This blog has glorified the Butterfly weed a number of times already, but it merits repetition, as this is one of the finest garden plants I know. Foliage remains handsome throughout the entire season, and the fiery orange blooms last for several weeks, peaking in July, but occasionally lingering beyond. This was not the year for taking such sweet time, so the photos here are from a while ago. Still, the beauty is timeless.
A relative of the common milkweed, this more refined version is perfectly-suited to the perennial border. It keeps within bounds (though it will disperse its fluffy seeds if allowed to get that far) and has a tap root that makes moving it a challenge. I tend to allow it to go to seed and spread a bit. If caught early enough, such seedlings should survive a transplant before that root gets too long.
This is also a favorite of butterflies and bees, which find its unique flower form a perfect landing trip.
Any friend of the butterflies is a friend of mine.
As the main fragrance front-man for Hermes over the last decade or so, Jean-Claude Ellena has made a name for himself and brought the venerable company an elegant edge in olfactory matters. His Jardin series is a masterful collection of woody, water-like florals – as distinctively evocative of their inspiration as they are of a standard summer day in anyone’s mind. Unlike some florals, these don’t dominate, they gently ease the scent of the season delicately out of one’s countenance. It’s a subtle and sly sleight of nose, and somehow Ellena manages to make these deceptively lasting (in brilliant counterpoint to the main obstacle of a light spring/summer fragrance, which is that they’re gone too soon).
His latest, and final, contribution to the Jardin line was released this season: Le Jardin de Monsieur Li is an ode to a fictional Chinese garden of one Mssr. Li, with notes of kumquat, jasmine and mint. (Just once I’d like to go along for the planning part of these visits – I’m so easy-upkeep they wouldn’t even know I was there!) Ellena indicated that this fragrance was conjured by an imaginary place for meditation:
“I remembered the smell of ponds, the smell of jasmine, the smell of wet stones, of plum trees, kumquats, and giant bamboos. It was all there, and in the ponds there were even carp steadily working towards their hundredth birthday.” – Jean-Claude Ellena
For me, it feels like a not-so-distant cousin, or somewhat-distant sister, of Un Jardin apre la Mousson, which was his ode to a garden after a summer storm. Both are based in watery, fruit-like richness, yet both are light enough for the humidity that signifies such moisture in the summer. Perhaps Mssr. Li bears a slightly more refined bearing, less messily aquatic, more contained, like a pond of manicured water plants, and for that reason I’m a bit more partial to it. Such a spectacular way to end his line for Hermes, this is an impressive addition – the final gem – in a crown of delicious creations. He will be sorely missed, but I’ll hold onto the hope that some other house might coax him out of semi-retirement someday.
My husband and my brother follow each other on Instagram, which I find both amusing and confusing. (My brother started and quickly stopped following me a long time ago.) Anyway, a couple of nights ago Andy sent him a picture of some car that he thought my nephew would like (it had what can only be described as wings (or raised fins) on the back, and it looked cool to me). Rather than responding with a simple ‘Ha!’ (my stock go-to reply to anything that neither impresses nor bothers me much) or a dismissive ‘Not his style’ my brother sends one word as his response: “Gay.”
I know I shouldn’t expect less, and certainly not more, but at this stage of his adult life, and at this formative point in his own children’s lives, to toss the word ‘gay’ around in an apparently derogatory manner is just offensive. When he gets angry, or just casually describes someone be doesn’t like, I’ve heard him use the term ‘faggot’, which he once explained did not mean anything against gay people, it was just a term for something stupid. That excuse no longer flies with me. It never did.
My brother probably won’t ever change. I’ve implored him not to say such things, I’ve screamed and yelled, I’ve spoken calmly and explained that it hurt me personally to hear him use such language, and I’ve told him unequivocally not to talk that way around me, but while it has lessened, it’s still apparently there. Even in the harmless response to a picture of a car he didn’t like.
I’ve long since given up on him. But if his kids should ever say something like that one day, it would break my heart. Kids see and hear everything. Even my non-parenting ass knows that. Words matter. What may be meaningless or insignificant to him might make a world of difference to others. I would hope that message is being passed on to his kids, because if you’re not preparing your children to be open and embracing of difference, you’re setting them up to fail in this diverse future.
