Road Trip by Gillian

I came honestly by my addiction to road trips. I was introduced to them by my mum and dad. In Britain during, and for years after, World War Two, private cars were relatively rare; gas was severely rationed. But as we staggered into the fifties, our world became a little brighter and Dad took his old car down off the blocks where it had rested for a decade. He worked lovingly on it for some time, then lo and behold suddenly one Sunday afternoon we were off to the Welsh mountains. Before long the afternoon jaunts graduated to day excursions and thence to a week in Cornwall and two weeks in Scotland. There was never any discussion of camping, not a very attractive prospect in the wet cold British weather, but we were on a low budget and stayed in small back-street B & B’s. These were nothing like their upscale modern U.S. namesakes, but simply a spare room in a very modest house, usually sharing the bathroom and breakfast with the owners. In this style we went to many different parts of the country and met many interesting people.

Perhaps, had I not been an only child, I would have hated these vacations and even the day trips the way many modern kids hate spending hours in the car. But I had the luxury of the back seat to myself, without noisy squabbling siblings to dig elbows in my ribs or squash me against the door handle and demand the windows be open; or closed. I never once recall asking, even silently in my own head, “Are we there yet?” I think it was a safe and warm haven to me, shut away in this metal box, just the three of us.

But it was my mother who turned it from an OK activity to something I truly loved. Mum kept up something of a running commentary as we passed through the farms and towns. She loved history and regaled Dad and me, though he never responded except occasionally to glance back at me in the rear-view mirror and wink, with fascinating tidbits about different places; not boring things like dates but little anecdotes. At the time I believed it all to be true, though looking back I’m not completely convinced, though she certainly was a very knowledgeable woman. Apart from history, she would make up silly stories about a farm we just passed, or the vicar of a village church, or the family in a car we met going the other way. There were still not many cars on the roads then, so seeing one was just an invitation to Mom’s imagination. Most of all, she loved to laugh, and if there was nothing too immediately amusing in the vicinity, she would create something. She made herself giggle with some of her imagined stories, and she paid great attention to license plates, making them into acronyms or rhymes.

My mother leaps up in my memory quite often, and usually it’s when something comes up that I know would have made her giggle. During football games, for instance, not that I can imagine Mum ever enjoying football, but how she would giggle at some of the commentary, when they say things like, “He wasn’t doing much when he was an Eagle, but as a Panther he’s really come into his own.” When she stopped her giggles she would then, I know, weave some wonderful fairy story around this failed eagle which somehow morphed into a more successful big cat.

Anyway, having made a short story long, that was my introduction to road trips; followed, inevitable by a hiatus of decades given over to work and family. Then, in celebration of a new millennium, Betsy and I bought our VW camper van and embarked on our own series of road trips. I haven’t had time to count them up, but they must number around twenty-five for a total time of maybe a year, though we rarely are away for more than three or four weeks at a time.

We have been many places from the Mexican border to, and into, Canada; and from coast to coast. We have visited every one of the lower forty-eight states, and camped in most of them.

We have seen sights we had always wanted to see but not had the chance, and chanced upon things we had no idea of. Unlike taking a plane, when the best you can possibly hope for is a journey that is uneventful, road trips are never uneventful; nor do you want them to be, though it’s good when the wonderful surprises well outnumber the bad ones. We have of course had our share of those less positive - flat tires both on the road and in campgrounds, loading up in the morning all ready to go and the van won’t start; freeway accidents only narrowly averted and near misses with tornadoes, hail storms, and forest fires.

I understand that one day in the not too distant future one of us is going to reach the age where camping road trips are not such an attractive option. It’s unclear at this time which of us will reach that stage first, Betsy or me or Brunhilda as we call the van, mostly though not always, with great affection. That will be a sad day, whatever the reason. But one of the blessings of aging seems to be the ability to accept with relative ease that the good times of the moment will inevitably come to an end, but only to be replaced by other, different, good times. We can love taking out our favorite memories and dusting them off for further enjoyment, but at the same time always creating new ones while continuing, with luck, to live without regrets. And I suspect that my most frequently re-visited memories, as long as I’m privileged to have memories, will be of oh those many road trips.

© 15 August 2014 

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.

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.

Exploring by Ricky

Boys and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and marriage because curiosity and exploration are part of a boy’s job description.  

