Suzie brought us this beautiful hand-made cup from Denmark from her visit there this past summer. She has always had exquisite taste, though she rarely employs it ~ day-to-day life being rather inhospitable to the exquisite. We usually see photos of teacups and such while holding tea or coffee or other nourishment, and that’s typically what I post here. Everyone wants to see the purpose and the action – no one wants the emptiness.
In this post, we examine the emptiness, and the vacant vessel, and I see them instead as filled with something else.
Hope.
Possibility.
Opportunity.
I also see something different, something that expands the realm of what we think we know. Do not limit yourself to coffee or tea just because it’s what we have always done. Even if that’s always worked. Why not cider? Why not hot chocolate? Why not chocolate milk? Why not grapefruit juice? Why not granola? Why not bread pudding? Why not jelly beans? Why not salted pumpkin seeds? Just because we label it a tea cup doesn’t limit its capability to hold something more.
People can be like that too. Just because they seem vapid or empty doesn’t mean they can’t fill themselves with possibility or hope or even love. When we expand our ideas of what’s possible, we create the space for something exquisite, even if our daily life doesn’t feel like it can hold it.
Sometimes all you have to do to earn the Dazzler of the Day is strip down to your loin cloth and go fishing. Jason Momoa did both, then recreated the look for an appearance on national television. Bottoms out, baby!
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
I’m goin’ through it, yeah I know you see the tragic in it Just hold on to the little bit of magic in it I can’t break down now I can’t take that now Died a thousand times Managed to survive I can’t break down now I can’t take that (I can’t take that)
I rise, I rise I rise up above it, up above it I rise, I rise I rise up above it all
For all of her strengths and triumphs, Madonna has been remarkably hit-or-miss when it comes to putting the closing song of an album together. For every ‘Vogue‘ there is a ‘Gone’, for every ‘Mer Girl‘ there is an ‘Act of Contrition‘. Mostly they are filler, albeit decent-enough filler – as in ‘Easy Ride‘ or ‘Like It Or Not‘, but only in that first example did she hit it out of the park. This Madonna Timeline entry, ‘I Rise’, from 2019’s ‘Madame X’ effort, is another decent-enough closer, but there’s not much more to say about it. That sort of dovetails with my thoughts on Madonna at the moment.
Of course I still love her, she simply hasn’t done anything in a long time that has sparked my fandom or stoked the fires of that love. This song would probably be her shrugging off such doubt in her, even from one of her lifelong fans. I’m absolutely certain she will rise again, and I can’t wait to see it.
Freedom’s what you choose to do with what’s been done to you No one can hurt you now unless you want them to (Unless you want) No one can hurt you now unless you love ’em too (B.S.) Unless you love ’em too
‘Cause I’m going through it Yeah, I know you see the tragic in it Just hold on to the little bit of magic in it (Magic in it) I can’t break down now I can’t take that (I can’t take that)
I rise, I rise (Rise) I rise up above it, up above it (I rise) I rise, I rise (Rise) I rise up above it all
Yeah, we gonna rise up Yeah, we gonna rise up Yeah, we gonna get up Yeah, we gonna get up Yeah, we gonna get up Yes, we can, we can get it together We’ll rise up, we can get it together
Rising to a full ten feet, our enormous stand of fountain grass has grown just as wide, meaning it is in need of some severe pruning and reining-in next season. I’ve been putting it off because that is arduous and difficult work – this specimen is about two decades old, and has steadily expanded over that time thanks to an early dumping of manure over its crown and then some steady watering through dry spells.
I’d forgotten how glorious their end-of-the-season finale can be, but yesterday morning this sight lit up the backyard. Structurally, these stalks will remain largely as you see them, slowly being stripped of the foliage as winter progresses, but the feathery seed-heads will remain, and the spindly stalks will form their own winter interest.
For now, the fountains of gold shine brilliantly on a sunny day, rapturously resplendent against a blue sky. When a breeze gets them waving, it’s an especially gorgeous sight.
“I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.” – Henry David Thoreau
My love of the forest goes back to my childhood, when I would lose myself there without care or concern of getting lost or being found. Instinctually, I knew my way, and could sense wherever I was, no matter how deep I went. Of course, the woods near my childhood home were anything but vast. Bordered by streets and houses, it was easy to keep one’s place. Even when I explored unfamiliar forests near baseball fields and parks, I still managed to keep my bearings, and sometimes I spun around in circles, daring my senses to lose sight of where I was. Always, I found my way.
“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir
When one embarks on a woodland walk, there are dangers inherent to the expedition. Will your ax be wielded in protection or destruction? Perhaps you wish for a little of both. The blade is rusty in physical and metaphorical terms, and the pose is silly and histrionic, because all poses are. Poses have no place in the forest – not even on the edge.
