This is just for the second night of summer. Turns out I had the foresight to put this on our first summer mix, and it came on over the stereo as I wilted from the midday heat, without a pool or a new summer fragrance. Is there a sadder state in which to find oneself? Don’t answer, universe, I already know there’s nothing to complain about. Certainly not on the second night of summer.
Well it’s the second day of summer
You already got me sweating about it
Oh it’s the second night of summer
And I’m disintegrating without you
Throwing me that shade like I’m not cool enough
Throwing me that shade like I’m not
Like I’m not cool enough
Throwing me that shade like I’m not
Like I’m not
Like I’m not cool enough
Not cool enough
Some songs are no longer relatable to me lyrically. When we’re talking about a woman who’s getting on a plane with a carry-on and without me, well, what’s the big deal? And if anyone is throwing me shade, I’m throwing it right back, and the shade I throw is the stuff of endless night. Some songs I simply like because of the way they sound, the way I did as a kid before I know what ‘virgin’ or ‘preach‘ meant. Isn’t that the point of a pop song anyway? This one is taking me away in a haze of heat, riding waves of hot air like I’m not cool enough…
Sun up and sun down
Sun up and sun down
As for this second night of summer, the heat is on. Beating a hasty retreat to the interior of air-conditioned coolness, I sink gratefully to the floor, where a soft rug awaits my lotus-positioned body, folding in on itself like some intricate piece of origami. Closing my eyes, I take in the start of summer, on its second day – the forgotten day, because everyone only talks about the first day, and what does the second even matter?
Well it’s the second day of summer
You already got me sweating about it
Oh it’s the second night of summer
And I’m disintegrating without you
Throwing me that shade like I’m not cool enough
Throwing me that shade like I’m not
Like I’m not cool enough
Throwing me that shade like I’m not
Like I’m not
Like I’m not cool enough
Not cool enough
THE SUN HAS LEFT AND FORGOTTEN ME
IT’S DARK, I CANNOT SEE
WHY DOES THIS RAIN POUR DOWN?
I’M GONNA DROWN IN A SEA
OF DEEP CONFUSION
‘Hang On Little Tomato’ is a song by Pink Martini that perfectly personifies this almost-summer moment in a year that has just gone completely bonkers. It’s swerved riotously into cray-cray territory in ways we probably won’t fully comprehend and realize until we’re all dead and buried and the history stored in the cloud reads back like a doomsday novel. Not quite the beginning of summer most of us had hoped for, and certainly not the celebratory year I had in mind for 2020, but then I hear this song, and I take a few deep breaths, and I realize we will be ok if we just hang on…
This happy song reminds me of the baby shower I threw for Suzie and Pat before the birth of Oona. It was in November, but the weekend it took place was a glorious throwback to a late summer moment – all sun and warmth and beams of happiness. Suzie’s spirit has always been infectiously upbeat, even when pregnant, and this song and album added to the joy and quirky atmosphere of a baby shower thrown by a not-quite-baby-friendly yours truly. It turned out lovely enough – the guests make a party, and Suzie’s pals (along with her Mom’s pals) were a hoot unto themselves. It’s not easy to throw-back to summer in November, but we managed it, thanks partly to this song.
SOMEBODY TOLD ME, I DON’T KNOW WHO
WHENEVER YOU ARE SAD AND BLUE
AND YOU’RE FEELIN’ ALL ALONE AND LEFT BEHIND
JUST TAKE A LOOK INSIDE YOU YOU’LL FIND
YOU GOTTA HOLD ON
HOLD ON THROUGH THE NIGHT
HANG ON
THINGS WILL BE ALL RIGHT
EVEN WHEN IT’S DARK AND NOT A BIT OF SPARKLING
SING-SONG SUNSHINE FROM ABOVE
SPREADING RAYS OF SUNNY LOVE
This year, Suzie delivered a tomato growing container, fences and all, from her Mom, and we planted a few tomato plants – the first vegetables we’ve planted in probably ten years. Seemed a good time to do so – end of the world and all – and we already have some fruit forming on the lower branches of the upward-reaching vines. Tomatoes can be tricky to grow well – susceptible to certain diseases and growing dangers – but I was raised by a father whose main claim to cultivating fame was a vegetable garden robust with tomatoes that lined the garage sill in all stages, shapes and sizes of ripeness. We had an excess of the red fruit, matched only by the number of zucchini from his other garden. I learned the power of manure and proper soil preparation. Witnessing firsthand the back-breaking work turning over a decent patch of soil required, the way my father worked well into the dwindling light of the evening to make the dirt a welcoming home. He would then nestle the tomato plants deeply into the ground at an angle, piling the soil up most of the stem because he knew the roots would grow from the whole stem, stabilizing the plant. They soon righted themselves, rooted in stability, and then quickly began their fruit production. We began picking tomatoes soon thereafter and didn’t let up until the fall. There were many BLT sandwiches, or just simple fresh slices with some salt and pepper. They seemed to taste better coming out of one’s own garden.
