Monthly Archives:

June 2017

Journeying On…

NO VOYAGE

By Mary Oliver

I wake earlier, now that the birds have come
And sing in the unfailing trees.
On a cot by an open window
I lie like land used up, while spring unfolds.

Now of all voyagers I remember, who among them
Did not board ship with grief among their maps?—
Till it seemed men never go somewhere, they only leave
Wherever they are, when the dying begins.

For myself, I find my wanting life
Implores no novelty and no disguise of distance;
Where, in what country, might I put down these thoughts,
Who still am citizen of this fallen city?

On a cot by an open window, I lie and remember
While the birds in the trees sing of the circle of time.
Let the dying go on, and let me, if I can,
Inherit from disaster before I move.

O, I go to see the great ships ride from harbor,
And my wounds leap with impatience; yet I turn back
To sort the weeping ruins of my house:
Here or nowhere I will make peace with the fact.

 

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Butterfly in Black-&-White

A butterfly in black and white peruses one of the Chinese dogwoods in our backyard. Its wings flutter slightly, almost in slow-motion. The effect is magical. Calming. It is a much smaller thing than these photos might make it appear. I barely noticed it.

When you stop to look closer at the world, it opens up to receive you.

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Progression of a Peony

A promise of beauty, kept.

The gradual unfurling of a peony bloom.

A subtle perfume, befitting the fewer petals.

This is no bomb-style blossom.

It is impler. More elegant. More refined.

And it’s only just begun.

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Bashful Peony

Some peonies are shy at the beginning, bashfully peeking out from a cloak of petals.

But this one open up into something gorgeous.

It just needs a little coaxing.

The best always do.

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A Thigh-High Kinky Gala

Give me a gala theme, and I’ll rock it.

Even if it means practicing in heels for a week beforehand.

Such was the case with the Kinky Boots theme for the formal kick-off to Albany Pride weekend.

Hot pink high-heel thigh-high high-heel boots

Better than the boots were all the florals I had going on.

(Yes, I know. Florals. For spring. Groundbreaking.)

Big roses and bombastic peonies lined a coral-hued jacket, while a rose-adorned skirt puffed out behind me on a cloud of fuchsia tulle. The topper was a peachy fascinator – all netting and feathers and swirligigs (which is a term I just made up at this moment for whatever else sprouted from my head) – an absolute necessity for such an ensemble. The finishing touch that set it apart from doyenne extravagance – a super-short pair of dark denim cut-offs, because every outfit needs a twist or two.

I had a spare fascinator for Suzie because I’m me and she’s Suzie. If I can’t be counted on for a spare fascinator, my life has been in vain. It’s why we work so well together.

The night was magical – a perfect semi-formal kick-off to the start of pride. In this tumultuous year, we needed to make it feel like summer again.

Nobody does that better than Suzie. No one makes me laugh more over less, act foolish when I’m trying to be deadly serious, or reach back to some obscure childhood memory that brings me to more laughter.

There is also no one more ill-equipped and useless to help with high heels on a wet lawn. I mean, she just walked away and left me sinking there. And then she laughed about it. It wasn’t quite the submissive shrug she gave when they told her that her childhood poodle (Duchess) had met its demise beneath the wheels of a car, but you get the idea.

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Shady Corner of the Pool

After the ride home from Boston, a badly-needed dip in the pool was just what was needed. The only problem was that with the removal of a decent-sized cherry tree that once provided a shaded corner, the entire pool is now wide open to the sun (and in just under an hour I had already gained a minor burn on my shoulders for being out for the first time in months).

I improvised with a colorful umbrella, a leftover from last year’s absence of a proper canopy. Now that we have the latter, the extra bit of portable shade could be moved closer to the pool, where I hung myself on the edge, dangled my body into the water, and graciously gave thanks for the smaller charms of a hot afternoon.

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Sun of the Earth

This sunny yellow flower is the Coreopsis, commonly called tickseed. A number of years ago a variety called ‘Moonbeam’ was all the rage, and appeared in every single garden plot and public landscaping space that the Northeast had on hand. As such, it lost some of its appeal, as did the entire genus in my eyes. Now that some time has passed, I put one in, as this seems to be a throwback to some garden favorites of the past. Its blooms are the perfect little echo of the sun, an orb from which rays of golden goodness emanate and enshrine.

