Tag: Will Stanton

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Poetry by Will Stanton

My interests in space
arts and time arts, especially fine music, all have taken precedence  over any consistent pursuit of poetry.  Yet, when I encounter well crafted poetry
with themes that speak to me, I am deeply moved.  I already have spoken of my great
appreciation for the poetic craft and thought-provoking themes of Charles
Bryant’s original poetry and amplified translations (available on
YouTube).  For this little group’s touch
upon today’s topic of poetry, I am presenting short poems from two other
people, both whose lives as well as their creations have been meaningful to me.
The first poem is from
my late partner James.  For James,
composing poetry was just one of his several interests, yet he approached his
writing quite seriously.  For example,
James had the intellect and talent to tackle translating the esoteric and
complex poems of the nineteenth century French poet Gérard de Nerval.  For comparison, I read two books of already
published English translations.  I found
James’ understanding of the poems and skill in maintaining poetic quality equal
to one of the volumes and far superior to the other.  My humble assessment was supported when none
other than the acclaimed American poet and literary translator Richard Wilbur complimented
him on his translations.
Yet, James could
create simple, more easily accessible poems, too, poems that the general public
could appreciate.  One such published
poem was “Night Child.”
She
wanted much to understand how the skies
watch
silver-eyed across a purple night,
to
learn at last how early mornings rise,
James
and
fathom fragile dewdrops caught with light.
She
wanted much to comprehend the way
that
flowers celebrate the sun, which flows,
they
said, on yellow contours of the day,
and
contemplate the fashions of the rose.
She
wanted much to know for once how clouds
graze
on a languid sky like flocks of sheep
or
change to unicorns or make grave crowds
of
graybeards dreaming through an azure sleep.
And
much she marveled as her fingers read
of
such a world as blue and green and red. © JHM
For the next poem, it
was like being punched in the gut the first time that I heard it recited.  I care deeply about good people, and I
despise violence and war.  This poem was
written near the end of World War I.  I
had gone to see the 1997 film “Regeneration,”
(DVD released in the U.S. titled “Behind
the Lines”) which was based upon the book by Pat Barker.  The story centered upon the lives of British
officers who were suffering, from what at the time was referred to as, “shell
shock.”   They had been sent to
Craiglockhart War Hospital in Scotland for psychiatric treatment.  Some of the poor souls appeared to be
permanently scarred emotionally.  For the
less traumatized, the goal was to make those walking wounded sound enough to
send them back to the front.
Among them was the
gentle soul of Wilfred
Owen, a budding poet.  There
he met and was encouraged to write by the noted poet Siegfried Sassoon, who had
been sent to Craiglockhart after he had thrown away his war medal and spoke out
publicly against the insanity of war. 
Sassoon had written war poetry that was true and realistic, in marked
contrast to simple patriotic poetry such as that of Rupert Brooke.  Sassoon encouraged Owen to do the same.
The Craiglockhart
psychiatrists (or “alienists,” as they were known at the time) managed to
persuade Owen to return to the front. 
Just one week before the declared armistice, Owen was killed crossing a
canal in northern France.  The irony and
tragedy of Owen’s death still haunts me.
The finalé of the film
included an off-screen voice reciting Owen’s poem “The
Parable of the Old Man and the Young.“ 
The poem, as well as the whole film, moved me so deeply that I returned
for a second viewing and later purchased the DVD.
So
Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
and
took the fire with him, and a knife.
And
as they sojourned both of them together,
Wilfred Owen
Isaac
the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold
the preparations, fire and iron,
But
where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then
Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And
builded parapets and trenches there,
And
stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
And
lo!  An Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying,
Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither
do anything to him, thy son.
Behold!  Caught in the thicket by its horns,
A
Ram.  Offer the Ram of pride instead.
But
the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And
half the seed of Europe, one by one.
–
– – – –
©
13 May 2014 
About the Author 
  

 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Shopping by Will Stanton

I do not shop much.  At my age, I do not need or crave many
things.  I buy groceries and a few things
to keep my home going.  Being a guy, I do
not shop just for something to do or to be entertained.  I recall overhearing a young woman, loaded
down with Neiman Marcus shopping bags, saying over a cellphone to a friend, “I
could just shop until I drop!”  That is a
concept that just does not make sense to me and, frankly, I find rather
repelling.
In addition to my not being
interested in clothing fashions, I have to watch my pennies and not
overspend.  I wear the same old clothes
over and over again, just keeping them clean and relatively presentable.  Even though I can’t get into my fine suits
anymore, I don’t bother to replace them. 
I kept a favorite recliner-chair until it was about ready to
collapse.  Apparently, this, too, is a
“guy thing;”  I’ve seen cartoons about
old farts not giving up their favorite, broken-down recliners until someone
else intercedes.  Fortunately, that happened
with me, too; and I’m very appreciative. 
I’ll keep this one until doomsday.
The last car I bought was in
1973 (that should tell everyone something about my age.)  The car I drive most often is my inherited,
third-hand, twenty-year-old Camry.  Being
a guy and if I had the cash, I could see myself being tempted by a fancy, new
car, especially if I went to car shows; but I certainly don’t need one.  Having something as nice as, let’s say, a
Maserati is just too impractical, too expensive to own and maintain, and
subject to damage or theft.  Owning it
would be just a millstone around my neck.
I have to admit that, my
growing up in America, I have been exposed to a highly materialistic
society.  Even though my family had
little money, there were things that we craved. 
This was not helped by the fact that, being very naïve and easily
influenced when young, I had a wealthier and very materialistic friend who
actually persuaded me to develop interests and hobbies that cost money and
saddled me with possessions.  I now wish
I had not met him.
There was one category of
purchases that probably became an irrational compulsion for me.  I have an irresistible passion for good
music; and when I was younger, I had this unrealistic need to supposedly “make
permanent” such beauty by purchasing recordings.  I just had to hear that music and hear it
again.  It started with LPs.  I still have four feet of LPs that are in
pristine condition.  Then there was that
wealthy friend who too easily convinced me that the  fine music on LPs would deteriorate from dust
and scratches and that I should transfer my favorite music to reel-to-reel
tapes.  In addition to my own LPs, I had
access to a large quantity of new LPs from a library and figured that
additional fact was enough to convince me 
to follow his advice, not knowing the cost and effort that would end up
being.  In addition to the reel-to-reel
machines, I have stored around three hundred tapes.  I never play them because neither the Sony
that I had bought nor the Akai that was given to me work anymore.  
There was a time years ago
when I (and I really should say we, because that would include my late partner)
bought things that made more sense.  It
started with acquiring a house with a thirty-year loan.  Then there was furniture and some home
furnishings.  Over time, we made a very
pleasant home for ourselves.  He has been
gone for over seventeen years now, so I no longer feel that urge to acquire
things for the home.
Now at my age, my sense of
values has become clearer.  Rather than
having lots of things, I value foremost good health, wellbeing, loved-ones,
good friends, and (because this still is my personal nature) access to beauty.
We humans are easily
desirous of things that we think that we would like to have, or think that we
absolutely must have.  Yet, too many
things end up “owning us,” rather than we owning them.  As the philosopher Bertrand Russell said, “It
is the preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else that prevents us
from living freely and nobly.”
Now that I am older and have
narrowed my interests, I am burdened with what to do with many items.  If I had to move now, I would have to try to
sell all the things I don’t need, give them away, or lug those things with
me.  They have some financial value, but
determining those values and going through the long, arduous task of trying to
sell them, overwhelms me.  The prominent
social thinker John Ruskin once stated, “Every increased possession loads us
with new weariness.”
I have fantasized that, provided
I were financially secure and had a place to go, I’d move, taking only about
ten percent of my possessions with me. 
I’d leave the other ninety percent behind either for somebody to sell or
to give away.  Then I’d be free of all
those things bought during numerous shopping trips.  They no longer would own me.
© 22 April 2014 
About the Author  
 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Forbidden Fruit by Will Stanton