JUST HANG ON
HANG ON TO THE VINE
STAY ON
SOON YOU’LL BE DIVINE
IF YOU START TO CRY, LOOK UP TO THE SKY
SOMETHING’S COMING UP AHEAD
TO TURN YOUR TEARS TO DEW INSTEAD
Andy grew tomatoes in the garden at his first house too – bushels of cherry tomatoes, along with some peppers. He had a little trouble with the beefsteak variety – one of which I made the mistake of planting this year (we shall see) and when we planted some at our current house, it was always hit and miss.
One fall we neglected to get to all the fruit before the killing frost, and the next year a multitude of sports popped up. We let them grow, eagerly anticipating the sweet tartness of whatever hybrid we had, only to be disappointed with the bitter flavor of some second-hand wannabes. Since then, we’ve avoided the laborious vegetable garden in favor of pretty perennials that returned year after year, growing in size with an easier routine of maintenance. But we missed the fresh bright fruit of a homegrown tomato, so this year we said yes to a container from Aunt Elaine, and currently are coddling a trio of plants just beginning to offer their first crop of fruit.
AND SO I HOLD ON TO HIS ADVICE
WHEN CHANGE IS HARD AND NOT SO NICE
IF YOU LISTEN TO YOUR HEART THE WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH
YOUR SUNNY SOMEDAY WILL COME ONE DAY SOON TO YOU
Every day, I visit the little tomatoes we have, watching them with a protective gaze and sending up a crop of little prayers that they make it – that some spell of mildew doesn’t take them out, that they don’t fall prey to the proliferation of chipmunks in the neighborhood, that something else doesn’t cut short their treacherous road to ripening. After the year we’ve already had, I don’t have much faith… but I’m still hanging on.
At this time of the year, there are stars in the sky from dawn to dusk, as the Chinese dogwood carries its bracts above its bright green foliage. They put me in the mind of this song, which I am only just beginning to understand and hear as if for the first time. The lyrics are haunting. I will not print them here. Not yet. They should be heard as they were sung, the way the artist intended.
Who can say what art even means anymore, what purpose it serves, what good and evil it works in the world. I always wonder about such things in times such as these. When the universe turns brutal, and leaves us with lessons we may or may not be ready to learn, it knocks the wind out of me for a while. I question everything and feel uninspired. Unable to activate the usual frivolous drive that impels me to decorate the atmosphere around me with silly, pretty things, it’s like the rudder was removed and I’m spinning in aimless circles. I can’t even properly formulate a simile or metaphor – it all sounds like a mess.
I don’t know if I believe in ghosts. I do believe in memories that haunt like ghosts, that feel so strong and tangible that they manifest as ghosts, but are still no more than memory and mourning and love. How else to describe the haunting that happens every year around this time, when the world tilts toward outward happiness and on the surface all is sunny disposition? It was in May that a childhood friend died of a self-inflicted gunshot, and he comes to mind, without fail, each and every spring season that bleeds so beautifully into summer.
WOULD YOU KNOW MY NAME
IF I SAW YOU IN HEAVEN?
WOULD IT BE THE SAME
IF I SAW YOU IN HEAVEN?
I MUST BE STRONG
AND CARRY ON
‘CAUSE I KNOW I DON’T BELONG
HERE IN HEAVEN
It’s like they say in ‘Stand By Me’, and I’m loosely paraphrasing: you never really have the friendships you have when you’re a kid. If you’re lucky and the world helps conspire in your favor, you may hang onto a friend like that. Suzie is one such friend; our families were so intertwined there was no way out from each other’s orbit. My friends Ann and Missy are also from a time long before we were adults. We grew up together. And from the stale hallways of McNulty school, Jeff was a friend I had in grade school and then drifted further and further away until we barely knew one another in high school. By the time he decided to turn a gun on himself and end the pain, he already felt like a lost friend.
WOULD YOU HOLD MY HAND
IF I SAW YOU IN HEAVEN?
WOULD YOU HELP ME STAND
IF I SAW YOU IN HEAVEN?
