For anyone looking for a bit of escapism this week (hello to the possible end of democracy as we know it) this site may offer you a way out with the online debut of my ‘shades of gray’ project – which marks its 20th anniversary this fall. I’ve been wanting to post it for a while, and since we are two decades into its existence, it felt like the right time at last. There were other things going on this past week, so let’s take a look with at weekly recap – and then you can go back to worrying about whether this country still believes in its original founding principles. PS – Don’t vote a convicted, lying felon.
It is quiet when it first comes. Too quiet to be safe. The trees shiver, their uppermost branches tremble as the breeze arrives. The birds have fallen silent – where did they go? What do the birds do in times like this?
There is dread in the silence. Let it come and be done. Wreak your havoc and move on.
A low growl is heard – maybe a dog or a hungry human. Then the first flash, at a far-off distance.
The rustling begins. Another flash, but closer. It is coming. The definitive sound of thunder, no longer to be imagined away. More flashes of light, followed by an anticipatory intake of breath – held… held… before the low rumble of thunder again. A long, rolling wake of guttural moaning is heard – a nauseating sound, but exciting too.
Exhilaration and awe, far greater than any human creation, and then strike upon strike of lightning.
It happens quickly now, the explosive cadence of blinding light and deafening roar, a fury of nature set loose upon the land, and the rain, released at last. Sheets of it, speeding downward, descending from a dark sky. The wind is fierce and the water doesn’t know where to go.
A squirrel sits on its haunches, nibbling a small, wild apple. The grass is high and the squirrel is half obscured. Its head rises above the blades, eyes glinting and ever-watchful.
“Perhaps you enjoy chasing squirrels, there is great pleasure in the quest of the unattainable. You and I know that wonder is the secret of bliss and that with reason comes the death of the beautiful.” – Okakura Kakuzo, in a letter to Isabella Stewart Gardner
Is this the very beginning or the very end?
Has the story been told, or is this the start of the telling?
It is the indefinable in-between – the latest of winter and the earliest of spring – the dying days of summer melded with the first flush of fall.
This year marks the 20th anniversary of my ‘shades of gray‘ project. Written way back in 2004, I’ve been waiting for the right moment to post it online, as it currently only exists in printed form – in an ancient three-ring-binder, the way my projects used to be housed and presented. Nostalgia works in strange ways… and like most remembrances, when examined up close, it feels slimmer and less substantial than it felt at the time. Quite possibly, I’ve simply become more long-winded. This may be a welcome reminder of how tight things used to be.
‘shades of gray’ was a collection of written vignettes – some just a few short sentences – that were held together by the notion of visiting ghosts, fueled by those whom we had lost. The featured pic here is the painting of ‘Charon Ferrying the Shades’ by Pierre Subleyras, which formed an introduction and inspiration for the project, which was dedicated to ‘all of the visiting ghosts ~ Uncle Roberto, Jeff Johnson, Lee Bailey, Nathan, Diane, and Andy’s Mom‘.
Toying with the idea of putting it up on ‘The Projects’ page, I originally planned to post it in its entirety, but with a lack of inspiration lately, and a desire for slumber over writing new blog posts, I’m spacing it out in individual posts – shorter and lighter, but more frequent. Such as today: following this introductory post, I’ll put up the first three entries – so you’ll get a four-post day.
I haven’t read this in about twenty years, since I don’t usually like to revisit previous work, and I’m a little afraid of what I might find. Bear that in mind when sharpening your critiquing shears – I don’t intend to edit or improve anything, much as it may be tempting; how lovely it would be to edit the past so easily. Alas, you, and I, will have to trudge through whatever nonsense I found invigorating two decades ago. A few hints of what is to come, courtesy of Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary:
shade – 6. The soul after its separation from the body; — so called because the ancients it to be perceptible to the sight, tough not to the touch; a spirit; a ghost; as, the shades of departed heroes.
7. The darker portions of a picture; a less illuminated part.
9. A minute difference or variation, as of thought, belief, expression, etc.; also, the quality or degree of anything which is distinguished from others similar by slight differences; as, the shades of meaning in synonyms.
The Shades, the Nether World; the supposed abode of souls after leaving the body.