As I was sliding down a maudlin hill contemplating all of it, I was reminded by Suzie that I should help do my own bit of education. So let’s turn this into a teachable moment for all those people who say something is ‘gay’ without meaning disrespect to those of us who are in fact gay. Here you go:
Introducing my publicist, Ginny! Also known affectionately as Gin-Gin (as so many lovely Virginias in my life have been) she is responsible for my Twitter fan-handle @CircleOfAlan. How can I not get on board with that kind of vainglorious tribute? If ever I rise above the small-town trappings of Loudonville, let @CircleOfAlan become my officially unofficial outlet for news and gossip.
As for Ginny, she will be playing Liz Rosenberg to my Madonna as I extend these flights of delusional fantasy into real-world nonsensery. (I’m even making words up now, so don’t bother to dictionary it.) On a more serious note, she’s become a lovely friend in her own right, and we recently held a retirement party for her at our home. It was the least I could do for someone who helped me out at work and made every day a little more fun and enjoyable. (And now that she’s retired she’ll have that much more time to devote to the online Twitter promotion of yours truly.)
It was a testament to her heart and engaging personality that so many friends from her work world showed up to celebrate. It’s also an indication of how fun she is that she was game enough to don an Alan Ilagan original head-dress to greet her guests (at least until she fell over in her chair). All in a day. All in a party. All in a publicist.
When I look back over the friends I’ve made over the years, many of them were motherly in certain ways. Some were mothers of my friends, others were simply older women who played a motherly role in my life. I’m not sure why I’ve searched for mother figures, or what role of healing they filled and continue to fill in my life. I’m just glad they’re there. We seek out what we need to survive.
Like my wit at its best, this has been a dry week. The gardens are scorched. Stretches of ostrich ferns have browned up and shriveled off. We are headed incontrovertibly into fall. Sorry, but it’s true. Face the facts or extend your denial. Still, it’s summer, and it will be for a number of weeks, so I’m stepping outside by the pool and soaking up every last moment. August is a beautiful month.
The last week saw a fitting Speedo post, as that’s the preferred attire for certain men of a certain build.
It also saw the first glimpse into Madonna’s Rebel Heart tour. My excitement was waning, but now it’s back to where it always was, and there’s no better reminder of that than this collection of previous openings.
One city that the Delusional Grandeur Tour will NOT be visiting is Las Vegas. Though several pages of the Tour book were shot on location there, I do not enjoy the city in the least. It had some good points: for a hotel worshipper like myself it was a treat to visit the ornate lobbies and extensive grounds of some of the finer hotels (even if they were miles apart and one had to trek in 110 degree heat to get there). The Wynn and Encore were two of my favorites – even more-so than the Bellagio and the Venetian. On my last day in the sinful city, I spent much of my time roaming the hallways of the former, and winding down my trip with a quiet cocktail at the relatively hidden Parasol Lounge.
This secret gem was lit by the bright afternoon sun, but offered shady respite (in fitting fashion given its namesake). Enormous parasols in rich jewel tones hung overhead, and one descended in a curving escalator to reach the secluded space. Had I discovered the place earlier in my stay I might not have ever left it. Perhaps it’s better that I didn’t.
There are surely ways to make Las Vegas magical, but I didn’t have enough money to find them. Instead, I found sanctuary from the heat beneath a bunch of parasols.
The second question (after the more obvious,’What exactly do you do on a tour?’) is always, ‘Where are you going?’ For my final tour I’ll be keeping things relatively open as far as destinations go. I’ve made a life of planning far into the future, but this time I’m flying by the seat of my pants. It’s produced a feeling of exhilaration and terror, and I’m digging it. That said, there are concrete plans for the next few weeks, and a couple of Tour Stops already etched in the itinerary. First up is a Boston and Cape Cod jaunt to meet some new friends from Britain. JoAnn is hosting the Brits, and this will mark my first time meeting this wonderful group of people I’ve heard so much about. Following that is my 40th birthday weekend in Boston, a quiet affair with Andy in the Judy Garland Suite of the Lenox Hotel.
