It had to happen, sooner or later. The arrival of winter in full frigid form, with the kind of cold that bites into your throat as soon as you step outside. We had it this past weekend, and while not entirely unwelcome it’s still a shock. (You all remember last year, right? This is NOTHING compared to that…) In other words, we are right where we should be, polar vortex nonsense and everything. On with the recap, to keep you warm.
Our folksy Valentine’s Day mix continues and concludes in this song-filled post. The acoustic guitars are being strummed and the piano keys are delicately being tickled as the voices of love birds sweetly coo their romantic yearnings. Or do they?
Perhaps no other musician conjures such a sense of longing and passion as Cassandra Wilson in her rendition of ‘Love Is Blindness.’ Songs like this gut the heart, splitting it apart in desolation and desperation. When love is unrequited it sometimes feels more real. That’s the dangerous foolishness of the whole affair: the silly ways we want, the dumb ways we desire.
LOVE IS DROWNING IN A DEEP WELL
ALL THE SECRETS AND NO ONE TO TELL
TAKE THE MONEY, HONEY, LOVE IS BLINDNESS
LOVE IS BLINDNESS
I DON’T WANT TO SEE, WON’T YOU WRAP THE NIGHT AROUND ME?
It turns out that love is tricky terrain, especially in the winter. Especially around Valentine’s Day. So many expectations, so many disappointments, so many traps set up by the fools at Hallmark, the gods of love, and the rest of us raising our middle fingers to Venus and Cupid, dodging crippling arrows or painting a bull’s-eye across our chests, and wishing and hoping and praying…
BOY ON THE BIKE, WHAT ARE YOU LIKE AS YOU CYCLE AROUND THE TOWN?
IT’S NOT AS IF THEY’RE PAYING YOU, IT’S NOT AS IF IT’S FUN
AT LEAST NOT ANYMORE...
During a brutal winter in Chicago, in the last days of a relationship that we both tried valiantly to save at various, if opposite, points I listened to ‘Bitterly’ by Me’Shell NdegeOcello. It probably wasn’t the healthiest thing I could have heard, but I knew it had to be done. I had to hurt before I could heal. I had to cry before I could laugh. I had to feel the pain before I could hope for any bit of happiness.
As the wind whipped down the long lonely streets of the city, off the lake and carrying with it tiny shards of ice, I let it seep into my coat and tug at my hair. I didn’t want it to happen, but I felt it was. The arrival of bitterness, and not the slightest sense of sweet to offset any of it.
MY APOLOGIES FALL ON YOUR DEAF EARS, YOU CURSE MY NAME BITTERLY
AND NOW YOUR EYES, THEY LOOK AT ME BITTERLY
I STAND ASHAMED AMIDST MY FOOLISH PRIDE
‘CAUSE FOR US THERE’LL BE NO MORE.
AND NOW MY EYES LOOK AT YOU BITTERLY.
We did our best, and we failed. Yet I don’t regret any of those early loves. They almost make me smile, and the people in those memories still warm my heart a bit. I will never feel bad for loving someone, and certainly not for being loved, no matter if it didn’t last. ‘The Boy Done Wrong Again’ and ‘Requiescat’ – two sides of a heart, or maybe a head. Where does love begin and end?
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We are going to skip the next two songs originally on this downtrodden mix because they are going a bit too deep for my liking, and if we don’t right this sinking shop soon, Valentine’s Day will be lost forever. (For the record, they were ‘X-Static Process‘ and ‘The Drugs Don’t Work‘ – which was once reckoned to be the saddest song ever written. Besides, I’ve already written about both. No need to rehash the wounds.)
Rather, let’s close with a couple of quiet rays of hope in the doldrums of all this cynical Valentine-bashing bullshit. First up, an ambivalent but somehow hopeful take on a relationship in ‘Ring on the Sill’ by the Cowboy Junkies:
HE PUTS HER RING ON HER FINGER, SHE BRUSHES BACK HIS HAIR.
