Though the Ostrich fern is one of the hardier (some might say invasive) varieties of fern, belying their elegant and delicate appearance, they still have points of vulnerability. This is especially true if you are bending their preferred environment. Most ferns appreciate some shade, and more than a little moisture, but the Ostrich fern will put up with a fair share of sun and heat, provided you keep its soil on the wet side.
We have a large stand of them that gets most of the morning and midday sun, and after amending the soil with a healthy layer of manure in the very early spring (before the fiddleheads appear, ideally) the best way for them to prosper and put on a show is to keep them very well-watered. This is more of a preventative action than corrective. Even in the best circumstances, these ferns tend to naturally die back in late summer. They will, however, succumb much earlier if conditions are hot and dry, and once they start down that path it’s impossible to change course. What works better is preventing it from starting for as long as possible, which means regular and heavy watering during those hot and windy days. Since we have them in a pretty prominent location, I’ve been ding my best to keep them watered and happy so they remain pretty as long as possible. Yet another instance where prevention is the best possible cure. You just have to start early and trust.
When sending out a mass e-mail to an entire organization in which you’re describing someone within said organization, be extra vigilant not to confuse words like ‘conscientious’ with words like ‘contentious.’ Letters matter!
We are all fucked. More than usual, considering that Mercury is in retrograde from now until the very last day of the month. That means I will do my best to lay low and not ruffle any feathers, and I would appreciate it oh-so-much if people would do me the same honor, because I’m actually wearing feathers as we speak. There’s no need to get into what Mercury in retrograde means, and whether or not it means anything is beside the point. I tend to take these periods as a chance to center myself and not let every little aggravating thing get to me. It’s actually a nice life lesson for someone who strives to be a perfectionist – an impossible thing to be in this world. During such times, I will go a little easier on everyone, and I’ll do my best to go a little easier on myself. You have no idea the demon I turn into when I let myself down.
As for the best way to deal with this astrological turbulence, I will hunker down, focus on the things that bring about peace and tranquility, and hopefully sidestep the emotional maelstrom that is Mercury in retrograde. It is what it fucking is, and that’s all it fucking will be.
When you’ve seen a sequin-saturated performance of Cher, Bette Midler, and Elton John from Cher’s variety show, it’s kind of hard to believe anything new is really going to be “the gayest thing ever.â€
{Apologies for interrupting our summer story with this forgotten hotel review – I meant to put it up on Trip Advisor but it got away from me. Since I’ve had Savannah on my mind of late, it’s going up here – a bit of hopefully helpful advice for anyone contemplating a Savannah trip – something I highly recommend.}
With its ideal location, and a little (perhaps more than a little) polish, the DeSoto Hotel could take its place as a Savannah gem.
While its structure is rooted in concrete and modern lines that seem at odds with the heart of the historic district, the DeSoto Hotel does its best with its bones, and the relatively recent renovation to the lobby makes for a beautiful and modern space. The rooms, hallways, and elevators leave a bit more to be desired, but we made the most of it and called it character.
Set in the midst of the historic district, the location of this hotel is its main drawing point. Right outside the door are the beautiful squares of Savannah, and the bustling riverfront is just a ten-to-fifteen-minute walk away. For those looking for a quieter place to rest their heads at night, this may prove better than the hotels closer to the action.
The dim hallways and deteriorating elevators make moving through the hotel the worst part of a stay, and a musty scent of old-age continually battled with the room attendant’s cleaning spray in a less-than-pleasant way, but the staff was friendly and accommodating.
There was a modern-day feature of checking in with me via text to see if we needed anything. Not at all unwelcome, it was a nice touch, and one that I tried when our room was still not cleaned from the previous day by 2 PM. A quick text back and someone responded that they would send someone up right away. Though “right away†seems to mean something different in Savannah, we didn’t mind – but if you want to come back to fresh towels after lunch, it might be good to make such a request before leaving for the day.