Early September will bring about a vacation in Seattle, WA -my first time in that fair city since 1998. Along with the flagship Nordstrom store, I always want to see some sea-life – whales or octopus – and perhaps a museum or two. Oh, and Starbucks. I need to see how their stores should really be operating, because I think the Albany locations have some serious issues.
After that, I’ll set up more definitive plans for New York, Washington, and Ogunquit. This tour is going places. Watch and see.
While The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star is out of travel status until next weekend, a word on those portals and passages that bring us into other worlds. They are the doorways to different lands, the paths to new destinations. I’ve always been fascinated by such points – the transitory marks that bring us from here to there, and occasionally back again. Whether it’s a car or a plane or a boat, whether it’s a bridge or a road or a hallway – these are the hubs of transformation. A hotel lobby is the perfect, and infinitely fascinating, example of this. Airports, too. The places where people are in motion and flux, going or coming, running to somewhere or running away from somewhere else – these are the in-between states where most people aren’t really themselves, but in which I find myself most true and real.
At its worst, it results in what I see as a tourist’s frame-of-mind. Those frazzled or simply seemingly-mindless people who don’t know where they are or what they’re doing, who suddenly forget how to walk when out of their usual routine, who forget simple human decency because they’re so preoccupied with figuring out how to order a cup of coffee outside of their own kitchen. When I see stuff like that and I’m annoyed, I call it stupidity, but really it’s more of a distracted, out-of-place confusion that many people aren’t accustomed to coping with, at least not well.
Oddly enough, it’s a state I rather favor. I find comfort in not being bound to the usual trappings of home and tradition. Yes, it can be upsetting if you’re stuck in your ways and resistant to change, but if you open your mind to new experiences it’s nothing but exciting.
Those thresholds are my comfort zone. They are where and when I feel the most alive and energized. Part of me fantasizes about working in a job where the majority of time is spent in travel status, on a train platform or at an airport gate, waiting and anticipating the next rush of motion. It’s why I’ve never minded a lengthy layover (which are far preferable to the ten-minute gauntlets thrown down in an airport that’s five miles long) and why I consider a train ride or road trip a destination unto themselves.
It need not be a world-spanning flight or cross-country jaunt – sometimes the simple length of a pool is enough to clear the mind and bring about a new sensation. Sometimes it is even simpler: a doorway, the same doorway you’ve walked through your entire life, can be the starting point for a new beginning. It’s all in how you choose to go through it. The life you knew before can change in that single instant. Make it the one that you want, and don’t be afraid to leave certain doors behind.
The darkness on the approaching edge of evening, the stiff breeze that portends change to come, the elegant wisp of smoke curling from some devil’s lips – these are the shadows that foretell of transformation.
Do not be afraid, though your heart tells you otherwise. Do not draw back, as fear proves more hospitable for him. Do not run away, because it’s the only way out.
‘Cause I eat boys like a cannibal, Fuck hard, howl at the moon like an animal, Eat me, drink me, straight down the rabbit hole White lines, white lies, straight down the rabbit hole
When I fall in love, I fall down the rabbit hole Down the rabbit hole, down the rabbit hole Fall in love, I fall down the rabbit hole Down the rabbit hole
When I fall in love, I fall down the rabbit hole Down the rabbit hole, down the rabbit hole Fall in love, I fall down the rabbit hole Follow me down the rabbit hole…
Of course, there’s also the original ‘White Rabbit’ by Jefferson Airplane, with imagery that conjures Alice in Wonderland. Rich source material indeed, even if its author was super-creepy and questionable of moral turpitude.
One pill makes you larger,
and one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you,
don’t do anything at all
Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall
And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you’re going to fall
Tell ’em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call
And call Alice, when she was just small
When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go And you’ve just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know
When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead And the white knight is talking backwards And the red queen’s off with her head Remember what the dormouse said Feed your head, feed your head…
When brainstorming for birthday ideas, I suddenly started to feel the pressure of living up to the whole ‘Big 4-0’ aspect of this particular anniversary of being born. Whenever that happens, I tend to panic a little at the daunting prospect of marking such a milestone in expectedly-astounding fashion. At such moments, I go into survival mode, and rather than trying to live up to the build-up and create some over-the-top experience, I will find a solution by going the opposite way: keeping things quiet and simple and uneventful. That’s the way this 40th birthday celebration is being designed, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a few flashes of extravagant indulgence. (I’m still me.)
