We hosted friends for dinner last night, and then later this month, nearer my birthday, we’ll have Ann and Missy over for a weekend of Virgo fun and hilarity. To both ends, a bit of greenery is required to cheer up the indoor summer spaces, and I find a single branch, when large enough, makes for a big impact. In this case, some of the remnants of a pruned Coral Bark Maple provide a lush verdant backdrop for the attic loft. Summer is the best time to bring some of the outdoors inside, and this beautifully blurs the lines between the two.
Processing these last weeks of my 50th year hasn’t been as simple or easy as the bulk of this year had led me to believe – in fact, I’m still in a slight state of shock as to how suddenly and overwhelmingly I feel the rush of time, as well as how those who come into and out of our lives can do so in such swift and cruel motion. Maybe it’s the anniversary of Dad’s death, the approach of my own 51st, or the hints of fall that carried on the wind and rain during the recent deluges. Whichever the case, something has me emotionally spooked and mentally disturbed – definitely a more fitting feeling for fall than this last full month of summer.
August used to be such a treat, culminating with my birthday, often a full-day destination event no matter the day of the week, it still being summer. This year, like many years of late, I don’t find the same excitement or thrill in a birthday – at the time of this writing I haven’t even sent out a wish list (which, when you truly think about it, is the opposite of high-maintenance but I digress). Maybe this is the mark of finally growing up – you give up the stupid shit that brought your childhood self such silly joy. Or maybe I’m just lowering expectations so my birthday stands a chance of not disappointing. I won’t hurt people by regaling you with episodes to support that statement.
Oh dear – is August about to get messy? Stick around and find out – I’d just about made my mind up to throw this summer out with the baby and the bathwater, but let’s see if I have some sultry sass still in me…
Meanwhile, wildflowers are showing off this brilliant color – in the thistles and loosestrife – a reminder that August has only just begun her show…
August has arrived, and the cricket song at night is getting stronger. This past week has been a fucking doozy in just about every possible way. I won’t even try to encapsulate it in a cute intro – click below and read for yourself in this weekly blog recap.
There’s a mountain, and it’s mighty high You cannot see the top, unless you fly And there’s a molehill of proven ground There ain’t nowhere to go if you hang around Everybody wants to sell what’s already been sold Everybody wants to tell what’s already been told What’s the use of money if you ain’t gonna break the mold? Even at the center of fire, there is cold All that glitters ain’t gold All that glitters ain’t gold
Summer was never meant to be so serious. Summer demands a lighter touch. Summer is golden splendor beneath a glowing sun. Summer sparkles, summer sizzles, summer wants only to shine, stimulate, and scintillate. Into this season why pour all the tears and ruinous rain? Fall will be here soon enough for that mess, and trust me we will get messy then. For now, relax – have a swim, have a rest, have a read. Get lost in the gold…
Everybody wants to sell what’s already been sold Everybody wants to tell what’s already been told What’s the use of money if you ain’t gonna break the mold? Even at the center of fire, there is cold All that glitters ain’t gold, no no All that glitters ain’t gold, no no
It’s been a while since I’ve written at the cafe – a while since I’ve sent out a volley of ‘This is cafe culture‘ texts to all my friends with accompanying lame photo of my cup of peppermint herbal tea. Mainly it’s been because the joys of summer are at and around our home, where the gardens and pool are the only atmosphere I seek or desire. For better or worse, however, I need to get into planning and plotting the Fall 2026 season of this website, and that isn’t going to happen lounging by the pool and eating bonbons. Would that it could. So it is that I find myself entering the cafe on a Friday afternoon when the sun is still hanging in the sky after a tumultuous week of wet and wild weather.
My favorite barista is working on this early evening in which I resume cafe culture, and she greets me excitedly, saying it’s been a while and asking what I’m doing with my notebook on a Friday night. I told her I was getting back into my writing routine, and she said I looked tan and must have been enjoying my summer. Sometimes it’s easier to smile and pretend and say some innocuous thing instead of the deep and detailed truth of how any one of us is really feeling at any given time, so I did. It’s easier for everyone, and less potentially awkward, and on this night I am very much seeking ease and comfort and reassurance that I’m still here, that I’m still myself, that I still have the power to astound. Because of this, I was especially glad to see her. Some people have that comforting effect – they are rare and wonderful and make this wretched world worthwhile. Though I barely know her, I know she is one of those people.