Though the weather was not quite warm enough to make use of the pool, that looked like the place to be when it got sunny again, with an outside bar area that opens up “when it hits about 75†degrees, according to the loose hours transmitted by one of the hotel employees.
A puzzling shower set up had the shower door opening right next to the toilet, requiring a bit of nimbleness and care, but the water pressure was nice and the shampoo and body wash dispensers were filled. Bed and sheets were exceedingly comfortable and our corner room had a balcony that looked over Savannah. That and the city itself made up for any less-than-perfect odds and ends.
It’s summer, and the time for reading is at hand. Some years I tend to dive deep into a sprawling classic – like ‘David Copperfield’ or ‘Moby Dick’ – while others are spent with lighter fare – all those summer Harry Potter releases – though I like when things fall somewhere in-between it all. (See ‘The Summer That Melted Everything‘ or ‘The Whale: A Love Story’.) This year I started with ‘Lie With Me’ by Philippe Besson. Originally written in French, it was translated by Molly Ringwald of all people. (Who knew she had so many talents? I’m still getting over her surprisingly decent collection of jazz standards.) Mssr. Besson tells a tale of teenage same-sex love, and how it shapes and creates two young men, not unlike the fertile ground that blossomed ‘Call Me By Your Name’ (Andre Aciman is actually one of the writers tapped to give a blurb of praise on the back cover). Even better than praise is some of the writing itself, so enough of my babble. Here’s the real deal.
“It’s hard to know what he’s thinking. It’s an elegant way of suggesting that his father isn’t affectionate, tender, or reassuring, that he remains aloof, that what he offers is a mix of reserve and unspoken pride for his son. I know what that’s like, to be the son of a man like that. I wonder if it’s cold fathers who make the sensitive sons.” ~ Philippe Besson
“There is the insanity of not being able to be seen together. An insanity that is aggravated in this case by the unprecedented situation of finding ourselves in the middle of a crowd and having to act like strangers. It seems crazy not to be able to show our happiness. Such an impoverished word. Others have this right, and they exercise it freely. Sharing their happiness makes them even more happy, makes them expand with joy. But we’re left stunted, compromised, by the burden of having to always lie and censor ourselves.
This passion that can’t be talked about, that has to be concealed, gives way to the terrible question: if it isn’t talked about, how can one know that it really exists? One day, when it’s over, when it finally comes to an end, no one will be able to attest to what took place.” ~ Philippe Besson
It may be true that I have no fucking business writing any fucking kind of children’s book, but if ‘Go the Fuck To Sleep’ can exist, then so can my upcoming project. Strap on your kiddie gloves and assume the position.
Saturated with summer, the world at last feels ripe. So rarely do we realize it when it happens; so often it is revealed in hindsight. I’m trying to live more in the moment, to put down the phone and the laptop, to open a book, to jump in the pool, to examine the garden a few times during the day. See how the light shifts and changes, see how the leaves and flowers respond. Let’s take an equal examination of the week that came before…
No better way is there to learn to love Nature than to understand Art. It dignifies every flower of the field. And, the boy who sees the thing of beauty which a bird on the wing becomes when transferred to wood or canvas will probably not throw the customary stone. ~ Oscar Wilde
My last project was released with all the bombast and racy photo shoots that my first project in four years earned, and ‘PVRTD’ deserved such a build-up and promotional platform. Postcards and press releases and all sorts of fantastical stuff were sent out, a long and regular posting scheduled of online promotional stunts, and a super-saturation of all my social media outlets served to drive a self-proclaimed (and mostly solely self-realized) publicity frenzy for what was largely one of the most controversial, and angry, projects I’ve ever made. And when I open that book and go through the photographs, I most humbly say that it delivered. ‘PVRTD’ was not a happy or fun journey, but there was beauty there – dim, subtle, heart-wrenching beauty, almost lost in the gray shadow-world that I did my best to conjure. By the end of it, though, my darkness fetish had been satiated, and I wanted something that went the complete opposite for a next project.
