For this gratuitous Sunday evening post of shirtless male celebrities, we have five specimens who have graced this space repeatedly over the years, and none are in need of any additional introduction. Featured in the main pic is a shirtless selfie of Ricky Martin, proving that hunkdom extends well into one’s 50’s if you have enough money to maintain that sort of lifestyle.
While this morning’s post was tinged with an underlying tension and danger, this one is all afternoon light and golden hour goodness, because the world is dark enough without me adding to the madness and mystery. Fall will offer ample moments for darker matter – for now, for this afternoon, let us have the light of a clump of asters.
Asters are one of the most exiting parts of the blooming moment at hand. They saved the best for last, knowing full well their best light will hit right about now. They soak it up, soak it in, radiate beauty, and prepare for their winter rest. Would that we follow suit.
When the summer heat finally lifts, offering some respite and relief from its relentless glory, I find myself itching to get into the woods. It’s a need that goes back to my childhood, when I’d get home from school and hastily run in to the little stretch of forest behind our childhood home while the light was still golden. In that uncharted space, I had my own paths and knew the way by various markers – a large rock placed by God as a remarkable accent piece, an unconventional evergreen with weeping limbs, the fallen trunk of a tree beautifully mottled by moss and lichens – this was how I navigated that space.
These days I prefer a well-trodden path, or any path for that matter – just some bit of structure and order from which I might find my way back. Such was my frame of mind as I made my way along the Burden Pond Preserve in Troy the other weekend. Betsy had told me about it, saying there were waterfalls there – and who doesn’t love a waterfall? There were also whispers of suicides, lending the place a haunted aspect that aligns with this point in the year.
I decided to make my visit early in the day rather than later – I didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught near dusk when the light always falls quicker than you think it will. That’s happened in forests before and it still strikes terror in me when I recount the mad dash to beat the night.
Water birds were present – ducks and geese and a crane of some sort – I seemed to be the only disturbance in their sunny morning of peaceful swimming and/or standing. Walking along the water’s edge on a worn path, I was the first person to make this trek that morning, at least judging by the plentiful spider-webs that tickled my face and arms.
The notion of wandering alone in the woods, during daylight, has never frightened me, but as I made my way further along the path, and the woods closed in behind me, I had the typical moment of wonder and worry as to what I might do if someone intending harm came my way. It was during this time of heightened guard that I sensed something large to my right, moving swiftly but in impossibly quiet fashion.
A thick back of brownish gray fur moved sleekly through the reeds rising through the water. It was enormous, and gone before I could get a good look at it. Reason and history told me it had to be a deer, but it felt more ominous, and other-wordly; the way it traversed the water and reeds so stealthily, almost without movement, and so quickly. It felt like an admonishment of danger, or something larger looming, not only larger physically, but larger in the immensity of shadow and doubt and terrifying uncertainty.
An uneasiness had crept upon this sunny morning, the trees seeming to rise higher, the shadows elongating and deepening, and suddenly this peaceful moment was imbued with a definitive dread. I was already deeper than I’d intended to be, and a little panic surfaced, the way silent fish sometimes rose to the plane where water met air, just eliciting the slightest ripple.
The uneasiness stayed with me until I decided to turn around and head back the way I came. Possibly poisonous fruit was strewn about the pathway now in various stages of decay and decomposition. I would not venture further, or tempt fate to turn on me in any way.
He ties a turban made of sequined pants around his head, the way he did when he was a little boy trying to be a little girl. Not knowing who he was, not knowing who he is, the only way through was to try things on and out. Puzzled diners at early breakfasts watched as he walked in with a pair of Carter’s pajama pants on his head, light blue legs flowing about his shoulders and in his mind he was tossing some luxurious set of curls like the women on those shampoo commercials.
