It is winter when at last we make our way out of the forest. The scarlet cape has slipped from our shoulders, and the lush green foliage that covered our sins and masked our mistakes has been torn from the branches. On their bare limbs, a blanket of snow rests. The city sleeps. The world is quiet.
There are warning signs when you’ve strayed too far into the woods. Subtle hints that you’ve stayed too long. A distortion of views, a super-saturation of colors. Suddenly, everything is askew, and the way you see the world is turned on its head. Though it is a small shift from all outward appearances, it is an alteration of the very structure upon which your existence depends. Being in the woods changes everyone. It changes everything.
You have a sword to draw, but you do not know why.
You have a stream to cross, but you do not know how.
You have a choice to make, but you do not know what.
You sip from the stream of knowledge, not knowing whether the waters are poisoned or pure. It feels good to swallow so you continue to drink. When you wipe the last drops from your lips, when your stomach is satiated and full, you stand up and survey the situation. Here is the stream you heard from the start. Here is the path that will take you out of the woods.
Our time in the forest has come to a close. We exit the soft darkness into the winter. Come, let us go.
Even when cloaked in the leaves of a forest, a wanderer is never unseen. No matter how deep the path into the woods leads, there are eyes that never blink here, ears that never register silence, a consciousness that never sleeps.
At the bottom of the sloping path, sunlight still reaches down, all the way to the bottom of a stream. It is a quiet place, even with the running water, and the slightest rustle would betray the stealthiest intruder. Mostly they are the sounds of scattering chipmunks and retreating squirrels. The cry of a bird will occasionally pierce the dull murmur of the stream, but the main thing you hear is your own breathing.
If there is one thing of which you become startlingly aware in the woods, it is your breath. As such, it is life. You hear the steady push and pull of air as it enters and exits your body. You feel the pulse of such intake, and in the midst of nature you feel the pulse of the universe. It is all here.
It is a moment of grounding. Whenever you feel yourself lost, or your thoughts and focus scattered like those startled chipmunks, find a body of water and stand in the lapping edge of it. An ocean works best, but in a pinch a lake or streambed will do.
Let the water work its healing magic, as your legs, like anchors, remind you of your footing in this world.
The Delusional Grandeur Tour continues in this post, as the ‘Red Riding Wood’ section expands, and we travel down a path that leads deep into the forest. “Mother said straight ahead, not to delay or be misled. I should have heeded her advice, but he seemed so nice…”
Strange things have been known to happen in the woods. As beautiful and serene as they most often are, there is a darkness to them, a hint of danger and terror that lurks beneath the leaves, behind the bark. A canopy of foliage can keep out the sun, but it will never keep out the night.
Yet there is something about the beginning of a journey that lends its own illumination, no matter how rainy or dreary the day. The innocence of not knowing what’s to come is its own amulet of power, and that makes it almost impossible to destroy.
Let us walk on, then, down this woodland path.
Let us see what is to come…
The one who dons the red cape is wanderer and warrior at once.
Cloaked in a blood-hued hood, a gleaming sword ensconced in folds of vermillion fabric, he trails the color of passion in his wake.
Surrounded by leaves and wood and water, but shielded from sky and sun, the realm is somewhere in-between heaven and hell. A purgatorial plane of prettiness, deceptively gentle, with poisonous flowers and slithering snakes, slowly descends to the sound of running water.
You cannot see it yet, it only mumbles vaguely in the distance, muffled by leafy undergrowth and lofty branches. The forest can hide a multitude of sins. Whole rivers of watery thieves drift through it, unheard and unseen.
On this day, the scarlet stranger stalks the winding foot path. What he seeks not even he knows, but some journeys are better when made without destination or goal. If you’re not looking for anything, you will never be disappointed. Still, something impels him onward. The path is a pretty one, the dappled sunlight shimmering somewhere ahead. Ever ahead, always forward, and by the time you look back you’ve forgotten from where you came.
Where field meets forest is an interesting place.
Presented with a choice, a line drawn in the land where the grass ends and the trees begin, the explorer is momentarily caught between two worlds. It’s a precarious position, coming from what you’ve known and approaching something unknown. (We always come from somewhere.)
In this case, the rise of a mostly-deciduous forest in the late spring is the unknown. A small meadow is where we’ve been.
At first it feels like a comfort.
Relief and respite from the beating sun.
A cooling balm within the leafy cloak of quietude.
Stands of ostrich and lady ferns line a path that beckons one deeper.
Touch-me-nots rise in mounds of celery green and undersides of silver.
Moss runs up the decaying bark of trees fallen long ago.
Here, at the forest’s edge, it is still light.
There is no hint of the darkness within.
Looking back, the field appears blindingly bright. Where once was a varied landscape of small meadow blooms and the early formation of grass seed heads, now seems like a single veneer of pale green, harsh in the eyes of one already grown accustomed to the forest light.
The path ahead is soft and cool, a welcome contrast from the brittle and the dry, and it slopes gently downward. Everything is pulling you down this path.
The forest quietly closes its verdant door.
The Delusional Grandeur Tour Book is about to reach its meaty midsection – the ‘Red Riding Wood’ portion that forms the centerpiece of the whole affair. This is the part from which the cover art was selected. It’s a twist on Little Red Riding Hood, setting the fairy tale on its head and lending it a darkness and menace that goes beyond the original storyboard idea.
This red cape hides a sword in its crimson folds, shrouding a warrior intent on burning the past and cutting a vicious swath through the brush of the future. But that’s still a bit ahead. For now, the cape is just a pretty accent, the sword a fanciful accessory. The most epic of journeys sometimes begin with the silliest of trifles.