“No one who loves the woods stays on the path.” – Millie Florence
A useful tool for certain acts of destruction, this little ax fits perfectly in hand, lending a false sense of safety for the one who carries it. In truth, such a trifling object is no match for the might of the woods, even when the day is warm and glorious and just like mid-summer.
“We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne
A chopping block of secrets, where whispers are splintered like aged wood – not always as easy as it seems, not so simple as it looks – this is where tales are wound like that unchecked bittersweet vine at the end of summer. Such thin and wiry stems of green all too quickly thicken and harden into chokers of wood – a poisonous piece of deadly jewelry that will strangle its trusting host.
One of the happy results of last night’s election news was Maura Healey winning her run for Governor of Massachusetts. That state will always have a place in my heart (for many matrimonial reasons) and it’s always reassuring to see how blue it can be. Healey is actually the state’s first woman governor, and the nation’s first openly lesbian governor. She earns her first Dazzler of the Day for this honor. History is still being made, and hope still remains. Congratulations to Healey on the governorship, and the dazzlership.
Waves of wind sounding like ocean roll through the trees in the distance. A spattering of crow calls is incongruously answered by a barking dog. Somewhere a hanging set of chimes tangles and untangles itself, tinkling with the arrival of said wind. In the sky, clouds move swiftly, indicating they are anything but trapped in a Maxfield Parrish painting. But the light speaks other words, telling of colors and art and beauty that the wind refuses to hear.
Streams and rivers mirror this strange light, and the fish must wonder at the water’s queasy hue. Water rippling slightly from the brush of the wind, sky putting on a late afternoon show, and forest deciding whether to slumber now or when the darkness has fully unfurled. We are incontrovertibly, and inconsolably, into November.
While visiting family this past Sunday, we were treated to this view of the then-almost-full moon. Tonight it fulfills its fullness, amid the mayhem of whatever else today brings. In years past, I went about largely unaware of the lunar cycle, only to question whether it was a full moon when things started blowing up in my face. These days, I eye it cautiously, warily, but with a different sort of energy. Prepared for the unexpected setbacks and mishaps, I choose to harness the good energy as it comes, and accept the glitches and snafus as a reminder of the imperfect nature of life. Be flexible, and be open.
The rest is out of our hands, which makes it much easier to enjoy the moon rather than obsess over what trouble it may cause. As a wise woman once sang, “Go with the flow! You know you can do it.”
How fitting that on this wild and crazy full-moon Election Day, Captain America should be named the Dazzler of the Day, and so it is with great pleasure and pride that we crown Chris Evans as such. Coming hot on the heels of his selection as Sexiest Man Alive by People magazine, Evans personifies the very best of what it means to be a contributing citizen today, and he does it in the guise of all that is handsome and sultry. He’s been featured here in less clothing before, and showing off one of his best assets, but these photos for People Magazine by Michael Schwartz capture an equally-alluring side of him.
Beginning this full Blood Moon Election Day, not knowing whether this country will do the right thing or just continue its mad descent into chaos and autocracy, I’m hesitant to do anything but peer out timidly from the bedroom, and seek out a little plate of chocolates. What’s on the line if you don’t #VoteBlue this time around? Social Security, Medicare, a woman’s autonomy over her body, marriage equality, transgender rights… and the very essence of American democracy. That we are at such a point is disappointing – once upon a time I truly believed we were better than this. Alas, we are not. And we are all to blame.
Now, it’s up to us to fix it, if it’s not already too late. Part of me fears it is, and we have already given ourselves over to lies and misinformation. When you lose the baseline of truth and facts, and when you act like there are two valid sides to every story, the moral arc of justice can’t help but suffer. So today I am going to vote a straight blue ticket, to right the lopsided world that acts as though homophobia, racism, and autocracy are viable sides and choices.
Then I’m going to see what the rest of our country does, and I will likely need these chocolates for that.
Actually, this is my hair in the morning, noon and night.
And I’m cool with it.
While dying my hair used to be a fun and quirky way of staving off boredom (I’ve been platinum blonde, copper, purple, turquoise, blue, magenta, red, and black, to name but a few) I haven’t dyed it to appear darker because I was getting gray. After my last stint with color (bright flaming red) I dyed it black to go back to my natural hue. By then it was coming in with lots of gray, so after realizing I could either keep dying it darker for the rest of my life, or go with the flow, I buzzed it all off and let it come in as nature intended. That was well before COVID. Haven’t looked back since.
I see friends who are trapped in the dye-cycle, and I just can’t be bothered. For someone so supposedly vain, I’m actually easy-upkeep when it comes to my hair, happy with the quickest Supercuts job I can get, and some leave-in conditioner to keep it from flying this way and that.
And so, here’s my unofficial coming out. Happy Gray Pride, y’all.
