With Mercury in retrograde and a full moon coming up later in the week, things seem to be a little topsy-turvy, and I’m doing my best to lie low and stay out of the wrecking ball’s path. Putting on ‘Evening Song’ first thing in the morning, on a Tuesday that already feels burdened by clouds and rain, is how I will endeavor to begin. Philip Glass has a way of lulling one into a state of hopeful resignation through his undulating patterns, and that’s the sort of vibe we need today.
A sense of transformation informs some of his work, the way the world changes from shades of gray to full color when certain people enter and exit during the course of a day. Some speak more in their absence than with their presence, and I’ve always wanted to be one of those people. The ones who leave an impression so astounding that they are talked about more when they are not in a room than when they might be in it. The ones who elicit a sigh or a click of consternation when you catch their fragrance. The ones who matter when so many of us simply don’t.
The May sweeps period of television used to be when the shows put out their best rating-grabbers, often ending with a dramatic cliffhanger to keep people talking and guessing for the rest of the summer, hopefully enough to insist that they return in the fall. I loved the drama of it all, and I have no shame in aging myself to say that I was just coming into childhood cognizance when the big cliffhanger of the 80’s left everyone wondering ‘Who killed J.R.?’ on ‘Dallas’. In fact, that whole scenario informed a substantial part of what I would later do in life in that I would do my damndest to be the person who was on everyone’s lips, the guy who, if knocked off, would inspire a frenzy of suspects too numerous to narrow down because he’d created such a stir his entire life. It’s not easy to cull that kind of broad and sustained hatred, not the kind that makes people actively want to kill you – but that didn’t stop me from trying, whether intentionally or subconsciously. All these years later, I remember J.R., but not the would-be killer, because sometimes that’s how life works. The villains get all the glory, even when they become the victims; I learned that dangerous lesson and ran with it the wrong way.
The cliffhanger from this previous post found my much-younger self having just procured the phone number of a gentleman who was the first person to show any interest one following the fallout from the first man who kissed me. That fallout was more damaging than originally understood, and if there is any excuse to offer for my bratty behavior, it’s that. And it still won’t exonerate my guilt at how I treated another human being. Back then, I simply didn’t care. Not about him, and certainly not about myself.
Once upon there was light in my life
Now there’s only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart…
Back to that train platform on a glorious spring afternoon, where I stared down at the name and phone number written by a man I’d not even exchanged a word with on the train. In neat block figures, it was such a simple and seemingly-insignificant thing, but at that pre-internet time it was the only way I would have of finding out who he might be, the only way of making a tenuous connection. Fate and destiny and luck and coincidence informed so much of our lives before it was all so readily available online. It made things more difficult in many ways, but oh so much richer and more meaningful. It was as if the stars guided us rather than manipulated keystrokes to research and become who we thought someone might want us to be. All I had to go on was his smile, already fading in my mind’s memory, a name and a phone number. And somehow it was enough.
Never one to indulge in playing the hard-to-get games (as later suitors would unfortunately discover) I only waited a few hours to call him, because there was never any question on whether I would call. (Cliffhanger my ass.) The question was what I would say or do when I did call.
Without deliberately intending to do so, I kept my aloofness and distance, mainly from habit but also from the recent wounds that part of me realized hadn’t even started to heal. When I dialed the number from my dorm room, it was more of a dare to myself, a challenge to get back into the dating pool, and a gauntlet to see how bad I might be.
That spring and summer I was completely channeling Linda Fiorentino’s ferocious character in ‘The Last Seduction’ (not at all a worthy romantic aspiration by any stretch of the imagination) – my heart was on guard and safely barricaded from the previous fall’s romantic fiasco, and this gentleman, sweet as he might be, would pay the price of stumbling into such wayward behavior.
I don’t remember much about that first phone call. He had a deep voice and sounded slightly nervous. He still lived at home with his parents and was in Boston for an interview I think. He was also apparently not out yet, and in the debilitating way I had back then of comparing anything and everything, I realized that I had the upper hand there. I would give him his first book of gay literature, bring him to his first Broadway play, and introduce him to a world of pants entirely bereft of pleats. More than that, I would rain down emotional hell-fire, mental manipulation, and just plain meanness and cruelty. It would amaze me how much a young man could get away with when someone was taken with his beauty, especially when he never felt beautiful.
