Every autumn when I was younger – much younger – I would fall in love. The spell would come on like a sickness, when the world turned colder and I just wanted to snuggle in with somebody who was warm. It was sometimes confusing to discern between feelings of affection and feelings of loneliness. It would usually start semi-innocently enough – a glance, a look, a gaze held just a little longer than usual, and then some random act of kindness or attention that pricked slightly more than my passing interest. If there were anything more than that behind it, such as any sign of returned emotion, I went into full-fledged obsession mode. Back then I was desperate for companionship, for something to make me feel less alone, because when you never quite feel like you belong, even in your own family and friendship circles, you cannot help but brush up against feelings of loneliness. The chance to possibly end such a state is deliriously tempting.
In my only defense, I didn’t fall for someone if there was absolutely nothing behind it – there had to be some miniscule indication of interest, some spark of chemistry or joint attraction to spur my feelings. For instance, I didn’t seriously obsess over the cute guy at the Boston Chip Yard just because he was cute (I mean, I crushed on him – we all did – but that didn’t translate into anything real or possible, and I was adroit enough to know the difference between a crush and these love obsessions).
I am going away for a while But I’ll be back, don’t try and follow me ‘Cause I’ll return as soon as possible See, I’m trying to find my place But it might not be here where I feel safe We all learn to make mistakes And run from them, from them With no direction We’ll run from them, from them With no conviction
My troubling tumbles into what I thought and hoped was love were built on something tangible – perhaps very flimsy and slight things, but there was reason and fuel behind them – a knowing smirk by the first guy I ever kissed letting me know he was interested too, the Herculean efforts of a boy in my Literary Criticism class to reach the paper I couldn’t get, or the lascivious way a stranger on the street sized up my entire body, inch by inch, as if devouring me with his eyes – and the way I intentionally invited him to do so.
‘Cause I’m just one of those ghosts Traveling endlessly Don’t need no roads In fact, they follow me And we just go in circles
End of reasonable justification, and the start of something less reasonable… because back then I didn’t understand the turn-off that immediate availability and focused interest could be. To be honest, I still don’t. While I understand that is how the world works, that is how human nature responds, in my heart, I will never find fault with someone who so honestly and openly and vulnerably shares their affection for another without pretense or pretend disinterest. My problem was reining in the flood of emotions that invariably accompanied such a release, but I’m not going to apologize for my passion at this point. Water under the bridge, long gone – the frivolous foibles of youth – and how lucky, and likely life-saving, to have gone through youth without cel phones and social media – a circumstance for which I remain forever grateful.
In those early days of falling, I didn’t know that the game you had to play was real – to make yourself unavailable, denying what you actually wanted – a phone call, a meeting, a connection – in order to elicit interest from another person. And I should have understood this better, because I was also on the occasional receiving end of unwanted or unprovoked attention, and the more intense or interested a person became in me, the less I wanted anything to do with them – human nature cuts both ways. Alas, ’twas always the ones I wanted who ended up not wanting me, and vice versa.
Now I’m told that this is life And pain is just a simple compromise So we can get what we want out of it Would someone care to classify Our broken hearts and twisted minds? So I can find someone to rely on
In the beginning I thought that writing letters to the recipients of my affection was the best way of dealing with this. It turns out that I was only half right. Writing was the best way for me to exorcize my emotional demons – the way that writing about my childhood friend who killed himself finally freed me of his ghost, or the way it took the sting out of the awful manner in which the first man I ever dated truly treated me – words would prove the escape and way out of any number of difficult mental cages. For potential paramours, my words would end up wounding whatever chances I might have had because it was too much, too soon, too… everything. I scared them all off – and in a way that was best. My life has been one long exercise of pushing people away to determine who was strong enough to stay. A mistake on many fronts, but a useful one.
Just because they didn’t last doesn’t mean they meant less. If anything, they meant more to me because the only thing I had was what was in my head – and for some reason I wanted them in my life. In the end though, it was never about them, and I wish I’d known that then. A small regrettable part of me wishes I could whisper that to you, my younger self, through the ensuing decades – all of what not to do, what not to say, how not to think – but that would be to erase all that you were – and despite those who didn’t like you, I happen to think you were pretty cool, and diabolically honest when it came to your heart. More courage resided in that space than in the empty heads of anyone you ever chased. More bravery was to be found in your ready tears than in their dismissive, nervous laughter – good for you in not being limited by games and manipulation – you remained true to your heart, you were open to love. For such a sarcastic, cynical, and at times sinister soul, you knew how to love – and you did so fearlessly, unabashedly, openly, and, yes, desperately. And you knew enough, or too little, to ever apologize for it – for who could be sorry for having loved? Even when it hurt, even when it broke your heart, even when those silly boys failed to love you back, it was always worth it.
