Fall anemones are one of the forgotten joys of our garden. Even after admiring their foliage for much of the summer, I’ll often forget about their blooms until the late afternoon sunlight illuminates these delicate pink petals, calling me to their beauty and offering some bit of balm against the oncoming cold. As one of the final acts of the garden for the season, it’s a pretty send-off as the beds go to slumber for another year.
There are a few more pockets of floral loveliness, sometimes in the seed-heads and dried floral umbrellas of hydrangeas or the seven sons flowering tree, but most of the summer magic has long since dissipated. While part of me mourns for the end of the warmth, another part welcomes the downtime, the rest, the opportunity to recharge and rejuvenate over the long winter. Feel free to remind me of that when the complaints come in January.
If Labor Day is the last of the summer holidays, then Indigenous People’s Day is the start of the autumn holidays – which is really the soft launch of the high holidays. This will roll quickly along until the stall and standstill of winter come January – so we must make the most of the days and the light while they last. On with the weekly blog recap…
Sunday night before a holiday is the best sort of night there is, taking away some of those Sunday scaries and giving us one last chance to party. Who better than to see us into this night of ridiculous revelry than The Cowgays and their giddy ‘Good Hoedown’ song and video? Let’s get into it. (Also, peep the now-poignant Dolly Parton reference at the start – aww…)
So I call my rowdy friends, tell ’em meet me in the sticks There ain’t a bad day that tonight can’t fix I’m one, two-stepping my troubles away Three drinks in, in a purple haze I’m on a hell of a roll, there ain’t no stopping me now Can’t keep a good ho down at a good hoedown
While the only sort of lit I’m getting these days is whatever happens beside a candle, I still know how to throw it down, light it up, and kick those bad days to the curb. There’s an underlying resilience and defiance to this song that belies its catchy trappings, and if you can gain some strength while shaking your booty, there’s no better way to live. So step to living and join me in my merry band of hoes – let’s get down!
Call my rowdy friends, tell ’em meet me in the sticks There ain’t a bad day that tonight can’t fix I’m one, two-stepping my troubles away Three drinks in, in a purple haze I’m on a hell of a roll, there ain’t no stopping me now Can’t keep a good ho down at a good hoedown
Goldenrod, scientifically named Solidago, gets its common name from the golden flower clusters atop stiff stems that are like rods. located within the aster family, they join that group in their late-flowering glory which is cresting right about now. Seeing goldenrod has always brought a catch to my breath, as it used to indicate the start of school right around the corner – a dismal bit of foreboding to a grader schooler with social anxiety. That has changed only slightly over the years, childhood trauma being near impossible to entirely eradicate, so I view its prettiness with a weary eye.
In the wild, goldenrod is often found blooming beside purple asters, creating a visual feast that sees the end of the season out in a sort of blazing glory. Fall carries its own floral enchantments for those who bother to look.
I’ve occasionally given thought to planting a stand of goldenrod in the garden but its late blooming time would go to waste. One final word of warning: do not be fooled into thinking this is one of your allergy-inducing plants: the pollen is not usually airborne – and most people are affected by the more visually-unobtrusive ragweed that appears at this time of the year, the goldenrod in its striking coloration just gets all the blame.
It was April 2nd when the Cowboy first ambled by the store that my great grandfather opened so many years ago. That much I know is true, since it was the first time I was tasked with signing off on the day’s receipts by myself – an unwanted bit of independence and the natural progression toward taking over that my parents had in mind for me. It was also the first hot day of spring that year, following a rare stretch of rain; Ma told me to watch for the ocotillo leaves – a remnant of childhood affection, something that depended less on the season and more on the weather, and the welcome arrival of rain. Ma always tied such things to God somehow, which led to my growing disenchantment with both mother and God. If some omnipotent figure such as God was in fact in control and power, and he or she was good and kind of heart, why not provide enough rain to keep the ocotillo green and pretty year round? Why is anyone suffering at all for that matter? Years ago I learned not to ask those things out loud, especially not at the dinner table with Ma and Pa after a long day at the store.