To view human beings
as largely well informed and rational is sadly misleading.  Ignorance and emotion seem to have a far
greater influence on people’s thinking and beliefs.  We find evidence of this in all walks of
life, politics, science, social issues, cultural.  This is especially true with especially
sensitive or controversial topics. 
People too often are even afraid to discuss some issues.  For today’s topic, I decided to accept the
challenge.  I have tried to be as precise,
thoughtful,  and factual as
possible.  Please bare with me, for this
subject can not be considered in just one, glib paragraph.
When considering the
topic of “Forbidden Fruit,” I imagine that we can use this  topic simply as a point of departure for
ideas that can go off in many different directions.  All kinds of desires and cravings can be
considered to be “forbidden fruit” depending upon what we are taught growing
up.  We are profoundly affected by what
we learn from parents, religion, social mores, laws of the land, and what we
continually hear on sensationalized TV news.
Yet, I suppose that
the one concept of “forbidden fruit” that immediately comes to mind for most
people is sexual.  This is not
surprising, considering that Puritan roots and Christian-Judeo perspective
continue to have such a profound effect upon our nation.  Hypocritically, at the same time that many
people express moral outrage at some sexual behaviors, they may actually enjoy
being titillated by anything sexual, rather like naïve adolescents as opposed
to thoughtful adults.  Then there is the
not-surprising scientific research substantiating the fact that many bloviating
homophobes actually fear their own latent homosexuality.  Ignorance, fear, loathing, and hypocrisy do
not permit an insightful, constructive discourse.
When I pondered which
“forbidden fruit” our current society considers to be the “most  forbidden,” I suppose that the answer must be
pedophilia, the love or attraction to young people.  The term derives from the Greek philos,
meaning “beloved, dear, loving,” although the suffix “philia” now has a
negative connotation.  This subject has
become so sensitive that most people either avoid discussing the topic entirely
or they repeat the emotionally charged condemnation that they have learned
without exploring the nature of, or contributing factors to, pedophilia.  In this presentation, I to try to look
logically at the phenomenon.  
Both in my
professional career working with people’s heads, along with chance encounters
over the years, I have met any number of people who have trusted me with the
revelation that they feel such attraction. 
Apparently, it’s not uncommon, perhaps as many as several million people
in the U.S. alone.  It is very important
to recognize that not all pedophiles are alike. 
Some are older adults, whereas others already recognize harboring such
attraction upon the onset of puberty or even earlier.  Many are male; some are female.  The objects of their attraction may be boys
and/or girls, who may be teens or even very young children.  Some people struggle with suppressing acting
upon such attraction.  Some people
sublimate their thoughts into acceptable activities.  Most therapists have little or no
understanding or training in this field, and little professional assistance has
been made for non-offenders.  In our
society, however, any overt expression of such desire can have draconian social
and legal consequences.  In my
profession, I never was in the position of having to address such an attraction,
nor did I consider myself thoroughly prepared to do so. That was not my field.
When acquaintances
have made such revelations to me, I tried to be as reasonable and constructive
in my responses as I can.  When the
objects of attraction are teenagers, I do not spout the usual sound-bites of
obligatory morale outrage, which would be counterproductive as well as
irrational.  I try to use some sound
critical thinking skills in exploring this sensitive topic, but I certainly do
not have all the answers.  There is no
such thing as simple answers to anything; every true answer is
multifactorial.  I am, however, dismayed
by the idea of abusing very young children and of pornography sites that
specialize in such behavior.  That
behavior is so foreign to my way of thinking that I am unable to address it
other than to regard it as pathological.
Another behavior that
all persons should condemn in any sexual encounter is coercion, force,
or violence in any form.  The young, and
especially the very young, are more vulnerable; therefore, force or violence
against any young person is especially egregious, although adults are not
immune to violence either.  Far too often
in our society, people are the victims of rape and battery.  And, violence in many non-sexual forms
continues to plague our society.  When it
comes to sexual or physical attraction to teens or young adults, if someone
claims to truly care about somebody or actually love that person, logically
there is absolutely no place for coercion, force, or violence.
I am aware of a very
disturbing fact: too often violence accompanies sexual acts, whether the
partner is a woman, young man, or child. 
Some percentage of those repugnant attacks well may be from undiagnosed
sociopaths, but there is yet another factor that raises a very disturbing
question.  I know of some cases where men
were so concerned for their macho image and disturbed by their own sexual
predilections that, upon completing the sexual act upon a teen or young adult,
they have beaten up the weaker partner, supposedly just to prove to themselves
that the attacker is no less of a man. 
If one stops to ponder this fact, the question is raised: is the answer
simply that the attacker just lacks the ability to feel empathy for other human
beings, or has society instilled in him so much fear and loathing for his
desires that he resorts to violence to expunge any feelings of guilt and
shame?  To my knowledge, no research has
been done in this specific area.    
What factors,
therefore, can be considered in attempting to understand such attraction?  Frankly, one would be hard-pressed to find
anyone in the field who might be able to provide a fairly full answer.
Understanding
attraction to teens and young adults might be easier to understand.  Youth usually is equated with good health,
something all people desire.  As we age,
we increasingly become vulnerable to disease, injury, physical deterioration,
loss of virility and athleticism, and loss of aesthetic appeal.  The often futile desire to appear young has