Looking back at these past lives – we live so many in a single lifetime – they do feel a bit like ghost stories – and the ghosts of our youth tend to haunt us more tenderly than more recent and wiser specters. Made more poignant for their innocence, their idealism, their unjaded and unguarded earnestness – they are perhaps a more pure and unaltered version of our soul than anything we might become after living in this wretched world for any length of time.
And run to them, to them Full speed ahead Oh, you are not useless We are just misguided ghosts Traveling endlessly The ones we trusted the most Pushed us far away And there’s no one road We should not be the same But I’m just a ghost And still they echo me They echo me in circles
Swirling in silk scarves, wisps of perfumed hair, and curls of incense, the witch arranged the accoutrements of the evening. It felt good to have the nights cool again, the wind against a downy nape, the wind lifting a woolen cape. This is the fun part of fall – the cool anticipation, the first relief – by the end we’ll have hardened ourselves off to the cold, resigned and reconditioned to the numb about to come. For now, it’s exciting and dramatic, a turn from the carefree summer, a stinging bit of sweet poison that goes too easily down the throat.
Now here I go again I see the crystal visions I keep my visions to myself It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams And have you any dreams you’d like to sell? Dreams of loneliness
Thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know Oh, thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Say women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know You’ll know You will know Oh, you’ll know
All fall magicks and enchantments, all mysterious Oud and intoxicating incense, all smoke and mirrors and silken scarves slipping so seductively around the neck, so soft and soothing you don’t notice the tightening cords as they so smoothly strangle the life from a soul so tired from summer.
A fashion show sung by the great Celine Dion is a celebration of all that is cheesy, wrong, and doomed with the world – but Mr. Oud cannot be bothered with geopolitical commentary; for all his supposed vanity and self-glorification, he knows he is at heart an insignificant creature in the grand scheme of things. If you find this hard to believe, perhaps your view of your own importance is slightly askew too. That’s not a criticism, just an opportunity to examine, set to a dramatic version of ‘I’m Alive’ at a time when some of us are easing into middle-age without a lot of inspiration.
Mr. Oud moves too swiftly to be stifled by such contemplation. Quicksilver and lightning, golden handcuffs tightening, and a dark sky finally brightening, Mr. Oud flies between dusk and dawn. Pin pricks of sequined sparkle form constellations across a firmament of night. Celine knows sequins. Mr. Oud knows how to sparkle. Both know the power of a song.
A door to a memory corridor has opened. Allowing in just a little light, it is enough to navigate the first few feet of space, the first few memories. Dusty and musty, with cobwebs to tickle the ears, the place is dim, but if I concentrate enough and focus, I can find my way along the darkened hall, reaching portals to more distinct memory planes. Excavating such passages is sometimes dangerous work ~ there is something to be said for leaving things in the past. How does the saying go? When you dig up the past, all you get is dirty…
Twisted all my limbs for you Two of them in knots and two of them in loops Ribbons tied around like a noose Wonder if I’ll ever get it loose
Sometimes one needs to get down in the dirt, to play with the past so as to make sense of present predicaments. This is the year for nostalgia too, as we celebrate milestone birthdays and anniversaries, including the 30th anniversary of when I found the Boston condo and convinced my parents to invest in it (which turned into the most lucrative investment of their lives). Fall brings Boston back to mind, and with it countless memories of decades ago, when living there alone made a warrior out of me.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me) Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me) Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me) Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
Being a single gay guy in Boston in the 90’s was very different from what it must be like today. There were no social media or online hookup apps, so connecting with other gay men on the prowl was a game of hunting and gathering, with the high-stakes pay-off of not having to spend a night on your own. Back then the only way we had to connect was to pick up on a knowing glance, a look held just a little longer than normal, a smile and the crinkle of a kind pair of eyes. A dance of desire would ensue, usually ending up in someone’s apartment, an awkward introduction and quick dismissal of roommates, and the frantic frenzy of a desperate act of sex in the search for love. I wish I’d known then that sometimes the chase and the sexual act were a means and an end all of their own.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held Out a gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah I’m done, I’m done, oh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
Twisting all my bones like screws Stretching my self-worth, just like you usually do Caught you like the cold or a flu Praying that I’ll someday be immune
