Wrap it in a net and pretend it’s lace.
Squeeze it into mesh and wait for grace.
Spin a 90’s tune from Ace of Base.
Super-Squishy power blanket dry hump.
Sunshine band diamond-back pump-rump.
Come hither go yon trouser-lump.
Everything about this is wrong.
Drop it like it’s hot.
See my booty get down.
Behold the gourds. Vessels of flesh and seed, bound in strange and pretty skin. Ridged, pebbled, rough, or smooth, each casts a different tactile spell. Some tiny enough to fit in a lipstick case, some too large to be hoisted by anything other than a crane, their variety is infinite, their style and spread too immense to be contained by such a simple assignation.
Most of the time, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. At this time of the year, when foliage is ripening into its autumnal hues, and asters and goldenrod line the roadside, that is most certainly true, and on a recent trip to Boston the ride there was just as magnificent as anything I accomplished while in that fine city.
A few cold nights had instigated the turn of the fall color screw, and things had just caught fire as I made my way along the Massachusetts Turnpike. Maples were flaring up in shades of bright orange and yellow, while dogwoods burned crimson both in their leaves and in their strawberry-like fruit. Speeding by the trees and plants at the side of the road, I watched out of the corner of my eye as the colors blurred into a glorious pastiche of rainbow wonder, backed by the kind of deep-blue sky that only shows itself in the fall.
The weekend had just begun.
There was promise in the air, and the smoky incense of burning wood like some sacrificial offering being made to our great fortune at witnessing such beauty.
There are those October days which are more beautiful than any in spring, when the sun shines brilliantly and the air is cool but humid enough to feign warmth. Perhaps it just rained, or maybe it rained the night before, and the leaves are matted against the ground and the smell of earth and moss is in the air. We had a few of those days this past week, and they were a joy to behold. Here’s a look back at some of them.
Cate Blanchett can do no wrong.
Tom Brady can, but even his fouls are mesmerizing.
I’m on the Tom Ford Train.
The lone Hunk of the Week was an unexpected choice.
Our First Lady is the epitome of grace and honor.
Let’s ease into this.
Return to Ogunquit: Part One, Part Two, and Part Three.
It’s so much friendlier with two.
The fallen in the fall.
This is acorn season.
In truth, they’ve been falling since late August.
Now, they pool beneath the leaves, collecting in wide swaths like lakes of marbles.
In the afternoon light they look rich and handsome, in shades of chestnut and cherry in defiance of their own lineage.
The mighty oak has such humble beginnings, and out of its thousands of tiny attempts at propagating itself most will not even begin to burst into life.
The two large oak trees on our property release thousands of acorns starting in late summer. Most get snatched up by squirrels and chipmunks, but there are always one or two that sprout and survive, tenaciously holding on through the winter to turn into a small little oak seedling that manages to defy the brutal odds and stretch to the sky.
Not many political speeches move me to tears, but Michelle Obama, perhaps our finest First Lady ever, made one that touched me so deeply and unexpectedly that I found myself weeping at the beauty, power, wonder and grace of it all. This is what it means to be American. This is what it means to be honorable. This is what it means to be a human that cares about humanity. This is what I hope our country truly is.
A preamble for a couple of Ogunquit posts, this is a teaser for a weekend of recapping that Beautiful Place By The Sea. Looking back wistfully, I will relive that glorious time in one of our favorite places in the world. Our fall trip is traditionally a bittersweet one, as we close out the season and hunker down for the long winter ahead. Still, there is much beauty to be had and a coziness that only comes in the fall. Come back tomorrow as we revisit the charm…
Beauty awaits.
Focus on the host portion of this hosta, and forget any similarity to hostility. Words are tricky that way. Deceitful little things. Unlike this beautiful hosta, whose enchantment is magnified in the second photo, thanks to the droplet-adorned accoutrement of falling rain. If it seems like I’m hanging fruitlessly onto a summer that long ago departed, it’s because that’s exactly what I’m doing. No shame in my Wilson Phillips game. Sing it Carnie!
The sins of Christopher Columbus are being celebrated today, but since you can’t discover what someone has already discovered, I’m going to take the day and dismiss the honor as we move forward by looking back. Our typical Monday recap begins now.
It started with this glorious bit of pornography.
An impromptu visit to New York City illustrated how much wonder there can be in a single night.
It also showed what happens when there is no sleep.
There are naughty books in this world. (Or are there?)
Though limited, there were Hunks of the Day, and they included Jason Morgan and Ed Harbourne.
Following the lime-green petals of a zinnia, we go around the circle of life.
Whorls of spinning repetition, repeated rows of endless segments – they all lead back to before.
Somehow, though, we have never been here.
The cycle of a year is a similar journey.
Here is the spring, followed by the summer.
Here is the fall, coming before the winter.
And here we arrive at the spring again.
It’s the same but somehow different, and it always feels new, no matter how many times we go around.
A puff of fur.
A scattering of hairs.
A bone stripped bare, still pink from blood.
The ominous signs of a meal.
And someone is missing.
Would that I were a child again so I could go back and read these classics for the very first time! Alas, one can never go back and do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce. Deeper and deeper my ass.
Speeding smoothly along the Hudson River on a gray Saturday morning, the train to New York is only about half full. A rare luxury – a seat to myself – allows me to man-spread and sprawl, and soon I am asleep, albeit fitfully. It’s the kind of sleep where you never quite feel like your eyes are completely closed, more of a forced rest and a way of blocking out the light of day. Yet there were pockets of unawareness, places where I did skid off the spectrum of cognizance, because the two and a half hours passed quickly, and when next I opened my eyes they were greeted with the dark cavern of Penn Station. Thus the dream ended… or began.
As one enters the dimly-lit elevator at the Standard High Line, a pair of psychedelic videos runs on each side of the otherwise-black walls. A looping excerpt of Cinderella’s Waltz by Prokofiev plays over the sound system, and it’s as enchanting as it is tinged with darkness. This is a place and time where magic can happen.
Spiraling into an infinite well, images of pop culture and beauty swirled like a colorful lollipop – lotus poses and nude women, Julie Andrews and marionettes, all to the slightly-menacing movements of Prokofiev. My key grants entrance to the floors above. There are other faces here too, all silent and still, and as the images circle further away, I seem to have jumped down a rabbit’s hole even as I’m ascending. The Standard High Line provides the home base for a night in New York. Chris is already there, and we meet for a brunch before I head off on my own for a quick shopping excursion. More faces on the subway, more smiles in the stores, and after procuring a coat of many colors, I head back for a disco nap.
We are seeing ‘Sleep No More’ and I need to rest because I’m old now. The show doesn’t begin until midnight, and a nap is mandatory. Again, though, my sleep is restless, or maybe restful is better term, because it’s not quite sleep, it’s merely slight sedation, and the whole time it feels like I am forcing my eyes shut. In some ways it would have been easier just staying awake. Still, those minutes went somewhere, and as I get up again it’s almost possible to capture the moment day turns to dusk.
With one flick of a cosmic switch, night comes on just as the lights of the Empire State Building flicker to life. Its spire almost disappears into the low clouds and I wonder again if I’m dreaming, so surreal has the city become on this cloudy day that mists a little but never quite gives itself over to rain. I pull a gauzy curtain over the peep-show window and perform my Standard shower routine. When I’m finished, I pull the curtains open and there is no longer any doubt: the day has disappeared.
Back in the elevator, Prokofiev plays again. It is wickedly wonderful music, and I’ve always been a sucker for a waltz. Disorienting and dream-like, it is the soundtrack to midnight, when magic ends and begins all at once. I descend into the evening…
