Category Archives: Music

The holidays linger like bad perfume
You can run, but only so far
I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave
But if it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me

Before knowing exactly how much more often I’d be traveling home these past few weeks, I’d scheduled some fortuitous Fridays off from work, as much to make use of accumulated vacation time (unused from these previous months of non-travel) as for holiday errands and deliveries. This past Friday was one such day of minor running about, as I made my way to Amsterdam to drop off some food for my parents. The timing worked out beautifully, as the new Taylor Swift album had been released the midnight prior, and there’s nothing better than listening to good music while driving on a sunny day. This particular album was perfect for a drive on the verge of winter.

Dropping off some adobo and banana bread I’d made that morning, I stayed a safe distance from Mom and Dad in the garage as we talked of family and friends, of the sun that was still shining in December, of the changed holiday plans for this strange year and season. Yet it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t sorrowful – it was actually nice. The idea of a pared-down and simple Christmas hewed closer to home, held closer to our Christmases as children. Maybe that’s part of the lesson the universe wants us to learn right now. When the pupil is ready, the teacher always appears. 

Who’ll write books about me, if I ever make it and wonder about the only soul
Who can tell which smiles I’m faking’ and the heart I know I’m breakin’ is my own
To leave the warmest bed I’ve ever known

There have been a lot of people who have tried to supplant Madonna in my heart. A couple of them were quickly and easily dismissed ~ Britney and Christina, for example. A couple were definite contenders ~ Beyonce and Lady Gaga ~ still both possible contenders given their talent and shape-shifting durability. Now, Taylor Swift is making her move with the surprise release of a second album in a single year. It’s a bold endeavor of genius and brilliance, backed up by a collection of songcraft that is just as strong and compelling as its precursor. (Madonna should take a lesson and put down the Instagram and tattoo excursions for a bit.)

Back in the summer of 2020, Swift surprised everyone with a new album, ‘folklore’, created during everyone’s lockdown, and its indie-like feel and subdued atmosphere was the summer album we didn’t know we needed. While the season began with the necessary dance extravaganza of Dua Lipa’s instantly-iconic ‘Future Nostalgia’, it was ‘folklore’ that resonated with the quiet somberness so many of us were experiencing.

Swift’s second surprise drop, the companion/continuation of ‘folklore’ titled ‘evermore’ carries on where ‘folklore’ ended, apparently a little too soon. This is its winter sister, and she may be slightly better than the original. If I had one tiny little criticism of ‘folklore’ it was that its atmosphere felt too winter-like for such a summery release and themes; ‘evermore’ confirms this opinion, for me (others may feel quite differently) and with that it succeeds on absolutely every level, with its seasonal references to November and December, decking the halls, and titles like ’tis the damn season’.

There is holiday sparkle in a song titled ‘champagne problems’ but the underlying story is a deeper and more complex one that makes these latest albums such powerful vehicles for a mature and artistically-challenging evolution. The music behind it remains the driving force of Swift’s magic, and she has once again conjured a cohesive sonic adventure, a journey of emotional fables and modern-day folklore such as in the opening ‘willow’, continuing stories with fictional (or not?) figures like ‘dorothea’ and ‘marjorie’; those story songs paint vivid portraits, while leaving enough room for varied interpretation, which is the trick to lasting art.

Swift delves into a wiser and more blunt examination of love and romance and relationships ~ more ambivalent, more unsettling, as evidenced by the heartbreaking ‘tolerate it’ or the devastating ‘happiness’ ~ both of which posit questions of how much we are willing to take, how much we might deserve, and how undeserving we might also be. The best stories ~ the ones that reflect our own ~ are not always easily reconciled with happy endings or definitive destruction. Our hearts spill messier than that, they want things that aren’t always noble, they grasp for things that might not make sense… yet they beat on, wanting what they want, destroying when they get hurt, crying out to be understood even when they know none of it makes sense.

Swift has made another prescient album, revealing our hearts at a time when an apocalyptic year comes to its welcome close, when winter is at our doorstep and darker days haunt future corridors. These are songs to see us through such desolation, a gauzy musical mood in which the heart nestles, comforted and acknowledged, even as its restlessness and longing goes unresolved. May such music see us through to the spring.