I began my career as an explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on the floor and tasting small objects I encountered.  Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds.  I don't think the term “baby-proofing” existed yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me.  Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind, exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.

 Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very dangerous and to stay away from them.  I suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.”  Once I began to open doors and explore outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do some serious exploring.  I quickly learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.

My exploration of kindergarten began in September 1953.  I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate) with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora.  I loved to color and play with all the messy artistic stuff.  In first grade, Sandra and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on how to work quietly.  I’m sure I did not measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat, quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with lots of pictures.  Being unsuccessful in finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and eventually sent us back to our class.

Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my parents were arranging their divorce.  Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately), autumn, winter, and spring in rotation.  Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back east to wear.  (Okay, so they really were not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear hides only smaller.)

1956 was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the stink you “enjoyed” twice a day).  State and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, balers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders, thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.

As summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends. 

I rode a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new.  One of my neighboring farm friends and I were part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning.  Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).

Another schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games.  One favorite among all male students (townies and farm boys) was marbles.  Our version involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school, placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed.  If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process until there was only one shooter in the depression.  The winner would then collect all the marbles in the hole and the betting process would begin again.  Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this game.

The second game we called Stretch.  I can’t speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school).  In this game two boys would face each other and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg.  If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved and the other boy took his turn.  If the knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had been standing.  If he was successful in touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife, returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife.  If he could not touch the knife, he lost the game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.

The third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously reserved for winter recess).  I trust I do not need to describe these.  In all of these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.

The elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two floors and storage rooms on the third floor.  The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’ restroom.  “Yes,” even during a pee break (raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to” “explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a boy’s job description).

Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe.  My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities.  About this time, I also began to explore other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not.  Well, to be completely honest, of course there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or campouts.

During those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not what a person looks like on the outside but what a person is on the inside that really matters.  Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.

Those early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined with a love of knowledge.  Those who know me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers.  If that bothers some people, it is just too bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.

© 29 April 2013 

About the Author 

 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me by Phillip Hoyle

Several years ago I developed an unusual medical condition that stumped my doctor and both interested and frightened me. One morning I discovered a growth on the index finger of my left hand. It first appeared to be a long splinter the length of the finger next to the thumb. Unlike a splinter, it seemed articulated and bent when my finger bent. I was fascinated but also knew I needed to show it to my doctor. I couldn’t get an appointment that first day but set one for the next. Overnight the splinter-like protrusion expanded a little bit beyond the finger, and looked like a kind of lobe, like a smaller finger attached to the index finger.

Many things went through my mind on the bus ride to Dr. Pierce’s office. Was this some kind of exotic infection from Africa? I had any number of African friends. Was it from the high Himalayas, the original home of my friend Ming? Or China where my friends Rong and Fong originated? Or Korea from which Chong immigrated? I decided not to worry and just kept my hand on my lap covered by my other rather normal appearing right hand. But I did worry. Would I ever again play the piano? Could one even play with six fingers? Would I have to give up my massage practice? I’d already cancelled half a dozen massages. Would I still be able to shuffle a deck of cards?

At the doctor’s office I watched as my physician examined the oddity. He said it was not a splinter but rather a buildup of fluid and proposed to extract some of it for further examination. Out came the needle. Into the finger it reached. Out came dark red blood. Doctor looked concerned and marked the sample for the lab to examine STAT. He asked me to wait and showed me to an empty room. I wondered what he’d find. I had wanted to excise the dark line that invited ideas of demon possession, an idea I had long excised from my mind. Couldn’t I simply cut it off like I once did a mole? I examined myself. I thought about the many projects I was planning. I made a list of friends to call, especially those I had lost track of over the previous couple of years. I checked my phone messages, listening to all those I’d not heard, erasing many, many voice and text messages, and otherwise filled my time with distracting tasks. After about an hour, a nurse brought me a bottle of water and some magazines apologizing for the long inconvenience. My one hour wait turned into two hours. Finally Dr. Pierce returned. He told me I would have to enter the hospital. My heart rate rose. “We need to keep watch over this.” He frowned; I wondered why. “The CDC wants you isolated,” he explained for their computers had matched the sample with something dreadful. My fears shook me.