Years ago I also understood that my dream to become a cowboy would have to be kept a secret, much like my questions about God and morality. Now, at the age of twenty, it might be time to put that cowboy plan into the initial stages of motion. On this first warm day of the season, I’m feeling the restlessness of boyhood clashing with adulthood.
Working at the family store, where I’d worked since the age of thirteen, was the trajectory that my life was expected to take. When a kid understands this, they either embrace it and run toward it, or they rebel defiantly, running as fast as they can in the opposite direction. Neither of these choices seemed prudent or desirable to me, so I made a long term plan: I would secretly stash and save money while at the same time surreptitiously learn the cowboy ways every season they’d come to town.
I knew from experience, even at this young age, that to show want or desire towards something was the surest way of being denied it, so I acted as aloof and distant as possible when it came to all talk of cowboys. Had I shown the least bit of interest, both of my parents would have ensured that I didn’t see or talk to a cowboy until I was teaching my own offspring how to care for the store. The vilest parts of human nature don’t skip certain people just because those people are your parents – we only think they do. We only want to believe that, and the rest of our adult life is spent figuring out how to reconcile all of it.
I should probably explain my love of the cowboy life, since it wasn’t only my parents who were against it. From the outside, it might appear that the cowboys our town briefly employed – because they never lasted beyond a spring or summer, and if they did it was only a year or two further, never more – were vagabonds and drifters and not good for much more than quick heavy spurts of manual labor to get the ranches on track or the animals in order, or take care of the heavier lifting that the spring and summer required. But I saw the cowboy life as a way out of the shittiest little town, where nothing ever happened and I was already doomed to follow in the stultifying footsteps of Ma and Pa.
More than that, I saw in the cowboys that I met a thread of peace and serenity. Yes, they could be wild, and they could be destructive, and they could do the best day’s worth of work only to disappear that night never to return, but there was something intrinsically serene and calm about them – they had this inner-sense of peace and surety, no matter how wicked or wayward they might act out. And I loved that no one else saw or sensed this. It made me believe that in my heart I might have been born a cowboy, and was simply misplaced or set on the wrong track.
It’s tough for a boy to feel so out of place, and that’s all I’m going to say on that. My plan to become a cowboy depended on a careful reserve – the secret and silent machinations that would see me safely out of Levi’s General Store and off into the world until I could make my own way and find my own inner peace. I already knew then that it would never be in my parents’ place. I would come to have other reasons as well, but at this point I couldn’t know that – I only understood that my cowboy experience had to be gained quickly and quietly, and under the nose of a town that seemed hellbent on defining who I was before I knew myself.
In those days, cowboys were notoriously cagey about some of their ways, and such secrecy was partly what drew me to them; I didn’t much like sharing my business with the world either. I think I’m happiest when alone, and I have yet to find anyone’s company preferable to my own. Ma never liked that kind of talk. According to her, God didn’t like it either. She was always trying to get me to socialize more with people in town, encouraging me to go out more and hang out with the other kids. She put my time at the store second to any social events or opportunities that came along, even when the cowboys were involved. She and Pa had a certain level of status in town thanks to the store, and as a boy I wondered if they cared more about that than about what their only child wanted to do with his life. That sounds more maudlin than I mean for it to be. It’s just my way of explaining how I got away with being out of the store so much, hanging with the cowboys, and the few friends I mustered.
When the Cowboy came into town and moved in at Mr. and Mrs. Beasley’s ranch, Ma sized him up as trouble, but rather than keep me from him, she pushed me right into his path, reasoning in her mind that seeing such a problematic lifestyle would put me back onto the path she wanted me to take. Parents sometimes forget their own youth, their own dreams, their own hopes for something more, and they play it safe to keep their children safe, and I suppose there is love in that. When the Cowboy appeared at the store for the first time a few days after his arrival, Ma introduced herself, quietly judging his disarming smile and bushy beard, as well as the reddish-brown hair that hung just a little too low under his cowboy hat.
“Mr. Marnas gives a cheap but good haircut and shave out back on weekends here,” she said, accustomed to her words being taken as orders and executed as such. She told us later that the Cowboy only smiled and nodded without committing. “And someday soon we’ll have you for dinner – just me and Pa and my boy Leve, who can show you around town.” The Cowboy picked up his items – she said he only asked for soap and some leather oil – then left.