I like the fiery color here, especially as it plays against a magenta penstemon and cool-hued patch of lavender (not seen, but trust me, it is glorious). I assume it gets its common name of ‘tickseed’ from the shiny seeds that resemble ticks. Not the greatest namesake, but accurate in description. We’ll see how well this hybrid reproduces. Maybe there’s no seed at all. I’d be happy either way.

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Peonies Peaking

The parade of peonies rockets forward, rushing toward its finale in these 90-degree days. There seems to be no happy medium for upstate New York weather, so while we were in a cool weather cycle, the peonies stayed in bud for longer than usual. Now they are popping open right and left. This beauty was too pretty not to clip and save from the heat. It’s a work of art for its structural grace as much as its painted petals.

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Post-Game Recap

A practically-perfect weekend in Boston – with Skip for our third annual Red Sox game – was exactly what was needed and just in the nick of time. More on that in greater detail, for now let’s slide into this steamy Monday in a quiet and simple way – looking back at the week that was…

All about the garden, with one peony and one weigela, a jack-in-the-pulpit, a Baptisia, a begonia, a dogwood and another peony.

James Franco nude.

Kinky pride peek.

The Great Comet of 1812.

A best friend’s birthday.

June hunks included JJ Yosh, Nathan Lee Graham, Bryce Eilenberg, Grant Foreman, Matthias Panitz, Junior Lazarotti, and Karlo Martinez.

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A Multitude of Dogwood Stars

Not every dogwood tree is the same. Not only is there a vast difference between the American dogwood and the Chinese dogwood, there are also subtle variations within each variety. This Chinese dogwood has pointier ‘blooms’ than some of its brothers. Though that makes them less showy individually, they make up for it in quantity and number. Peering up through the branches as the sun goes down behind them, one can see an endless canopy of stars – they seem to go on forever.

Underneath the dogwood in bloom is where I want to be.

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Peony, Backlit

The golden hour is at hand after a long stretch of rainy weather. These peonies have been bursting at the seams to bloom, waiting for a glimmer of sunlight and warmth to explode and release the possibility of propagation. The pollen practically oozes from the blossoms, begging some bee or ant to brush its anthers and pollinate the next generation.

Of course, that will never happen. The amount of energy it takes for a plant to produce viable seed is not worth it, particularly when there is no more room in the garden for another plant. Sometimes that energy is so great, the plant meets its demise – one life-cycle is enough before letting the next set of seeds take over. These will be clipped as soon as the petals start to fall.

But first, they put on this show. Resplendently backlit by the afternoon sun, they shine. Each petal a work of art, each fallen particle of bright yellow pollen a stroke of genius. One need only place their faith in nature to find beauty.

The peonies have been taking their time to bloom, waiting in a semi-purgatorial state while the weather was rough. Now they are taking off, a glorious signal that summer is almost at hand.

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A Blighted Beginning

Though our lawn is loving this rain, the containers that I planted, with the exception of the papyrus, are loathing it. I’m with them. Too much rain makes Jack a sad boy. It also makes for impossible germination in the case of the heat-seeking castor bean plant, which I made the misfortune of trying for the first time in this bad weather beginning. It’s also wreaking havoc with our hanging sweet potato vines, which are drenched in all the runoff from the patio canopy.

Beneath it, however, the begonias – probably the most sensitive to overwatering, are doing splendidly because I haven’t watered them once in their protected section. Here they are, giving the only decent show on the drenched patio right now.

 

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Beautiful Baptisia

Behold the Baptisia!

Beautiful garden perennial, stalwart and loyal and true.

I forget how lovely and essential this is for a proper border.

Though the pea-like blooms are a wondrous shade of bluish-purple, it is the foliage that sees this beauty through, anchoring whatever space in which it drives its deep tap root into the ground. That foliage will last and remain fresh throughout the season, evolving into a more silvery and less chartreuse shade as the summer progresses. The branches do occasionally require staking, as it tends to open up wider and wider as it relaxes into the late summer months, and sometimes I simply cut it back by September. One less thing to clean up come spring.