I entered a world of sterile isolation. There all was bed rest, confusion, and fear. The staff members were nice to me yet cautious and also afraid. I was also amazed for when in my long life had anything I had ever done become of national concern? Finally I awoke from the dream that morning, December 29, 2010.

Morning Pages entry from 12-29-2010

Woke up from a dream in which I discovered a growth on my index finger. It looked like a long splinter the length of the finger but protruded a little bit beyond in a separate lobe as if the whole thing were growing alongside my finger. I used it as an illustration that, like this splinter, most folk in the room (were they UUs?) would like to excise the mythological elements from their minds. I wondered if it really was a splinter and thought I’d like to find out. The stuff that came out was liquid like pussy blood. The CDC said to contain the liquid and get it to a hospital for examination. The medics were to isolate me because their computers had matched it with something dreadful. Sterile concerns all along towards the end of the dream. Keep samples sterile, etc. keep the fluid isolated. Isolate me, too.

© Denver 2014

About the Author 

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

The Norm by Pat Gourley

I have for years dreaded being described as ‘normal’.  As queers we are really anything but normal whether we like it or not and I truly believe that this is our greatest gift. There is that old Chinese curse “may you be born in interesting times”.  A similar curse for me would be “may you be born normal”.

I must admit though that earlier on in my HIV diagnosis I craved “normal” lab values but eventually came to appreciate the fact that one can live quite a relatively healthy and productive life and still not be in the ‘normal range’. Normal really is something that is not all its cracked up to be. I suppose too there was a time in the sixties when I was experiencing my great gay awakening that I wished I could be normal. Fortunately, thanks to a much older lover, the Grateful Dead and an amazing commie Holy Cross nun I soon got over that!

Normal is defined as conforming to a standard, being typical or expected. How boring is that! I suspect the normal ones in the human herd rarely initiate evolutionary change in virtually any sphere of their lives. I am in favor of abolishing the term all together particularly when used in medical or psychiatric settings. A sub-definition of the word if you will is “free from physical or mental disorders”. Who the hell can honestly claim that reality?

I was once again reminded of how being outside the norm can be a very powerful agent for creating change while delivering progressive political and social messages particularly in the hands of a gay man. This light bulb of “fuck normal” once again went off in my head when I saw the Keith Haring exhibit at the de Young museum in San Francisco this past January. For anyone not familiar with Haring or his artwork he was a very prolific gay artist who lived in New York City from 1978 until his death from AIDS in February 1990.

I suppose my first impression of his art that I recall was in the late 1980’s and I thought how simple, I could probably do that. Ha, well I guess that bit of self-delusion wasn’t really normal now was it! I have overtime though come to greatly appreciate the simple complexity and actually many revolutionary aspects of his immense body of work. Not only was Keith very openly gay he also was quite upfront about his AIDS and these two realities permeate much of his later work as do many themes of social justice and the corporate greed and rape of the planet.

Haring never drew from sketches but rather had the ability to just start doing it and it happened in amazing fashion. The de Young exhibit also had a short documentary with it that was quite enlightening into his beautiful soul, his politics, his sexuality, his AIDS and most amazingly his creative process. Wow, nothing normal about him. And talk about simple line drawings that celebrate the penis, often his own, the exhibit was resplendent with many phalli.

 And of course on my second trip the next day through the exhibit I was reminded that this was San Francisco and that we weren’t in Kansas. There were dozens of middle school boys and girls on a field trip viewing the many graphic sexual images and not appearing to be phased in the least. In fact many were taking notes for class and actually discussing, and not in hush whispers or giggles, the many amazing ways fucking and sucking whereon display and at the same time delivering a strong social and often political message.

For whatever reason most of Haring’s work is not titled. He as often as not addresses issues of racism, AIDS, climate change and the many societal facets of capitalist corruption and greed so rampant in our culture today in his work with simple lines. His drawings also often speak to very basic human realities of love, kindness, generosity and the constant message that we are one world and most certainly all in this together.

A short quote form the artist:

“Drawing is still basically the same as it has been since prehistoric times. It brings together man and the world. It lives through magic.”

Thank the universe that there was nothing normal about the magic Keith Haring brought to the world.

© February 2015 

About the Author 

  

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

The Gayest Person I Ever Met by Gillian

How the Hell would I know??

