22
August
2013
Tags: Music
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The Great Relief

Come and talk of all the things we did today
Here
And laugh about our funny little ways
While we have a few minutes to breathe
Then I know that it’s time you must leave

The afternoon sky doesn’t fade, it grows deeper in color, the blue background forming a backdrop against the suddenly-flaming clouds. But I do not see it – it’s too far above and beyond the range of the limited windows. Only the John Hancock Tower registers above the tree-line outside our place, and two hotels resplendent in the dying sun.

But darling be home soon
I couldn’t bear to wait an extra minute if you dawdled
My darling be home soon
It’s not just these few hours but I’ve been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to

Such a simple time, the hours between day and dusk, but how meaningful when they’re shared ~ with a song, with a cocktail, with a bowl of Marcona almonds, or with a friend. In these summer months I don’t mind it, coming so late in the day. Come fall, I’ll feel a little differently. Fall will make it a little harder. It always does.

And now
A quarter of my life is almost past
I think I’ve come to see myself at last
And I see that the time spent confused
Was the time that I spent without you
And I feel myself in bloom

A twist of citrus has turned itself into the vague shape of a heart, and is there anything sadder than an empty martini glass? The last light of the day has now gone away, and the hour of eight is upon us. Shall we dress for dinner, or shall we stay in? These are happy concerns, joyous questions – the carefree pondering of lucky people. One more drink, and then we’ll go, something more to draw this moment out. It’s too nice here.

So darling be home soon
I couldn’t bear to wait an extra minute if you dawdled
My darling be home soon
It’s not just these few hours but I’ve been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to…

 

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22
August
2013
Tags: Boston
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Boston Day, Boston Night

I like how the clouds have changed in the sky in these two photographs.

A day can do that.

A day can make all the difference.

And a night can make even more.

 

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22
August
2013
Tags: Boston
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Stairway to Heaven

The Bunker Hill Monument stands as an impressive edifice marking one of the significant battles of the American Revolution. In all my years visiting and living in Boston, I never made it over the Charles River to visit this historic site – until last weekend. When the skies above are so beautiful, and a breeze is dancing in from the shore, it’s good to go somewhere you’ve never been – to make a memory and mark the moment. The vantage point from Bunker Hill proved the perfect point on which to begin.

Getting there, one must cross the bridge into Charlestown, another place I’d never been. Ever since Suzie took me across Ithaca’s gorges, I’ve been a fan of bridges, simultaneously thrilled and slightly frightened of being so high above the water, like the exhilaration one might get at the top of a Ferris wheel. I stood looking out over the river as a boat passed beneath, its red-and-white-striped roof causing dizzying effects as seen through the metal slats of the bridge.

After walking all the way to get there, the prospect of climbing to the top of the monument can seem rather daunting, no matter how nice the day. There are no elevators, only a stern warning for people with medical conditions or in bad shape that the stairs are not for the faint of heart. Usually I heed those warnings (though in my case it’s mostly for laziness). This time I was impelled onward – and upward. All 294 steps upward, steps that were supposedly-helpfully marked every 25 or so, which was more depressing than encouraging, especially around Step #150 when, winded and sweating, I realized it was only the half-way mark.

Spiraling higher and higher, the dim stairway offers barely enough room for two to pass at a time. In a way, it’s a very intimate experience. There are no breather spots, no roomy demarcation points, and no lounge in which to pause and get a second wind. When you start something like this, you simply have to finish it.

At the top, a small circular room with cloudy plexiglass windows barely opened up. The claustrophobic among us, if any managed to survive the tight stairway, would have probably fainted. For me, it was enough to stop walking and try to calm my shaking legs. The wind whipped through the open top-half of the windows, a welcome bit of cool air to dry off the sweaty countenance that comes from walking up all those stairs. (Did I mention there were 294 of them?)

There, ensconced high above the city I so loved, unseen and unknown to all below, I enjoyed a private moment of revelry, a spark of secret joy. The view of Boston is indeed a good one, and it’s always nice to see one of my favorite cities from a new perspective. It was also amusing to watch other people just coming up, soaked in sweat, more winded than me, and displaying both disappointment and awe at their destination.

