We don’t want to say goodbye to this year’s Christmas tree, which in Andy’s opinion (and I share it) was one of our most beautiful. It still smells lovely – a fresh, lush, balsam beauty that rivals any cologne I could ever wear. Taking off its accessories and sending it back into the cold is always a sad exercise for Andy – and I share in that sadness as well. So let us have some music to lift and buoy the Friday night spirits – a suite for flute and jazz piano trio by Claude Bolling.
This has been on every winter’s playlist for as long as I can remember, coming when the post-holiday blues are beginning to settle in, when the days are dark and the nights are long, and that wind is cruel and cutting. The time when summer feels as distant as it can be, because it actually is, and instead of being even cautiously optimistic, you give in to despair and try to sleep it all away.
Before you set yourself to slumber, take a moment to listen to this fun rollercoaster ride of effervescent and occasionally melancholy music – idea for a winter’s night.
The immaculately-talented singer Linda Eder first cast her spell on me when I saw her in ‘Jekyll & Hyde’ on Broadway. Since then I’ve been a fan, catching her live on occasion and thrilling at how she performs a song. This one has changed and come to mean different things over the years. I won’t bore you with what it means to me now – take it in and make it your own story.
Even now…I remember all the empty spaces You filled with love Even now…Every corner of the world we shared Is still filled with love Even now…not a day goes by When I don’t ache for you Through my tears I still hear your laughter even now
Even now…you are in my dreams and in my dreams You always will be Even now…You’re the one true thing that brings my heart Back home to me When I’m scared…I can close my eyes You are there…Ever young And somehow, I can always find you even now
Even now…you are in my dreams and in my dreams You always will be Even now…You’re the one true thing that brings my heart Back home here to me Even now…in my darkest night Still you shine silver light So I fall through forever with you even now
Like Bon Jovi, Roxette played a bigger part in the musical soundtrack of my youth than I realized. This one takes me back to regaling classmates to a study hall in the library. Nobody knew where any of us would end up – hell, some of us weren’t sure we’d make it out of study hall alive, much less high school itself. I never doubted the latter, and something in me knew that peaking in high school was an easy power-grab for lasting misery later in life. Perhaps that’s what made it bearable when it sucked.
In a time Where the sun descends alone I ran a long, long way from home To find a heart that’s made of stone
I will try I just need a little time To get your face right out of my mind To see the world through different eyes
This morning’s flower post put me in a floral state of mind, so here’s another nod to the theme, populated by photos from a recent trip to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Back in high school I had to hide my love for flowers and plants, like I had to hide so many other things – the essence of me, hidden and tamped down in the service of survival.
Every time I see you, oh, I try to hide away But when we meet, it seems I can’t let go Every time you leave the room I feel I’m fading like a flower
Tell me why When I scream, there’s no reply When I reach out, there’s nothing to find When I sleep, I break down and cry (cry), yeah
Every time I see you, oh, I try to hide away But when we meet, it seems I can’t let go (can’t let go) Every time you leave the room I feel I’m fading like a flower
One of my “fans” recently complained that I post too many flower stories. She then tried to explain that she didn’t even read my blog but one of her “side-pieces” had reported to her that it was all flowers and hot men so she didn’t need to bother. One of my mainstay favorite parts of this blog over the years has been the unsolicited complaint, usually proffered from someone who says they don’t actually read it but hears about what I write. While my use of the word ‘favorite’ is somewhat steeped in sarcasm, it genuinely doesn’t bother me. In truth, it has actually been a source of amusement and pride in still ruffling feathers enough to merit comment or criticism twenty-plus years into this adventure.
There is also something flawed in anyone who dismisses the power inherent in the beauty and ephemeral grace of a flower. It speaks to a lack of development of true power and appreciation, as does attempting to bring down anything that doesn’t directly speak to one’s own preferences.
