If you’ve been following this blog for any decent length of time you are already accustomed to our twice-annual sojourns to this Beautiful Place By The Sea. This year we closed out the season with a long Columbus Day weekend, but rather than take you through a multi-post recap of what went on every stage of the trip, this sole post will have to suffice.
Carrying on with my self-imposed backing-away from non-stop blogging (hello dash-happy sentence), I decided to reclaim my vacation time as well, which meant less documenting every minute and instead living in each moment. I left the real camera at home and did just fine with the iPhone to convey brief glimpses of our time there.
These pics tell a vague story, hinting at the fun and enjoyment we experienced, while allowing you to conjure your own fall trip connotations. This is one of my favorite times of the year to be in Maine. Spring carries its excitement and the promise of a summer to come, but there’s something more moving and beautiful about the fall, when we are ready to put everything to bed for the winter slumber. The prettiness of the pumpkins and the colorful cacophony of the chrysanthemums are not long for this world, so we value them a little more. We pause instead of rushing by. We know what winter may bring.
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The extended warmth of this fall season has produced a bountiful crop of dahlia blooms. I have a soft-spot in my heart for this flower, for myriad reasons. It was one of the first plants I ever planted and grew in the little side garden that my parents allotted for me. I watered and weeded and took care of them for the entire summer, wondering when they would deign to bloom. The payoff came later, but was worth it as shades of crimson and peach and lemon yellow exploded as the school year was about to begin. I wouldn’t grow them again for a long time; that was too long to wait for such color, and the idea of waiting until school began to enjoy a bloom sucked the fun out of it.
These days, I still find their blooming period a little too late. By this stage I’m ready to shift focus indoors. However, this year has kept us out later than normal, and it’s always nice to see how others have employed such a lovely garden plant.
Here, the late morning light softens the saturated glow of the dahlia’s fiery petals.
It peeked out at me from behind a bush as I hurried by on lunch one day. A bit of a wink and the slightest wave was enough to make me take notice and pause in my tracks. Looking around in case this was a trick, I walked onward, making the promise to stop on my way back to work. I needed a coffee and a reading break to determine whether it was worth the investment. I also wanted to see if someone else stopped and fell for the thing. I like to give the universe the option to correct itself in case its motions weren’t meant for me.
I finished my coffee at Stacks and walked back in the fall sunshine. This was what made the Northeast worthwhile – these sunny October days that felt balmy and bright, like the winter might not come this year. We suspend our belief at such moment. We believe instead in what feels best. In this suspended state, I returned to see this little heart still dangling from an azalea bush in downtown Albany.
It was one of those things that longed to be found, but only by the observant person who happened to care enough to look out for it. When I was a kid, I once found a fallen Mylar balloon near our backyard, stuck on a rusty wire fence, still halfway floating, still halfway trying to get away and rise. I freed it and carried it back home, fighting off a few neighborhood kids who had seen the treasure and tried to take it from me. (Well, maybe not fighting as much as arguing and running.) On this day, no one fought me as I free the little heart from its azalea entanglement.
A fabric notion built on whimsy and wishes, it came with an online promotional message as well. “I need a home,” it implored on its tiny tag, and my own heart broke a little. Someone has sewn this. Someone had cut it out. Someone had attached a pretty ribbon and had the faith and hope to hang it here. And someone counted on someone else to find it. A simple instruction was printed on the tag: Report this heart: www.ifoundaquiltedheart.com.
A sign of the times: a hand-made quilted heart with a social media connection. Looking it up online a few days later, I found a quirky little enterprise that’s about sewing (and sowing) these little hearts simply for the sake of brightening someone else’s day. And if it worked on a cynical guy like myself, I imagine it’s doing wonders for others in Albany and elsewhere. I may even dust off my sewing skills and contribute.
On the front, amid the quilted chaos contained in the shape of a heart, was a simple sewn-on message: you are loved. The power of that is enough to change the world.
