This song almost made it into the summer rotation, but it just wasn’t anywhere near coquette enough for the occasion. It exists, instead, here, in the early fall, when the breeze can still feel like summer, the sun still warms like August, and hope still kindles as if it has some sort of business being here. This is ‘Daytona Sand’ by Orville Peck – and it’s less about the message and lyrics than it is about the atmosphere and music; it makes me want to hastily pack a bag, hop in the car, drive somewhere – anywhere – and fuck all the way off. That’s the current frame of my mind – and it’s not good.
Buddy, we got major blues
Another suitcase in your hand
I hope you brought your walking shoes
‘Cause it’s quite a ways, from what I understand
Something’s not right. I feel it in the agitated way the slightest bothers set me off, how they bring tears to my eyes out of sheer frustration and exasperation. I’m usually good, at this point in my life, about not reaching exasperation; lately that’s been my baseline. If you start out there, it will only and always end badly. That’s where the sirens come in, that’s where blood is spilt, that’s where you cross the lines you can’t uncross.
It’s in the unreasonable annoyance I feel for every small petty setback, every mistake the world makes, and my reactions, blown entirely out of proportion for what is remotely appropriate, are telling me that something is wrong.
I’m not mad, for what it’s worth…
This is something that has been building over the years – all of the years – and it goes back decades. Decades of holding my tongue and holding it all in – and as much as I may have seemed to reveal in these pages, there is simply more that has happened than can ever be put forth here or anywhere. The great burdens of our histories are what we carry with us every day, mostly in silence and quiet, and it’s very difficult to genuinely drop it and let it go. The more evolved and well-adjusted may get it all out as it comes up, wisely letting out steam in little puffs along the way. Those of us who try to be strong or stoic or simply fucking stupid try to keep it bottled up until it passes – knowing full well it will never pass until addressed, acknowledged, and, dream of dreams, reconciled.
So I look back, all the way back, even further back than this photo I found in a trove of photo albums that recently came back into my possession; my mother can’t store them anymore, her home being too filled with my brother’s stuff. They’re mostly pictures of me in my vain years, when I was channeling Norma Desmond and Madonna and playing around with friends who embraced me unconditionally – the friends you turn to when your family refuses to understand. In binders meticulously labeled by month and year, I open the pages and travel back in time, and most of it pales in comparison to how I so vividly remember it. I should probably just burn them – a bonfire of the vanity – or toss a few in the garbage bin every week until they’ve all disappeared: an attempt at eradicating the past, because I’m tired of remembering.
I’m getting tired of this earth
But they say some stones are better left unturned…
‘Dolores Claiborne’ is one of the most under-rated and unappreciated movies, and while it is bleak and dark as fuck, it’s still one of my favorites. Maybe that speaks to something bleak and dark about myself, but whatever. The character of Vera Donovan, portrayed majestically by Judy Parfitt, is the highlight, and when the two leads are Kathy Bates and Jennifer Jason Leigh, that is saying a lot. This mood continues…
“Sometimes, Dolores… sometimes you have to be a high-riding bitch, to survive… Sometimes, being a bitch is all a woman has to hang onto.”
Urushi. Japanese lacquer. An art that has been around for three millennia.
Pause and think of that time – all of that time. Most of us cannot wrap our heads around how long that actually is, while at the same time how short it may be in the entire history of the universe. Minuscule and magnificent all at once. Like a person’s life. When viewed on a macro level, it feels immense. When put into the long history of the world, it doesn’t even register. Even the most mighty among us won’t be here in another thousand years, nor will any memory of who we were. The eternal black.
And so we narrow our focus, refine our view, condense that immensity into something hopefully manageable. We label and organize, whatever it takes to make some semblance of sense, to get some ind of grip on all that we simply cannot understand. The mind can lose itself when not harnessed to the mundane tasks of a day.
That brings us back to the Japanese lacquer, which is also the inspiration for a Tom Ford Private Blend, ‘Black Lacquer’. Both contain multitudes, much like the average human being. The former can put an entire earth on the varnished exterior of a box or bowl; the latter is said to be evocative of vinyl, ink, black pepper, rum, ebony wood, peony, and olibanum ~ the prick of eternity in a drop of perfume.
A gorgeously haunting score by Danny Elfman, a mesmerizing performance by Michelle Pfeiffer, and the transfixing narrative of dramatic transformation, this scene of Catwoman coming into creation was one of the most inspiring turns of cinema in my formative years. I would watch it over and over, aching for my own similar scene of origin amid all the adolescent angst. Somehow I knew part of what was in store for me, sensing then that I’d need this sort of empowerment during a string of bad men.
