All day the temperatures had hovered in the mid-70’s, and the night brought them just a smidge lower. The air outside was somehow cozier than the air indoors, and that gives title to this post. It may be a quieter post, as that suits these gentle days. I’m glad for the reprieve – November can be so cruel and cutting when it lets loose the lower temperatures.
In the evening, the chirping of crickets is still to be heard, and I leave the attic window open as I type out these words. We will accept this weather with grateful and appreciative hearts. A bow to the universe, then, and a song for this sepia Sunday.
Such soft light for a Sunday night. Strangely out of tune with the Novembers that I remember. Maybe I’m no longer remembering well, or maybe I just want to remember November as something harsh and cutting, to make the brief respite of the holidays feel a little warmer. These are the dangers of the tricks we play on ourselves. Misremembered moments. Forgotten pockets of relief. The way the nights come quicker, but the days feel brighter in the immediate absence of the tree leaves. We will each remember this differently. Trying to find something that resonates with anyone else suddenly feels like a fool’s errand. The mind turns on itself while making the attempt.
Most people have written off the garden until next spring, but that’s a sad and premature move when there is so much more beauty to be found from now through winter. If one allows their eyes to adjust to detect the finer and more subtle gradations of texture and color, there are wonders and revelations for the more discerning eye. Case in point is this withered stand of cup plants.
While they pale in comparison to their deep green leaves and bright yellow flowers during the summer, the leaves and stalks now take on sculptural interest, rising like hooded figures, some curving and flaring like an elephant’s head and ears. The only limit to what they might be is the imagination, and I’ve always kept mine sharply and keenly active, especially when the outside world is mostly asleep.
These stalks will stand strong throughout the winter, bravely defying wind and rain and sleet and snow. The leaves will gradually be torn from them, slowly disintegrating by the time the last days of winter limp away, until it’s just the spindly spires splintering apart as spring makes her grand return.
Somewhere in memory I am swaying to this song, not quite in a solitary dance, and something more than a sorrowful trance. Alone in Boston, treading barefoot on the dim, not-quite-lit amber floorboards of my home-away-from-home, a memory within a memory forms as I recall the early days of living there by myself in the sparse unfurnished space, back before there was even a chair on which to sit. A single lamp glows warmly near the door, while the windows let in the peeping streetlights.
I was a quick wet boy Diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes Wide on my plastic toys
Then when the cops closed the fair I cut my long baby hair Stole me a dog eared map And called for you everywhere
Somewhere, lost in the realm of that hazy land where deleted blog posts go, there is another piece written for this song, something I wrote many years ago while searching and seeking and never finding some other flightless bird. The warm hues of that Boston night fade and dissolve into gray, growing colder and distant, as my gentle swaying slows, so much that the rising and falling of my chest is the only movement in the place. This song plays on the little stereo, filling the air with its melancholy melody.
Have I found you? Flightless bird, jealous, weeping Or lost you? American mouth Big bill looming
It is November again, like it was November before, like the memory of this song carries from one November into another, and then repeating, another year, another song, and still the same melody, sad and strange and sweet, and the same swaying, dance-like trance, still held by the spell, still held under the water. Wet as a boy in the rain, uncaring and laughing through his tears.
Now I’m a fat house cat Cursing my sore blunt tongue Watching the warm poison rats Curl through the wide fence cracks
Pissing on magazine photos Those fishing lures thrown in the cold and clean Blood of Christ mountain stream
I remember a night not far from November, when I had just started living at the condo, when it got dark so early and no one was quite used to it, in those dismal first afternoons after we turned the clocks back. There were dry, brown leaves beneath my feet as I neared Braddock Park – they made the only sound on such a still windless night, and there was just the one pair of feet shuffling along. As I approached the row of brownstones, I looked up at the windows that belonged to me. Dark and empty, they kept their eyes sadly closed, not bothering to blink or wink a greeting from some beloved or loving person within, and suddenly I froze mid-step. For one terrifying moment, I couldn’t face walking into the place alone, and that little survival mechanism that has always kicked in during the free-fall into despair signaled to me to back away from there, somehow knowing that if I entered at that particular time of vulnerability I might not survive. And so I listened, turning around and heading back to Copley Square, back to people and light and warmth. Even if they were strangers, it would be better than being completely alone. And after an hour or so, the impossibility of it – the impossibility of being lonely – faded and fell away, and I returned, unbothered by the darkness and emptiness, once again ok with all of it.
Have I found you? Flightless bird, brown hair bleeding Or lost you? American mouth Big bill, stuck going down
Far too often, our greatest living artists are under-appreciated and under-celebrated before their work is assessed by the judgment of time, and it’s one of the saddest things we can do to anyone. Giddily bucking that trend is the celebrated and admired work of Paul Richmond, whose commitment to his art is matched only by his commitment to making the world a better and more inclusive and welcoming place. Way back in a time when you could actually make out my abs, Paul once created this witty and whimsical take on a famous tanning ad and was good enough to make me one of his Cheesecake Boys. Since then (and long before to be honest) I’ve been a die-hard fan of his work – and of his relentless quest to turn around all the negativity of the word into something positive.
