Category Archives: General

… on you… watch out.

A witch rarely makes superfluous movements.

Every twitch, every touch, every nuanced side-glance of a shifty eye – they all move a witch toward their prescribed destination.

Sometimes it is a place, but not always. 

Sometimes it’s a state of mind, but not usually.

Often it’s simply a nod in the direction of survival – witches being in just as dire a strait as anyone these days. 

When a witch turns their back to you, it is intentional. It is intended and designed to unnerve, disarm, and transfix. All tricks of a witch’s trade. 

It is a determination to leave a chill in your heart.

Play this song – an incantation without words – as if such a thing could exist, as if words were nothing and music could make you feel something without meaning. 

Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Maybe you are not quite ready to assume the mantle just yet. 

My mantle is heavy, black velvet and purple lining, but it propels me into the night in ways you will never understand, gripping madly to a rough piece of wood like a talisman or hatchet or broom. 

I don’t think you know how many witches populate the world ~ which world? ~ and who among us might they count as brethren? A declaration of doubt turned into a question, or two. There, now you’re learning the ways. 

Never turn your back on a witch. Back away if you must, or wait it out – usually it’s better to wait it out. Witches appreciate those who appreciate patience. Waiting is a dark art. Patience is often disguised as a virtue. 

You only think the witch hasn’t seen you.

And you only think the watch hasn’t seen you because the witch wants you to think that. 

Already behind them, and they’re already gone. 

Rest tonight, dear reader, for tomorrow we fly…

This space was originally slated for a very different post. 

It was a post that needed to be written, but it may need to be revised.

It was raw, painful to write, and painful to re-read. I put it down several times, and that was after shutting it off many more times in my head. It was a family post, one that tried to explain all the icky things I’ve felt of late but have largely kept quiet. My therapist knows. Andy has seen it. And a few close friends are aware. It’s the same things that have been fostering the dysfunction that’s gone on for almost five decades – and it’s literally taken me that long to see the overridden arcs and patterns as they repeat themselves in different ways. I’ve addressed it directly, in various ways over the years, as I’ve repeatedly had opportunity after opportunity of being hurt to do so, and the last time it happened I tried again. Exasperated, I blurted out at the end of an extended silence, “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” my Mom said.

“You’re right,” I said, speaking out in a way I don’t think I’ve ever done. “It’s not fine. But it keeps happening, and here we are again.”

I realized then that it was a familiar scene, and in its familiarity I realized it wouldn’t ever change, and there was nothing I could do to ever make it change. I’ve seen my parents and how they interact with their grandchildren – it’s startlingly different from how they interacted with me and my brother – and that’s absolutely how it should be. It only stung when my Mom let it slip once that she may be treating them differently because she wanted to make up for what we went through in our childhood. That felt like one of those back-handed compliments and acknowledgments – it’s wonderful that she dotes on her grandchildren – it’s a slap in the face to make it up with them when I’m still here and still getting hurt.

That probably sounds quite silly, and I’ve been told to grow up for saying far less. It also doesn’t much matter, other than in my own need to let it out. It won’t change anything, and after 49 years I finally get it. I’ve also been told that distancing myself might be helpful, for my own mental health and protection, and so I’ve been removing myself from those who have kept this cycle going. Not in a petty or mean way, at least I hope that’s not how it’s perceived, but in a self-preserving way – a resignation to how things have been. In place of that emptiness I once feared I find myself curating time with Andy, time with friends, planning for Boston holiday visits with old friends, and reading classics again – the way I would find comfort on scary high school nights when I felt isolated and alone, nights in which I wrote out in rage “I WILL LEAVE HERE AND NEVER COME BACK” on my bathroom mirror – losing myself in literature and trying to find a way out through words. 

And yes, this was the kinder post. Enjoy the detour.

Nothing sacred or special about this recap – just an end-of-October romp to get us into the week wherein we cross over to November. That’s a sordid thought of sorts, so let’s not dwell on it – the sooner we move through this dark path of woods, the sooner we may find a way out – on with the weekly recap.