I could pick one of several who are the gayest-seeming people I have ever met, but that's just appearance, the outward expression. Exactly how gay someone is inside, I absolutely cannot know. No-one else can ever know how gay I am. Only I know; and perhaps even I am not sure. Perhaps my gay quotient changes throughout my life, or maybe it stays exactly even forever. I suspect members of the GLBT society differ greatly in this, but for certain nobody else can know. You may know what I say. In my Monday writings I tell you how I feel, as honestly and openly as I can, but that does not mean you know.

I have often equated being gay with being left-handed. If you is, you is. If you ain't, you ain't. What sense would it make to talk about the most left-handed person I've ever met? Sure, there are ambidextrous people just as there are bi people, so you could use the same 1- 10 scale that Kinsey used for the range from heterosexuality to homosexuality, with bi resting at five. Completely, one hundred percent, right-handed people at 1, with the same values for left-handers at 10, and completely ambidextrous at 5. But what number you land on depends entirely on what you tell someone. No-one but me really knows how hard it is for me to write my name with my left hand, anymore than they know how it feels for me to have sex with a man, or share my life with a woman instead of a man.

So. Sorry. Back to where I started.

How the Hell would I know??

© August 2014 

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.

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.

House Cleaning by Ricky

          I really do not like or enjoy cleaning my house.  Even as an irresponsible teen, I would vacuum the carpet but not dust.  I would promise to wash the dishes and then not do it, until I needed clean dishes.  When my stepfather finally fixed the built-in dishwasher, the dishes got done daily.  Go figure, because I still did not like to do it.  I kept my bedroom neat enough and I washed all my own clothes and often those of the twins, my brother and sister.  However, I never liked to do house work let alone house cleaning (does anyone?).

          Another type of “house” cleaning also exists which, as a teen, I never conscientiously enjoyed either.  I did not even know I was doing it until much later in life.  Now that I am physically grown up and psychologically aging, albeit slowly, I realize that I am cleaning my “house” rather less often than before.  I am referring to having a “clean” mind but not entirely in the religious sense.  It is important to take out the trash, cobwebs, dust, and litter that accumulated over the years and “open the windows” to fresh information that can improve my ability to arrive at more accurate responses and behaviors to my environment or situations.

          The old cliché states, “You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.”  Well, people are not dogs and those who still have undamaged minds are quite capable of learning, or more accurately, updating their understanding of any issue – except math in my case.  I am constantly acquiring new information and insights into any subject or item that attracts my attention or curiosity.  Some would say that means I am just easily distracted.  I try to keep my mind sponge-like and fascinated with the wind of new information passing between my ears, blowing out the waste.  With any luck, some of it even stays inside my head, becoming the latest tapestry decorating the space where I actually reside and entertain my guests.

© 1 April 2013 

About the Author 

  

 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

Gay Music by Phillip Hoyle

I like my music gay! For more than one reason I am planning to spend several months hearing mainly gay music. The first reason for this insistence seems most immediate: my current health crisis that demands from me a sense of upbeat expectation of a recovery from my present difficulties and from the therapies the doctors devise. So I’ll play gay music to speed along the healing process. The second reason for this gay insistence relates to having just retired from fifteen years of giving therapeutic massages, mostly to tempos largo, lento, and adagio. Back then (it’s been over a month and a half) I wanted my massages to promote relaxation and so avoided country and western songs, rap, abstract jazz, metallica, and most rock ‘n roll. I played almost no Nashville, no Broadway. Now seems the time to quicken the pace and lighten the mood. So it’s gay music for me in the coming months.

I’m a habitual shelf reader from my many years of roaming library stacks. I’m a methodical one preferring to read from left to right, following the ascending numbers of the Dewey Decimal System. So I’m going to read the shelves of my small CD collection to select my first round of music playing for the weeks to come. Luckily I no longer have a catheter in place so I can comfortably sit on the floor to view my low-down shelves.