After I ask her how she has been, she pauses and tells me that she was getting ready to move. I assume it’s just across town, or to Albany or Clifton Park or something – but she goes on to say she’s moving down South, just outside of Atlanta, Georgia to be with her family. My heart sank to think that my favorite barista would be leaving, especially as I was just beginning to think we might become friends – a new step for me as other friends pull back or disappear entirely from my life. She also has such a great spirit and vibe that I will miss her presence in the cafe, and the possibility that we might have become closer.
We’ll see if I muster the courage to slip her my contact info to stay in touch, or if I’ll come to my senses and stop acting so desperate. I asked my friend Paula if she thought it was weird to try to connect like that at this point, and she said I should go for it. Most of my friends have kids and families of their own, and I think part of me wants to expand my social circle just a little bit, to make some meaningful connections as I barrel down the second half of life.
As we wrap up our conversation, I tell her I’ll have to stop in more before she leaves – she’s says I don’t have to do that, and that I should keep working on my tan and enjoying the summer.
Some people find comfort and solace in long drives with which to clear their heads and hearts, taking time to be alone with their thoughts, or just occupied by a drive to somewhere near. Up until a few years, I was not one of these people. I didn’t ever drive for the sake of driving – I barely drove when it was a necessity (Andy will confirm). But ever since Dad died, and in the weeks leading up to it, I would find myself driving out in Amsterdam and beyond, just to drive. It was like he was with me, and it afforded me time alone – to weep, to pause, to think, to be – in a way you can’t find when other people might be around.
These days, when things are particularly upsetting or I’m feeling extra sad, I get in the car and just go somewhere – the destination is never important, just the act of being in motion, being alone and uninterrupted, is enough. Sometimes I drive to the cemetery. Sometimes I drive along streets my father knew well. Sometimes I’ll let myself get lost in the rural roads that stretch out off the Thruway, always winding my way back to some known marker or place – it’s difficult to truly get lost anywhere today. Not on the roads, at least. In my head, it feels like I’ve been lost for a while, but I’m hopeful that fog is lifting. Maybe I just needed a few dismal days of rain to clear things up, to set me back on my path and salvage what remains of this summer. In the meantime, I’ll be on the road again.
Dear Dad – It’s been three years since you departed this earth, and while I still think of you every day, it is not in an unhappy or painful way – it’s more of a reassurance. Your presence is with me, guiding and comforting me throughout all the difficult days, and whenever I find myself in doubt or worry, I think of you, and somehow you help me get through it. In so many ways, you are still working as my father, in the same dogged way you worked when you were alive.
That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you – and it’s keener at family events and gatherings, when you would be the only other person who understood me and my place. It’s lonelier now. My heart is a bit emptier. Nothing fills that void, so I work around it, allowing it to exist as a testament to the love we shared. In that strange way, grief is a comfort, a continual reminder of your presence, a constant reassurance of your love.
You’ve been on my mind lately, as summer takes a rainy and darker turn, and moments of melancholy remind me of that final summer we had. Those last days of yours went so fast but felt so slow, and I’m grateful for that time – it was a fitting and honorable goodbye, the same way you lived your entire long life. You closed it out neatly, quietly, lovingly. You let us say goodbye, and when you were ready you slipped away in the night. I would be lucky to follow in your footsteps.
On the morning of your funeral service, it poured rain – the same way it’s been pouring rain for the last week. Maybe that’s bringing me back to you, or you to me, and for once I’m not unhappy about such dour weather. It’s a comfort, like you have always been – a gentle nudge of nourishment for the soul. I don’t need to look to the cemetery or the church to feel or find you – you remain with me always – in this rain, in our tomato plants, in your grandchildren, in any little incident that reminds and rekindles a funny memory of you. Then I remember you smiling and laughing, sometimes so much that you had to take your glasses off and rub your eyes.
With June and July fading from the rear-view mirror, August and September are all we have left of summer, so at this crux let’s have a look-back at our summer playlist 2026 – it’s a musical smorgasbord of the most messy and eclectic kind, which is just the sort of playlist I like best (and why the algorithms of Spotify don’t work well with me – my taste is too varied and too unpredictable). As I was listing these out, it suddenly struck me how much has happened in this single summer, and we’re not even halfway through it. Part of me shudders, part of me is relieved it’s over, and part of me is still in shock. Click through these musical moments to remember… if you dare.