There’s glitter on the floor after the party Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor You and me from the night before, but
Don’t read the last page But I stay when you’re lost, and I’m scared, and you’re turning away I want your midnights But I’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year’s Day
Rumors of ‘Reputation (Taylor’s Version)’ being the next Taylor Swift release, as well as the date of this post being in effect for a few more hours, ‘New Year’s Day‘ feels like the fitting end for this first day of the new year. It sounds like something from the ‘folklore‘ or ‘evermore‘ sessions, and I love it for that – some of the lyrics hint at what was to come – foreshadowing at its finest.
You squeeze my hand three times in the back of the taxi I can tell that it’s gonna be a long road I’ll be there if you’re the toast of the town, babe Or if you strike out and you’re crawling home
Don’t read the last page But I stay when it’s hard, or it’s wrong, or we’re making mistakes I want your midnights But I’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year’s Day
Hold on to the memories They will hold on to you Hold on to the memories They will hold on to you Hold on to the memories They will hold on to you And I will hold on to you
Will this year bring the soft sentiment of this song, or will it be more of a ‘Reputation’ snake-fest? Only time will tell – and time always tells. Whether or not we are here for the telling is the only question. The new year is quietly dramatic like that – perhaps we use all the bombast and confetti to disguise the trauma of such a turn in time. {Clink your champagne flutes here.}
Please don’t ever become a stranger Whose laugh I could recognize anywhere Please don’t ever become a stranger Whose laugh I could recognize anywhere
There’s glitter on the floor after the party Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor You and me, forevermore
A time of promise and trepidation, and a whole new year laid out before us. If it was already written out, if the plans were there in the stars or already downloaded to destiny, would you look ahead to see what happens? Or would you let it all unfurl without trying to change or make it better?
Don’t read the last page But I stay when it’s hard, or it’s wrong, or we’re making mistakes I want your midnights But I’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year’s Day
Hold on to the memories They will hold on to you Hold on to the memories They will hold on to you Hold on to the memories They will hold on to you And I will hold on to you
The voiceovers come toward the final second of her breathtaking 1991 documentary (and in large part the birth of reality television to come) ‘Truth or Dare‘ – Madonna’s various entourage members are giving various snippets of commentary on her admittedly zany life, while she pads around her hotel room, alone and isolated, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper. So many people talking about her, while she is in such quiet and solitude. Say all the hateful words you want, it still rings of loneliness and power.
Everything is subject to her approval or disapproval.
Everything has to do with what she wants, what she doesn’t want, how it should look, where it should go, what it should be. It’s very tense. She’s unhappy a lot of the time. She’s a bitch sometimes.
Madonna can be mean, if she wants to. We all can. I love it when she’s mean.
She hasn’t been a bitch to me, I don’t think.
She knows what she’s doing. She knows how to work. That’s probably why she’s such a big star.
I feel like she’s a little girl lost in a storm sometimes. There’s just like a whole whirlwind of things going on around her and sometimes she gets caught up in it.
I think of this scene often, especially when life starts feeling overwhelming. How little credit we give the entertainers, the tricksters, the people who make life worth talking about. How quickly we condemn and heap hate on them for doing the only things they know how to do. And how much we love building people up to tear them down. It’s exasperating – the way the start of the holiday season often feels. When that happens, I pause and play the one song that never fails to lift me up.
Cue the music, cue the snapping, and strike a pose.
There was a musical accompaniment to go along with the ‘shades of gray’ project from 2004 – and as we re-explore that written work, I offer the following playlist as recommended listening for when you go through these vignettes. It’s largely contemplative instrumentals, but there are some traditional pop songs as well. The latter selections are lyrical wonders, echoing the spare power of carefully-chosen words. All serve to evoke an air of
Dinner at eight was okay
Before the toast full of gleams
It was great until those old magazines
Got us started up again
Actually it was probably me again
Why is it so that I’ve always been the one who must go
That I’ve always been the one told to flee
When it fact you were the one long ago
Actually in the drifting white snow
You left me
A centerpiece would have to be ‘Dinner at Eight’ by Rufus Wainwright, which features an exquisite piano treatise on love, family, and the eventual need to find acceptance and move on; as evidenced by the lyrics running throughout this post, it’s as poignant and powerful as it is sorrowful and resigned – a gorgeous mess of emotion set to glorious song. The following songs follow suit – give them a listen as you revisit this project from two long decades ago…
We’re a little over halfway through presenting ‘shades of gray’ already, so there is some more to come, and just around the Thanksgiving holiday – the way that life’s little fuck-overs often come at the worst possible time. We don’t choose these things – they choose us, or something like that. I’m out of banal platitudes and all the rest of it.
