My Uncle inhabited the sometimes-shade underside of American life – the behind-the-scenes lower-level of the mythologically caste-free system of the United States. I heard him saying, “This country is fucking shit” one moment, then extolling the possibilities and potential the next. He worked hard for what amounted to rather little. Much of it went to his kids back home. America would never be home for him.
Until he could save up enough money and return a raging success, he dwelled in the hidden recesses of high society. He and my Aunt worked for a Senator, entertained at dinners for Hillary Clinton and the Dalai Lama, but none of it seemed to impress my Uncle. He was happy blending into the background, smoking with the other workers in the garage or behind the house. It was a world I found fascinating, as a child, and far more fun than the formal dinner parties and stiff adult talk that sometimes surrounded me.
A retired man at the office came into work to see his old friends. He was a grandfather now and we had all heard of how the baby had been born missing one of its arms. The parents did not know this until it was delivered. Somehow a cord had wrapped around its arm and stopped the blood flow when it was developing.
It was difficult to fathom the sadness, shock, and horror of it – the feeling of something so unfair. And yet the creature was alive, would grow up not knowing any other way. The grandfather was sad, anyone could tell, but he beamed with joy, and the strangest mixture of shame and pride.
Two little ones chase each other by the pool. Alighting from the fence, they scurry through the garden, bark chips disheveled in their wake. It is summer. The squirrels seem happy.
You are welcome now. Come and cleanse, wash away the dust and dirt of a dying summer. Capture the pollen with your armies of water droplets, hold them captive then throw them into the dungeon of muddy earth below.
Lull me to sleep as you wage your war – the bombardment of rain and thunder now a soothing backdrop to an otherwise sleepless night. Drown the annoying buzz of nocturnal insects, muffle the distant trucks, and tramp the trundling trains on their far-away way.
Sleep comes easier with the low rumbling of thunder and the steady light cadence of rain, marching dully onward, tapping delicately against the window, rushing down upon the roof.
The very first time Andy met my parents he was wearing a t-shirt that said ‘GET WICKED TONIGHT!‘ on it, in bold yellow letters across a blue background. In his defense, he didn’t anticipate meeting my parents that day. In my defense, I didn’t anticipate he would be wearing such a shirt ever. We both learned something that day. Tomorrow night, we are literally getting ‘Wicked’ again, as we take in an early showing of the eagerly-anticipated ‘Wicked’ movie.
It will be a proper date night for us, one that rekindles the very first time we saw the show in New York. It was November, about a week or two after it opened on Broadway, and its original stars Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel were both on. It was a magical moment, and in the ensuing years we’ve returned to the stage production several times.
Tomorrow night, the movie version directed by Jon M. Chu and starring Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande flies into theaters, and we’ll be there defying gravity with all the other fans.
Ever since Twitter (X) was taken over by evil forces, my interest there has markedly waned to the point where I’m on the verge of leaving. I’ve been on Threads, but they seem to have the same censorship issues that plague artistic souls. Last week I joined BlueSky, which feels like a breath of fresh air. Of course all social media sites eventually seem to become victims of their own success or failure, so who knows how long this BlueSky moment will last. For now, I’m taking it all in and enjoying it.
It also points to the fickle, capricious nature of social media these days. While Twitter crumbles under the proliferation of hate, hypocrisy, and misinformation, and FaceBook and Instagram crumble under their own hypocritical issues of censorship and rampant misinformation, BlueSky comes along to fill the void in human decency and simple sanity. Am I invested in any of these time-killers anymore? Not really – I copy and paste my blog posts into all of them, and go on my merry way.
Helmed by one of Andy’s magical peonies, this post comes as we pick up any pieces left from the full Beaver Super Moon. I channeled the moon’s lively energy for a Friendsgiving weekend with Kira, and with an eye on a positive outcome, we managed to survive. More on that a bit later – for now, the typical Monday morning quarterbacking in this week-in-review.
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.
Piggybacking on last night’s fallen post, here are a few more victims of the wind and cold we’ve had over the last week. There is still some color on the ground, though it’s fading quickly. With our relatively dry fall, the leaves have been crisp and brittle of late, crackling beneath the feet in satisfying fashion. It makes quietly padding through the forest impossible; there would be no way to hide with so many audible clues and hints. Mother Nature only disguises her own trails, never yours; she owes no allegiance or cover to you.
It was supposed to be a stunning year for fall foliage, but I wouldn’t really know, having willingly missed much of it in the daze into which I’ve intentionally sunk. It’s difficult to be mindful when there are so many things to be worried and concerned about – and then I remind myself it is precisely at such times that is is so imperative to practice mindfulness. And I try again, walking amid the leaves, pausing to bend down and study any that call out with their color or design.
From here on out, strong and saturated color will largely be drained from the outside world. Browns and grays and faded greens will be all that is left. For now, finding solace in the fallen leaves will have to be enough.
Careening toward the shortest day of the year, light will be fleeting and elusive for most of our waking hours now. When it’s out and about, I try to take advantage of it, at least once a day. It’s easy to get bogged down in a work day, or any day for that matter, when we sink into familiar ruts and dim passageways, finding our way in the dark because was are so accustomed to it. That’s how I usually pass through winter. But to find or make the time for a little light appreciation is important.
I find myself very affected by the dwindling light, and so I compensate in other ways – with lots of candles and electric lights thrown on at all times of the day. A little utility splurge for mental health is warranted these days, and if it eases the pain of winter to come, let us have the indulgence.
Soon all these leaves will be gone, even the last few tenacious stragglers on the mighty oak, always the last to leave, and then all will be barren until the spring. There will be beauty then too, stark and bare, but beautiful still.