Hence my new one. Out next weekend if you want to stop by and see it for yourself. I’ll try to get it up online shortly thereafter, but along with the absence of pomp and grandiosity, there’s also an absence of impetus. I’ll do it when I feel like doing it, and in the summer that may take longer than usual.
The good news is that the select few people who have seen it have declared it their favorite among all my projects, and that’s sweet to hear. Rather than toot my own horn, I’ll let this one slip quietly into the sunny days. Come back here periodically to see if it has made its appearance. She’s a shy little thing, but she’s oh-so-pretty… you’ll find her like a piece of painted water…
While any smart person would hesitate to proclaim one particular summer their all-time favorite, the summer of 1990 stands out as a definite contender in my life. (2000 and 2010 do as well, for different reasons.) Way back in 1990, I was all of fourteen going on fifteen, but I can still remember more of that summer than I can of anything that happened yesterday.
It began with a first date with a guy, when all I could do was ‘Hold On’ because I didn’t even know what was happening. It continued with the striking of a pose: ‘Vogue.’ It got everyone a little Breathless, because ‘It Must Have Been Love’ before I even knew what love was. Does anyone really know what love is? It saw my friends and I making a trip to the then-Soviet Union ~ around the world and as far away from home as we could possibly be, so we made our own home and somehow I knew that I would be all right. A guy named Rat helped a little too.
It was a summer of wishful thinking and someone would be crowned a king…
I DON’T NEED TO FALL AT YOUR FEET
JUST CAUSE YOU CUT ME TO THE BONE
AND I WON’T MISS THE WAY THAT YOU KISS ME
WE WERE NEVER CARVED IN STONE
IF I DON’T LISTEN TO THE TALK OF THE TOWN
THEN MAYBE I CAN FOOL MYSELF
I’LL GET OVER YOU I KNOW I WILL
I’LL PRETEND MY SHIP’S NOT SINKING
AND I’LL TELL MYSELF I’M OVER YOU
CAUSE I’M THE KING OF WISHFUL THINKING
I AM THE KING OF WISHFUL THINKING.
I needed someone under me before I could get over them. Yet I was not quite ready to embark or even hope for a romantic quest. When I thought about girls, I wanted to be their friend more than anything else, to be part of their whispered secrets, to exchange silly notes, to be a member of their cloistered spheres and realms of influence. I wanted to BE with them, not to be WITH them. And at such a young age (because once upon a time fourteen was a very young age) I had no interest in anything else.
To make up for that, or to impel something ~ anything ~ into happening (such were my soap-operatic leanings) I wished to access the push and pull of this Go West pop song. I wanted the heartache because that would mean I’d had a love to lose. I wanted the break-up pangs of sadness because it would mean I would have had the happiness of romance. I wanted the blues because something in my soul accessed sadness easier than happiness. It might have been fucked up, but I’ve never claimed not to be fucked up.
I REFUSE TO GIVE IN TO MY BLUES
THAT’S HOW IT’S GONNA BE
AND I DENY THE TEARS IN MY EYES
CAUSE I DON’T WANT TO LET YOU SEE
THAT YOU HAVE MADE A HOLE IN MY HEART
AND NOW I’VE GOT TO FOOL MYSELF
I’LL GET OVER YOU I KNOW I WILL
I’LL PRETEND MY SHIP’S NOT SINKING
AND I’LL TELL MYSELF I’M OVER YOU
CAUSE I’M THE KING OF WISHFUL THINKING
I AM THE KING OF WISHFUL THINKING.
Despite the warning of so many fairy tales, I wasn’t careful with what I wished for. Happily, I didn’t know that then, and I would welcome any bit of emotional flotsam that floated my way, eager for a feeling, for an emotion, for a reckoning… Summer did that to a person.
The level of customer service is invertly proportional to the quality of coffee at both Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts, and I’m starting to accept the lackluster coffee of the latter to avoid the shoddy service of the former.