Today he is named Dazzler of the Day because he is one of our greatest artists at the height of his talent and career, still making his way in a world that doesn’t always appreciate art and social justice – but for those of us who do, Paul is a gift and an inspiration that keeps us going in the dark times. Check out his website for all his upcoming endeavors (and join in some of his drawing workshops – perhaps the best thing about Paul and his work is his willingness to bring everyone along for the ride, encouraging all artists of all abilities to simply enjoy and try out all art forms).
The forecast calls for temperatures in the mid-70’s today, which feels strange but not at all pleasant for November. The longer we can stave off the colder weather, the shorter our winter may seem. At least, I’ll hold the thought. And enjoy the leaves, and the sky, and the colors.
The maples and oaks have put on a wonderful show this year, and it’s been one that has lingered. Unlike some years when rain and wind rip it all away before it can even be seen against an elusive blue sky, this season we’ve had day after beautiful day. I’ve done my best to soak it all in before the inevitable brown and gray deluge.
Such warm temperatures echo summer days, and when I’m home during the day I will always step out at some point in the afternoon, just for a moment, to breathe in the air and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. Inhabiting the beauty of a day, especially when it’s least expected, is a key component of mindfulness – and happiness.
Friday nights ring differently when you’re 47 years old. Gone are the days of excitement over television shows, or staying up past 9 PM. Today I want for no television, and going to bed at 9 pm would be a luxury I’m rarely afforded. Instead, I sit at the desk in the attic, light a few candles, and write out these words while seeking out music that will calm and quell the worrisome heart. This song starts out with promise, but it builds into something more powerful and driving, and I’m not sure it’s what I want or need. Still, a peaceful beginning counts for something, and on a day like this maybe it’s the only peace we’ll get.
There is serenity in the attic, and now that the outside has slowly but decidedly turned slightly more inhospitable than it was in the summer months, focus returns to this calming space of our home. Here it will remain light and bright no matter how dark the winter may get.
It’s barely past 6 pm as I write this and already it’s dark out. This will only come earlier after the clocks go back. An extra hour is always appreciated, but the return to so much darkness is not as welcome. That’s when the brightness of the attic becomes integral to mental health and emotional uplift. Last winter was made bearable, if not enjoyable, by embracing and cultivating the notion of hygge in this very space, and we will light candles and hunker down in coziness to bring comfort and warmth again.
The stunning color of this Japanese maple tree is one of fall’s best finales. This glorious tree starts off as a deep maroon, and a somewhat dull maroon at that, though it provides a lovely foil to all the light green and chartreuse of early summer. (I prefer the brighter work of the Coral bark maple for early season color.) And while the latter goes up in bright canary flame, this one burns up in flaming scarlet; both are striking against a blue sky.
This fall has been especially beneficent as far as lovely skies and sunny weather goes – perfect for showing off the happy endings at work among the trees right now. Too often, fall weather is filled with rain and wind – both of which spell and early and quick demise to these scenes of beauty. This year it’s already November, and it still feels like late summer.
Even though I haven’t been talking as much about my meditation practice on the blog, it’s still happening – each and every day for twenty minutes. It usually takes place in this room, after the work day concludes, to provide a demarcation between work and home – a helpful buffer to separate the stressful from the serene. It’s important for me to maintain that line – and it helps on both fronts.
Here is where I sit and light a stick of Palo Santo, close my eyes, begin the deep breathing, and meditate. It always begins with a head full of racing thoughts and dilemmas – plans that need to be made, items that need to be accomplished, and I acknowledge each thing that comes across the mind, then let it go. Eventually the thoughts slow, and the breathing becomes the focus. Sometimes more thoughts will come – what I need to get at the store, what I need to print out for work the next day, whom I need to call or text – and once I acknowledge these thoughts they leave. By the end of the twenty minutes, my mind is clear and calm. It returns to a base level of peace and unruffled contentment, and if I was agitated or annoyed at the start of the meditation, it has invariably eliminated that. It sounds too good to be true, but it has always happened this way.
That is partly due to the fact that up until now my worries and concerns have largely been small. But even when things turn serious, meditation has proven a helpful exercise in putting things into perspective and calming me when I’m lost in the muck. It’s a common place to find myself these days.
Starring in the FX smash ‘What We Do in the Shadows’, Harvey Guillén is refreshingly breaking molds and smashing stereotypes on previously-held notions of what makes a star. As a proudly queer Mexican person of a certain size, Guillén has been turning heads and making people re-think how they categorize others – witness his recent Advocate photo shoot where he re-creates the infamous Rolling Stone cover of one Britney Spears, challenging and questioning gender roles and expectations with gorgeous wit and whimsy. For that reason and more, he is our Dazzler of the Day.
