Putting a weekend of friends and family to bed is never fun, and this was one I wished could have gone on a bit longer. Reality and life are not quite ready to bend that way just yet, and so the work week begins again, and our Money morning recap is illuminated by this pretty bowl of grapes. Here’s what happened the week that this hemisphere turned to spring:
They make it look so easy on those Instagram reels and TikTok dreams, but when I try something like this ‘super simple’ French omelette, it sticks to the pan, burns to the consistency of a rubbery frisbee, and tastes like French bulldog shit. There is a Sunday morning lesson here (aside from not walking away from eggs to check your text messages) and it comes with the posting of these decidedly-imperfect photos.
The vast majority of posts that go up here are highly curated and edited, cropped within an inch of their lives (and sometimes my dick) to the point that everything looked deceptively pretty and enchanting – even the darker stuff. Well, that’s not really true to life. It’s true to the spirit of this site, and the idea of aspiration, but I never liked to sugarcoat, so in the ongoing quest to embrace and accept our inherent imperfection, this post shows that failure is part of the game.
I will try this again – though not for a day or two given the price of eggs. I ate this one, most of it, because it was edible, just not very good. There another lesson there too: accepting what’s good enough rather than tossing it out and trying to achieve something great.
The James Renaissance continues from this ‘Tomorrow’ post, with a preview of their new orchestral album ‘Be Opened By the Wonderful’ which sounds like it’s going to be aural ecstasy to my ears. ‘She’s A Star’ gains poignance and a more tender luster than its original incarnation through its orchestral treatment, and the lyrics come into greater focus without all the glorious guitar work and drum noise.
Whenever her face is frozen, Unable to fake it anymore
Her shadow is always with her, Her shadow could keep her small
So frightened that he won’t love her, She builds up a wall
Oh no, she knows where to hide in the dark, Oh no, she’s nowhere to hide in the dark
She’s a star… She’s a star
If this is any indication of how the new album will transform some classic James songs, I’m already on board. In the 20th year of this website, I’ve been indulging in some nostalgia of late. The advancing march of time feels especially swift these days, as I watch my parents, and now my friends, go through their health obstacles – mostly due to the simple act of getting older. I feel it in myself too – the blood pressure pills, the stubborn paunch, the more-salt-than-pepper hair, the failing eyesight, and the frustrating way I can’t remember anything that happened in the last five years, or five minutes. (I can still give you stellar and detailed examinations of what went down from 1996 through 2002, however – more than anyone needs to know, and largely useless in 2023.)
In this nostalgia, I find pockets of time when I see how badly I treated some people, and how badly I’ve treated myself. There is empathy for everything we went through, rather than the mean and arch way I’ve confronted discomfort from the past. When I look back at the young man I used to be, I find myself shaking my head and giving off the smallest laugh at what we did to each other, and at the guarded ways I tried so valiantly, and foolishly, to protect my heart. All the while, I failed to find the goodness there, and the real power in being open and vulnerable. Too concerned with being perfect, too afraid of losing love by not being perfect, I walked a tightrope with all the requisite tension and carefulness involved. There should have been more happiness, and a little part of me will always mourn that I didn’t allow myself to feel that.
She’s been in disguise forever, She’s tried to disguise her stellar views
Much brighter than all this static, Now she’s coming through
Oh no, she knows where to hide in the dark, Oh no, she’s nowhere to hide in the dark
She’s a star… She’s a star
How often do we dim our lights or silence our speech so as not to be the lighthouse or the foghorn? They have real purpose and meaning – how dare we act like we carry the same right to be here, the same right to shine or scream? The caution we craft and create is the very thing holding us back, and so we play into the grand scheme designed to keep us quiet, to keep us behaving, to keep us exactly like everybody else. How dare we be different…
Don’t tell her to turn down
Put on your shades if you can’t see
Don’t tell her to turn down
Turn up the flame
She’s a star… She’s a star
The older I get, the more myself I feel, and the out-of-place awkwardness that peppered my youth has largely dissipated. Those years were helpful – they held their own lessons and imbued me with their own power – I just wish I had learned it all a little faster. But that’s no real reason for regret – it happened when it needed to happen. It happened when it was supposed to happen. If I look back with a bit of bitterness for not knowing better, it’s only because I’m a little happier with where I am today.
And so the star-like journey of a life is played out, and like the real stars, each one is different and unique, each has its own lifespan and trajectory designed by destiny. Each of us finds our way to our own enlightenment like we find our way home.
Jake Shears just released a dance floor bop that brings me back to those full-throated dance divas of the 90’s, thanks to a featured vocal tour-de-force by Amber Martin. It’s the perfect antidote for a rainy Saturday night, when you need some inspiration, and a reminder of how fun Saturday night could and should be. Turn this one up, let go your mind and inhibitions, and set yourself free on the dance floor – even if it’s the kitchen these days.
