While ‘There’s Always Tomorrow‘ plucks at the heartstrings, and ‘The Christmas Waltz‘ sways in sad three-quarter time, it is this song that always melts my heart – strangely, as it’s one of the most uplifting holiday classic songs that’s ever been written. A highlight of the animated ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’ – one of the stalwart chestnuts from my childhood’s television diet – this tells the story of when the Winter Warlock is transformed into a friendly creature through the generosity of Kris Kringle.
One of the best things to come out of the musical version of ‘Mame’ is this happy holiday chestnut which we will use to christen this Christmas season. Its contagious joy and giddiness feels slightly at odds with the current state of the world, but that’s also sort of the point of this song – which begs for a celebration right here and now in the face of all that’s awful.
Haul out the holly Put up the tree before My spirit falls again…
Fill up the stocking I may be rushing things But deck the halls again now
It’s a herald and a cry for joy no matter the time of year, and it’s the sort of desperate plea for some shred of happiness that somehow knows it’s all destined for failure – or at the very least a fall far short of high hopes and dreams. That’s the essence of being human though, isn’t it? The desire and drive to keep trying, to keep wishing, to keep believing – in hope, in love, in Christmas, and in the face of everything and everyone around you pulling the world apart.
For we need a little Christmas Right this very minute Candles in the window Carols at the spinet Yes, we need a little Christmas Right this very minute It hasn’t snowed a single flurry But Santa, dear, we’re in a hurry
We haul out our holly, we hang our brightest lights and fill our empty stockings because we are still human. Flawed, failed, fractured, marred and scarred humans, fumbling for betterment, sometimes for mere survival – and we keep going. We fall and falter, slip and sputter, wail and waiver, finding and taking our joy in tiny fits and spurts, and it must be enough.
Enough to sustain us.
Enough to give purpose to rising in the morning.
Sometimes that’s found in the laugh of a friend.
Sometimes it’s in the patience of a husband.
Sometimes it’s in the melody of a song.
So climb down the chimney Put up the brightest string Of lights I’ve ever seen
Slice up the fruitcake It’s time we hung some tinsel On that evergreen bough
For I’ve grown a little leaner Grown a little colder Grown a little sadder Grown a little older And I need a little angel Sitting on my shoulder Need a little Christmas now
Cold earth sleeps Underneath a flaming northern sky The snowy trees gently weep This dark Christmas time
Now it’s been almost a year since I last saw her, and eight months since she last bothered to text me back. Looking at my long litany of texts since then – some comical, some casual, some desperate, some panicked – I cringe at my pathetic attempts to cling to a friendship that apparently slipped away many months ago.
Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal – no one really returns texts anymore, and to expect them to be timely is even more laughable. Still, it’s no secret that it’s a sore spot for me, and it preys diabolically on my most tender and raw insecurities of not mattering – and admittedly hurts me in a way that explains so very much of my pathology. The entire ghosting thing, and not responding at all, even in the face of pointed pleas to “Just tell me you are alive and not dead or deported by ICE”, strikes at my heart in a manner that has directly fueled the monster I’ve become.
Don’t hide the light that shines in you Let the brightest star of Bethlehem Make your darkness fade away Believe the power of your dreams You’re the Pharos in the night Guiding us, you’ll lead the way
Eventually, I tracked down one of her daughters on social media, who said her mother still had the same number, and I assumed that meant she was alive as well – and that’s all that matters, and all that’s left to say. This sort of thing has never happened to me before – not in a platonic relationship. Romantically, I’ve scared away more than my fair share of possible paramours – and their ghosting of me made more sense. I don’t understand anything about this one, all I feel is hurt, confused, and looking for another failure on my part to make it make sense. The world has thrown enough at me this year to start making me doubt myself.
With Kira gone from my life, that means that one of my favorite holiday traditions – our holiday stroll – has also come to an end. It seems like many of the traditions I once held so close to my heart have fallen by the wayside, and at this point I am trying hard to even be bothered by it, because I really should care. Apathy begets apathy I suppose, and maybe it was time for me to let go of such things. In so many respects I am the only one holding on to traditions – and for what? Maybe there is something to honoring tradition year after year, as a means of grounding our lives at regular intervals in a way that matters to us – and maybe there isn’t. I watch today’s generation flit from year to year, experience to experience, with no ties or significant pulls to anything other than the moment at hand. They don’t hang onto traditions, or friends, the way I did. Maybe that’s the best route to take now. Maybe none of it fucking matters, and that might just make life much easier and less tortured. It will certainly make holiday-planning easier and completely absolve me of any obligation to be there for any of it.
