Category Archives: General

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.

This naked fluorescent lighting system is just plain homophobic.

That’s all. 

It’s nice to see the warty pumpkins get their time in the proverbial sun, as these gourds and their ubiquitous popularity will attest. Way back when I was a little kid, the more perfect the pumpkin, the better, and it was always a challenge to go to some pumpkin place and find the best of the bunch. Invariably there would be a side that was obviously the one that rested on dirt, or a patch of mottled or less-than-ideal-orange that indicated some lack or excess of light or water, or some other imperfection that marred the otherwise plump and round perfection of the picture we all had of a pumpkin. It’s heartwarming to see the embrace of other forms, such as in this extravagantly bumpy specimen nestled amid a patch of ornamental cabbage that sets its coloring and texture off in gorgeous fashion. 

Halloween has come a long way since the days of flimsy plastic masks tied precariously around our heads with a bit of springy string. The perfect pumpkin has become the perfectly unique pumpkin. There’s not a better holiday to celebrate being a little different. 

Vamping while I return to the land of the office and regular responsibilities, these merry marigolds, hardly dampened by the rain, are taking the moment to do an impromptu parade and tide over those hungry for a traditional Tuesday morning blog post. This is it, peeps – indulge and enjoy! 

The vacation glow will be gone by the time you are reading this, and I’ll already be back in office-mode, trying to catch up on hundreds of e-mails and wondering precisely how many days remain until I might retire… a happy daydream to see us through any work-week nightmare.

I love an ornamental cabbage – the colors, the architecture, the design – all of it thrills the visual sense. The way they nestle a rainfall, turning it from something annoying into something amazing is one of the greatest lessons of nature. Here, they provide a moment of pause before I muster the energy to recap our holiday weekend in Ogunquit – but first, the weekly recap begins here, a bit later than usual in the day.

A happy song reprieve.

Backlit, brilliant and beautiful.

Blue mid-day moment.

Welcome to a new black parade.

The real color of fall.

A new urinal cake is always cause for celebration. 

A faithful return.

Raw and tender dogging it.

National Coming Out Day – a thing since 1988.

‘Tis autumn.

A fall bacchanal.

Basket case.

Olfactory excess.

The Fade-to-Black Fall Playlist.

Way back in the 1990’s…

Autumnal Ogunquit memories.

Wisdom in the sweetgrass.

Dazzlers of the Day included Joe Keery, Joe Locke, and Cheryl Dunye.

“In the Western tradition there is a recognized hierarchy of beings, with, of course, the human being on top—the pinnacle of evolution, the darling of Creation—and the plants at the bottom. But in Native ways of knowing, human people are often referred to as “the younger brothers of Creation.” We say that humans have the least experience with how to live and thus the most to learn—we must look to our teachers among the other species for guidance. Their wisdom is apparent in the way that they live. They teach us by example. They’ve been on the earth far longer than we have been, and have had time to figure things out.”

“Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren’t looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground. It belonged to itself; it was a gift, not a commodity, so it could never be bought or sold. These are the meanings people took with them when they were forced from their ancient homelands to new places.”

~ Robin Wall Kimmerer, ‘Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants’

It was the 90’s, and we took photos like we were in ‘Interview’ magazine. In the attic of my childhood home, we survived the stultifyingly boring summer with photo shoots and lazy lounging while music played and someone made the two-flight trip down for more chips. We lived vicariously through videotapes, and magazines, and CDs – all relatively obsolete these days – and it was enough. We yearned and hoped and made ourselves into something better than we were before – with the sort of work and imagination that once was required. We tried harder then, back before such entertainments and passings of time came at the tap of a finger on a phone. 

People could sit still then, and simply be. We talked. We engaged. We read and laughed and made the moment mean something. We didn’t shut down by shutting out the world outside of our ridiculous phone screen. Now I’m sounding old, when I enjoy the phone as much as the next person. Maybe I just miss those 90’s days, when life seemed simpler, the way it always does in our younger years. 

Fall and all its requisite splendors are in effect as these gourds spill out from baskets at the local nursery. I’ve always appreciated a good ornamental gourd or ninety, and here they all are in abundance and beauty. When the flowers have faded, it becomes about the gourds.

They set a cozy scene, and hint at holiday dinners to come. 

Yes, I went ahead and said the ‘H’ word.

Holiday! Celebration! Come together in every nation!

A small collection of pictures to celebrate the bounty and beauty of the dogwood fruit show this year. 

That’s all, and that’s enough. 

“I wore black because I liked it. I still do and wearing it still means something to me. It’s still my symbol of rebellion – against a stagnant status quo, against our hypocritical houses of God, against people whose minds are closed to others’ ideas.” – Johnny Cash

Most of my fashion choices up until this fall have been bold and colorful. The older I get, the more muted my fashion palette has become – and these days I’m employing a mostly-black wardrobe. It’s classic, it’s powerful, it’s simple, and it’s magical. It also puts what you do on full display, rather than what you wear. It says something serious at a time when the majority of the world has become a sick joke. 

“Black is modest and arrogant at the same time. Black is lazy and easy – but mysterious. But above all, black says this: I don’t bother you – don’t bother me.” – Yohji Yamamoto

The Japanese coral bark maple provides a year-long focal point of interest, as seen in this moment’s brilliant golden foliage. Its spring show focuses mainly on chartreuse leaves, summer deepens into a darker green, and winter reveals the red bark befitting its namesake. I think I like the spring show the best, but fall is a very close second. 

The leaves take on a tenderness now that is also part of their appeal – very soon they will drop, plucked by wind or rain or the simple end of this part of their journey. They will flutter down and join the earth again, rotting and decaying and transforming into nourishment and aid for another season of leaves. Tenderness and comfort and reassurance – the very building blocks of fall, and just enough to get us through the winter.

October’s bright and balmy weather came through this past week, while matters of reconciling the past and turning this fall into a reckoning continued in earnest. It ended with a meditation, which is the very best way to end something – and a very good way to start as well. Before that though, our weekly recap collection…

A neon ghost, to barely kick off the spooky season.

A dark October entry.

This is gay culture.

A journal entry and photograph from 1994 (three decades ago to the week).

The business of being busy.

The pantry. 

Hints of fall coming to fruition.

Monster. Dick. Evil.

Costly revelations.

Balls of a dog.

Something Madgical.

A moody Friday night.

A Madonna Timeline brought us back to the early 90’s.

A little rainbow reprieve.

A silver lining of social anxiety.

A treacherous triumvirate.

Shawn Mendes is into the pickle.

That rough and tough meditation. 

The fruit of the dogwood tree is having a moment. Usually, I miss these in-between colors, echoing the palette of the tomatoes earlier in the season. These are much less palatable to taste, however, and their texture leaves much to be desired. 

Nature likes her cheeky echoes – these are reminiscent of more than tomatoes.

Winkety-wink.

When Suzie and I last visited Vermont, it was still summer – and the 80-degree day backed that up. Still, there were signs of fall on the move, as seen in these photos, capturing one of the first trees to start their transformation. Andy says this looks to be a banner year for fall foliage thanks to a hot, and lately dry, summer. I don’t know how all that chlorophyll magic works, I only know that I appreciate its prettiness. 

A SONG FOR AUTUMN

By Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

Whenever I doubt whether something greater is at work, I think of this kind of beauty, and gain an appreciation for simply being a small part of it. 

In a nutshell.

I feel seen.

And ‘The Golden Girls’ continue to guide every day.