Got me like a bad tattoo (ooh-ooh-ooh) Always under skin, even when it gets removed (ooh) Never get a chance to undo (ooh-ooh-ooh) Positions that you forced my way into (ooh)
On rare occasions I did understand this, and on those evenings I could let down my persistent guard, give in to the sheer abandon of the night, and indulge in a primal release that would rival the tentative steps to love I was usually so careful to make. The body would give in to its pleasure, sensations falling around us like the petals of a peony that let go all at once ~ a cascade of orgiastic ecstasy, sending ripples deeper and deeper into the night. Come the morning, the only danger was in risking an emotional connection by sharing something raw and tender, something easily prevented by a hasty exit and utterances of empty promise.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me) Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me) Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me) Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
More often I was alone then, it being against my nature to be forward enough to invite anyone over with any regularity. I’d twist my internal justifications around in my head, contorting my feelings into something manageable, and almost convincing myself that it didn’t matter. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely, and I determined and insisted that I was only indulging in the former. To admit loneliness would have been to admit defeat. Ever the contortionist, even then, the mind led the body, and the body followed – undefeated.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held out A gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah I’m done, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
He remained, right up until the end, somehow unknowable. Even with all of his eventual revelations, all the written secrets, published and unpublished, even with all of his pictures and photo shoots, his relentless self-promotion and sustained social media presence, he stayed such a secret.
You give your hand to me and then you say, “Hello” And I can hardly speak, my heart is beating so And anyone can tell, you think you know me well Well, you don’t know me (No, you don’t know me) No, you don’t know the one who dreams of you at night And longs to kiss your lips and longs to hold you tight Oh, I’m just a friend, that’s all I’ve ever been ‘Cause you don’t know me (No, you don’t know me)
Oh, I never knew the art of making love Though my heart aches with love for you Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by A chance that you might love me too (Love me too)
He maintains a murky state of suspension, some colloidal haze that surrounded his every movement, and even his absence, as if a fragrant fog would descend upon every mention of his name, every story whispered or shared in his wake.
You give your hand to me and then you say, “Goodbye” I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy Oh, to never, never know the one who loved you so Well, you don’t know me
Mr. Oud sits languidly in a little lobby bar where this song plays in the background. It is the end of summer, or the end of winter, because all the seasons are one in a little lobby bar. Mr. Oud is a man of all seasons, defying weather as much as he defies augury, then he remembers he knows nothing of Shakespeare. The song plays him off, though you don’t notice until it is over and he is gone again.
Oh, I never knew the art of making love Though my heart aches with love for you Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by A chance that you might love me too (Love me too) Oh, you give your hand to me and then you say, “Goodbye” I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy Oh, you never, never know the one who loved you so Well, you don’t know me
Betsy said this shirt looked like a cornucopia – a comment that was semi-supposed to roast me, but which I took as a compliment. This is very much a fall shirt, and if you get ‘cornucopia’ from it, so much the better. (Coming from a lady decked out in navy head to toe 24/7/365, I’m cool with her take, and I embrace the pre-Thanksgiving hint.) Corny horns!
Our musical selection of the morning plays up our Autumn of Oud theme, with a relaxing vibe that sets this warm Saturday into pleasant motion.
What glorious autumn weather we have had so far – a kiss of sunshine for all the rainy weekends and slow sputtering starts we had earlier. It’s never too late for a sunny day, and I step gratefully into the light to pocket some of its warmth for the winter to come. There’s my mind again, working overtime before it even clocks in, and for once I stop myself, willing the present moment to exist as it is, without thought or worry or concern for some future day.
I can’t wait to memorize this day Oh, a picture could not contain the way it feels You say, “Live in the present“ I’m already dreaming of how it begins And trying to savor the moment But I know the feeling will come to an end
So I crave, crave to do it again, all again Crave, crave, to do it again, I Just for a second it all felt simple I’m already missing it So I crave, crave to do it again, all again
There will be slower and rainier days to fret and worry ourselves, darker and more somber events to jolt us into focus – but for now, for today, I just want to exist in this moment – to put a flower in my mouth and point it upwards to the sky. Giving in to the beauty of the day.