We are not obligated to anything, or anyone, and it may be high time for me to join the masses and let go of tradition for the sake of tradition. Perhaps that goes for friendships too – just because we shared a certain section of life together need not mean we have to share the rest of it, and that doesn’t have to be a bad or sad thing. I’d rather remember the good times Kira and I shared, and not the fact that she ghosted me, as I’m sure she must have her reasons. That’s the sort of peace and happy ending I want and need right now. Being messy – even on an emotional level – is always a choice. And as messy as I’ve been in the past, there’s a point when one must decide to stop the mess, and this is that season for me.
Snowflake falls, warms my heart Memories call me home Silence hauls, fears depart I’ll never be alone.
When last our tribe gathered during the summer days of summer, Anu made us make a plan for a fall visit to her River House in Virginia. That felt far away in every sense, though the best destinations often require a certain amount of work to reach. In the case of Anu’s River House, the work was a nine-hour car drive South with Suzie at the wheel – and the only work I had to do was keep her awake and stocked with sub-par Chex mix and beef jerky (as I was not about to drive an unfamiliar car on the New Jersey turnpike, for everyone’s safety).
We stopped for a lunch of French sandwiches I’d made for the trip (fancy European butter and thinly-sliced cornichons included) at the Connie Chung Rest Stop – because if such a thing as a Connie Chung Rest Stop exists, you fucking stop at it and eat a sandwich. I was not fully aware of Connie’s cultural sway in this country, nor of her place in the New Jersey rest stop landscape, but there she was plastered larger than life in a grand poster right above the rest rooms. Go Connie.
The sandwiches had a tad too much butter on them for my liking, but Suzie gamely had one, and the it was back on the road. The final stretch included that brutal Chesapeake Bay Bridge, wherein one practically kisses the roiling water below and to your side – I remember going over it as a child, and how little my Mom enjoyed it. Anu felt the same, as she indicated in a check-in text as we shared our current location.
By the time we reached the River House, it was deeply dark, but the company was good, the food delicious, and the bed a respite of immediate sleep and rest. A day of travel usually grants instant slumber, and this was happily the case. The river slept along with us, waiting to surprise me with its grandeur the next morning…
A scent, a resin, a sound, a song, an instrument, an abstraction – Mr. Oud takes his name from any number of objects or ideas, shape-shifting like quicksilver and sliding into whatever you want him to be. Without one stage and true identity, he is free to become whatever the moment requires. But let’s not even restrict it that much – he is free. It can end and begin there. That’s why some find him problematic; envy of freedom is the most vicious and powerful form of envy in the world. Most of us are not so free; most of us will never be. And most of us have found Mr. Oud odious at one time or another, loathe though we may be to admit it. The loathsome builds on itself.
A mite of menace, a vivisection of versatility, another zig in a field of zags, resulting in a wondrous whirl of whiplash – Mr. Oud spins dervishly and devilishly, because in chameleonic motion it’s difficult to catch him.
You could never ride such a creature and hope to survive. Let him gallop away.
Yes, you read that correctly, as this is, by careful calculation and analysis, my fourth mid-life crisis since about 2014, but the happy news is that this one is a fun one, taking place mostly in my mind, and marked by giddy hands-in-the-air abandon as if I’m on some perpetual high, perhaps teetering to a psychedelic mania just this side of hallucination – and all without the sting of drink.
Skip introduced me to the following song, which is characterizing this particular moment of time in ways both exuberant and desperate. It spoke more deeply and plaintively to me than I was expecting, perhaps because my most recent mid-life crisis came with the death of my Dad and the aftermath (despite what this post tried to pretend) and that was decidedly less fun. By then, I’d done it twice before, and the first two were pretty damn near disastrous.
Julian, it’s a hungry world They’re gonna eat you alive, son, oh-yeah Oh, Julian, when their fangs sink in I’ll stitch you, but then I gotta throw you back in, oh
According to my therapist, many people, especially men, will go through several mid-life crisis moments – something she wisely neglected to warn me about when I was having my first because I probably wouldn’t have continued on had I known that it was only the beginning. (I also only-half-jokingly tried to tell her that I did not sign on for more than one.) This time around is decidedly less worrisome than the first three, as I’m aware of how to navigate the pull of drama in such a way that I don’t make life-altering/endangering choices. This one also comes just as I’m working on a project that aligns itself perfectly with the theme at hand – and whenever I have a creative outlet in heavy flow it’s like having a multitude of therapy sessions, all of them deeply illuminating and helpful.
You just try and sleep, even though you’re alone You just close your eyes, boy, you dream of home The light is always on, you just keep that in mind When you wake in the morning, you’ll be satisfied
As we are also in the throes of a Mercury-in-retrograde moment that looks to last for most of the month, I’m going to let the universe guide me on whatever merry-or-not-so-merry way it wants to take. A helpful bit of advice I’ve heard of late is to stop trying to force things to go the way you think you want them to go, especially if signs and people and gut-feelings are giving you pause. Give in to the pause, and just fucking pause. If anything is truly meant to be, it will be, and it will unfold as it’s meant to unfold.