So it begins, shelf one. Mathias organ music. I’ll skip that. Oh Dupré. More organ music but too dour and over serious for this man in recovery. Skip, skip, skip, skip. Hmm. Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto? No, I have always found this particular recording just a bit too screechy. I don’t want to put myself on edge. Skip, skip, skip. “Songs of Atlantic Canada”? Surely this album is out of place among these classical works, but I recall how accessible the arrangements of regional folksongs are. Guess I’ll select this Cape Breton Chorale album and think of my Canadian friend Bill, who gave it to me and has for years been thoughtful and supportive. John Tavener’s “Ikons” presents glorious, creative music but … no, not now. Just not gay enough. “Lend Me Your Ear” by Double ‘O Six. That’s a possible listen with classically trained voices. Very choral though all soloists who do crazy things to Chattanooga Choo Choo, With a Little Help from My Friends, and other pop pieces. Here. “Pieces of Africa” by the Chronos Quartet. I might put that on right now and reread the get-well note from my African son Francis. Oh, an album of Charpentier’s Christmas music. Yes. Even though the composer accidently poisoned himself and his family by serving the wrong kind of mushrooms, his music evokes a delicate gaiety. Well, it’s French Baroque with a light touch. Hum. “Albinoni's Adagios.” More Baroque, although Italian. I really like these but heard the album way too many times over the last twelve and a half years playing it for one of my long-time clients who listened only to classical music. As I mentioned, too many adagios in my recent past. Oh Dianne Bish’s “Great European Organs.” That sounds like a gay album. I clearly recall Bish’s pant suit—all gold sparkles—from when she concertized the Cassavant at East Heights United Methodist Church, Wichita. If she’d had a candelabrum she’d have seemed a twin to Liberace. How gay that would be?

Brahms. Lovely Brahms, but his “German Requiem”? They can play that for my memorial service that I hope is a long ways off. Hovhaness’ “And God Created Great Whales.” That one always picks me up, especially when the humpback whales make their first appearance. “The Choral and Vocal Arrangements of Moses Hogan.” Some of that album is somber but I’ll surely enjoy his stunning arrangement of Elijah Rock. Yes. And here, for a change of pace, Handel’s “Chandos Anthems.” I know at least a few of the anthems that can serve me for a special meditative gay moment, especially the soprano and tenor duet In the beauty of holiness with its long descending melismas spun out and interwoven by singers and orchestra. It thrills me. Brahms again; his ‘Complete Intermezzos” played by the Russian Luba Edlina. Yes. These always lift me with their lush harmonies and inventive melodies. I’ll float along with Brahms. While at it I guess I’ll hear Bach’s “Inventions and Sinfonias” played by Glenn Gould, for me always an exquisitely gay experience.

Okay, shelf two. Pop music. Hmm. Here we go. Imogene Heap’s “Speak for Yourself” will do good things for me with her always musical and creative command of synthesizers, her invention and variety. Yes. Of course Cyndy Lauper’s “The Body Acoustic” will be on my playlist. I probably will indulge in it daily, like She Bop and Girls Just Want to Have Fun. I like so many more of these pop CDs but played most of them too many times in massage. I’ll give them and me a rest! Now this one looks good, Keith Jarrett Trio’s “Up for It.” Yes. Jazz. I’m so pleased I’m doing this. And another jazz album but this one Jacques Loussier’s “Play Bach,” his jazz trio’s renditions of JS Bach pieces, an album from 1960 that I first heard in high school. I especially am ready to hear them improvise the Gigue from Partita No. 1 in B flat major, BWV 825. I’m feeling better already. Then another kind of gay music: “Whirl” from the Fred Hersch Trio. This album will surely move to gaity, both by the music and by the knowledge that all three men are gay! Oh and the three volumes of “Verve Remixed” with their most inventive remixing of jazz standards, many from my favorite singers, with hard-hitting dance beats. Certainly I’ll spin those albums for their tremendous energy. Now this should be fun, “The Original Cast Recording of Forever Plaid,” another CD from my Canadian connection of a musical we saw together, pure nostalgic fun. Sure. And how could I not select Dinah Washington’s “Finest Hour.” Any day she is okay for me. . Oh I’ll have to skip these Miles Davis pieces. Too blue for the occasion. Guess I’ll skip the whole blues section for now with probably one exception; here it is, Cyndy Lauper’s “Memphis Blues.” She thrills me with her tremendous range of feelings and styles. Jai Uttal’s “Monkey” gets in, also his “Mondo Rama” with its high school kids. I am lifted by his traditional Indian raga, jazz, and rock fusion.