If it was all make-believe, and it most certainly was, did that dispel any of the power he felt? Misguided or unjustified confidence is still, at its heart, confidence – and sometimes more powerful than anything earned from the masses because it had to come from within. He didn’t see this as a boy; he barely registers it as a man. He only knows his worth, and that is enough. Underestimating oneself is just as bedeviling as overestimating oneself. Figuring out who you are only gets more convoluted and difficult the older we get, which is how it should be. At the same time, other things come into more focused relief. The universe isn’t entirely cruel – it offers solace and sustenance for survival when least expected.
Mr. Oud minds his memory, marks the moment, and moves on to another task.
The pictorial documentation of my life began at a relatively young age. I couldn’t have been more than even or twelve years old when I got my first Polaroid instant camera and began getting photos of my life. In this one, I posed mid-song at the piano, not because I loved playing, but because I had on a new Reebok sweatshirt and thought I was THE SHIT. There’s a better photo of me facing the camera head on, but this one has the typewritten description that I typed myself – one of the first records of my own archiving efforts.
Back then, it was oddly not about me, this shot notwithstanding. I thought I was going to capture the key piece of evidence in some murder/crime mystery in the neighborhood, catching some seemingly insignificant clue that helped solve the case. Very much influenced by the soap operas that were my obsession at the time, I yearned for intrigue and excitement, something our sleepy and safe stretch of road failed to provide (the occasional night raid by teenagers who just wanted to jump in the pool and get quickly out was about the most excitement we ever had). Knowing what I know now about the shady shit that goes down in some suburbs, I’m grateful that the only intrigue we ever had was the imaginary stuff in my head – but what fun it was to live in such dramatic make-believe. And so I would set out each day to find some act I might put down on film and help crack the case.
Within the limited confines and inactivity of Pershing Road, all I managed to get was a neighbor stepping out gingerly to get the paper in his underwear, an electric-line worker in a lift and an orange hard hat, and several out of focus and over-exposed photos of plants. Fledgling failures. Dull as dirt.
But there was also me, easily the most exciting thing in the room, with or without documented proof of my existence. We always think we’re the most exciting thing in any room, even if we’d never openly admit it. Already obsessed with any effect or influence I might have had, my sweatshirt was deliberately designed to appear as entirely casual, and thus effortlessly cool, even if it had been planned and wished-for with deliberate care and consternation. Self-awareness was already an albatross, and I chained myself to it with an unbreakable covenant; a singular interest in oneself could be the sort of contagious vanity that demanded some scrap of love.
As we exited the 80’s, and my Reebok sweatshirt slipped out of style, I studied the poses, and the outfits, and I documented the changes as they happened… on my back, in my head, and outside in the world.
A grain and gluten free pastry that tastes delicious? Sounds like the stuff of dreams, but it turns out it’s the stuff of Ballston Spa, where The Sweetish Chef is offering some of the most delicious baked goods I’ve had in the area. If you hadn’t told me about the grain and gluten aspect, I’d have no idea – their stuff is that good regardless of the bonus healthy ingredients.
While I was on a recent trip to see my brother’s shop, a few doors down on Front Street was this cafe that advertised Keto and healthier pastry options, and when my brother later recommended it, I swung back and gave it a try. A sign on the wall gave the definition for the Swedish word fika: a social tradition and a break from the day to enjoy a hot drink, like coffee or tea, along with a treat such as a pastry or cookie. This sounded like a good theme for the rest of my life, and it seemed the happiest place to begin was somewhere between a cinnamon roll and a substantial piece of coffeecake.
Unable to decide between the two, I ultimately decided on both – devouring the cinnamon roll there and then, saving the coffeecake for home – and the plate seen here for being fancy. Grain free, sugar free, and low-carb – and somehow this I one of the most delicious coffeecakes I’ve had in years. Looks like I shall be returning to Ballston Spa more frequently…
My brother’s brick and mortar shop – Dead Wood Field & Furniture – just re-opened this past summer, and with Ballston Spa’s Farmer’s Market making a lovely splash right across the street on Saturday mornings, this is an ideal time to visit the handsome space. With a majestic wall of exposed brick and gorgeously ornamented high ceilings, the place is a chill location to hang and get ideas, with a comfy leather couch in the back, calming incense wafting through the air, and a turntable in constant rotation.