Death Cab for Cutie has inadvertently insisted on inserting its music into our Solid Gold Summer – perhaps slightly at odds with disco or Egypt, but message-wise on perfect, heartrending point, bringing this summer into a rainy, somber focus, stripping the golden gilding off all that seemed to shimmer in the spring, and revealing the hum-drum, mundane make-up of its only-too-basic structure. I’m all for superficial shine when it comes to appearance, but for matters of the heart the idea of gilding is heartbreaking. You can’t capture or coat the heart. You can’t pretend passion. The heart will tug no matter how golden the day turns, no matter how brilliantly the sky shines. And here is a transitory song for the moment at hand, closing out the month of July.
And I wonder where you are tonight If the one you’re with was a compromise As we’re walking lines in parallel That will never meet and it’s just as well
A rainy night in summer makes for the ideal backdrop to listen to this song. It speaks to things more succinctly, if mysteriously, than my clumsy prose could ever capture or convey, music winding its way around words and strangling them in such exquisite agony. When it sounds so good, and looks so pretty, you step into the trap willingly, sliding the noose pleasantly around your neck, teasing asphyxiation, daring it to do its damage.
Sometimes I’m overcome By every choice I couldn’t outrun The junctions all disappear You can’t double back to your summer years
And I wonder where you are tonight If the one you’re with was a compromise As we’re walking lines in parallel That will never meet and it’s just as well
I didn’t mean for things to get so dark so soon this summer, but sometimes life takes us where we may not want to go, but absolutely need to be. It’s no longer worth it to fight the currents of the universe, and I’m much happier to let things play out without upending the apple cart entirely. A few apples are sure to be lost, but perhaps they’re just the bad apples – no love lost there.
This is a difficult time of the year for me. Memories of Dad’s last days mingle with summer now – a sad alignment for the supposedly-sunny season, but one that still manages to bring a certain degree of comfort to the hot days. I remember the days of goodbyes, the time with him for those last few weeks, the rare and revelatory moments of clarity and consciousness when the Dad I remembered would only-too-briefly surface and be present for a few seconds. Tomorrow will mark the third anniversary of his leaving. As I finish this post, it’s pouring rain outside, and I do not mind it.
And I wonder where you are tonight And if the one you’re with was a compromise As we’re walking lines in parallel That will never meet and it’s just as well It’s just as well…
Nothing gold can stay, or so some say, and the idea of permanence no longer seems to be part of the current world’s situation. Nothing seems stable, nothing feels permanent, nothing can be relied upon for more than a brief moment – and perhaps this is the lesson I’ve needed to learn. To be honest, I thought I’d learned it during and after COVID. My idea of anything being set in stone was destroyed way back then, and it’s never fully, or even partly, recovered. It’s hard to count on things when the whole world shifted beneath our feet and threw us to the ground; we got back up, those of us who survived, but I’ve never trusted my feet, or the ground, since.
Digging for gold in my neighborhood Where all the old buildings stood And they keep digging it down and down So that their cars can live underground The swinging of a wrecking ball Through these lath and plaster walls Is letting all the shadows free The ones I wish still followed me
I remember a winter’s night We kissed beneath the street lamp light Outside our bar near the record store That have been condos for a year and more Now that our haunts have taken flight And been replaced with construction sites Oh, how I feel like a stranger here Searching for something that’s disappeared
This song leans into the golden moment as transitory, mourning the passing of time, and the evolution of neighborhoods and physical locations. As buildings are torn down and roads revamped, so too do people crumble and rebuild themselves, often right before our eyes – people being the mercurial and impossible-to-fully-understand wild cards that are more fickle and capricious than any evolving environment. If you can’t count on the stability of the land beneath us, how could we ever count on a creature as variable and moody as a human being?