There used to be something shameful in giving in to feel-good mainstream moments, as if greater depth and meaning were to be found in pain and pathos – when really that doesn’t automatically translate to character – it just translates to strength, and one’s own reserve of it. No more, no less. The braver and perhaps more vulnerable thing to do is show off your joy, your unabashed love for a song, a painting, a sunny day… we let our guards down when we are at our happiest.
Now I crave, crave to do it again, all again Crave, crave to do it again Just for a second, it all felt simple I’m already missing it So I crave, crave to do it again, all again
And so I choose the joy, the fun, the laughter – I choose the surprise dalliance with summer, which we all thought had already departed, but here she comes again, pool-ready and sun-worthy. I choose to crave too, to proudly name my desire for more – to want, to want, to want – and indulge in the profoundly human need to merge the happiness of the past with the happiness of the future.
Any second, feel the present Future and the past connecting (Past connecting, past connecting)
Wind-chimes hanging from a coral-bark maple tree sound their auditory twinkles in the warm breeze. Yes, the breeze is warm – a late-September aberration – and the pool is warm too. Sneaking in another pool day on a lazy Sunday, because we deserve it after this slow-to-start summer. The perfect pool song waited until this moment to present itself – the universe taking its time and placing things exactly where they belong at the precise moment they belong there.
As if the first cut wasn’t deep enough I dove in again ’cause I’m not into giving up Could’ve gotten the same rush from any lover’s touch Why get used to something new? ‘Cause no one breaks my heart like you
A Paramore kick continues this week, this time with the aptly-titled ‘Pool’ to save this beautifully-wrecked September. The sun is hot again, and I’m sorry to say I didn’t get into the pool as much as I should have this past August – maybe turning 50 took some of the youthful joy out of it – and I couldn’t tell you why. Well, fuck that, and fuck any notion of mature behavior at this stage of the game – I wouldn’t know where to begin!
When you kiss me, I wish we could see what happens next For a moment, I can forget what happens in my head If I doubt you, will you come through With a happy second chance, a happy ending But this time you don’t leave me sinking
I’m underwater No air in my lungs My eyes are open And I’m giving up You are the wave I could never tame If I survive I’ll dive back in
At first, I focus on these photos, on capturing this moment – because who knows if it will be the last pool day? – and then I put the phone down, cradling it into a plush towel before pushing off into the water and leaving worldly concerns somewhere in mid-air. Underwater, it’s thrilling – exhilarating – the way it always is when you’ve been out of water for a while. Smiling, I almost start giggling as I squint into the sunlight waving from the bottom of the pool.
As if the first blood didn’t thrill enough I went further out to see what else was left of us Never found the deep end of our little ocean Drain the fantasy of you Headfirst into shallow pools
And I wonder, is it better to get it over with? The illusion can shatter before we begin If you’re really sorry Happy second chance I think I could forgive This time you won’t leave me sinking
As much as I’ve been ready to embrace this fall, a brief return to summer is a gift that I will not forsake. I would do it all again without hesitation or doubt – no complaints, no regrets, no denial of joy and ecstasy – not when summer is always so fleeting. Beneath the surface of the water, I feel the body relaxing, the muscles easing out of their hunched tension – the kind of melting that only a pool in the summer can elicit.
I’m underwater No air in my lungs My eyes are open And I’m giving up You are the wave I could never tame If I survive I’ll dive back in
Dive back into Right back into Dive right back into you And now I know you Now I know you Now that I know you Dive right back into you
It was a misty morning. The air was warm and thick with the residual heat and humidity of a long hot spell emanating from the earth, finally tempered by a welcome patch of rain from above. Tiny water particles floated in the air, not quite wanting or ready to land on the ground, entangling themselves in my wild bed-head of hair – silver droplets joining silver strands, waves upon waves upon waves. Next door the neighbor’s carpenter had the radio playing and ‘Time In A Bottle‘ came on – a musical memory of a memory. I paused to listen, unbothered by the water all around me – in the air, on the leaves, pooling on the ground. We needed the rain. The song ends and an old Commodores hit came on… so many sad people singing of sad times in a sad world…
Sail on down the line ’bout a half a mile or so And don’t really wanna know where you’re going Maybe once or twice you see Time after time I tried to To hold on to what we got, but now you’re going
And I don’t mind about the things you’re gonna say, Lord I gave all my money and my time I know it’s a shame But I’m giving you back your name
I listen for a bit and pause to inspect the patio plants. A pair of bamboo containers – the only way to contain any running bamboo, even in these inhospitable Zone 5 spots – has done well, and I make a mental note to attempt an overwintering in the garage come November. A banana tree, in an overwintered pot that I salvaged from last summer but won’t try to save again, has done rather poorly – only barely pushing out a flush of foliage rising barely a foot in height. A far cry from its typical 6-feet-high-in-a-single-season performance, and a reason to start with a new banana tree every year, if you want that sort of tropical vibe. This is the summer we wanted it, so of course it’s the summer it refused us.