I’LL FIND MY WAY
THROUGH NIGHT AND DAY
‘CAUSE I KNOW I JUST CAN’T STAY
HERE IN HEAVEN
In addition to this ballad I previously posted, there was another song that personified that dark almost-summer of 1992 – ‘Tears in Heaven’ by Eric Clapton. Written for his young son, who had fallen to his death from a skyscraper, it personified loss like no other song before or since. It played inescapably on the radio, and every time it came on, which was often, I turned the station or shut it off. Sometimes I would simply walk out of the room. Unable to process what happened, and unable to process that kind of grief, I shut down. It was survival. It was protection. It was what I had to do to get through another day. Another night. And I had to do it alone.
TIME CAN BRING YOU DOWN
TIME CAN BEND YOUR KNEES
TIME CAN BREAK YOUR HEART
HAVE YOU BEGGING PLEASE, BEGGING PLEASE
BEYOND THE DOOR
THERE’S PEACE I’M SURE
AND I KNOW THERE’LL BE NO MORE
TEARS IN HEAVEN
The school year ended, and I spent most of the time in and around the house. In so many ways, it felt like my childhood had finally, and definitively, ended – and I mourned that as much as I mourned Jeff’s death. In a sense, they were one and the same. I didn’t get to have one without the other, so I suppose I’ll never know for sure. That summer, they went hand in hand.
This song kept surfacing, no matter how much I tried to escape it. The world doesn’t always let you get away with running from your sorrow. That doesn’t mean I listened. For all these years, I refused to listen. It brought me right back to that time, and there was enough madness and sadness in the world that I didn’t feel it was necessary to resurrect what had happened so long ago. Once again, I was wrong, so when the song came on a few days ago, I paused and listened to it. I went back and played it again. I dove into that ocean of sorrow, all the way down to where I had buried so many feelings and conflicted thoughts. I dove into my anger and rage, into the unfathomable waste and regret of what he had done, into the depths of seeing what it had done to his parents, to his family, to his friends.
WOULD YOU KNOW MY NAME
IF I SAW YOU IN HEAVEN?
WOULD YOU BE THE SAME
IF I SAW YOU IN HEAVEN?
I MUST BE STRONG
AND CARRY ON
‘CAUSE I KNOW I DON’T BELONG
HERE IN HEAVEN
There was so much sadness still there, so much raw hurt, such tragedy. And still, there was the same incomprehensible lack of understanding in how it came to happen, what steps and decisions and thoughts led him into that dark corner. How frightened he must have felt. How hopeless it must have seemed. How lonely it must have been. How could this star athlete, the most popular guy from McNulty Elementary School, have found himself in such a tragic space? And how could all the recent memories of my own choices and ghosts ~ the pills and plastic bags and rubber bands, the plastic hoses leading from the exhaust pipes of cars, the failures and attempts and failures again ~ make any other sense than in the gnawing thought that it should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me.
It took years for that to go away, and sometimes it does still haunt my heart. Maybe it should have been me. Maybe that’s how it should have played out. Maybe that originally made the most sense in the universe. Who had the most promise? Who would do the best things for the betterment of the world? It’s hard to think that I have come ahead in that tricky game of what-if. But the one thing I have learned is that we each had a choice, and we each made those choices in the best manner we knew. For whatever fluke or change of destiny, I’m still here, and even if Jeff chose not to be, I can choose to remember him, to try to make it mean something. In that small way, he’s still here too.
These are elements of the ephemeral that should not be bound to physical formats. They are so much more than that.
I’m old-school.
Some days I want to take the school part out of the hyphenate and it wouldn’t entirely turn untrue.
Looking over the guestroom, I see a place filled with relics from the 90’s. Rickety shelving units that bow and bend beneath the weight and water damage of potted plants, an extensive CD-storage piece that has monopolized one wall for every single day we’ve been at this house. A weight-lifting rack that has seen more use as a storage shelf than actual work-outs (yes, it’s dusty, but I’m about to dust it off, I swear). And with more time than ever to spend at home, I’m finally making motions to bring this room into a new decade. With a new mid-century credenza en route, it was time to do some ruthless editing, beginning with several hundred CDs which I set about transferring to digital format. I fear and embrace change in equally-powerful parts, but for today I shall focus on the latter.
I am learning to let go. For so long I held onto these CDs, the same way I hold onto books, in the futile hope that part of my past would stay safe, would stay untouched and unharmed, and maybe somehow heal if it was just left alone. Turns out that in all this time the best thing to do might have been to let it all go and start over again.
Today I make motions to have it both ways. I will download the songs I love, and trash the rest. I don’t think I’ve purchased a physical CD in years, so this collection hasn’t grown any, it’s simply stayed the same. Stagnant. Still. Unevolved. It is time.
