And I heard that there’s a special place Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day…
In my daydreams and night-dreams, I can dance without the annoying tinge of a bothersome and aging back. I can sing without the heaviness of loss or lamentation. I can ride a pink pony into the summer dawn, bounding along shores of ocean and gliding over edges of sky. Summer is so largely imagined, so grandly envisioned. Summer… so much in my head.
I’m up and jaws are on the floor Lovers in the bathroom and a line outside the door Blacklights and a mirrored disco ball Every night’s another reason why I left it all…
God, what have you done? You’re a pink pony girl And you dance at the club Oh mama, I’m just having fun On the stage in my heels It’s where I belong down at the Pink Pony Club
All sparkle of sun and sea, all shine of dew and drops, all summer sweetness and soft sighs. A melancholic meter keeps steady time – the hollow cadence of minutes and hours droning on beneath the welcome heat of the sun, already different than it was in June, already less. And so we dance, and we keep on dancing, and the pink pony prances…
I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club I’m gonna keep on dancing down in West Hollywood I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club
Chosen by Kamala Harris to be her Vice President and running mate, Tim Walz immediately added some bite and vigor to an already enthusiastic ticket. He was an early favorite of Andy’s, thanks to his down-to-earth way of speaking and blunt way of dismissing the likes of that now-wonky Republican Party (he’s credited with coining the ‘weird’ designation of Trump and his cronies, all of whom more than live up to the billing on a daily crazy basis). Today he earns his first Dazzler of the Day, because way back in 1999 as a high school teacher and football coach, he helped form his high school’s first Gay-Straight Alliance, providing support and help for LGBTQ+ students, and a vital illustration of allyship at a time when we hadn’t even heard of the word. If a football coach had ever done that when I was in school, I can’t imagine how different things might have been.
Seeing old things from new vantage points is one of my favorite things about having friends visit. When Missy was here this summer she stayed in our guest bedroom, where we’ve kept the blinds closed to the front yard for privacy, even if we don’t spend much time there. She raised them in the morning, and when I walked in and saw the room in brighter form, it made all the difference. I didn’t realize how much light was being blocked out, even with the white and diffused format of the blinds. Such a simple change, such an unexpected realization. I’ve been keeping them open ever since, and it’s added a lightness to that end of the house that I didn’t fully fathom was missing in all this time.
More than that, I got to look outside into the front yard, and the little bit of landscaping that was there from the time we moved in – starting with this Japanese maple (please do me the courtesy of ignoring the soaker hose that remains unburied). Earlier this spring, I pruned the bejesus out of the maple, cutting out two-inch-thick limbs and opening it up to show off its wonderful branches and gorgeously-mottled bark.
A peaceful little corner, it inspires calm and contemplation – the perfect nook from which to watch summer transform into fall.
Harbinger of fall, and signifier of the end of summer, this Helianthus comes into bloom just as some of us have grown tired of summer’s happy monotony. It makes me sad to say it but I never quite got into the summer spirit of things, try as I might. I don’t remember having a stretch of hot and sunny days where I simply sat out by the pool listening to a summer playlist, idly popping into the kitchen for a BLT or some other glad food fare between swims. Of course I managed some of those moments, but not enough to bake in any lasting memories.
Maybe some summers aren’t meant to be remembered.
This Helianthus, even amid its post-rain wetness and wildly uncultivated form, is a reminder that summer still lingers – it simply burns differently in its last few weeks. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to step out and see if I can’t find a little ore summer magic.
She’s been in more movies than you probably realized, and she shape-shifts so indelibly into each role that it’s a testament to her talent that we don’t see always see her as the star she is. Catherine O’Hara earns her first Dazzler of the Day thanks to a career of perfect performances, including the upcoming reprise of her role in ‘Beetlejuice’. She was Kevin’s mother in ‘Home Alone’ and the magnificently-dramatic Moira in ‘Schitt’s Creek’ – and for all the years in-between she’s inhabited characters that were as dotty as they were endearing (see her down-to-earth turn in ‘Temple Grandin’). Throughout it all, she retains a plucky sense of humor about her business, while honing her craft with elevated skills gained through sheer survival.
