Sky is changeable.
Sky isn’t still.
Sky is sickeningly shifting.
Sky isn’t stagnant.
Sky is near the end of spring.
Sky is sly.
The best days of spring are usually at the very end rather than the very beginning. Winter is still making demands even after spring arrives, but at the end of spring a duet with summer is always welcome. This is the best crossroads of the year.
This is the week when we travel around the bend from spring to summer – probably the most wonderful turn of the year. This is also the week we are set to soar into the high 90’s – perhaps a bit too much a bit too soon, but we must not scare the sun away this early. More bothersome is the fact that this is the week I’m getting my first colonoscopy – a few years later than I should have (go at 45, not 48, unless there’s a worldwide pandemic). Maybe I’ll do a blog post or two on that, or maybe I’ll make better editing choices and leave it all behind the scenes. Stay tuned to see what happens – in the meantime, here is our weekly blog recap:
The week began with new views from new vantage points.
This is precisely why Pride still matters.
The muted palette of a wildflower patch.
Our first Father’s Day without Dad.
Let the serrated knife do the work it was designed to do.
Our Dazzler of the Day was the one and only Stevie Nicks, whom I got to see twice in a week, and she was just as legendary as promised.
This shockingly-hot pink variety of Monarda – better known as bee balm – called to me last year, and I promptly gave it a prominent place in the garden. Keeping it well-watered and pampered with a decent dose of manure and compost, I took extra special care of it. Most perennials require a year or two to really get going and show what they can do – and it is in this time when the care and watering is most important.
After it finished its first bloom cycle, I cut it back about halfway down the stalks, hoping it would throw off a few flowers later in the season. Its color was so grand I wanted more. Rather than do that, however, it quickly became afflicted with a debilitating bout of mildew, its leaves shriveling and blackening like Dumbledore’s hand when he dared to destroy a horcrux.
It died down tot he ground, something I’d never seen a Monarda do, but I had faith it would survive the winter, and come back in some form. As part of the mint family, they are scrappy survivors, even if mildew does wreak its havoc in our humid summers. This spring, only a few stems poked through the ground, but they grew well, and this one is now in glorious bloom. We shall see how it fares as the summer arrives and progresses.
One of my very first gardening lessons in life came from my Dad, who taught me how to prepare a garden bed for a row of tomatoes, and then carefully plant and cover them with soil, all the way up to their necks so the entire stem would start developing roots and provide a better support system. Fittingly, our very first tomato flowers are in bloom on this Father’s Day – the first which we will be commemorating without Dad.
Dad had been on my mind recently, even before the barrage of Father’s Day e-mails and announcements. (Only one company was kind enough to include an opt-out of receiving Father’s Day promos – David Gandy’s Wellwear site, which sent out an e-mail asking if anyone would like to opt-out due to it being a sensitive holiday for some people. I decided to go that route – not because I’m particularly bothered by the world celebrating Father’s Day as it usually does, but because yes, sometimes it still stings to see any sort of father reference.)
I realized that with the coming of summer, all the remembrances and feelings of last summer were coming back to mind – the angle of the sun, the heat in the air, and the way the warmth brought out scents in the room that ended up being his last room. The atmosphere had started to feel powerfully familiar, and while I dreaded it, I didn’t feel completely lost or despondent like I thought I would. There’s a comfort to when I think of him now, like he’s still here, still guiding me in his way which was always more silent than not.
I will guide the tomatoes the way he taught me, and if my niece and nephews come around I’ll show them how too, hoping they will carry on his memory, and mine.
The first rustling was high in the boughs of the oak tree on the south side of our home. It moved to the nearby pine, then swooped down along the umbrels of the climbing hydrangea before weaving its way through the Chinese dogwood. In this night wind, I felt the distinct presence of my father, and I can’t quite explain why. The breeze moved from the dogwoods through the ferns, then back up through the highest branches of the seven sons flower tree, and then it disappeared for a bit.
I went back to my impromptu dip of night-swimming, diving under where the water was gloriously warm after the cool night air. Then the wind came back again – starting in the oak and the pine, then skipping right over to the stand of Green Giant thuja, and the other seven sons flower tree. It was a playful night wind, slightly teasing and humorous in the way it flitted from tree to plant and then dissipated altogether before bounding back like an overzealous dog.
Right above the pool, the Big Dipper carried its portion of the sky – at least I think it’s the Big Dipper. The only memory fragments left from my college Astronomy course consist of this tale of the guy who said ‘fag’ in front of me. Actual astronomy items of useful information have long ago fallen away.
