I wore all black today – it’s the uniform of this fall season. It also marks a shift from my typical garb of crazy colors and wild combinations; it also fits the mood at hand, which is black as the night.
Before a late meditation, I stepped outside and looked up at the dark sky. An airplane blinked and slowly crossed in a gentle arc, then the stars began to appear as my eyes adjusted. They are always there – sometimes it just takes a bit of effort and patience to see them.
The last time Stuart Price and Madonna were in the studio together something very special was in the offing, in the form of ‘Confessions on a Dancefloor’. That was about twenty years ago, and Madonna is the first one to acknowledge that you can never do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce.
As the musical director from her most recent ‘Celebration Tour’, Price has been a part of a number of Madonna’s successes, so seeing them together in the studio has put all of her fans into a flutter. I’m still in that camp, and this thrills me.
The fruit of the dogwood tree is having a moment. Usually, I miss these in-between colors, echoing the palette of the tomatoes earlier in the season. These are much less palatable to taste, however, and their texture leaves much to be desired.
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.” ~ Stephen King
“Very few beings really seek knowledge in this world. Mortal or immortal, few really ask. On the contrary, they try to wring from the unknown the answers they have already shaped in their own minds —justifications, confirmations, forms of consolation without which they can’t go on. To really ask is to open the door to the whirlwind. The answer may annihilate the question and the questioner.” ~ Anne Rice
Once upon a time I lived life like a vampire. Inhabiting the blackness of a castle – yes, a true castle, which is never nearly as romantic as one thinks it is – I roamed cold and clammy hallways, floating down dim stone stairwells, and avoiding the piercing bits of light that peeked into tiny windows of turrets. Castles are only good for their gorgeous darkness – they offer little comfort otherwise, unless you are in need of defense. And even then they can only keep things out of themselves; not once did they protect my heart.
I learned a lot in that castle, and during that part of my life, which should have been far lonelier than I ever allowed myself to feel. Some self-preserving instinct deep inside of me signaled a dire warning that if I had faced the loneliness then it would have won, taking me down entirely, and likely forever. The castle outwardly illustrated how to construct a fortress of the heart, though I may have known that before I ever stepped into such a cruel edifice. And perhaps my heart didn’t deserve such protection. God, if such a thing exists, may not have had much empathy for my existence, and being a vampire was probably a step up from what certain others actually thought of me.
Hate to give the satisfaction, asking how you’re doing now How’s the castle built off people you pretend to care about? Just what you wanted Look at you, cool guy, you got it I see the parties and the diamonds sometimes when I close my eyes Six months of torture you sold as some forbidden paradise I loved you truly Gotta laugh at the stupidity
Vampires have long held a bad reputation. I’m not saying they don’t deserve it, or even that they’re real – I’m just saying it’s bad, and as someone who’s been vilified in ways both just and unfair, I know what that’s like. There’s a loneliness there, and occasionally a stance of sympathy from those who enjoy a dance with the devil, beneath the pale moonlight or not. (You know the moonlight of which I speak.)
Like the vampire, I’ve committed acts of atrocity, mostly in my youth, the way most of us do – being careless with the hearts of others, caring too much for this heart of mine, and behaving in cruel, reckless, feckless, fuck-them-if-they-can’t-take-a-joke form. The unevolved part of me that relishes in such villainy takes a degree of pride in that, the same way that I pretend not to boast about my penchant for making people cry.
‘Cause I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
Did I mean to hurt the people that I hurt? For the most part no, and that may be the tragic irony of it all. Because the people I intended to hurt didn’t always feel it – or if they did they never showed it, and where’s the fun in that? It only served to make me try harder, to raise the level of diabolical emotional pain I might inflict, ensuring that the next time I struck the wound would prove viciously debilitating. Innocent people got injured then – the flying shrapnel of my torment an unintentional but mandatory aspect when you’re out to cause pain of any kind. Destruction begets destruction, especially where emotions are concerned. Rarely does one heart get broken without others being affected. Back then I didn’t care. I couldn’t. Caring that much would have been a hindrance and a luxury, and my heart preferred to live in stark, unencumbered fashion; being selfish is always easier than being selfless – and who, in their heart of hearts, really wants to be without a self? “I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit” – and you will always blame me for your own weakness.
And every girl I ever talked to told me you were bad, bad news You called them crazy, God, I hate the way I called them crazy too You’re so convincing How do you lie without flinching? (How do you lie, how do you lie, how do you lie?) Ooh, what a mesmerizing, paralyzing, fucked-up little thrill Can’t figure out just how you do it, and God knows I never will Went for me, and not her ‘Cause girls your age know better
I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you’ve made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
It is in the vampire’s nature to kill. Murder, for them, is a means of survival. You can’t blame a polar bear or a hippopotamus for trying to end you if you’ve encroached upon their turf, and the shark that nibbles at your calf and the snake that bites you after a warning rattle are only being their authentic selves. If it was the vampire’s nature to be murderous, it was in my nature to be cruel. Maybe my nature was cultivated from nurture – I’m in no mood to argue that one way or another – I only acknowledge that by the time I moved into a castle my nature was set in stone, like some blue-ringed octopus that only wanted to be left alone.