From her meek secretarial start to the disturbing trauma of unexpected violence, and the ensuing journey that brings her from ‘Hello there’ to ‘Hell here’ – I am most definitely here – here for all of it.
“You poor guys, always confusing your pistols with your privates.”
A treatise on turning to the dark side, finding out what might happen when there are no more fucks to give, and embracing then releasing a feminine energy and female rage that centuries of patriarchy so richly and disastrously deserve. It’s also going to be a reckoning for my own family history, and the revelations it’s taken me 49 years to realize – all that was wrought and how it all came to be, suddenly coming into crystalline and terrifying focus.
When rain drops fall and you feel low Ah, do you ever think it’s useless Do you ever feel like letting go Do you ever sit and do you wonder Will the world ever change And just how long will it take To have it all rearranged
Tell me why these things are still the same Tell me why no one can seem to learn from mistakes
Fear not, brave and courageous readers who have come back for more! This fall won’t be all doom and gloom, for fall has its sultry enchantments and lighter moments of whimsy as well. A linky look back at previous fall entries should allay you of any one-note worries – and everyone knows I would bore myself silly if I were to cloak myself in shrouds of black and not even dip into the jewel tones. This is still the long and winding road that leads to the salvation sometimes found in the holidays. While that salvation feels like a lofty and unattainable goal at the moment, it can’t hurt to try. Well, it can, and it will, but that won’t stop me. Let’s have that look back at other fall entries that started off the season not so long ago…
Fall often begins in light and ends in shadow – a fertile playground for deeper rumination and analysis, but also for leaning into the shorter days, the bracingly-jarring mornings of the first few frosts, the seriousness that ensues now that summer is officially over. Such a difficult time – no one wants summer to end – and so we try to find places of solace and moments of peace to assuage what we might be feeling. A song then, for this moment of desperation.
Take my hand if you don’t know where you’re goin’ I’ll understand, I’ve lost the way myself Oh, don’t take that old road it leads to nowhere We must leave before the clock strikes twelve
So it shall be, and so we shall welcome fall with all her requisite wonder and magic, hoping she won’t treat us too harshly, hoping we can make it through her maelstroms, her obstacles, her storms and her shadows.
It’s so easy to do nothin’ When you’re busy night and day Take a step in one direction And take a step the other way So don’t stop tryin’ when you stumble Don’t give up should you fall Keep on searchin’ for the passway That will lead you through the wall Don’t look back or you’ll be left behind Don’t look back or you will never find peace of mind
“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
There comes a time in every troubled or unloved boy’s life when he is faced with the choice to become the hero or the villain of his story. It actually happens quite a few times, and such junctures will haunt him throughout his journey into adulthood. They’re not always presented as binary and simple choices, and they rarely result in one final decision that veers him irrevocably into good or evil – instead, they are small and little choices along the path of growing up and then living in the world. If the boy has had a few people who were there at pivotal moments to support him when he needed it most, if he’s known unconditional love and been made to feel like he belonged, he stands a chance at endeavoring upon the hero route.
If there have been moments when he’s found himself alone or without support, if he has made himself different or other to a point where those who were supposed to love him hesitate or pause, or if he has been subject to moments where the bedrock of what should have been unwavering, unconditional love has shifted or cracked or otherwise revealed itself to be possibly transient, he may try out the role of villain. And if that role fits – if he might in fact be skilled at playing any role, perhaps – he may realize that the path of the villain is just the sort of misunderstood and maligned journey he was destined to make.
This fall, after our coquette summer, the theme is fade-to-black, as much a frame of my current state of mind as it is a chic and fashionable option for the cooler season. Tom Ford has just released ‘Black Lacquer’, the Rolling Stones are singing ‘Paint It Black’, and this blog is about to descend into the sort of darkness I’ve protected its readers from in an effort to make things prettier than they ever were. Play our opening theme song below and settle in for how I am setting the scene…
Sometimes, its takes almost half a century before some of us recognize and make sudden sense of the patterns and repeated offenses that have occurred – especially if they have happened within one’s own family. Part of it is because you don’t want to believe it, that your own family would ever do such things, and sometimes you are able to see the patterns, and the traps that everyone has fallen into, and it’s not too late to find ways of forgiveness. Sometimes, you’re just too tired to forgive, too exhausted to care, or you understand that it will be this way forever and there really is no point in fighting it anymore.