HE TAKES A SIP FROM HIS GLASS, SHE INHALES THE COLD FALL AIR
AND THEY’RE THINKING OF THE LONG ROAD AHEAD,
AND THE STRENGTH THAT THEY WILL NEED JUST TO REACH THE END…
AND THERE IN THE SILENCE THEY SEARCH FOR THE BALANCE
BETWEEN THIS FEAR THAT THEY FEEL AND A LOVE THAT HAS GRACED THEIR LIVES.
And last, to close out this day on a gentle note, an echo of our opening song from Side One by Duncan Sheik: the full version of ‘The Wilderness.’ It’s what happens when you take love and heartache and pain and fear and passion and adoration and forgiveness, and turn it all into art.
Last year I posted a Valentine’s Mix for all you lovely lovers out there who so faithfully visit here even on days of love. It was an admittedly cheesy, over-the-top affair, with power ballads from the 80’s and no dearth of shameless hooks and pop iconography. Side One featured Chicago, Survivor, and Journey, while Side Two had the likes of Debbie Gibson, Tommy Page, and… wait for it… Journey again.
This year I’m posting a mix I made many winters ago, one that I only now noticed contained a number of love songs. Not the dewy-eyed bubble-gum notion of love, but something deeper. Simpler too, and all the more powerful for it. Nothing here will strike your ear-drums with the aural bombast and pomposity of those pop power ballads, but perhaps you’ll connect on a sweeter level.
We begin with ‘The Wilderness: Prelude’ by Duncan Sheik. A simple, plaintive rumination on the heart, and words of love. The power of a single ‘yes’, which someone once claimed to be the happiest word in the English language.
THE WORD IS TOLD NOW, THE WORD IS SAID
THE WORD IS OLD NOW, AND THE STONE IS BREAD
THE HEART IS BONE NOW, THE HEART IS FLESH
THE HEART IS KNOWN NOW, AND THE NO IS YES.
I will forego posting the second song on the original mix, as it’s already been written about here: ‘Time In A Bottle.’ Instead, let’s fast-forward to ‘Annie’s Song’ by John Denver. Believe it or not, I was raised on such folk songs. My Mom spun Peter, Paul & Mary, Judy Collins, and John Denver on our record player, and we listened and sang along. It was a lesson in sweet melodies and soothing harmonies, underlined by a sentiment of love.
YOU FILL UP MY SENSES, LIKE A NIGHT IN THE FOREST
LIKE THE MOUNTAINS IN SPRINGTIME, LIKE A WALK IN THE RAIN
LIKE A STORM IN THE DESERT, LIKE A SLEEPY BLUE OCEAN
YOU FILL UP MY SENSES, COME FILL ME AGAIN.
On that original winter love mix, I also included ‘Dust in the Wind’ – but I’m not feeling it today. Folk it. The same will be said and done for ‘Gay Messiah’ by Rufus Wainwright. I adore the guy, but the dirge-like gay Jesus song is better left on the circumcision-room floor. Moving on…
Let’s return to our Duncan Sheik folk thread with ‘Mr. Chess’ – an acoustic guitar rhapsody on dreams and queens and kings and pawns – the parade of the Court of Life, marching across all our nights.
On this frigid Valentine’s Day weekend, our first side ends on the quiet note of the Cowboy Junkies, and their warm cup of ‘Cold Tea Blues.’ It’s a simple song, with only the strumming of a guitar and a few deftly placed piano notes, and the airy voice of Margo Timmins. I was first introduced to the Cowboy Junkies at a dinner that took place at the end of a high school winter. We were planning a trip to Europe, to pick up Suzie that summer, and on the stereo ‘Black-Eyed Man’ played in the background. While that album played a part in the following spring and summer, ‘Cold Tea Blues’ – off their ‘Pale Sun Crescent Moon’ album – would inform a future winter.
IF I POUR YOUR CUP, THAT IS FRIENDSHIP
IF I ADD YOUR MILK, THAT IS MANNERS
IF I STOP THERE, CLAIMING IGNORANCE OF TASTE
THAT IS TEA.
