The cup plant, despite a devastating aphid attack that continues out-of-hand, has managed to throw up a few yellow blooms against the blue sky. A valiant effort, and if anyone knows of any aphid-stoppers (aside from ladybugs, 1000 of which did nothing to the aphids last year) please send them my way. For now, I will enjoy the few blooms that made it through.
I feel summer slipping away faster than any of us want, so I took the summer back by spending a day not spending it, only enjoying – the sun, the warmth, the flowers. the book, and the pool.
During yesterday’s brilliant late morning moments, I assembled a simple salad of cucumbers, fresh tomatoes grown on our patio, fresh basil from the garden, garbanzo beans, and mozzarella – doused with some balsamic vinegar and olive oil, salt and pepper. I threw in a few slivers of red onion that I’d soaked in water and vinegar to remove their edge, and it was the perfect summer salad to eat by the pool as I read lazily from my current book.
There was nowhere else I’d have rather been at that moment – the brilliance of a summer morning in July makes up for all sorts of January awfulness if you know how to store it in your heart. I paused to imprint the memory, to take in the flavors and the feeling of this summer day. Mindfulness makes for happiness.
One of my favorite things to do when I’m in Boston is to walk the city – not with any goal or destination in mind, just the act of walking and exploring and happening upon whatever happens along the way. It’s at odds with the carefully-choreographed precision that characterizes so much of the rest of my life, and it’s how I’d like to act more often. The last weekend in Boston proved good practice for that kind of letting go, though that also came with memories that surfaced and rushed to flood the heart with ideas for which I wasn’t entirely prepared, but I allowed myself to feel it all, and let the tears fill my eyes when they came rather than force them away.
One little kiss, a moment of bliss, then hours of deep regret One little smile, and after a while, a longing to forget One little heartache left as a token One little plaything carelessly broken
Ensconced in the Boston brownstone, one floor above the street lined with other brownstones, I finish my dinner that first night and take a moment to read a bit on the couch. Cole Porter plays in the background, lending the weekend a lovely soundtrack, the way he often provides a summer setting for evenings that turn solitude into magic. Many a Boston evening has been spent in similar fashion, and I’m suddenly waxing nostalgic for all the nights that came before. That can be troublesome and dangerous depending on what sort of mood Spirit decides to take me, but when the night is still light, as it happens to be at high summer, nothing feels as dangerous as it perhaps should, and so I prepare to walk.
On that first night of walking, I made the conscious decision to engage with whatever and whomever crossed my path. My first stop was a new plant store in the South End, and after the woman working there welcomed me in I asked her how long they had been open, telling her how beautiful the space was. She told me the quick story of how they had moved from a nearby spot, and then she thanked me as I told her I’d definitely be back, then continued on my way.
Meandering through the South End, I crossed through Chinatown then the financial district before finding myself at the harbor – Spirit seemed to be guiding me to the water, and as I looked out onto the water that led into the Atlantic Ocean, my mind wandered all the way to Cape Cod, to the first man I can remember ever remotely crushing on – a guy who was running the dolphin show at a place called Aqua Circus. He probably exists mostly as a made-up visage in my mind of a slightly-curly-and-reddish-brown haired man, the same shade as the bit of chest hair that showed at the top of the zip-up hoodie that wasn’t zipped all the way up. While that lives as possible fiction, I distinctly remember that before his show began he asked if I would be his helper for the night, and I hesitantly said yes because I knew there was no alternative to saying no to him, and I didn’t want there to be. The help I was to provide consisted of retrieving several small rubber hoops that he would ask me to give to him at a certain point in the proceedings. It was the first time a gentleman had showed any interest in me – I wasn’t more than ten years old, and I felt like the whole world had suddenly opened up and revealed some wonderful secret to me and only me. Enraptured, I sat at the edge of my seat until he looked for me, then I carefully made my way to the hoops, and onto the little stage at the end of the pool. While the dolphins had been my main interest, at that moment they fell away, their clicks and clucks and calls fading into the slow motion world where this young man stood before me, all gratitude and a golden smile and a public round of thanks that the audience joined in granting me, and all I wanted was to help him more.
