The idea came to me as a wave of loneliness washed over me in the pool. Paddling by myself in the deep end, I looked up to the darkening sky as the evening lowered its light. I tried thinking back to the last time I’d gone to the movies, but I couldn’t remember. Somewhere in Skip’s repository of movie knowledge and memories he will have the recollection. Instead, I asked if Andy would pop a batch of popcorn, and I sat down in the shallow end and ate the entire bowl, savoring each kernel as the aroma brought back all the fun and laughter of movie nights out.
Along those same lines, I’ve recently been craving dill dip – which would have been a staple at our summer gatherings, but that we’ve not had a reason to make this entire year. I might put together a small batch and find a little round rye to rekindle memories of parties from the past.
Maybe it’s not the silly dishes I’m craving as much as the company, and maybe this new collection of comfort food is how we’ll make do until we can have company again.
I’ve only had one haircut since winter, and I’m almost due for another, but I find myself less interested in maintaining the perfect coif these days. A similarly strange phenomenon has happened with my clothing choices – hence this stringy tank top that I would have scoffed at a mere six months ago – as much from the winter cold as for its cheese-factor. Now, it’s just the most comfortable and relaxed piece of clothing when I’m working in the garden or lunching on the patio. My entire wardrobe has undergone a comparable transformation, something I attribute as much to the summer season as to the new/old work-from-home situation that continues.
‘Summer hair, don’t care‘ is a mantra I’ve recently embraced, and this relaxed attitude has seeped into what I wear as well. In fact, it will be difficult to get back into the ties and button-down shirts that fall and work customarily require. There was an article in the New York Times that described an analogous shift in fashion, in the way its importance and influence has waned during this pandemic, and the way the entire fashion world has changed, possibly forever. It wasn’t as mournful as I expected it to be, not unlike this quiet summer.
It’s a new world, and embracing it is easier than holding on to antiquated traditions. Learning to let go is a lesson of summer that might do well to inform the coming fall…
As far as anyone can foreseeably tell, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will be running against Trump and Pence, and that’s going to be the choice this fall (with the possible addition of a self-proclaimed-bipolar spouse of a reality television persona). I posted this on FaceBook as soon as it was announced: “I would have loved to have seen Kamala Harris as President… maybe someday I will. For now, she’d make an amazing VP.”
Soon, the comments had devolved into an argument, rooted in a conversation about whether Biden was fit for the office. So let me just explain myself here, in a succinct post that I will copy and paste as needed whenever similar comments surface on social media.
We are not having a conversation on the fitness level of Joe Biden for President.
We are not having a conversation about the failings or shortcomings or gaffes of Joe Biden.
We are not having a conversation about previous votes or previous stances or previous poor decisions by Joe Biden.
There is too much at stake for this election.
There is also no comparison to the horror that currently occupies the White House.
Until such time that Joe Biden has told over 19,000 lies, paid off a porn star after having an affair with her while his wife was pregnant, bragged about grabbing women by the pussy, ordered the tear-gassing of peaceful protestors so he could pose with a Bible in his hand, caged children after separating them from their families, incited and emboldened open racism and hatred, allowed over 160,000 Americans to die from COVID, and gotten impeached for abuse of power and obstructing Congress, I don’t want to hear anything bad about Biden.
I hope there will come a day when we can again discuss the subtleties and nuances of candidates, to have a thoughtful debate on the merits and failings of their platforms and personal attributes, to have intelligent and constructive arguments exchanging differences of opinion on policy and methods of enacting policy. This is not that time.
There are only two choices right now: Biden or Trump.
To question, denigrate, or tear down Biden in any way is to implicitly support Trump. I don’t like that that’s how it is, but that doesn’t stop it from being true. As I said, I hope one day we can have these discussions again, when questioning a candidate is not going to guarantee the election of a monster. We are not at that day. We are at a very perilous point, where if each and every one of us doesn’t do all that we can to make sure Trump is defeated, I genuinely fear the dissolution of what made this country so great in the first place.
It is rare indeed that people give. Most people guard and keep; they suppose that it is they themselves and what they identify with themselves that they are guarding and keeping, whereas what they are actually guarding and keeping is their system of reality and what they assume themselves to be. One can give nothing whatsoever without giving oneself – that is to say, risking oneself. If one cannot risk oneself, then one is simply incapable of giving. And, after all, one can give freedom only by setting someone free…
There are too many things we do not wish to know about ourselves. People are not, for example, terribly anxious to be equal (equal, after all, to what and to whom?) but they love the idea of being superior. And this human truth has an especially grinding force here, where identity is almost impossible to achieve and people are perpetually attempting to find their feet on the shifting sands of status…
Furthermore, I have met only a very few people – and most of these were not Americans – who had any real desire to be free. Freedom is hard to bear. It can be objected that I am speaking of political freedom in spiritual terms, but the political institutions of any nation are always menaced and are ultimately controlled by the spiritual state of that nation. We are controlled here by our confusion, far more than we know, and the American dream has therefore become something much more closely resembling a nightmare, on the private, domestic, and international levels. Privately, we cannot stand our lives and dare not examine them; domestically, we take no responsibility for (and no pride in) what goes on in our country; and, internationally, for many millions of people, we are an unmitigated disaster…
“To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.” – Ocean Vuong, ‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous’
Swimming, I fight the current, wondering how much more buoyancy salt water really affords. From the dark depths of the ocean, its gaze is felt and intuited. Somewhere a shark circles. Somewhere a giant squid torpedoes through deeper darkness. Somewhere the ocean pulls from the shore, itself pulled by the moon, and somewhere I feel the sand displaced beneath my feet, the way the receding tide eventually takes us all down.