Though it resembles a street light, the warm yellow orb in the middle of this photo is actually the recent full Blue Moon we had on Halloween. It’s usually a toss-up between a full moon or Mercury in retrograde as far as which will wreak the most havoc. Knowing we were in the midst of both, I’ve been keeping quiet at those times when I’m sure I’m right, because no one seems to like someone who’s always right. If I had a Q-Rating it would most certainly not be good. Back to the moon – this Blue Moon – and a song sung by Ella Fitzgerald to warm the not-so-chilly nights we’ve had of late.

BLUE MOON YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE
WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART
WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN

BLUE MOON, YOU KNEW JUST WHAT I WAS THERE FOR
YOU HEARD ME SAYING A PRAYER FOR 
SOMEONE I REALLY COULD CARE FOR

I don’t know where or when I first heard this song, but I’ve known it forever. It’s one of those songs most people know without knowing specifically how they know it. Tom Ford used it to romantic effect in his debut masterpiece ‘A Single Man’ but I knew it long before then, and I recall it hazily from solitary nights between Boston and Brandeis, when the moon would peek out from behind the turret where my dorm room was suspended in the sky, and I’d wonder at the beauty of it, and whether we were designed to share such beauty, or simply indulge in it alone.

AND THEN THERE SUDDENLY APPEARED BEFORE ME
THE ONLY ONE MY ARMS WILL EVER HOLD
I HEARD SOMEBODY WHISPER “PLEASE ADORE ME”
AND WHEN I LOOKED, THE MOON HAD TURNED TO GOLD

BLUE MOON NOW I’M NO LONGER ALONE
WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART
WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN

These days the moon holds a different allure, a more tentative grasp on romance. It sends us into fits of lunacy more often than not, especially when it’s pulling full, and the world goes slightly mad. Careful the things you wish for, it seems to say, before rocking us again and exerting its maniacal force. Not even Friday the 13^thholds such sway. And so we eye it with trembling trepidation, respectful and somewhat in awe of its power. Blue or gold, harvest or wolf, it demands reverence, and a song.

AND THEN THERE SUDDENLY APPEARED BEFORE ME
THE ONLY ONE MY ARMS WILL EVER HOLD
I HEARD SOMEBODY WHISPER “PLEASE ADORE ME”
AND WHEN I LOOKED, THE MOON HAD TURNED TO GOLD

BLUE MOON NOW I’M NO LONGER ALONE
WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART
WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN

Only Ella Fitzgerald could conjure such a wistful and melancholic portrait of autumn, and it seems right for a rainy autumn day. Or night – this may be too moody for a daytime romp. It requires a darkness not provided by an overcast day. Thankfully, our Thanksgiving cactus is already in early bud, signaling the arrival of earlier nights.

WHEN AN EARLY AUTUMN WALKS THE LAND AND CHILLS THE BREEZE
AND TOUCHES WITH HER HAND THE SUMMER TREES,
PERHAPS YOU’LL UNDERSTAND WHAT MEMORIES I OWN.
THERE’S A DANCE PAVILION IN THE RAIN ALL SHUTTERED DOWN,

A WINDING COUNTRY LANE ALL RUSSET BROWN,
A FROSTY WINDOW PANE SHOWS ME A TOWN GROWN LONELY.
THAT SPRING OF OURS THAT STARTED SO APRIL-HEARTED,
SEEMED MADE FOR JUST A BOY AND GIRL.

I NEVER DREAMED, DID YOU, ANY FALL WOULD COME IN VIEW
SO EARLY, EARLY.
DARLING IF YOU CARE, PLEASE, LET ME KNOW,
I’LL MEET YOU ANYWHERE, I MISS YOU SO.
LET’S NEVER HAVE TO SHARE ANOTHER EARLY AUTUMN.