Winking from behind the trees, a half-moon played hide-and-seek as I swam into the deep end of the pool. Again, I felt my father’s presence – in the moonlight, in the stars, in the idea of all the space between where I was and where he might be.
My father has been on my mind lately, as the fast approach of summer rekindles the atmosphere and environment of that scary section of the year in which he declined for the last time. Yet on this night, I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel sad. I felt his presence and I felt comforted.
Also, I still miss him.
It’s a beautiful day!
What are you doing looking at your phone or computer?
Shut that shit down.
Enjoy the sunlight.
And if you’re really hard up for links, click here.
Newly-obsessed with Stevie Nicks (thanks to attending my second show in under week) I’m combining our coquette summer theme (which fittingly features its own dose of lace) with her song ‘Leather and Lace‘. There’s a compelling story behind how that song came to be, but I won’t spoil it for anyone who might be going to see her live (and absolutely everyone should). I’ll simply post the song here as it’s currently my favorite of her many iconic musical moments, and for once I find the song, and its lyrics, to be more serious and thoughtful than any of my silly words or stories.
Most of us are a little leather and little lace in one, and in our relationships with each other we might lean toward one side or the other, but every relationship I know and have been in has found one person assuming both roles at various points. That’s certainly true of my marriage – there are times when each of us has to be stronger because of what the other person might be going through, and such balance is a very good thing.
And so we have this sweet love song as we near the end of spring – not the sort of love song to accompany the start of something, but a more resonant and lasting notion of love to embody the potent glowing embers of a love that has survived the wear and tear of decades. Even leather breaks down after all that time, and lace is sometimes better at allowing poisonous winds to travel right through it instead of taking it all in. Which is stronger in the end? Both might be needed to make it through this life’s journey.
The world has gotten entirely too serious for our coquette leanings, and when it threatens to take us all down, I find it best to let loose and put on some ‘Strawberry Bounce’ from Janet Jackson’s under-appreciated ‘Damita Jo’ album. It also provides the opportunity to post a few mouth-watering pictures of the first batch of fresh strawberries that Andy found at Gade Farm. ‘Tis the damn season! And it’s Friday too!!
Let’s have our strawberry silliness.
I liked strawberries more as a kid than I do now – not that I mind them in the least, I’m simply not quite as enamored. Back then, strawberry was my favorite flavor in the Chocolate/Vanilla/Strawberry trio of a Neapolitan ice cream carton. Whenever given the option of vanilla or chocolate, I would choose strawberry. Turns out I’ve been rejecting binary options my whole life long.
As for the ‘Strawberry Bounce’ of Damita Jo’s pumping ditty, indulge in these profound lyrics, give in to this sick beat, and hang on to spring like it’s gonna leave next week…
This naked Orville Peck montage for Paper magazine, shot and directed by Brett Loudermilk, gets an echo post following the original post of nude Orville Peck pics here. Loudermilk coaxed a scorching series of images from Peck – it’s amazing the majesty that a few well-twisted balloons can conjure, particularly when a naked Peck sits astride them or cradles them in his hand. Summer is about to pop off…
Peck will be providing this year’s summer theme song (to be revealed as always on the first day of summer) which was hinted at in this Coquette Summer Music post. (His will be the secret song listed on that playlist.) Anyway, here are a couple more shots by Loudermilk, well-worth another look-see.
The first installment of our Coquette Summer Music Playlist included this beauty by Air, entitled ‘Alone in Kyoto’. It gives a lovely lilt to a late spring afternoon which has turned warmer than I dared to dream about. This song plays on a day that feels like summer. Without words, the delicate melody floats in the air, providing room for your own contemplative mental meanderings. That’s not always a great thing for people who dwell too much in their minds, ruminating and perseverating and reeling with overthinking. At those moments, and I have a few over the course of any given day, I will return to a singular focus on mindfulness.
Taking each moment and minute as it comes, redirecting my attention to my breathing, on the sole idea of the breath – the inhalation, the pause, the exhalation, the pause, and the inhalation again – one continuous river of survival, where peace can always be found if you know how to look for it.
Our coquette summer hasn’t even officially begun, but the notion of melancholy masked in beauty is timeless and unbound by seasonal shifts or demarcations.
The over-hybridized hot-house extravagance of fanciful orchids or the bombast of brash bedding annuals that never pause bloom until frost strikes them down can lead to a fatigue of excess color and saturation. At those times, I head out of the cultivated yards and the greenhouses, and find any small patch of wildflowers – which are to be found just about anywhere, such as behind the buildings of an outlet mall (in this care the Lee Outlets) where sections of ground have gone unmoved and untended, resulting in this little muted area of wildflowers and weeds.