Wearing a rather ugly flannel shirt in plaid, burnt out with some intentional rust stains, and procured on some exasperating visit to Marshall’s or TJ Maxx when I needed something different, I waited while the cashier at Price Chopper rang up some items. She was a young girl in her twenties maybe, and exuberantly asked me how I was. Mimicking her exuberance – I hadn’t quite decided whether to be nice or snarky – I said I was great and asked how she was doing in a tone that anyone who knew me would describe as manic and aggressively not-friendly, but then quickly slipped into nice mode because that usually ends things quicker. She said she was good and then looked at my shirt. The aforementioned flannel shirt. Clearly, obviously flannel. Plaid.
“I like your blouse,” she said.
“Blouse?” I asked, my snarkiness returning despite my best efforts.
“I’m just bougie like that!” she replied.
My look must have indicated my feelings, and it went beyond any Resting Bitch Face I would typically conjure, as she immediately began defending her ‘blouse’ comment.
“What would you call it? It’s more fancy to say ‘blouse’ right?”
It was amusing now, and I didn’t want her to panic. “I’ll take ‘blouse’!” I said. “I love fancy. Normally I would just call it a shirt. A flannel shirt.”
So now I wear blouses – and, truth be told, I always did.
I don’t know what the fuck these people witnessed Jehovah do, but they have not been right since. I was working from home when the doorbell rang, and since I was in the line of sight I couldn’t pretend no one was home like I normally would. Two strangers stood at the front door looking in, and I walked tentatively toward them while Andy slept in the bedroom. The woman in front wore a mask, and as I opened the door a crack, she pushed her hand inside to hand me the pamphlet pictured here.
The women looked confused, and looked to her back-up, who proceeded to tell me they believed what Jehovah believed, that marriage should be between one man and one woman. She said it sweetly and kindly, like that would negate what she was really imparting.
“That is what the Bible teaches, and that is what Jehovah’s Witnesses believe, and personally I do not believe in same-sex marriage, but I do not judge others and no one would treat you badly if you were to attend…”
“No thanks,” I said, cutting her off. The morning was cold and I was letting heat out of the house and I just didn’t have the strength or desire to have a discussion with two strangers who approached our home and came onto our property to spew sweetly-worded hate.
She thanked me for my time, perhaps relieved that I didn’t say more.
These kalanchoe blooms are little when taken on their own, but pack a wallop in their shade and number – a lesson in how to make an impression by coming together. This was one of the first plants I ever grew as a child, a story more fully expounded upon in this post. I remember that winter in the guest room where my grandma would stay when she visited. It had the sunniest window, with a southwestern exposure, and it provided the strong light the succulent leaves of kalanchoe loved. They like to be kept on the dry side, and so are pretty easy-upkeep, even after they finish flowering (in-flower is the only state in which I’ve ever seen them sold).
Taking a few tentative steps into spring with these blooms feels good. There is still snow on the ground, and a few more snowstorms likely to come, but it’s okay to give in to this beauty. It’s healing after a winter of cold bruises.
Everyone thinks the winter wind is the one that cuts the deepest, but it’s the wind of early spring, when things are heaving and breaking and melting, that carries the biggest risk of pushing you off the edge of a building. As I walked toward the moon, I felt the wind at my back, and the ledge of the observatory roof was a dim line straight ahead. Carrying a heavy heart, one that had already been broken before I could leave my teenage-years, and mostly by my own machinations, left my walk slow but deliberate. Resigned and intent. The seductive spell of a spring night had been whispered to me from the wind, and I moved away from my classmates, nearer the edge, nearer the forbidden space the professor had warned us against.
I see you falling How long to go before you hit the ground You keep on screaming Don’t you see me here Am I a ghost to you?
Ahh, spring. Your treacherous offering of hope when what you really have to give is heartache. But you do it wrapped in a cherry blossom, nodding in the cheery self-obsession of a glade of narcissus, teasing from the tip of a tulip petal. Spring and all your madness, stripped in a storm, rendering all of us naked and tender and ill-equipped for the cold that’s still deep in the night, and still waiting for us in the morning.
Now your grip’s too strong You can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your luck will change tomorrow Tomorrow…
Back then, whether admitted or not (and for the most part I never admitted it to anyone) my only goal in life was to find a partner ~ a companion. I just didn’t want to go through it all alone. I was tired of being alone.
I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud.