This song has been on repeat in these parts for its introspective vibe, and for my memories of the moment of friendship it marked in the play from which it is writ. Part of Imogen Heap’s wondrous score for the Harry Potter plays, it’s one of the most magical points in the story, not for the stagecraft wizardry at work but for the simple emotional arc it creates.

A quick little counterpoint to the action and the special effects, it reminded the audience that the most mesmerizing moments in the theater – and in life – are not the pyrotechnics and explosions, but rather the quiet little times of connection and friendship that get us through the difficult things life is constantly throwing in our way. 

That’s the stuff of magic. That’s the stuff of enchantment. 

I’m lucky to be so rich in friends and family that I don’t need the fireworks or the pizzazz – they are fine to complement and accent the tapestry of what really matters, but they are not required. Friendships sparkle with laughter and tears, love glows with glorious warmth and the heat of many years – these wonders conjure all the charms we ever needed. 

The walls back then were an unabashed bordello red. I tried tempering it with a rag-off technique, but there’s just so much one can rag off when blood red is splattered over all the plaster. It didn’t translate to most photos anyway, so for all intents and purposes it was as red as the reddest rose. The kitchen, adjacent but for an occasional curtain (at the time it was purple velvet, I believe) was a bright Kelly green. The recessed lights glowed warmly, bouncing off the shiny wooden floors and lending more visual heat in a Boston fall which grew colder and colder with each passing day. This then was the condo in the fall of 1997, a mostly uneventful pocket of time – and one that is slightly hazy for its lack of memorable events. I’d just gone around the world in the first half of the year, and now I was back in Boston a little lost and a little found. 

WE HAVE A SPECIAL NEED
TO FEEL THAT WE BELONG
COME WITH ME INSIDE
INSIDE MY VELVET ROPE

On the stereo, the new Janet Jackson CD spun its challenging music and concepts, and the title track provided the aural backdrop to a photo shoot for that year’s holiday card. The song became a fall staple, bringing me back to that cozy evening, where I made myself one of the first true martinis I ever had, as much as in service to the photo as to the desire to try something new. I didn’t do a very good job. Consulting Mr. Boston’s book of cocktails, I found the requisite ingredients (gin and dry vermouth from a recent party) but didn’t have any ice readily made, so I tried it without. (I know, I know – one, how was there a time when I didn’t have ice on hand, and two, what on earth was I thinking to make a martini without chilling it?)

Early days. Fledgling kills. Myriad mistakes.

THIS SPECIAL NEED
THAT’S WITHIN US
BRINGS OUT THE BEST
YET WORST IN US
FOLLOW THE PASSION
THAT’S WITHIN YOU
LIVING THE TRUTH
WILL SET YOU FREE

It went down my throat like fire, and I cringed. What in hell was this all about? What the fuck was wrong with James Bond? And why would anyone drink this? I set up the camera and posed, the martini would mostly be a prop that night, and I sipped a few more sips for photographic documentation. Wearing an acid green 60’s/70’s wide-collar shirt in swirls of psychedelic paisley, I had on a pair of matching tights. Yeah, tights. These shots would end up on the cutting-room floor, as the outfit wasn’t quite reading the way I wanted it to – the final holiday card would show me in a more dramatic ostrich feather robe, and a blue cocktail in hand (composed mostly of Windex and quite clearly for looks only). It was the 90’s. I was a fucking mess, but I didn’t see it then.

WE HAVE A SPECIAL NEED
TO FEEL THAT WE BELONG
COME WITH ME INSIDE
INSIDE MY VELVET ROPE

Ms. Jackson sang of the need to belong, and ‘Velvet Rope’ became one of my main songs that fall, mostly due to this single evening of solitude in the condo, continuing a tradition of fall songs that came to signal the shift in seasons, and the short path to the holidays. There was a coziness to it, and a certain dramatic flair that came with the falling leaves and the harsher winds.

Outside, Boston twinkled and glowed in the night – as my head danced with visions of those holidays to come, the friends and family I’d get to see, and a time we would be together again. This distance – of time and space – kept me feeling safe. I didn’t need the martini as anything more than a prop, and on that night I didn’t even bother to finish it. Feeling a twinge of waste as I poured it down the kitchen sink drain, I couldn’t stomach finishing it, as lovely as I suddenly felt.