Kristi Barlette recently lamented that it wasn’t socially appropriate to strike up a conversation, ask for a person to exchange numbers, and become friends after a single brief interaction in a store, but I beg to differ. (Well, that’s my extravagant extrapolation from a single FaceBook post of hers.) The point is that I just saw the exact described scenario play out the other day at Colonie Center.
I was browsing the clearance section of Barnes & Noble (don’t judge – they have hidden gems there! I once found discounted hard-cover versions of one of my favorite books – ‘The God in Flight‘ by Laura Argiri – for $2.97 or something ridiculously cheap and bought them all for friends). As I wound my way around the celebrity dish stuff and then the calendars, I happened upon a conversation just struck up by two strangers. I hovered nearby, listening to see if it was a pick-up because once in a great while I’m nosy like that. (As a general rule, I’m not.) The days of randomly picking people up in person seem quaint now and I was intrigued – it’s rare for two guys to just start gabbing, right? Or is that a gross and unfair assumption? Guilty for making an ass of myself if so. Alas, they were both straight, at least one was, based on his ready revelation that he had just gotten married (to his girlfriend) in Jamaica. The other guy offered his congratulations. They talked about destination weddings for a bit, then jobs and careers, and then the other guy extended his hand and introduced himself officially.
By this point I was invested, like in some stupid reality show that comes on after a decent Real Housewives episode, and you don’t want to watch and you say it’s so stupid and then you just have to know why the girl with the lotus tattoo is SO MAD at the guy with the mopey slacker vibe.
Eventually, though, their talk about mundane things like job satisfaction had turned dull and I was ready to bring my ‘Vogue’ and ‘Vanity Fair’ to the register (I’m an old school magazine-reader for road trips). As I was about to take leave of my eavesdropping expedition, I heard them reintroduce themselves and saw them taking out their phones and exchanging contact info.
“We should get together over a coffee sometime,” I heard one of them saying as they typed their numbers into their phones. “I’ll text you.” So yes, Kristi, apparently people do this sort of thing and it’s not entirely socially unacceptable. If you’re a straight guy, that is. I guess neither of us can relate.
We don’t celebrate Columbus Day much in these parts, other than for the day off from work. Instead, we celebrate the here and now, except in posts like this, when we celebrate the week that came before. We are scheduled to be getting back from our annual fall trip to Ogunquit, so this recap is a welcome moment of pause.
THAT MY BODY FROZE IN BED IF I JUST LISTENED TO IT RIGHT OUTSIDE THE WINDOW
THERE WERE DAYS WHEN THE SUN WAS SO CRUEL
THAT ALL THE TEARS TURNED TO DUST AND I JUST KNEW MY EYES WERE DRYING UP FOREVER
I FINISHED CRYING IN THE INSTANT THAT YOU LEFT
AND I CAN’T REMEMBER WHERE OR WHEN OR HOW
AND I BANISHED EVERY MEMORY YOU AND I HAD EVER MADE…
It’s not all that outlandish for a robe to inspire me to like a song. There was a time when I’d do very bad things for the perfect robe. And finding the perfect robe would take many attempts (read: many purchases). It had to be just right – the exact degree of flamboyance, the measured amount of elegance, the slightest hint of decadence. If the robe was right, the rest of my life would fall into place.
It’s not merely the robe – it’s all the connotations that it invokes.
Jennifer Tilly’s grating high-pitched squeals in a feathery pink extravaganza, telling of her thrilling, show-stopping numbers in a musical called ‘Leave A Specimen’.
And one of my favorites – the silk robe that Celine Dion wears in her 1996 video for ‘It’s All Coming Back To Me Now’.