It did, however, provide these late season scenes of beauty, accented and adorned by the rain, so I can’t be all mad. Contemplating this, and forcing my mind to broaden and take in a positive spin, I listen to the song still drifting in from the neighbors yard.
Yes, I’ll be on my way I won’t be back to stay I guess I’ll move along I’m looking for a good time
Sail on down the line Ain’t it funny how the time can go All my friends say they told me so But it doesn’t matter It was plain to see that a Small town boy like me Just wasn’t your cup of tea I was wishful thinking
Perhaps this was summer talking, saying goodbye with a wistful bit of bitterness. Perhaps it was a paramour, on the unrequited end of a one-sided romance. Perhaps it was just melodic defeat and resignation, the way we bottle our heartache and try to pour it into a song, a book, a painting – hoping for someone else to see it and connect, maybe even to heal. How best to make our hurt mean something more?
I gave you my heart And I tried to make you happy And you gave me nothing in return You know, it ain’t so hard to say Would you please just go away?
I’ve thrown away the blues I’m tired of being used I want everyone to know I’m looking for a good time Good time, yeah
My hair is a mess, matted and wiry from the gathering mist, but it doesn’t matter. Behind the fence, no one can see. Leaves of bamboo cradle raindrops, gently lowering them to the ground when their carriage becomes one drop too many – water joining water in the circle of nature’s ever-recycling wisdom. It will become part of the earth again, then perhaps part of a plant’s root system, then released from the leaves to become a part of water again – the most basically elemental process in a world that operates regardless of how sad our songs may be.
Behold the magnificent chrysanthemum – weighted with history, filled with tales, and present for so many seasonal changes. It’s played a part in various periods and forms of art, emblematic of more than could ever be even touched upon in such a trifling post like this. This particular plant carries the appropriate colors of the season – and by that I mean the season of fall and Taylor Swift. We won’t quite get that trifling, as there are more important matters for the mind. With that said, let us travel somewhere together. It’s Saturday morning – the time for escape – even if it’s just in our heads…
This is music for journeying, music to back the motions of travel, of planning and preparation – two favorite Virgo pastimes. While I feel myself wanting to slow down, I also feel a restlessness in the air, a need to take action and get away for the occasional weekend. Traveling has a wonderful way of making the weekend feel longer.
Planning for a trip produces similar euphoria, at least for my obsessively-organized ass – and it allows a quick weekend jaunt to exist for longer than its actual weekend length. We can plan and prepare and make the days leading up to an adventure just as exciting as the adventure itself – in some ways, those moments are more enchanting because they contain only the dreamy aspects of possibility and what might come, unburdened by the reality of what will be.
Scattered throughout downtown Albany, these little Nipper sculptures always make me paws (sorry) and smile for their bit of whimsy. Occasionally, they come with a more pressing message – in this case the ever-pertinent idea that ‘you matter’ – a reminder for anyone who needs a little pick-me-up at a troubling time. We all have struggles, and most of us like to pretend that we don’t. I understand that – sometimes it’s easier to push on through rather than face and possibly falter over something that’s hard to handle. It puts me in the mind of this song by Paramore. For some reason, this harkens to the 90’s tracks that comprised the Structure soundtrack of my retail days (Structure was the precursor to Express Men, for those who were not around then). It also brings me back to that time in my life – starting out with a retail job and wondering what ever would come of a career. And so we travel back to Boston in the mid-to-late 90’s…
I don’t mind Lettin’ you down easy, but just give it time If it don’t hurt now, but just wait, just wait awhile You’re not the big fish in the pond no more You are what they’re feedin’ on So what are you gonna do When the world don’t orbit around you? Ooh, uh, uh So what are you gonna do When the world don’t orbit around you?
