Buying myself some time before I write out the Boston posts from my most recent visit, this blog entry is an exercise in vamping before the reveal, not that there is anything to be revealed other than some anniversary planning, and the dream that is Boston when spring finally arrives. 

I’m lost in a world of make-believe dreams
But make-believe dreams won’t do
My heart is crying for a love that’s real
Like the love that I feel for you

I try to believe in make-believe dreams
But, make-believe dreams can’t be
Just like a clown, I’m laughing through all my tears
And hoping nobody laughs at me

Spring has been dream-like so far, and I’ve been maintaining a relatively calm baseline thanks to daily meditations and an intention to deliberately be mindful. During this period of Mercury in retrograde, I’m trying to act like the stone on the bottom of the river bed: being still and chill with the rushing of water and plants and fish all around me. 

I count a million sheep, but can’t go to sleep
My mind is in a trance
Thinking, does it pay to keep a dream that makes me weep
When maybe there’s half a chance that you are

That sounds simple but it’s not. I’ve been trying to be the river bed stone for a number of years, and it feels like I’m just stepping into the water. Bothered by its hurry and messiness, scared of what might be churning beneath its surface, and unable to simply give myself over to being part of its cycle, I still find it challenging to let go – of so many things. But the important thing is just to keep trying, keep stepping into the water, keep letting myself sink down into the perfect state of imperfection. 

Lost in a world of make-believe dreams
And make-believe dreams haunt you
Then we could put all our dreams together, all our lives
And make your make-believe dreams come true

When I think back to five years ago, in those weeks and days leading up to COVID and the way it completely changed the world almost overnight, I forget how mundane and normal everything seemed until right before it wasn’t. I look at this recap of posts in the week before the world shut down, and I marvel at the plans we all once made. 

Then I look at the blog posts from the week that it all happened, canceling two shows I was scheduled to attend in New York and a couple of other big events we had planned, and I marvel at how nonchalant we all seemed to be. 

Then I look at the first week of blog posts after the world stopped, and still I don’t think we fathomed what was happening, or what had happened. The grip of fear was upon us, and in so many ways we simply felt paralyzed and helpless. 

It’s interesting to look back at that stretch of weeks, and the way they moved into months, and now years. 

Has the world learned anything?

The last time I was in Boston was in December, for our usual year-ending holiday escapades. I used to spend a few winter weekends cozily ensconced in the condo, but this year I’ve been away for the majority of the slumbering season. Kira has gone off the grid again and I’ve been in hibernation mode with Andy, so I’ve missed out on a Boston winter. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, as walking in winter is not usually a comfort – still, there is a certain magic to being holed up in our brownstone while a snowstorm rages outside. 

Alas, winter has come and gone without a Boston visit, and so my return this past weekend was met with the excitement of returning to an old friend – along with the realization of how long it has been, starting with the Christmas decorations that were still up. More on that drudgery later, when the proper write-up gets posted. For now, just a teaser of witch hazel…

… and a paint job that reminds me of a watermelon. Whispers of summer come too soon. In no way do I wish to rush through this spring. Or this year. 

Be present.

Be mindful.

Be entirely in the moment. 

With the savings of an hour of daylight comes the eventual expenditure and recompense of said hour. On these mornings, it is dark when I rise – a drawback of the longer days this early in the season. When I’m working from home I have been lighting a candle until the daylight turns all the way on. It’s a small source of comfort when the mornings are still so cold and dark. 

It also reminds me that I need to restock these simple tapers for our homage to ‘Babette’s Feast’ – the upcoming dinner that Suzie (and in much smaller part me) are attempting to put on this coming weekend. It’s been re-titled ‘Suzette’s Feast’ and I’ll be trying my first effort at baking Rugbrød – a Danish rye bread – for the occasion. Unless I run out of steam, a distinct possibility. It’s only Tuesday, but Mercury is in retrograde emotion and all bets are off. Not that any bets were ever on – I’m not a betting man. 

MAGA is the worst thing to happen to this country in my lifetime. 

There, I said it. Not saying it and trying to accept and embrace people who are filled with hate, or support a dictator who is filled with hate, is just not going to help anything, so it’s time to stop that nonsense. That so many people have taken leave of reason, sense, sanity, facts, science, and basic human decency in the name of a convicted felon is one of the sadder aspects of our country right now. 

Get well soon, America. And I hope it’s not too late.

PS – Literally everything is way more expensive now than it was a few months ago, and don’t bother looking at your 401k. But at least we got plastic straws. 

The pink daffodil is an exquisite creature. This was the only variety of daffodil I ever planted with any lasting success, at the foot of a woodland path at my childhood home. They lasted for years there, consistently putting on their enchanting show every spring. Hybridizers have come a long way since then, as most of the color I remember in the cups was salmon or peach – there are not distinctly pink versions. This one falls somewhere in-between, and it was a forced pot in the local market. Still magical… on with the weekly recap. 

In the waning light of winter.

Bad Bunny bulging in his Calvins.

The Albany woman who mooned the men.

Tom Daley in skimpy attire.

Playing Block Blast is an emotional minefield. 

The last sky of this winter.

Touching grass.

A dream too much alone.

The dream of spring begins.

Dream a little dream.

Life could be a dream.

A pose that’s lasted 35 years.

Sometimes when I’m washing windows I hear this voice. 

We are not doing this shit again. 

A sugar plum ballerina guided us along the next installment of The Divine Diva Tour: A Fairy’s Tale. Twenty years ago felt so precarious at the time, but it was nothing compared to today. 

The first Sunday of spring.

A very dangerous book indeed.

Primordial reflections.

Our pool, closed since last fall, has begun to show signs of life. It’s shifted from shades of gray and black to blue and green – vaguely echoing what might have been the primordial ooze of the birth of the planet. Algae appears and begins its bloom – green cels divide and expand, inspiring other organisms to follow in their wake – life nudging life into life again after a sleepy winter. Soon the insects and bugs will be gliding across the surface of the water, while others will be twisting and turning in the shadows below that surface. 

On the afternoon these photos were taken, the wind and therefore the water were both still, allowing for distinctive reflections, which I then turned upside down to give a new perspective, showing the trees in their upright form, but as they are reflections there is something off-kilter about them. Together, they create a dream-like visage, fitting for the spring theme, with muted hues and the fading, drowned leaves of the bare trees below and behind the reflection. Layers upon layers of meaning and images give a deeper resonance to something that outwardly may feel muted and subtle. Just look closer. A good lesson for life.