The way back down always seems shorter, less onerous, even if the walk up has wiped you out. Perhaps it was because I didn’t quite want to go back to earth, back to the things that needed to be done, the battles of daily living that paled to the battles of Bunker Hill. Step after step, the tower receded further into the sky, the rarified air out of grasp, the moment and the memory distant and suddenly forlorn. But the sun still shone down, the breeze still danced, and the journey continued.

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21
August
2013
Tags: Boston, Music
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Look at Me

Look at me,
I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree
And I feel like I’m clinging to a cloud
I can’t understand
I get misty just holding your hand

I used to hate this song. It played on one of my grandmother’s music boxes, and I never liked the sadness and melancholy of the melody. Her other music boxes played happy waltzes or cheery standards – this one was a depressing dirge, even if you wound it up as tightly as it would go, trying to speed it along and bring about a livelier rendition.

Thirty years later, I have discovered a new appreciation of it. When sitting in Copley Square last week, I listened as a trumpeter played it, without accompaniment, just like the lone notes of a music box. I looked it up again and listened to the words, and when I found this version by the great Ella Fitzgerald, I was hooked. That change of heart doesn’t happen very often, especially with a stubborn coot like myself. Sometimes, though, something different happens, whether by chance or circumstance or the simple act of Ms. Fitzgerald working her vocal enchantment over a deliciously languid piano.

Walk my way
And a thousand violins begin to play
Or it might be the sound of your hello
That music I hear
I get misty the moment you’re near

Yes, it’s over-the-top, and perhaps romantically overwrought, but now and then it’s okay to indulge in that. In fact, sometimes it’s a necessity. We are too quick to stop the possibility of love, too closed off and guarded to simply let it happen. And why should it be so? As the lone trumpeter played the last lingering notes, the square resumed its chatter and noise – cars beeped at pedestrians, tour buses called their carriage back aboard, and sea gulls cried from the turrets of Trinity Church.

Can’t you see that you’re leading me on,
And it’s just what I want you to do?
Don’t you notice how hopelessly I’m lost?
That’s why I’m following you

I took out some paper and began to write. It’s what I do when I begin to feel lost. If I can find my way on paper, it usually translates to life. Not always, but most of the time – even if there are messier things than can be solved by a few well-chosen words. I wrote to a few friends, to some family, to a loved one, and then I wrote to myself – things that I didn’t want to forget, things that were too valuable to lose, things I couldn’t afford not to remember. And as tends to happen when it got fleshed out on paper, I felt a little better.

On my own when I wander through this wonderland alone
Never knowing my right foot from my left
My hat from my glove
I’m too misty, and too much in love
Too misty, and too much in love.

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21
August
2013
Tags: Flowers
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After the Bridge, More Flowers

These unassuming little rock plants made their home on the other side of the Charles River, in a park in Charlestown. On the day I passed through, the sun shone brightly in the blue sky – the kind of blue reserved for August and September, and that you never quite see the same way until the end of summer returns again. They softened the circumference of a fountain, where fish spat out water in arching rivulets, and the soothing sound of the splash drowned out any distant traffic. After crossing over from Boston, it was like another world – quieter, more serene, less busy and frantic. Here, there was peace. Here, there was beauty. Here, there was joy. It was a sort of oasis, afforded when the heart was most in need – of what, I could not right off tell, I would only know it when I found it, when it was time for the universe to deliver what had been lacking. Some things cannot be forced, like the blossoms on these tiny plants, which would only be coaxed into bloom by the fullness and the heat of the sun.

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21
August
2013
Tags: Boston, Flowers
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Flowers for a Boston Weekend

The prospect of a weekend in Boston is always a happy one, particularly if one is fortunate enough to make it a very long weekend, starting on Thursday and ending on Sunday night. Such was the case last week, but thanks to the pre-programmed nature of this blog, I’m only getting to the recap now.