In bed that night I tried to picture him. I remembered the dust that was flecking his beard and hat, and his saunter, like he already knew where he was and where he was going, even if it was his first time here. He had the surety of a cowboy, that intrinsic bit of self-possession that some people called Zen and others condemned as flaky, and that very essence was precisely what I wanted myself.
Cameron Hawthorn gives a poignant and quietly powerful take on ‘Cowboy Take Me Away’ originally performed by the Dixie Chicks. A few pronoun switches and this is a gloriously-gay anthem and love song, a lovely little accompaniment to the burgeoning gay romance of our cowboy story just starting to unfurl here. Wistfulness is a key component of many a cowboy’s character. A certain sort of unrequited longing is part of it too.
I said, I wanna touch the earth I wanna break it in my hands I wanna grow something wild and unruly I wanna sleep on the hard ground in the comfort of your arms On a pillow of blue bonnets in a blanket made of stars Oh, it sounds good to me
As much as a cowboy might believe in the solitude and independence of his lifestyle, there are those cowboys who want nothing more than to fall in love and make another person a part of their lives. Does it go against any tried and true cowboy code? No – at least nothing that’s written down. A cowboy doesn’t like to put anything in writing (and that’s a big fork in my cowboy path). Today’s cowboys aren’t bound to such old-world traditions, which largely established themselves due to the transitory and challenging life of cowboys of the past. Love and marriage are more possible now than way back then, and are in fact fostered by society’s questionable pushing of such traditions.
I wanna walk and not run I wanna skip and not fall I wanna look at the horizon and not see a building standing tall I wanna be the only one for miles and miles Except for maybe you and your simple smile Oh, it sounds good to me Yes, it sounds so good to me
This winsome song sweetly describes a young man’s search for love, which he seeks in the form of a cowboy who might sweep him off his feet. Ahh, youth and romance and the idealistic dreams of anyone who’s ever fallen in love in this mad world. In the beginning there is frenzied, tormented hope and promise, ever in danger of not being more than a passing moment, and if the object of one’s affection doesn’t quite feel the same, well, that hurts in a way most of us of a certain age have all but forgotten.
Cowboy take me away Fly this boy as high as you can into the wild blue Set me free, oh, I pray Closer to heaven above and closer to you Closer to you Closer to you
I said, I wanna touch the earth I wanna break it in my hands I wanna grow something wild and unruly
Some cowboys never forget, though – and I’m in that camp. Love has bruised and scarred in ways I don’t want to forget. Every bit of hurt and heartache was proof that the moment mattered – even when it was all in my head, it still mattered, it still felt like love, it still changed my life as if the love was real – and in that way, it was.
Cowboy take me away Fly this boy as high as you can into the wild blue Set me free, oh, I pray Closer to heaven above and closer to you Closer to you
Fall doesn’t usually arrive exactly according to the calendar that we humans have tried so valiantly to impose upon the rest of the universe, though this year it seems pretty close. I felt it for the first time the other day while out taking pictures for the cowboy theme you see on this website. It was a sunny afternoon, and as I drove through the back-hills of Berne and Westerlo, I realized how lucky I was to be surrounded by such beauty, even if such a scene would soon wreak of barren, bare branches and cold, windy weather. For now, it was remarkably magnificent – the leaves were just starting to change on the trees, catching the late afternoon light in a way that only happens for a brief section of the year, and once you miss it it’s gone for another 12 months.
There was such a drastic line of demarcation between sunlight and sunset, and once the sun went down behind the mountains I knew the roads, and the world, would look and feel very different. It always happens sooner and faster than I think it will, and so I hurried my way along the winding roads to try to beat the darkness. Fall is fraught with the tease of danger, and as long as it remains a tease I’ll enjoy the thrill.