On this morning, I set M People’s ‘Bizarre Fruit’ on a delightful spin back to the 90’s, and I’m brought back to the sales floor of Structure, and tea dance at Chaps in Boston, and I’m smiling at the memories and emotions it brings back. The music remains, the plastic shell of its trappings can go, and the space for, well, space, has begun to appear. It is the space for growth. One shelf has been emptied, and another follows suit. I can see the wall, I can sense an expansion, I can literally feel an openness that hasn’t been there for years. Instantly, the room’s mood lifts. When the new credenza arrives I shall repot the plants that perch atop the deteriorating particle board shelving module. They will have a real piece of furniture on which to grow, and new pots to go with the mid-century feel of clean lines and minimalist structure. When the world outside feels like a jumbled overgrown monstrosity, the best thing to do is clear up the inside.
And if there’s music by M People to dance along to, so much the better.
Though they are the bane of our lawn’s existence these days, the little violets seen here are a happy memory-inducing plant from my childhood. Back then, I’d explore the woodland behind our backyard and these flowers shone in wide swaths and groups, mostly in their white and purple form. There’s something more peaceful and lovely about the simple violet hue you see here. I would hunt these out among the more plentiful white ones. Maybe I valued them more for their scarcity. At my current home, the pure violet ones outnumber the multi-colored version.
Nowadays they are wreaking havoc with the uniform green carpet of our lawn, and so we must eradicate them. I’m not bothered by it – they will never be entirely gone. There are too many, their realm is too vast, and there are always more to be found if ever we make a complete eviction. For now, I’m enjoying their little blooms as they pop up, reconciled to their bothersome invasive tendencies, content with being granted the memory they evoke.
(If I pick all the flowers, there will be no seed to spread, so bouquets like this provide beauty and purpose, the best of all possible worlds.)
YOU BOUGHT ME VIOLETS FOR MY FURS
AND THERE WAS BLUE IN THE WINTRY SKY
YOU PINNED THE VIOLETS TO MY FURS
AND GAVE A LIFT TO THE CROWDS PASSING BY
YOU SMILED AT ME SO SWEETLY
SINCE THEN ONE THOUGHT OCCURS
THAT WE FELL IN LOVE COMPLETELY
THE DAY YOU BOUGHT ME VIOLETS FOR MY FURS
If lyrics aren’t your preferred way of listening tonight, give the John Coltrane Quartet’s version a spin. It’s the perfect accompaniment to a breezy spring evening that doesn’t yet feel like spring.
Rufus Wainwright has been one of the shining stars during this strange and difficult time, with his daily #Quarantunes and #RobeRecitals series. He also just released a new song from his upcoming album, “Unfollow the Rules” and it is a glorious work of art that resonates powerfully with someone like me. Reveling in alone time has been one of the grandest quests of my adult life, and quite often during my childhood as well, now that I think about it. In these turbulent times, it rings a little differently, which is the way relevant art often works.
I NEED A LITTLE ALONE TIME
A LITTLE DREAM TIME
BUT DON’T WORRY I WILL BE BACK BABY
I NEED A LITTLE BE-GONE TIME
A LITTLE ON MY OWN TIME
BUT DON’T WORRY I WILL BE BACK BABY
TO GET YOU ON THE MISTS OF AVALON
TO SAVE YOU FROM THE CLIFFS OF LOVERS LEAPING OFF
AND ON AND OFF AND ON AND OFF AND ON
Wainwright works in many realms; most of us know him as singer and songwriter, but he’s also a talented artist. His work inspired the gorgeously illustrated video that is both whimsical and evocative. He’s delayed the release of his album at this point because he wanted the album artwork to be part of the listening experience. That is the work of a true artist. The quest for a vision. The hope and prayer for a proper execution. A worthy attempt at finishing the hat.
The push and pull of the artistic life is something Wainwright has mastered, or at the very least has given a great show of having mastered. I wonder how close we can get to the real gears and grids of an artist’s mind. How close would the artist want an audience to get?
I NEED A LITTLE ALONE TIME
A LITTLE DREAM TIME
DON’T WORRY I WILL BE BACK BABY
I NEED A LITTLE BE-GONE TIME
A LITTLE ON MY OWN TIME
BUT DON’T WORRY I WILL BE BACK BABY
TO GET YOU ON THE WINGS OF A PERFECT SONG
TO SAVE YOU
FROM THESE STINGS OF HAVING TO TURN OFF
AND ON AND OFF AND ON AND OFF AND ON
There is an art to alone time too. How to get it, how to craft it, how to carve it into the sculpture of your day. Requesting it can be tricky. It’s so easy to offend people these days. And we all want our loved ones to be sensitive, don’t we? But not too sensitive. Not sensitive enough to be hurt by our inoffensive little jokes and actions. Not enough to be hurt by our wanting to be alone sometimes.