I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser Midnights become my afternoons When my depression works the graveyard shift All of the people I’ve ghosted stand there in the room…
My 8th grade class at Wilbur H. Lynch Middle School in Amsterdam, New York had the usual cast of teenage characters – football players, cheerleaders, band members, slack-offs, fuck-ups, nerds, jocks, beauty queens, drama kids – the typical coterie of children masquerading as adults, just beginning to find our way and carve out identities of who we might be. Despite our varied interests and the panoply of society under one roof, we lacked one essential ingredient: a villain. Because of that, and despite the usual drama of teenage angst and budding hormonal avalanches, school was a rather dull and boring affair.
It was up to the one person with the flair for the dramatic and diabolical to set things into some semblance of half-interesting motion – and I was the only one wiling to do it. Did I sacrifice a certain mainstream popularity to do it? Perhaps. Did I throw away my chance at being voted Best Dressed Man when high school rolled around and those designations were really just votes on who was well-liked? Probably. Did I sink my teeth into the role with the relish and zeal of someone desperate for something – anything – to shake up the dull hallways of that school and wreak havoc with friendship circles? Better than anyone else.
I should not be left to my own devices They come with prices and vices I end up in crisis (tale as old as time) I wake up screaming from dreaming One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving ‘Cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me At tea time, everybody agrees I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Looking back, it was all so much silliness, but at the time how malevolent it seemed – and how terribly was it taken. I watched the maneuverings of the girls in my class, how they wrote notes to one another, passing them back and forth when the teacher’s back was turned. I saw their friendship circles and noticed the whispers they would adopt in favor of some and against certain others. I was a master at appearing uninterested and uninvolved, while all the time not one single side-eye or shifty gaze escaped my notice. I was also adept at sneaking these notes out of their bags when they weren’t looking, and reading what they wrote about everyone else.
It was a glimpse into a secret world I would later access through more benign means – at that time it was a brutal violation of their privacy, but what cares a villain for such codes of honor and simple human decency? Nothing would jolt our narrative or change the dull doldrums of Amsterdam unless I did it. And so I hatched my simple plan, stealing the notes of my classmates and putting them into the hands of the very people they were maligning. Words never meant for certain people were deposited by me as the secret villain – and I left a trail of hurt feelings, betrayal, and distrust in my undetected wake. Supposed friends turned against supposed friends, wondering at first how things came to unintended light, struggling to repair wounds, holding on to not being hated. In the justifications that I conjured as I gave myself over to such darkness, I reasoned that they had a right to know what others were saying, that truth and transparency were better than polite deceit and tolerance. In reality, I think I just wanted to fuck things up. Out of boredom, out of wanting to be part of something, out of sheer mean delight.
Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby And I’m a monster on the hill Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city Pierced through the heart, but never killed
Eventually I revealed myself as the perpetrator – and then the real fun began. When I managed to procure an especially juicy note, I held it over the writer as a form of power and persuasion. My reputation was earned and burned and sealed in stone right then and there – and though there would be redemptive movements and saving graces, I’d take that villainous persona with me wherever I went – even when I tried to kill it. Like most villains, my path would always and only end with my own internal consumption.
Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism Like some kind of congressman? (Tale as old as time) I wake up screaming from dreaming One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving And life will lose all its meaning (For the last time)
It’s been a long time since I felt that way, however, and the image of a villain has remained latent and silent all these years. Only when faced with certain pain and childish acting-out have I thought about revisiting such merry mayhem. Villainy has its benefits, foremost among them a freedom that comes only when you’ve given up all the fucks and are ready to let the world find out. Am I reveling in such an idea? Absolutely. It’s time I once again had some of the fun that everyone else has been having. Will I get called out on it? Unlike the others, of course I will. That’s the way it goes (see previous reference to having no more fucks to give). There will come a time when all grievances come to light, and while I won’t dare to judge anyone for it, the truth has always spoken louder than anything I could ever shout. When put down in words, the most atrocious acts are suddenly contained, and often that mere capturing of them somehow lessens their atrociousness. Or so the justification for villainy goes…
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me (I’m the problem, it’s me) At tea time, everybody agrees I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Music on the wind, swooping in, nestled among fantastical feathers. Color seen through the darkness, impossibly bright, and glowing brighter as the breeze nudges us toward midnight. The veil grows thinner, and this is when it’s easiest to fly between worlds. Sometimes we want so badly to escape this one. Fly, my pretties, fly…
Know, know too well Know the chill Know she breaks My Siren No teenage flesh Know that she’ll Know she breaks My Siren
It was winter in Boston. Late 1990’s. Snow was there, and snow was melting. There was water in the air, ice on the wind, and witches seem to like when the weather gets hazy that way. Water as smoke, water as fog, water in the winter thaw. On the molecular level, water moves mountains, cracking stone and splitting rocks. It sparkles and stuns, like a gown you will only wear once.
I moved through that winter, I moved through that snow.
I moved through that spring, I moved through that grass.
I moved through that summer, I moved through those moons.
There were witches to guide me, witches to right me, witches to pick me up when I fell or simply gave out.
They rode on the night, gliding through folds of blackness, showing me the way through the stars.
Now I know that you know I Never was one for a prissy girl Coquette, call in for an ambulance Reach high, doesn’t mean she’s holy Just means she’s got a cellular handy Almost brave, almost pregnant Almost, ya know, in love
Then I arrived at fall.
Fall with her fiery splendor, fall with her flaming finale, fall before she shed herself into winter.
Fall with her welcoming arms, open like a freshly-dug grave site, earth so deep it’s still wet – like where we all began…
Fall brought me here, through all the years – the moons and suns and days and nights – brought me to where I would finally take flight. Spurred on by the Siren, imaginary exoskeleton fluttering and protruding from my back, lifting and placing me on the wind, I learned to fly when they first let me fall.
“Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.” ~ Washington Irving
A companion playlist to our Fade-to-Black listening experience for this fall, here is a bewitching collection of songs to add an element of witchcraft and magic to this most terribly enchanting of days. All sung by women, they are a siren call for my heart – strange twist in the mind of a gay man – and maybe that’s why I’ve always been more drawn to women when it comes to what counts. Give them a listen if you’d like, though I take no responsibility for any spells that may be cast upon your fancy.
Some call her sister of the moon Some say, illusions are her game They like to wrap her in velvet Does anyone, ooh, know her name?
A holding place for magic, then.
A sacred circle of sorts.
Some say ‘witch‘ like it’s a bad thing, the same way they say ‘bitch’, and the same way they mean it. Casting a spell of words is a dangerous ritual, and how quickly we throw them out. Ropes of words, magical lassoes – as if anything could truly force a person to tell the truth. Where does such a magic land exist?
Rings of fire once populated these flaming autumn days; rings of cock twirled and spun their circles of burn too. Lace of florals, fabrics of sheer, and the power of pretty – it all seems so flimsy, so easily torn. Satin sheets of leopard seemed very romantic as a wise woman wondered what happened when we weren’t in bed. That same sense of female empowerment comes across in the bop and beat of this Chappell Roan song, and female empowerment is about the only hope that seems to exist in these dark days.