With just a few scant weeks before the end of that spring semester, it seemed futile to me to start a new relationship, especially when I’d be away for the entire summer, but somehow we managed to meet at least once or twice, taking a couple of steamy car-rides and pausing for parking-lot make-out sessions where I felt keenly that he was way more into me than I would ever be into him. That was good though, in the warped way my mind was processing romance at the time. Better to be the object of desire and have some say in the way things went. At the end of it all, I gave him my home phone number, and throughout the ensuing spring and summer we’d share sporadic phone calls. I remember visiting friends in Rochester and sneaking out to the car on a rainy May night to call him. It was raining and ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ came on the radio and I wondered at what I was doing. Every call was a dangled promise, a dare to keep thinking of me – of us, if we could fathom such a term at sun an early point – and he held on, seemingly as lonely as I would never admit myself to be.
I’d told him about a gay novel I’d just read and he sought it out and read it, and the idea that I might have such influence on another person made him suddenly repellant to me. His pronouncement that he might be falling in love, pulled forcefully from his lips with the blunt lack of precision by my immature guile, only emboldened me to be cold and dismissive. Not seeing myself as worthy of being loved, I derided anyone else who saw the opposite. Yes, I was that far lost, that fucked-up. And the more I pushed him away, the crueler I could be, the more we both inadvertently played into ‘The Rules’. By the time I returned in the fall, torturing him by phone felt like a cozy habit, and when he presented me with a poster of the cover of the book I’d suggested to him, his earnest hope of pleasing me carried the whiff of everything repulsive to me. I hated myself instantly for feeling that, but knew no other way around it, or any way to hide it.
When met with such disdain, he didn’t fight or flee, but rather tried to wrap his head around it. I could see him sometimes trying to work it out in his head, and feel even more contemptuous annoyance toward him for that. Far from my finest moment, this wasn’t helping me heal, or helping me move on, and rather than be honest and cut it all off, I kept it going, trying to be sweet and kind when I saw his hurt, trying to temper and reconcile the lack of respect I had for him with the genuine kindness he tried to show me. To my detriment and shame, I strung him along as a plaything rather than anyone serious, discarding his feelings in a way strikingly similar to how I’d been treated a year or so before. It was so obvious I made myself sick seeing it all play out, and so I treated him even worse, seeing what horrendous things I could say and get away with, defiling and degrading him in and out of the bedroom. There was nothing precious about such a power play, and something in me knew it would harden my heart in ways that might not be undoable, but I didn’t care.
I’ll write about the rest some other night, later in spring, when the dander is up again – when I don’t need to sleep for the start of another week…
It was only a partial eclipse, but it was enough to cast a spell of shadow across my afternoon walk back to the dorm. Near the end of my first year at Brandeis, we were in the midst of a celebrated annual eclipse – I looked it up, and it happened on May 10, 1994. I remember it distinctly; I was under the newly-leafed-out maple trees near Hassenfeld – my dorm building – when the event was happening, and while I noticed a slight dimming of the day, what I saw more vividly were the shadows of crescents on the path before me. It struck me how frightening such a phenomenon might have appeared to centuries of people before me. Knowing what was happening rendered it more intriguing than frightening, and I took a few photos of the shadows. Somewhere those photos are in an old shoe box, waiting to be excavated on a day when there’s time for such boredom.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit lonely And you’re never coming ’round
It would be a year later when a thumping dance cover of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ by Nicki French would take the gay scene by spring storm, and it formed the soundtrack to the adventures with the second man I ever kissed. That’s the memory at work here, and it’s fitting that an actual eclipse kicked it off.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit tired Of listening to the sound of my tears
At the tail end of my sophomore year at Brandeis, I’d mostly given up on men before I even really started. The first guy who ever kissed me had proven to be more damaging than I realized at the time; his harrowing and haunting hold on me, no matter how much I disputed and denied it, was dangerously informing all the kisses that followed. And maybe I was a little more reckless than I should have been. Whatever the case, it was a warm spring afternoon as I waited for the commuter rail at Porter Square, which would take me back to my dorm room at Brandeis.
I don’t recall what I’d done in Boston that day, but I do remember the tall, blonde-haired gentleman who stood across from me in pleated olive pants (two hapless strikes in one bad pair of trousers). He’d noticed me too – I was keenly aware of such things – and I saw he held his gaze a little longer than necessary. In an age before Grinder and social media, this was how gay men met. It was a veiled world of codes and subtle cadences – entire histories and desires could be read in a few furtive glances, interest gleaned from the slightest nod or hesitation.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit nervous That the best of all the years have gone by
After Tom, I wasn’t really looking for men, in spite of how I talked and carried myself. It was easier to be saucy and sordid than genuine and vulnerable. Safer too. When he watched me my gaze was anywhere other than back at him. Nobody played aloof better than me and already it felt less like playing and more like the life I was actively and desperately carving out for myself. With practiced sighs of boredom, I wanted to appear as though I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was – mostly people left you alone that way.
