Category Archives: General

Tra la, it’s May, the lusty month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray!
Tra la, it’s here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear!

It’s May, it’s May, that gorgeous holiday
When every maiden prays that her lad will be a cad
It’s mad, it’s gay, a libelous display
Those dreary vows that everyone takes, everyone breaks
Everyone makes divine mistakes, the lusty month of May

Ahh, May – my most favorite month in almost all the ways, but rather than set up expectations (there is a full moon happening after all, and that always derails the most pristine of plans) I’m going with a laid-back bit of appreciation for the day, and I’ll take what joys and delights as they come.

May musical memories are rife with romantic foibles and paths strewn with broken heart wreckage. Happily, there are also lovely memories for this magical month, and sometimes the hand of destiny is kind enough to grant us that which will bring happiness and sustenance through the years.

It’s May, it’s May, the month of yes you may
The time for every frivolous whim, proper or im
It’s wild, it’s gay, a blot in every way
The birds and bees with all of their vast amorous past
Gaze at the human race aghast

Tra la, it’s May, the lusty month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it’s here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear

Yes, May has a wicked sort of spell to cast sometimes, and it is at such times that I need to remind myself of who I am, lest I lose myself to May’s madness as well. Andy and I will be celebrating an early anniversary weekend in Boston, and I’m looking forward to harnessing full moon magic and letting the stars wreak their havoc. Seeing oneself through the storms is sometimes best accomplished with a partner. We have rings to wash, gardens to revisit, and dinners to enjoy… It’s May! The word says it.

Father forgive me, for I have sinned, it has been three and a half decades since my last confession and these are my sins: just fucking kidding – no way would my sins over the last few decades fit into a single confession, blog post, or even an entire website that’s been around as long. Instead, my confession is only to myself – a confession of not remembering who I am.

Not in the literal sense – I still know my name, I still know (mostly) my history, I still know what I do in the world – I mean in the sense of forgetting my own worth and value, misplacing them at various points this past month, or perhaps year. The usual doubt and disbelief in myself that can’t be conquered as simply as one would think for someone with my perceived bravado.

Spring doesn’t always aid in building such self-belief, and as the screws tighten on winter’s coffin, the expectation of elation is sometimes only the set-up and starting point for disappointment. So it is that I seek stillness and quiet, sanctuary and respite in a world seemingly bereft of such things.

On lunch, I walk up to the church where I used to go when Dad was dying. It wasn’t a moment of sadness, more of reflection, and oddly enough, comfort. The Easter celebrations had been over for a while – a collection of dead Easter lilies sat sadly in the entryway – no scent or fragrance emitting from the dessiccated blooms, but the foliage was still green. I hoped someone would plant them in a garden and give them a chance to come back next spring. Unlikely, but while they stood in the hall I reserved hope.

Long ago disillusioned by the machinations and patriarchal shadiness of the church, I understood that this wasn’t about religion – this was about a peace and spiritual grace that had nothing to necessarily do with God or saints – one hard look at the human condition in the world should give God-pause to anyone with half a functioning brain. On this day, I looked around at the beauty that man had crafted – in the church, in the way the Easter lilies had been cultivated into bloom, in the overall atmosphere that had been erected in the purpose of peace and contemplation and congregation. I also acknowledged the space for mystery – something unseen or unknown to the human mind, something sacred and religious in a different way. I allowed room for doubt, room for forgiveness, room to weep out of frustration and madness in being unable to be more than just human.

The past few weeks have found my sleep patterns wildly deviant from how they normally play out. I’ve been getting to bed earlier, out of sheer exhaustion, then dropping off quickly, only to awaken at 1 or 2 in the morning, when I remain restlessly awake and heart aflutter for another hour or so. Maybe it’s just old age arriving somewhat prematurely. We get less sleep as we get older, or so I’ve been told. More waking time to do more waking things, I suppose. 

To combat the sleepless moments, I’ve been revisiting a favorite book, ‘The God in Flight’ by Laura Argiri. May this excerpt send us off to sleep tonight…

“…And solitude and loneliness are forms of torture, and they also yield some wisdom. I’ll give you what they gave me. The first thing is that there is nothing in the world more important than knowing and loving someone else well. And the second is, know your own nature, accept it, and let no one and nothing alienate you from it. You have as much right to it as anyone else has to theirs.”

