I’m currently in the camp of Swifties – lovers of Taylor Swift – thanks to her last three albums, which I found exquisite, particularly ‘folklore‘ and ‘evermore‘. That said, even I was starting to get a little annoyed at her when every Chiefs game seemed to be an opportunity to showcase her fantics and support for Travis Kelce. At first, it was fun to see the camera spot her, as it was the only person in the game that I knew, then it became wearying. In the same way that the camera would find her dancing awkwardly at some awards show, I inwardly cringed a bit. 

Why? For the dancing part, it was just the sheer awkwardness of it, something my own previously-perfectionist tendencies would have been mortified to witness. Totally unfair, and unjustified, especially when her way of existing in the world – embracing her awkwardness despite the haters – is the more peaceable and healthy way of living. 

For the football part of it, I had no real reason for hating on her, and as soon as I thought about that, it no longer bothered me. In fact, I wondered at my own bitterness for finding fault with someone so clearly enamored and finding joy in celebrating her new boyfriend. Haven’t we all been there? I’ll never begrudge someone who wants to celebrate love. (Well, within tasteful reason, which is what Taylor and Travis Kelce have thus far exhibited.) Haters are gonna hate, and there’s no point in trying to argue with them. 

It does bring me to the point of this post, which came up on social media as the debate about Taylor and Travis raged, and it boiled it all down to something I didn’t even think about as I was working it out in my head:

The good news: it’s late January, and we are almost finished with the first full month of winter, meaning we’re over a third of the way through the messy season. The bad news: there’s two-thirds of it yet to come. Thus far it’s been relatively calm in this mid-upstate-New-York area, and I’m grateful for the gentle way we are navigating these months. On with the weekly recap… (fronted by Brock Grady)…

We tried to bring the heat with these pretty, shirtless gentlemen. 

Beer abandonment issues.

Gay art, then and now.

Send in the Boston clowns.

Pages of hope & inspiration.

Baggy jeans to see us through the winter padding.

Mystery tracks in the snow.

Once in a while, Barbra Streisand truly speaks to me. 

Some daze.

Let us have flowers.

This summer is gonna be LOUD.

The wink of a winter sky.

When you feel like a failure, put on the Fucking Fabulous.

The Selfish showdown between Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears.

Dazzlers of the Day included Robbie Manson, Colman Domingo, Brock Grady, R. K. Russell, and Jack Plotnick.

The last weekend of January has arrived. Limping through it, I admit I’m a bit tired, and having difficulty finding motivation and inspiration to be excited over much. I’ve found myself going through the motions rather than being present and mindful – never a good thing, but understandable at this early point in winter. 

To make a small motion to turn things around, or gently feel the whispers of happiness and excitement, if only that means being open to the smallest glimpse of beauty in a day, I listen to a classic Madonna track or two (the exuberant ‘Open Your Heart‘ or the rollicking ‘Ray of Light‘), I clutch a bottle of Tom Ford’s ‘Fucking Fabulous’ before spraying some of that exquisite Private Blend onto my skin, and I go back out into the world, no matter the mood or weather. The day can be what you make it. Sometimes. 

A crescent moon winks at the dawn of dusk, if you can make much sense of that. It doesn’t come across clearly in these amateurish photos I attempted to take, but the idea is there, and during the winter an idea sometimes has to be enough. The idea that something could be cradled in the curve of a crescent moon is merely that – an idea. There is no empty space there – it’s filled with moon. We just can’t see it. Somewhere there’s an allegory to an iceberg in this, but it’s cold to delve into, and I’m not interested in following that path right now.

It’s Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right. (And anything is better than a full moon.)

Like many days since my Dad died, I spent the last few weeks in a bit of a haze, dazedly going about life’s daily routine on a sort of auto-pilot. After 48 years of living, sometimes you coast like that. It’s not my favored status. I’m not one for phoning things in (and not just because I hate talking in the phone). If I’m not wholly invested in something, I usually don’t do it. That’s not always possible with a job and mortgage and the basic responsibility of surviving.

And so I daze off, lost in a kind of soft focus, not totally or completely present. I can’t tell if anyone notices, and I’m not sure if that’s because I don’t want to know. The power of wishful thinking is a real thing. Rather than go too hard on myself, I’m accepting this, and waiting until I feel the stir of motivation. If it doesn’t come, it doesn’t come. The big chill is a real middle-aged issue, and there are good and bad things that come from it. A certain dulling and deadness to the world as it now stands isn’t entirely unwelcome. 

Andy had seen a fox in the backyard, spending a meaningful moment with it as it sat on the patio surrounding itself with its furry tail. Paths in the snow revealed a series of visits throughout our backyard, mostly nocturnal, and not only of foxes. Squirrels and rabbits make regular visits, often during the day. But the fox holds a special place in my heart, having been a totem animal for me at various times. (And ‘Foxy Lady’ is the song that Andy assigned to me when we first met, because there are no accidents in the universe.) 

Our front yard provides easier access for a wider variety of animals – everything from pheasants (our street’s namesake) to turkeys to deer – and whatever these paw prints might be. A neighbor’s cat, perhaps, or maybe something more interesting. Regardless, the mystery of visitors in the night remains to be solved, and I’m content if it stays a mystery, lost to the wilds of the weather. Footprints in the snow won’t last forever.