It begins, as all good things do, with a collection of flowers. As we enter the final stretches of summer, their colors are stronger, deeper in the lower afternoon sunlight. It’s as if they are preparing for the final send off, especially since the ones you see here are annuals; they will not live beyond the first hard freeze. But oh what color and beauty before that sad fall.

There is something to be said for such a riotously-exuberant blaze of glory, this brilliant bit of fire before the final burn. Perennials can hold their passion, subsisting in softer fashion, muted through the heat of summer in their efforts to last through to the next year. For the most part I tend to be perennial in nature, keeping things quiet and stable so as to last through another year – but every once in a while something will shake me up, and shake me to the core, and I’ll go all annual on your ass, throwing caution to the wind, defying sense and sanity, and gleefully giving in to every animal impulse.

And once or twice in a lifetime, if we’re lucky, some of us are able to combine the two – the short-lived excitement of a colorful cacophony coupled with the enduring life-sustaining and quiet stability of something that lasts, something that will go on. It’s a tricky balancing act, but a worthy one. You don’t give up on that kind of beauty, or the chance of having it endure.

It’s something that is exquisite and tender, but in the best circumstances also hardy enough to last – and if you can harness the vivid but finite with the lasting but stalwart, it’s a magical bit of alchemy that is too rare to let go.

And so we hold these August flowers a little closer to the heart, shielding them from impending frosts, hoping that somehow, some way, they will survive the winters to come. We are more protective of them, and love them just a little more because of it. Life is too fragile to be so careless.

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20
August
2013
Tags: Music
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Silly or Soul-saving?

Disclaimer: I’ve never been a big Kelly Clarkson fan. Nothing personal, and I enjoyed a song or two, but she always seemed a little too aww-shucks-goody-two-shoes for me. Didn’t she also say ‘Cool beans!’ ad nauseum? But this song – it’s pretty cool. It reminds me of the pop songs of the 80’s – big melody, dramatic beat, melodramatic sentiment – and the magic that a pop song could conjure with a few select chords and the right message, aimed straight at the object of affection, or, in this case, lost affection.

Some pop songs can change the world – or at least my little world – in the way they help you get through something. They strike a chord that resonates on a deeper plane of shared pain, and shared understanding. There is solace, sometimes, in company, in someone that gets what you’re going through, someone who’s been there before. It’s not enough to express condolences – you need someone who knows where you’ve been, what it’s like to be so broken, what it’s like to miss someone so badly that you can’t catch your breath for fear of crying.

Part of me thinks songs like this are silly, disposable, trifling bits of ear candy, forgotten in a few months and left off any greatest hits album. But another part of me, the part that remembers what it’s like to let someone go – well, that part of me thinks a song like this could save someone’s soul. No matter how strong we think we are, a little disposable pop music therapy goes a long way to easing a rough day.

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20
August
2013
Tags: Ben Cohen
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Shamelessly Shirtless Ben Cohen Pose

There is already extensive Ben Cohen coverage (and uncoverage) throughout the archives on this site. Not much more to be said… other than to get shirtless, and get searching.

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20
August
2013
Tags: Cologne, Tom Ford
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Tom Ford’s Amber Spritz

How could I resist something that the nice young lady at the fragrance counter described as a roller-coaster? It was one of Tom Ford’s new Private Blends, from the Atelier d’Orient series that has held me rapt since its release last month. Initial reviews said the two to watch (err, sniff) were the ‘Plum Japonais’ and the ‘Rive d’Ambre’, so when the Rive was described as a roller-coaster, I strapped myself in and sprayed away. She said to give it twenty minutes, but I was sold after one.

Tom Ford’s Private Blends tend to vacillate between very heavy (Italian Cypress, Tuscan Leather, Amber Absolute) to very floral (Champaca Absolute, Black Orchid, Santal Blush, Neroli Portofino), and though they’re technically uni-sex, they usually fall distinctively into a traditionally masculine or feminine vibe. Rive d’Ambre comes somewhere between the two, a brilliant merging of the best of both worlds, and it is, at least currently, my favorite TF Private Blend. So much so that I bought a bottle myself when last in Boston (usually I wait until Christmas or a birthday and rely on the kindness of Andy or family to deliver). This time around I simply couldn’t wait, and took advantage of the tax-free weekend for a pre-birthday splurge.