We won’t be dragging our coquette theme into the next season. As Emi correctly predicted, this household has grown tired of the pink, and this fall will be a complete turnabout into a very different realm, and while I’ve been assembling ideas and images for it, not even I am quite ready for the dramatic shift about to take place. That means you’ll get to attend the tumultuous journey with me in relatively real time, which always proves messy and moody and every-once-in-a-while magnificent.
Fall came to mind this morning when I stepped out to leave a letter in the mailbox; for the first time in a few months, there was a decided chill in the air – a marked delineation separating yesterday’s mugginess from this start of something else. I thought I was ready for the turn but it still came with a jolt. As for what’s on the agenda for the beginning of the burning season, I’ll throw out just a couple of foreboding hints as to what’s coming this fall: it will not be demure, and it definitely won’t be considerate. Fasten your seatbelts…
“It was not as if I was not myself – oh no, I was myself, I was my other self, the self that wishes to carry on a secret dialogue with all that is evil in human nature. Some men do not struggle with this in themselves. They seem to have a certain grace. They are happy – or rather, they are content. They swing tennis rackets in the sunlight and get the oil checked regularly and laugh when the audience laughs. They accept limits. They are not interested in what might come up from the dark, cold hole of human possibility.” – Colin Harrison
“In my experience, men and women who have a kind of brutal fortitude have been made that by a sequence of events, until the person passes beyond a point of no return. They learn that life requires the ability to coldly stand pain of one kind or another… They will do what is necessary to survive; they will conceal and protect their vulnerabilities, except from those who cannot hurt them. Above all, they will press their advantage when it presents itself.” – Colin Harrison
When a COVID cough has me up all night, and I’m isolating in the attic, where I’ve been in solitude for the past five days, this cradle song – ‘Yurikago No Uta’ – is the only spot of solace or semi-comfort there is to be found. It’s a traditional Japanese lullaby, often sung to babies to help them sleep. Physically, I am feeling better – a slight side-effect has me in the bathroom a bit more than I’d like, but if it means I don’t die from lack of breath, it seems a fair trade-off. Still, I wasn’t expecting the plunge back into social isolation to take such an emotional toll, and I understand it’s the culmination of the weeks and months of this summer, which had me helplessly hoping that the anniversary of Dad’s death might bring about some sense of closure, some somewhat-happier-ending of that dreadful year of firsts, all the while knowing such an arbitrary deadline of grief was a fever-dream. Born out of desperation and survival and coping, it was a wish that I knew in my heart was foolish, but that same heart couldn’t do anything but hope it might prove true. When at least it came and went, and there was no real relief, no erasure of emptiness or loss, it proved a different sort of chill than when it first happened. A lonelier chill. And then I placed my finger on the root cause of the periodic crying spells that have unexpectedly cropped up at the strangest times this past week: loneliness.
Loneliness in the very real sense of being isolated and alone – when I spent my days and nights secluded in the cozy little attic room I made for our home a few years ago – a room that now functioned as bedroom, office, dining room, living room, reading room, lounging room, dressing room, every room – where largely-sleepless nights were only partly drowned out by the hum and occasional rattle of the window air conditioner, where rain would sound almost melodically on the roof right above my head and rather than sour the mood it would give me comfort because it meant maybe the rest of the world would slow and stop while I was gone instead of carrying on in cherry, sun-drenched summer fashion. A selfish notion, but sickness brings out our selfishness, as much for survival as for pettiness.
Here, in this little room, I fitfully try to sleep without any comfort of Andy beside me. Here, I sip on tea and lots of water and take the occasional meal – eating alone without a husband or companion. Here, I study the bouquet of flowers my Mom left on the front porch along with some breakfast rolls and a dessert, touched by her love and care, realizing how much a son still needs his mother, and shocked at how sad this bout of sickness has suddenly made me feel.