BUT IF I MEASURE THE SUGAR TO SATISFY YOUR EXPECTANT TONGUE,
THEN THAT IS LOVE…
BUT IF I MEASURE THE SUGAR TO SATISFY YOUR EXPECTANT TONGUE,
THEN THAT IS LOVE…
SITTING UNTOUCHED, AND GROWING COLD.
{A Valentine Folk-You Mix will continue… stay tuned.}
“A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp. And the world seems so fresh as though it had all just come into existence. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.” ~ ‘A Single Man’
Even if it had not been directed by Tom Ford, the film version of Christopher Isherwood’s ‘A Single Man’ would have intrigued me, with its themes of solitude, lost love, human connection, and the notion of living every moment to its fullest. Being that it was directed by Mr. Ford, there’s a whole other level of beauty, grace, and exquisite stylization that only a man of Ford’s taste and design could conjure.
I was moved the first time I saw it in the theater, but this is a film that actually grows better with each viewing. Every frame is a work of art, a perfectly-composed photograph. Sometimes it’s almost too perfect, which is one reason why it was originally seen as somewhat chilly and remote. I find just the opposite to be true. The beauty here is crackling; it strikes with heat and ferociousness. It also serves the purpose: this film demands that the viewer, like the protagonist, sees everything as if for the first time. Especially when it might be the last time.
Ford is masterful in his use of color, as expected from such a fashion wizard, and it works brilliantly as a tributary into the grand vision of the entire piece. Each section, each tiny vignette, each jewel of a close-up ~ they contribute to a mesmerizing and moving experience. Perhaps it’s too subtle for a modern audience. As I get older, I feel the loss of that studied pace of life. Maybe it’s just the sadness that sometimes comes from getting older. Yet in this film, the sadness of growing up and losing things is countered compellingly by all the beauty.
It’s in the kiss of a man. The kiss of a woman. The rolling waves of the ocean. A short trail of cigarette smoke from the lips. A corridor of lemon trees. The burning blaze of a sun’s descent. The clear, sparkling blue eyes of youth. A stillness in a shared night. Such gorgeous loneliness, such terrible beauty. Such is the sumptuous panoply of life.
It begins and ends in stillness. With the gentle closing of the door behind me, the hushed sanctuary of the Boston condo immediately inspires a tranquility that I’ve only found here. In the mid-afternoon sunlight, streaming through the bedroom and over the hardwood floors, I let out a deep breath.
It is one of my favorite moments, when everything is pristine and bright. The possibilities of an afternoon unfurl in the back of my head. I set my bags down and survey any negligent messes left by my brother. Having witnessed the slow, and now rapid, decline of my parents’ house during his time there, I am adamant that similar destruction not occur here. Thankfully nothing is too bad, aside from a messy floor that he’s never vacuumed a day in his life. No matter, a proper spring cleaning is around the corner.
I walk into the bathroom, badly in need of a renovation, and make a few mental notes. A cracked tile trips me up at the threshold, so I gently shuffle it back into place. Pulling open the curtains a bit, I allow light to fill the space. It’s rare that the window is open, and the effect is refreshing. Something to consider for the future.
Backing out into the bedroom, I wearily eye the need for another coat of paint. It’s only white, but the closet and storage doors have never been painted, the walls are marred by scrapes and nail holes, and the trim is in need of updating. That’s in the future, though, and my ambition will only serve a bathroom project for now.
Here, I pause. Through the window blinds, bright bands of sun rays spill over the floor and bed. Sunlight, when this strong, is much welcomed in the winter, and it’s a luxury to be in this room, at this hour, when a long weekend is in its infancy.
One doesn’t think of fine dining in destinations established with other priorities in mind, particularly museums, but Bravo at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston has been serving culinary excellence for a number of years. Ensconced in a corner oasis of the second floor, it functions as a jewel of elevated dining, a respite in the midst of all the art and beauty for those moments when you may want more than cafeteria trays and crowds. A comfy bar, and refined yet cozy banquettes in the seating area, provide rest for feet tired of standing. It’s a gorgeous space befitting a museum, and the food itself is its own work of art.
