Here’s that goddamn turkey lurkey song, an annual post for no reason other than to say it’s holiday time, whether we like it or not. I’m totally not feeling it this year, and that’s ok. Just because we have done the same stupid-ass things since we can remember is no reason not to stop or start some new shit. The same goes for bad family habits and toxic environments. No need to perpetuate a harmful cycle, especially when the results only end up being repeatedly hurtful. Wow, this Thanksgiving went dark awfully quickly! That’s what happens when you start working through some deep-seeded shit in therapy. Hold onto your pilgrim hats… and an early Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

When the frigid no-turning-back days of fall forced us all inside for the season, much of the summer debris remained where we left it, including this catch saucer of clay, which filled with some rain and froze into ice. A very definite compromise of the saucer’s structural integrity, it will likely crack and begin its slow decay if left there all winter. Part of me wants to see that happen, to be reminded of the passage of time, forcing myself to stay present, to stay in the moment. Or just to get the motivation to hurry out and bring the damn thing into the garage where it might stand a chance. 

In the front of the house, I finally removed the last of the ferns, which had put on such a stellar show this year. Sadness and regret accompanied each toss into the trash, then I swept all the dead leaves off the porch. Simple rituals keep us grounded, and cleaning up calms every Virgo I’ve ever met.

All winters are tough. Even the easy ones. 

Aided and accented by the hotness that is Simon Dunn, this recap is light on exposition and heavy on links. Let’s just get to it because I’m already wanting this week to be over. 

The week began with a Christmas wish courtesy of that classic stand-by Tom Ford in shades of pink and fuchsia. 

These #TinyThreads reared their heads again. 

A Swatch made for a woman, draped just so on my slender wrist.

Simon Dunn gets sexy and deep. 

A holiday party tradition comes to a close, and new ones begin. 

Ben Cohen brings the beefcake for another year. 

A Boston Friendsgiving for two.

Some days are longer than others.

Simon Dunn gets sexy again, in underwear and Speedos.

Late November – the perfect time for a poem. 

Was this little boy real or imagined?

Jason Derulo and the anaconda poking through his underwear.

Taylor Swift was awarded the Artist of the Decade honor at the American Music Awards.

Hunks of the Day included Broderick Hunter, Nick Groff, Anthony Rapp, Evander Kane, Wils, and Giovanni Pernice.

Did you ever have a moment that, upon remembering it later, you can’t be entirely sure actually happened? Christmas moments are especially strange like that. The child-like part of me has always considered those times a magical key to the season. The adult side of me just thinks I’m actually, and finally, going completely bonkers. The reality is likely somewhere in between the two.

I was having a contemplative pause in Michael’s – the craft store – while shopping for gifts for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour. A text from my Mom came in, which reminded me that our last Christmas Eve at my childhood home might have been the last Christmas Eve at my childhood home, and I was seized with an unexpected wave of melancholy. Losing track of what I was even looking to find, I wandered in haunted fashion, lost in some icky space between past and present. In an empty corner of the expansive store, I heard a little voice.

“Excuse me,” someone said. I looked around, wondering if I had lost my damn mind at last. Lowering my gaze, I saw a boy before me, just half my height, staring up at me with pleading eyes. It wasn’t the fact that a child was talking to me that was jarring, it was that he looked rather like me – or what I looked like long ago. His dark hair, a little too long and unruly, only the top of which was pulled into a messy ponytail, was slightly different – I never let mine get that long – but his eyes were very much like my own. He was slight, and his clothes hung a little too loosely on him. He held my gaze and started speaking softly but clearly.

“Have you seen two women? One is older and has red hair, the other is younger with long straight brown hair,” he began. He continued with a lengthy description but I wasn’t listening.  So shocked by his appearance and his composure, I didn’t hear his words. Disconcerted by his earnestness, I initially wondered if this was some scam designed to distract me while the aliens or the criminals snuck up behind me and did whatever they were going to do.