(Whenever I indulge in looking back, the closest I come to regret is in thinking of how disdainful I could be to the world, and how much I pushed myself to being alone when it was the last thing I really wanted.)
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit terrified And then I see the look in your eyes
We were both early for the train, and there were only a few other people around, so this went on for some time. Feeling his eyes on me was a different sensation than the usual notice I would garner from my sartorial arsenal. It wasn’t interest in a coat or a bag or a pair of shoes – it was interest in my person, in the physical shell of my body. I felt him size up my hair and face, my chest, the spread of my thighs as I sat on a rigid bench across from him. I felt him notice every motion of my hands, every shuffle of my feet. A few times I would pause and deliberately catch him staring to which he averted his eyes, pretending it wasn’t happening. Such games we once played, such silly wastes of time.
The advance of commuters was upon us, and more people filled the little waiting area. I shifted my backpack onto my lap as people squeezed onto the bench beside me. He continued to stare and study, drinking me up as I drank up his interest, until it was finally apparent what was happening. At last I looked into his eyes for a moment, holding on a little longer than almost any other man would have done for another man. He broke first, and smiled broadly before a quick chuckle that shook his shoulders slightly. I smiled back, but briefly, not quite willing, or, quite frankly, knowing, what to do next, other than keep my distance.
(Turn around, bright eyes) Every now and then I fall apart (Turn around, bright eyes) Every now and then I fall apart
Pushing the memory of that first kiss from my mind, I let the smile leave my face and took out a book. It struck me that the man had nothing with him – not a bag or briefcase, not a coat or jacket – only the billowy pockets of his pleated pants, and perhaps one on the front of his white baggy button-down shirt. What brought him to Boston on such a day, what had he done to land him at Porter Square, and where might he be going? Despite the fear, despite the past, I was suddenly interested, piqued by his surreptitious engagement with the college-age young man I was then.
The rumbling of the commuter rail left us scrambling up to the platform, and I followed him at a distance – keeping him just far enough away to not appear overly-zealous. He sat near the front of the car, and lots of seats were available for the taking. I took one a few rows back, where I could see him still but he couldn’t see me. I would be in control this time – if this ended up being a time.
(Turn around) Every now and then I get a little bit restless And I dream of something wild
He turned around to look at me, then beyond me, just once. And then I saw him take out a scrap of paper from his pocket, and a pen, and scribble something down.
The conductor called out Belmont, as the train tilted to its side – the memorable mark of Belmont in my mind – then we righted and resumed our journey. Next stop was Waverley, then Waltham, and as we neared the Brandeis/Roberts stop I wondered if this was all in my mind. I would have to walk by the man on my way out, and my brain was scrambling how to play it – and whether to bother playing it at all. Equally enchanted and exhausted by how humans seemed to have to work to connect, I felt a flash of utter defeat and hopelessness, and a relief at a life of solitude. And then something came over me as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and marched down the aisle.
And I need you now tonight And I need you more than ever And if you only hold me tight We’ll be holding on forever And we’ll only be making it right ‘Cause we’ll never be wrong
I can’t describe what was happening as I walked toward the exit before the train had even come to its Brandeis/Roberts stop – whether it was a surge of adrenaline as I felt my heart thumping in my chest, or a last grasp at what might be something romantic. He was directly to my right, sitting by himself in a double-seat, and he looked up at me – the first time he would ever look up at me given his height – and I was about to let it all go when my body abruptly stopped. I turned to face him, and in one smooth, deft motion I unfurled the palm of my hand, into which he placed the piece of paper with his phone number on it. Closing my hand around it, I continued to the exit without saying a word. All these years later, it’s still probably the smoothest, scariest, and best-executed move of any of my romantic endeavors.
Clutching it madly, I walked away from the train platform without looking up at any of the passing windows, and only when it was gone entirely from view did I hurriedly open it up and gaze down upon his name and number.
Together we can take it to the end of the line Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time (all of the time)
I don’t know what to do and I’m always in the dark We’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks
I really need you tonight Forever’s gonna start tonight (Forever’s gonna start tonight)
Once upon a time I was falling in love But now I’m only falling apart There’s nothing I can do A total eclipse of the heart
Did I call him? That’s a story for another post, as this has gone entirely more moody than a Saturday blog post should ever be. I promise to tell the rest when the dander isn’t up…
Covering the songs of other artists with his new album ‘High Drama’, Adam Lambert showcases his vocal prowess while expanding familiar territory into moodier and more dramatic landscapes. As his fans fondly recall, Lambert began his remarkable ascent singing the songs of others on ‘American Idol’ before taking things into his own more-than-capable hands. This album is a return to those early days, highlighting his talents for reinventing what we thought we already knew. He earns the Dazzler of the Day because no one dazzles quite like Adam. Check out his website here for everything he’s got planned.