Now… a warning.

Pumpkin season.

One last swim?

Kamala, obviously.

Skateboarding up a hill.

Perils of fall.

Sweet Ogunquit autumn.

Hold my nuts.

Super graphic ultra modern girl like me.

Five years of sober living.

Happy 30th Anniversary to Madonna’s ‘Bedtime Stories’. 

Sisters of the moon.

Marble and mud.

Dazzlers of the Day included Christian Siriano and Jon M. Chu.

While ‘The Scarlet Letter’ exemplifies the atmosphere of a New England autumn, and all those other ‘A’ words, this season I’m reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘The House of the Seven Gables’ for the first time, and it’s reinvigorated my love of classic literature – those tried and true works that have withstood the test of time as much for their written beauty as their evocation of how humans interact with one another. 

“Nevertheless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find the same entanglement of something mean and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow. Life is made up of marble and mud. And, without all the deeper trust in a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might hence be led to suspect the insult of a sneer, as well as an immitigable frown, on the iron countenance of fate. What is called poetic insight is the gift of discerning, in this sphere of strangely mingled elements, the beauty and the majesty which are compelled to assume a garb so sordid.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne

“It is very queer, but not the less true, that people are generally quite as vain, or even more so, of their deficiencies than of their available gifts.” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

“I’m as provocative of tears as an onion!” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

Five years ago today, I had my last drink of alcohol. At that time, and in the ensuing years, I’ve always said that it was relatively easy for me to stop drinking. For me, that was the case, but what’s easy for me is not usually easy for most people, and I state that without any hubris. In truth, I did have to work at it, but that sort of work – a challenge and a goal – has always been somewhat enjoyable to me (or I wouldn’t do it). My main hat-trick, one of which I’m not even certain why I keep playing, is to do the hard work but make it look easy. Maybe it’s my penchant for wanting to make this world a little prettier; I just never wanted to reveal the effort and machinations involved because they’re rarely very beautiful or interesting. A swan is graceful because it floats and glides effortlessly across the smooth surface of the water – even when in reality it’s paddling like a crazed cyclist on the Tour de France. We don’t need to see the frenzied paddling, but it’s important to realize it’s there.

In the case of the elimination of alcohol from my lifestyle, it was a deliberate choice to be healthier and improve the relationships in my life. It worked on both fronts, but to say it was easy may muddy the waters for others who may be wondering why it was so easy. My case, as a good friend pointed out, is singular and rather rare, though there are components that others might find helpful, so here they are:

The first step – and the key step – is also the most difficult and intangible to describe. It was the realization that I was using drinking to mask/aid social anxiety. While on some level I always knew and understood this to be the case, I didn’t fully put the connection together. That came in therapy, which was the second major step.

Once I explored that, along with the other ancillary reasons for why I drank – family issues, social expectations, boredom – the real need for drinking suddenly dissipated. Superficially I got it, and the image of a drinker always seemed more interesting than the non-drinker, cloaked in wit and bonhomie and the sort of cutting persona I like to, well, cut (“I drink to make other people interesting“). Beneath that, though, I had to get to the core reasons and address those in ways that didn’t involve the band-aid of booze.

The third thing that helped was an intentional removal from social situations for a while, and the support of friends, who were cool with my decision/evolution and who completely understood without question or ribbing if I stopped joining them for a bit. A few months after that, COVID arrived which put everyone in the same isolated place, and that also helped since it afforded me a break before we all started hanging out again. Everyone was changed after COVID, and my not drinking, by that time, was not very much of note.

Fourth, I began meditating. First for two minutes a day, then three, then five – gradually increasing the minutes by one per week so it didn’t feel at all onerous or daunting – and soon enough I was up to half an hour a day of pure meditation – where I sat in silent, deep breathing, allowing thoughts to come until they didn’t come anymore, and finding a baseline of peace and calm that saw me through more stressful moments. 