Living in today’s world of madness, where nuance and subtlety and shading are lost in favor of strictly-tribalized labels and designations, one might be tempted to decry my seemingly-sudden turn into a wannabe-cowboy, but that’s missing the point of this journey, this fall, this project, and pretty much this entire website and blog. We are never just one thing: we change, we evolve, we shift, we bend, we grow – and to simply put on a pair of boots and a hat and proclaim oneself a cowboy is tragically foolhardy. Most of the people in my life get that, but sometimes even I lose myself in the guise of the moment, and maybe that’s been a bit more intentional at this juncture of season.
Inhabiting a new style and persona from time to time is vital to figuring out who you are inside – at least, it’s been helpful for me. Getting too inside my head, overthinking and overanalyzing and overdoing the quest for absolute perfection (even if I’d long ago given up that particular quest) were the pratfalls of the first few decades of my life – it’s been a bit of a corrective journey these last few years, and this cowboy guise is enough of a remove, while also staying true to the essential essence of my character.
Telling word, that.
Character.
What exactly does it mean here? Is it just another term for a specific persona – a device of dramatic machination as in a play or movie? Or is it the deeper meaning of the idea of one’s ‘character’ as the essential make-up of who they are internally as a person? That’s a delicious question, one I’d rather leave dangling in the air for a while – for my own rumination and contemplation rather than any performatively-mysterious cowboy stance.
Come on (whoo!) go ahead, and sing along (hey!) because everyone has done their cunty-cuntry turn – witness Madonna and Lady Gaga and now Beyonce (and we aren’t going to compare because comparison is the thief of joy). There’s enough room for all of us cowboys and cowgirls and cowpeeps – why destroy or attempt to diminish anyone else’s idea of fun? Temporary guise or permanent personality trait finally revealed after years of hiding it away? Keep ’em guessing (whoo!) keep ’em asking (hey!) and keep ’em coming back for more until we’ve peeled away all the layers and all the costumes and you finally get your full-frontal bare-naked body spilling out all of its creative juice…
Some have expressed surprise and wary disbelief that I could actually be turning a country corner, but then they haven’t been paying much attention – the only one true constant thing I’ve ever been is surprising, unpredictable, and slippery as quicksilver. My tastes change too much, my interests shift with the slightest wind, and my own sense of self is constantly evolving and transforming, ever on the hunt for something to inspire and entice. Besides, most people look better in a pair of cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. Try it and see for yourself, you may be surprised too.
Even at the age of 51, there are still twists and turns in this thing called life waiting to be taken and navigated. And at such an age, I find myself craving just a little bit of whiplash, a little unsettling toss and tumble to remind me I’m still alive, still able to be interested and interesting, still getting back on the horse no matter how many times or how horrendously he might have bucked me off in the past.
Feeling a little reckless, a little restless, and a little feckless – because who the fuck needs a feck anyway?
“If you wanna make it country, baby, that’s ok, cause I was born, I was born, I was born this way.”
Our cowboy foray into the country-western vibe finds some pop culture resonance in this countrified version of Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’. I remember when this came out initially as part of the track’s original release – at the time I was puzzled by it, but I didn’t hate it. All these years later, I’m finding even greater appreciation for it, particularly during this fall of the cowboy. It’s also a fun excursion from the more serious expositions that may be in store – when you have a moment for fun and enjoyment, you better be damn well take it. Especially on a Friday.
Driving, windows wide open, music fighting with wind, shadows fighting with sunlight – the day recalls the summer, the way some warm and humid fall days keep you guessing which way time is traveling: a mirror of spring, with the staleness of decay in the air the only tip-off as to which end of the seasonal year we might be nearest.
A cowboy’s journey is based largely on seasons, flying on the wind and the weather, seeking the sun and warmth, seeking some bit of hospitable land and atmosphere – it’s a journey of the moment – the journey of a Friday afternoon with the bulk of the weekend still and always ahead of him. He follows his own path – sometimes it leads to comfort, sometimes it leads to hell – always it leads to wherever he finds himself at the moment. There is not much in the way of planning or preparation, or so it seems. A cowboy is always more prepared than he likes to let on, and often less. The cowboy’s conundrum, with no resolution in sight or desire.