Barrier-breaking gay country singer Hayden Joseph is a bit of an anomaly in a genre of music stereotypically not exactly welcoming or open to LGBTQ+ participants, but he hopes that is changing (and here’s an example of how it may be). Being brave is sometimes just the result of being yourself, and Joseph earns this Dazzler of the Day for being living proof of that. Check out his website here for more:
A South Carolina native, Hayden Joseph is no stranger to the Country Music scene. His love for the genre started as soon as he could talk and has continued to blossom throughout his adult life. Hayden blends the sounds of Modern Country and Mainstream Pop music, drawing inspiration from the genre-bending melodies of Taylor Swift, Garth Brooks, and Shania Twain. His unique sound, heartfelt lyrics, and Southern Charm have captivated audiences across the country.
Hayden prides himself in the inclusive nature of his lyrics, as an openly gay male pursuing a country music career. “The songs I write are rooted in personal experiences, but I challenge myself to write lyrics that are applicable to many walks of life.” He hopes to continue breaking barriers and being a driving force in the changing country music tide.
His debut album, “Different” was released in Spring of 2021, logging more than 500k streams to date. Its follow-up singles this summer have seen even more rapid trajectories, while Hayden’s message of expanding country music’s perspectives has garnered him nearly 200K TikTok followers, led to features in “People” magazine, and landed notable Spotify editorial placements.
Some dazzlers are so dazzling that the mere naming of them as Dazzler of the Day feels trite and a tad bit silly. (See Beyoncé, Dolly Parton, Madonna, Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga for example.) That points to something in humanity that afflicts the best of the best: whenever someone seemingly has their shit together, we forget to check on them or grant them the honor and adoration due their talent or art or mere existence. Meanwhile, the trouble-makers or perennially problematic people get all the glory and attention and support. Such is the case with artists like Carole King, who have amassed a breathtaking body of work (and if you look into all the songs she wrote for others it truly is epic) while remaining humble and true to their work. When they take on important causes like environmentalism, they dazzle us even more, and want no recognition for being good people. So here’s to those who have dazzled us for decades, asking for nothing yet always giving their everything.
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
You say that you need my love And you’re wanting my body, I don’t mind Baby all I’ve got is time And I’m waiting to make you mine
You say you wanna stay the night But you’ll leave me tomorrow, I don’t care All of your moves are right We can take it anywhere…
I have absolutely no recollection of this song from when it came out. It was early days for Madonna, before I was even aware of myself, much less the latest pop star about to take the world by storm. We were both in our infancies then. Of course I become aware of it later on, but by then other songs and career moves held my attention, and this one never took on classic status in my eyes. That’s ok – not every single Madonna song is destined for epic effect, and others seem to have embraced this one from the get-go so it doesn’t lack for fans. I’m just not one of them.
Maybe we were meant to be together Even though we never met before We got to move before the sun is rising And you’ll be walking slowly out the door Out the door
Physical attraction (physical attraction) It’s a chemical reaction, ooh It’s a physical attraction It’s a chemical reaction, yeah
Last fall, when planning out 20th anniversary posts for this website, I asked all of my friends’ children to send me a few songs that embodied me and ALANILAGAN.com in their minds. Each response was fascinating because it revealed a few things about what they each thought of me, and unintentionally, perhaps, a few things they thought about themselves. I’m slowly working my way through them, and one of the first ones that spoke to me illustrated the intuition and unexpected clairvoyance of Suzie’s daughter Oona.
Always sharp on the ways of humans, thanks to keen and practiced observation, Oona has had a prescient brilliance that set her quietly apart from the rest. I remember what it’s like to be a little different that way – a little quieter and more self-contained – and it has a tendency to work against you in the very ways you most want to reach out and connect. That ended up saving me some serious heartbreak, however, and I’m sure Oona is turning it to her own advantage. As for this song, at first I wondered why she chose it, and then I decided to write what it meant to me before I asked. Here is ‘Death By A Thousand Cuts’ by Taylor Swift, and as I listened to it an understanding of stories I’d forgotten I’d written began to unfold…
Saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts Flashbacks waking me up I get drunk, but it’s not enough ‘Cause the morning comes and you’re not my baby I look through the windows of this love Even though we boarded them up Chandelier’s still flickering here ‘Cause I can’t pretend it’s ok when it’s not It’s death by a thousand cuts
Upon first reading, the lyrics seem to indicate some sort of treatise on the demise of a romantic relationship, which is usually what Taylor does best. The first few listens I got some resonance from that, but then another relationship presented itself in my mind – my relationship with drinking – and suddenly this song became one of those flashpoints when everything comes brilliantly alive in frightening fashion. “I get drunk but it’s not enough…”
It’s been three and a half years since I last had a drink, and it’s not even something I think about all that often. So completely has my lifestyle changed in that time, along with the world, that it feels like a thousand years ago, but sometimes it’s good to remember, and to see how drinking might have become my death by a thousand cuts.