Well, I’m giving myself too much credit in trying to take away the notion that my choices were somehow an inevitable and uncontrollable aspect of my being when they were, after all, choices; the purpose of this post is to own up to the evil that once entranced me, and may yet again, because once you’ve tasted such a thing it’s hard to not want it when the opportunity presents itself. Those opportunities arise when the heart is weak and the soul is weary; evil often flourishes in the aftermath of pain. A sadistic streak, having once calmed the hurt of a broken heart, might feel good again following similar circumstances of being wronged. The grooves are still there, the path remains apparent.
The surest way not to get hurt is to be the one doing the hurting; they leave you alone after that. They all leave you alone. Then, try as they might – and I am certain they have tried mightily – they cannot eradicate me from their mind. I simply won’t leave. It’s not something they truly want anyway, despite all lame protestations, and we both know that. That may be what ultimately makes me a monster – not my heinous acts, but the haunting that invariably ensues afterward.
You said it was true love, but wouldn’t that be hard? You can’t love anyone, ’cause that would mean you had a heart I tried you help you out, now I know that I can’t ‘Cause how you think’s the kind of thing I’ll never understand
I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
“It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow, there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I’d envision his face.” ~ Anne Rice
When Suzie and I last visited Vermont, it was still summer – and the 80-degree day backed that up. Still, there were signs of fall on the move, as seen in these photos, capturing one of the first trees to start their transformation. Andy says this looks to be a banner year for fall foliage thanks to a hot, and lately dry, summer. I don’t know how all that chlorophyll magic works, I only know that I appreciate its prettiness.
A SONG FOR AUTUMN
By Mary Oliver
In the deep fall don’t you imagine the leaves think how comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of air and the endless freshets of wind? And don’t you think the trees themselves, especially those with mossy, warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep inside their bodies? And don’t you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond vanishes, and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its bellows. And at evening especially, the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way.
Whenever I doubt whether something greater is at work, I think of this kind of beauty, and gain an appreciation for simply being a small part of it.
Does anyone else have that one pantry shelf where you just keep pushing things back into an abyss, only to try to find something you know you put there and realize you put it there in 2008?
When I look back at day planners and calendars from my younger years (not usually a wise way of passing the time) I marvel at how much I used to do in a single day. Waking early for breakfast before class, finishing a reading due just before the course started, three or four classes in a row, rushing to a commuter rail into Boston to work a retail shift from 5 to 9 PM, scarfing down dinner amid some more reading for school, trying to hammer out homework on the commuter rail back to campus at 10:40 PM, then showering and trying to finish more schoolwork – it makes my head spin.
The idea that some nights I would skip the 10:40 PM commuter rail and wait for a 12:30 AM train just to have a couple more hours in Boston boggles my mind. If I tried that today I’d be dead.
Contrasted with my days now, that life of busy business feels far away, and largely foolish. What really came of such busyness and all the rushing around? Graduation from Brandeis? Big deal. A retail job I could hold down and do well? Bigger deal. A day in which every hour and minute was filled with being busy for the sake of being busy? Biggest fucking deal of all.
These days I find more value and worth in simply taking a quiet day and mindfully meandering through it – a walk in the garden, a spell of reading on the couch, a bit of writing while sipping a cup of hot tea. I didn’t realize then how much being busy was simply filling a void that could have better been spent meditating or working on calming the runaway train of thoughts that once barreled through my mind. It still chugs along at varying speeds, but I’m better at enjoying the ride rather than worrying about whether it’s going to fly off the rails. And perhaps that’s just me getting older and a little wiser.
It’s a lifestyle change that has made me more calm. It feels strange – because all that running around and going non-stop was always in the purpose of finding contentment. That peace was within me the whole time – I simply hadn’t paused to find it, and hear it, and truly listen to it.
Way back in 1994, there was blessedly no social media, no blogs, no TikTok or FaceBook or Instagram – and I kept in touch with friends the very old-fashioned way: writing letters by hand and sending them out through the postal service. The method of blogging then, at least the style of diary-like blogging I do here, was the journal, and I’d write in one by hand, then transpose it on a bulky Mac (in Grape!) ~ ahh, the good old days. Having rediscovered a journal from 1994 – the last time I kept one in such painstaking detail – I ran across this ridiculous passage from exactly thirty years ago. It’s from an evening in Boston when I was just embarking upon this romance with a guy I met on the street, the quaint way we used to meet people. It also offers a novice’s look at Boston back when things were very different – it’s almost impossible to find a decent adult theater these days… Have a chuckle at my 19-year-old expense, it’s ok. How were we ever so young?