In a summer when we are mostly bound to our homes, if we’re being safe, a different kind of wave laps at my bare feet. In the gentle ripples of the pool, a book rests by my side – the only way to reach the beach. When the sharks arrive, when the squid’s tentacles wrap their way around the water, I am not to be found. Only a swimsuit floats where once I was, eerily bobbing in ghostly fashion, the way fashion feels like such a ghost these days.
In so many ways, it’s simply another shedding of another guise – a guise I once thought made up the most of me, but fashion, and an enduring love-there-of, was only ever a mode too. It lasted longer than so many others… The trickster shape-shifts again ~ the jester and the king become one. The summer sun casts its own spell.
There, in the space between water and light, I cast off the frills and frivolity, and, naked, swim away to another sea, leaving behind the threads of some silkworm, floating like the plucked plumage of a water-shirking bird-of-prey.
There is something gorgeous about being unseen, too, something gorgeous about not being hunted. That is the place where true beauty resides.
Our first full week with the pool in effect makes it finally feel like summer, just in the nick of time. There’s a light now for nightswimming, and a fan of steps that makes entering the water so much nicer than using a ladder. It’s my new favorite hang-out. While I’m luxuriating there, and making up words here, ride this recap like a wave…
“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse, and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.†―Desmond Tutu
The cup plant has been in its seasonal glory the past couple of weeks, the blooms bursting like countless orbs of sunshine against the sky, providing a feast for the bees and butterflies and a pair of hummingbirds. A group of yellow finches favors the flowerheads too, and will be here until the fall, when the seeds ripen and turn brown, hoping to fall into some remotely hospitable patch of dirt somewhere and carry on the legacy. With all of these visiting creatures, there is much activity in the garden now, and it’s a glorious sight to behold. So much of these last few months have been filled with a sense of quiet in the backyard.
Bereft of the usual string of parties and gatherings and get-togethers, and bereft of the pool for the first half of the summer, it’s been a strange season, as this is typically when we would see our friends and family. Come fall and winter we tend to retreat from the world a little – this would normally be our chance to connect for the year, to see the people we love and make the memories that would warm the winter.
And so I spend the days trying to soak in the sunshine and the cheer, the things that summer does best, the things that only summer can do, trying to warm the heart enough so that it will see me through another winter.
Acute observers will hasten to point out that only one of the photos here actually features a black Speedo (by Marc Jacobs) – the rest are just basic black briefs by Tom Ford masquerading as a Speedo. I can’t be bothered with authenticity when it comes to blog post titles. Not in the summer, and certainly not on a Sunday morning.
Surrounded by the finally-lush quartet of hanging sweet potato vines, a pair of fruiting fig trees, and a trio of tomatoes that has finally produced enough to be considered a proper harvest, I recline in the midst of our bucolic patio, facing the pool and contemplating another dip. The trials and tribulations of summer.
Let out a summer sigh…
Soaking in the sun, soaking in the day, I soak in the minutes, and do my best to still and slow them. The neighbors are not yet out, and the silence seems to add to the slowing of the moment. I’m trying to make the most of the summer. Sometimes that means simply sitting, watching the bees buzzing by, and waiting for the next visit from one of the hummingbirds that’s been gracing us with its presence.
Out of boredom and isolation, I did something I always advise against doing: a blind fragrance buy. In this case it was a bottle of Aesop’s ‘Tacit’ which is absolutely my new favorite summer scent, so the stupid and moronic gamble paid off. It doesn’t usually work out that way, so be wary. The literature on ‘Tacit’ sounded glorious (Jo Malone‘s combo of Basil and Neroli has always been an unexpectedly enjoyable whimsy, one much I may have to revisit to enhance this basil experience).
Tacit was born of two key inspirations: the fresh notes of traditional colognes and the culture, topography and fragile perfumed vegetation of the Mediterranean coast. It is familiar in its Yuzu-inspired citrus notes, yet innovative in inclusion of Basil to deliver a green accord with delicate spicy clove-like undertones.
I love a citrus scent for summer, even if I know they won’t last. Issey Miyake’s take on yuzu is a collegiate bottle of summer I once used for a Yuzu Summer Party (yes, we’ve had parties centered around a citrus and a cologne, what’s the question?) Hermes does a delicious grapefruit with their Eau de pamplemousse rose, and there is a Grapefruit Lime concoction by The 7 Virtues that is divine.