‘Cause there is always a wrong to your right And there will always be a war somewhere to fight And God knows I’ve had some rough fuckin’ years Ooh, oh Lord, oh Lord, keep on keeping on
As for navigating this bit of tumult, it comes with the course of a fifty-year-old. I’ve reached the age where more years are behind me than in front of me, so the past will revisit and rear its old head, and it need not be so haunting and bothersome if we simply acknowledge it, and move on with the day. There is no way to go back and change things – life fell as it fell, and if there are still broken bits and pieces of destruction you either pick them up or kick them out of the way. If it doesn’t serve you, let it go.
So hide this song away for a darker day When you’re down on your knees, screaming “Oh, Lord” I am always there, you just keep that in mind When you wake in the morning, you’ll be satisfied
Unless this is the last day of your life (and if it is, what the hell are you wasting it reading my drivel?) another one will follow tomorrow. So pause… wait… hold… breathe. Let the mind go a different direction for a bit then revisit whatever might appear to be ailing you. Don’t immediately act when the dander is up; don’t change your life in the heat of the moment. This is how you get through a mid-life crisis – at least, this is how I’m getting through mine – and it’s my fourth, so I know a little of what I speak – but only a little…
‘Cause there is always a wrong to your right (yeah) And there will always be a war somewhere to fight (ooh) And God knows I’ve had some rough fuckin’ years Ooh, oh Lord, oh Lord, keep on keeping on
Mercury goes into retrograde motion tomorrow for a spell of seemingly backwards bullshit, and in honor of that, a song that stands on its own in the face of the joke of a band that released it. This is ‘Blame It On the Rain’ by Milli Vanilli (and written by the great Diane Warren) – some of us remember when it came out in the fall of 1989 because we were freshmen in high school, but my fifty-year-old ass digresses.
You said you didn’t need her You told her goodbye (goodbye) You sacrificed a good love To satisfy your pride
Now you wished that you should had her (had her) And you feel like such a fool You let her walk away Now it just don’t feel the same
The essence and melodies of the song remain intact after all these years, and the lyrics are more profound than I remember, lost to the Vanilli backlash of the ensuing years. It’s a piece of aural popcorn – a trifling snack that will never fill you up but is worth hearing for the fun factor. Not everything needs to approach high art to be worthy of admiration.
Gotta blame it on something (gotta blame it on something) Gotta blame it on something
Blame it on the rain that was fallin’, fallin’ Blame it on the stars that didn’t shine that night Whatever you do, don’t put the blame on you Blame it on the rain, yeah, yeah You can blame it on the rain
Our Autumn of Oud enters its golden November hour, framed by this of-the-recent-moment song ‘Golden’, which aligns with all the planetary, astrological charting that Virgo is said to be enthralled in at this moment. I’m not totally buying it, as this fall was supposed to be groundbreaking for us, with all kinds of monetary windfalls, and all I got was broken dishwashers, dryers, light fixtures, and traffic tickets. More is going out than coming in, so all you Tik-Tokers spewing the Virgo glow-up have a lot of explaining to do. Where is the gold already?
Manifesting something wonderful is a lovely way to set a tone and intention for the month ahead, provided there is some grounding in reality and reason, and a pragmatic understanding of the limits of possibility. I try to aim for the stars, while having a safety net of sensibility in place. Also, it’s helpful to be willing to land on an equally-lofty, if unexpected, perch, and be open to such shifts without thinking your way is the only way; there are beautiful tree branches and sparkling high-rise buildings en route to the stars. Many are delightful destinations in their own right.
I’m done hiding, now I’m shining like I’m born to be We dreaming hard, we came so far, now I’ll believe We’re going up, up, up – it’s our moment You know together we’re glowing Gonna be, gonna be golden Oh up, up, up with our voices Gonna be, gonna be golden.
This autumn has found its groove on the blog with the polarizing essence of oud creating drama and metaphor, specifically within the idea of oud coming about from an attack on the interior of the agarwood tree, ultimately resulting in something beautiful and rare and valuable. (Oud is the by-product of a fungal infection, which triggers the production of the aromatic resin as a defense; it’s been poetically described as ‘the fragrant molecules of a wounded tree‘ ~ a description that might pertain to many of us in the ragged world today.) To align oneself with oud, to make oud the fragrance of the season, is to understand the way we must take attacks and difficulties and turn them into something better – something rich, something wonderful, something golden.
