Friday, May 31, 2013

Statues, Art, and Sensuality by Will Stanton


Michangelo's David
An art teacher in Dallas, Texas, took her class for a tour of the local art museum.  One statue was nude.  One student mentioned it at home. The mother complained to the school.  The Dallas school board fired the teacher.

Loveland, Colorado, is noted for its sculpture park.  In addition to displaying a few pieces of statuary throughout the grounds, annual art shows and sales are held there and have proved to be both popular and profitable. Unfortunately, a number of very righteous citizens complained.  Apparently, there was one statue depicting a mother holding her child that they considered to be obviously obscene and a corrupting influence upon the youth of Loveland.  Despite the fact that the statue was not highly detailed because the artist stylized it through simplified lines, the statue was removed and placed in a far corner of the park, unfrequented by most visitors.

Apparently, these events are just more symptoms of skewed concerns and perhaps even rampant insanity in America.  “Of course, I realize that God abhors human nudity.  That is why we are born fully clothed and without genitals.”  I did not find this to be so in many of the older, more mature countries that I have visited in the past. 

I not only appreciate all forms of beauty including sculpture and the human form,  I, of course, am referring to the most admired examples of the human form, not those images that I receive on-line showing Wal-Mart shoppers in Tennessee.

Actually on the contrary, sane theology scholars (including relatively recent statements by Pope John Paul II) make quite clear that nudity in Christian art is acceptable when purposeful, done so with an element of philosophical modesty, and not solely to cater to the prurient interests and desires of the viewers.

Personally, I would have to have a brain of a brick and a heart of stone not to perceive the physical beauty in the David statues of both Michelangelo and Donatello.  I realized that, long ago, that David had become somewhat of a gay icon, an archetypal form of beauty often found in cheap, miniature imitations displayed in apartments and homes.  I had the good fortune to admire both in their original forms.

Michelangelo’s Renaissance masterpiece was created between the years 1501 and 1504.  The fact that it originally was destined to be but one among a series of monumental statues to be placed along the roofline of the Florence Cathedral accounts for its seventeen-foot size. The statue was placed instead in the public square near the seat of civic government and later into the Accademia Gallery. The strong, athletic build of this David, along with the steady gaze of his eyes, became to symbolize the strength of the Florentine city-state and a warning to stronger, contiguous cities.  The fact that this David also resembles a young, Greek god, does not hurt its aesthetic value either. 

What a different response Donatello’s David provides us.  This is no macho David, reliant upon his own physical power to vanquish the giant Goliath.  On the contrary, had Goliath captured David, Goliath might have been more prone to bed young David than to slay him.  If they had lived during Florentine times, this most likely would have been the outcome, and not to anyone’s surprise.  

Donatello’s David was created in bronze somewhere between the years of 1430 and 1460.  This five-foot bronze with gilt accents is said to be the first fully nude, male statue since the Greco-Roman times, although David’s wearing a cute hat and boots are anomalous.  Viewers with admirable sensibilities cannot help but admire this astonishing, artistic creation.  One would have to be a real “Bible-thumper” or a member of the Dallas School Board to be outraged and disgusted by this work of art. 

Admittedly however, there are some aspects of this David that might create confused feelings in male viewers, and quite possibly extremely disturbed feelings among homophobes.  To begin with, it is an understatement that one can not claim this David to be “macho” and physically powerful.  On the contrary, this adolescent, male form is notably androgynous, even to some degree feminine, and peculiarly sensuous.  Why so?

For the casual observer who has a rudimentary knowledge of Florentine history, one might conclude that this high degree of sexual sensuality merely reflects the pervasive tastes of the population at that time.  There is more truth to this than many people realize.  Sexual attraction and relations with young men were so prevalent that one cannot declare the practicing population to have been a “sub-culture.” One might almost conclude that they were the culture of the time.  But, could there have been a symbolized message within Donatello’s statue beyond the possible homoerotic interests of the artist and the person who commissioned the work?

I suggest that it does not take a Tom Hanks to figure out the meaning of the statue.  To begin with, young David did not rely upon his own powers and physical strength to vanquish the giant Goliath, nor was a single stone aimed at Goliath from some distance a sure thing.  Art historians state that, quite possibly, Donatello was expressing the belief that the power of God slew Goliath, not the physical prowess of an ephebe.