Not that I wasn’t good at being alone. Not that it had ever been a choice. I was simply ready to find someone with whom I might share a life – with whom I might make a life. And while I never put that into words then, as even I understood that wasn’t first date banter, my actions and desire spoke more than I ever could, frightening would-be suitors and maybe-friends away. Maybe, too, I knew that I wasn’t ready for it, and sabotaged myself before letting anything happen, before getting too carried away. But oh, what spring could seduce from the merest hints of connection, and oh how badly I wanted to be with someone.
This song arrived just as I found myself without a girlfriend or boyfriend, and I sought out solace in my platonic friends, calling them late at night, wondering if they could sense my desperation, the terrifying need to not be alone at those dangerous hours. Anything but lonely…
Why are you phoning? What am I to do when you’re miles away? You’re always calling from the darkest moods and we’re both scared…
Life then existed in letters and late night phone calls, hushed conversations held in indulgent secrecy, hidden from flatmates and strangers alike – that was how we kept in touch, how we made connections. There wasn’t texting or FaceBook or seeing someone’s whole life history. We only knew what we were told, and what we could read in between the laughter and sighs, much of it was made-up – and all of it better than the false-transparency of what we put out on social media today.
Back then you had to trust your friends to stick with you despite distance and time, and it didn’t always work. Even the closest among us found ourselves growing apart – it couldn’t be helped – but I railed against that, struggling to stay in touch, wrangling us together for parties and gatherings, even when no one knew what to say. Because it mattered, didn’t it? That we had been through it together. That we had been through that formative part of life, that we knew each other before we knew ourselves. It had to matter. As soon as the thought formed, I knew that time in our lives had passed. I knew also that I would not let it go so easily, finding the nets and guns and forces to keep us intact and together. That was my purpose.
Now your grip’s too strong You can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your love will change
Every spring, I listened to this song, and every spring seemed to get a little less lonely. It revealed different meanings as the years passed, changing from a lesson in how to get through a lonely night to a lesson in learning how not to force things, especially love. That was a lesson I needed more than most. My friends could always keep their heads when it came to crushes and obsessions – I lost mine, and willingly gave away my heart in the process. I listened to ‘Tomorrow’, as I listened for tomorrow, and slowly I began to understood the mantra:
Now your grip’s too strong Can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your love will change tomorrow
It was on a summer evening – and even though I certainly didn’t feel like I had any semblance of shit together, looking back, that was the beginning of when I started to pull it together. Or at least put forth the appearance of keeping things together. Getting by, and getting on with it. The first steps in being ok with being alone. I knelt down to tie my sneakers, then grinned at the light still pouring into the bedroom window. Summer in Boston beckoned, and I ran into the South End as neighbors took their dinner plates onto their front steps.
Running every night was my little way of getting out in the world. Too socially-anxious to prowl the bars or clubs on a regular basis (and certainly never on my own when everyone else had departed the city for the summer) I connected to people from the distance of speed and flight, as I raced the streets of Boston, running away as much as I was running toward something. I spent most nights spent and heated, a late-night shower to cool off, and then a spell of reading in the bedroom. Slowly, I was learning to love being by myself. Something told me I needed to do that – genuinely and authentically – if I was ever going to learn to love someone, and let them love me in return.
I’m just out of your range Tomorrow All your suffering’s in vain Tomorrow
“This song was written as an attempt to stop a close friend jumping off the roof.” ~ James
I didn’t know that this was the origin of this song. It never meant that to me, but it makes sense about why it spoke to me on so many levels, and so deeply. This has always been one of my favorite songs, one that has withstood time and place. And James has always been my favorite band. (Relax, Madonna is not a band.) I loved them since they wore dresses and ate bananas for the cover of their absolute best album ‘Laid’. That song cycle informed my life at its most crucial and influential moments – when the soul was solidifying into what it will always be.
Now your grip’s too strong You can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your love will change tomorrow
This song reminds me that it’s ok to sink low sometimes, to walk toward the ledge and wonder about jumping off. No sane person would witness what we do to each other and not wonder at the futility of this world. How could we not want to off ourselves now and then? We weren’t designed to withstand such cruelty, but here we are, doing our best, doing it together whether we realize it or not. It’s there in a late-night phone call from a friend, an unexpected letter in the mail, a FaceBook message from a stranger just checking in – all these little ways we show that we care, that people are worth a little suffering and pain, that we are alive in this exquisitely imperfect and fucked-up world, and for the most part we are each doing our best to be better for each other.
I got out of your range Tomorrow All your suffering seems vain Change tomorrow Some forgiveness now Tomorrow Love’s no sacred cow
This is a little Gerbera daisy for anyone who needs a break or a vacation, including myself, because without one soon I’m not going to make my retirement requirement. Such a sentiment crops up every few months, when things get rough and rowdy, and life throws wrenches and hammers and blunt objects, and we’re all just trying to duck and dodge and not get hit in the head. There’s enough trauma in the world – no need to add to it.