resulted in the creation of  weight-loss
clinics and gyms, skin-creams, lipstick and rouge for women, and wigs for bald
men.  The hackneyed joke about
middle-aged men is that they may feel compelled to buy impractical sports cars
in an attempt to feel young again.
Aesthetic appeal also
is a major consideration.  Studies show
that people innately are attracted to fine facial features, smooth skin, full
heads of hair, clear eyes, good teeth, and lean bodies.  It did not take modern psychological research
to come to that conclusion.  All one
needs to do is look at the statues carved by Greek, Roman, and neo-Classical
sculptors, along with the paintings from the Baroque and neo-Classical periods.  The young nude obviously was admired in those
times.  Our own society often avoids such
fine arts, considering that so many people find such things offensive if not
down-right frightening.
More than one person
has raised the question about the peculiar clothing style for young males that
has persisted for so long in America and even is infecting styles
over-seas.  Whereas young woman often
wear clothes and bathing suits that leave nothing to the imagination, with bare
buttocks and mostly exposed breasts, young males have been given for many years
now very baggy clothes, long gym shorts, and even baggy pants to swim in.  A swim coach recently remarked to me that
trying to swim in those baggy suits is like trying to drive a car with the
hand-brake on.  He must send away to
order comfortable swim suits.  He
wondered if people of influence have decided that the male form should be
covered up; otherwise, males might garner prurient attention.  Usually, styles change fairly quickly.  In the case of baggy clothes for males,
however, the cover-up seems to persist. 
Is it possible that America has become so paranoid about male attraction
that real swim suits and better fitting pants will never be offered for sale
again?  Is it too hard for adults to
control their feelings and behavior to allow such clothes?  Or, have people’s thinking just become
skewed?
It is sensible that,
in any civilized society, simple aesthetic appeal can not be a rationale for
sexual contact with too young males or females. 
If the desire for contact is some subliminal hope that such contact will
magically make the older adult young and attractive again, such magic does not
exist.  If such contact simply is for
physical gratification, having sex would be just using someone, not a real
expression of love.  Using someone should
not be acceptable whatever the age. 
After all, human beings should have a greater sense of morality and
empathy than a dog humping your leg.
It is true that young
people are, in fact, sexual beings.  They
are not the asexual beings as purported in Victorian England.  There is plenty of research that supports
that fact, and I certainly saw much evidence of that when I was a camp
counselor for two summers.  I even
witnessed a couple of occasions with youths propositioned counselors.  That does not mean, however, that the adult
has the green light to act upon it.
Thoughts throughout
history regarding sexuality are so mixed that what is taboo is not a law set in
concrete.  There have been some
interesting differences in what was considered taboo and what was not.  For example in the golden age of Greece,
especially in Athens and Crete, and among the aristocracy, love and sex between
a young man and an adolescent boy on the cusp of puberty was not only
acceptable but also admired, so long as both persons acted with dignity and
responsibility. 
What was considered
taboo among that society was if the man was far too old or if the boy was too
young.  Interestingly enough, a boy of,
say, eleven or less, probably was considered too young, not because of his immature
physical development, but rather, because too much attention and admiration
lavished upon the youngster possibly could skew his thinking and result in an
inflated perception of himself.
The older person, of
course, was required to be the mentor of the younger person and to assist in
his development.  If the younger person,
the eromenos, misbehaved, that was a poor reflection upon the mentor,
the erastēs.  Odd by our standards
today, if the mentor was of admirable class and breeding and the youth found
the suitor acceptable, the man was permitted to carry out a ritual abduction of
the ephebe as a celebration of the union.  Some museums today contain Greek vases with
sexually explicit scenes that were gifts given by the erastēs to the
eromenos. The general acceptance of, using the Greek term, paideresteia,
even was idealized with myths such as of Ganymede’s abduction by Zeus, and
Apollo’s love for Hyacinthus. 
Historically famous is the union of Caesar Hadrian and young
Antinous.  Of course, in today’s society,
such relationships would not be understood, let alone tolerated.  What questions does such a dramatic contrast
in societal mores raise?
During a few centuries
in Europe, men held a peculiar philosophy regarding sex and relationships in
general.  To varying degrees, society
then was misogynistic.  For the most
part, women were second-class citizens but necessary for breeding.  Masculinity was to be admired.  Considering the uniformed state of science of
the time, it was believed that the preferable maleness was equated with heat, whereas
the feminine was equated with cold.  Too
much contact with woman, both sexually and in daily living, could diminish a
man’s heat.  So in addition to any
aesthetic appeal of youths, a man supposedly maintained his desired heat by not
having “excessive” contact with females. 
An added plus, of course, was that a union with a youth would not result
in unwanted pregnancy.
There certainly is a
lot of hypocrisy about pedophilia even today. 
For centuries, the men of Afghanistan have had a reputation for being
brutally macho and for denigrating women.  
Anyone suggesting to an Afghan man that he was lacking in masculinity
could cost him his  life.  Yet at the same time, Afghan tribesmen,
especially the most prominent Pashtunmen tribe, enjoy having adolescent boys
dress up as girls, dance for them, and then have sex with them.  These men claim that they are not gay because
they do not actually love the boys; they merely use them.  I noticed that, over the dozen or so years of
the Afghan war, our government, Department of Defense, and major new media have
avoided mentioning this continuing tradition of dancing boys (Bacha Bazi)
while our troops were supposedly bringing American-style democracy and