My brother’s rustic taste and keen eye for wooden accents imbues the space with a cozy and welcoming feel, the sort of thing one might find in a Restoration Hardware catalog without the insane price points and bourgeois pretense.
You can order a custom furniture piece to fit your space or lifestyle, and the storefront is an excellent place to find inspiration and ideas for how to create a similar look and feel for your place.
Swirling in silk scarves, wisps of perfumed hair, and curls of incense, the witch arranged the accoutrements of the evening. It felt good to have the nights cool again, the wind against a downy nape, the wind lifting a woolen cape. This is the fun part of fall – the cool anticipation, the first relief – by the end we’ll have hardened ourselves off to the cold, resigned and reconditioned to the numb about to come. For now, it’s exciting and dramatic, a turn from the carefree summer, a stinging bit of sweet poison that goes too easily down the throat.
Now here I go again I see the crystal visions I keep my visions to myself It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams And have you any dreams you’d like to sell? Dreams of loneliness
Thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know Oh, thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Say women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know You’ll know You will know Oh, you’ll know
All fall magicks and enchantments, all mysterious Oud and intoxicating incense, all smoke and mirrors and silken scarves slipping so seductively around the neck, so soft and soothing you don’t notice the tightening cords as they so smoothly strangle the life from a soul so tired from summer.
Is it too soon for Christmas decorations? Of course it is, but if that’s what you need to get through the rest of this year, have at it. We need to stop stealing joy from others just because it differs from ours.
If I could make a wish I think I’d pass Can’t think of anythin’ I need No cigarettes, no sleep, no light, no sound Nothing to eat, no books to read
A cafe haunt provides the background atmosphere for the birth of a new project – one forged in the fall, when inspiration is high – when it’s been so low this feels especially powerful. I haven’t done a proper project since 2019 – and when you think of all the absolutely bat-shit crazy insanity that’s transpired since 2019, I have no idea what sort of creative dam is about to bust the fuck open, but stand back Buenos Aires or you’re gonna get something on you.
Peace came upon me And it leaves me weak So sleep, silent angel Go to sleep
It’s been such a long time since I worked on a project, and I’m only just beginning to put things together for the next one. Taking it as slow as I want, without any anticipated end date, I intend to enjoy these creative moments, to open myself up to the whims of the muses and the universe – they have always whispered and tapped me on the shoulder when I’m supposed to heed something.
Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe And to love you All I need is the air that I breathe Yes, to love you All I need is the air that I breathe
A fashion show sung by the great Celine Dion is a celebration of all that is cheesy, wrong, and doomed with the world – but Mr. Oud cannot be bothered with geopolitical commentary; for all his supposed vanity and self-glorification, he knows he is at heart an insignificant creature in the grand scheme of things. If you find this hard to believe, perhaps your view of your own importance is slightly askew too. That’s not a criticism, just an opportunity to examine, set to a dramatic version of ‘I’m Alive’ at a time when some of us are easing into middle-age without a lot of inspiration.
Mr. Oud moves too swiftly to be stifled by such contemplation. Quicksilver and lightning, golden handcuffs tightening, and a dark sky finally brightening, Mr. Oud flies between dusk and dawn. Pin pricks of sequined sparkle form constellations across a firmament of night. Celine knows sequins. Mr. Oud knows how to sparkle. Both know the power of a song.
I love how much deeper the colors of the blooms that come this late in the gardening year become. Partly due to the lower light in the sky – a light that burns with more focused intensity due to its dwindling potency – and partly due to its more precarious rate of survival – any frosty night could swiftly end the spell – the color switch may be in my head, but its beauty is no less for that.
Here is a pink ‘Endless Summer’ hydrangea bloom, just coming into its own while its brethren have long since dried and withered away. A toast to such resilience.