I dress to kill my time I take the long way home I ask the traffic lights if it’ll be all right They say, “I don’t know” And what once was ours is no one’s now I see you everywhere The only thing we share Is this small town
You said it was a great love One for the ages But if the story’s over Why am I still writing pages?
When you use alcohol as a method of dealing with your demons, it takes on aspects of a very toxic relationship – the kind of relationships that slowly kills you rather than ending it in one fell swoop. It doesn’t start out that way, and for a while – a couple of decades in fact – it seduced and made it seem like that was the best way to solve any and all problems. It was my way of dealing with social anxiety, and unfair situations, and anger and loss and happiness and joy and celebration… well, you get the idea. It feeds on itself, and I could feel myself heading down a darker path that was alienating loved ones as much as I was alienating myself. My sense of self grew hazier with every martini, my bearings and judgment grew shakier with every glass of wine, and when you start to lose those things, you sometimes hold onto yourself by drinking more.
‘Cause saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts Flashbacks waking me up I get drunk, but it’s not enough ‘Cause the morning comes and you’re not my baby I look through the windows of this love Even though we boarded them up Chandelier still flickering here ‘Cause I can’t pretend it’s okay when it’s not It’s death by a thousand cuts
On those mornings after I’d had too much, that was when it really hurt. It wasn’t the physical aspect of a hangover that was so debilitating and destructive – it was the emotional and mental state I’d be in, the incredibly depressing down that came from drowning myself in a depressant and thinking that would solve anything. The flashbacks woke me up… I looked through the windows of the boarded-up love I shared with liquor… and I knew that liquor would never be my salvation, it would only be my death, no matter how insidiously long it took. Deadened by a thousand cuts…
In that gray haze, I would look around me at the world and wonder why I couldn’t just be like everyone else, why I never felt like I fit in, why everything felt so much harder and more difficult, why I needed a drink to make it all bearable. Slowly, I began to make sense of things, and on the day that it finally and fully dawned on me that my drinking was self-medication for social anxiety and how ill-at-ease I felt with myself and my place in the world, I decided to work on that, and the need – the want – the desire – for all that annihilation instantly dissipated.
The bridge of this song hits harder when I think of all that I put myself through. A bridge is a powerful symbol – it can connect disparate places and parts, piecing things together that might not normally be joined. The rivers and ravines of our lives aren’t always without purpose, but when we create our own divisions and cuts and separations, sometimes we need a bridge. To heal, to join, to make us whole again.
My heart, my hips, my body, my love Trying to find a part of me that you didn’t touch Gave up on me like I was a bad drug Now I’m searching for signs in a haunted club Our songs, our films, united we stand Our country, guess it was a lawless land Quiet my fears with the touch of your hand Paper cut stings from our paper thin plans
Knowing that and stopping my drinking was relatively easy once I fully understood what was at work – the hard part was untangling all the things that my drinking had infiltrated and tied in knots. How to dismantle something that had formed such a pillar of my existence? Wasn’t the cocktail an integral part of what made me so fun? Wasn’t it the only thing that made me fun? A part of me that alcohol didn’t touch? A part of me that drinking didn’t take up? I was so mad at myself for not seeing it sooner, for letting it almost take over, I scream out the rest of the bridge in a rage.
My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust Trying to find a part of me you didn’t take up Gave you so much but it wasn’t enough But I’ll be all right, it’s just a thousand cuts
That’s the trick of drinking. It would never be enough, not for the reasons I thought I needed it. Once I saw that, and started to address the underlying reasons for it, I could let that relationship go. The clean-up and shift took some time, as it was a drastic life-change, but it felt so good that, as frightening as it was to deal with the real reasons for it, I knew it was worth it. Finding the way back to yourself after twenty-plus years of running away from that person isn’t easy. I’d hurt myself, and others, in all that time, and facing the man I’d become from a place of purity – from the place I was in before I started drinking – was uncomfortable and humbling – and precisely what I needed. It was good to see him again, to feel him still there, no matter how badly I hurt him just trying to do the best I knew to survive, to get us both through. We both did our best, and somehow we both came together, fully integrated all these years later, and ready to start again.