civilization to the barbarians.
Despite severe laws in
our own nation, hypocrisy has rained supreme. 
At one time in New York City, for example, law-makers and political
power-brokers had a private club that included having sex with underage males.  I am aware of numerous examples of persons
with much money and influence doing what they please, protected by their money
and power, whereas the average person tends to be in much greater danger of
being caught and suffering the consequences. 
What does it mean about a society that professes one thing but does the
opposite for some people?
Further, what may be
declared legal or illegal has varied greatly from state to state and nation to
nation.  What may be declared illegal at
seventeen in this nation may be declared legal in Britain, legal at sixteen in
several countries including France, fifteen in some countries such as Denmark,
fourteen in several countries such as Austria, Germany, and Estonia, and
thirteen in Spain.  The age of consent is
a legal concept, not so much a standardized psychological demarcation.  People develop physically and emotionally at
different rates.  Balancing law with
human nature is a tricky prospect.  How
much thought has been put into this question in our own country?
Perhaps the aspect of
pedophilia least likely to be discussed is the frequent claim of  “irrevocable psychological harm done” and
“being scarred for life.”  When it comes
to near-age partners, this assertion needs to be examined dispassionately.  Certainly, there are cases where coercion,
force, or violence have resulted in trauma. 
The fact remains, however, that there have been, and continue to be,
short-term and long-term interactions between teens and adults that are
mutually desired and apparently without the younger partner feeling “abused,
molested, traumatized.”  Again, no research
has been conducted in this area.
I recall cases told to
me by two young men where their long-term relationships were described as very
loving and rewarding.  Surprisingly
enough, I also have seen comments regarding the film “For a Lost Soldier,” that
centers upon such a relationship, posted on YouTube stating, “I wish that had
happened with me.” 
How the two cases told
to me ended raises some very important, thought-provoking questions.  In each case, each person, now of adult age,
sought help from licensed psychiatrists because of family difficulties.  When the psychiatrists were told of the
relationships, they (along with the families) immediately expressed the
currently popular outrage.  They
instructed the two to think of their experiences as “disgusting, evil, and
having harmed them for life.”  Only after
they were told this did they begin to feel upset.  So, the logical question is, were they each,
in fact, traumatized by their experiences, or were they taught that they must
feel traumatized?  Would they have felt
ashamed and traumatized had those experiences occurred in the Greek era?  How much responsibility does society bare for
some people feeling traumatized?  These
are questions that most people fear to consider.  I don’t have all the answers, but at least I
have rationally considered the questions.
It is true that many
people’s thinking regarding sex is based primarily upon religious beliefs and
current societal mores. They are not open to consideration of additional
information.  Yet, it is that additional
information that may help to clarify society’s understanding of
pedophilia.  This clarification is
necessary, for pedophilia is not a rare or recent phenomenon.  It has existed throughout known history.
There is the
possibility that, with some pedophiles, some basic emotional need, stemming
from learned childhood experiences, prompts attraction to young people.  Also, in addition to learned experiences,
modern research shows that human sexuality is not binary, male or female.  Instead, 
because of dozens of differences in brain and endocrine physiology,
sexual identification and attraction vary greatly among people, ranging along a
wide scale.  Consequently, there appears
to be some innate quality among some people prompting them to have a greater
than average attraction to the young physical form.  I believe that it would be beneficial to
inquire as to why this is, to see it possibly as an innate predilection among
some people rather than a conscious, deviant choice. 
There is so much more
than can be said about this subject, but let me finish with one last
thought.  Regardless of what the
contributing factors of pedophilia are, anyone with such feelings is saddled
with the difficult obligation to live within the current mores and laws of the
society in which he resides.  And frankly
when it involves very young children, everyone should be.  Theoretically, if someone is attracted to
teens, one can choose to live in a different country than ours; however, that
is not so easy as, for example, feeling uncomfortable with the teachings of one
church and changing to a different one nearby.
Someone troubled by
his inclinations may benefit from counseling. 
There are some professionals who are more understanding and sympathetic
than the two I referred to earlier and who possibly can assist in dealing with
such feelings.  The search may not not be
easy, for most therapists have little or no training in this area, especially
for non-offenders.  Ironically, the
number of individuals independently seeking help recently has declined because
of the fear of exposure based upon so much sensationalized coverage in the
media.  The few professionals who are
assigned to treat pedophiles may have a skewed view of the subject from the
hard description detailed in the current Diagnostic and Statistical
Manuel.       
One possibly helpful
source may be found by searching on-line for a well run self-help group.  For example, a group was started by a teen
pedophile who spoke in an April 11, 2014, interview on “This America
Life.”  That program has a link (starting
at 28:17 to 55:17.) 
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/522/tarred-and-feathered?act=2#play   
What I have presented
here is only a small portion of information regarding this human  phenomenon of pedophilia.  For the sake of society as a whole and the
people who are involved, a better understanding would be helpful, rather than
responding just with knee-jerk condemnation. 
Only when it is better understood can society and the concerned
individuals begin to deal with it in a rational and constructive manner.
© 28 March 2014 
About the Author   
  