PUT OTHERS DOWN
TO FILL US UP
OPPRESSING ME
WILL OPPRESS YOU
OUTSIDE LEAVE JUDGMENT
OUTSIDE LEAVE HATE
ONE LOVE’S THE ANSWER
YOU’LL FIND IN YOU

The rest of the ‘Velvet Rope’ album played out in the background as I cleaned up and gathered the rolls of film for developing. (Does anyone remember 35mm film anymore? Oh you kids – you had no idea how much work we once had to go through to get a decent image…) It ended with something called ‘Special’ – an echo of the sentiment of ‘Velvet Rope’ – and this remains one of Ms. Jackson’s under-appreciated jewels. This too became a song of that fall, and every fall afterward.

“You see, you can’t run away from your pain, because wherever you will, there you will be. You have to learn to water your spiritual garden. Then, you will be free.” ~ Janet Jackson

This is when the chill in the air starts to stick, when the vestiges of summer warmth in the ground finally release their hold. In the subways of the cities, that same warmth is suddenly a comfort you can feel leaving. It is both relief and cause for concern. After a summer when the heat was sometimes overbearing and overwhelming, a little chill was something you could embrace. Part of you knew it was wrong, that you would look back at this moment as when it all began and regret your friendliness with the first snap of cold, and part of you didn’t care because it felt inevitable. 

In many ways, October is the anti-thesis of March – it comes in like a lamb and out like a lion. A lion in costume and Halloween splendor. Some of the year’s most beautiful days can be found here, when sunlight sifts through the canary yellow leaves of the trees after a rain, and the sidewalk reflects it all in brilliance you somehow don’t see in summer or spring. It’s a beauty found only in October. 

Ropes of goldenrod drape the highways, while explosions of asters perform their shows like echoes of the Fourth of July. The light still carries some warmth, sometimes quite a bit, and the sky is likely the bluest it will be for the remainder of the year. It’s the blueness of the sky I will miss most, at least at first. 

Slowly, and then quickly, it all begins to change. The leaves go first, just a few here and there, only in the strongest gusts of wind, and then a storm will come, maybe the remnants of hurricane, and suddenly just a few added drops of water tear them all off at once. Thrilling and obscene, it’s a striptease that’s over too quickly.

Like spring. Like the cherry blossoms. 

October
And the trees are stripped bare
Of all they wear
What do I care?

Greeting October this year gives me pause, like it usually does, but I’m a bit different than I was last year. Actually, I’m probably a lot different, and so my guard is up in new ways, and down in others. Over the past year, I’ve managed to deconstruct the forty-five-year-old fortress around me, while building an inner stability and sense of self that was somehow always there, but hidden and disguised, even to my bifocal-demanding eyes. And so as October arrives, I feel both naked and fortified. It will not be like last year, or any other year. 

Goldenrod gets a bad reputation, blamed for the evils of ragweed when its own pollen is sticky and not airborne. It puts on the fiery show when it is the ragweed that is making everyone sneeze. I’ve always dreaded the arrival of goldenrod’s blooms, the way they signified school starting up again, the way they promised more people and more interactions, more stress and more worry, and more distance from the safety and sweetness of summer. 

When you get older, that shit doesn’t just arrive with the fall, or go away with the summer – it’s there always. The stresses of being grown. The perils of being an adult. And so, goldenrod has become something of a comfort, a reminder of when the worries were never quite as worrisome as my mind made them out to be. 

October
And kingdoms rise
And kingdoms fall
But you go on and on…

Yes, this year will be different, because I’ve shone a light in most of my dim corners, and driven away the shadows, mostly because they were make-believe, composed out of my own fears and perceived injustices. The ones that turned out to be real, the ones I had to confront, were dealt with and dismissed. Some proved stubborn and difficult to eradicate, and I had to work a little harder. Some are in a perpetual state of progress. 