Soon enough, thanks to a pause in his tale, I came to my senses and realized he lost whomever was with him. Not wanting him to panic, I asked if he was ok and if he wanted me to find an employee to help him find his party. Quickly he said no, and then hurried away.

Unsure whether I should follow him, look for the two women he described, or tell one of the many inept employees at Michael’s, I ultimately mistrusted what might have even happened. He seemed more like an angel than a real person. Maybe this was just me spiraling into ‘Black Swan’ territory. When I finally thought of following him to make sure he found who he lost, or who lost him, he was long gone. Attempting to set my mind at ease, I reasoned that he was relatively calm, and so maybe this was normal for him.

Instantly I traveled back to the traumatic moment in the Amsterdam Mall when I let go of my mother’s hand for a minute or two, transfixed by some sparkly object or scene. I kept her in my peripheral vision, so didn’t think much of it until I reached up and grabbed the hand of a stranger. When I looked up and realized my mistake, I pulled my hand back, out of embarrassment and surprise. I didn’t see my mother anywhere, and I instantly panicked. I wasn’t more than six or seven years old, but I remember it vividly. Just as I was about to start bawling, she appeared. Relieved yet inconsolable, I’d felt terror for the first time in my life, and never forgot it. To this day, whenever I think of what fear is, I think back to that moment. A split second of abject fright. A startled heaving and the feeling of not being able to breathe. But somehow I held it together, and perhaps that’s what the boy was doing.

I picked up my pace and hurried down the aisles, trying to find the boy. Rushing and darting about like an animal sensing entrapment, I scanned the store, wondering if I should tell an employee. I searched for an older woman with red hair, and a woman with straight brown hair. I searched for a little boy with a wild ponytail. I searched for a day in the past when I reached up and found only a stranger’s hand.

Near the front of the store now, I found two women pushing a cart, unhurried and walking with a shared annoyance. “Josiah,” the older woman with dark red hair yelled. “Come on!” as the boy rounded the corner, also relatively unconcerned. Apparently I was the only one who was the slightest bit worried. Glad of the denouement, I still couldn’t shake the notion that I lost a bit of myself again.

In a goddamned craft store.

I wanted to cry.

Falling Leaves and Early Snow 

BY KENNETH REXROTH

In the years to come they will say,

“They fell like the leaves

In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine.”

November has come to the forest,

To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen.

The year fades with the white frost

On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows,

Where the deer tracks were black in the morning.

Ice forms in the shadows;

Disheveled maples hang over the water;

Deep gold sunlight glistens on the shrunken stream.

Somnolent trout move through pillars of brown and gold.

The yellow maple leaves eddy above them,

The glittering leaves of the cottonwood,

The olive, velvety alder leaves,

The scarlet dogwood leaves,

Most poignant of all.

In the afternoon thin blades of cloud

Move over the mountains;

The storm clouds follow them;

Fine rain falls without wind.

The forest is filled with wet resonant silence.

When the rain pauses the clouds

Cling to the cliffs and the waterfalls.

In the evening the wind changes;

Snow falls in the sunset.

We stand in the snowy twilight

And watch the moon rise in a breach of cloud.

Between the black pines lie narrow bands of moonlight,

Glimmering with floating snow.

An owl cries in the sifting darkness.

The moon has a sheen like a glacier.

Some days are longer than others.

When you wake long before the light creeps out.

When you have appointments before your work day even begins. 

When there is not enough time to finish what needs to be done

and too much time not to worry about it. 

When long after it’s dark you’re too mentally exhausted to sleep. 

When no one has heard the things you’ve said and shouted and whispered and hidden over and over and over again, and you take the the first steps to walk away.

When you’re really ok with it and doesn’t matter.

When you finally go to bed, trembling with cold, and pull into yourself, into the only safe haven you’ve known, embracing the darkness and the quiet and the spark of something you’re just beginning to see.