This fall, I have no idea what’s going to come up here on this blog. I know I need to share some things that I’ve been holding back for fear it may hurt or upset some people, and if that turns me into a villain, so be it. I’ve felt alone my entire life, and at key moments when I’ve needed people to be there they haven’t been. That might all be in my head, and the only way to make that determination is to put it all out there. Well, here.
That may likely vilify me, and though that has happened countless times in the past, it’s never been something that I have welcomed or wanted, but in the way the universe sometimes works, that which we fight is that which we ultimately become.
“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
Being the villain is actually quite a freeing role. It not only rids one of great, or just basically decent, expectations, it also removes any pesky sense of a morale compass, which far too often only seeks to slow or hinder the difficult decisions we must make on any given day. When you’re the villain, you have nothing left to lose, so the terror of losing nonsense such as being well-liked or loved is automatically removed. There is only one thing that usually scares a villain: loneliness. It’s the one secret they don’t want getting out. A villain does not exist if there isn’t someone more virtuous beside whom to stand. More importantly, a villain is nothing without a victim. And so, the biggest fear of most villains is the loneliness that might leave them without purpose or patrol.
That makes this current state of mind, and everything I’m about to write on this blog for the fall season, doubly diabolical, in that there’s only one thing that has never scared me: loneliness. A villain unafraid to be alone is a villain without redemption. Perhaps it’s been beaten out of him over the years, perhaps they’ve been slowly inflicted in complicated and complex patterns that it takes a lifetime to figure out, or perhaps the simple drudgery of living in a world where the only constant is pain – dull or sharp but always there, never fully eradicated – is finally enough to push him into such a villainous turn.
A warning before we begin: this fall it may appear that I’m throwing one big tantrum on this blog. I’m aware that most people think I throw tantrums all the time, but if you really think about it, that’s not at all true. When a tantrum is the result of years of debilitating family patterns finally coming to light in a way only afforded by time and distance and the repetition of said patterns, it’s not so much a tantrum as a reckoning – and most reckonings happen only when they are absolutely necessary. For my own mental state, for my own emotional well-being, and for the sake of simply telling the truth honestly and openly to free my own guilt and shame, this looks to be a difficult fall.
Yet in such an acknowledgment, and in such freedom as being the villain so wondrously affords, there may be a way out – the only way out – and if we walk through the woods together we may discover that escape.
I’m not promising that. As the world slips and tips ever deeper into madness, maybe being the villain is the safest way to make it through the wilderness. I’ll do what I need to do to protect my heart. If I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that nothing is stable. Nothing is forever. And sometimes letting go is the only way not to lose yourself.
“I thought I recognized in him a certain kind of man, a man who is damaged and yet unflinching. I’ve met a few. Because he has taken pain, such a man knows he can take more. In fact, he expects it; suffering, so far as he sees, is in the order of things, the logic of the universe. Usually such men are hard, even self-punishing workers, capable of long periods of isolation or aloneness, and suffer bouts of crippling melancholy. They refuse to take antidepressants, they refuse to talk too much; instead they wait and wait, with the patience of a cat, for the mood to turn. They drink coffee alone in the morning, they smoke cigarettes on the porch… Such men believe in luck, they watch for signs, and they conduct private rituals that structure their despair and mark their waiting. They are relatively easy to recognize but hard to know, especially during the years when a man is most dangerous to himself, which begins at about age thirty-five, when he starts to tally his losses as well as his wins, and ends at about fifty, when, if he has not destroyed himself, he has learned that the force of time is better caught softly, and in small pieces. Between those points, however, he’d better watch out, better guard against the dangerous journey that beckons to him – the siege, the quest, the grandiosity, the dream. Yes, let me say it again. Quiet men with dreams can be dangerous.” ~ Colin Harrison
And so does summer end, with the panache of pink plaid, and a running undercurrent of sadness – the perfect personification of a coquette moment. Best of times, worst of times, and all of it leading up to the arrival of fall tomorrow. Ready or not, here it comes.
