Shades of lilac and lavender in a tulle puff of a strapless dress, flitting about like a cloud of fairy dust – not wholly solid, more of a wisp, a whisper, a hint of something purple in the air.
In Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’ ballet, “the Lilac Fairy is a benevolent fairy who represents wisdom and protection” and ultimately helps Sleeping Beauty find her happy ending. My own fairy’s tale doesn’t come to such joyful fruition, but a story isn’t told from the end to the beginning…
A music box whirls, tinkling bells of metal shards, sharp enough to slit a throat, slowly dying and running itself down. Crystalline winter, wrapping the sly softness and icy deadliness of snow around us, seduces with dangerous charm. We allow ourselves to be swaddled, thinking it is what we want, believing in the lie that it is what we need. We are too often willing accomplices in our own deception, in conspiring with the loveliness of a city covered in snow and ice – a city of quartz, ticking away with the tense, unrepentant measure of a time-bomb. Beauty about to explode.
Charming, someone to fear Handsome, very much here Evil, dancing through fire Whore of Babylon, world famous clear
Something to charm Danger, someone to harm Falling into the mire Climbing, higher and higher
The smoky world-ravaged voice of Marianne Faithfull, something we will never hear live again, gives ragged life to the song at hand. Recently deceased, she lasted longer than she thought she would. We never know how strong we are, or will need to be, until we go through it. And God, what she must have gone through… file it under ‘fun from the past’.
Someone to fear Handsome, very much here Evil, dancing through fire Whore of Babylon, world famous clear
This is the penultimate song of our introductory fairy-tale playlist, setting up the whimsical beginning of the Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale. How fitting to give the almost-last word to Ms. Faithfull, whose voice once gave sustenance to a lost boy. Every fairy tale is lined with darkness and danger, as though designed to prepare a child for the horrors of what will undoubtedly lie ahead.
Ivory tower Longing for something now Waiting, hour after hour Give me some of your power
Every escape can become another prison. Every chance grab at freedom another chance at confinement. Paradoxically, every prison can be conquered by the mind, and perspective is the greatest weapon anyone can ever wield. The power is in our hands.
Citadel, a prison of sorts Only the rich make the laws Using repression and force Whore of Babylon, City of Quartz
Why did this music imprint itself upon my brain at such a young age and why did I carry it with me all these years later? Imagined worlds unfurled before me – allowing for escape, allowing for survival, allowing for finding goodness in a place that wouldn’t always find me good. If I could create goodness, if I could conjure beauty, even if it was make-believe, perhaps it would be enough. Whatever gets you through being a gay kid and surviving somewhat intact.
A waltz. A walk in the forest. A whisper from my future self.
Our precious preamble to escapism continues its whimsical way with this track by Tori Amos, and featuring a gratuitous foot pic inspired by this quirky video. Fetishists have fairy tales too, sometimes more quaint than the rest of us. It has been my experience that those who dare to delve into their more devilish sides come out with stronger morals at end of it. Make of that what you will – there’s a lot of room for interpretation. The same goes for a Tori Amos song, so have at it.
Things you said that day Up on the one-oh-one The girl come undone I tried to downplay it With a bet about us You said that you’d take it As long as I could I could not erase it
And I’m so sad Like a good book I can’t put this day back A sorta fairytale with you A sorta fairytale with you
And I ride alongside you then And I rode alongside you then And I rode along side ’till you lost me there in the open road And I rode along side till the honey spread itself so thin For me to break your bread For me to take your word I had to steal it
When I stuck a letter into our mailbox for the postal worker to pick up on their later round, I had to step gingerly around large patches of rippled ice and snow; by the time I picked up the mail at the end of the day, the ground was clear of all ice and snow, just a muddy and wet space that promised of spring. A day of melting is a sign we are headed in the right direction, even if the temperatures plunge again every night. The overall trajectory is promising. It’s been a while since we’ve had such a feeling.
