Before the month steals away in the dark of Halloween night, let’s celebrate the beautiful time of the year that we call October. In a pair of poems by Phebe A. Holder, the end of the month gets its due and honor, and a moment of contemplative rumination fleshes out before us. Too often October is the anti-thesis of March – going in like a lamb and going out like a lion. We like lions in these parts, so the end is just as enjoyable as the beginning, and far more dramatic. (We like drama too.) After this week, the rush of the holiday season will be upon us. Let’s take a pause to slow it down and take in every last day of October sunshine.
The softened light, the veiling haze, The calm repose of autumn days, Steal gently o’er the troubled breast, Soothing life’s weary cares to rest.
~Phebe A. Holder, “A Song of October”
A brooding calm in all the air, A dreamy quiet everywhere… A golden glow to light the day That fades in purple mists away— This soothing calm, this presence bright, October’s sweet and mellow light.
~Phebe A. Holder
Ouch. This was way harsh. On the very day he tried to take credit for the killing of an ISIS leader (after he allowed hundreds of others to escape) Donald Trump was embarrassingly booed at the World Series, where they also gifted him with a round of “Lock Him Up!!!†chants. Karma chameleon, red gold and green! It’s worth looking up all the angles of this one, as it is a powerful and gratifying gauge of how a big group of baseball fans feels about this President.
There’s no other way to spin it. Try as they might (and their story on this is half-laughable) even Fox News couldn’t spin it any other way than dismal, abject humiliation. I’m slightly perplexed as to why Trump thought this would be a good idea. Maybe he confused all the red hats for MAGA shit? Anyway, here’s hoping all those boos make their way to the ears of the GOP. Even though you know there earplugs are in.
PS – Guess who was never booed at a sporting event?
The final week of October is at hand, and the high holiday season is about to begin. Hang on to your hats and prepare for the coming. Personally, I don’t usually do holiday shit until the day after Thanksgiving, so don’t expect that nonsense this early, but there may be a few advance peeks of the magic on the way. On with the recap of a week that was more sad than expected, and that’s the way life goes…
‘When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in.’ – D.H. Lawrence
The knocking came at a most inopportune moment of the year. In the dark night of fall, a few weeks prior to Halloween, when spirits seek to gain entrance to our world and senses are heightened in expectation of paranormal activity, it sounded above the bedroom ceiling. A loud knock, followed in quick succession by smaller, diminishing knocks, paused me in my descent into slumber. It was enough to plant a seed of worry in my head, and I waited for another sound to tell me something was indeed happening, or a tense silence to allow me to believe it wasn’t. Another loud knock came, then the pitter-patter of little feet on the roof, and the realization and resolution of the quick mystery dawned on me to welcome relief: squirrels in the oak above our house.
Squirrels – those gray ghosts of our backyard, acorn-thieving marauders that pelt our roof with the discarded debris of their handiwork – have been making a fine party for themselves in these high days of autumn. Lying in bed at night, I can hear their paws scurrying over the roof in between the knocks and pings of acorns dislodged from the oak tree above our house. At first it was disconcerting – the notion of small creatures traversing the house in the middle of the night is not initially a comforting one. Upon realizing what it was, and always having a soft spot for squirrels, I now welcome the disturbance. It’s a little reminder that lives other than ours are taking place in close proximity, that we are not the only ones here, and that the others may even be higher than us. Seeking and storing their food stocks, they are doing what they need to do to survive another winter, adding on a little layer of sustenance that will perhaps see them through to the spring. What a perilous life, and if a few spooky knocks at night are the cost, I will happily pay.
Leave it to a squirrel to shatter the glass bottle of our ego.
When I heard the news that the main stars of ‘The Facts of Life’ were reuniting for a Lifetime holiday movie, I thought that this might be the first and only thing that could get me to watch a Lifetime movie. I grew up on ‘The Facts of Life’ despite my parents’ best intentions to stop us from watching it (they didn’t appreciate the sarcasm that bled into our voices after we watched an episode) but I didn’t enjoy the wisecracks as much as I did the idea of a group of friends that became each other’s family. My heart longed to belong like that, to forge my own tribe of misfits. As much I wanted to be Blair, I wanted to find my own Jo – the person who became an unlikely but inevitable friend for life.