THERE WERE THOSE EMPTY THREATS AND HOLLOW LIES
AND WHENEVER YOU TRIED TO HURT ME
I JUST HURT YOU EVEN WORSE AND SO MUCH DEEPER
THERE WERE HOURS THAT JUST WENT ON FOR DAYS
WHEN ALONE AT LAST WE’D COUNT UP ALL THE CHANCES
THAT WERE LOST TO US FOREVER
BUT YOU WERE HISTORY WITH THE SLAMMING OF THE DOOR
AND I MADE MYSELF SO STRONG AGAIN SOMEHOW
AND I NEVER WASTED ANY OF MY TIME ON YOU SINCE THEN
A confession: I was never a big Dion fan. She annoyed the fuck out of me with her Adult Contemporary bullshit. (I still find ‘Because You Loved Me’ to be one of the most joyless exercises in listening that the hearing world has been cursed to endure, and don’t even get me started on ‘The Power of Love’, whose bombast simply wouldn’t stop.) But in the years since I’ve softened on such stuff, and Dion’s so kooky and good-humored about everything (her own over-the-top zaniness included) that I came around. And the robe she wears in this video went a long way toward changing my stance.
WHEN YOU TOUCH ME LIKE THIS
AND WHEN YOU HOLD ME LIKE THAT
IT WAS GONE WITH THE WIND
BUT IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME
WHEN YOU SEE ME LIKE THIS
AND WHEN I SEE YOU LIKE THAT
THEN WE SEE WHAT WE WANT TO SEE
ALL COMING BACK TO ME
THE FLESH AND THE FANTASIES
ALL COMING BACK TO ME
I CAN BARELY RECALL
BUT IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME NOW
Drama. Intrigue. Devastation. Loss. And that’s all before she starts singing. In the aftermath, she haunts the house where her presumed love once lived, her only companion a robe that billows behind her in desolate beauty. At the time this song was released, I was about to fall in love again – a typical fall practice for me in those days. Everything was imbued with the import and passion of a person in their early twenties. I lived in a fantasy world; it was the only way I knew of to survive.
‘Evita’ was about to come out, and though my heart was pining away for the uninterested, I tried to focus on the Madonna movie, and on the drama of this video. The fantasy of a robe was an easy-to-accomplish escape. Like a heroine who lost her love in a tragic motorcycle crash, doomed to roam the hallways of a windy mansion, I walked from room to room (literally, as there were but two main rooms in the Boston condo) and felt the various fabrics fall and swirl about me.
By that point I had amassed a decent collection in various styles – silk and velvet, beaded and embellished, trimmed with feathers and fringe, tied with tassels and trinkets. They were a comfort, a balm on a troubled and restless heart. Just because I was alone didn’t mean I couldn’t do so in fabulous form. There is an exquisiteness to misery when it’s dressed just so. As the great Diana Vreeland once remarked, ‘Elegance is refusal.’ Refusing to feel was a discipline I learned while draped in the softest silk, idly running my fingers across a faint damask pattern, absent-mindedly dragging a pool of velvet and feathers in my wake. If there was a martini within reaching distance, so much the better. Retreating into a frivolous fantasy was my way of finding warmth on cold October nights. Wrapped in a robe, I indulged in make-believe, and if you think you are fabulous for long enough, sometimes it comes true.
IF YOU FORGIVE ME ALL THIS
IF I FORGIVE YOU ALL THAT
WE FORGIVE AND FORGET
AND IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME
WHEN YOU SEE ME LIKE THIS
AND WHEN I SEE YOU LIKE THAT
WE SEE JUST WHAT WE WANT TO SEE
ALL COMING BACK TO ME
THE FLESH AND THE FANTASIES
ALL COMING BACK TO ME
I CAN BARELY RECALL BUT IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME NOW
That fall I floated along the amber-hued floorboards of our Boston condo, robes fluttering behind me in dramatic recreation of this video. Life is more fun when you have to pretend, when the worry and want is for the sake of drama over any real emotional taxation and desire. Pretending was a form of protection – perhaps the ultimate for of protection – and the best way I knew to pretend was to put on a pretty robe, a steely mask, and the nonchalant attitude of aloofness that repelled all sorts of messy feelings.