Strange how that memory came flooding back as I looked out over Boston Harbor. He was one of the first men I remember stirring something in me that no girl or woman ever would, and I don’t always think of him, not the way I would think of other men this evening. The screams of a seagull brought me back to the present moment, and I backed away from the water.
It was at this place where I once ran on a winter’s night after I foolishly fell for a one-night-stand in Rochester, NY – the man who brushed the snow off my car the next morning, and so I decided I had to love him. Not knowing any better didn’t diminish the pain that ensued, and I remember arriving here after a breathless almost-run from the Government Center T stop and soaking up the solitude and loneliness – unlike the summer night at hand, that winter’s night was entirely bereft of people. I was alone, and I could cry without worry of anyone seeing – and I did, to the sad soundtrack of a flagpole clanging desolately in the wind. Tears welled up again, not for the present moment, but for that young man I was back then, the guy who didn’t know what to make of all those feelings, all those yearnings, all that loneliness. As for the one-night-stand guy, he would contact me years later, as many of them would, inviting me to meet if ever I was in his town, and by then the magic was always gone, the hurt eradicating whatever I once felt for them. It was never really about them anyway.
Remember you vowed By all the stars above you Remember?
I made my way through Faneuil Hall, the place I worked through my last years of college and beyond, then Spirit impelled me to follow the roads to the place where the very first man who kissed me used to live. It was right across the street from the very first Boston hotel I stayed at when my Mom brought my brother and I to the city. Some walks are steeped in nostalgia, and for whatever reason I was brought back to those two pivotal times and places, each sad and astounding and wonderful in their own way. For the very first Boston stay, my mother took us to see ‘E.T.’ at the movie theater nearby; I was more excited about the small plant store across the way, where I’d spend a good hour just inspecting and taking in the tiny collection of houseplants they had on display.
As for the man who gave me my first kiss among other firsts, I remember the stale smell of his little room. The towel around his waist. The sad little sink kitchen set-up that butted up against the bed. The worn and torn Alcoholics Anonymous book that stood on the windowsill. The way his stubble felt like it was cutting into my face, the way I wanted more. The way he was breaking my heart and the way I didn’t know why. We are so careless with each other, even when we know better.
Remember we found a lonely spot And after I learned to care a lot
I followed the river back toward home, the opposite way that man had taken me when we first walked together on a warm and sunny September day. You can’t correct the past by retreading it, but once in a while you understand it a little better, and in that understanding is a little bit of resolution, an easing of whatever faded hurt might remain. All these nights of walking in Boston may be my attempt at chipping away at the pain. Most times, nothing comes of it but a few thousand steps; sometimes the tears land, and some healing happens.
Making my way through the Boston Public Garden restores my sense of calm, and all the happy memories that the garden holds. It carries a different charm in the evening, when the bats are flying about and the waterfowl have tucked their heads into their necks. My head was feeling scattered, and whenever that happens the garden grounds me – this one and all of them. Once I felt right again, I continued on for the last leg home, passing a diner that I would eat at the morning of my departure.
You promised that you’d forget me not But you forgot To remember
In the sunlight of the next day, all the darkness is forgotten, and all the nostalgia too. The past once again recedes into the past, the ghosts of people who once populated and seemed so important to me disappearing behind the colorful blooms of flowers who take happy pride of place in the mind. The world rights itself on the daily if we let it. Yet I don’t depart unchanged.
Into my dreams you wandered it seems, and then there came a day You loved me too; my dreams had come true, and all the world was May But soon the May-time turned to December You had forgotten; do you remember?
Sometimes you can tell when something special is in the offing – it carries on the wind, maybe in the scent of the sea – and sometimes you simply go along with the gentle unfolding of a weekend in Boston, and nothing much happens and in that is the magic, but only when you listen closely and carefully. When I arrived, the city was in gorgeous bloom – a beautifully sunny July afternoon, and my only goal was to walk the weekend away and be mostly alone with my thoughts and mental meanderings.