I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Revelation by Will Stanton

“You cannot judge a book by
its cover.”  This phrase itself is a
hackneyed expression, yet its truth can be applied to many experiences in my
life.  There certainly have been instances
where, based upon surface appearances, I arbitrarily have assumed the quality
or interpretation of a person or situation which, subsequently, proved to have
been wrong or misleading.  Throughout my
life, I also have tended to give people the benefit of the doubt unless
subsequently proved otherwise.  I have
assumed that people are more honest or reliable than they turn out to be, or
more intelligent and better informed than they are.  Too often, I have been mislead by those
people’s own inflated egos, their self-assured behavior, or supposed credentials
or positions of authority.  I end up
being disappointed when they prove otherwise. 
Those repeated revelations should have resulted in early learned
lessons. 
Good looks can be very
misleading, too.  Psychological studies
have shown that tall, good looking people are assumed to be more intelligent,
more capable, more successful, and generally happier.  I admit to having made that mistaken
assumption, too.  We all are aware of any
number of young, good-looking actors, for example, who became very popular and
rich early on, only later to fall prey to some personal calamity such as a
failed adult life of misery, an overdose on drugs or alcohol, dying in terrible
car-crashes, or even committing suicide.
The most dramatic case that
I’m personally familiar with is the tragic case of Ross Carlson whom I met on
the Auraria campus.  Ross was especially
handsome nineteen-year-old, very intelligent, and charismatic enough to have
become a teacher’s pet.  It was easy to
wish to be  as fortunate as Ross.  It turned out, however, that Ross was
suffering from multiple personality disorder. 
He later shot both his parents and later died suddenly of acute
leukemia.  I’m certainly glad that I was
not Ross, despite his exceptionally good looks.   
I recall that, from a very
early age, I was extraordinarily sensitive to beauty, and this certainly
pertained to the human face and form.  I
clearly recall the spring evening when I was only five years old when my
brother and I joined a couple of young neighbor kids sitting on their
lawn.  One boy, only a year older than I,
was physically extraordinary in every way, with his finely formed face, his
sensuous posture, and his graceful movements. 
Looking at him, I was fascinated. 
I actually felt an electric-like tingle in my stomach.  I never really got to know the boy as a
person.  The family soon moved away, and
I never saw him again.  So, all that I
knew of him was his physical self, only the “cover of the book,” not the real
“contents.”  Who knows what he really was
like as a human being or what he may have turned out to be when he grew
up.  His outer appearance may have not at
all have reflected who he was or would be.
This hyper-sensitivity of
mine to beauty most likely had some innate factor, yet I also recall a
potential contributing learning-factor as well. 
For some reason, I never quite felt accepted or loved as a young
child.  This feeling was exacerbated by
my hearing my mother saying, upon seeing one of my neighbor friends or
classmates, “My, he’s a good-looking boy.” 
So, I suppose that I learned that, to be accepted, I had to be (quote)
“a good-looking boy.”
Such a conviction and
preoccupation crept even into some of my dreams.  Throughout the years starting in my late
twenties and thirties, I sometimes dreamed of having the appearance I would
like to have, of being years younger, sometimes perhaps back in college.  If I felt that, at a dream-age of
twenty-four, I was out of place with the younger students, I’d wake up reminded
of the fact that I was not even twenty four; I actually was was in my
thirties.  Perhaps more interestingly, I
often dreamed of being someone else entirely, younger, healthy, athletic, and
good looking, sometimes even of a different nationality.  Youth, health, and beautiful outer appearance
always have caught my attention.
But, outer appearances never
tell the whole story.  In one
extraordinarily curious dream, I saw myself as around sixteen to eighteen, not
particularly tall but lean and compact, very good looking, and with dark-brown
hair.  The peculiar aspect of the dream,
considering that I was in rural Ohio, was that I was trying to appear to be
attractive by dressing as a mock-cowboy. 
In addition to  bluejeans, cowboy
boots, and black cowboy hat, I also was wearing a linen shirt with an
embroidered cowboy design.  In the dream,
I had the distinct emotional feeling that I had dressed in this manner in an
attempt to appear attractive in a young-masculine way.  That dream was so vivid and so peculiar that
I remembered every moment of it.
Some years later when I was
around forty, I traveled back to my hometown to visit my family.  They decided to take a long drive out into
the countryside to a state park where there was a scenic hollow with a path leading
to a waterfall.  The highway ran through
an economically depressed area with a few tiny, neglected villages and miles of
scrub forest and abandoned coal mines. 
The people around there were very poor. 
We arrived at the small, empty parking lot by the entrance to the hollow
and gathered ourselves together to begin our nature-walk.
About this time, a worn,
older-model car pulled in.  As the lone
driver got out of his car, I cast a glance at him and was very startled by what
I saw.  The image presented to me was so
uncanny that I immediately developed a powerful feeling of déja vue.  I had seen him before, but only in my dream
some years before.  The lone figure was a
youth, at most around eighteen, good looking, and with brown hair.  But, what truly stunned me was what he was
wearing.  He had attempted, here in the
middle of nowhere in rural Ohio, to make himself look attractive by dressing as
a cowboy with bluejeans, cowboy boots, black cowboy hat, and, most especially,
a linen shirt with an embroidered cowboy design.  What were the chances of encountering a
perfect match to what I had dreamed years before?   I was amazed.


Then, I felt something
rather disturbing.  Everything about this
youth and his old car with the local license plate spoke of rural poverty.  Even more poignantly, I sensed in this lone
boy a life most likely of isolation in these poverty-stricken hills, quite
possibly with a dismal future of educational and economic disadvantage.  Because of this strange, unexplained
coincidence with my dream, I would have liked to have spoken to him, to find
out who he really was as a person, to discover why he was dressed like
that.  Of course, I felt that I could not
do so.  I was with my family, and they
would not understand or approve of my talking to this stranger.

Then reality set in.  Here was a very attractive person whom I
would like to look like, that, in fact, I even had dreamed about, a mystery
without an explanation.  Yet, that
handsome appearance was only his outer image, the “cover of the book.”  If, by some magic, I had been  transformed into that person, I might also
have ended up in a life of sadness, disappointment, and hopelessness, trapped
in those depressed hills of rural Ohio.
That experience left me with
two deeply ingrained impressions.  Ever
since that day, I have been puzzled by the unexplained memory of encountering
the same attractive person,  uncannily
dressed in cowboy clothes, as I had seen in my earlier dream.  The other was the  reminder to avoid envying those individuals
who appear to be especially attractive, for the lives of those individuals may
not be so attractive as their outside promise. 
You cannot judge a book by its cover.    

© 2
January 2014  

About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Wisdom by Will Stanton

We selected this topic “Wisdom” two months ago, and I’ve been stymied the whole time since as to what to say. I considered saying simply, “I don’t have it,” but, that comment would not explain much to the listener. So, I’ve put a bit more thinking into the topic and finally realized the reason for my roadblock. I am not wise.

How can I say that? Understanding my response first requires understanding what wisdom is. Wisdom consists of two essential parts. The first is the ability to think, that is, to have good critical thinking skills based upon a solid base-core of knowledge resulting from good education, worthwhile experience, clear insight, and understanding.

To some extent, I suppose that I can claim a modicum of good thinking skills. But, perhaps that claim is mostly by default when contrasted with many other people. That possibility exists based upon what I see and hear far too often from many people in positions of power and influence who, despite their egoistical self-perception, are, in fact, bloviating ignoramuses. They confuse ego and delusion for wisdom. To quote Shakespeare from “As You Like It,” “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”

I must admit that, throughout my life, I often have perceived and understood some things that might have escaped other people’s attention. At times, I have shared my perceptions with thinking people, and they might have thought me wise. I was not; however, for I too often lacked the second criterion that defines true wisdom: action. I may have understood a situation but, unfortunately, did not know how to put that understanding into action.

Wisdom, in Western thought, is considered to be one of four cardinal virtues. To be a true virtue, however, requires one to put perception and understanding into the most worthy and optimal course of action with the highest degree of adequacy. In retrospect, I cannot claim that ability, at least not with any regularity. Being appropriately reactive, or better yet proactive, never seemed to be my strong suit.

Ironically over the years, many clients and friends have felt that I have helped them by imparting words of wisdom to them. A few, thinking me unusually perceptive, even jokingly have called me “wizard.” Of course, it is easier to suggest wise paths for others to follow than to walk them oneself. “Physician, heal thyself.” Without this second part, action, how can one claim to be wise? Without taking optimal action, understanding is of little worth.

Lacking action too often in my life, I cannot claim either wisdom or self-actualization. I finally have come to realize that fact. Socrates said, “The only true wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing.” A few weeks from now, we have another topic, this one “Drifting.” What I have written for that topic pretty well explains my substitution for wisdom. Had I possessed true wisdom, I undoubtedly would have lived my life more fully. So, I’ll end by speaking wise words to others, words that I would have benefited from had I followed them. Quoting Jonathan Swift, “May you live every day of your life.”