But why the sensuality, and that silly hat, and those little booties?   And even more so, why is there a long feather from Goliath’s helm riding up David’s thigh?  And what about that soft tuft of Goliath’s beard wrapped about David’s toes?


Donatello's David
Ah ha !   A well known custom of Florence was for men to steal the hats off the heads of comely lads and to refuse to return their hats until they agreed to be the recipients of the men’s advances.  A good looking youth still wearing his hat meant that he had shown enough moral fortitude not to lose his hat and that he had been vigilant to protect it. Donatello’s David still wears his hat. David could not be vanquished!  Could this be the possible answer, or is this explanation a stretch?

So, what response does each, individual viewer derive from these nude statues?  Are these Davids simply expressions of Christian themes? Or, is it that some people simply regard these statues as just rather sexy ?  

© 08 April 2011



About the Artist



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.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Getting Caught by Ray S


What a vast subject--depending on what you get caught at or doing. Certainly someone will recall, as I did, the old saw “getting caught with your pants down.” (Don’t you wish.) Caught by the boogy man in a bad dream when you were a kid. You remember. Running, running, running, and the harder you tried the more your feet were stuck in the mud-like glue on your path. Finally kicking and screaming you wake up escaping a horrible fate.

There were numerous times when you thought you didn’t get caught only to live with lingering pangs of conscience. With effort and appropriate therapy this too passed.

Then there were those delicious times when you were engaged in an activity in which you were tempting fate at getting caught. Those are the memories of “caughtness” that enrich our life experiences.

It all boils down to caught-positive and not caught-negative, so for me and maybe you I’m still out there catching that falling star.


2-4-13



About the Author




Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Cookie Monster by Phillip Hoyle


     During my rather long life I have tasted an endless assortment of cookies. They cause me to smack my lips, salivate, and obsess, so much so that I freely identify with Cookie Monster of Sesame Street. I smell cookies; I see cookies; I want to eat cookies. I do eat cookies, way too many of them. But every so often I seek to stem the cookie tide in order to gain control of some little part of my life. Then I quit eating cookies along with other wonderful desserts in hopes of stemming my appetite. Cookies, you see, serve me as a stimulant for further eating. Cookies turn me into a ravenous food monster that isn’t pretty or couth or sharing. So every once in a while, Cookie-Monster-me wants to give it a break so I can enjoy some other possible satisfactions such as easily fitting into my clothes, having more breath, saving money, and not getting so exhausted when simply walking through a day.

     After feasting on cookies all year long and sometimes using them as a substitute for getting anything done, I have, this year, set aside my cookie pleasures. I’m doing well but my thoughts sometimes turn towards cookies. I’ve asked Ruth, with whom I live and who herself is a Cookie Monster albeit a dainty one, to quit leaving cookies in plain sight. Too often they sit in translucent boxes on the round table in the breakfast room. When I see the box, I have to run upstairs to fetch some chewing gum to keep my mouth busy and cookie free. Also, I shun buying cookies at the 7-11 across the street from work or the tea shop down the block or one of the many coffee shops I tend to visit. I’m cookie free (for several days) but my mind has turned towards them with such great force, I am going to list the cookies that have most preoccupied my eating habits during the many years from childhood to older adulthood. Perhaps the imagination of their flavors and textures will suffice for me, at least today. Here, according to my taste buds, are some of the very best, both commercial and homemade:

Hydrox cookies
Pecan Sandies
Wedding cookies (with pecan bits and covered in confectioner sugar)
Toll House cookies
Black and white sandwich cookies (the cheaper the better)
Macaroons
Peanut butter blossoms (with their big chocolate centers)
Snickerdoodles 
Shortbread cookies
Raspberry filled sandwich cookies with chocolate drizzled on top
Myrna’s Power Cookies (big oatmeal cookies with raisins & chocolate chips)
Ruth’s frosted sugar cookies
Ruth’s Cry Babies (soft ginger cookies with icing)
Lemon bar cookies
Seven layer bar cookies
Key Lime bar cookies (I used to get at Alfalfa's bakery)

     In conclusion, I must admit I always return to Toll House cookies when my taste changes. I like cookies. I hope to lose enough weight to make a moderate return to cookies, but being the Cookie Monster I am, I find it hard to imagine life with such advanced self-control. If you ever see me reaching for the cookie jar, simply clear your throat and raise an eyebrow or, better yet, join me for an ultimate cookie pleasure.



