Kids today are so stupid they think that ‘low-key’ means the exact opposite of what ‘low-key’ actually means. I fear for the future, and then I remember it’s all theirs.
The latter seemingly dropped all of its leaves in Saturday night’s vicious thunderstorm – a victim of the rain, the wind, and perhaps the sheer exhaustion of keeping itself presentable at this late stage of the gardening year; I know I am certainly spent on every front.
The color combination is striking, and a perfect companion scene to the upcoming holiday season – a season in which I intend to participate as little as possible – going through the motions to get myself to January without major friction or blow-ups. To that end, I’m going to act like all the wise waterfowl – letting just about everything roll off of me like water off a fucking duck’s back. If others want to act out, stir up drama, create unnecessary tension and consternation – have at it. I’ll direct you to work it out amongst yourselves because I’m not letting anything bother me this year. Watch this space and you’ll see.
The world moves closer to winter, and my time outside diminishes by the day. To combat that depressing shift, my visits to the local greenhouse will prove paramount in pushing us through the winter. On a recent trip there, these African violets brightened the green landscape. They came in other shades too – pink, maroon, white, and periwinkle – proof that not all violets must come in violet. A name is sometimes nothing more than a name – meaningless and void of context or designation, sometimes deceptively so.
Today marks the advance screening of ‘Wicked: For Good’ that Andy and I will be attending, and this is easily one of the most anticipated movie events that we’ve ever experienced. (Yes, I’m a sucker for all things ‘Wicked’, and I’m not apologizing.) In honor of that, Jonathan Bailey, this year’s Sexiest Male, and co-star/hunk of the ‘Wicked’ movies, helms this weekly recap (just as he did last week).
A scent, a resin, a sound, a song, an instrument, an abstraction – Mr. Oud takes his name from any number of objects or ideas, shape-shifting like quicksilver and sliding into whatever you want him to be. Without one stage and true identity, he is free to become whatever the moment requires. But let’s not even restrict it that much – he is free. It can end and begin there. That’s why some find him problematic; envy of freedom is the most vicious and powerful form of envy in the world. Most of us are not so free; most of us will never be. And most of us have found Mr. Oud odious at one time or another, loathe though we may be to admit it. The loathsome builds on itself.
A mite of menace, a vivisection of versatility, another zig in a field of zags, resulting in a wondrous whirl of whiplash – Mr. Oud spins dervishly and devilishly, because in chameleonic motion it’s difficult to catch him.
You could never ride such a creature and hope to survive. Let him gallop away.
A noirish weekend in New York many Novembers ago comes to mind on this mysterious day, more suited to an evening post than Sunday morning, but these fall where they will fall, like the words escaping from my fingers and appearing on the screen before you now. Originally, this was going to be the day I posted our recent Virginia adventures, but in writing them they have taken on an extended life of their own, so they’ll be here in a string of posts slated for next weekend.
For now, the mystery of a mask worn by the elusive Mr. Oud, who was last seen lighting a candle and whispering a prayer or a curse – and when you think about it those two seemingly-opposed items are just the same thing with a different perspective: a wish.
Mr. Oud will return in a bit, at least a brief glimpse of who we think he is, who we think he might be, who we think of when we think of him. He spins spirals of words, of prepositional clauses, of teasing and tantalizing ends that seem to be about to happen and then never do, and when they do it’s so far from where we thought we were heading, and so far from where it all began, that we’re left breathless in anticipation of a still-not-quite-there period.
The struggle of today’s teenage boy is real: how to obsess and drench oneself in cologne while maintaining the most offensively odiferous feet at the same time. These two things, seemingly and reasonably at complete odds with one another, inform the daily existence of the male teenager. Studies should commence on how to hold two such ideas and modes of living in one head at the exact same time.
How does this happen? I need to know. Because my head cannot wrap itself two mildly-opposing ideas without hurting itself – and I have to start learning, for my own ease.
Our Japanese maple has been aflame for a few days now, wind and rain and snow be damned. I’m dangerously operating on autopilot, at least on this blog, while the circumstances of life swirl madly around – all of which will be addressed at some point – perhaps here, perhaps not. The dangers of having a writer in the family include being exposed at any moment for the wretched truth of one’s actions, without sentiment or scorn. The court of public opinion is sometimes the most powerful court in all the land, and in the words of Taylor Swift, “I protect the family.”
My meditations have been bracketing the days – either at the very beginning, before the sun is up, or at the very end, long after the sun has gone down. Candlelight is the only light in the room at such times – a comforting glow that cuts through the darkest times. The power of a single candle has always proven immense – there is comfort in that, in the single light we can each conjure.
The days are growing shorter and darker – the nights elongate, and the darkness expands – in service and invitation to the light, I sit lotus-style and breathe slowly in and out. One can still the world at such times, quelling the doubts and worry that creep into the dark times, and in the slowed breath, the measured exhalation, there is an expanse of peace – an inner light that pushes the noise and night aside.