Let’s have a song to celebrate, part of the extended preamble for our next project posting, something that hints at the whimsy and escapism to come…
I’ll stop the world and melt with you You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time There’s nothing you and I won’t do I’ll stop the world and melt with you
To catch melting as its happening takes a different kind of magic and acute perception – most often we only notice the before and after – the act itself is always more elusive, shunning to be seen in motion, as if it might diminish the sorcery. It’s seen in the dripping of an icicle, or the sweet, sticky running of an ice cream cone; hardly ever when it comes to the heart or the malleable movements of the mind, and those are the places where melting is most important.
Dream of better lives the kind which never hate (You should see why) Trapped in the state of imaginary grace (You should know better) I made a pilgrimage to save this humans race (You should see why) Never comprehending the race had long gone by
Love and lunacy on full display in the winter sky – this is Venus making motions to kiss the moon on an early February evening. Winter has always held its enchanting delights if you know where and when to look for them. I’m not so well-informed, so this was a happy catch that I didn’t realize I made until after the fact. The Cowboy Junkies wrote a song about this scene for their album ‘Pale Sun, Crescent Moon’.
Reach a hand to the crescent moon Grab hold of the hollow If she sits in the palm of the left That moon will be fuller tomorrow If she sits in the palm of the right That moon is on the wane And the love of the one who shares your bed Will be doing just the same
‘Won’t you come with me’, she said ‘there’s plenty of room in my iron bed You’re looking cold and tired And more than a little human I know I’m not part of the life you had planned But I think once your body feels my hand Your mind will change And your heart will lose its pain’
Lunacy and love, and years past have already swirled beneath our life bridge, long carried away by currents we caused and currents we could not control. Knowing moon, winking Venus, and the power and might of a winter’s night. Whatever bit of warmth that remains from a memory, whatever sees you through the dark, these are little prayers to which we cling.
Do I reach for you When I know you’re on the wane? Do I sense you when I know you’re not around? Do I search for you When I know you can’t be found? Do I dare to speak your name?
Oh crescent moon, how we long for you to cradle us right now, lifting us up from this wretched planet if only for a night of comfort. Humans are reckless and relentless in their torment. What a lovely predicament to be as constant and removed from us as a heavenly body. Do you watch us from your lofty vantage point or are you wisely and sensibly tuned-out to all our awfulness? I wouldn’t blame you for either – I feel torn myself.
Raise your eyes to a moonless sky And try to wish upon a rising star Search all you want for her blessing But you won’t find her sparkling there Now cast your eyes to a part of the sky Where nothing but darkness unfolds And watch as all around you She reveals the brilliance of secrets untold
If I focus, and block out the noise from this crazy world of plane crashes and encroaching fascism, I can escape to the chiffon-shrouded world of Lawrence Welk, flying along on a cloud of accordion comfort, and finding momentary respite in the flight of fantasy…
Sunday night, in the dark of mid-winter, light seemingly still glowing from the snow, though I know that could never be. Moonlight, perhaps, the kind that brings out a certain wildness, that would have us dancing naked beneath its glow if it were just a smidge warmer. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
Bed, bed I couldn’t go to bed My head’s too light to try to set it down Sleep, sleep I couldn’t sleep tonight Not for all the jewels in the crown I could have danced all night I could have danced all night And still have begged for more I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things I’ve never done before
I’ll never know what made it so exciting Why all at once my heart took flight I only know when he began to dance with me I could have danced, danced, danced all night
It’s after three now Don’t you agree now? She ought to be in bed!
I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night And still have begged for more I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things I’ve never done before
If I’m up beyond three these days, it’s not from the overwrought excitement from a night of dancing – quite the opposite. My nights are more restless than usual, my sleep not unfettered from bother and worry. Middle-age, I suppose, and so far from the carefree slumber of youth. Sunday nights aren’t supposed to feel sadder the older we get, are they?
A swan’s beauty and grace is matched by its brutality in the way of survival. Power and might must be tempered with all that is exquisite; every gift of elegance must be tainted with icy indifference. Nothing is ever perfect, no entity is ever truly divine. That rarely keeps us from trying – to achieve perfection, to achieve divinity, to be something better than we are today.