The last piece that I implemented was that free online Yale course on finding happiness, which filled my time and alleviated any boredom that drinking might normally fill. Any hobby or occupation would likely do – it just had to be something I could focus on to keep the mind occupied and engaged. That’s sort of the purpose of life too I suppose. Taken together, that’s why it was easy for me to simply stop drinking.

Finally, a caveat (as in, NOW a warning?): my drinking was never to the point of chemical dependence. Was I on the verge of that becoming the case? Quite possibly. But when I stopped, I didn’t have any cravings or withdrawal and my medical tests didn’t reveal any issues caused by alcohol, so I feel confident in saying in those respects I wasn’t yet a full-blown alcoholic. I just realized that drinking was no longer serving as the solution for the issues I used it to solve. I was lucky to have supportive friends, and the privilege of being in a circumstance where I could concentrate on becoming healthier.

Five years later, it’s still one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

This helpful squirrel loves to hold my nuts.

Well, mine and Andy’s. 

Something for the booty and the mind at the same time. 

Falling horse chestnuts.

Shit is real. And dangerous.

They’ll poke your eye out, just as you’re looking up.

In Ogunquit, there is a majestic horse chestnut tree right on the main drag, with a sign above that warns passers-beneath it to ‘watch for falling horse chestnuts’. I don’t think looking up is the best advice at such a time, but I get what they meant. 

Stay tuned for our brief Ogunquit recap – it was truly beautiful. 

It’s disheartening to think that our Presidential election is as close as the broken media is portraying it to be. Kamala Harris is a capable prosecutor; Donald Trump is a convicted felon. That alone should be enough. For some reason – the misinformation and willful ignorance of Americans perhaps – it’s not, so if you’re still somehow on the fence for this very important election, a few facts for your perusal:

For freedom: In his own words, Trump killed Roe v. Wade and the right of women to make their own health decisions. Under his Project 2025 blueprint, and with the help of his VP pick JD Vance, Trump will likely implement a national abortion ban, to say nothing of the risks he poses to such options as IVF. 

For your finances: Trump’s tariff plan will tank the economy and raise costs of everything even more. His tax breaks will not benefit you – you do not make nearly enough money to benefit, and neither do I. Also, to count on someone whose companies have gone bankrupt multiple times to help our economy is downright stupid. 

For border security: Trump killed the bipartisan border bill that would have protected our borders – he is not interested in border security. He also had four years as President to build that wall, and failed miserably. 

For backing the blue: Trump instigated the January 6th insurrection, resulting in police dying, our Capitol being breached and vandalized, and putting our representatives in danger. Trump wants to pardon all of those criminals. 

For patriotism: Trump has called injured and killed veterans ‘suckers’ and ‘losers’; his generals have sounded the alarm on his fascist plans; his own Vice President – Mike Pence – won’t support him, largely because Trump didn’t care that his own supporters wanted to hang him on January 6. 

For character: Trump is a convicted felon, who cheated on his third, and then-pregnant, wife with a porn star, then lied and paid money to cover it up. He lies more than anyone else on the planet, and still clings to his sad and repeatedly-disproven lie that he didn’t lose the last election. 

For safety: Hundreds of thousands of Americans died thanks to Trump’s bungling of the COVID pandemic; he thought, and said out loud, injecting bleach might help. He was given a blueprint for how to handle such an event and threw it out because it came from President Obama. We all know someone who has died from COVID, and that might have not happened if someone competent was in charge at that time. 

For competence: Trump is a fucking moron. 

If you’re still voting for him in the face of all that, you should examine why. Deep down, you know. And I have a feeling it’s not in the name of anything noble or good. 

If you haven’t educated yourself on the merits and plans and detailed vision that Kamala Harris has for our great country, read it all here. This is substance. This is serious. This is a responsible adult who cares about our country. This is the best way forward. We cannot go back. 

We teetered on the edge of 80 degrees yesterday, and it felt sickeningly like summer again when I finally took a late lunch. Once I got home, I hopped right into the pool while Andy set up the grill for one final round of hamburgers. He had had the foresight and wisdom to heat the pool to a cozy 84 degrees, so swimming in the warm water was a welcome embrace of comfort and pleasure – and not something I thought I’d get to do again this year. A bonus bout of summer coming later than it ever has before. Global warming indeed.