October 1, 1994: I hadn’t heard from Tom in a few days. He had told me that he was going to Maine in order to get away from Boston for a while and collect his thoughts. I wondered if they would have anything to do with me… When I went into Boston one night I purposely walked by the Meridien Hotel, if only to get a feeling like I was closer to him. I decided to miss the 10:40 PM commuter rail which left me there until 12:20 AM, when the next one would leave. So with a few hours to spare, I walked to where we had eaten at the Moka Cafe. I remembered Tom pointing out to me that just down the street the area became very bad and dangerous. I walked a ways down it, not crying anymore. I turned towards Park Street, where I knew he might be working. He should have returned by the time, I thought. I made my way through Downtown Crossing, where all the department stores bustled during the day. It was deserted now, save for a few weekend stragglers.
I passed a man on top of a woman, who was whimpering. I waited beside the curb to see if he was hurting her, but she didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps she was too drunk. I passed an adult theater and an adult store, the owner of which was screaming obscenities at someone, who was shouting even more vehemently back. As I passed, the guy threw his bag down and challenged the own to a fight outside. I turned the corner into Chinatown. Two men wearing hoods walked by me, smelling like pot. As I came into the bright intersection where Filene’s met Jordan Marsh, a car going much too fast for the area slammed into the curb. I looked back to see that he had flattened his front tire.
The man stopped his car. He was white-haired and he got out and made motions to repair the tire. I walked to him and asked if he needed my help. He looked at me. I was wearing a long black coat and a backpack, and must have seemed a little scary, and I knew what he must have been thinking. Of course I knew that I was nothing compared to what might happen to him, but he refused me nonetheless. He said he got everything all right. I reluctantly walked away. I didn’t want to leave him there like that, but what could I do? I watched him for a while. Another well-dressed couple offered to help, but they ended up walking away too. I really had to see if he din’t need anything, so I returned to him and offered to at least call a tow truck. Again, he merely went back to work beneath the car, so I left him for good. I walked some more. I went to the waterfront. I tried calling Kirsten but there was only the answering machine message.
Greetings, October – month of ‘Sex’ and ‘Erotica‘, month of gourds and pumpkins and lanterns of jack. You are the month that seduces like the antithesis of March – in like a lamb and out like a lion. Your gentle entry is a welcome one – your exit will likely not be as benign. Everything that happens in between the two will be our little secret.
I’ve taken to inhabiting the nights, even as it saps my daily energy, and in this darkness the fall offers an enchantment like no other season. I will walk in seas of dead leaves at the edge of the day, where grasses brown and dying spill their feathery seed. On the hazy line between wild and cultivated, I traverse the boundaries as if following them on some faded map, straddling two sides and two lives – the past and the present, split in a way that usually doesn’t bode well for the soul. Double the work, double the maintenance, double the required sanity when I can barely muster enough for one.
Here in October, the clocks get pushed back, since our country still doesn’t seem able to stop bullying time. The days become darker earlier, and the acceleration of such darkness begins the slow cocooning that doesn’t end when winter’s first day begins to barely add light to the proceedings. It is a time ripe for reckonings…
These past few weeks I haven’t been outside as much as I should have been. We’ve had some wonderful weather, but when the heart feels downtrodden a sunny day doesn’t much matter. When last I made a studied inspection of the garden, this pink petunia was throwing its vibrant neon blooms face-up to the sun. On a recent walk, I noticed all the blooms had gone, and all the stems and eaves had turned brown. With the sun comes a dryness that has taken the last efforts of the annuals.
September has come and gone so quickly, I fear I’m losing track of the days. Now firmly entrenched in the fall season, the long and slow fade-to-black will bring us to the doorstep of winter. I can see by the red weight of the dogwood fruit that fall’s gifts have begun to appear, if you know where to look. On with the weekly recap, right before October arrives…
Throughout this fall’s tumultuous online trajectory, one of the unheralded and all-too-often unseen pillars of support has been Andy. That’s typical the case in a general sense, but when I’m down or unsure, he seems to know when to be there, such as in this delicious comfort food dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. When the weather dips into the cycle of usual fall doldrums, a spaghetti dinner is one of those easy pick-me-ups that can shift the emotional arc of a day, or at the very least make dinner a bright spot.
Andy makes amazing meatballs (as previously celebrated here) – it was one of the first meals he ever made for me back when we had just started dating. Over the years, he has experimented and perfected his recipe for sauce, and there is always a ready pot of it in the fridge on days when you need a little extra comfort.
It also makes for a happy post to finish this early week of fall – come back for tomorrow morning’s recap to catch up on all the drama you might have missed for the past 49 years…
Boston’s bright and bountiful beauty shines in these flower photos, taken on a rainy day and proving that sometimes a gray sky and drops of rain can add to the beauty of the world. I’ve long maintained that the colors in the garden seem stronger and more saturated now than at any other time of the year. Recompense for having to slip into the winter slumber perhaps.