And every time a cowboy seems about to let loose on a Friday, there’s always a sliver of seriousness to his abandon – riding a little too close to the edge, ever-ready to fall even in the midst of all the fun. He burns and kicks and thrashes, not unlike the horse on which he rode into the sunset and away from the day. There will be time to rest later…
Chris says my podcast should be titled ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ and he’s not wrong. About the title at least. About the podcast, everyone is wrong because I have absolutely no interest in podcasting. Isn’t the bullshit here enough? Da fuq?!?
A native of Leominster, Massachusetts, Erik P. Carter was trained in virology to prepare him for his day job in vaccine research, but outside of that important endeavor he also manages to explore figurative oil painting in exquisite fashion. Citing Caravaggio and Francis Bacon as inspirations, Carter’s work is gorgeously Baroque and sumptuously moody, with light and shadow playing a dramatic duet. Since 2019 he’s had several exhibitions (mostly in Boston and Philadelphia) in which he intertwines themes of religious history and homoerotic beauty for a combustible and captivating collection of work. There is something poignant and lonely about his art – a quiet stillness that simultaneously exists with an intensity that finds its tension in the sinewy muscles of human flesh, and the ever-approaching possibility of destruction. If it seems we favor artists for Dazzler of the Day, it is not in your imagination. Check out his website here for a powerful view of his work.
Not all the way away, just not as intensely and directly as the summer had us believing it might last. We always want to believe, even when we know better. Sometimes the smallest chills are the most upsetting, the way that they hint at atrocities rather than bluntly revealing them all at once. Dread is a most potent enforcer of fear.
Still, one finds it difficult to feel anything other than emboldened in the golden glow of fall’s sunlight, no matter how quickly it runs out. The heat feels just as lovely as it did in the summer… and it will come back in the spring, like it always does.
Loneliness is a funny thing for a cowboy. Funny as in strange and mysterious, not mirthful or merry. In my admittedly-limited and stereotypical broadly-stroked fantasy of this character, a cowboy both cherishes solitude, yet struggles with the loneliness such a stance often ends up yielding. A certain lonesomeness is part of many a cowboy – in the wistful restlessness that often leads someone to becoming a cowboy.
River of love, you carved your canyon Carries me out, from the place I’m hidin Will tonight prove, what I’ve known for so long Don’t let me go on alone
A heart is a fickle thing you can hear it but you just can’t find it Scavenging for your love through bones of what’s been left behind To the stars and the moon, I’m howling for you But an echo is the only reply Tonight, the coyote ain’t the only one crying
This marks one of the darker turns of the cowboy’s journey, one that comes as the first fall nights turn cold. We forget how much night will come to dominate these next few months until it’s here and all turns dark so early. As much as I welcome the fall – and these days I largely do – it’s still shocking when it happens. The first hard frost is somewhere soon, like some foreboding promise lingering in the back of your mind, not letting you enjoy yourself fully until it happens, until the worry is done – and even then, it will have already become such a habit that it won’t depart so quickly.
A heart is a fickle thing you can hear it but you just can’t find it Scavenging for your love through bones of what’s been left behind To the stars and the moon, I’m howling for you But an echo is the only reply Tonight, the coyote ain’t the only one crying
For this Hump Night of Wednesday, when the work-week is over halfway done, here’s a bluesy bit of music to see us through to the weekend. Heartbreak doesn’t allow itself to be bound or limited by arbitrary timeframes. A weekday or a weekend is all the same to sorrow. Duration matters only slightly less, and some would argue not at all. Sadness will persist as long as it wants, and as long as we allow it. Sometimes there is no choice.
Once you’ve tasted blood, then you’d understand it Denying myself, would leave me out here stranded A heart is a fickle thing you can hear it but you just can’t find it Scavenging for your love through bones of what’s been left behind To the stars and the moon, I’m howling for you But an echo is the only reply Tonight, the coyote ain’t the only one crying
PS – As we told our favorite Uncle to try to get him to stop smoking, ‘Smoking is rat poison!‘ We repeat it here despite the featured photo, which is only a pose. All of life is a pose, sometimes a dark pose, and sometimes a pose in the darkness.