It’s the perfect fragrance for the tricky transition from summer into fall. Light enough to lift the hot days in store, but heady enough to withstand the morning chill, Rive d’Ambre works on every level. Opening with a bright fruity splash shot through with notes of citrus and bergamot (two of my faves), it soon ripens into a rich amber hue, redolent of sunsets and early evening ablutions in preparation of a night out. There is just the slightest sense of smokiness to it, a trademark in some of Ford’s darker work, that balances out the lighter aspects. It’s not heavy enough to stick around forever, which is nice on the hotter days that September and October still afford.

Far more than a song or a taste, one of the strongest memory-triggers is said to be fragrance. It will be interesting to one day see what Rive d’Ambre recalls of this pocket of time ~ what adventures it brings to mind, what emotions it releases, what memories are being created at the moment I write this. It is, I think, a very special time.

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19
August
2013
Tags: Music
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Verdi Cries

The man in 119 takes his tea all alone.
Mornings we all rise to wireless Verdi cries.
I’m hearing opera through the door.
The souls of men and women, impassioned all.
Their voices climb and fall; battle trumpets call.
I fill the bath and climb inside, singing…

A girl who loved me more than I could love her once made me a mix-tape with this song on it. Yes, I’m of the generation that made mix-tapes. I was reminded of this having just seen ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’ for the first time this week. It was gorgeously done, with a soundtrack to match. (No doubt some of them will inform future posts here.) For now, we have Ms. Merchant with her plaintive coo of ‘Verdi Cries’ – a song that brings me back to the end of my high school hijinks and early college mishaps.

He will not touch their pastry
but every day they bring him more.
Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away
and then go and eat them on the shore.

It’s interesting the way a good song like this changes when you revisit it twenty years later. Back then I was mostly entranced by the sad piano melody, barely able to make out some of the lyrics, not caring enough to try to decipher the poetry contained within. Today, I’m slightly better to make sense of things, and to appreciate the stories of others. Growing up for me has been the arduous job of finding value in other people, of opening up to others, of risking pain and love and trusting that even the hurt will be enriching.

To see the seas and shores of someone else, to get a glimpse of how they see the world, and knowing that we each have our quirks, some loved, some lamented – it makes me ache in the best way. We remain so separate, even when connected, but once in a while we manage to break through, to touch one another and become something else, something more than two. Back in high school and college, I thought it was all about finding a perfect match, a person who would complete and fill in everything that I lacked, some wondrously complemental component keeping us together. So desperately did I want that, I gave my heart away, tossing it out like a message in a bottle, bobbing aimlessly in the sea, waiting for the nudge of waves, the terrible storms, the carelessly-passing ships.

I draw a jackal-headed woman in the sand,
sing of a lover’s fate sealed by jealous hate
then wash my hand in the sea.
With just three days more I’d have just about learned the entire score to Aida.

Sometimes I wonder if I did it all to see what I could still feel, whether my heart was still capable of such passion, such treacherous emotional heights and dips, and it’s both glorious and ruinous to find I can. At each end, for there were many ends, I thought the same thing: I will recover from this, but I will never be the same. I wish I’d hung onto some of them. No one can rend a soul like that and not mean anything. At least, I’d like to think so.

Holidays must end as you know.
All is memory taken home with me:
the opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing, the verging sea, all years ago.
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19
August
2013
Tags: General
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This Blog Makes It So Hard

Someone recently asked where they could find a post I wrote a few days ago. Initially I told them to scroll down to the bottom of the page and enter some keywords into the ‘Search’ box and see if the post came up. Then I realized that for anyone coming back here after some time away (you know you all need it) it’s rather difficult to find things from just two or three days ago (given the fact that the blog gets updated three times a day and only the four most recent posts get displayed on the front page). So for those who are good enough to not want to miss out on a moment of the madness, there is a way to slowly scroll back, post by painful post, if you follow these difficult directions. (This is the hard part of the post title.)