I get drunk but it’s not enough ‘Cause you’re not my baby I look through the windows of this love Even though we boarded them up Chandelier’s still flickering here ‘Cause I can’t pretend it’s ok when it’s not No, it’s not
It’s death by a thousand cuts (you didn’t touch) Trying to find a part of me that you didn’t touch My body, my love, my trust (it’s death by a thousand cuts) But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough, no, no
I take the long way home I ask the traffic lights if it’ll be all right They say, “I don’t know”
Anyone who steps onto a country music stage and defiantly celebrates drag queens at this moment in time is way more than a Dazzler of the Day, but that’s all I have to offer Kelsea Ballerina right now, and she most definitely deserves it. Be sure to visit her website here to see how much she has already accomplished, and find all the signs of all the promise that is yet to come.
Andreas Wijk just released one of the most powerful songs of the past year, thanks to its public delivery to his parents, in which he plays what is basically a coming-out song for them. For that bravery and courage alone (because it’s not always easy to come out, at any point in history) Andreas earns this Dazzler of the Day. Aiding in the dazzlement is his musical talent and body of work, and that song.
The James Renaissance continues from this ‘Tomorrow’ post, with a preview of their new orchestral album ‘Be Opened By the Wonderful’ which sounds like it’s going to be aural ecstasy to my ears. ‘She’s A Star’ gains poignance and a more tender luster than its original incarnation through its orchestral treatment, and the lyrics come into greater focus without all the glorious guitar work and drum noise.
Whenever her face is frozen, Unable to fake it anymore
Her shadow is always with her, Her shadow could keep her small
So frightened that he won’t love her, She builds up a wall
Oh no, she knows where to hide in the dark, Oh no, she’s nowhere to hide in the dark
She’s a star… She’s a star
If this is any indication of how the new album will transform some classic James songs, I’m already on board. In the 20th year of this website, I’ve been indulging in some nostalgia of late. The advancing march of time feels especially swift these days, as I watch my parents, and now my friends, go through their health obstacles – mostly due to the simple act of getting older. I feel it in myself too – the blood pressure pills, the stubborn paunch, the more-salt-than-pepper hair, the failing eyesight, and the frustrating way I can’t remember anything that happened in the last five years, or five minutes. (I can still give you stellar and detailed examinations of what went down from 1996 through 2002, however – more than anyone needs to know, and largely useless in 2023.)
In this nostalgia, I find pockets of time when I see how badly I treated some people, and how badly I’ve treated myself. There is empathy for everything we went through, rather than the mean and arch way I’ve confronted discomfort from the past. When I look back at the young man I used to be, I find myself shaking my head and giving off the smallest laugh at what we did to each other, and at the guarded ways I tried so valiantly, and foolishly, to protect my heart. All the while, I failed to find the goodness there, and the real power in being open and vulnerable. Too concerned with being perfect, too afraid of losing love by not being perfect, I walked a tightrope with all the requisite tension and carefulness involved. There should have been more happiness, and a little part of me will always mourn that I didn’t allow myself to feel that.
She’s been in disguise forever, She’s tried to disguise her stellar views
Much brighter than all this static, Now she’s coming through
Oh no, she knows where to hide in the dark, Oh no, she’s nowhere to hide in the dark
She’s a star… She’s a star
How often do we dim our lights or silence our speech so as not to be the lighthouse or the foghorn? They have real purpose and meaning – how dare we act like we carry the same right to be here, the same right to shine or scream? The caution we craft and create is the very thing holding us back, and so we play into the grand scheme designed to keep us quiet, to keep us behaving, to keep us exactly like everybody else. How dare we be different…
Don’t tell her to turn down
Put on your shades if you can’t see
Don’t tell her to turn down
Turn up the flame
She’s a star… She’s a star
The older I get, the more myself I feel, and the out-of-place awkwardness that peppered my youth has largely dissipated. Those years were helpful – they held their own lessons and imbued me with their own power – I just wish I had learned it all a little faster. But that’s no real reason for regret – it happened when it needed to happen. It happened when it was supposed to happen. If I look back with a bit of bitterness for not knowing better, it’s only because I’m a little happier with where I am today.
And so the star-like journey of a life is played out, and like the real stars, each one is different and unique, each has its own lifespan and trajectory designed by destiny. Each of us finds our way to our own enlightenment like we find our way home.
Jake Shears just released a dance floor bop that brings me back to those full-throated dance divas of the 90’s, thanks to a featured vocal tour-de-force by Amber Martin. It’s the perfect antidote for a rainy Saturday night, when you need some inspiration, and a reminder of how fun Saturday night could and should be. Turn this one up, let go your mind and inhibitions, and set yourself free on the dance floor – even if it’s the kitchen these days.