Note: Shade differs from shadow as it implies no particular form or definite limit; whereas a shadow represents in form the object which intercepts the light. When we speak of the shade of a tree, we have no reference to its form; but when we speak of measuring a pyramid or other object by its shadow, we have reference to its form and extent.
His shower scene is having a moment, as is his revelation that there was no prosthetic used, so Cooper Koch earns his first Dazzler of the Day crowning here. He joins his on-screen brother Nicholas Alexander Chavez in this honor, thanks to their work on ‘Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story’.
I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser Midnights become my afternoons When my depression works the graveyard shift All of the people I’ve ghosted stand there in the room…
My 8th grade class at Wilbur H. Lynch Middle School in Amsterdam, New York had the usual cast of teenage characters – football players, cheerleaders, band members, slack-offs, fuck-ups, nerds, jocks, beauty queens, drama kids – the typical coterie of children masquerading as adults, just beginning to find our way and carve out identities of who we might be. Despite our varied interests and the panoply of society under one roof, we lacked one essential ingredient: a villain. Because of that, and despite the usual drama of teenage angst and budding hormonal avalanches, school was a rather dull and boring affair.
It was up to the one person with the flair for the dramatic and diabolical to set things into some semblance of half-interesting motion – and I was the only one wiling to do it. Did I sacrifice a certain mainstream popularity to do it? Perhaps. Did I throw away my chance at being voted Best Dressed Man when high school rolled around and those designations were really just votes on who was well-liked? Probably. Did I sink my teeth into the role with the relish and zeal of someone desperate for something – anything – to shake up the dull hallways of that school and wreak havoc with friendship circles? Better than anyone else.
I should not be left to my own devices They come with prices and vices I end up in crisis (tale as old as time) I wake up screaming from dreaming One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving ‘Cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me At tea time, everybody agrees I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Looking back, it was all so much silliness, but at the time how malevolent it seemed – and how terribly was it taken. I watched the maneuverings of the girls in my class, how they wrote notes to one another, passing them back and forth when the teacher’s back was turned. I saw their friendship circles and noticed the whispers they would adopt in favor of some and against certain others. I was a master at appearing uninterested and uninvolved, while all the time not one single side-eye or shifty gaze escaped my notice. I was also adept at sneaking these notes out of their bags when they weren’t looking, and reading what they wrote about everyone else.
It was a glimpse into a secret world I would later access through more benign means – at that time it was a brutal violation of their privacy, but what cares a villain for such codes of honor and simple human decency? Nothing would jolt our narrative or change the dull doldrums of Amsterdam unless I did it. And so I hatched my simple plan, stealing the notes of my classmates and putting them into the hands of the very people they were maligning. Words never meant for certain people were deposited by me as the secret villain – and I left a trail of hurt feelings, betrayal, and distrust in my undetected wake. Supposed friends turned against supposed friends, wondering at first how things came to unintended light, struggling to repair wounds, holding on to not being hated. In the justifications that I conjured as I gave myself over to such darkness, I reasoned that they had a right to know what others were saying, that truth and transparency were better than polite deceit and tolerance. In reality, I think I just wanted to fuck things up. Out of boredom, out of wanting to be part of something, out of sheer mean delight.
Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby And I’m a monster on the hill Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city Pierced through the heart, but never killed
Eventually I revealed myself as the perpetrator – and then the real fun began. When I managed to procure an especially juicy note, I held it over the writer as a form of power and persuasion. My reputation was earned and burned and sealed in stone right then and there – and though there would be redemptive movements and saving graces, I’d take that villainous persona with me wherever I went – even when I tried to kill it. Like most villains, my path would always and only end with my own internal consumption.
Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism Like some kind of congressman? (Tale as old as time) I wake up screaming from dreaming One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving And life will lose all its meaning (For the last time)
It’s been a long time since I felt that way, however, and the image of a villain has remained latent and silent all these years. Only when faced with certain pain and childish acting-out have I thought about revisiting such merry mayhem. Villainy has its benefits, foremost among them a freedom that comes only when you’ve given up all the fucks and are ready to let the world find out. Am I reveling in such an idea? Absolutely. It’s time I once again had some of the fun that everyone else has been having. Will I get called out on it? Unlike the others, of course I will. That’s the way it goes (see previous reference to having no more fucks to give). There will come a time when all grievances come to light, and while I won’t dare to judge anyone for it, the truth has always spoken louder than anything I could ever shout. When put down in words, the most atrocious acts are suddenly contained, and often that mere capturing of them somehow lessens their atrociousness. Or so the justification for villainy goes…
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me (I’m the problem, it’s me) At tea time, everybody agrees I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Arriving at November, the penultimate month in the calendar year, after the warmest Halloween we’ve ever had, the world feels dangerously on the verge of something. Hopefully that’s my own little world – over that I have some semblance of control. The broader universe is on its own.
While I’ll never begrudge a bit of summer lingering this late into the year, it doesn’t feel entirely right – there’s a sort of queasy sickness to the air, a few more allergies in the slightest breeze, a sense that something is slightly off. And then I realize – things are very much off – and it’s going to take a reckoning for the world to be righted. I don’t trust all of us to do the right thing. If given the choice between doing the right thing or doing something that benefits us, we’re all headed to the latter. Fairness, accountability, and even truth itself, have been reduced to hollow shells of what they once were. Moral nobility is the exception. The hurt and wounded will do what has been done to them; the selfish and spoiled will take and take and take. The dogged do-gooders will behave right up until you lose them. A bridge too far is still a bridge, but too far is still too far.
Seen online: “So many folks talk about how they’re being ‘forced to accept’ things that go against their beliefs. You’re not being forced to accept them. If you have a problem with people of color, with gay marriage, with trans people, with immigrants, with women of any race, etc. then you’re still welcome to feel however you want to feel about those people. You’re just not allowed to make their lives harder because of your feelings. You’re not allowed to turn their daily lives into a battle ground. No one is forcing you to ‘accept’ a single thing. You’re just not being allowed to terrorize people.”
Dad stopped by fleetingly in a dream the other night. At a time when I’ve been feeling alienated from family, perhaps he sensed some bit of loneliness I have yet to face.
I was under my Mom’s dining room table, and the whole place was a mess.
In the dream, I’m trying vainly and valiantly to clean up another mess that had been left there. A sugar bowl for coffee, a candle, and a bunch of other things lay scattered on the floor. I scrambled to pick it all up before anyone got home. I don’t know why, I just wanted to clean it up and then get out without being seen.
Dad appeared then, just from the chest down, as I was under the table. He caught me and asked if I was feeling sick.
Music on the wind, swooping in, nestled among fantastical feathers. Color seen through the darkness, impossibly bright, and glowing brighter as the breeze nudges us toward midnight. The veil grows thinner, and this is when it’s easiest to fly between worlds. Sometimes we want so badly to escape this one. Fly, my pretties, fly…
Know, know too well Know the chill Know she breaks My Siren No teenage flesh Know that she’ll Know she breaks My Siren
It was winter in Boston. Late 1990’s. Snow was there, and snow was melting. There was water in the air, ice on the wind, and witches seem to like when the weather gets hazy that way. Water as smoke, water as fog, water in the winter thaw. On the molecular level, water moves mountains, cracking stone and splitting rocks. It sparkles and stuns, like a gown you will only wear once.
I moved through that winter, I moved through that snow.
I moved through that spring, I moved through that grass.
I moved through that summer, I moved through those moons.
There were witches to guide me, witches to right me, witches to pick me up when I fell or simply gave out.
They rode on the night, gliding through folds of blackness, showing me the way through the stars.
Now I know that you know I Never was one for a prissy girl Coquette, call in for an ambulance Reach high, doesn’t mean she’s holy Just means she’s got a cellular handy Almost brave, almost pregnant Almost, ya know, in love
Then I arrived at fall.
Fall with her fiery splendor, fall with her flaming finale, fall before she shed herself into winter.
Fall with her welcoming arms, open like a freshly-dug grave site, earth so deep it’s still wet – like where we all began…
Fall brought me here, through all the years – the moons and suns and days and nights – brought me to where I would finally take flight. Spurred on by the Siren, imaginary exoskeleton fluttering and protruding from my back, lifting and placing me on the wind, I learned to fly when they first let me fall.
“Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.” ~ Washington Irving
A companion playlist to our Fade-to-Black listening experience for this fall, here is a bewitching collection of songs to add an element of witchcraft and magic to this most terribly enchanting of days. All sung by women, they are a siren call for my heart – strange twist in the mind of a gay man – and maybe that’s why I’ve always been more drawn to women when it comes to what counts. Give them a listen if you’d like, though I take no responsibility for any spells that may be cast upon your fancy.
“The point is in this whole wide wicked world the only thing you have to be afraid of is me.” ~ Fiona Goode
Happy Halloween to the friends, readers, and those who dare to tread in these treacherous stretches of the internet without ever having met me. The latter is likely the luckiest of them all, and Halloween is the most harmless time of the year when you consider how much hurt I’ve caused the rest of the days. Yes, I said it. And I know it. The day doesn’t seem all that scary anymore.
… The who’s who of “Who’s that?” is poised for the attack But my bare hands paved their paths You don’t get to tell me about sad
… If you wanted me dead, you should’ve just said Nothing makes me feel more alive
… So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream “Who’s afraid of little old me?” You should be…
… The scandal was contained The bullet had just grazed At all costs, keep your good name You don’t get to tell me you feel bad
… Is it a wonder I broke? Let’s hear one more joke Then we could all just laugh until I cry
… So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream “Who’s afraid of little old me?”
Halloween used to begin with such innocence and end with such guilt. In my secret heart of hearts, I always wanted to be a beautiful witch – in a costume layered and rich with flowing robes, hidden jewel tones of royal violet beneath velvet as black as the darkest night. Boys couldn’t be witches then, even if we really were on the inside. The rage stayed contained – it whirled and spun and ravaged all that was inside me. It ate me up before anyone even noticed I was disappearing. The most wicked among us were devoured long ago.
I was tame, I was gentle ’til the circus life made me mean “Don’t you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth” Who’s afraid of little old me? Well, you should be
… So tell me everything is not about me But what if it is? Then say they didn’t do it to hurt me But what if they did?
My potions are perfume. My spells are words. My broom is the straw-man in my head, taking me away to anywhere but here. My exorcism is your antidote. You’ve come for relief or relapse, and I have nothing to offer of either. Long ago, I learned to forge a way separate from whatever you wanted me to be. There was always disappointment in that. I know there was. I felt it too. Maybe that’s why some of us turn into witches – the world is too wicked to make it through being anything else.
… I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me So all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs I’m always drunk on my own tears, isn’t that what they all said? That I’ll sue you if you step on my lawn That I’m fearsome and I’m wretched and I’m wrong Put narcotics into all of my songs And that’s why you’re still singing along
Let them call you those names – the ones that rhyme with ‘rich’ and ‘hunt’ – as they reveal who they are in their vain attempts to skin you alive. It’s going to hurt, and we shouldn’t pretend it won’t. Yes, I’m sorry to say, there is going to be much pain in this whole wide wicked world. And there is much reason to be afraid.
… You caged me and then you called me crazy I am what I am ’cause you trained me So who’s afraid of me? Who’s afraid of little old me? Who’s afraid of little old me?
When a witch turns their back to you, it is intentional. It is intended and designed to unnerve, disarm, and transfix. All tricks of a witch’s trade.
It is a determination to leave a chill in your heart.
Play this song – an incantation without words – as if such a thing could exist, as if words were nothing and music could make you feel something without meaning.
My mantle is heavy, black velvet and purple lining, but it propels me into the night in ways you will never understand, gripping madly to a rough piece of wood like a talisman or hatchet or broom.
I don’t think you know how many witches populate the world ~ which world? ~ and who among us might they count as brethren? A declaration of doubt turned into a question, or two. There, now you’re learning the ways.
Never turn your back on a witch. Back away if you must, or wait it out – usually it’s better to wait it out. Witches appreciate those who appreciate patience. Waiting is a dark art. Patience is often disguised as a virtue.
You only think the witch hasn’t seen you.
And you only think the watch hasn’t seen you because the witch wants you to think that.