And so I try to lose myself in shades of salmon, in the radial wonder and over-hybridized excess of a flower-head that can’t always support itself. There are days when I understand exactly how such a flower feels. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
With indelible performance in projects as varied as ‘Everything, Everywhere, All At Once’, ‘The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel‘, ‘SpongeBob: The Musical’ and ‘Be More Chill’, Stephanie Hsu has conquered film, television, and stage, turning each role into a firestorm of pathos, rage, humor, tenderness, and heartache – sometimes within the span of a half-hour. That kind of talent has been earning all kinds of awards and accolades of late, including this Dazzler of the Day.
While I make it a point to meditate for 20 minutes every day, I won’t pretend I’m always loving it and looking forward to it. After a day in the office and running around on whatever errands need to be done, then cleaning or cooking for the evening, the thought of meditation is just one more task added to an exhausting list. Those are, in the way the universe so cleverly (and annoyingly) works, the times when I need meditation the most, so of course I want it the least.
Far more enjoyable are the meditations that come on a Saturday or Sunday or day off. I thought about that this weekend, when a rough week of work was willfully forgotten by Saturday, and I went into my daily meditation with vigor, embracing every minute and soaking in the momentary stillness and calm. As I sat there, I slipped much more quickly and easily into a state of calm and stillness, the beautiful and desired space of blankness. More importantly, I moved into a deeper state of meditation and mindfulness, pushing further into the practice, finding another level of peace that quelled all the worries of the week. That was notable, and something new.
When I looked back at it wondering why it was easier to meditate on a Saturday, it dawned on me that I was entering that particular meditation from a place of calm. I’d already inadvertently created a space of stillness, because I’d already relaxed my mind and let go of my worries. In other words, my meditation had a head-start, allowing me to move more quickly into that state of calm which usually only arrives after a number of moments of deep breathing and focus. By the time I’m typically at such a state, I’m already fifteen minutes into things, with only five minutes of deeper meditation to go.
There are ways around this – longer meditation is the easiest route, but comes with a greater time investment. During more difficult periods, I find half an hour is a good amount of time to gain a full and deep experience. Another idea I may implement is simply preparing myself and relaxing beforehand, so when I actually sit down to do the thing I’ll be ready to quickly and easily enter into the space. Whatever the case, I’m always happy to discover a place of deeper connection to a sense of calm, and to try to return there in the future.
If this were a trailer, here would be the music for our upcoming spring season – full of dramatic import and a few key scenes of emotional outbursts ripe for their close-ups. Picture our cast of characters in all sorts of pretty peril and tantalizing trauma, begging the viewer to see what twists and turns may come in the next few months. After twenty years of this website, we have reached the point where any season could be the last, and since I’ve not signed any contracts, any day might be the end too.
When I bother to pause and look back at the overarching trajectory of life as contained in these electronic pages, the same recurring themes of family and friends come to mind – and for someone who was raised on soap operas, the way our lives intertwine and intersect will be forever fascinating. The highlights of this website have traditionally been of trips and adventures with loved ones – all the fun things Andy and I have done over the decades, all the parties and gatherings we’ve hosted and attended, all the moments we’ve celebrated and commemorated – they all fall under the umbrella of shared experiences, and they wouldn’t be half as fun if I’d done them alone. As much as I genuinely enjoy and cherish solitude and alone time, it’s still so much friendlier with two.
And so, as we kick off the 20th spring of this website,we put winter to bed for another year. We are reminded that we must lean on each other if we’re going to make it through another season, even one as typically happy and hopeful as spring. We will be back at winter in due time – for now we have rested enough. It’s time to dig in again – to the ground, to the work, to the garden, to the struggle – time to re-enter the world of the living, to re-immerse in the hustle and bustle. Our hibernation is coming to a close, and while I’ve learned to embrace winter and its subtle enchantments, it’s time for spring to have her turn, along with all the wonder and mess and tumult that she brings.
Known best for her riveting performances in ‘The Walking Dead’, ‘Black Panther and ‘Black Panther: Wakanda Forever’, Danai Gurira is also a prolific playwright who wrote several award-winning plays, including ‘Eclipsed’ and ‘Familiar’. She earns this Dazzler of the Day thanks to such multi-faceted talent and on-screen charisma.
Most of the time, the first day of spring holds more hope and promise than the last day of spring. By that point, spring has largely been spent, and with it the happy notion of anything that might lie ahead. Today, it’s all possibility, even if the weather still reeks of winter. I’m someone who thrills in the promise and anticipation, enjoying these moments of what might come rather than the actual days when they do come. This is not a very mindful practice, nor is it helpful in inhabiting the moment, so it’s all a work in progress. For now, let me enjoy this day of possibility, while we look back at the last week of winter.