Looking back on my friends, I consider myself lucky for having found a few Jo-figures over the years. Suzie, Skip, Missy, Chris and to a large extent Andy – they are all completely different from me in major ways, and on paper our personalities wouldn’t obviously blend. But life is not about finding those who are exactly like us – most of my favorite people have those traits I lack and/or desire. They fulfill a need to make myself better, even if it’s just by proximity and the rubbing off of their goodness onto my flaws.
Given that it was Andy’s surprise birthday gift, and that he opened it a few days ago, I can now – finally! – talk about the fact that we will be seeing ‘Plaza Suite’ starring Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick when it takes its New York bow at the Hudson Theatre next March. We toyed with the idea of seeing it in its out-of-town Boston try-out, but February is risky weather-wise, so we pushed it to March. Still risky in the Northeast, but we are taking our chances and hoping for the best. There are also a few Betty Buckley shows happening on that weekend, so I’m hoping to get tickets to at least one of them.
As for our accommodations, I’m putting out an early Christmas wish request in the form of a night (maybe two?) at the Plaza Hotel – it seems only fitting if we will be seeing ‘Plaza Suite’ that weekend. Even better is that we’ll be seeing the show with Sherri and Skip, on Skip’s birthday no less, which means we are planning on having cocktails at the Plaza Hotel, followed by dinner and the show – a perfect little spell in New York… even if March feels a very far way off right now.
He hit a 68-year-old woman, a newspaper delivery person who was making her rounds, in the early hours of the day, killing her. The name, and his age (two years younger than me) had me wondering if I knew him. Then his mugshot came up and I remembered. We had orchestra together. He played bass. At a time in my life when I was extra-surly and combative, he was always nice to me. He was a freshman, and went out of his way to laugh at whatever I said. He included me in conversations when I didn’t want to be included, and extended a disarming friendliness. In return, well, I wasn’t mean to him. That was a lot in those days.
I went to his FaceBook page to see what clues there might be to his life since I last saw him all those some thirty years ago. How he got to be where he was in such a state at that early morning hour. How he became the person he was when things fell apart. How do any of us get to where we are? It isn’t usually in grand, singular events – it’s a cumulative climb or descent, a series of ups and downs, the general trajectory of which isn’t necessarily seen or understood until an average slope can be gleaned. Sometimes we never see. As expected, FaceBook offered only the merest glimpse at the life of a stranger.
He had a wife who recently died of cancer. Shortly after that he apparently posted this song.
He lost his dog for a while and posted how it nearly drove him crazy with despair before it was found.
There is so much sadness in this world.
There is no excuse for driving drunk. This shows why.
There is also no excuse for not trying to understand someone else’s pain. Maybe this shows that too.
Three mothers of friends I know have passed away in the last month, making this a somewhat sad fall. There’s no balm for losing a mother, I would imagine. Andy still feels the loss of his Mum, and I think of her whenever I see cardinals. A few have been visiting our backyard over the last few weeks, and we find comfort in this, as if she’s nodding at us, saying hello on these sunny fall days.
The weight of the world is on our mothers. Many of us don’t realize this as we’re growing up, and we take them for granted or treat them with less kindness and care than they deserve. Seeing my friends lose their Moms makes me treasure mine a little more.
There is so much loss in this world, so much pain and heartache, and whenever it feels unbearable I tend to turn to my Mom for comfort and solace. I can’t imagine the loneliness for those who aren’t so lucky.
Apologies for this maudlin post. We shall return to our regularly scheduled frivolity shortly. Some things just merit a moment. Some days are about contemplation, not celebration.
Today Suzie and I are making a quick overnight trip to Washington, DC, where we haven’t been for a number of years. (The last time we were in town was for Chris and Darcy’s wedding; this time is far less happy.) I booked a room at the Dupont Circle Hotel because they are ideally located, and every time I’ve stayed there it has been a pleasant and lovely experience. (They had me at heated bathroom floors.) Happiness is a hotel that knows how to take care of its clients.
It’s also a hotel with a restaurant and cocktail bar, which this place has in elegant spades. I still recall the ‘Alan’s Love’ cocktail, and whenever my name is spelled correctly, and gin is involved, I’m fully on board. Hopefully it’s still an option. A recent refurbishment has me more excited than usual about trying it out again. I’ll report back in a few days…
Ou te caches-tu, Alegria, pour ces enfants de la rue qui n’ont meme pas de quoi se payer un rire. Ce soir, nos cris de joie deviendront cris de rage alors que des milliers de jeunes coeurs se perdont au plus profond de notre bienveillance. Vivement que le chant d’Alegria entraine ceux de nous qui ont la volonte d’agir!
