One of the most charming giants of the garden has been its summer show, as the cup plant is sprinkling the sky with its sunbursts of blooms. The yellow finches have returned as well, and the other morning I watched a hummingbird dart from flower to flower. The cup plant gets its common name from where the leaves attach to the sturdy square stems, forming little cups where rainwater collects and offers drinks to the birds and the bees and the butterflies.
The blooming period of this plant has traditionally signaled the arrival of high summer. It feels a little earlier this year, which is the way the world has been headed. Faster and faster, with nary a moment to slow down. And so I make the pause, trying to stop the day, and mostly failing in the effort. As soon as something happens it is gone from the mind – only once in a while can I imprint a new memory. Maybe these aren’t days I’ll want to remember.
Third things third: this is a definite summer jam. Silly, trifling, bordering on ridiculous, with a frivolous, semi-cheeky video to match, Sabrina Carpenter’s ‘Espresso’ is the sort of softly-percolating shuffler that crests easily through the sunny season, when pool, beach, sun, and surf are the only orders of the day. We so badly need that sort of escapism right now, I got out of my pajamas and sat for a couple of nonsensical espresso-themed shots while this song cast its languid spell over a hot and humid day.
I can’t relate to desperation My ‘give a fucks’ are on vacation And I got this one boy And he won’t stop calling When they act this way I know I got ’em
Too bad your ex don’t do it for ya Walked in and dream came trued it for ya Soft skin and I perfumed it for ya I know I Mountain Dew it for ya That morning coffee, brewed it for ya One touch and I brand newed it for ya
For those who care to know, size does matter… so keep your eye on the cup. (And relax, this isn’t a real espresso – nobody wants me on caffeine. That’s how foolish this whole thing truly is.)
Now he’s thinkin’ ’bout me every night, oh Is it that sweet? I guess so Say you can’t sleep, baby, I know That’s that me, espresso Move it up, down, left, right, oh Switch it up like Nintendo Say you can’t sleep, baby, I know That’s that me, espresso
Oh look, I’m an actor, pretending this cup of Caffein-Free Diet Coke is a super-hot Espresso. Witness the range. Marvel at the wonder. Sip carefully at this [ding-ding] steam heat.
Truth be told, I’m not well-versed on magic mushrooms in the hallucinogenic sense of the term. I’m calling these such because they appeared overnight, as if by magic. (In this case, it was some heavy watering coupled with the heat and humidity we’ve had of late.) A charming appearance, welcome at this time of the year when summer seems to be settling into its typical rhythm and the new growth of spring has started to harden off.
Comparisons to umbrellas and parasols would be perfectly apt, but these remind me more of delicate shells or exoskeletons found at the seashore – their ribbing and radial symmetry one of nature’s works of architectural art.
There’s nothing but blades of grass to give much perspective to these beauties, so I’ll share that they are quite tiny, and extremely delicate. I was watering a different section of lawn where another one had popped up, and as soon as the first few drops of water hit it, it crumpled to the ground, almost disappearing in another feat of magic. Things can come and go awfully quickly in the garden. Ephemeral enchantments.
My friend Chris is celebrating his umpteenth birthday today (we won’t get into specific numbers as they may upset someone who has less than a year to go before turning 50). Chris has been a pal through thick and thin, and thinking back on our decades-long friendship brings back many happy memories and a joyful bit of nostalgia in which I indulge far less than I should. There’s such a comfort to the soul when one contemplates the richness of true friendships, especially those that have lasted since the 1990’s.
It’s much earlier than usual for the second blooming of our Korean lilac, but everything has been early this year. Good gardeners feel the shift and know that climate change is real and happening right now. The reblooming of the Korean lilac is not a guaranteed event, though in the past several years it has produced at least one or two bloom clusters later in the summer. Often it comes when the nights cool down nearer the end of the season, when conditions mirror the late spring atmosphere of their first blooming period. One of the happier tricks of the garden.
This is actually a rather robust collection of blooms for a reprise, and their perfume has brought back the earlier flush of spring, while reminding of how far along we already are in this summer. Time plays its tricks like the garden hides its scented secrets.
In a way, these little blooms remind me that there’s always a chance to start over again, to find another season of flowers even if it’s a little different than what’s expected. They’re also a little gift, a reprieve before the sadness of summer returns.
“Positive people are not positive because they’ve skated through life. They’re positive because they’ve been through hell and decided they don’t want to live there anymore.” — Mona Lisa Nyman
Lost in the heat and accompanying haze of high summer, along with some ruminative moments of melancholy, I’ve lost a bit of the way on this coquette summer journey. When the heat and humidity rise to such levels, it’s all I can do to get through the day. Committing to the bare minimum of a summer existence is sometimes the only way to guide one’s ship through questionable waters, no matter how temptingly warm they may seem. It requires careful calibration and delicate maneuvering. Especially when the summer has turned to pink…
You are my church, you are my place of worship I heard you’re the plug, can I be the circuit? When I got court, I hope that you’re the verdict When you’re around, my insides turn inverted My blood starts to rush when I see your doorman I know you’re nearby and I know your purpose Take one look at you, you’re heaven’s incarnate What is this spell, baby? Please show some mercy
Kali Uchis sings a song about ‘Melting‘, and the pink and wet blooms seen here on the morning after a night of rain embody the sentiment perfectly. Are these blossoms melting or crying? Is their life elixir being extracted from them, or are they dripping out their dew willingly in some act of giving, some force of universal love?
