning winged seeds unto every corner of the world.

And thus, my friends, in spite of the blissful dreams that we quest after, they often remain elusive. Yet utopia is ever possible, but only when the dreamer somersaults courageously… into the nightmare.

© 12 February 2018

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.