The flower forms were simple, the colors were soft, and their structure was awkward, haphazard, and entirely lacking of order or organization. They were brilliant in their simplicity and softness. Seeing the scene was almost a relief to my vision – a break, a reset, a chance to cleanse the visual palette. Like a container of coffee beans between cologne samples.
In these very late days of spring, when all the world is brimming and overflowing with super-saturated colors and fragrances, one appreciates a moment of quiet, of delicious dullness. If all you experience is one extreme after another, eventually these scenes lose their magic and power – and stretches of time like winter become more desolate and bereft of charm. Reconnecting with quieter places and moments is a trick to even out the rollercoaster of spring barreling into summer.
Down time matters.
Call me a convert to the church of the coven, as I have fallen completely under the musical spell of enchantment cast by Stevie Nicks and her storied legacy of song sorcery. My friend JoAnn took me to my first Stevie Nicks show at Mohegan Sun this past Sunday, and it was a soul-enriching reminder of the healing power of music – and testament to the enduring performance wizardry of a woman who, despite her repeated reminders of her 76-years of age and wisdom, stood center stage and kept command of an entirely-rapt sold-out audience for two straight hours. The history of her triumphs and tribulations over the past few decades is as tortured and twisted as it is wondrous and miraculous. She’s worked her magic while countless others have burned brightly and faded quickly around her.
A little more than halfway through the how, I marveled at how she had preserved her voice over all those years of gold dust living, when she paused to share the background on how she has religiously maintained a 40-minute vocal warm-up regime before every single show she has done over the past twenty years or so. It’s that sort of dedication to her craft – and her passion for the music that has sustained her during the darkest days – which has established her presence in the firmament of musical legends. This Dazzler of the Day crowning is hardly enough to convey how many lives she has changed and inspired, and it’s only the start of my own discovery of her genius.
A few people I know make a habit of reading the obituaries. I’ve never done that. I don’t even like reading the obituaries of loved ones I’ve known. Even the better renditions that artfully weave words and stories as more of a tribute than documentation of someone’s death are often difficult to read. I think I’ve always been rather commonly afraid of death, up until last year when I had no choice but to face it and confront it.
Every once in a while, however, an obituary comes along to capture my heart, and remind me of the importance of honoring those we have lost, especially when it comes with a posthumous revelation that may make a difference for certain ones going through similar struggles. In this case, the end of Edward Thomas Ryan’s obituary did what he felt he couldn’t do for all his lived days:
Edward wanted to share the following: “I must tell you one more thing. I was Gay all my life: thru grade school, thru High School, thru College, thru Life. I was in a loving and caring relationship with Paul Cavagnaro of North Greenbush. He was the love of my life. We had 25 great years together. Paul died in 1994 from a medical Procedure gone wrong. I’ll be buried next to Paul. I’m sorry for not having the courage to come out as Gay. I was afraid of being ostracized: by Family, Friends, and Co-Workers. Seeing how people like me were treated, I just could not do it. Now that my secret is known, I’ll forever Rest in Peace.”
At first it was heartbreaking to read. I’ve known men like Edward. They carry a hollowed-out, haunted desperation to some of their days and actions, while somehow managing to be braver and stronger than I could ever imagine having to be. I wonder at an entire life lived within the proverbial confines of the closet, a life lived with subterfuge and secrets, and what moments of freedom men like Edward might have known, grasped at, lived for… It always crushes the soul a little to dwell upon what kind of world would allow for such an existence – and what kind of people would want to suppress or force someone to be something other than what they truly are.
And then I feel grateful. Grateful for having had the fortune and privilege and fortitude to come out when I was young, when I was still finding my way and growing into the person I was born to be. Grateful for the existence of Pride Month, for others who paved the way without such fortune and privilege. Grateful for being able to surround myself with people who would never think of suppressing or forcing anyone to be someone they weren’t. And grateful for the Edwards of the world – especially Edward Thomas Ryan – who did in death what he felt he could not do in life, becoming at last the person he was born to be, and reminding us of our own history.
Blessed be ‘Paper’ Magazine, who never met a cover subject they didn’t like slicked-up, oiled-down and butt-naked. Case in point is Orville Peck, who makes his cover debut in this scintillating spread. Last seen in these parts as our Dazzler of the Day, Peck is about to make more splashes thanks to some upcoming music. Stay tuned, prick up your ears, and prepare to be wowed.