If you’ve reached the last featured post, go to the bottom left of the post and click on the ‘Continue reading’ option. It will bring you to what looks like the same page you were on, but if you scroll down on this page you should see another option for ‘Older posts’. I’m not sure why there’s that middle-man moment, but I’m too lazy to try to figure it out or change it up. Besides, only a select few will really feel the need to go scrolling back like that, but every once in a while a new visitor will come along, and want to see a bit more. If that’s you, welcome aboard, and scroll away! (And please don’t be a stranger.)

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19
August
2013
Tags: General
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Mid-August Recap

We are sailing all-too-quickly through this month, and I want only to slow things down, to savor the moment, to be present for the light when it is this beautiful. Looking back can do that, somewhat. It can stall, or at least prolong, if only in our heads, what has just come before. While it’s never safe to look back too often, once in a while I’ll indulge, as we do on Monday mornings, especially after weekends you wish didn’t have to come to an end. It’s a coping mechanism. So let’s cope, together.

Much of last week was spent in Boston, where beauty reigned, gardens glowed, and we said good-bye… for now.

Last week proved slim pickings on the Hunk of the Day front, but to male models maintained the sizzle factor of this site, so many thanks to Allen Clippinger and Elijah Johnston for taking their shirts off and keeping things hot.

We battled the groundhog, with no clear-cut winner (only clear-cut sweet potato vines).

August is proving a good month for birthdays, as evidenced by Madonna, and myself.

There is nothing better than a poem to ward off insomnia or heal heartache.

My soon-to-be-no-longer-under-the-radar-project had its latest unheralded installment.

And, finally, if you’ve never been slapped by a brownie, you need to be.

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18
August
2013
Tags: Boston
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BOS Departure

By the time you read this, another weekend in Boston will be coming to its close. Since I’m writing this in anticipation of that, who can say what turns the time will take? At the moment of this writing, all is hope and possibility, perched precariously on the winds of chance, and fate. The best weekends are like that – without plan or agenda or expectation – and Boston has never let me down. Especially Boston at night.

 

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18
August
2013
Tags: General
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Shopping at Neiman Marcus

Make all the ‘Needless Mark-up’ jokes you want – if it costs a little extra to get impeccable customer service, I’d rather drop it at Neiman Marcus than anywhere else. Though I’ve occasionally gotten the wary eye when I haven’t been decked out, it’s nowhere near the bitchy third-degree I get at the Barneys at Copley Place. The fragrance reps at Neiman Marcus are also the best in the business, particularly when it comes to representing Tom Ford. When I wanted to sample his new Private Blends, I wrote to the fragrance counter and soon received several vials of the intoxicating elixirs, with personal hand-written notes recommending favorites. That’s the sort of customer service you don’t often see today.

I know I tend to complain about poor service and shoddy customer treatment (hello Starbucks), and the truth is we really only hear about the bad experiences instead of the good, so I’m making an effort to balance things out. To that end, this is a little shout-out to those folks who make shopping a joyful experience, to those who go out of their way to personally respond to queries, and to those who make the effort to be friendly. Having worked in retail for a few years, I understand that it’s not always easy when the customer is always right (especially when they’re dead-wrong), so for those who still put on a smile and help out the hapless public, I offer this small bit of gratitude. When shopping is a favorite past-time, it makes all the difference.

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18
August
2013
Tags: Literature
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Sunday Poem

The best part of a book of poems is the fact that you can pick up and leave off at any time. Unlike prose, which I tend to like to devour at long, deliberate stretches, a poetry collection can be opened and read in bits and pieces, from a few lines to a few poems. It’s especially nice at night, when you may only need a few pages to lull you into sleep, or on a Sunday morning, when you want a bit of beauty to open the day. This is another of Mary Oliver’s gems, from her 1986 collection ‘Dream Work’. It spoke to me for some reason.

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

thouh the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice –

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations –

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice,

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do –

determined to save

the only life you could save.

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