James Van Der Beek has been here before, and fans of the Beek should revisit this post of our old pal Dawson, in which he received his first crowning as Hunk of the Day. Today’s entry is a holding spot for his next Hunk honor, which will come as soon as he shows a little more. We shall put a pin in that for now.
It seems to me that Mr. Van Der Beek is a star in need of a killer sitcom or a raunchy rom-com that showcases his edgy and sultry good looks, as well as his comedic grace. His work on ‘Varsity Blues’ and ‘Dawson’s Creek’, and his thrilling turn in ‘The Rules of Attracton’ showcased his dramatic gravitas, while his hilarious turn on ‘Don’t Trust The B—- in Apartment 23’ illuminates the prowess of a cunning funny guy. I still feel like we haven’t seen his full potential, which makes him an exciting actor to watch – those on the precipice of greatness carry an intrigue and aura of the future to them.
The best bow-tie statements are bold, crisp, and colorful. If you can muster the cadence of a rainbow in the design, so much the better. In a few days (October 11) we will be celebrating National Coming Out Day. In the event that you’re in need of an accessory with which to spread your LGBTQ spirit, check out these colorful Gay Pride Bow Ties – the perfect addition to an outfit of which one can truly be proud.
The best part of these is that part of the purchase goes toward a wonderful cause (each tie has its own non-profit organization to which part of the purchase goes). When you can add some pizzazz to your sartorial regime and help others out in the process then by all means you should proceed. These bow ties are a lovely addition to any wardrobe and come in handy at a multitude of events. A burst of color is never wrong, and a hint of rainbow can be a subtle treat if you’re looking to make a splash.
Using hand-woven silk from the United Kingdom and made in the United States in the state of Vermont, their creation is truly an international affair. The end results are works of unity and love, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Here’s their official promo:
It does not matter if you are Lesbian, Gay, Transgender, Intersex, Allies or whatever religious affiliation, it is important to know we need to coexist and respect each other. This is why we donate $5.00 for every bow tie sold. We want to unify people and make a difference in the world. That is why we are more than just a bow tie!
A number of years ago I saw my first castor bean plant. It’s not something one easily forgets. It was fall in Ogunquit, and my parents were staying at the Anchorage. That establishment always does an amazing job with their landscaping, particularly in their fall displays. Gigantic pumpkins lined the entrance, and the garden nearby was filled with these spiky scarlet seedpods. They rose high into the sky, and their vermillion brilliance popped against the deep blue of a fall day. At the time, they were an interesting sight to behold, but not something I particularly wanted for my garden at home.
Tastes change. Appreciation evolves.
Their dramatic structure and immensity began to haunt me. The fascinating armor of their seedpods was more interesting and colorful than many a flower. The burgundy leaves lent a compelling contrast to the world of green that is summer. When I went on a seed-buying spree for my Dad earlier this year, I bought a packet of seeds for myself.
I read that they liked a sunny spot, so I offered them some choice real estate right in front of our house. The noon sun hit that area directly, and with a slow-growing Japanese umbrella pine still working on its expansion, there was room for three castor beans to grow. After a rainy start (which had me worried that they might rot) they stretched their wrinkly first leaves into the spring air. Only when it turned hot did they truly take off, and then there was no stopping them.
The flowers and seedpods appeared earlier than I anticipated, then continued to come as summer turned into fall. Our late stretch of hot weather lengthened the growing season, and added to their already-impressive height – so much so that they almost overwhelmed their space. As it is, they soar above our little roof, and it’s only a matter of time before the squirrels and chipmunks realize they have a new ladder with which to ascend and wreak havoc. Next year, if these seeds ripen as I hope they will, I’ll see about planting them further away from the house, in the sunny side bank where it’s too difficult to mow. The ground is less fertile (these benefited from the amended soil and regular fertilizer that our front bed provides) but even at half this size they would make a dramatic statement. They are also said to deter moles and voles and other critters – a boon to our beautiful lawn that is in constant peril of one sort or another.