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?” ~ John Steinbeck
Perhaps this closing attire for the summer of 2024 isn’t quite as demure as recent catchphrases would beg for it to be, but it’s a fitting final wardrobe for another summer of the speedo, which was celebrated in banging fashion at this year’s Olympic Games. All of that is to come with tomorrow’s summer recap, so this is just a holding place until then, where one can wade in the still-warm water of a pool that didn’t get used as much as it deserved. Some summers start out gloriously, then ripen into something darker and heavier than what might have originally been planned. Such was the case this year, but I’m getting ahead of myself, and the purpose of this post is to pause, take in the pool, and squeeze into this silly pink plaid speedo one more time – it is, after all, our coquette summer. (Stick with me, it comes off in the end…)
I’ll save the nostalgic look-back for tomorrow’s big post – for now, let’s have a moment in the water, as the sweetly-perfumed blossoms from the seven sons’ flower tree fall charmingly into the pool – an echo of the pale pink petals of the flowering cherry that greeted the season back when it all began. It feels long ago, the way summer can be a lifetime if you know how to manage it and make it matter. I’m not sure I did that, but I’m worn down and worn out by everything this last month or so has brought, and in the words of a vapid weirdo wife, I really don’t care, do u?
What summer wrought, fall will reckon, and while there may not be any Speedo-clad clickbait – this skimpy attire not being quite conducive for autumn weather in the Capital Region – there will be secrets spilled, and things are going to get so messy you’ll want to revisit just to see how well, or unwell, I try to hang onto my sanity. I’ve given myself leeway to go a little crazy this fall, because when you’re on the cusp of 50, you’ve earned it. You also find yourself entirely out of fucks to give, and there is such glee in that it will make up for whatever other horrors may, and likely will, transpire here.
Well, I failed in having that promised pool moment, and have instead delve into an unplanned fall preview of what’s to come. Maybe it’s for the best – the sooner we begin, the sooner it will be over. Come back for one more day of summer, and then get ready to go dark…
Fresh off the culinary success of Andy’s take on fried green tomatoes, he went back into the kitchen to craft this insane tower of fried eggplant, interspersed with burrata, balsamic glaze, and fresh basil. We first had something like this at Angelina’s Restaurant in Ogunquit, Maine – and it was a welcome revelation. We went back there several times just for this dish.
As we’re currently under the semi-annual spell of the deep fryer (we can only bring it out two or three times a year or we’d have heart attacks and die) it’s been a week of fried glory – next up is fried okra, courtesy of Suzie’s vegetable garden.
Did you ever feel possessed by something so beyond your control that you found yourself simply going through motions like a puppet? On the night of the full Harvest Supermoon, just as the lunar eclipse was about to begin, I was writing a few blog posts in the attic – this being one of them – when I remembered the astrological event that was ensuing. Wearing a short white robe, and nothing else, I found myself walking past Andy into the backyard to see if I could see the moon.
Over the house, I spied her nestled in the boughs of a pine tree. She would be more visible from the front yard, so I went back inside and walked through the living room, unlocking the front door and quietly stepping outside.
Above the trees, she shone in radiant form, picking up the haze of the night and putting forth a glow that lit the entire sky. Entranced, I stole a few grainy pictures with my phone, then rushed back inside. I paused there, and again the only word I can think of to describe my state of mind – which was really less a state and more a complete absence of any state of mind whatsoever – was ‘possessed’ – not demonically, not maniacally, not whimsically – simply possessed by some spirit or entity that was not myself. I write this now fully aware of what I had done, but at the moment I don’t recall knowing what I was doing.
Setting the phone down on the dining room table, I slowly turned around and went back to the front door, unlocking it again. The night chirped with the music of crickets and frogs, and the moon hovered over all, casting its wondrous light on the front yard. My eyes adjusted to the dim setting, while the moon’s light seemed to grow stronger. I untied the robe from around my waist and hung it on the front door handle, then walked into the moonlight completely naked. Turning around and letting it bathe all of me, I caught a glimpse of my shadow thrown upon the house. I watched to see if it would do anything that I was not doing, but it would not be tricked into revealing whether it was indeed separate from my own self, and I was content merely to let it remind me that I was still here.
I cannot say what happened to me in those moments of nakedness beneath the full Harvest moon. Obviously, or not so obviously perhaps, I didn’t turn into a werewolf. I felt no immediate change or alteration of what I had always felt myself to be, though there was an energy and vague sense of electricity in the air when I stood there; that could have largely been imagined – the mind leading the body. But I do feel slightly different, like I’ve just crossed an abstract line of demarcation that separates what was from what will be. That too could be imagined, as well as it being any given moment on any given day. Still, that Harvest moon comes but once a year, and maybe whatever I might have harnessed or harvested will be revealed in the months to come.
For now, I watch the minute hand of the clock, and I can see it moving, as if time is suddenly speeding up, as if it wasn’t going fast enough already…
Drops of dew dot these wildflowers at the tail-end of summer. Nights and mornings are just starting to feel a bit like fall. Not mad about it. Not thrilled about it either. The general mood of ennui at this particular moment. Desperately seeking inspiration.