I’ve said that so many times before…
This dance of the swans sets the scene for any sort of magic that I attempted to conjure twenty years ago. It’s a hint of the dance to come – a dance I hope you will join. We need to dance these days. Dancing may be the only thing to keep us from going mad.
One day, in the spring, I found a pile of gray feathers in the backyard. It looked like a morning dove had exploded, but most likely it was the quick work of a hawk or some other larger bird of prey. I don’t think a land animal could have been as vicious or fast enough to do something so devastating. Creatures of the air are more terrifying that way. Like the swans.
Music without words, emotions without expression, the riotous heart, the soothing sea, and all the feels. Evocative of the beginning of most fairy tales, when the world still seems like it might not change, when the trajectory and irrevocable journey we find ourselves on could still be something of our dreams, we begin every tale with the confusing dust of a fairy beautifully clouding our view.
A siren song sets the scene in motion, and when it’s over the trick of time – cunning and relentless and brutal – does everything it can to take the song away.
Hold onto it in your head, hold onto it in your heart, hold onto it when it feels like there is no melody left to remember. Far too often, we don’t realize when things are beginning, only when they are already in motion and hurtling along at breakneck pace. Those trains don’t stop easily, and the world will completely derail your plans if you’re not careful.
Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, Lull’d by the moonlight have all passed away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song, List while I woo thee with soft melody; Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea, Mermaids are chanting the wild Lorelei; Over the stream let vapors are borne, Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
We started the day with the Danish String Quartet, and it feels like that’s the ideal way to close the day out as well. We begin in silence and end the same way – what happens in between is mostly up to us. A scary thought burdened with responsibility, and I know that feels like a lot right now – at least, it does for me. There aren’t words or sentences powerful enough to profoundly change most of our trajectories, not in a single hour or day, often not in a single year or decade, but we nudge, we cajole, we embrace in the hope of making some small difference.
This winter already feels like an eternity of bad news and trying times. My friend Chris asked me a while back how I’m dealing with everything – like the descent of fascism in this once-great country, for frivolous example – and I told him that I was focusing on how artists and people of compassion lived during such treacherous times. In my case it would be to create a safe haven in our home, for friends and family and anyone who still believed in truth and beauty and freedom and love – and to live my life as authentically and defiantly as I’ve always lived my life. Perhaps even more-so in the face of rewinding history to a more heinous time.
We move forward, in the face of oppression and hate – unleashed and unraveled with the awful complicity of misinformed, ignorant, selfish people – and we do so while trying not to get bogged down by all that awfulness. A bit of turning a blind eye, a bit of self-preservation, a bit of fighting back – the things some of us in marginalized communities have always had to do, as we have never experienced a time when we didn’t have to do it. Maybe that’s eye-opening for privileged lucky folks, maybe it’s something they still choose not to see. My place hasn’t changed much; my armor hasn’t rusted. There is power in that, and a little bit of peace too.
Suzie introduced me to the music of the Danish String Quartet, and every winter around this time I turn to their songs to quell the wildness of the outside world and the wilderness of the heart. This past week of madness and morification, coupled with the coldest temperatures we’ve had thus far this winter, has necessitated some peace and calm and comfort. My daily meditations have provided such a haven, as has an intentional effort to remain unruffled and unbothered by all the news that tried to creep into our daily existence.
I didn’t always succeed, and there were moments when I reared into righteous and defiant anger, but I did my best to strike a balance. These are things we learn to navigate throughout our entire lives. Hopefully I haven’t neared the end of it yet. And somewhere within this interminable winter there is a flower – perhaps it is only the seed, or the desiccated, hollow stem, or the deep, frozen root – but it is there, waiting for the return of spring.