The work is challenging, but the work is good, and in spite of all the outward appearances I have carefully orchestrated over the last forty-five years, it turns out that I enjoy working hard toward something. My hands are as happy digging in the dirt of the garden as they are swirling the whipped body cream of the Beekman Boys into each other. 

Fall is about hard work. Harvesting and preparing, stocking and baking, hunkering down and fluffing up the winter nest. October is when that process syncs and clicks. September contains more summer than fall – October finally gets to fully flower. Like the goldenrod, nodding along roadsides and forest edges, October is both showy and subdued. By the time the first hard frost arrives, it too will be laid bare.

The music of Schumann’s ‘Ghost Variations’ was supposedly sung to him in a feverish dream near the end of his life, and it comprises his last written work. In the midst of writing them he tried to drown himself in the Rhine, only to be rescued by bargemen, and a day or two later he reportedly finished the music. After that he voluntarily entered an asylum where he would die two years later.

There is something very ghostly about this music, fitting for the eve of October, fitting for the time of the year when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest and most easily penetrable. Unlike some ghost stories, this one is more soothing and consoling, resulting in calm and acceptance, a resignation to the customary line between the physical world and the spiritual world, and those elusive moments when the line is blurred or erased.

Shadows of the past are my usual ghosts. They haunt and vex my every step, and no matter how hard I have tried to shake them, their release only comes with a hard-won and well-earned understanding of why they remain. It’s best to make peace with such ghosts, to embrace the aches of the past and to gently but deliberately untie their tethers from the present. Like so many people, sometimes all they want is acknowledgement – a nod and a kind word of forgiveness or apology – and this is a perfect time of the year to do so. A winter is best spent stark and bare – it is the natural way of the world, which wants to strip everything down starting with the leaves, and leave its own mark in ice or snow until it’s ready to clothe us again.

It doesn’t happen that often, but on those years when our pool season gets cut short for whatever reason, we do our best to keep the pool heated and running until the last warm days have departed. That worked well this year, when I’ve been able to make it into the warm water at least three times since the calendar clicked to fall. It’s a welcome bonus we absolutely needed. And a happy reminder that all is not lost when it comes to little joys and last-minute reprieves. 

Having already used R.E.M.’s exquisite ‘Nightswimming’ (my favorite song of theirs) in this post, I’m going with ‘New Orleans Instrumental No. 1’ for this swim post, taken from their best album ‘Automatic for the People’. It has an end-of-summer vibe to it, mellow and slightly somber, with a certain sweetness that tempers an inherent sadness. When fall arrives, those are the vibes that come out.

The water is different now. Warmer than the air, it’s not refreshing like it was in early August and summer was at its height, but rather embracing and comforting. It wraps around the body like a gossamer blanket, barely there, but noted immediately as soon as you slip out of it. At those moments the night air is harsh and bitter, cutting into your skin with the slightest breeze. You slip back in like you would into bed on a winter morning. 

A pair of citronella candles glows and flickers. There is still the possibility of mosquitos; a couple of them found their way inside recently, seeking warmth, seeking blood. On this night, they keep their distance, adding to the eerie quiet that hangs over everything. 

It’s a quiet not found during the summer, when all sorts of insects make their noise and voice their concerns, when the aforementioned mosquito brigade buzzes and pricks, and, later, the crickets chirp their quirky song. Tonight I listen to the quiet lapping of the water on my neck and shoulders, and the occasional rustling of the fountain grass when the air moves just the slightest.

There’s something reassuring about an autumn that enters in such silence. 