There is an art to detachment and distance. It’s more nuanced and complicated than a simple balance. The human heart is not governed by science and calculation, it won’t be swayed by reason or knowledge. It is an impossible thing to calibrate. There are days when being apart is more an act of love than being together. I can’t explain why it should be that way. I wish I could. My life would have gone much easier.
I NEED A LITTLE ALONE TIME
A LITTLE DREAM TIME
BUT DON’T WORRY I WILL BE BACK BABY
I NEED A LITTLE BEGONE TIME
A LITTLE ON MY OWN TIME
BUT DON’T WORRY I WILL BE BACK BABY
It is late spring, and there hasn’t been any significant heat to make this bedroom bay-window difficult. In another month summer will have arrived, and it will be decidedly less fun to stay here in the afternoon sun. For now, it is the perfect place to be.
I sit in a silly Pier One papasan, back when they used to sell me merchandise, and idly flip through the pages of a book. Over the previous winter, I’d gotten into the habit of reading in the bedroom after a work shift when I found myself lost for something to do. It eased the nights of solitude, and while solitude proved bothersome a few short months before, now it was something I almost embraced. I was learning to be ok on my own. Better than ok, I was verging on happiness.
WE WERE AS ONE BABE
FOR A MOMENT IN TIME
AND IT SEEMED EVERLASTING
THAT YOU WOULD ALWAYS BE MINE
NOW YOU WANNA BE FREE
SO I’M LETTING YOU FLY
‘CAUSE I KNOW IN MY HEART BABE
OUR LOVE WILL NEVER DIE, NO
It was basically my first summer alone in Boston. I’d usually have headed back to my parents’ home to take advantage of the central air conditioning and refreshing pool. For most of this summer I’d stay in Boston. I spent the days working at Structure, which was almost a full-time gig, given that they scheduled me for 35 hours a week. I could pretty much choose my shifts though, and it was a social outlet which was good since I didn’t yet have many friends in Boston – certainly not in the summer when most of my friends went home. Not quite 21 years old, I still didn’t go out much, and that was fine. It forced me to make the most of nightly solitude in other ways.
Mariah Carey was continuing her mid-90’s domination of the pop scene, and back when MTV was still playing videos her sweet ode to innocent love was playing all the time. Its summer camp lake scene was something I didn’t recognize from my own youth, but romance was something equally unrecognizable for me. The idea of it held much appeal and allure, but the reality proved elusive, probably because my idea of it was far from reality. Still, it was nice to fantasize about a gentleman with whom I might share a spring or summer, or at the very least a shower.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME?
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
When my work-day was done, I’d find my way back to the condo and station myself in the bedroom window, reading and pausing for a brief siesta before getting running gear and stepping into the dinner-time air. Neighbors sat on their front steps eating off their summer plates and clinking glasses of wine. I’d wave and rush by in a jog. It felt good to be outside. The long winter of commuting to Brandeis still felt chilly in my memory. It was nice just to be free from that, and to pass the flowering trees and their perfume. Everyone was outside, it seemed. And they were all going to dinner or socializing, while I rushed by, ever on the outskirts, ever hurrying away from such interactions.
[It feels far away, not only because it was almost a quarter of a century ago, but because in just a few short weeks I’ve already grown dangerously accustomed to being without human contact. The notion of pausing and speaking with people I know, just on the street, feels suddenly, and yet forever, foreign.]
I AIN’T GONNA CRY NO
AND I WON’T BEG YOU TO STAY
IF YOU’RE DETERMINED TO LEAVE BOY
I WILL NOT STAND IN YOUR WAY
BUT INEVITABLY
YOU’LL BE BACK AGAIN
‘CAUSE YOU KNOW IN YOUR HEART BABE
OUR LOVE WILL NEVER END, NO
As much as I shy away from people, part of me seeks them out. I cross Columbus and head to Tremont, where all the restaurants and cafes are. The South End is just beginning to turn into an unaffordable place, but it’s not quite there yet. Vestiges of the large gay population remain, centered around Geoffrey’s and Francesca’s, but I keep myself on the outskirts, literally running past the people even as I crave to be near them.
If part of me wanted to meet someone special, I didn’t think the whole running thing through. How exactly did I intend to meet anyone while jogging? If someone gave me the once-over, did I really expect to stop in my sweaty state and strike up a conversation, out of breath and flustered? No, I didn’t think it through, but that made no difference. The point is the run. It occupies my time and keeps me in shape.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
I run up and down Tremont, passing the places where the people gather, peeking in on their evening expositions, watching their laughter and the way they bring food and cocktails to their lips. As fast as I rushed by, I could still see. The sun slowly goes down and still the light remains. Sweat runs down my face and it is time to head back. There was nothing special waiting for me at the condo, but there is just so far one guy can run in an evening.