About the Author



Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Memorials by Ricky



In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)


          One of my early girlfriends narrowly missed being a casualty of the sniper at the University of Texas–Austin on 1 August 1966.  Thus, I find the topic “In Memoriam” depressing when I think about it too long, or in too much detail (like trying to write this life memory story).  Since 1981, my blocked negative emotions are returning and I am increasingly more sensitive and emotional over sad and tragic incidents and events.  Undoubtedly, at some point while writing this, I will stop to regain composure and dry my eyes.

          There are individual and personalized types of memorials.  To honor our mother after she passed away, my brother grew the fingernail on his left little finger to a little over ¼ inch in length.  He kept it that way right up to his passing in 2011.  At his death, his twin sister installed a flagpole in her front yard and placed an engraved plaque on it to honor him.  His ashes are on top of our mother's grave and a Veterans Affairs plaque marks his location.  I occasionally wear a violet wristband in remembrance of the slain Matthew Sheppard, a hate-crime victim.

          The most horrific memorials to my mind and causes me a great deal of sobbing, are the ones dedicated to those senseless killings of innocents attending colleges and schools.  Since that August 1966 sniper in Austin, the shootings at schools and colleges did not stop and governments did nothing effective to stop the violence.  What is worse is the voting public did nothing to force legislators to act.  Living in metro Denver, I clearly remember the Columbine shooting (20 April 1999) and I have been to the memorial. 


Columbine Memorial - Never Forgotten
           No government did anything productive to prevent future violence.  Between the Columbine killings and the recent murders at Sandy Hook Elementary, there were 55 additional school shootings in the US (including three in Colorado: Bailey (Platte Canyon High School), Littleton (Deer Creek Middle School), and Aurora Central High School).  Neither governments nor the people did anything effective.  After the Sandy Hook shootings (as of 2 November 2013), there have been 18 more school shootings with 16 more fatalities and 21 more injured.¹  Perhaps governments and the populace will take effective action this time.

          Why did it take the mass killings of 6 and 7-year olds to motivate Congress to try and solve the problem?  Is Congress not concerned about the adult and teens that died at Columbine (or for that matter anywhere else since the 1970's)?  Do members of Congress place their highest level of concern, and highest priority, on staying in office and increasing their party's political power over serving the nation?  Do they even care about what is good for the people and nation?  In my opinion, their inaction cheapens the value of the lives lost.  [NOTE:  On 17 April 2013, Republican and Democrat members of the U.S. Senate once again turned their collective backs on the safety of the citizens by "killing" a bill to close background check "loopholes" in firearms law.] Since inaction speaks louder than words, it appears they really don't care about us or US.

          I hope the following photographs forever haunt the dreams of our Congress's heartless, soulless, and cowardly elected members who voted down (or blocked) the background checks bill. May they never have another peaceful night of sleep!   


In Memoriam of Sandy Hook Elementary Victims
(14 December 2012)

The Adults
Rachel D'Avino (Teacher's Aid with her dog)

Dawn Hochsprung (Principal)


Nancy Lanza (Mother of the murderer)

Anne Marie Murphy (Teacher)

Lauren Rousseau (Teacher)

Mary Sherlach (School Psychologist)

Victoria "Vicki" Soto (Teacher)


The Children
Charlotte Bacon 6

Daniel Barden 7

Olivia Engel 6

Josephine Gay 7

Dylan Hockley 6

Madeleine F. Hsu 6


Catherine V. Hubbard 6


Chase Kowalski 6

Jesse Lewis 6

Grace McDonnell 7


Ana Marques-Greene 6

James Mattioli 6
Emillie Parker 6

Jack Pinto 6


Noah Pozner 6

Caroline Previdi 6

Jessica Rekos 6

Avielle Richman 6

Benjamin Wheeler 6



¹ For a list of school shootings in the U.S. from 26 July 1764 through 2 November 2013 visit:



© 29 January 2013, revised 18 March 2013, 27 April 2013, 5 May 2013 and 9 November 2013. 


About the Author


Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA
Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.


He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”


Ricky's story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.