April runs out of time this week, and perhaps that’s best for a month that was such a wild rollercoaster of weather, a riotous ride of emotional and astrological mayhem. As we careen to the end of such a month, this blog has a few more tricks and treats up its sleeve before the glorious entry of May. For now, the weekly blog recap of all that just happened, where you want it or not…

Jockstrap-studded clickbait.

Has anyone else done this?

“If a Virgo in your life seems unhinged, honestly they’re not. They just realized they’ve been doing everybody else’s job this whole time and quit without notice.”

Electric hues of spring.

Beneath falling petals.

It’s only a paper moon.

A Spanish lavender show.

What a shit show.

Lavender mist beginnings.

A pair of ants.

A Saturday morning pause.

My garden forever.

Short attention span theater.

Jockstrap glimpse.

Lilac wine recurring.

Dazzlers of the Day included Shawn Hollenbach, Simon Lycett, Mitski and Matt Cain.

Movie-makers are being advised to repeat key plot points at various points in their movies because audiences can’t sit through a fucking movie without being distracted by their phones. My niece and nephew do this all the time – they will periodically check their phone if we are watching a movie at home or in the theater, as if their CEO is breathing down their neck waiting for an update on something. They’re only sixteen, so it looks like the next generation is already gone when it comes to any sort of attention span. 

Part of it probably stems from the ten-second window within which people now expect to be grabbed or wowed or impressed enough to retain any sort of allegiance. Part of it might stem from the quick-paced way Tik Tok and social media works – and the way that podcasts and videos offer the option of double or triple speed playback. I’ve never taken part of that because my brain isn’t wired that way. It would seem to suck out all the enjoyment of something – if you are engrossed in a podcast or video, if you’re interested in the topic and loving what they are saying, why would you want to rush through it? It might allow for you to ingest more, but ingesting something is decidedly and crucially different than digesting something. Quantity rarely bests quality – our rush to take in more and more and more doesn’t help in deeper understanding. 

That also feeds into the epidemic disaster that is FOMO, currently derailing all sorts of meaningful moments because people are so obsessed with what they might be missing – an overload of possibility, and an inability to make a decision and stick to it without wondering if something better is happening; what a horrid way to go through life. 

But I’m old now, and honest enough to acknowledge that this could just be the ramblings of age, the way it’s been through centuries. I don’t entirely buy that – it feels different, and teachers I’ve talked to indicate that there is very much a marked difference in how long a student can focus now than just a decade ago. That’s a little too dismaying to think on for any length of time, and for a Sunday morning I’ve left enough dour words for the final gasp of the weekend.  

Gazing directly into the eye of the phone camera, I pause for the cajillionth selfie of my life. Worn weary by decades of self-examination, the self finds new ways of renewing and reviewing its existence if we allow it room to grow. Humans get rootbound too, and so many of us are afraid of potting up (people often being averse to great change, particularly in their accustomed environments). I’ve usually welcomed the opportunity to grow and expand, to take the shoes and confining belt off at the end of the day, to spill messily into the next stage of life when we don’t know quite exactly where we’re headed. It’s taken me years to reach this state of relative ease, and countless days of meditation and practice to start being even slightly ok with it, but I’m much more accepting of this imperfect mess of life – a mess we should learn to love, especially with all our mistakes and missteps. 

There’s a certain freedom in being so open and honest about where we are and what we are feeling, especially when it’s an acknowledgment that things are less than perfect, that we have failed in some areas, that we didn’t rise to our best at a certain moment. That’s sometimes the key to moving forward – not getting hung up on the messiness of life. For so much of my existence I’ve wanted to avoid, prevent, or clean it up, when all that time getting into the muck might have been the best way of moving through the muck.

When I was a boy, my childhood room looked out over an enormous thorny Hawthorne tree. Its branches softened that corner of the house; its thorns deterred would-be climbers, not that there were any lower branches to gain such a climb. In late spring, it would be filled with white flowers, not unlike the pear tree blooms seen here. Those petals wouldn’t last very long, especially if the weather turned too warm. At those moments, and on those precious days, the petals would flutter to the ground like falling snow – a magical effect that never failed to enchant me. Sitting beneath a flowering tree just as it is giving up its show is always a brush with the sublime.