© 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Terror by Will Stanton

Back when I was around twenty and still living in my hometown, I met and briefly knew a young woman of about the same age named Ann. Physically, Ann was rather short and squat, what one would call, using a hackneyed expression, “not very attractive, but with a nice personality.” In retrospect, my guess is that Ann turned out to be gay. People said that her older brother Tim was, too. I guess it can run in some families.

Like many young people, and especially in that strange town, Ann had been interested in the occult for some time. She tended to hang around similar young people, using Ouija boards, reading about pagan practices, and becoming involved in who-knows-what.

Ann soon discovered that there was a new, young English-professor on campus who, supposedly, also was involved in the occult, claiming to be a witch. He also had a surname of “Oakwood,” which is singularly appropriate for someone claiming to practice the “old religion.” I saw him on campus. I must say that he certainly sounded and looked the part, tall and thin, very dark hair and eyes, always dressed in black, and tending to speak and behave in a mysterious manner. Ann actually went to the effort to sit in on his class, just to be there and to observe him. Eventually, she had the nerve to ask him, “Are you a white witch or black witch?” Apparently, Ann had watched “The Wizard of Oz” far more than having read reputable textbooks on pagan history and anthropology. The ancient pagans did not practice “dark magic” and actually believed that, if one did something evil, that evil would come back upon the person threefold. Naturally, the mysterious professor responded, “White witch.”

I met Ann at the same time that I briefly knew Ned. One evening when the three of us were together, Ann suggested that we go back to her house and hang out in their little basement-den where she had a small TV. So, we ended up at her house. The three of us, along with her cocker spaniel, went down to the den to watch TV and chat.

Suddenly at one point, I felt terror, as though a lump of ice had been thrust into my gut. I instantly noticed that both Ann and Ned were responding the same way, – – and so was the dog! That poor dog’s eyes were wild, and it howled and howled. This continued for at least a dozen seconds, which is a long time to feel terror. Then, the feeling and the dog’s howling abruptly stopped. We just looked at each other. Finally, Ned said, “What was that?!”

The following day, Ann attended Oakwood’s class as usual. As she was leaving at the end of class, Oakwood casually mentioned to Ann, “I visited you last night.” That really spooked Ann.

I eventually learned that Ann had gotten herself so deeply involved with the occult that she increasingly felt fear and anxiety, so much so that she finally concluded that she had to get away from it all. She approached the young, assistant priest at our town’s Episcopal church, begging him to perform an exorcism. Noting how distressed that Ann was, the priest actually did perform the ritual; and Ann never returned to her old practices.

An ironic postscript to all of this is that Ned got to know that young, handsome priest, and had sex with him. I guess that there is more than one way to reduce stress.

© 5 November 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Snow by Will Stanton

“Let it snow, let it snow!” Seems like years ago, long before climate change, we had a lot more snow in the winters here in Denver. That may just be a fignewton of my imagination, but warmer, drier winters seem more evident now.

I recall thirty years ago, I was saddled with the task of shoveling knee-deep snow off my sidewalks. I even had a friend stop by one Christmas Eve who ended being a house-guest for the next three days. We quickly became snowed in, and he could not get home.

Back in the early days, I bought a little two-stage snow-blower, only to find out that it had no chance of contending with deep snow and deeper, wind-blown snow-drifts. So I sold it and found a second-hand, tractor-tread snow blower. It was so big that the little lady who first purchased it could not wrestle it around the sidewalks. So she decided to sell it. I was happy to use “Big Foot” the first few years that I had it and even did the sidewalk of the retired teacher next door. Then as the years passed, I would prepare the snow-blower at the beginning of each winter and fill it with fresh gasoline. Then it sat there and sat there, waiting for the big snows which rarely if ever came. I ended up going through the messy effort of draining the unused gas each spring. “Big Foot” has been sitting abandoned in my garage for the last several years.

Living here in Denver, I can’t say I care for snow, having to shovel it and drive on it. I’m not like so many avid skiers who can’t wait to make the arduous drive up to the mountains just to ski the fresh powder. When I first arrived in Denver many years ago, I guess that I felt obligated to try out skiing the first couple of years. I had to pay more money than I cared to for rental skis, boots, polls, and gasoline. The long drive up and back through endless stop-and-go traffic meant limited time on the slopes. I certainly never have been one of the well-heeled who have condos up in the mountains and do not have to rush back all in one day. I let skiing go and limited my physical activities to sports that I could do right around home.

I see that, over the last several years, the northeast U.S. seems to have been overwhelmed with heavy snowfalls, taking out power to thousands and closing highways. Of course, some areas always have been prone to bitter winters, but it also appears now that climate change is increasing the ferocity of some storms. Not surprisingly, the mindless congressmen in charge of the science committees point to snowy winters as supposed evidence of no such thing as climate change, or “global warming,” as they prefer to call it.

Going back many decades to where I was growing up as a young child, I recall that we had some memorable snow-storms. One of the biggest was when I was five. I have an old photo of me standing on a cleared sidewalk with the snow on either side as high as my chest. Few cars ever drove by our house even during good weather, but it was a rare, brave soul who tried to drive through that heavy snow in winter.

One of my most pleasant memories was of my oldest brother Ted sledding on the empty, snowy street. Now when I say “sledding,” I really mean sledding. There was a wealthy family who owned a lot of land on a forested hill just north of us; and they had a long, steep drive that wound its way up the hill to their house. I recall one day seeing Ted make the long hike up the steep slope to the first bend in the road and then sled all the way down to the street below and past our house. With that much momentum, he continued on for some distance. Now that must have been a grand ride. I don’t know how many times he did this, for that was quite a long hike up the hill.

Our growing up with snow during Christmas, we naturally became habituated with the idea of there having to be snow on Christmas. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” That is all well and good, provided one has a home, heat, maybe a warm fire in the fireplace, and the heat stays on. The image of that cozy ambiance still is ingrained in me, although Denver’s Christmases usually are brown. If I had some logs, I’d put another log into the fireplace, if only I had a fireplace.

Now that I am discernibly superannuated and I don’t ski, I just don’t want to hear the song, “Let it snow, let it snow.” I never cheerfully hum that while trying to shovel my walks, often in the dark of early morning before the high-school scholars tramp it down to unremovalbe ice. And, I can’t imagine any terrified driver whistling that song as his car is sliding uncontrollably down-hill toward a busy intersection. That happened to me once. I was very lucky; there was a momentary lull in traffic at that time. I’ll reserve snowy scenes for the home-made Christmas-card images that I send to people.