Back in the bedroom, there is no longer the direct sunlight of afternoon streaming in. It’s a little sadder, though I’m not sad. On the television, Mariah is back on, singing this happy song, as I step into the shower. Dousing myself in the Dewberry line from the Body Shop, I make an unintentional memory. There is nothing special happening in my life, I’m simply existing – working and running and reading and sleeping and eating bagels from Finagle. I’d dated men and women by that point, I had my moments of not being alone. This was something different: I had to know that I’d be ok on my own if I needed to be. I fell asleep with a book on my chest, the bathroom light still annoyingly bright.
I KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE BACK BOY
WHEN YOUR DAYS AND YOUR NIGHTS GET A LITTLE BIT COLDER
I KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE RIGHT BACK BABY
OH BABY BELIEVE ME IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, TIME…
In the morning the light from outside is back, pouring in the front windows of the condo now. There is orange juice in the fridge, and a brown paper bag of bagels on the counter. If I’m feeling especially decadent, and planned ahead, I would indulge in a container of cream cheese. On the fanciest days I will go so far as to toast the bagel. For the most part, I eat them plain, tearing their doughy forms into bite size pieces and popping them into my mouth as I stand near the windows looking out onto Braddock Park. I am a typical single guy in Boston, just more accustomed and comfortable in being on my own. I’m also only twenty years old. The friends I make at work can go out to bars, which limits my participation. Secretly, I thrill at being off the hook for attending those gatherings just because of my young age. And so I run.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
Looking back, I recognize in my actions a number of the things I’ve been practicing lately, specifically within the realm of being more mindful and present. I couldn’t realize it then, because it often felt like I was always way too much in my head, but in retrospect I was also remarkably in the moment. I worried for my future, but not to an extent that it stalled or crippled me. I remember being in that moment, inhabiting that specific time, those particular spring days that bled into summer. And some part of me knew that was important, because I still remember it, and the Dewberry fragrance brings it all back, as does this song.
The world has changed quite a bit since then. Boston has changed quite a bit. I’ve changed quite a bit. But that part of me that could simply enjoy an almost-summer night, running and chasing the sun down, still exists – time really can’t erase a feeling this strong – and the promise of Boston holds a place in my heart – in the past, and in the future.
YOU AND I WILL ALWAYS BE
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
Sundays are usually melancholy days. We spend our lives making them such – from school dread to work dread to church dread – and even if Sundays are better than Mondays, the impending end of the weekend has always imbued them with a sadness I’ve never quite been able to shake. In switching trains of thought recently, I’ve come to see things differently, and have worked to embrace Sunday as much as Saturday. In essence, they are the same – if anything, Sunday comes with added options for rest, as most places have reduced hours on that day. Well, when they’re operating in usual fashion. That’s no longer the case. And so we have this timely song.
TRUDGING SLOWLY OVER WET SAND
BACK TO THE BENCH WHERE YOUR CLOTHES WERE STOLEN
THIS IS A COASTAL TOWN
THAT THEY FORGOT TO CLOSE DOWN
ARMAGEDDON – COME ARMAGEDDON COME ARMAGEDDON COME
EVERY DAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
EVERY DAY IS SILENT AND GREY
We had snow just a few days ago, meaning that while it’s technically spring, it’s not necessarily in the air yet. While spreading mulch, however, I did catch a bit of magnolia on the chilly wind, a hint of perfume that may last a little longer in the cooler temperatures. The one saving grace of the weather is that flowers hang around as if they were being coddled in the florist’s fridge. These simple thoughts float across the mind as I contemplate a Sunday.
HIDE ON A PROMENADE
ETCH ON A POST CARD:
HOW I DEARLY WISH I WAS NOT HERE
IN THE SEASIDE TOWN
THAT THEY FORGOT TO BOMB
COME, COME NUCLEAR BOMB! EVERY DAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
EVERY DAY IS SILENT AND GREY
Sundays carry a certain inherent sorrow too, something that has imbued all our lives in the last few years. I’ve discovered that it’s vital to acknowledge and occasionally embrace that sorrow, because it won’t go away or subside if you simply ignore it. The world is troubled. I feel it more on Sundays.