Spring’s enchantments are usually fleeting – that’s an integral part of their charm. We chase them for their elusive nature. When caught, they are always worth the work, even when we know they won’t last, because beauty makes this world bearable.

Electric yellow sends a forcefield of energy through the spring air from the sun-reflecting Forsythia blooms. Indelible harbinger of the season, Forsythia doesn’t bother with subtlety or softness. Like its angles and sprawling form, its flowers are almost brutally glorious, shining like a hundred little suns, seen from even great distances, especially at this somewhat barren time of the year.

The palette of spring is not always pastels, and sometimes the most electric yellow combines with the powerful punch of violet, as in the pansy below. That’s when things really get lit.

Not to place any validity on astrology, but here’s something that came over my Virgo algorithm:

“The planners can’t plan, the fixers aren’t fixing, they stopped over explaining themselves, so if a Virgo in your life seems unhinged, honestly they’re not. They just realized they’ve been doing everybody else’s job this whole time and quit without notice.”

Astrological mayhem aside, these past few weeks have been a rollercoaster to match the fluctuating weather. Rather than rising to take the bait of getting riled, I’ve mostly managed to stay steady, staying true to the direction the universe has been nudging, and relying on comfort reading and daily meditation. The gardens have done their part too – my time spent in amending the soil and tidying up the backyard has been a type of meditation too.

I see the lilacs are finally in bud – the promise of beauty and perfume in the near future, while all the peonies have grown inches within days – more perfumed beauty in store. The ferns are already fast unfurling – once that first spell of warm days hits, followed by some rainwater, they quickly become unstoppable. This is how spring unfolds, very similarly from year to year, give or take a few days, and I’m reminded that there is no need to overthink everything.

Ahh, clickbait. It works every time on me, mostly on retail items I absolutely do not need. Maybe it worked on you if you saw the hint of a jockstrap and wondered if there was more (because there’s always more). In the early days of this blog – and the mid-days too to be honest – hell, to this very day – I relied on semi-clothed posts to get people to visit, and hopefully read, certain posts. The days of counting hits and clicks have long since passed, so I haven’t cared as much of late, but there is still some good stuff to be read here, so before I turn and face the wall, a list of curated links that should be more widely seen:

Revisiting the moon and a lost friendship.

A cup of tea with Oscar.

Haunted by a boy lost.

A heart of sequins via a Winnie-the-Pooh costume.

Missing my Dad.

That time Madonna saved my life.

A jury summons memories.

I wanted his sex.

I had his sex.

Revisiting the burn to find a way to exile.

A home in Boston, past and future.

Saddle shoes and shame.

Summer adventures showing off my ass.

When the rain arrived at the end, or very beginning of the week, I found solace and escape at the local greenhouse, where this strikingly-shaded Mandevilla straddled that scintillating section between purple and pink, not quite committing to either, an teasing both out depending on the light and one’s angle. Before the rain, there were a few days of summer teasing – on with the weekly recap of that rollercoaster…

Still falling for these ads.

London cowboy.

Hot banana pepper take.

Condiments, Rose!!!

A countenance of calm beneath a sky of blue.

The next F.A.F.O. Award: Viktor Orban.

Grape escape.

The ravaging before the rainbow.

Bashful beginnings.

A queen poised for the dance.

A lilac cup of herbal tea.

A mellower version of dick.

Purple pansy pulchritude.

Revisiting an old friend.

Which is more exciting for you?

Nervous, but in a happy way.

A favorite stage of a fern’s unfurling.

Rain tea blues.

Sunday night scaries, at ease.

Whenever the day and the spirits turn to gray, the world turns upside down, and everything you once thought you knew reveals itself as something different, it’s the ideal opportune time to pause and take stock of what’s really at work. In my experience, the bulk of problematic ickiness that descends on certain rainy Sundays is largely a matter of perception – of perceived grievances and false attributions that our worst instincts re-enforce and perpetuate, our own minds actively working overtime to become our own worst enemies.

At such times I take to writing to make whatever sense I can of the moment. Putting it down on paper and working it out in words helps me organize and analyze – but even more simple and basic than that, it gets it out of my system. I literally let it pour out of my head, into my hand, then out through the pen and the paper that now holds a written testament to whatever is going on at the moment.