Monday, May 27, 2013

Memorials by Gillian


In the UK there is an expression, the Fortunate Fifty, referring to only fifty villages in the country, which did not lose even one man to the horrors of the First World War. Every other village has a war memorial, portraying a long list of those from the village killed in World War One, with a sad addendum below of those killed in World War Two. The second list is, thankfully, usually much shorter than the first.

The First World War was one of the deadliest in the history of mankind, with estimates of total deaths ranging from ten to fifteen million. In small villages it was so devastating because at that time all the men from the village served together, and frequently died together, so in many cases a village’s husbands, sons, brothers, sweethearts and neighbors all died on the same day, leaving the village essentially bereft of an entire generation of young men.

I was walking past one of these ubiquitous memorials one day, in some village in the north of England, I don’t even remember where I was or why.
Tudhoe Village War Memorial, United Kingdom
Photo by Peter Robinson used with permission.
I glanced at the tall granite pillar with the usual almost unbelievably long list of names, and an old farmer shuffled up to me. The tip of his gnarled old stick bumped down the names engraved in the stone.

“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

He stabbed his cane at the more recent list below,
“And then we showed the buggers again!”
He stomped off with evident satisfaction.

My mind turned to those old, grainy, jerky, black and white films taken in the trenches.
Did that young man, so fresh from his father’s farm, now lying in agony over the barbed wire of no-man’s-land, gasp with his dying breath,

“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

I doubt it.
Nor, I imagine, was it the last thought of the pilot of that Spitfire, plummeting to the ground in flames; he too injured to bail out.


In the nineteen-fifties I was on a train crossing northern France. We passed rows of identical white crosses. For miles and miles, they flowed up the hillsides and into the valleys. I had never seen such a sight. Nor have I since, come to that; just some of the countless dead of the First War. A French couple in the seat across from me waved their hands and jabbered animatedly. My French wasn’t good enough to get it all but I got the gist; a French version of,
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

When I spent some time at a volunteer job in St. Petersburg a few years ago, my young interpreter took me to the Siege of Leningrad Piskariovskoye Memorial Cemetery. Half a million of the estimated 650,000 people who died during the 900-day blockade, are buried here. From 1941 to 1944 the population, cut off from supplies and constantly bombarded by planes and ground guns, starved to death.


There are heartbreaking photographs from that time, and stories which my escort, visibly puffed up with patriotic pride, translated for me. Of course she had not even been born then, neither come to that had her parents, but that fervor burned from her eyes.
“Mother Russia will never give in!”

I pictured the starving mother, huddling in the corner of the cellar in the bitter cold of a Russian winter, cuddling her starving children. Did she feel that? She, and the other 650,000, were given no choice.
Katya was waving a dramatic arm and saying something in emphatic Russian.
Clearly some approximation of, “Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

It never fails to sadden me, this surge of patriotism that seems to overtake so many people, of any generation and gender, when contemplating memorials. How will we ever see an end to the need for memorials for the war dead, when, instead of shedding sufficient tears to make Niagara look like a trickle, we continue our attitude, in any language, of,
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”



About the Author


I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Friday, May 24, 2013

Music and Memory by Nicholas


Some songs I associate with specific times and places. One note from the Swedish disco group ABBA takes me right back to my disco dancing days when we were all dancing queens.

The most evocative collection of singing that I have and rely on to recall a favorite era in my life, a time of enormous growth, is all the albums I’ve saved, and sometimes even replaced, from the 1960s. The rock music of that time captures my sense of those days with all their turbulence and delights.

The plaintive ballads of the Grateful Dead are still sweet to listen to. The harmonies of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young invoke American folk music and country western tunes. And those British bad boys, the Rolling Stones, take off in another direction with their raucous and violent lyrics and guitars and drums. Their song Gimme Shelter with its wild thumping beat has practically become my anthem over the years. “Oh, the storm is threatening my very life today.”

Then there are the romantic and psychedelic imaginations of the Moody Blues and Steve Miller and the Doors. The Moody Blues are just dreamy like many of the idle, dreamy days I spent back then (and now) conjuring up another world. Steve Miller and his band sang goofy songs about the Last Wombat in Mecca with his Texas twang. But it was Jim
Morrison of the Doors who was the most remarkable poet of ‘60s rock after Bob Dylan. “Strange days have found us; Strange days have tracked us down,” he wrote. “We shall go on playing or find a new town.” All powered by magical drugs and a bit of genius.