What a ludicrous scene I have painted: a man who will turn 49 years old in four days, weeping like a baby and listening to a cradle song, looking at the animals on the cover of the video and remembering his childhood bedroom. Is it sacrilege to wish it away if it meant a lesser sting of missing it? Is it wrong to wish any of our days away?
Well.
The folly of youth.
Or the folly of middle age… assuming this is somewhere near the middle. We never really know, do we?
My therapist told me at our last session that just about everything had aligned for me to have a mid-life crisis at this moment. I looked at her incredulously, my jaw literally dropping, then said perhaps a little testily, “Umm, when I started seeing you four years ago it was because I was having my mid-life crisis, so I thought I already did that.” She laughed a little, and I fear it’s because I thought there would only be one.
“You know,” I continued, “I survived the one and I’d rather not do it again.”
She acknowledged all the work that went into those early months of therapy, and was rather flippant and nonchalant about another one coming, when my quizzical look of concern must have registered, because she then said I shouldn’t worry about it because I was at a place where I could handle it in a healthy manner.
Huh.
That was when I gave myself a rare internal pat on the back.
It’s one thing to pretend I’m strong and great and amazing – quite another to even partly believe it on the inside.
The week was marked by a turn – a few turns in fact – the first being the turn of the sun as we veer closer to fall. The second being a turn in my health, as I came down with COVID and missed out on a wonderful wedding weekend with dear friends. And the third turn being this cup of hot matcha – the first since the chillier days of early spring, and a foreboding signal of the fall to come. This week will mark the turn of ny life from 48 to 49 (see this birthday wish list before time runs out, or this one). At such turns, perhaps its best to stand still and pause, and go through the previous week in our typical Monday recap…
Madonna celebrated her 66th birthday, and in case some of the new people aren’t aware, I still love her. So if you’re going to trash her, or say how much you used to love her but don’t anymore, put that shit on your own social media page, not any of mine. Seriously.
As for moving through the rest of the summer on a demure and mindful note, I can’t think of a better way, especially since I’ve been feeling anything but those things of late. As I write this, I am holed up in the attic with a bout of COVID, trying desperately not to give it to my husband in the likely-vain hope that my upcoming birthday might be a happy one. So let’s focus on some music with a coquette slant, like this ditty from current Femininomenon, Chappell Roan and this gorgeously-ambivalent take on coffee. (Because it’s never just coffee, and coquette is never just demure.)
Sitting in solitude in the attic, I’m having a moment of loneliness – a rare phenomenon for those of us who adore our time alone. Sometimes that makes the loneliness more searing – the sheer unfamiliarity of the feeling like a stunning shock to the system, like something doesn’t quite compute, and it’s the pain and hurt of it.
What is the lesson here? What am I supposed to glean from this suddenly-annual turn of events? I don’t know.
While most of the celebration surrounding Madonna’s birthday has to do with fun and upbeat memories, some of my most meaningful Madonna moments are those rekindled by the power of a serious song. Often lost amid the controversy and fashion are her ballads, which I am revisiting here in the dour downtime adored by this current bout with COVID. Travel with me down this gently-rocking path, where tales are told through the magic of Madonna music…
Once upon a pretty time, it was enough just to be handsome to be a Dazzler of the Day. Let’s return to those simpler days, and crown Tobias Reuter as today’s Dazzler. A male model is more than magical enough to properly dazzle. That’s all.
“It’s not enough to just replace Trump. We must do away with the cruelty and division that have defined this era, and elect leaders at every level who will build a better, more inclusive future for this country and the next generation.” – Pete Buttigieg
At the ripe age of 30, Tom Daley just announced his retirement, which only adds to his hero status in my eyes (I tried that right around the Tim I was 30 too but it went a very different way, i.e. I’m still working). He leaves on an Olympic high, having earned a silver medal at the recent Paris Games. He has nothing left to prove, so I’m eager to see where he goes next and what he might do. Olympians rarely simply stop – it’s not usually in their make-up to not be active and excelling. As for Daley, he’s got a storied career behind him, and endless possibilities ahead. Here’s a linky look back at his appearances here, and let’s say a little prayer that he’s not quite retiring the Speedo just yet.