TRUDGING BACK OVER PEBBLES AND SAND
AND A STRANGE DUST LANDS ON YOUR HANDS
(AND ON YOUR FACE)
EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
“WIN YOURSELF A CHEAP TRAY”
SHARE SOME GREASED TEA WITH ME
EVERYDAY IS SILENT AND GREY
Or more accurately, ‘Almost Blue’ and some melancholy jazz featuring Chet Baker and his trumpet. Any Friday night plans? Me neither. Except perhaps some light reading and more of Mr. Baker and his evocative music. For some of us, music is helping us get through this isolation phase. I’ve been delving into Dua Lipa for daytime inspiration, and ‘The Malady of Elegance’ for sleep. Chet Baker falls somewhere in-between the two, because music can be many things depending on time and mood. Sadly, Baker didn’t have the happiest life, but his talent and his music brought happiness to others. Someone once remarked that he was “an American dream being dragged through the mud,†and hearing that rips a little hole in my heart. There are also reports he wasn’t the greatest partner, proving that heartache and hurt often leads to more heartache and hurt.
Once in a while, Friday night is a quiet night.
We’re likely to have more nights like this in the near future. Meet you back here next week.
“Having to live up to the fantasies of others is a big drag.†– Chet Baker
Though I’ve been doing my meditating in complete silence, I’ve been falling asleep to ‘The Malady of Elegance’ by Goldmund, which I’ll admit to purchasing without hearing a single note of it, based solely on its name. In the past, this sort of blind buying has paid off, as in the case of Shirley Horn’s ‘Here’s to Life’ and Viktor & Rolf’s ‘Spicebomb’ and Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Minerale’ but it’s not a wise or safe practice, so I can’t recommend it. I can however, strongly recommend ‘The Malady of Elegance’ for those moments when you might be looking for an aural background to peaceful contemplation, or just a bit of music with which to calm down.
As mentioned, I’ve been listening to this as I fall asleep, and I can imagine it would sound equally lovely on a Sunday afternoon, a rainy morning, an after-work wind-down, or any moment where one needs a little respite from the wickedness of the world. We may need that a bit more these days. I know I do. Find a few moments, locate your quiet space, take a couple of deep breaths, and let the music move you.
Most of the Easter mass celebrations of my childhood ended with the triumphant chords of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ ringing throughout St. Mary’s church as I and another altar boy led the priest down from the altar and out of the church. If old-fashioned Monsignor Glavin was giving the mass, we would go back to the area where we got dressed and take one final respectful bow. If it was Father Gulley, he usually lingered out with the congregants, socializing and talking and blessing babies while the altar boys hurried back to get changed without any ritualistic bow. Strange, the things one remembers, the memories that one can occasionally pull from an Easter weekend that went unremembered for so many years.
As for that joyous symphony by Beethoven, it begs for a reinterpretation, and was given a major overhaul when Adrienne Rich wrote her magnificently disturbing poem, “The Ninth Symphony of Beethoven Understood At Last As a Sexual Message” from ‘Diving Into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972’ as seen below.
A man in terror of impotence
or infertility, not knowing the difference
a man trying to tell something
howling from the climacteric
music of the entirely
isolated soul
yelling at Joy from the tunnel of the ego
music without the ghost
of another person in it, music
trying to tell something the man
does not want out, would keep if he could
gagged and bound and flogged with chords of Joy
where everything is silence and the
beating of a bloody fist upon
a splintered table
It gives quite a different view of that old ‘Ode to Joy’, and I challenge you to do some historical research on Ludwig and come back with your take on this particular piece unchanged. (Or just watch ‘Immortal Beloved’ and you’ll get a similar life-altering experience.)
I just heard the sound of the future and it is funky. This is the kind of party music we need right now. It’s been way too long since I got excited about a proper music album. While I enjoyed Madonna’s last summer opus ‘Madame X’ it fell short of finding the joy in former glories like ‘Ray of Light‘ or even ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor‘ and its somewhat dour themes were at odds with its summer release time. Far better suited for spring and summer fun is the latest from Dua Lipa, and I spent the other day throwing a dance-party for one while isolating in home. This is going to be the soundtrack for spring transitioning into summer ~ I’m calling it now ~ and ‘Cool’ may very well be the main theme for the upcoming sunny season. We shall see. In the meantime, I’m all sorts of inspired by this album ~ a practically perfect selection of pop music the likes of which I can’t recall enjoying in a very long time.