A Look Back at Previous Tour Book Entries:
01) Intro/Curtain – Part One, Part Two, Part Three
02) Sunset Pool – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five
03) On The Road Hotel – Part One, Part Two, Part Three
04) Rock Star Addict – Part One, Part Two, Part Three
05) Animal Demons – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five
06) Steam Punk Birdcage – Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
“A funny person is funny only for so long, but a wit can sit down and go on being spellbinding forever. One is not meant to laugh. One stays quiet and marvels.” – Diana Vreeland
“It’s very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present… Do you know what I mean…?” ~ Little Edie, ‘Grey Gardens’
“You know, people are very, very sensitive. No one takes into account how sensitive a person really is. I don’t mean just a Scorpio or a Libra. Everybody, they’re TERRIBLY sensitive. And OTHER people just don’t understand how SENSITIVE a human being IS. They don’t understand it. So they run ROUGHSHOD over everybody.” ~ Little Edie, ‘The Beale of Grey Gardens’
“My costumes? That’s a protest against having worked as a model for the Establishment, believe it or not. A lot of models feel that way. Sometimes their lives are protests against having worked as models. Besides, I didn’t have time taking care of mother to get out and buy any clothes. So I used what was left of mine and mother’s in the attic.” ~ Little Edie
As my final escapade ever in such a touring capacity, The Delusional Grandeur Tour Book has several references that have informed my life for years. It’s not quite a retrospective of all that’s come before, but more of a quick nod to those pop culture touchstones that have inspired me. There was the ‘Sunset Boulevard’ portion, which captured Joe Gillis, Norma Desmond, and that infamous pool scene. There was the bunny motif that has been haunting me since childhood. There was, and will be, a bit of Madonna, who has been my main muse since I was ten years old. And now, with the next installment, comes a brief homage to ‘Grey Gardens.’
Big and Little Edie have held me, and countless others, transfixed and fascinated since they first stepped gleefully into the spotlight with the documentary by the Maysles. I first discovered them in the earliest days of the internet – somewhere in the late 90’s – in an online post about the campiest gay divas. There, atop such legendary ladies as Judy Garland, Cher, Liza Minelli, Barbra Streisand, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, were Big and Little Edie – taking first place among the pantheon of better-known women. Having never heard of them, I sought out the elusive ‘Grey Gardens’ which was easier said than done. It took a year or two before I tracked down a Criterion VHS cassette of the documentary, at a time when no one was talking about them. Like a carefully-shrouded secret, I kept it close to my heart, sharing it with only a few special people in my life – first and foremost among them was Suzie, who introduced me to many an iconic film (‘Harold & Maude’ and ‘Auntie Mame’ for instance).
Aside from exhibiting the fashion and eccentricities of its leading ladies, it was a documentary that examined the tenuous relations between a mother and daughter. It hinted at horrors rather than reveling in or revealing them. It showed the co-dependency of their relationship while displaying their fierce independence. It was as much about the psycho-drama of two headstrong people as it was about their decaying mansion around them, and the echoes of American royalty than ran through the rotting walls. The resilience of the women moved me, and their staunch belief in themselves when the world turned away was touching. All they had was each other. And in some incredibly loving way, that’s all they needed.
They are housed in the ‘Steampunk Birdcage‘ section because in many ways they became like caged birds. Exotic creatures trapped by circumstance, time, and the ties of familial loyalty and obligation. They were bound by love as well, and that’s the golden thread running throughout their life together.
“There is something sinister, something quite biographical about what I do – but that part is for me. It’s my personal business. I think there is a lot of romance, melancholy. There’s a sadness to it, but there’s romance in sadness. I suppose I am a very melancholy person.” ~ Alexander McQueen
This weekend brings the next stage of The Delusional Grandeur Tour Book: SteamPunk BirdCage. It’s far less inflammatory than those fucking-bunny shots from the ‘Animal Demons’ section, so those who are easily offended may return, for the moment, and pick up where the journey last left off. For those who enjoy those sensational moments, stay with us through this relative lull in action.
I tend to like the quieter moments, particularly when backed by a Northeastern fall. The photos from this segment are framed with shots captured at Thacher Park, one of upstate New York’s gorgeous hiking spots. I managed to be there just as the foliage was turning – a few more days and the brilliance you see here would be blown away.
A fern retained its bright green hue, though it was on the verge of going pale yellow. As the nights cooled and the ground dried out, it would eventually turn a ghostly cream color, the leaves almost transparent when backed by a dying sun.
Fall has often proven to be fertile ground for my creative fire. The bite in the air, the chill in the night – they each served to spark a drive that may have slowed and softened in the summer sun. In the fall, I usually felt reinvigorated – and the beauty of the season was its own inspiration.
{A behind-the-scenes note: these photos were taken a couple of years ago. I wasn’t sure how or when or where I was going to use them, but when this section of the Tour Book was being created, they fit into it perfectly – the colors acted as an entry point for some of the browns and burnt umbers that are coming up. The changing of the leaves was also a signifier of transition – and following the scorching ‘Animal Demons’ section, we needed a little transition.}
“In a time of destruction,
create something.”
~ Maxine Hong Kingston
{Continued from
Parts One,
Two,
and Three.}
To destroy the demons of the past, one must sometimes sacrifice the angels as well.
This wasn’t a slow degradation or gentle dismantling of an image. This was a willful and violent destruction of what came before. The erection of a perceived life of excitement & debauchery can take years; its destruction can take even longer, and is rarely successful in delivering complete eradication.
That requires a dance with the devil – and how many people do you know who would be willing to take that chance?
Yet even more than a deconstruction or dismantling of the past, this was an annihilation. Only the most desperate would ever attempt to start over at this stage in life.
The desperate and the very daring…