On my last visit, timed just as it opened on a busy Saturday afternoon in the aftermath of a snowstorm, the tomato bisque with a side of grilled cheese goodness was the only way to go. Creamy yet light, and topped with a decadent drizzle of basil oil, it arrived looking like some gorgeously-rendered abstract painting, all fanciful swirls and tiny bubbles bursting with flavor. The basil oil was the magical part of the bowl, lending a tangy note of elegance that makes it into something more than just a comfort food. The grilled cheese triangles are sharp enough to get noticed, made delicate by proportion and size. Despite such diminutive stature, they pack a punch of their own (but a couple more would not have been unappreciated).
For the main lunch dish on such a snowy day, I kept with the tried and comfortable, choosing an ample omelet that filled half a plate, accompanied by home fries and a toasted English muffin. Filled with the freshness of tomatoes and spinach, and exquisitely offset by the rich threads of cheese (to continue the comfort-food theme) the omelet was a balanced work of unpretentious brilliance.
One of the more disturbing aspects of growing older (and into the dreaded middle-age) is a rapidly-encroaching inability to focus as well as I once did. To that end, I’ve been getting into anthologies and collections of short stories, where I can keep track of a plot or cast of characters without having to make a key with a list of names and descriptions so I won’t forget. (Yes, I have begun to do that.)
It’s strange how my memory works. I can recall events quite vividly from 1994, but ask me what I did two days ago and it’s gone with the wind. Luckily, there are plenty of collections that contain shorter tales and stories for the weaker of mind, including the one pictured here.
My friend Chris just sent me this great little book: ‘The Company They Kept: Writers on Unforgettable Friendships’ as edited by Robert B. Silvers and Barbara Epstein. It’s a fascinating, and often quite moving, series of memories of friendships between writers. Some focus more on the writing aspect, others more on the friendship, and together they comprise a rich and enthralling experience. That it was given to me by one of my dearest friends makes it all the more resonant, and perhaps one day I’ll tell that story of friendship (with disguised names to protect the guilt of the other party). And though my modern day memory may be fading, I remember every moment of those first few days of friendship, first planted on a trip to Puerto Rico, and cultivated with travels and talks from San Francisco to New York to Miami to Washington.
The gluteus maximus gets much of the glory on this website, and in honor of Ass Wednesday it gets another day in the sun (or in the flurry-flecked gray, as the case may be). Some may find something profane about the whole butt-play on a religious day like Ash Wednesday, some may cry foul at the mention of naked male booty just as the Lenten trudge to Easter begins, and some will just click on this post and scroll down to the nude male celebrity butts and links that follow. I know which camp I’m in…
We begin with the meaty backside of Tom Hardy, who recently had a full-frontal river romp splashed across these wireless frequencies. (Well, not these particular ones, as full-frontal male nudity is a frontier we have yet to conquer here.)
Click-bait warning: we move onto the ample assets of Ryan Reynolds, who reportedly has a naked wrestling match in his new ‘Deadpool’ movie opening this week. I was going to see it regardless, but this is a happy bonus. He’s only shirtless here, but his bottom is on flagrant show in this post.
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
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I CAN GIVE YOU EVERYTHING THAT YOU WANT
(BITCH GET OFF MY POLE! BITCH GET OFF MY POLE!)
YOU CAN’T BUY THIS AT NO LUXURY STORE
(BITCH GET OFF MY POLE! BITCH GET OFF MY POLE!)
One of the unexpected highlights of The Rebel Heart Tour has been Madonna’s performance of ‘Holy Water’ (yes, a proper tour review is still forthcoming). Previously, the song was a Prince-like throwaway from the otherwise iconic ‘Rebel Heart’ album, but as with most of her live performances, Madonna elevates the song into something much richer and more exciting than its original incarnation.
Cheeky and borderline-blasphemous, it’s classic Madonna, and the lyrics suggest a naughty simile comparing holy water with pussy juice. (Yeah, I said it, no need to wet it.) As I mentioned, I was not initially impressed with the track, but bring in some pole-dancing nuns and a phantasmagoric last-supper scene brought to life, along with that sneaky ‘Vogue’ mash moment, and suddenly I’m on board.