Opening title track ‘Future Nostalgia’ sets the tone of the aural adventure to come ~ this is the funky future with a knowing nod to the pop-candy of the past. It starts on a strong note, and the cool thing is that it doesn’t once let up (the 38 minutes actually feels way too short for such brilliance). Stand-out tracks include the funkalicious ‘Break My Heart’, ~the giddy abandon of ‘Physical’, and the earworm sample in ‘Love Againâ’. That Tik Tok classic ‘Don’t Start Now’ has already cemented this album’s must-have status. She gets deep too, even if it’s coated in glossy pop genius, as in closing track ‘Boys Will Be Boys’. And I dare anyone to sit still for ‘Levitating’ or ‘Hallucinate’ ~ because this forty-four year old was bopping about his make-shift home office. Dare we say that we have a Madonna-in-the-making for 2020? I’ll go out on a limb and say this one shows the same promise of a certain 80’s street urchin.
ONCE I WAS A SENTIMENTAL THING
THREW MY HEART AWAY EACH SPRING;
NOW A SPRING ROMANCE HASN’T GOT A CHANCE
PROMISED MY FIRST DANCE TO WINTER;
ALL I’VE GOT TO SHOW’S A SPLINTER FOR MY LITTLE FLING!
SPRING THIS YEAR HAS GOT ME FEELING LIKE A HORSE THAT NEVER LEFT THE POST;
I LIE IN MY ROOM STARING UP AT THE CEILING
SPRING CAN REALLY HANG YOU UP THE MOST!
In this spring that feels like anything but spring, bereft of much hope, despite its relatively benign beginning, this song was shared on FaceBook by Kevin Sessums. It’s perfect for this moment in time. Ambivalence, melancholy, and a thread of worry belie all the awakening beauty of the season, not unlike the way most doomed romances awaken in a mess of mixed emotions. For early April, particularly in years like this (not that we’ve ever quite had a year like this), the voice of Ella Fitgerald is one small balm on the frazzled emotions we may be experiencing.
MORNING’S KISS WAKES TREES AND FLOWERS
AND TO THEM I’D LIKE TO DRINK A TOAST;
I WALK IN THE PARK JUST TO KILL LONELY HOURS
SPRING CAN REALLY HANG YOU UP THE MOST
ALL AFTERNOON THOSE BIRDS TWITTER TWIT
I KNOW THE TUNE, “THIS IS LOVE, THIS IS IT!”
HEARD IT BEFORE AND I KNOW THE SCORE
AND I’VE DECIDED THAT SPRING IS A BORE!
LOVE SEEMED SURE AROUND THE NEW YEAR
NOW IT’S APRIL, LOVE IS JUST A GHOST;
SPRING ARRIVED ON TIME, ONLY WHAT BECAME OF YOU, DEAR?
SPRING CAN REALLY HANG YOU UP THE MOST!
SPRING CAN REALLY HANG YOU UP THE MOST!
FEELS LIKE ALL THE DAYS ARE GONE
JUST CATCH THE BREEZE, YOU KNOW YOU’VE HAD YOUR FUN
RAIN WASHES WAVES DOWN
When an old friend from high school tags you out of the blue on FaceBook, it usually means something. That’s the universe nudging you to pay attention, to take heed, to listen. In this case Ian introduced me to this song by Slowdive, and it came at just the right moment.
Ian’s taste didn’t often dovetail with mine, but they always had an open mind when it came to music. I gave this one a listen and was entranced with its dreaminess, and resonant lyrics. You should give it a spin too.
AND I, I WANT THE WORLD TO CRY
AND I, I WATCH THE WINDS YOU FLY
YOU CAN BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING
YOU CAN BELIEVE IT ALL
What a world. What a predicament. How did we let it get this far gone? It’s felt icky for a while now, and we all have our reasons and theories for it. At this point, I almost feel as if the mess has been made, we just need to clean it up and dole out blame and come-uppance at a later date, or perhaps not ever at all. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that sometimes you have to simply let go. Holding onto any sense of justice or right is subjective anyway, and more a reflection of some false image of someone else or, worse yet, of ourselves. Perception versus reality, and in the end reality always wins. Why bother fighting it? I didn’t mean to get so deep – I only wanted to share this song. From the best of intentions…
HEY, ARE YOU FEELING SOMETHING NEW
JUST WATCH THE RAIN, IT HELPS IN ALL YOU DO
THE BREEZE IT BLOWS, IT BLOWS EVERYTHING
As for Ian, I don’t remember much about our interactions beyond Latin class, and our seats were so far apart not even that rings with many specifics. That’s more of a failing on my part. We live such isolated lives, and in high school I never ventured beyond a few select silos. Maybe the current imposed isolation has me yearning for the days when it was a choice.
AND I, I WANT THE WORLD TO CRY
AND I, I WANT THE SUN TO SHINE
YOU CAN BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING
YOU CAN BELIEVE IT ALL