You know what they say: Never waste a Friday night on a first date But there I was, in my heels with my hair straight And so I take him to this bar – this man wouldn’t dance He didn’t ask a single question And he was wearing these fugly jeans It doesn’t matter though He doesn’t have what it takes to be with a girl like me
Some songs remind you of what you needed to be all those years ago, and if you stomp through today with a little extra casual cruelty, the piercing punctures of stilettos piercing hearts that didn’t quite deserve it, more power to you. A riveting thread runs from Madonna through Lady Gaga all the way to this pulsating pussy-power anthem – and self-empowerment lifts everyone, regardless of gender labels and limitations.
Years ago, long before Andy, and somewhere after yet another failed romance, some hyper mega bummer boy, I remember walking through Copley Square on a windy, sunny, and somehow still-cutting day, blaring the bridge of Madonna’s ‘Express Yourself’ and pounding the pavement with purposeful strides, “And when you’re gone he might regret it, think about the love he once had…” My heart was as hurt as it was hellbent on hurting whomever was next.
I’m not proud of all the collateral damage that I left in my wake, and all the pain that begot more pain. All I cared about was that my coat billowed beautifully behind me, that I could walk fabulously forward without looking back, and that I would do the dancing and the trouncing and the pummeling on hearts that inadvertently crossed my dangerous and ridiculously dramatic path.
Get up off your feet, get up on that bar Walk that walk from Tokyo to New York With everything you feel and everything you are Walk that walk, flash the camera Flash the camera, flash the camera, you’re a star!
Perhaps this false confidence was a major misstep, and I’m not averse to acknowledging the many flaws in the way I executed portions of the past. Perhaps my strut was a mask; perhaps it was the key element to my survival. Perhaps it was the only thing that kept me in existence. Whatever the case, it got me through – or maybe I got through in spite of it all. I still revere the power of a pop song, and the song of a siren who is thoroughly sick of the fucked-up patriarchy that has informed centuries of who we are.
A super graphic ultra modern Ooh you got me la-la-la-ing Hyper-sexy top to bottom girl like me.
Stevie Nicks is about to provide the bulk of the soundtrack for our October listening list (coming up shortly, since we just released the Fade-to-Black Fall Playlist). I hear her siren’s call, drawn to the sweet music, and the spicy scent of pine warmed by the afternoon sun in our little side-yard, and I try to join in the dance. It’s there in the wind. It’s there in a falling leaf. It’s there in the soft and sticky brush of pine needles.
I’m tired I’m thirsty I’m wild-eyed In my misery
Timeless in your finery It’s a high price For your luxury
In times of doubt and uncertainty, I find it best to reconnect with nature. Sitting in the soft blanket comprised of leaves and moss, the earth embraces all of us if we let it. There is healing in that embrace, and in the music of a woman who has seen more than most of us. She knows our secrets. She knows a way out. She knows.
Sorcerer Who is the master A man and woman on a star stream In the middle of a snow dream Sorcerer Show me the high life Come over Let me put you on ice
The wisdom unseen by men, the wisdom gleaned by women, and the wisdom discerned by those somewhere in between or beyond such limited labels is the wisdom of the ages. It changes with the passing of time, something we as humans don’t always want to admit or acknowledge, because that might require a change in our own beliefs. We don’t usually like to change our beliefs – it’s messy and makes us uneasy – but if you learn how to do that, you learn a bit of magic that will unlock hidden doors for as long as you keep your mind open. It’s the kind of magic that lights the darkest black ink nights…
All around black ink darkness And who found lady from the mountains All around black ink darkness And who found lady from the mountains Lady from the mountains
Lately I’ve felt the downward pull of time and age – two of many things over which a person has little to no control. Time and age – the sorcerer and the sorceress that lord their ways over us all.
Our fall playlist is finally being posted here – a little late perhaps, but I hope you find it worth the wait. It begins with songs that inspired the ‘Fade-to-Black’ theme, segues into a rollicking femininomenon section with a couple of disco moments, and brings us all back to black in the end. Click and listen, preferably in the order in which they appear. (Apologies, I’m an anal-retentive Virgo after all.)