At words poetic, I’m so pathetic That I always have found it best Instead of getting ’em off my chest To let ’em rest unexpressed I hate parading my serenading As I’ll probably miss a bar But if this ditty is not so pretty At least it’ll tell you How great you are
At this private little pied-à-terre where I’ve always had a home-away-from-home, one can wear their underwear to dinner and not be bothered. Sometimes it’s the simple things in life that bring us the most joy. I settle into comfort and charcuterie, taking my time and listening to Cole Porter as the light slowly lowered in the sky, and with it some of the harsher heat. I indulged, as I was planning on doing a lot of walking this weekend.
Some weekends in Boston have a way of melting their days into one mash-up of magic and emotions, and when they’re done my mind is so full it’s difficult to recall everything that happened in the order that it all went down – that’s always a good sign that I was present in the moment and not documenting of chronicling things, which can keep one at a remove and distance. It’s better to be immersed and mindful, and so this post will melt into the next one as far as my nocturnal ambulations go. The spirit is what counts, and the spirit is what I will endeavor to capture.
“You’re the purple light Of a summer night in Spain…” – Cole Porter
Set the cheetahs on the loose There’s a thief out on the move Underneath our legion’s view They have taken Cleopatra, Cleopatra
The jewel of Africa What good is a jewel that ain’t still precious How could you run off on me? How could you run off on us? You feel like God inside that gold I found you laying down with Samson And his full head of hair I found my black queen Cleopatra Bad dreams Cleopatra
Remove her Send the cheetahs to the tomb Our war is over, our queen has met her doom No more she lives, no more serpent in her room No more, he has killed Cleopatra, Cleopatra
Big sun coming strong through the motel blinds Wake up to your girl for now let’s call her Cleopatra, Cleopatra I watch you fix your hair Then put your panties on in the mirror, Cleopatra Then your lipstick, Cleopatra Then your six-inch heels Catch her She’s headed to the pyramid
Canadian diver Bryden Hattie niftily earns his first Dazzler of the Day crowning thanks to some cheeky Instagram and TikTok posts, as well as a promising diving career which has already found him successfully repping Canada at several World Championships. With his uncanny ability to maneuver through the social media world in a way that works to his advantage, Hattie looks poised for an interesting career trajectory. We shall see, and watch with baited breath.
“Wise as she was, she realized that people can postpone their rebellious phases until they’re eighty-five years old, and she decided to keep an eye on herself.” – Tove Jansson, ‘The Summer Book’
“Sometimes people never saw things clearly until it was too late and they no longer had the strength to start again. Or else they forgot their idea along the way and didn’t even realize that they had forgotten.” – Tove Jansson, ‘The Summer Book’
Having just taken the first turn of the season one month into its glory, it seems like a good place to reset and recalibrate as we eagerly anticipate the close of this Mercury in retrograde motion moment – it’s been a doozy, and there’s still a shadow period to overcome. We are never quite as out of the woods as we like to think we are, but we’re getting there.
“It’s funny about love,” Sophia said. “The more you love someone, the less he likes you back.” “That’s very true,'” Grandmother observed. “And so what do you do?” “You go on loving,” said Sophia threateningly. “You love harder and harder.” – Tove Jansson, ‘The Summer Book’
Though I haven’t seen this movie, nor do I know anything about it, the music from ‘The Egyptian’ ushers us into the next portion of this Solid Gold Summer. Thanks to my niece’s decree, this is our Egyptian flair for the golden summer season – who are we to deny Miss Emi Lu? She is wise beyond her years.
Sometimes, though, summer is serious. And real. And concrete in its heat and humidity which hits like a wall.
Sand dance memories, tomb painted scenes, lost to the desert, dissipated into the night sky, and no star extending its arms to cradle or catch. A falling star can’t even catch itself – how dare we expect it to catch one of us?
Twenty-six years ago to the date, I met Andy at Oh Bar on a Sunday evening, not knowing how many years were in store for us, nor all the adventures and winding roads along the way. How could we know all the years that would pass, all the things we would end up doing? Would we have thought twice about it if we had known everything? All the ups and downs? I don’t know – all I know is that we’ve always taken things one day at a time – we never looked at anything in the frame of forever, or with an eye to perfection – and for a perfectionist that was an adjustment. Happily, it’s been a good adjustment, a necessary one, and it’s part of the key to such a long run. Most people try to make everything into a forever or never type of deal instead of simply living in the moment and the day at hand; it’s quite easy to get along with a loved one when you realize there’s another day to come.