A word of warning if you are contemplating trying these out: every part of this plant is extremely poisonous. If you have curious kids or animals that feel the need to nibble on everything in their path, be very wary. A single seed is said to have killed a person; their spiky form is a telling warning label, as pretty and exotic as it may appear. Personally, I like a little danger in the garden. It wards off the ignorant and unwanted.
The ravages of forty-plus years of life show most prominently in the morning. After pressing the snooze button for the third time and tumbling out of bed, I walk hesitantly to the bathroom. It is still dark at this hour, and my eyes need a moment to adjust to the unforgiving light of the bathroom vanity.
On this morning, as on many mornings lately, I feel the years dragging behind me… attached and making things sag that never sagged before. I see the wrinkles and the growing preponderance of gray hair. It doesn’t bother me, but it makes me feel tired. This is why I rarely look back. It’s more exhausting to think of all that came before than to look at what might be ahead.
Capturing myself here, on this blog, has always been a diary-like exercise, a place to chronicle things and help me make sense of those experiences that get me flummoxed or bummed or inspired. My Virgo nature demands that I document history and get it down so that I can one day remember. And also so that I can feel and find my way through shifting moods and seasonal trends. It’s helpful to understand where we’ve been in order to prepare for where we are going. Patterns are powerful, but not always easily discerned.
One of the sole points of solace in the upcoming seasons of cold and fury is the chance to see sunrises like this. From the vantage point of my tenth floor office perch, I get to walk into work and have a moment of peace and calm (before the rest of the work day explodes in typical fashion). I’m usually alone at the early hour, and if I’m careful I can soak in that moment of clarity and peace and carry it with me for the start of the day.
It starts its red rise with just the slightest sliver of light, shooting out of the horizon like a laser beam. Then it happens quickly, right before your eyes, faster than you think it will. Suddenly there is the sun – the full orb burning brightly in a fiery shade of salmon before it gets brighter and loses all color.
First off, an apology to both Starbucks and Price Chopper: I’m sorry I tried you again. I’ve had so many problems with the Starbucks store at Price Chopper Store #188 on Albany Shaker Road that it’s really my fault for coming back one more time in the hope that this enterprise might resemble a real Starbucks not leased out to Price Chopper. That’s my mistake.
Next, however, the latest issue. A few days ago I tried ordering a decaf frappucino only to be told that they couldn’t make one. With that in mind, I thought it best to keep things simple. A simple decaf. Whether it be a pour over or previously-brewed one, I didn’t care, I just assumed they couldn’t mess up a decaf coffee. Grande. Not too much, not too little.
Kiara took my order (she who was unable to make the decaf frap a few short days ago) and then took my Starbucks card. She said it would be $4.27. Umm, for a Grande decaf coffee? This is just coffee – not even an Americano. Are you sure, Kiara? I asked if that was the real price for a decaf coffee. She insisted it was.
Good Lord, I thought, prices have gone up immensely in a crazy short amount of time. I asked for the receipt to be sure. There it was: $4.27 for a Grande decaf coffee. Since I’d already questioned her once, I thought maybe I was wrong. As her purple-haired co-hort made my drink, I looked it up on my phone and saw that no, $4.27 was about twice what a grande decaf coffee should be. At this point, another girl, who had actually been talking with Kiara and blocking the order area when I arrived, began laughing with her and I was so annoyed I said that I really didn’t think that was the correct price but I would take it up with management later.
She looked back at the register, finally registering my annoyance. She must have realized her mistake, and her mistake in insisting that it was the correct price, because she told me to come back the next day and tell them that Kiara said I could have a free drink to make up the difference. A sweet gesture, to be sure, but I’m so over this place it’s unlikely that I’ll take her up on it.