Melting like an ice cream when you smile Melting, you’re a daydream, stay a while
Summer pink bleeds into sunlight. Forces of life, of blood so faint it looks pink, pulses through the sunny morning. Through closed eyelids, the sun appears pinkish, reddish… is that blood we are seeing, or not seeing, when our eyes are shut to the sun? Are we melting too, like the flowers?
I pray that I can learn to be funny I’m watching every stand-up comedy Just hoping that it’ll rub off on me So you’ll smile at everything I say You got some soft lips and some pearly whites (pearly whites) I wanna touch them in the dead of night (dead of night) Your smile ignites just like a candlelight (candlelight) Then somehow, I know everything’s alright
Some blossoms bow, some blossoms bend, some blossoms reach to kiss the blossom above them. In all shades of pink, summer bleeds out a little each day, putting forth bits of beauty, spending them in measured doses. As much as we may want summer to be endless, its reservoir eventually runs dry, waiting to be filled by the rains of fall and the snows of winter. That underlying element of a finite limit, in something as wild and unwieldy as a coquette summer, is as bothersome as it is reassuring. Summer pushes and summer pulls.
Melting like an ice cream when you smile Melting, you’re a daydream, stay a while
Madonna seems to have been more enamored of Diplo than many of her fans were enamored of her collaborations with him, but that hasn’t dimmed his star or diminished his current standing as Dazzler of the Day. Thanks to his cheeky click-baiting nudity or endless musical joint-ventures, Diplo has been a force in the music industry for over a decade now. His latest collab ‘Midnight Ride’ with Orville Peck (himself no stranger to nakedness) and Kylie Minogue is on heavy rotation in these parts, sending summer into scintillating orbit.
A morning that begins with a broken egg is not what one would consider a perfect morning, and it is then that I am reminded perfect mornings don’t exist. When you take the quest for perfection out of the equation, the day suddenly becomes much sunnier. It’s a comfort that coincides with the happy and unexpected relief afforded by a Monday night. When I spent weekends dreading school and work the next day, by the end of Monday afternoon, had I been able to face the demons, I would usually return home feeling relieved and better about all the worries that came to a head on Sunday nights. Even a broken egg, in proper perspective, seems like a minor mishap unworthy of a blog post like this.
Yet in the most minor and mundane of moments and mistakes, wisdom is to be found. In the broken egg, there was instant and irrevocable loss. There’s no putting Humpty together again. There’s also no way to make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, so long as you keep them off the floor. The magic is in how you break them, and where you break them. In the examination of these things, instead of being angry at the egg, you can greet its fallen state with gratitude for pausing the brain’s jump to annoyance. Replacing anger with curiosity may be one of he more productive strategies if I can start to implement it.
For the moment, I’m still swearing about cleaning up this broken egg
This is a relatively quiet weekly recap. My neck has been spasming when it hasn’t been entirely stiff, making sleeping difficult and working outside on our side yard impossible. That’s the universe whispering in annoying fashion to slow down. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Nor was it built by one fucking almost-49-year-old. Both are reasons for me to slow down and self-preserve. On with the weekly recap…
One of my favorite places to be as a child was snuggled between my parents in the wee small hours of the morning. Whether it was the disturbing images of insects and bugs or more sinister phantom figures gliding through the hallways, the not-infrequent nightmares of my youth occasionally afforded a panicked insistence on joining my parents in bed and waking to Dad’s internal alarm clock before the sun was even out.
Their room was dim with the shades pulled, and the dim gray light only allowed for shadows and silhouettes. Still, I can remember my father next to me as he opened his day with several leg stretches before he got out of bed. He never spoke about this, never explained the purpose or reason. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb my supposed sleep. In subsequent years, I would see yoga and fitness instructors advising to do the same stretches to begin their practice.
My Dad would lift one leg up, point it at the ceiling, then slowly cross and lower it over the opposite side of his body, repeating the same motion for the other leg. He would then bring each to his chest and hold them there for a moment. This was how he entered the world each day – movements and preparations in dark, so when he got up he was agile and able to move. It must have worked as he lived for a long time, during which much of the time he got around well. Only in the last few years did that deteriorate.
At night is when I do my stretches in bed. Following Dad’s same routine, it’s a way to relax the body and muscles for a comfortable slumber. When I have time and think of it, I’ll try to begin the day in the same manner, though I’m usually rushing up and out of bed as I press the snooze button for the third and final time.
A stern message to Instagram: stop trying to get me to turn on push notifications whatever the fuck that means. I DON’T WANT ANY FUCKING NOTIFICATIONS. You’ve asked me 1000 times and the answer is still no, and it will always be no. STOP TRYING TO MAKE NOTIFICATIONS HAPPEN. IT’S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Now you’ve made me shout and I try not to shout on the Lord’s Day.