A lot of the music of that era came out of the politics of the time—the movement against the war in Viet Nam, civil rights struggles, early environmentalism, and the once and future youth revolution. We were going to remake the world and in many ways did and the starting point was the music. I don’t know how many anti-war rallies I took part in that began with Country Joe and The Fish singing I Feel like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag that told mothers and fathers that they could be the first on their block to bring their son home in a box and other sarcastic lyrics protesting the war.

I was a great fan of Quicksilver Messenger Service, one of those San Francisco bands that combined blues and country and lots of politics with a catchy rock beat. There’s a song of theirs popular in 1968 that I find myself humming more and more now. It was youthful protest then but poses the question of what are you going to do about me. We have to do something, the refrain goes, about pollution, media lies, war, lousy jobs, violence, injustice. “I feel like a stranger in the land where I was born,” they sang, and I still feel that 40 years later.

Jefferson Airplane sang a mix of ballads about protest and the revolution that never happened. But we thought it would. In 1970, a lot of people hoped or feared that revolution was exactly what we were about to face. So the Airplane (their name is of course a reference to drug use) called for revolution in its Volunteers of America rant right after they sang that we could all be together. We didn’t worry about contradictions back then. Unfortunately, their call to revolution came closer to the end of the movement than at the beginning of it.

I’m not waiting for the revolution any more. But I do still listen to this music. I listen to remember those times and the urgency of our calls for peace and justice. I also listen because the music is just plain good. The musicians and singers were top notch and they pulled together so many musical styles like jazz, rock, blues, country and sheer poetry. These songs are part of my history and I do not walk away from my history.



About the Author


Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Singing by Michael King


As with any group they are both unique and still have similar dynamics as other groups. Once in awhile there is that peculiar charm that you want to see what will come up next.

If nothing else the particular combination of this group is unusual. The leader, Crow, seems unlikely to be the one filling that spot. He is brash and not very musical and it seems strange that the others even put up with him. They don’t especially seem to mind his almost unpleasant guidance. Canary does most of the solos. He is somewhat conceited, but as far as talent goes he is considerably the best singer in the group. Bantam is not especially musical, quite cocky and if not a friend of Duck he probably wouldn’t be interested in the group. Of course Duck isn’t especially musical either but likes the friends he’s made there and since Bantam and He are a couple, Bantam tags along. They never do solos and usually contribute little to the music but their strutting and showmanship does contribute to the total feel of musical presentation. Pigeon has a hypnotizing coo. Meadow Lark, Quail, Robin and Finch round are the other singers and each has their own individual style.

When performing they put on quite a show and are very popular. They do a few concerts but mostly are invited to be the entertainment at conventions, special events and in church services. Crow gets most of the gigs. He seems somewhat in the background during performances and snoozes with the various leaders and Ministers and is able to keep the group fairly active.

In rehearsals, a very different situation exists. Of course Bantam and Duck are a group all by themselves. Meadow Lark, Robin, Pigeon and Quail are a clique. Finch and Canary are close and in performing often do a duet. The effect of the various combinations can be especially moving at times. In between the songs the squawking, shrieks, caws, crowing, honks and chirps are anything but musical.

Fortunately that only occurs at rehearsals. The performances are well presented and have both style and class as well as the surprising tonal and variations in the musical style that exists nowhere else.

It has been over 60 years since I heard The Musicians. They were a part of my childhood and I became very close to several of the members. My experience seems to me to be somewhat unusual. My older sister is five years older than me and my younger sister is four years younger. Alone on the farm with almost no contact with either or my brother that was seven years younger or the neighbors who were too far away, I spent my time with the farm animals, the wild birds and various wild animals from time to time. I don’t recall much music from the radio or records. I preferred to be outside when my health permitted and I learned to be with my own thoughts without language or culture. I was in awe of other kids when I went to school and didn’t learn to make friends until I went to College. The sights and sounds of the farm was my world and my friends and the visitors from the bird and animal kingdom were the entertainment. I enjoyed their performances and assume that they put on shows when I wasn’t around. Surly they had many audiences. They were The Musicians that influenced my life. After all who else would go to a bird concert and hear the songs and arias of the farm. It’s just something that the city folks missed out on.