BETTY, I WON’T MAKE ASSUMPTIONS
ABOUT WHY YOU SWITCHED YOUR HOMEROOM BUT
I THINK IT’S CAUSE OF.…ME
BETTY… ONE TIME I WAS RIDING ON MY SKATEBOARD
WHEN I PASSED YOUR HOUSE
IT’S LIKE I COULDN’T BREATHE

YOU HEARD THE RUMORS FROM INEZ
YOU CAN’T BELIEVE A WORD SHE SAYS
MOST TIMES, BUT THIS TIME IT WAS TRUE
THE WORST THING THAT I EVER DID
WAS WHAT I DID TO YOU

While her ‘folklore’ album was my soundtrack for summer, Taylor Swift recently released ‘Betty’ which is rather more fitting for fall, considering its high-school storyline of teen drama. It’s one of the best story songs I’ve heard in recent years ~ compelling and powerful with a few well-chosen words to convey an entire tableau of the emotional mayhem that happens when you’re only seventeen. My work pal Andy said this was his favorite song from the album and the reason for why it resonated so much was that he could relate to the guy in the song, and I can totally see it. A playboy with a heart of gold is impossible not to love, even if there’s emotional wreckage left in his wake. I can see Andy filling that role with ease. (And I was totally Inez, I admit – but this time it was true! Still am on most days.)

BUT IF I JUST SHOWED UP AT YOUR PARTY
WOULD YOU HAVE ME? WOULD YOU WANT ME?
WOULD YOU TELL ME TO GO FUCK MYSELF?
OR LEAD ME TO THE GARDEN?
IN THE GARDEN WOULD YOU TRUST ME
IF I TOLD YOU IT WAS JUST A SUMMER THING?
I’M ONLY SEVENTEEN, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING
BUT I KNOW I MISS YOU

Ahh, high school drama and trauma ~ always so heightened and extreme, and simultaneously innocuous and fleeting. How much hurt we knowingly and unknowingly inflict on those we love, those who mean the most to us. I’ve long maintained that it’s sometimes more painful to hurt someone else than to be the one who’s getting hurt. The sort of pain that transpires when you’re the one doing the hurting can haunt you far longer than the pain you get when on the receiving end, and it’s a heartache that shades and blunts all the happiness you might feel forever after. I didn’t learn that lesson until it was too late, and by then those moments had been carved permanently into my heart, and the awfulness I sometimes perpetrated became a stain on everything good I might have done.

BETTY, I KNOW WHERE IT ALL WENT WRONG
YOUR FAVORITE SONG WAS PLAYING FROM THE FAR SIDE OF THE GYM
I WAS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND
I HATE THE CROWDS, YOU KNOW THAT
PLUS, I SAW YOU DANCE WITH HIM

YOU HEARD THE RUMORS FROM INEZ
YOU CAN’T BELIEVE A WORD SHE SAYS
MOST TIMES, BUT THIS TIME IT WAS TRUE
THE WORST THING THAT I EVER DID
WAS WHAT I DID TO YOU

I have always lived in the belief of having no regrets, because we are all the sum of our history and experiences, and changing just one of those little decisions or moments might change all the work and effort we have executed in the hopes of being better. Now I’m not so sure. I think I might have done things that made that road easier, that might have healed the hurt a little faster. I would have been kinder ~ that wouldn’t have cost anything, it wouldn’t have hurt anyone, and it wouldn’t have been that difficult were it not for a cold sense of pride and perfection that steeled me against a world that wasn’t always out to get me. I would have been more open and vulnerable, allowing my heart to be broken because it would eventually ~ no matter what ~ and that might not have been the worst thing then. I would have also done better at mending those hearts I did break, instead of finding excuses to be angry and cruel, and leaving them behind.

BUT IF I JUST SHOWED UP AT YOUR PARTY
WOULD YOU HAVE ME? WOULD YOU WANT ME?
WOULD YOU TELL ME TO GO FUCK MYSELF?
OR LEAD ME TO THE GARDEN?
IN THE GARDEN WOULD YOU TRUST ME
IF I TOLD YOU IT WAS JUST A SUMMER THING?
I’M ONLY SEVENTEEN, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING, BUT I KNOW I MISS YOU

We can’t go back though. We can’t magically fix the past even if we do our best to make amends. There is grace in the effort to try, but there’s no way to do it without leaving a scar, or stirring up the muck that might have settled in the ensuing years. I’d like to think I have forgiven and been forgiven for my own mistakes and faults, but forgiveness is a messy business. Rarely completely fulfilling, it’s become more than specific closure I seek, and more about making the world a little safer and less difficult for the people in my life now. It would be easy to slip into anger and rage at the person I once was, and at those who I ended up hurting. That’s the thing about hurting people ~ the darkness feeds upon itself, multiplying while ricocheting off its own hurt and causing more hurt along the way. Collateral damage. And all that you do unto others will be done more insidiously upon yourself. You just don’t know that yet.