THERE’S A PLACE YOU GOTTA GO BEFORE I LET YOU TAKE IT ALL
IT’S LIKE A DRUG, IT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL
BABY YOU SHOULD GET DOWN LOW AND TASTE MY PRECIOUS ALCOHOL
YOU LOOK SO THIRSTY I THINK YOU NEED IT…
KISS IT BETTER, KISS IT BETTER, DON’T IT TASTE LIKE HOLY WATER?
MAKE IT WETTER, MAKE IT WETTER, DON’T IT TASTE LIKE HOLY WATER?
KISS IT BETTER, MAKE IT WETTER, DON’T IT TASTE LIKE HOLY WATER?
KISS IT BETTER, KISS IT BETTER…
It’s got a sinfully sinister bassline that worms its way into your ear, as well as lots of aural sex hiccups that burst like little orgasms along the trail to sexual salvation. Nobody melds sex and religion as masterfully as Madonna, and even if it’s been done before, it’s still a hoot and a half.
THERE’S SOMETHING YOU GOTTA HIT, IT’S SACRED AND IMMACULATE
I CAN LET YOU IN HEAVEN’S DOOR
I PROMISE YOU IT’S NOT A SIN, FIND SALVATION DEEP WITHIN
Whenever I take a long hot shower, I think of my seventh grade art teacher Mr. Griffith. (Not in any sort of salacious way, so if you’re looking for that kind of story, keep looking.) We called him Mr. Griff for short, per his instructions, and in truth he was a short, rather nerdy guy with glasses and a pocket protector that held his pens and pencils. As shocking as it might be, to myself perhaps most of all, I did not excel in his art course. At the time I was too timid to be considered creative enough for the work, too hesitant to step outside the boundaries in a way bold enough to glean the appreciation of the teacher. My methods were precise and exact, my technique measured and defined, and I didn’t allow room for error or experimentation. In other words, I was far too anal to let go; I wanted to get the theory and execution down perfectly before I played around. I don’t think he admired that, but such was my Virgo nature. We’re getting off track now, and this story isn’t about my failings as an art student, it’s about that hot shower.
When we worked on our projects, Mr. Griff would regale us with stories of students past, or incidents from his own life. It was far more interesting to me than the papier mache mannequin lady that another student was working on or the painting of a car that Mr. Griff fawned over. (A red sports car? Really? I knew then that my abstract pencil designs weren’t getting me anything over a solid ‘B’.) Once in a while, those stories touched me, especially the one he told on a cold winter morning.
He was stooping over the sink to wash his hands, and he paused as the water ran over them. Drying them off, he turned around to tell us about a girl in one of his classes. He said she was a nice enough girl, but very quiet. Kept to herself and did her work without making a fuss over anything. One day he watched as she stood at that sink, adjusting the water until it was warm. Once it was at the desired temperature, she didn’t move, simply stood there still, letting the water run over her hands. He puzzled over the scene for a moment, wondering at first if she was all right, then reached the point where he determined it was a wasteful pose, and was about to admonish her for taking so long. As he approached, she shut the water off. He decided to ask her why she just stood there letting the water run over her hands. She told him that she did not have hot water in her house, so whenever she had a chance to feel such warmth she enjoyed it.
That story changed my life more profoundly than any exercise in art class ever could, and it’s remained in my mind for those times when I take anything for granted. To this day, whenever I indulge in a long hot shower, I pause to remember the story, and the girl I never met, and I feel thankful and lucky, as if somewhere in that pause I’ve had a brush with grace.
If it were any other week, I’d have a major problem with all this groundhog talk. The rodent has never been good to me or my sweet potato vines, but since he didn’t see his shadow, I’m thanking his lack of vision and counting on an early spring. Holding faith in such folkloric tales is as foolish as courting crows for a game of chess, but I’m not averse to a little blind check mating. Now I’m mixing metaphors and making a mess of things, so let’s look back before I forget what already happened.