“Autumn is the season of subtractions, the Japanese art of taking more and more away to charge the few things that remain. At least four times as many classical poems are set in autumn and spring, the seasons of transition, than in summer and winter. But what that means, I realize as the years pass, is that nothing can be taken for granted; people are on alert, wide awake, ready to seize each day as a blessing because the next one can’t be counted on.” ~ Pico Iyer
The light at this time of the year may be the nicest light of all, though I suppose I say that on any particularly beautiful day. Something rings more preciously gorgeous now though, perhaps because these leaves will soon fall, and their impending loss makes them mean a little more than their spring incarnation, when others might fill the place of those that are given to the wind or some hungry rodent.
“Autumn poses the question we all have to live with: How to hold on to the things we love even though we know that we and they are dying. How to see the world as it is, yet find light within that truth.” ~ Pico Iyer
This is when the trees, and what leaves remain, burn to their final fiery finish, and the sun helps with the show, lighting it all up for one last show.
While his witty words and Boston celebrity background are what first captured my attention and adoration, his cheeky derriere-baring social media teases sealed the deal, and so it is with great pleasure that Jonathan Soroff is named Dazzler of the Day. His articles in The Improper Bostonian gave me life for all the years I lived full-time in that glorious city, and he is currently a writer and editor for Boston Magazine. His panache and flair for life personifies the most elegant and sophisticated side of Boston, and he’s managed to make his own life its own work of art.
At the start of summer, when this clematis traditionally blooms, its color is a dark violet, illuminated by the strong overhead arc of the sun during the day. This summer I fed it a weekly regimen of fertilizer, as some years it has gone neglected, but always manages to bloom. Such consistency and determination deserves rewarding. It was in the service of next year’s show, but apparently it paid some early dividends, as the clematis went into a rare fall re-bloom with our recent brush with warmer sunnier weather.
Even better than this reminder of summer is the way the afternoon sun lends a warmer aspect to the blooms, emphasizing the underlying red tones of the middle of each petal. It absolutely sets the vein-work alive with hints of magenta and fuchsia in the midst of the purple. A magical moment that could only happen in the fall.
Soup season is on, and the inaugural experiment was this basic vegetable soup, to which I added some udon noodles and soft-boiled eggs at the end. The beginning was how most soups began – with carrots, onions, and celery. For some heat, I dropped a dried guajillo chili into the pot, then some crushed red pepper flakes, salt, black pepper, and some garlic and ginger. Rounding out the vegetables were some baby boy choy, tomatoes, green beans, and peas. Boiled it gently for about 40 minutes and it was ready. Added the udon and a squeeze of fresh lemon for some bite.
This soup was to fortify and flush my body after the double-dose of the COVID and flu vaccine, and it worked. No ill effects aside from minor sore arms which lasted about a day. Peace of mind = priceless. Happy Soup Season.
This recipe, gleaned from the grandeur that is TikTok, originally had me skeptical, but after trying it out to great success, I’m posting it here in all its culinary blasphemy, and throwing caution to the Sandra Lee wind. It uses a box cake, and pumpkin, and melds the idea of a tres leches cake into its creation, so its wrong on just about every level you can think of, but the end result tastes oh-so-right. We don’t stand on kitchen ceremony here.
It’s a pumpkin tres leches cake, and you may find that it entirely replaces the need for the lackluster pumpkin pie that most people are simply over, particularly those who do the pumpkin thing out of obligation rather than genuine preference. It begins with a box of yellow or vanilla cake, mixed according to the instructions, then amended with an additional egg, a 15 oz can of pumpkin puree, and a tablespoon of pumpkin pie spice (or just some cinnamon and nutmeg – this is a forgiving thing). Bake that in a greased 9 x 13 inch pan at 350 degrees for 40 minutes. (You need not undercook to ensure a moist consistency – that comes later.)
After cooling for about 15 minutes, poke a bazillion holes in the cake (I used a fork and went up and down in neat little rows cause I’m a Virgo) and then cool another 15 minutes. In a bowl, mix 1 can sweetened and condensed milk, 1 can evaporated milk, and about 1/3 cup heavy cream and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Slowly pour this milk mixture (the tres leches of the title) onto the cake, allowing it to soak into every little hole. Cover and refrigerate overnight (or at least five hours).
Before serving, make the whipped topping, which is just 2 cups heavy cream, 1/3 cup powdered sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and 1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice. Whip that shit into the desired consistency, firm, but not butter-firm (kinda the state of my ass these days) and spread it out atop the cake (the whipped topping, not my ass).
This was an absolute hit with my family, including my niece and nephew, who have given the thumbs down to my last three cake concoctions, so it’s bound to please yours. It’s November. It’s time to consider your Thanksgiving menu.
With her sensational TikTok series ‘Days of Girlhood’, Dylan Mulvaney has been documenting her transitioning journey, giving voice and heart to her own transgender experience. With effervescent charm and beguiling grace, she disarms potential opponents with a relentlessly kind and positive enthusiasm. If this is what it means to find one’s authentic self, it’s a powerful testament to all of us finding our own true way. Mulvaney earns her first Dazzler of the Day crowning thanks to her inspiring words and earnest activism.