Right now, it is in its glory, and deserves a bit of celebration. This is one of those wonderful plants that is so good it gets lost in the shuffle. Certain people are like that too, and it’s a shame. When you’re good at a lot of things, it’s easy to be overlooked or taken for granted. One of the great mysteries and fucked-up situations of life. The plants that need the most help and support get it; the ones who survive on their own are left to fend for their own. Still, this Baptisia returns year after year, demanding no extra watering or fertilizer, no fancy pruning or fussy placement, and it rewards with this gorgeous display every June.

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Suzie is 42!!

My best friend/sister-figure Suzie (well-known in these parts) turns 42 today!

If you see her, wish her a very Happy Birthday.

If all goes according to plan, we will be recuperating from last night’s Pride Gala, to which she graciously accompanied me (minus the kinky boots and neck accoutrements). My collection of Suzie-archives runs deep and vast (though I fear the collection of nonsense I’ve sent to her over the years is larger and more embarrassing) so here are a few choice shots from around two decades ago.

Happy Birthday Suzie! And many happy returns of the day!!

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Review: ‘Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812’ ~ May 11, 2017

“Are you ready to wake up?”

The best part of this promotional tag line is its potential to ring so true. I didn’t even realize I was asleep, and it took a show like this to shake off the stupor of my 41-year-old mind. With its Russian origin and modern/historical juxtaposition of style and story, this is a gloriously immersive piece of theater. It started as one of the most intimate productions, and despite its transfer to Broadway proper it’s managed to retain such intimacy. Performers toss out treats to the audience, who are seated in a jewelbox of a theater, interspersed with cozy tables lit with lamps and buffeted by stairs and even a bar that seamlessly blends into the action.

Prepare to be drawn into the world and then deliciously bound by a rope of seductive red velvet. Such ties are pretty and soft to touch at first, but they close tightly, choking out reason and sense in the service of want and desire.

One of the most inventive musicals in years, ‘Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812’ leads with its heart – vital, passionate, and cruel in the way it wants and wants and wants – then crushes with its head – the analysis of the ways in which we give and receive love, in the way love is both a tool and a symptom, the poison and the antidote – and by the end I realized that not only was this waking that wild and dangerous part that lives inside most of us in our youth, but also jostling the preconceived limits of the modern-day musical. On both fronts, this comet delivers.

Josh Groban gets the headlines and the billing, but Denae Benton is the real star of this production. Lucas Steele does everything he can to steal the show, and his antics in ‘The Abduction’ – in the form of all those vocal and physical gymnastics (and a fierce head of blonde hair that defies gravity and logic) – ensure that he is not forgotten. And though as Andrey he is missing for much of the evening, Nicholas Belton casts a shadow and a spell with a simple silhouette that most performers can only dream of conjuring.

This magically immersive experience succeeds thanks in no small part to the winsome and gregarious cast of characters that appears in and around the audience without ever infringing on their space. It’s a tricky fine-line, but they walk it (and dance it, some even in stilts) in thrilling fashion. Speaking of fashion, the costume design by Paloma Young is a spectacular mash-up of military garb and street-punk passion, with details of Russian bears and insignia, and a green coat that Anatole wears which I simply must have for the fall season. Coupled with some astounding choreography in an intricate theater-in-the-round set-up, it’s as much a visual treat as it is a sonic delight. Yet all the flash and pizzazz would not amount to much if there wasn’t a story of awakening – both in Natasha’s venture into the first triangle of love, desire, and reason, as well as within Pierre’s discovery of meaning at a point when he’s almost given up. Every performer is invested here, and the end result is one of rich rewards, where the audience is completed enchanted by this world on the edge of war. [Even the moment-shattering possibility in the ringing of a ‘Halloween’ ring tone (which Groban later referenced in a stinging tweet) could not mar the emotional crest that the end of the evening reached.]

If you’ve ever been wrecked by love, ever sunken to the ground with the fresh wound of the heart that it seems only youth can feel, you should be touched and moved by the sort of grace that Pierre offers to Natasha at the end of the evening. That great comet of passion – so wondrous and wicked and wild – is a clarion call to life. It wakes us all up – a reminder that love can be as deliriously destructive as it can be tenderly gracious. All you can do is hold on, revel in those moments when happiness is at hand, and, when all else fails, smash your glasses on the floor.

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