Ain’t it fun Livin’ in the real world? Ain’t it good Bein’ all alone?
My co-workers at Structure were becoming my friends – or the closest thing I had to friends in that transitional time of our lives. They taught me what it was like to live alone in Boston – where to go, how to act, what to say, how to be – most of it superficial and useless. But we were going through it together, and that felt like all that mattered.
Where you’re from You might be the one who’s runnin’ things Well, you could ring anybody’s bell and get what you want See, it’s easy to ignore trouble When you’re livin’ in a bubble
While this song came out about twelve years ago, it speaks to life as a twenty-something, when every little obstacle feels like an insurmountable ordeal, and the idea of making a living in any substantial way feels far away. In many respects, that’s one of the sweeter spots in life – that section of not-knowing, that moment when there is only possibility.
So what are you gonna do When the world don’t orbit around you? Mm, uh, uh So what are you gonna do When nobody wants to fool with you? Oh, oh, oh, uh, uh Ain’t it fun, Livin’ in the real world? Ain’t it good, Bein’ all alone? Ain’t it good to be on your own? Ain’t it fun you can’t count on no one? Ain’t it good to be on your own? Ain’t it fun you can’t count on no one? Ain’t it fun Livin’ in the real world?
In the way you have to make your own family when there’s none nearby, I leaned into the little retail family of Structure, even as they had their own lives and friend groups. A rainy Sunday morning of inventory was the highlight of my week, as much as everyone else dreaded it, and I stayed in town for the day after Thanksgiving rush that year, deliberately missing a family Thanksgiving at home. It is telling that I made such a choice then.
Don’t go cryin’ to your mama ‘Cause you’re on your own in the real world Don’t go cryin’ to your mama ‘Cause you’re on your own in the real world
For a few formative years in my youth, fall was the season when I typically fell in love with someone ~ or thought I was falling in love. I was so young and naive and foolish that looking back it wasn’t anything like love, but it was a closeness and connection that I wanted so badly, any poor chap entering the realm of vision was at risk.
Wait… that’s not being entirely fair to myself. There were reasons and signs that led me to believe in the possibility of love ~ I didn’t just fall for someone because they were cute or wanted to fuck me. Every infatuation began with a bit of engagement and interaction, little signals or breadcrumbs that may or may not have been inadvertently left. I don’t know… I’m ok with acknowledging my wayward brain in leaping to romantic conclusions, but also smart enough to know that it wasn’t all entirely in my head. Flirtation wasn’t the fun and harmless thing it would become years later; back then my middle name should have been Earnest. (Confirmation name: Don’t-Fuck-With-Me.)
Those infatuations also usually came accompanied by music, the way certain songs at certain points in your life leave a lasting impact. Someone once said that music is the way to expressing the soul, even more than words. For a writer, I’m not sure I completely agree, but there have been songs and melodies that define a person or a place or a time, and do so more than anything I could ever write down, so there is truth to it.
Music played a major part in those memory-making days, and sometimes it was a song that brought me back from the brink of danger or repulsion. Like certain scents, certain songs will return me to a time and place from long ago, when the heart was tender and the mind was questionable – music as a totem and marker. Here are a few fall moments that form the soundtrack to a season.
‘Secret‘ ~ For the first man I ever kissed. So many memories come attached to this song and this period of time, I couldn’t possibly capture all the links, but this last letter hits most of them.
‘Dynasty‘ ~ For a more modern memory, one that brings back Dad’s downhill start and the foibles of family.
Keeping golden honor with our Oud theme of autumn, these hand and body washes by Molton Brown add an extra ‘H’ to the proceedings, and give our guests something to add to their aura. With golden particles suspended in its richness, and the essence of Oud surprisingly on point, this decadent soap lingers on the skin, transporting visitors to another world and another time.
Yes, there is always drama in the fall. It’s there in the way the nights begin to cool, the way the forest leaves start to flicker before beginning their full-fledged burn. It’s there in the crisp snap of morning, when the dew has turned to frost and fog cloaks the early morning traveler with a vague sense of worry.
It’s also there in the pungent zap of Oudh, drifting on the air like a memory, carried on the breeze like some impossible flying carpet. Fall is transport and change and the burning of a phoenix. After a handwashing of Oudh soap, fall is an unseen talisman tickling the nose.