Translation: We have no illusions. The children of the streets will not see Alegria. Laughter is still a luxury they cannot afford. Tonight, our cries of joy will become screams of rage that millions of young hearts will again freeze in the gutters of our goodwill. May Alegria become a rallying cry for those of us who have a voice.
A gray feather, small and delicate and fine, floats like a tiny puff of smoke before snagging itself on a leaf the color of a canary. A sky of blue, backdrop to swiftly-moving clouds, does not betray the turbulence of the days before, but the trees still drip with remnants of the rain. Balmy October days are unexpectedly delightful in a mean sort of way, tricky enough to convince you that a bit of summer still lingers before the undeniable curtain of cold descends for good.
How sad, I think as I write this, that you will never feel the same emotional thrill I feel when listening to this song. How could you? You weren’t there in that time in my life when I was hearing it. It’s a lonely thing, that we don’t share such memories. You have songs that will instantly bring you back to certain moments in your life, and I won’t know what or how it moves you. Even if we listened to it together doesn’t mean we will both be transported to that time and place. Music affects us differently. I suppose everything does. It’s a wonder we find any commonality at all, so wondrously variable are our experiences and perception.
Most of us have those songs that mean something solely to ourselves, and maybe one or two other people, whose melody evokes a memory so indelibly seared upon our brains that it’s jarring when it surfaces again. That’s what ‘Alegria’ does to me. From the very first clanging of the bells, I am brought back to a few weeks in Boston, when I was searching for the condo, and falling madly in love with any gentleman who crossed my path. I didn’t know what the song was about, I didn’t read or understand French, but I sensed some heartache and pain at work, something that was supposed to be worked through for healing and heart-mending. I listened to the song alone, as I did most everything in those days. It forced me to be my own best friend. Solitude is soul-shaping, for better or worse.
Perched in its tree and lit with the autumnal splendor of the sun – a splendor that only comes at this time of the year when the leaves are shades of cooked corn – the little gray feather twists and turns in the wind, but refuses to fall from its place. Performing such a delicate balancing act, like an extension of the bird it came from, the feather seems to wink at me, telling me that somehow everything will be all right. I do not know that then. I do not trust it.
Then, just like that, the feather releases. It lets go. It flutters away on the briskest of breezes, giddily tumbling into the sky in whirling fashion.
I wish I could let go like that, but back then I was too frightened.
Maybe that’s what saved me.
I didn’t follow the feather to see what came of it.
It was better to keep it floating in the sky of my mind.
For reasons that will be obvious to anyone who knows me, the man pictured here is my new hero. I say that without snark or sarcasm, because it has been my dream to wear a robe 24/7, and he looks to be living that dream. Sir, I commend and salute you. Keep on rocking on.
Looking out into the backyard from the dining room window, I was struck by the reflection of water wavering on the tree leaves. It suddenly reminded me of a day from early in the summer, when the water played similar scenes on much fresher leaves. Only the trained eye could make out the differences here – the plants past their prime, the trees beyond their bloom, and the sun long since peering down from its zenith. But if you don’t look that hard, it almost feels like summer again.
In certain situations, I don’t mind being tricked. Especially if it reminds me that summer will come again.
Dipping into a lull that I still am not quite sure to attribute to the season or the lack of creative excitement in my life of late, I’ve been trying to channel inspiration wherever I can find it. Felt like a good enough time to revisit some projects and see where I might be headed next. The artistic spirit in me finds it works best when in the midst of planning or making something, rather than resting on previous projects, so I’m putting out the usual feelers into the universe, seeing what strikes my fancy and renders my creative juices. Anyway, a look back is always good at such times. How can you know where you want to go if you don’t acknowledge where you’ve been?
Something jarring happens when people step out of their usual roles, whether it’s a shift in style or attitude or appearance. For some reason, we want our friends to be who we think they are, the people we think we know. Personally, I appreciate a chameleon or an octopus more than a leopard who doesn’t change its spots. That’s why I adore this ‘Harper’s Bazaar’ spread of the ‘Downton Abbey’ ladies reversing their upstairs/downstairs roles. (And clearly Lady Mary rocks both stairs. Just saying.)
Speaking of role reversals, stay tuned this week for a post on my adventures in babysitting the twins – our first sleepover was a smashing success, setting the stage for when we take them to Boston for the Children’s Holiday Hour in December…