Everyone thinks the winter wind is the one that cuts the deepest, but it’s the wind of early spring, when things are heaving and breaking and melting, that carries the biggest risk of pushing you off the edge of a building. As I walked toward the moon, I felt the wind at my back, and the ledge of the observatory roof was a dim line straight ahead. Carrying a heavy heart, one that had already been broken before I could leave my teenage-years, and mostly by my own machinations, left my walk slow but deliberate. Resigned and intent. The seductive spell of a spring night had been whispered to me from the wind, and I moved away from my classmates, nearer the edge, nearer the forbidden space the professor had warned us against.
I see you falling How long to go before you hit the ground You keep on screaming Don’t you see me here Am I a ghost to you?
Ahh, spring. Your treacherous offering of hope when what you really have to give is heartache. But you do it wrapped in a cherry blossom, nodding in the cheery self-obsession of a glade of narcissus, teasing from the tip of a tulip petal. Spring and all your madness, stripped in a storm, rendering all of us naked and tender and ill-equipped for the cold that’s still deep in the night, and still waiting for us in the morning.
Now your grip’s too strong You can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your luck will change tomorrow Tomorrow…
Back then, whether admitted or not (and for the most part I never admitted it to anyone) my only goal in life was to find a partner ~ a companion. I just didn’t want to go through it all alone. I was tired of being alone.
I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud.
Not that I wasn’t good at being alone. Not that it had ever been a choice. I was simply ready to find someone with whom I might share a life – with whom I might make a life. And while I never put that into words then, as even I understood that wasn’t first date banter, my actions and desire spoke more than I ever could, frightening would-be suitors and maybe-friends away. Maybe, too, I knew that I wasn’t ready for it, and sabotaged myself before letting anything happen, before getting too carried away. But oh, what spring could seduce from the merest hints of connection, and oh how badly I wanted to be with someone.
This song arrived just as I found myself without a girlfriend or boyfriend, and I sought out solace in my platonic friends, calling them late at night, wondering if they could sense my desperation, the terrifying need to not be alone at those dangerous hours. Anything but lonely…
Why are you phoning? What am I to do when you’re miles away? You’re always calling from the darkest moods and we’re both scared…
Life then existed in letters and late night phone calls, hushed conversations held in indulgent secrecy, hidden from flatmates and strangers alike – that was how we kept in touch, how we made connections. There wasn’t texting or FaceBook or seeing someone’s whole life history. We only knew what we were told, and what we could read in between the laughter and sighs, much of it was made-up – and all of it better than the false-transparency of what we put out on social media today.
Back then you had to trust your friends to stick with you despite distance and time, and it didn’t always work. Even the closest among us found ourselves growing apart – it couldn’t be helped – but I railed against that, struggling to stay in touch, wrangling us together for parties and gatherings, even when no one knew what to say. Because it mattered, didn’t it? That we had been through it together. That we had been through that formative part of life, that we knew each other before we knew ourselves. It had to matter. As soon as the thought formed, I knew that time in our lives had passed. I knew also that I would not let it go so easily, finding the nets and guns and forces to keep us intact and together. That was my purpose.
Now your grip’s too strong You can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your love will change
Every spring, I listened to this song, and every spring seemed to get a little less lonely. It revealed different meanings as the years passed, changing from a lesson in how to get through a lonely night to a lesson in learning how not to force things, especially love. That was a lesson I needed more than most. My friends could always keep their heads when it came to crushes and obsessions – I lost mine, and willingly gave away my heart in the process. I listened to ‘Tomorrow’, as I listened for tomorrow, and slowly I began to understood the mantra:
Now your grip’s too strong Can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your love will change tomorrow
It was on a summer evening – and even though I certainly didn’t feel like I had any semblance of shit together, looking back, that was the beginning of when I started to pull it together. Or at least put forth the appearance of keeping things together. Getting by, and getting on with it. The first steps in being ok with being alone. I knelt down to tie my sneakers, then grinned at the light still pouring into the bedroom window. Summer in Boston beckoned, and I ran into the South End as neighbors took their dinner plates onto their front steps.
Running every night was my little way of getting out in the world. Too socially-anxious to prowl the bars or clubs on a regular basis (and certainly never on my own when everyone else had departed the city for the summer) I connected to people from the distance of speed and flight, as I raced the streets of Boston, running away as much as I was running toward something. I spent most nights spent and heated, a late-night shower to cool off, and then a spell of reading in the bedroom. Slowly, I was learning to love being by myself. Something told me I needed to do that – genuinely and authentically – if I was ever going to learn to love someone, and let them love me in return.