Sometimes all the universe wants is acknowledgement – a nod of recognizance that none of this is normal, and that all it was seen, and felt. Sometimes – at the most lucky times – this is enough to move beyond the muck of a gray Sunday.

“… he had yet to acknowledge the romantic fever it was his gift to inspire, and the inflammatory dreams and misunderstandings he could ignite with his silences.” – Laura Argiri, ‘The God in Flight’

Old books are like old friends – when they’ve played a pivotal part in your formative years, it feels like they know you in a way that only an old friend could. Currently I’m re-reading one of my favorites, ‘The God in Flight’ by Laura Argiri, an indulgence I partake of every few years, the same way I return to the more mainstream ‘Great Gatsby‘ just for the cadence of words, the depictions of longing, and the sense of romantic abandon that has always privately called to me (and that I always had the reckless determination to foolishly act upon).

Born with a viciously romantic nature, I had it beat out of me – as much by my own hands as the metaphorical hands of wicked men whose only wickedness was in not being interested. Anything but apathy seemed bearable; how unfortunate that disinterest was what I most inspired due to my own petrified countenance among those men who captured my attention. Eventually I embraced apathy as well, as much for emotional survival as from the wear and tear of having gone through it so many times; an unhappy collision of forced and natural modification to a romantic soul not quite designed to navigate the fickleness of human beings.

“Even if he had not been beautiful, he would have been the first person in any crowded room whom the others looked at first, the one whose motions they tracked with fascinated eyes… My God, he smells wonderful.” – Laura Argiri, ‘The God in Flight’

When I think back to the first time I read these words, and the young man whose romantic yearnings were just being kindled, I feel a tenderness and ache for what he was about to put himself through. If I could speak to my younger self I’d say something like, “Relax, enjoy, stop overthinking everything and simply inhabit the moments and days of youth. If it’s meant to be, it will be. If it’s not, it won’t. The rest will fall into place.”

The only thing I wouldn’t change would be his willingness and overzealous desire to fall in love. To that I would only say, “Do it. Whenever in doubt, choose to love. Even if they don’t love you back – keep on loving them. Even if they don’t deserve it, love. There is a nobility in that no matter whether the sentiment is returned. And don’t ever apologize for loving.”

Granted, the actions and craziness that often accompanied such emotions are a different thing entirely – those should definitely have been modified, but the folly of youth was strong and, for me, insurmountable.

“He was a dandy, a beauty, an actor, a fabulist – your canting puritan might say a liar – and he loved to make trouble for deserving parties, including himself. He did all this in a spirit of cheerful despair, being one who experienced sadness in the guise of intolerable restlessness rather than in its raw form.” – Laura Argiri, ‘The God in Flight’

No matter how inconvenient or disruptive, no matter how much it hurt, I never gave up loving. Whenever I felt it, I proclaimed it, unabashedly revealing feelings I hadn’t even fully processed. It’s an essential component of what made me into the person I am – perhaps one of my only saving graces – and I would most certainly need grace, and perhaps a bit of saving in all the years that followed.

Now when I read this book it resonates differently, the way the past no longer hurts quite as keenly, the way infatuations no longer sting, the way I’ve moved beyond losing myself to such wild abandon.

“Growing up is the slow process of learning to tell oneself the truth.” – Laura Argiri, ‘The God in Flight’

Maybe I’m not as good a friend as I think I am?

Below is a brief exchange between Chris, who was apparently annoyed at everything, and me, in the role of super-supportive friend.

(Further proof that you really don’t want to text with me.)

The cup was a gift from a friend for a purple spring weekend a couple of years ago.

The Secret Garden tea was a mixture of peppermint, fennel and chamomile – chosen as much for its matching tin design as its calming qualities.

The morning was an ambivalent one. Couldn’t decide between sunny and hopeful or dreary and overcast. Moods shifting like the swiftly-moving sky. Spring a master of the capricious.

Awakened by the kettle’s scalding water, the dried flowers and herbs come back to life – the familiar magic of tea calling from centuries past, lives and lovers crossing time and space to make themselves known, to be unforgotten. Tea is the promise that even when a flower dies, its petals dried and desiccated, its soul might continue, might find purpose and be reborn.

Tea captured in a cup, cradled in my hands, diminishes the chill of morning.

Tea stilling time, bringing clarity and clouds, swirling like the sweet nectar on the lips of a Hoya bloom.