This marks our 26th anniversary of meeting – which is sort of our real anniversary since we couldn’t legally get married for the first ten years of our relationship. We’ll head downtown this evening for a fancy dinner, right near the very first place we met, and start another year together…
Dear Jaxon – You’ve arrived at the start of your 4th year here, and it’s been a joy seeing you reach all of your milestones and markers that a young boy hits. You’ve almost reached the point to begin your training with your Uncles, as this is almost the time at which we stepped in with the twins (once they were about toilet-trained). That means you’re no longer a baby – which carries its own weight and regret over the passing of time, and with it the excitement and wonder of beginning your fourth year of the long journey ahead.
You’ve come quite a long way in the last year – you’ve picked up your talking and communication, and you showed me how to wind up a car that I couldn’t get to run on a racetrack, so you’re already skilled far beyond my automotive knowledge. Your love of cars and vehicles remains strong, which means you are taking after your Uncle Andy. I’ll need to start exerting my influence to counteract that, but have no fear, the fabulousness will be here.
Hope you have another wonderful trip around the sun – looking forward to more adventures with you this year! We love you.
When Emi was originally entertaining summer theme ideas, she wanted to incorporate some element of Egyptian flair and Cleopatra vibes. We have reached that turn after a Solid Gold start, and our golden glory will thread its way through this Egyptian excursion along the Nile. We begin with a fragrance, as Egyptian as anything we’ll ever conjure here, and in keeping with the lighter touch of Cleopatra aspects. Sur de Nil was reportedly created with the inspiration of the Nile River running tranquilly in the background. It’s a lovely soft beginning for our own Egyptian journey here, which turns the soundtrack around in eclectic fashion worthy of my occasionally-eclectic niece. She takes after her fun Uncle in that way (and several others). And so we tip-toe into the pyramids, into a land of sand and sunlight, heat and papyrus and the sound of water running along like the sole savior it has become.
Do not speak to me of Queens and Kings, whisper only of love and beauty. Crowns and titles never impressed anyone around here, contrary to popular assumption. Still, pomp and circumstance passes the time, and we humans are notoriously in need of entertainment and amusement, so let us aim to enthrall you with this turn on our summer journey. There are palm trees swaying in the warm breeze, and a romantic aspect of night that pulls you along the with the current of the river.
“All strange and terrible events are welcome, but comforts we despise.” – Cleopatra
The conundrum of summer: such glorious atmosphere, such dark nights, such tease and please and unease. We find a way in the dizzying sunlight, only to forget the path by the time we wake from an afternoon nap. Dangers and delights alike, and no one could ever really tell the difference depending on how the shadows appear. Summer tempting, summer limiting, summer its own diabolical sphinx, impossible to riddle any sort of sense or meaning, and still we yearn, still we strive, still we grasp at the asp intent only on getting out alive, on seeking its own survival.
“I rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and put my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers; I tasted her cup. The pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: the wine has a bitter taste: her promises are hollow- her offers false. I see and know all this.” – Charlotte Bronte
Birthday boy Jason Leigh Winter gets the only kind of gift I can give to him, which is a crowning as Dazzler of the Day. A social media star and West End triple-threat, Winter recently turned heads in the celebrated production of ‘Hercules’ as it dazzled the London theater scene. More impactful seems to be his beloved social media posts, which largely feature him dancing to requested songs and reminding us of the joy still to be found in the simplest acts of showmanship.
The floral fuzziness of these Salvia blooms are different from all the other Salvia varieties in our backyard, which makes these a little extra special. I’m not sure if the hummingbirds (and hummingbird moths, should we be so lucky) prefer this sort of fuzz or not – people are divided over fur so I imagine animals might be as well. Personally, I love the fuzzy outer coat on exhibit here – life is about texture and sensual delights. Try some, feel one…