About the Author



I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities," Telling your Story"," Men's Coffee" and the "Open Art Studio". I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

House Cleaning by Merlyn


I did a mayor house cleaning 2 years ago when I left Portland. Almost everything that I hadn’t used in the three years before I left Portland I sold or gave away.

I live in a small studio apartment that’s easy to keep clean. I have a place for everything and don’t keep things I don’t need.

I can fix a whole meal and only have two or three things dirty that I wash right after we eat so there’s never anything dirty in the kitchen sink.

I use one coffee cup for coffee, tea and water and one wine glass.

I have never cared much about fashion; I wear something until it is dirty and then put it in the dirty clothes basket. So there’s never a pile of clothes that were only worn for an hour or so on the back of a chair.

I like a clean house. When something needs to be cleaned I clean it, but I don’t get carried away house cleaning.



About the Author



I'm a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.


Tuesday, May 21, 2013

The Facts by Donny Kaye


The fact is that I am a man of a certain sexual persuasion. As a man of a certain sexual persuasion I am finding a new, more relaxed countenance in which to experience the challenges as well as joys of life's twists and turns. In this place of honesty, I find myself in a continuing revelation of happiness as I experience all that is my life without feelings of reservation about just being me. The fact is that I've not always experienced my life from this perspective. There had always been a reservation about me that if anyone in my life knew that I liked men in the way that I do, I would be judged and excluded from relationships as primary as my parents, siblings and immediate family, not to mention my own children, former life partner and friends who had become part of the fabric of my life, over sixty plus years of existence on the planet. The fact is that I worked very hard to create an illusion about my identity that even had me fooled for much of my life. That expectation started for me in the earliest years of my life when I was declared "such a good little boy" by my parents and others immediately engaged with me in life. The fact is that "when striving to be the best little boy," even in the body of a grown man, there was no spaciousness for someone who preferred men. This meant that I spent a lot of my energy loathing the very essence of me. The fact is that by creating an illusion about my very nature I have consequently created a situation where those who were close to me are still searching to define their relationship with me now. What I have realized is that there is a disconnection that has occurred with others as I have worked to connect with myself. The fact is My life belongs to me. Those close to me are fortunate that I am sharing it with them. If I love them I cannot share a lie. If they are to love me, I will let them love me. The fact is this has resulted in losing the love of a lot of people, at least temporarily. But if they loved a character that I was playing for them, if they loved someone who wasn't me, then that love was already dead. The fact is there are people in the world who will love me for who I truly am. The experience I am realizing now, having come out, is that happiness is more complete when not holding reservation about being who I am. The fact is I had money, careers, degrees, vacations, every material thing! Nothing ever made me as deeply happy as "coming out"!



About the Author



Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Memorials by Colin Dale


Think back to a time in your life when you are up in front of a group of people, all eyes are on you, you know you have to remain up there in front of these people for a certain term -- ten minutes, twenty minutes, a half an hour -- you know too (and this is the painful part) you're making an absolute fool of yourself; you know you're making a fool of yourself, but you can't stop -- one of those times you wished to god you were anywhere else on earth other than up in front of these people. These are the sorts of times when embarrassment comes flooding in not after, but those worst-possible-of-all times when embarrassment takes hold while whatever it is you're doing you're still doing, and you can't stop -- when a voice inside your head -- a voice that sounds a lot like your own voice -- whispers, "Oh lord, I am really making an ass of myself."

This may seem an odd introduction to memorials, but it's doorway into a story about me and a particular memorial service and a lesson I badly needed to learn.

Do you remember my story about burying a bull? How, before the cowboy showed up, I had been reading a Patrick Kavanagh poem, the first two lines:

Me I will throw away/Me sufficient for the day

Hang on to those lines. I'll close with them in a minute. First, though, memorial . . .

One of the advantages of reaching a certain age is most of your stories go back so far you're safe in naming names -- who's going to care? This story goes back to the mid-'80's when I'd been in Denver for a while. At the time I had a job working as the delivery guy for a small medical supply house, going around town delivering disposable syringes, plaster bandage, oph-THAL-moscope batteries and cotton balls.

But this story -- even though I just said it was -- is not really about me. Enter, now, on stage, the next actor . . .