This is the sort of night that transforms a warm and pretty autumn into a stark and barren fall. It rips leaves from trees and tidies up brittle, dead branches – a ravaging and potent one-two punch of water and wind, perfectly and naturally designed to bring down all loosely-hanging appendages of beauty. They’re done their summer duty; they know it’s time to release, let go, fall and flutter, and join the ground from whence they came.
One more Halloween song then – a midnight danse macabre, electronic-style – to slide us through to the other world, right when the veil between us is at its thinnest and most penetrable. Enter here…
Escaping the trick-or-treaters and leaving Andy to fend for himself (he ended up sleeping through it) I sit in a nearby coffee-shop enjoying the cafe culture. Aside from this loose sketch of a blog post, I’m mostly just scrolling through the phone when I suddenly remember the need for a proper scent for an upcoming early screening of ‘Wicked: For Good‘ on November 17. One of the scents that Cynthia Erivo herself reportedly wore during the filming of the movies, ‘Witchy Woo’ sounded ideal on more than one level, so I ordered a bottle blindly. It won’t arrive until next week, so it misses Halloween completely, but should get here just in time for the return of our Wicked Witches.
When you realize that you stand entirely alone in a world that celebrates togetherness, you cannot help but feel forever out of place and at odds with any environment in which you find yourself. When you feel out of place or alienated from your own family, that’s a whole other level of trauma.
Unique, that’s what you are Stilettos kicking vintage crystal off the bar Category bad bitch, I’m the bar (ooh) Alien superstar, whip, whip
Andy recently said that he’s always sort of felt like an alien in his family, and at that moment I understood exactly what he meant, as well as why we get along so well; with such a shared experience we understand things in the other without having to voice it or figure it out – we simply get it, and it’s something that people who have always belonged will never understand. It’s a loneliness, a strength, and a way of survival that sets us slightly apart from most people with more functional family units.
And this isn’t an indictment or criticism of our respective family units – merely an observation, a way in which we have always felt like the outsiders, and a valuable component in finding sanctuary with each other. It’s also made us stronger and better people; when you have to forge your own family, without children or traditional ties, you develop methods of emotional survival that put other trials and tribulations to shame. We have to be strong that way, because we will grow old without the support of kids, and that’s a daunting concept for most people. For now we have each other, and there’s home enough in that.
We learned long ago, from pain inflicted both purposely and inadvertently, that we could only count on ourselves. It should also be noted here that just because we can take care of ourselves doesn’t mean we don’t deserve as much love and support as those who can’t. Alas, that’s not the way the world works, and love sometimes has an unfortunate way of flowing along the easiest path.
Masterpiece genius, drip intravenous Patty cake on that wrist Tiffany Blue billboards over that ceiling (unique) We don’t like plain Always dreamed of paper planes Mile high when I rodeo, then I come down and take off again (unique)
For my part, I subconsciously went about conjuring ways to be as enthralling and captivating as possible to prove my own worth, especially when those closest to me couldn’t be bothered. Andy forged his ways as well, and happily we met in time to create a life together for the last twenty-five years.
You see pleasure in my glare Look over my shoulder and you ain’t scared The effects you have on me when you stare Head on a pillow, hike it in the air
“Another thing I learned in therapy?… The kids in dysfunctional families who act out and rebel are the ones who are the healthiest mentally. They’re the ones who see that something’s wrong. That’s why they act out, because they see the house is burning down, and they’re screaming for help. That was you.” ~ Meg Shaffer
I got pearls beneath my legs, my lips, my hands, my hips (U-N-I-Q-U-E) I got diamonds beneath my thighs where his ego will find bliss Can’t find an ocean deep that can’t compete with this cinnamon kiss (U-N-I-Q-U-E) Fire beneath your feet, music when you speak, you’re so unique Unique, that’s what you are Lingerie reflecting off the mirror on the bar Category sexy bitch, I’m the bar Alien superstar
“At some point in the life of every scapegoat, the clock will strike the midnight hour, the masks will come off, and the aggression of family will reveal itself.” ~ M. Wakefield
Passing the match test? That’s some kind of tease, because everything rests on the moment the little flame sees Let’s go boom boom in the zoom zoom room
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tM2FJZfRV4
If you get past that brief little flash, take down my number with your pencil moustache Play truth or dare in the light of a strike anywhere Don’t follow the fallen already lying down there
This lighting is like hell, behind curtains, beaded fringe, sumptuous and opulent… pure hell.
A French sort of desire, held captive in a birdcage, hot like neon, frigid like nitrogen… hellfire.
The way the face is lit by a flame…
When we trip the light fantastic, a feeling so rare, it will follow your features aligned by the glare Let’s go boom boom in the zoom zoom room Let’s go boom boom in the zoom zoom room
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.