I WAS WALKING HOME ON BROKEN COBBLESTONES JUST THINKING OF YOU
WHEN SHE PULLED UP LIKE A FIGMENT OF MY WORST INTENTIONS
SHE SAID “JAMES, GET IN, LET’S DRIVE.”
THOSE DAYS TURNED INTO NIGHTS
SLEPT NEXT TO HER, BUT I DREAMT OF YOU ALL SUMMER LONG

We don’t always get a second chance to make things right. Especially when those transgressions occurred at the tender age of seventeen. At that time in life it feels like all you have is time, but it moves quickly, and it distracts and destroys, and before you know it you’re in your 40’s and haven’t learned a goddamned thing about how not to hurt people. Fall brings it all back, and I remember fall in Amsterdam. I remember football games and band practice and cornfields filled with crows. I remember the boy who killed himself and the girl whose heart I broke. I remember raking leaves and hating my family and wondering why I should be the one to survive. The smell of burning wood. The sting of salt in my eyes. The longing no one explained. The loneliness. My own broken wings.

What would I do if I could go back and do it all over again? What would any of us do? Would we whisper to our old selves what moves to make, what moves to avoid? Would we write notes of guidance, leaving our shadows with explicit instructions on what was about to happen? It wouldn’t make a difference, not in my world anyway. There was nothing I would have heard back then, especially if it came from my own voice.

BETTY, I’M HERE ON YOUR DOORSTEP
AND I PLANNED IT OUT FOR WEEKS NOW
BUT IT’S FINALLY SINKIN’ IN
BETTY, RIGHT NOW IS THE LAST TIME
I CAN DREAM ABOUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN
YOU SEE MY FACE AGAIN

THE ONLY THING I WANNA DO
IS MAKE IT UP TO YOU
SO I SHOWED UP AT YOUR PARTY
YEAH, I SHOWED UP AT YOUR PARTY

And so we have James, showing up at Betty’s party, all hope and promise and the possibility of redemption, like all of us trying to make up for a summer of mistakes, for a stretch of unforgivable actions, for everything we didn’t know back then. No matter what might happen afterward, in that one single moment there is grace. Solace. Healing. In the act of trying there is a humility that becomes its own balm, and the way we have to forgive ourselves.

YEAH, I SHOWED UP AT YOUR PARTY
WILL YOU HAVE ME? WILL YOU LOVE ME?
WILL YOU KISS ME ON THE PORCH IN FRONT OF ALL YOUR STUPID FRIENDS?
IF YOU KISS ME, WILL IT BE JUST LIKE I DREAMED IT?
WILL IT PATCH YOUR BROKEN WINGS?
I’M ONLY SEVENTEEN, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING
BUT I KNOW I MISS YOU

We never quite discover what Betty does ~ the song is left open in the best possible way. No one is guaranteed a happy ending. Happy endings are rare when you really think about it. We also have a somewhat skewed view of what makes a happy ending ~ is it really about battling all the illness and hurt and making it to an ancient age through years of discomfort and fatigue and pain? Isn’t a happy ending when we go out at our prime, at our most jubilant and hopeful, struck down at the height of all that we will ever be? I don’t know. Fall asks such questions in preparation for winter. I’m not quite ready to answer. Let a few hard frosts embolden our resilience.

We can try to go back and right the wrongs of the past by being better in the present and future. Those of us who have made mistakes can spend a lifetime making up for them, and maybe that makes us better people. So here we are again, standing on the doorstep of what we’re going to be in the next moment, standing on the doorstep of what we still might become.

STANDING IN YOUR CARDIGAN
KISSIN’ IN MY CAR AGAIN
STOPPED AT A STREETLIGHT
YOU KNOW I MISS YOU