© 11 December 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Camping by Will Stanton

I am one of those fortunate
people who grew up in an era that was not overwhelmed, as we appear to be
now-days, with digital technology.  We
found ways of entertaining ourselves and choosing enjoyable activities that
were more natural.  Camping was one of
those.
My mother and father thought
that camping was a good way to spend summer vacations.  Part of that stemmed from the fact that we
did not have much money and were not well-healed enough to take world cruises,
go to luxury resorts, or stay in fancy hotels. 
My father was able to pick up some army-surplus camping supplies, all of
it rather primitive by today’s camping standards.  He bought a heavy-canvas tent, big enough to
stand up in and to hold the five of us. 
He bought five army cots made of heavy oak supports and canvas.  We had a gas Coleman lantern that, when lit,
hissed and provided us with plenty  of
light.  We had a plywood icebox that he
made, lined with Celotex for insulation.
So for several summers, we
traveled in our station wagon to various states in central, north, and eastern
U.S., setting up camp in preselected campsites. 
Undoubtedly, these travels sparked my love of nature that has lasted all
my life.
Unlike many other boys who
found enjoyable experiences camping through joining the Cub Scouts, Boys
Scouts, or (as portrayed in the movie “Moonlight Kingdom”) the Khaki Scouts, my
brief participation in the scouts included almost no camping trips.  I don’t recall whether our local troops just
did not offer that many trips, or if my mother just did not bother to sign me
up.  As a consequence, I missed out on
some scouting experiences, enjoyable or less so, that many other boys have had.
I do recall that one of the
older boys, seventeen-year-old Bruce, apparently was very proud of his
developing masculinity, which was expressed in his being the hairiest
individual I ever had seen, to that date, outside of a zoo.  Between his questionable personality, very
chunky build, rather common features, and a mat of black hair covering almost
the entirety of his body, I did not find him to be a particularly attractive
person.
Bruce was noted for two
exceptional habits while on camping trips. 
One was that he prided himself on carrying with him a battery-pack and
electric razor to mow each morning the inevitable black stubble on his
face.  The other habit, which to this day
I have not been able to explain, was that he liked to spend the night in his
sleeping bag nude.  Boys being boys,
neither of these facts went unobserved.  And
boys being who they are, they decided to play a practical joke on Bruce.  All they had to do was hook up his electric
razor to his battery-pack, slip it down into his sleeping back, turn it on, and
then shout, “Snake!  Snake!” 
Bruce, waking up to the
warning shouts, along with the buzz and vibration down in his sleeping bag,
naturally panicked.  Terrified, and
struggling to extricate himself from the sleeping bag, Bruce quickly wiggled
out of the bag, stood up, and without stopping to further assess the situation,
took off running into the woods.  It took
a while for the boys to coax Bruce back into the camp.  He was relieved but also irritated to find
that there never was a snake in his sleeping bag.  He was even more irritated with the new
Indian name that the boys assigned to him, “Running Bare.”
© 23
January 2014    
About the Author 
 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

All My Exes Live in Texas by Will Stanton

Who the heck came up with
this topic?  Just because the title
rhymes doesn’t mean that every member of the Story-Time group will have
something worthwhile to say about it…and, in my case, certainly nothing serious.  I’ve read the lyrics of the Shafer and Shafer
song, and I can’t say that the song has any memorable quality to it, regardless
of whether the song is sung by George Straight or Marvin Gay.
To begin with, I don’t have
any exes.  I had just one partner of
twenty years before he died of lung cancer, and I don’t consider him to be an
“ex.”  Besides, if I did have exes, the
kind of person I would have associated with, as sure as hell, never would want
to move to Texas.
Oh, I’m sure that a few of
the people in Texas are very nice and have something to offer humanity, but I
have to say the the ones that I met on a couple of visits left me
unimpressed.  Now, maybe this statement
is too much of a generality, but it appeared to me that the only things the
Texans whom I met were interested in were money, power, food, and sex…and
maybe in that order.  They practiced a
form of Texan chauvinism, viewing outsiders as suspect, probably even
un-American.
The Texan culture (to use
that term loosely) seems to consist of strident guitars, pounding drums, cold
beer, and line-dancing.  The Texas
Two-Step probably was devised by quickly avoiding cow paddies out on the
prairie.  Yes, I know that Houston has an
opera, but I suspect that its oil-rich patrons gave tons of money to Carl Rove
to help him execute the 2000 George-Bush junta that placed him the Presidents’
office.
After eight years of W,
along with a plague of senators and congressman from that lunatic asylum, I
cringe at even the hint of a Texas accent. 
I recall when a Texas senator (who expressed his dislike of faggots) had
the hubris to consider running for President. 
He naturally went to his base, the N.R.A., for a speech.  One of his statements, and his thick Texas
drawl, remain indelibly printed in my memory. 
He said, “Ah own more guhns than ah need, but not as minny as ah
wohnt!”  I suppose he thought that this
sentiment qualified him to be leader of the “Free World.”
In case any of you needs
assistance in interpreting Texan speech, there is, in fact, a Texan-English
dictionary.  For example, “ohll” is that
black stuff that they pump out of the ground.   
And, “Yurp” is that place east across the ocean.
I’ll tell you what – – how
about culling out those Texan senators and congressmen who are scary, delusional
nut-cases and making them all exes.  Get
them out of Washington and send them back to Texas.  Then if they want to secede, let them.  Let them try to make it on their own without
all the federal services and benefits that they claim are a commie intrusion
upon their freedom.  The next time a
hurricane devastates their coastline cities and industries, let them try to
make it on their own.  Or, maybe they can
ask Mexico for help.
I have one more suggestion:
how about all those people throughout the nation who have had the misfortune to
have made terrible choices in selecting partners sending all their exes to
Texas?  Get them out of the country and
put them where they belong.  We could
call that program “Keep America Beautiful.”
 © 17 December 2013 

About
the Author   
I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Great Performances: Alexei Sultanov, Classical Pianist by Will Stanton