I’m tired from all these decisions. So … that gives me a good playlist that ought to last for a while. I hope they’ll lift my mood, help make me clever and gay, of course. So … I’ll just skip all the R. Carlos Nakai and other Native American flute players. I heard them too many times with my client who for over ten years wanted to hear only these pieces during her massages. “No strings,” she’d say. “They make me tense up.” Besides, if I were going to play Native American pieces, I’d want war dances. That’s not very gay sounding of me although Stonewall showed that gays in pumps and frocks can go to war. I think right now I’m just angry at disease and failures in my own body. I’ll pass on the flutes and war drums.

I’ve got plenty of music to soothe me with gaiety. I’ll even listen to some of these albums with my gay partner. Suppose that will double their effect? I hope so.

© Denver, 2014 

About the Author 

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Angels by Pat Gourley

Angels, specifically my own Guardian Angel, were certainly part of the mythology foisted on my innocent little head in the early years of Catholic Grade School. The mythology being laid on us actually reached at times the absurd when we were asked by our nuns in the very early grades to please scoot over in our desk seats so we could make room for our guardian angels to sit down. I don’t remember this injunction much beyond the second grade. Perhaps that was because of a realization on the part of our teachers that with the existence of Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy going out the window for many of us it might have been a bit much to keep pushing the idea of guardian angels needing a break and plopping down next to you.

Catholic teaching, perhaps not the most sophisticated strain of it even back in the mid-1950’s, taught that all souls get an Angel assigned to protect and be your guardian if you will. Since I was well on my way to being a little apostate at the age of eight I always thought the nuns were just trying to get us to not keep our books next to us on our seats, which we would frequently push off the seat and crash to the floor.  And of course in today’s age of significant childhood obesity there would be many kids who couldn't make room for any Angel’s butt with their own barely fitting in the seat.

If anyone seriously presented me with the possibility of my having a guardian angel today I might ask about the 1200 kids under 5 years of age who die of malaria daily and where the fuck are their Guardian Angels. It would seem like those angels are being quite the slackers and probably should be fired. And there are other countless examples of various forms of hideous human suffering that bring the whole concept of guardian angels into serious question.

Belief in angels for me personally of course brings into question all sorts of other queries about the spiritual and ending of course with the real big one ‘what the hell does happen once we die’. If I play my cards right will I be escorted into heaven by my own angel or much more likely, if you buy this horse-pucky at all, will I be given a GPS map straight to hell with my own guardian angel sadly saying ‘well I tried to save your sorry ass’ and waving good-bye, forever.

Most days I wake up pretty much a dyed in the wool atheist and thankful for the daily Facebook posts by Richard Dawkins. I do though admit to recently being drawn back to the writings and recordings of the great philosopher Ken Wilber, who lives here in Denver by the way.

Wilber is no fan of the new atheists, Harris, Dawkins Hitchens etc. but he does have a bit more sophisticated take on the possibility of an afterlife than angelic escorts to the great beyond. I most recently have listened and am re-listening to a series of over seven hours of CD interviews with Wilber on the Future of Spirituality conducted by Tami Simon in 2013, the wonderful lesbian woman who owns Sounds True in Boulder.

When talking about the possibility of God existing it has been difficult for me, and I think for Tami also, to pin Ken down on this. He certainly implies a ‘spiritual’ force moving the evolutionary reality of our Universe along its way. One of my favorite Ken takes on this is that it seems highly unlikely that it has been simple chance that has led “from dirt to Shakespeare”. Though I am still not completely buying this I am back listening to him and we’ll see where it ends up.

For now I am left with the stark belief and extremely non-momentous reality of my own impending demise and that that most likely will be the end of me with no angel involvement happening. At our current state of evolution it its so very difficult for us to imagine anything else going on after we are gone. This is such a freaky thing for us to ponder that we have conjured up Angels and a whole host of other deities and after-life myths since we left the trees of the African Savannah.

The raw reality of it all is summed up nicely in these few lines from of course a Grateful Dead song called Black Peter. It is a tune about a guy dying of something nasty and coming to the following realization about his own demise:

See here how everything

Lead up to this day

And it’s just like any other day

That’s ever been

Sun going up and then

The sun going down

Shine through my window.

Lyrics by Robert Hunter

I don’t mean to be a big buzz-kill here so if Angels blow your skirt up by all means just scoot over and invite them to have a seat.

© December 2014 

About the Author 

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