Being that my brother told me he would be saying at our place in Boston on the eve and morning of my birthday, celebrating my 40th in Boston could only be comfortably accomplished by booking a hotel. Admittedly, this is a bonus for me, in light of my love of hotels, so it all worked out in the end, and with the generous offer of my Mom to make it special, I searched some of the places I’d always wanted to stay, but never had reason to, given our own digs in the city.
After perusing a few options (the Ames Boston Hotel, the Mandarin Oriental, the Langham and the Liberty) I came back to a nearby classic: the Lenox Hotel. A long-time fan of City Bar (and the gorgeous Lemon Verbena soap in the restroom) I’ve spent a fair share of moments passing through or taking momentary respite in their pretty lobby, and I’ve always wanted to spend a night or two there. I’ve also taken note of their celebratory support for diversity and marriage equality, as well as their unparalleled commitment to environmental ‘green’ initiatives.
A family-run boutique hotel, the Lenox has long been one of those classy bastions of Boston, its regal red sign rising above the bustle of Boylston and calling out a storied past where luminaries have enjoyed the hospitality and elegance at hand.
The final thing that sealed the deal? The Judy Garland Suite. How could I not spend my 40th birthday in a room named after Judy Garland, especially one that looks so pretty? Some things are meant to be.
Tricky month, August is. Last full month of summer. Tricky nights, August nights are. They carry with them the hint of fall. Felt it for the first time this year last night. Cool. Brisk. Nice. Not unwelcome, not yet. Still, stave off a bit. Give us a little more summer. A little more sun. A little more heat. I’ve not yet grown tired of it. We remember the winter. We don’t want to go back there. I find myself staying up so as not to end the days too soon. It is tiring, but it’s a happy exhaustion. The giddy sleep that can come only after a day of splashing by the sea, soaking up the sun.
Dawn breaks; there is blue in the sky.
Your face before me
Though I don’t know why.
Thoughts disappearing like tears from the Moon.
Years ago, August meant the encroaching approach of college. The end of summer vacation. I’d lie in bed at night and listen to this song by Enya. A lullaby and a march, like the relentless passing of time, some gentle ticking of the clock that never wavers come sun or moon, come waves or wind. It marks its moments easily, subtly, yet the end result is the same: the end of summer. It’s in the night air now. I want to mourn, but by the morning I will forget. There will be more heat, more sun, and I will not remember what the darkness whispered.
Waiting here, as I sit by the stone, They came before me Those men from the Sun. Signs from the heavens say I am the one.
Now you’re here, I can see your light, this light that I must follow. You, you may take my life away, so far away. Now I know I must leave your spell I want tomorrow.
Within the metallic mesh fence that protected the vegetable garden, I peered into the leafy jungle. Slightly fuzzy leaves rose along a bamboo framework, and nestled inside, dangling in the shady nooks, the green beans hung. Having been dispatched by my Mom to pick some beans for dinner, I’d ventured into the garden in the hour before eating. It was quiet and still. The morning cacophony of bird calls and waking had given way to the riotous pool splashing of high noon, but now the day had settled into itself. In other countries this would be the time for a siesta.
The act of harvesting instills a sense of contentment and accomplishment. I don’t usually grow vegetables, and there’s a difference between a decorative plant that produces beauty all season long, and a vegetable which produces something that physically nourishes you. Both have their purpose, both have their merits. I’ve just always sided with the prettier choice.
On this summer afternoon, however, I find peace in picking beans, in the stillness of the garden. My hands are soon filled with beans, which I drop into a bag which soon fills as well. I walk over to the tomato cages and rustle through their fragrant hairy foliage. The fruit (or vegetable, let’s not debate it) is not quite ripe. Same with the eggplants and peppers. For this day, the green beans will have to do. That’s the way summer goes.
I think my favorite was the following beginning to the Confessions Tour, which was also the show at which I had the most fun. It was just a big dance party, as signaled by the brilliant opening of a disco ball.