If you look quickly and not too closely, it almost looks like the pool is still open, with this new blue cover that Andy selected. Sadly, that is not the case, though yesterday would have actually made for a decent pool day. Instead, the pool is closed until next spring… on with the recap of the previous week, complete with extra hour and all!
All day the temperatures had hovered in the mid-70’s, and the night brought them just a smidge lower. The air outside was somehow cozier than the air indoors, and that gives title to this post. It may be a quieter post, as that suits these gentle days. I’m glad for the reprieve – November can be so cruel and cutting when it lets loose the lower temperatures.
In the evening, the chirping of crickets is still to be heard, and I leave the attic window open as I type out these words. We will accept this weather with grateful and appreciative hearts. A bow to the universe, then, and a song for this sepia Sunday.
Such soft light for a Sunday night. Strangely out of tune with the Novembers that I remember. Maybe I’m no longer remembering well, or maybe I just want to remember November as something harsh and cutting, to make the brief respite of the holidays feel a little warmer. These are the dangers of the tricks we play on ourselves. Misremembered moments. Forgotten pockets of relief. The way the nights come quicker, but the days feel brighter in the immediate absence of the tree leaves. We will each remember this differently. Trying to find something that resonates with anyone else suddenly feels like a fool’s errand. The mind turns on itself while making the attempt.
Most people have written off the garden until next spring, but that’s a sad and premature move when there is so much more beauty to be found from now through winter. If one allows their eyes to adjust to detect the finer and more subtle gradations of texture and color, there are wonders and revelations for the more discerning eye. Case in point is this withered stand of cup plants.
While they pale in comparison to their deep green leaves and bright yellow flowers during the summer, the leaves and stalks now take on sculptural interest, rising like hooded figures, some curving and flaring like an elephant’s head and ears. The only limit to what they might be is the imagination, and I’ve always kept mine sharply and keenly active, especially when the outside world is mostly asleep.
These stalks will stand strong throughout the winter, bravely defying wind and rain and sleet and snow. The leaves will gradually be torn from them, slowly disintegrating by the time the last days of winter limp away, until it’s just the spindly spires splintering apart as spring makes her grand return.
Somewhere in memory I am swaying to this song, not quite in a solitary dance, and something more than a sorrowful trance. Alone in Boston, treading barefoot on the dim, not-quite-lit amber floorboards of my home-away-from-home, a memory within a memory forms as I recall the early days of living there by myself in the sparse unfurnished space, back before there was even a chair on which to sit. A single lamp glows warmly near the door, while the windows let in the peeping streetlights.
I was a quick wet boy Diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes Wide on my plastic toys
Then when the cops closed the fair I cut my long baby hair Stole me a dog eared map And called for you everywhere
Somewhere, lost in the realm of that hazy land where deleted blog posts go, there is another piece written for this song, something I wrote many years ago while searching and seeking and never finding some other flightless bird. The warm hues of that Boston night fade and dissolve into gray, growing colder and distant, as my gentle swaying slows, so much that the rising and falling of my chest is the only movement in the place. This song plays on the little stereo, filling the air with its melancholy melody.
Have I found you? Flightless bird, jealous, weeping Or lost you? American mouth Big bill looming
It is November again, like it was November before, like the memory of this song carries from one November into another, and then repeating, another year, another song, and still the same melody, sad and strange and sweet, and the same swaying, dance-like trance, still held by the spell, still held under the water. Wet as a boy in the rain, uncaring and laughing through his tears.
Now I’m a fat house cat Cursing my sore blunt tongue Watching the warm poison rats Curl through the wide fence cracks
Pissing on magazine photos Those fishing lures thrown in the cold and clean Blood of Christ mountain stream
I remember a night not far from November, when I had just started living at the condo, when it got dark so early and no one was quite used to it, in those dismal first afternoons after we turned the clocks back. There were dry, brown leaves beneath my feet as I neared Braddock Park – they made the only sound on such a still windless night, and there was just the one pair of feet shuffling along. As I approached the row of brownstones, I looked up at the windows that belonged to me. Dark and empty, they kept their eyes sadly closed, not bothering to blink or wink a greeting from some beloved or loving person within, and suddenly I froze mid-step. For one terrifying moment, I couldn’t face walking into the place alone, and that little survival mechanism that has always kicked in during the free-fall into despair signaled to me to back away from there, somehow knowing that if I entered at that particular time of vulnerability I might not survive. And so I listened, turning around and heading back to Copley Square, back to people and light and warmth. Even if they were strangers, it would be better than being completely alone. And after an hour or so, the impossibility of it – the impossibility of being lonely – faded and fell away, and I returned, unbothered by the darkness and emptiness, once again ok with all of it.
Have I found you? Flightless bird, brown hair bleeding Or lost you? American mouth Big bill, stuck going down