“The world may of all things bereave me, Its thorns may assail and aggrieve me, The foe may great anguish engender: My rose I will never surrender.” ~ Now Found Is The Fairest Of Roses
Outside, a blanket of white snow has kept the ground secure. Snow acts somewhat strangely as the garden’s best insulator, and surprise savior, so long as it lasts. When it falls, it casts a different spell – something mesmerizing, something meditative, something that stills time. Watching from the cozy confines of a conversation couch, I pause in my reading and survey our front yard. I remember when the twins excitedly romped through the green grass of late summer, when the first blooms of the Chinese dogwood opened their delicate sepals, when the Japanese painted fern nodded its impossibly-gorgeous fronds in a warm breeze…
The panoply of life plays out, each day like a snowflake – unique, one-of-a-kind, precious and as rare as it is common and mundane – and all the days so heartbreakingly beautiful, even the worst ones – because to have a bad day means you still understand what it is to feel things. Most of the tears we shed are out of love – love that wasn’t returned, love that was lost, love that was misguided into hurt, love that those who departed seemed to take with them – but almost always it was love propelling our sorrow. What comfort and what splendor resides in such a realization.
I don’t allow myself to feel that as much as I should.
It was the winter of 1996 when I discovered this musical gem from George Michael’s catalog, years after it had originally been released. I had just started living in Boston, and the snow had arrived earlier in the month, after my Uncle and cousins had painted the condo for the first time. We’d spent a frigid few days there, in a haze of my Uncle’s smoke and the gentle clicking and dribble of the coffee maker.
I’d say love was a magical thing I’d say love would keep us from pain Had I been there Had I been there I would promise you all of my life But to lose you would cut like a knife So I don’t dare No, I don’t dare
When they left, and I was alone in the condo that first winter, I felt the first twinges of loneliness, and there was such terror and horror in that I immediately pushed it from my mind. Knowing myself, I understood I might not survive if I gave in to that, and so I willed myself to be ok with being alone. You can do that. We like to pretend that we can’t, but it is possible. We can train ourselves to endure. I won’t, and can’t, say whether that’s right or wrong; so many things aren’t simple binary choices. And you can will yourself to be something better than you are today.
‘Cause I’ve never come close in all of these years You are the only one to stop my tears And I’m so scared I’m so scared
At the time, I didn’t entirely realize what I was doing. I understood that I was forcing myself to grow up, but it all felt like another guise, another image, another facet of a personality I hadn’t quite figured out how to reconcile. There were minutes when I seemed to watch myself go through the motions of life – stepping out of a shower into the cold air and shivering as I watched a mottled city through the steam-clouded window. Standing in the kitchen and swigging a carton of orange juice after ravenously tearing into an untoasted and undressed bagel – as I didn’t have toaster or glass or chair. So many things seemed to be missing, and somehow I felt more complete and whole at that time than in recent years. Maybe we are the most full in our youth, and with every passing year we simply lose a little bit more of ourselves.
Take me back in time, maybe I can forget Turn a different corner and we never would have met Would you care?
I don’t understand it, for you it’s a breeze Little by little, you’ve brought me to my knees Don’t you care?
I knew that I craved companionship, and for a socially-anxious introvert (try as I might to outwardly dispel it by donning the role of flamboyant extrovert) I realized my quest would prove quite difficult. That was the restlessness I felt, that was the longing. That was also the unsettling sense of confusion that piled question upon question up in my head. Rooms filled with wonder, not the kind tinged with marvel, but the sort bound with worry, and when I look back at my prior selves I grow weary with the nonsense I put us all through.
With each day, however, I learned to be a better companion to myself. I remembered when I used to walk in the woods as a boy, perfectly content to make the journey on my own. Solitude was something I once craved too. In a foreshadowing of mindfulness, I inhabited the moment, taking each hour as it came rather than planning out weeks and months and years in advance, as had been my overly-organized wont. I studied the way the sun moved through the space, the way the light ebbed and flowed during a day. I made myself the occasional dinner, realizing at an embarrassing evening with a close friend (thank God it was Alissa), and at an embarrassingly-late stage in life for such things, that I should put the pasta into the water after it started boiling, not before. It may have felt like I was merely going through the motions, but in doing so I was simultaneously living.
We lead so many lives in a single lifetime. It’s exhausting to look back at them all. Satisfying too.
No, I’ve never come close in all of these years You are the only one to stop my tears I’m so scared of this love
And if all that there is Is this fear of being used I should go back to being lonely and confused If I could, I would, I swear