Digging for gold in my neighborhood For what they say is the greater good But all I see is a long goodbye A requiem for a skyline It seems I never stopped losing you As every dive becomes something new And all our ghosts get swept away It didn’t use to be this way
Somehow, I still manage to love them – in the general sense of humanity. Despite popular belief, I’ve maintained a generosity of spirit that is hidden behind my own somewhat self-obsessed guises, and it has always felt right to love rather than waste or ruin my time doing anything else. If it means screaming into a void, and loving those who might never love me back or even be aware that I exist, I’ll continue undaunted. The hope of a gold rush payout is ever on my horizon; it sparkles in the distance, glinting like flecks of precious metal in the cold rush of a stream. Calling to me, time after time, asking that I don’t give up, threatening hope and heartbreak – and I know I will always answer. It’s how I was made, and no matter how much the world or the people around me may change, I’m not ever going to stop.
A musical twist on our recent Egyptian excursion for our Solid Gold summer, this song is neither very Arabian in sound or disco in beat, and it comes courtesy of The Lumineers. It also suddenly has deeper meaning, while dovetailing with the Nile and the sparking gold themes this summer has wrought. Summer always seems to turn more serious than we ever want it to be, and that can’t be helped.
I was Cleopatra, I was young and an actress When you knelt by my mattress, and asked for my hand But I was sad you asked it, as I laid in a black dress With my father in a casket, I had no plans, yeah
And I left the footprints, the mud stain on the carpet And it hardened like my heart did when you left town But I must admit it, that I would marry you in an instant Damn your wife, I’d be your mistress just to have you around
But I was late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life And when I die alone, when I die alone, die I’ll be on time, ah, yeah
Hurtling toward the last days of my fiftieth year here on earth, I suppose it’s as good a time as any to consider death, even if it’s in an abstract or musical way – perhaps it’s easier that way too. I’ve brushed up against it at such an early age, it doesn’t scare me – it never has – in some ways it feels like a friend I haven’t seen for many years, but with whom I can pick up and rejoin as if no time at all has passed. Better to make some sort of peace with the end than fight it – as it comes for everyone.
While the church discouraged, any lust that burned within me Yes my flesh, it was my currency, but I held true So I drive a taxi, and the traffic distracts me From the strangers in my backseat, they remind me of you
But I was late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life And when I die alone, when I die alone, when I die I’ll be on time
For so much of my life, every day was a pose, an act, an expectation delivered from the perfectionist nature of a Virgo who didn’t dare deviate from what he thought the world wanted. A series of guises, all in service of hiding who I really was – and even when I finally came into my own and accepted who I was, the pattern was set, the lines etched too deep in my forehead, the pathways of the brain already too well-tread to re-route. It was sometimes easier to pretend, always safer, and usually worked out better anyway. If someone were to see behind the curtain, I didn’t trust they would like it, and I cared too much about what other people thought back then. It makes for a sticky way of being true to yourself – makes it almost impossible. And so I would become just about anybody else – Mr. Oud, Father Time, the Godfather, the Exhibitionist, the Introvert – anybody to not have to be myself. That made for the perfect conditions for a disaster, and disasters came more often than I’d like to admit. Once I started therapy and meditation, it was time to stop being anyone other than myself, and all the faults and failures that comprised the person I’d been concealing had to be acknowledged and confronted. It turned out they weren’t as bad as I thought they were – and that I wasn’t as bad as I thought I’d been. It was an effort in forgiveness, and acceptance, and it came just in time for what will hopefully be the second half of my journey here.
I was Cleopatra, I was taller than the rafters But that’s all in the past love, gone with the wind Now a nurse in white shoes leads me back to my guestroom It’s a bed and a bathroom And a place for the end
I won’t be late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life And when I die alone, when I die alone, die I’ll be on time, ah
Caravans transport the precious across the sand. They move at night, the only time when it’s not too hot, and even then the heat has soaked into the ground and comes at you from below rather than above, which is somehow even worse. Silk curtains are a silly way of keeping the dust out of the peopled carriages, but they’re mostly for the sun anyway. Centuries ago this was how you moved – at night, cloaked for protection, jostled and uncomfortably confined. Whoever thought this was romantic was senseless.
“What is the endgame of all these megaconstructions? Well, in ancient Egypt, the late 6th-dynasty state had not only become so large that it was nonfunctional (think of the giant cable company that never answers the phone), it had also become a mass of intercompeting elites who used the government to serve no one but themselves. (Think of today’s relentless multimillion-dollar bonuses, payoffs, bribes, insider trading, and fraud, all happening openly with no one going to prison.) As the competition ramped up, and as the Egyptian state became impoverished from mismanagement, the end result was nothing less than war.” – Kara Cooney