I’m just out of your range Tomorrow All your suffering’s in vain Tomorrow
“This song was written as an attempt to stop a close friend jumping off the roof.” ~ James
I didn’t know that this was the origin of this song. It never meant that to me, but it makes sense about why it spoke to me on so many levels, and so deeply. This has always been one of my favorite songs, one that has withstood time and place. And James has always been my favorite band. (Relax, Madonna is not a band.) I loved them since they wore dresses and ate bananas for the cover of their absolute best album ‘Laid’. That song cycle informed my life at its most crucial and influential moments – when the soul was solidifying into what it will always be.
Now your grip’s too strong You can’t catch love with a net or a gun Gotta keep faith that your path will change Gotta keep faith that your love will change tomorrow
This song reminds me that it’s ok to sink low sometimes, to walk toward the ledge and wonder about jumping off. No sane person would witness what we do to each other and not wonder at the futility of this world. How could we not want to off ourselves now and then? We weren’t designed to withstand such cruelty, but here we are, doing our best, doing it together whether we realize it or not. It’s there in a late-night phone call from a friend, an unexpected letter in the mail, a FaceBook message from a stranger just checking in – all these little ways we show that we care, that people are worth a little suffering and pain, that we are alive in this exquisitely imperfect and fucked-up world, and for the most part we are each doing our best to be better for each other.
I got out of your range Tomorrow All your suffering seems vain Change tomorrow Some forgiveness now Tomorrow Love’s no sacred cow
Back when I was on the cusp of becoming a teenager, this cheeky song by Samantha Fox battled Madonna’s ‘Crazy For You’ on the Top Ten at Ten on our local radio station. I’m not sure how that happened, as they were released at such different times, but things worked differently in the 80’s. I was very much an 80’s child, for better and mostly worse, and I was just coming into my own, waking to the world around me and my place and presence in it. On the radio every other song was about sex, and while I had no idea what sex was, what a virgin might be, and how love did and didn’t always fit into the equation, I was fascinated by the forbidden aspect of it, the way it made the adults squirm whenever I would bring it up.
Full moon in the city and the night was young I was hungry for love, I was hungry for fun I was hunting you down, and I was the bait When I saw you there, I didn’t need to hesitate
The rainy month of March when this song first came out was filled with the usual paradoxes of this time of the year. Easter and Lent collided with the coming of spring, and all the birds and bees and dirty deeds that the less-spiritual part of the world got up into whenever spring arrived. On the windows of my bedroom, or the windows of the backseat of the car, I watched water droplets shape and warp the world. This song spoke to me with its over-the-top cheesiness, appealing to my love of the dramatic and histrionic, with more than a touch of sleaze. If Madonna’s ‘Crazy For You’ was the sweet little sister, innocently opining about a kiss and no more, ‘Touch Me’ was the sexier, raunchier cousin leading me into the night. Just a tween, I had no idea what any of it meant, nor any desire to learn. Instead, I felt the pangs of longing and yearning, the ache of a first crush on a boy who lived several streets away, and I had no idea why.
This is the night, this is the night This is the time, we’ve got to get it right…
Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body Your heartbeat next to mine (this is the night) Touch me, touch me now… Touch me, touch me now…
When Samantha Fox sang this song, and whispers of her topless poses in certain scandalous magazines reached the boys, they felt something I simply didn’t. Immune to the charms of her ample cleavage, I had no desire to get into her ripped jeans either, but I watched other boys as they watched her, and I envied her transfixing hold on them. How could I cast such a spell? How to craft and conjure such rapt enchantment?
Hot and cold emotion, confusing my brain I could not decide between pleasure and pain Like a tramp in the night, I was begging for you To treat my body like you wanted to
This is the night, this is the night This is the time, we’ve got to get it right…
Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body Your heartbeat next to mine (this is the night) Touch me, touch me now… Touch me, touch me now…
Later, years later, I would re-listen to this song and be horrified at the thought of me blaring it in the car while my parents gamely alternated between this and ‘Crazy For You’. It was just music and melody to me – the words meant nothing – but there was something primal and raw in it that appealed to my barely-burgeoning nature. As a tween, it wasn’t in any way sexual to me, just a bop on the radio that elicited thrills because I could see the reaction to it, not because I felt anything myself.
As a young gay man, that certainly changed over the years, but that’s another story for another song and blog post. This is just a quaint memory of S-S-S-S-Samantha Fox… because naughty girls need love (DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH) too.
Touch me, touch me now… Touch me, touch me now, yeah…
Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body Your heartbeat next to mine (this is the night) ‘Cause I want your body, all the time…