I wish that I could share
with audiences a lifetime of great classical performances on the concert
piano.  But then, as the adage states,
“If wishes were fishes, we would all cast nets.”  Ironically, and perhaps even tragically in
light of my own desires and emotions, I was gifted with sufficient musical
understanding to be a pianist; however, I never have possessed the pianistic
athletic ability.  Succinctly said, my
hands are crap.  Performing the
astonishing physical feats necessary to play classical piano requires a special
genetic gift.  In my trying to explain to
the uninitiated this irony and my frustration regarding my condition, I often
quote the short poem by Robert Frost, “Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on
Thee, And I’ll forgive Thy great big joke on me.”
I realize that envy is an
undesirable trait, yet I admit to a lifetime of envy upon viewing those persons
who do possess the qualities that I wished to possess.  I recall seeing on YouTube the
fifteen-year-old Swiss pianist Kristian Cvetkovic performing the most virtuosic
piano works such as Franz Liszt’s devilishly hard “Mephisto Waltz No.1.”  Those beautiful hands just flowed over the
keyboard with the greatest of ease, strength, and endurance.  Kristian, who speaks several languages and
was a pen-pal early in his career, mentioned in passing, “I don’t seem to have
a problem with technique.”  To me, that
was rather like Microsoft’s Bill Gates stating, “I don’t seem to have a problem
with money.”
It seems, however, that
throughout my life when I have envied some person, something happens to
dramatically remind me that such persons are not immortal gods, that some
unseen fate can befall them; and it may be just as well I was not living in
their shoes.  Such is the case with the
genius pianist Alexei Sultanov.
Alexei, Age 11
 Alexei was born in 1969 to
musician-parents in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. 
Even as a tiny child, it soon became abundantly clear that Alexei was
gifted with deep intellect, great musical talent, and a physical, pianistic
skill that is very rare.  He began his
studies in Tashkent and quickly came to the attention of music pedagogues.  His first performance with orchestra was at
age seven.  I have a recording of his
playing a Haydn concerto when he was ten and a recording at eleven playing the
very difficult Chopin Revolutionary Étude with astonishing speed and great
power.  He soon began studies in Moscow,
which lead to his acceptance in their famous conservatory.  By age thirteen, Alexei’s progress was so
remarkable that he performed in an international piano competition in Prague.
Then by age nineteen, his
teachers felt that Alexei was of high enough technical expertise and musical
understanding to participate in the arduous Van Cliburn International Piano
Competition in Fort Worth, one of thirty pianists chosen from around the
world.  His three extensive recital
performances astounded the audience and, apparently, the judges; for, from the
six finalists, he won the gold medal, the youngest pianist to ever face such a
demanding challenge and win. 
Alexei approached his
playing, both musically and technically, with fresh yet valid
interpretations.  Denise Mullins, who was the Cliburn
Foundation’s artistic administrator in 1989, stated in an interview, “He
took things to the absolute edge of the cliff, and it was very exciting to
hear.  He wasn’t afraid to take a chance
on stage, and there aren’t a lot of pianists who do that.”  His fingers never seemed to lose
accuracy, power, or speed.  The fact that
Alexei’s fingers were so strong and enduring that he snapped a pair of strings
during his performance of the “Mephisto Waltz No.1” does make one wonder where
such physical gifts come from, especially considering the fact that he was only
five feet three.
(See video of another
performance of this work at age 19, St. Petersburg:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZH3XQ_cflg )
For Alexei’s first-place win
at the Van Cliburn competition, he was presented with cash awards, a recital at Carnegie Hall, a recording
contract, and sponsored tours throughout the United States and Europe with free
management valued at over a million dollars.
Alexei then went on to shine in 1995 at the International
Frederick Chopin Piano Competition. 
Then, at the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow, some judges awarded him
top marks, but other judges apparently deliberately sabotaged his win by
falsely assigning low enough scores to prevent his win.  Naturally, Alexei was bitter about the
political unfairness of the event. 
Viewers can judge for themselves by watching several videos of Alexei on
YouTube.
(See the remarkable video of Chopin Sonata No. 3, 4th movement:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2TvpQP4RSE )
I had a chance to hear
Alexei’s performance in Boulder and to suffer yet another moment of unabashed
envy.  Alexei certainly lived up to his
reputation, pleasing the audience and amazing them with his pianistic
pyrotechnics.  While in Boulder, he
stayed with a wealthy patron of young musicians.  She kept a Steinway in her home’s music room
were Alexei could practice while he was there. 
I once pretended to play her Steinway when visiting her home.
Alexei, Age 16
The all too frequent curse
that accompanies my envy struck yet again. 
Apparently unknown to Alexei and others, he soon after suffered a minor
stroke.  Then in 2001, he felt ill and
dizzy, slipped in the bathroom, struck his head, and exacerbated an already
fragile injury.  Then in February, he
awoke to find that he could not speak. 
He immediately was taken to a doctor, who discovered severe internal
bleeding in his brain.  Alexei slipped
into a coma.  The doctors rushed Alexei into emergency surgery.  As they struggled to save his life, they
witnessed on the brain-scanner a continuing series of five massive strokes that
destroyed most of the brain’s capacity to communicate with the body or to
receive input from the body.  Ironically,
the cognitive portions of the brain remained intact so that, when Alexei
awakened a few days later, he became fully aware of his tragic incapacity.  He no longer could speak nor play the piano.  The musical genius that astonished audiences
with a blaze of superhuman technical feats was extinguished forever, depriving
us of perhaps another half-century of pleasure.
(See the video of the very demanding, beautifully played
Liszt piano sonata in b-minor, 31 min.:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWBonbvcjAs )
Over the next months, Alexei struggled to gain enough
control of one hand to pick out the melodic lines of the Rachmaninov Third
Piano Concerto, the concerto claimed to be the most difficult written and one
of many with which Alexei once stunned audiences and judges alike.
In November, 2004, Alexei Sultanov was made a U.S.
Citizen.  To celebrate, he peformed with
one hand “America the Beautiful” at the ceremony.  That was his final appearance and his final
performance in public.  He died June 30,
2005 at the age of thirty-five.
  
I still watch my downloaded videos of Alexei.  No matter how many times that I watch and
listen, I am moved by the sheer beauty of his playing and astonished by his
superlative technique.  (Watch the video
of his playing the Tchaikovsky 1st piano concerto, 3rd
movement:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaqQRye3gUI )
Yet, that mind and those hands are gone now; they no
longer exist.  Here I am, lamenting those
clumsy “feet” attached to my arms instead of the dexterous hands I wish I
had.  Yet, at the same time, I’m still
bumbling about at nearly twice Alexei’s age when he died.  I envied his ability to perform, but I don’t
envy his tragic end.
 

Alexei During Piano Competition

© 25 January,
2014    

About the Author  

I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.