One day after deliveries I returned to the warehouse to I find a new employee working there, Marc -- Marc, not with a "k" but with a "c," like Marc Antony. But since this story is not about Marc, either -- at least not for the my purpose today -- I'll condense these surface events:

Yes, I fell in love with Marc. Marc, although affectionate -- and as hard as it is for me to say it -- he never really fell in love with me. As a result, we never moved in together -- probably a good thing. However, for a year we were a pair. Our friends thought of us as a pair.

Condensing this part of the story even more rapidly now:

In time, Marc's affections reattached themselves elsewhere. He and I saw less and less of each other. He established what looked like a permanent relationship with a fellow I didn't know. Then, I heard through mutual friends, Marc was diagnosed HIV-positive. His partner left him. Marc's father, knowing that his son and I had been friends, contacted me, told me Marc was in hospice and said if ever I would want to visit him we might go together. We did, until dementia took Marc three or four months later.

Again, this is not about me -- well, of course it is, but not in a flattering way -- what I mean to say is, it's not about me the hero. The story is about a lesson learned -- and only in the sense I'm the guy who had to learn that lesson -- only in that sense is it about me. Otherwise, it's more an Everyman story, a growing up story, the sort of story I'm sure a number of us have lived through.

Some months after Marc's death, a memorial gathering was announced. His father honored me in inviting me to speak. Our driving together to and from the hospice must had given Marc's father a fair idea of how much his son had meant to me.

Marc's family was a broken one, mother and father divorced. A scattered family, too, family all around the country. I envisioned a small memorial. Maybe Marc's mother, maybe one or two of his brothers, coworkers from the medical supply house, a few of Marc's local friends, those his father had been able to contact.

Large or small, it would be a memorial requiring certain decorum. A touch of humor wouldn't necessarily be out of place, depending upon the tenor of occasion the family might be imagining, and also the relationship of the speaker to Marc.

In the days leading up to the memorial, I'd given thought to what I might say, without putting anything down on paper. The memorial was late on a Saturday afternoon, so I resoned I could easily set aside most of that day to getting my thoughts together. If I'd decided one thing in advance, though, it was I wanted to tell people what Marc had meant to me -- a hint, without being revealing.

Saturday morning I started putting thoughts down on paper. On index cards.

Also Saturday morning -- about mid-morning -- I had a first drink. I was determined to stay clear-headed. However, that first drink led to more. I kept scribbling on my index cards, but the more I drank, the more maudlin my intended remarks got. Before long I was adding anecdotes of some intimate stuff Marc and I shared -- not carnal stuff, but meals Marc and I liked to cook for each other, our favorite places for long walks -- that sort of intimate stuff. I put new batteries in my boom box and queued up a number of cassettes with some of Marc's and my favorite songs. Time now short -- and me already getting all choked up on my nickel sentimentality -- I added a few lines of cheap poetry. I'd come a long way from early morning, when I had made a plan to hint, but not reveal, all the way to cassettes and cheap poetry.

On the platform in front of everybody that afternoon, I was an embarrassment. I was an embarrassment to them. I was an embarrassment to me. As I shuffled through my index cards, I could tell by the creaking folding chairs I was confusing everybody. Playing the cassettes, I found the lyrics creaking into the big, hollow room to be unintelligible. I looked out on 30, 40 stone faces each asking, What the hell is going on? Nearing the end, and the cheap poetry, I was -- predictably -- in tears. I was of course the only one in the room in tears. I finally finished, in a room of people all wishing they were somewhere else.

That's when I learned my lesson -- although I wouldn't be able to put it into words for some time. I'd had tried to make Marc's memorial into something about us. Worse yet -- far, far worse yet -- I had tried to make Marc's memorial into something about me. I had tried -- and failed, thank god -- to contort Marc's memorial into autobiography. And so . . .

Me I will throw away/Me sufficient for the day

Not knowing that's what I'd been doing, I had been trying to become the centerpiece of Marc's memorial; instead I ended up its fool. It took 20 excruciating minutes for me to learn a much needed lesson: that I needed to give up trying to be the center of other peoples' experience -- that if ever there is a time and place -- perhaps one of the few times and places -- a person deserves to be the center of everything, it's his memorial.

Me I will throw away/Me sufficient for the day



About the Author      


Colin Dale couldn't be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as "countless," Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor's Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder's Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing--plays, travel, and memoir.