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November 2016

Behind the gate of the world, we walk in the realm of beauty.

Before the light of the fall is extinguished, we spark the torch of hope.

Through the land of peace, quiet and calm reign in harmonious partnership.

Beauty will forever be a balm for the soul.

Walk with me in silence.

Trees burn, fiery leaves against a blue sky.

A cold wind cuts the colorful carriage to the ground.

Still, beauty is eternal. The memory of it remains.

Martha Stewart and Snoop Dogg.

You might not believe it, but these two go back for some time, and are genuinely friends – at least as friendly as celebrities can be with each other. But something about the pairing rings true and authentic, and with their current VH1 show ‘Martha & Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party’, which puts them in a dual-kitchen, there’s an undeniable chemistry between them. (And some seriously whacky shit thanks to a parade of guest characters.) A slightly edgy sweetness is at work, one that reminds me of those unlikely friendships that the luckiest of us have known. They can’t be planned out on paper, they can’t be conjured with online match-ups – they’re the organic coupling of spirits that are by most accounts at odds with one another, but that work because humans sometimes find themselves in their perceived opposites.

My most enriching and enduring friendships have been with those who are least like me. Partly that’s because I can’t stand myself, and partly because it’s refreshing to be around people who can teach me what I don’t know, who see things differently, and who, for whatever reason, find something in me to be appreciated and enjoyed. There’s something to be said for the old adage of opposites attract, but there’s also something to be said for simply enjoying the company of certain people. It’s not something that can be explained, it can only be felt.

Today is the day this country decides whether a competent person becomes the first female President of our great nation, or if a bunch of idiots put a dangerously-incompetent imbecile/racist/homophobe/asshole in charge of our nuclear weapons. The choice is clear to anyone with half a clue, but not so clear to those clouded by ignorance, anger or hatred.

In these past few weeks, I’ve had to step away from the political scene because it’s simply too frightening to think of a nation where Donald Trump is the Commander-in-Chief. Mostly, I’ve been concerned for what it means to me and my family. My niece and nephew, at the impressionable young age of six, will have a world irrevocably ruined for them if Trump comes into power. That is not a world I want for them. Their world should be open and accepting of difference, a world that values love and compassion over greed and selfishness. Their future should be one in which they strive for intelligence and grace, dignity and honor, not divisiveness or bullying brutality.

Of course, I must also think of myself and my own marriage. That was my main worry when Trump chose the virulently anti-gay Mike Pence as his running mate, and when the whole notion of the basic (and official) Republican platform was revealed, in which they propose gay conversion therapy and the overturning of marriage equality. That’s terrifying in itself, and the closer we inch toward the possibility of such hatred worming its way into the White House, the more upsetting it was for me.

Then I realized something: even if Trump were to become President of the United States, I’m lucky enough to not have my life ruined by it. Even if they strip us of our marriage, that won’t change the love between Andy and myself. We managed just fine for ten years before we got married, so it won’t really change a thing. That’s always been the underlying fact about those who fight against marriage equality, and why they will never win: they cannot stop our love. They can take away a certificate, they can take away our rights, they can do everything to treat us as less than them, but they can’t take away our love.

I’m also in a lucky position where the “policies” and tax-everyone-but-the-rich plans of Trump won’t send me into ruin. The same can’t be said of most of his supporters. They will be the ultimate victims of a con perpetrated by a man who already cheated countless people with his Trumped-up university, whose corporations declared bankruptcy four times, and who proudly proclaimed he liked to grab women “by the pussy” without their consent.

I know some people have a hard time considering a vote for Hillary Clinton, but when you consider what’s at stake, when you think about who you want in control and command of the world’s most powerful nation and all its nuclear codes and secrets, that person is not Donald Trump.

It’s time. Make your choice.

Beauty breeds peace, and I think that’s part of the purpose of art in this world.

It’s also the reason for such natural wonders as fall, seen here.

Whatever your beliefs, the beauty of fall transcends our differences.

On a winding road beside which the dead rest, there is a peace that exists between two worlds.

Sometimes I think that beauty is the place between earth and heaven.

That’s basically the choice of this election, and it’s no secret whose side I’m on. You’ve probably already made up your mind as to who you are voting for, and if you haven’t you are just a complete idiot. (If you’ve decided to vote for Trump, you’re a complete idiot too – and I can supply countless examples of why if you really need them. Believe me.) But this is largely a politics-free place, so let’s focus on our established areas of interest. A recap of the previous week, as per usual on Monday morning.

Halloween is traditionally my day-off, and this year proved no exception.

Local Albany luminaries in disguise.

Encroaching on the ennui of middle-age.

Don’t ask me.

Have you started your holiday shopping?

Leaving off the corners.

Japon Noir: a November Private Blend by Tom Ford.

The mystery posed…

…and the mystery solved.

The waving of wood.

Autumnal glory in these leaves.

A fall day with the Ilagan twins.

The last bouquet of the season.

Did you remember?

Madonna is about to open her heart again.

The early crop of November Hunks included Griffin Barrows (in his well-deserved second crowning), J.J. Watt, Alexander Mecum, Cody Christian and Tony Ward.

Early this morning we got to do what Cher has been wanting to do for all her life: turn back time. Just an hour, but an hour can make a world of difference. What will you do with your extra hour? Most people will claim they slept through it. Fair enough, but I prefer to think of time as more fluid than that. I’m saving this extra hour for something more constructive than sleep. Addressing holiday cards, perhaps. Cleaning the bedroom. Plotting out Christmas gifts. Plotting out my Christmas wish list. Plotting out my Christmas wardrobe. Scheduling the remaining weekends of the year (they are booking up quickly).

Do I sound anal to you?

You have no idea.

Go make the most of your hour. In half a year you’re going to lose it all over again.

Behold the wondrous coral bark maple! Though it’s best-known for the red bark of its younger branches, clearly it has other colorful tricks up its coral-barked sleeves. Witness this brilliant show of bright gold, so gloriously enhanced by the autumn sunlight, so resplendent in an increasingly-dull landscape.

Soon only the branches will remain, and their coral hue will bleed beautifully against the snow, but damn if it doesn’t go out in a blaze of glory before the white stuff falls.

We mistakenly assume that wood is rigid and hard, tough and unyielding, but it’s much more fluid than that, especially when it’s still alive and the water of life courses through its limbs. In these exposed views, the wave-like grain of a tree reveals its fluidity, as well as the grace and beauty of such free-flowing form.

“I’m a tree. I can bend.”

I am a fallen tree.

If you zoom in on me, you can find among my rings what looks like a faded antique map, but it’s merely the haphazard effects of time and nature within my fallen shaft. History is kept in different ways, marked by various signs. Some count in rings, some in fallen teeth, some by the length of hair or the girth of limbs.

Here, a memoir is presented in the markings within a protective shell of rough and weathered bark. High above the earth, in the lofty reaches where only birds and squirrels dare to tread, I once soared.

If my branches could speak they would tell you tales of passing seasons, of boys running around atop my roots, of chipmunks dashing among my leaves.

Felled, my story is nearly at an end, but do not weep for me. I’ve scattered thousands of acorns over the years. Our journeys always run into each other ~ where mine leaves off another begins, and where we overlap, where we hold on and intertwine to stay connected, is the space of love.