It also offers the ideal bit of counter-programming for our fade-to-black fall, and is a lovely little hint of the next summer to come – for there is always another summer… until there isn’t. This idyllic scene will be but a dream for the next six months, so having a last bit of joy gives Andy and I that spark of happiness to last through the coming winter. 

‘Tis the damn season.

Here’s a pumpkin. 

There’s nothing great about it. 

It’s going to be in the 70’s today.

I don’t feel like blogging. 

I don’t feel like doing much of anything. 

It’s a feeling of blah.

Of meh.

Of fuck it all. 

But enjoy this pumpkin, and your fall fun. 

Andy says there are warmer days to return soon – a little throwback to all our summer sun, and a summer I didn’t fully inhabit. Some summers get lost like that. It’s nothing worth regretting, it’s nothing worth recalling. Some things simply need to be buried. Perhaps they’ll be resurrected in a song, or a scent, or a bittersweet reminder that the brain suddenly unleashes years later. The mind works strangely, without explanation. For now, I will try to soak in the sun and get outside to see this last showing of the hydrangeas. They had such a wonderful year.

Let the dance party of one commence!

Crank this one up and give in to the boogie.

It’s midnight. We’re safe. And we made it to the weekend. 

Disco inferno time – burn baby burn!!!

They say you shouldn’t write this late at night.

This post is proof of that. 

Forget my silly nonsense – just play the song already and get down.

There now – isn’t that a little bit better? 

Did you funk out like I just did?

I’m talking about midnight.

Midnight! Come on! 

When Ryan Murphy decides to make you a star, nothing’s going to stop that from happening. Witness the celebratory two-pronged entertainment attack that is ‘Monster’ and ‘Grotesquerie’ which is currently putting an often-naked Nicholas Alexander Chavez front and center of Hollywood, which also grants him this virgin Dazzler of the Day crowning. 

Vicomte de Valmont: I often wonder how you managed to invent yourself.

Marquise de Merteuil: Well, I had no choice, did I? I’m a woman. Women are obliged to be far more skillful than men. You can ruin our reputation and our life with a few well-chosen words. So, of course, I had to invent, not only myself, but ways of escape no one has every thought of before. And I’ve succeeded because I’ve always known I was born to dominate your sex and avenge my own.

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Ever since I was a young boy, the power of femininity has been apparent to me. More than that, I knew from a very young age that women were the driving force of the world, literally giving birth to anyone and everyone who ever mattered, made a difference, and populated the world. We owed it all to the ladies. That they were the ones who traditionally wielded such femininity was only part of their power, and often merely the veil – easily discarded, impossible to ignore, and hazy in a lace-like dream. Growing up, I wanted to tap into the power of that femininity. I thought I could do it with the perfect perfume, the subtle sly smile and glint in my eye, or the delicate swirl of a tongue against a dripping, engorged cock. The foolish workings of a young boy’s mind – to think that being feminine could ever be so simple and stereotypical, so completely sexist, and birthed from an impenetrable patriarchy. I mistook poses for power, thought I could approximate control with the right stance, the right look, the right outfit, the right attitude. And somewhere deep inside I knew that wasn’t the real power of femininity. The sirens, the witches, the wardrobe – they all played their part, but there was so much more to it. Some days all I could do was dress it up…

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Marquise de Merteuil: When I came out into society, I was fifteen. I already knew that the role I was condemned to, namely to keep quiet and do what I was told, gave me the perfect opportunity to listen and observe. Not to what people told me, which naturally was of no interest, but to whatever it was they were trying to hide. I practiced detachment. I learned how to look cheerful while, under the table, I stuck a fork into the back of my hand. I became a virtuoso of deceit. It wasn’t pleasure I was after, it was knowledge. I consulted the strictest moralists to learn how to appear, philosophers to find out what to think, and novelists to see what I could get away with. And in the end, I distilled everything to one wonderfully simple principle: win or die.