Tacit combines the citrus-zest of yuzu with the green, herbal essence of basil, which pushes it into slightly fruitier territory, wrapped up in the one part that was the biggest gamble for me – vetiver. I hadn’t been a big fan of vetiver since a downstairs neighbor in my college years wore it, and wore it badly. Those kinds of experiences tint and shade our fragrance views, whether warranted or not. I did not return to it until Tom Ford coaxed me into a winter try with his ‘Grey Vetiver’ and I realized if done with a citrus I could handle it. Happily, it also holds true for ‘Tacit’.
That yuzu and basil combination is perfect for summer, and the vetiver propels it into something that lasts – not usually a requisite for this season’s scent, when you don’t want a heavy fragrance to stick. It retains a freshness for a couple of hours, and you won’t mind a reapplication because it’s that delightfully effervescent.
YOU’VE BEEN SANCTIFIED
AND I’VE BEEN TRIED
GUILTY BY ASSOCIATION
YOU’VE BEEN CANONIZED
AND I’VE BEEN FRIED
GUILTY BY ASSOCIATION
First she broke my heart.
Then she got me angry.
Now, she’s silently seeking forgiveness but in silence there can be no forgiveness.
We need to talk.
She needs to talk.
Not talking is giving up.
And if she wants me to give up, I will not fight it.
Madonna recently posted that crazy video of a homophobic lunatic (and I say that because this woman believes that cysts are the result of us having sex with demons in our dreams) in which she denounced the need for masks, a video also shared by Trump. Instagram deleted it for being false information, then she re-posted it again, only to have it taken down a second time. Then there was radio silence, after which she started posted videos as if nothing had happened.
After a righteous firestorm of negative responses, Madonna has still not addressed it. That’s not good, and the fact that someone who once acted so intelligently could be so duped and then so defiant about it is a disheartening statement on how far humanity has fallen. As each hour passed in which she ignored it and pretended it never happened, I felt us fall further apart from one another.
Those hours hurt.
Those hours stung.
Those hours worked to change my life-long love of Madonna.
It still feels wrong to listen to her music. I still have a sour taste in my mouth after everything, and so I haven’t heard anything by her in days – which is rather an unprecedented development. By aligning herself with conspiracy theorists and wacky doctors, not to mention the evil of something like Trump, all the joy I once felt in hearing her songs suddenly drained from the experience. (Thank God for Taylor Swift’s ‘Folklore’ right now.)
I’m working through it.
Working to reconcile how to find that joy in her music again despite her personal failings and faults. I believe in forgiveness, but I need her to say she’s sorry.
2020 takes and takes and takes, degrading and destroying everything we once considered stable and unbreakable, every last thing on which we thought we could always count and rely.
I was originally going to post Madonna and Joe Henry’s version of ‘Guilty By Association’ because that’s such a fitting song, but that feels wrong. And so I take her voice out of the equation, giving you the original writer’s version of it, silencing Madonna’s foolish nonsense and misinformation, her dangerous stubbornness, her death-defying lunacy.
For now, I mourn the mistake. I mourn the madness. I mourn the disgust I feel at it, and the level of my reaction, wondering if it’s all too much. Mostly, though, I mourn the fact that right now I cannot locate the joy in her music – the joy and celebration I’ve always felt, from her saddest songs to her most silly and exuberant. That joy has slipped away. And though my opinion makes no difference to her, if a lifelong fan like me is this disillusioned, I don’t see this faring well for her future or her legacy, and that’s a fucking shame.
Even if wearing a mask helps me reduce the chance of transmitting a virus by 5%, that’s worth it for me to put one on. I don’t get the people who don’t. These memes offer some perspective.
Glistening in a stainless steel colander, these fresh cherries are a feast for the eyes and the tongue, a dazzling duo that doesn’t always come to fruition. It’s easy to do one or the other quite well at any given point – mastering the double whammy is a skill best left to Mother Nature. Mothers always know best.
Fresh seasonal fruit is one of the fleeting joys of living in the world. Even if it’s a chance-grab at some mulberries from a street tree, there always seems to be something sweet lurking around every summer corner.
Many plants don’t like their leaves wet, especially if they’re the slightest bit furry or hairy. Cases in point include tomatoes, clematis, and the begonia seen in these pictures. When possible, I water only the soil around these beauties, to keep them happy. It’s generally a good rule for all plants, as wet leaves in the humid months can lead to mildew and mold, something that is currently afflicting all the peonies. Their otherwise-handsome foliage has been ravaged with powdery mildew, lending a gray, ashen appearance to them, and marring the entire garden. Such things are largely out of control, however, and one of the lessons of the garden is in letting go of that over which we have no say. Such as day-long tropical storm events.
There is just so much shielding one can do for plants in the path of a deluge of wind and rain. And in the natural world, they wouldn’t have a patio for protection anyway, so I try not to stress to much about that. A little rain, while certain plants may not like it on a regular basis, is always good for cleaning things up, getting dust and dirt off the leaves, and refreshing the landscape.
It’s also pretty, especially when the sun first comes up after a day of gray and loneliness. The rain still clings to these dropping begonia blooms, as if they had to shed a few tears to get over everything. Some storm days are like a release. And then it comes time to dry the tears and get on with the summer.