The doldrums of any winter, even a mild one, can only be broken up by certain jolts. A vacation, a good book, an amazing song, or a new fragrance. I’ve tried them all, but it’s the fragrance option that has always turned the winter around for me. On a recent trip to New York, I ambled about the gift shop at the Standard High Line and waited for my friend Chris to finish his look-see. At the time, I wasn’t scouting for a new cologne, but that’s always when you find a good one. I pulled the small square bottle of black from its shelf and opened the top. It was peppery and fresh, clean and light. A smoky underside fit into the border between fall and winter, and it was so instantly likable that I spritzed some on. (I’m a last-resort spritzer, in the event that I end up hating a scent, or if I might want to try one on later in the day. Entire vacation days can be ruined by a haphazard cologne try-out.)
This one was a safe choice. Perfume 11 by BLK DNM is unisex fragrance, named for its launch year of 2011, and it has some of my favorites in it, which is why I instantly loved it: black pepper, cardamom, musk, cedar, balsam fir, birch, amber and incense.
It begins in a soft way, and stays as such throughout its trajectory. Black pepper and incense are where it’s at, making this ideal for fall or winter. Despite its smokiness, it’s actually quite a clean fragrance, and that smoke will dissipate, leaving a woodiness that’s more than pleasant in these dimmer seasons.
Now for the super-secret, which the salesperson whispered almost apologetically to me in the cloistered confines of the shop: Perfume 11 by BLK DNM actually falls under the Levi company, which initially caused me to turn my nose up at the whole thing. “I can’t tell people I’m wearing Levi’s cologne!†I shrieked to my friend Chris. Yet another instance where I fell into the stupidity of labels and image over what is truly decent and enjoyable. At this point in our friendship, Chris wisely ignored the matter and moved on. I almost did the same, until a few weeks later, when I found myself pining and yearning for the elusive peppery scent and it was nowhere to be found online. Such exclusivity always lends things a bit more magic than they might inherently hold, but it also meant that no one else was likely to wear the scent in the environs of upstate New York. Chris was back at the Standard a few weeks later, so I asked him to procure a bottle, thus resolving the dilemma on a happy note.
It’s a song that features prominently in ‘Grey Gardens‘ but before that it was, and remains, a Cole Porter standard. Such a classic is in vogue for all seasons – as effervescent in summer as it is cozy and comforting in the winter. This is ‘Night and Day’ – illustrated by two photos from the vantage point of the Boston condo.
LIKE THE BEAT BEAT BEAT OF THE TOM-TOM WHEN THE JUNGLE SHADOWS FALL
LIKE THE TICK TICK TOCK OF THE STATELY CLOCK AS IT STANDS AGAINST THE WALL
LIKE THE DRIP DRIP DRIP OF THE RAINDROPS WHEN THE SUMMER SHOWER IS THROUGH
SO A VOICE WITHIN ME KEEPS REPEATING YOU, YOU, YOU
Aside from the ‘Grey Gardens’ soft spot I have, I also love this song for the brilliant multi-level meanings in the lyrics. The line between night and day is a tricky one – what a difference a day makes, indeed. Things somehow feel safer when the sun comes up, and at that time I think back on the darkness and sometimes I shudder.
NIGHT AND DAY, YOU ARE THE ONE, ONLY YOU BENEATH THE MOON OR UNDER THE SUN
WHETHER NEAR TO ME, OR FAR, IT’S NO MATTER DARLING WHERE YOU ARE, I THINK OF YOU
For many reasons, I feel safe in the condo, night and day, winter and summer, year after year. This song plays on the stereo in the morning or the evening, as a pot of tea starts whistling on the stove. A candle glows in front of the window. A book waits on the sofa, next to a soft blanket, and the world can be kept at bay for the duration of a night.
DAY AND NIGHT, NIGHT AND DAY, WHY IS IT SO THAT THIS LONGING FOR YOU FOLLOWS WHEREVER I GO
IN THE ROARING TRAFFIC’S BOOM, IN THE SILENCE OF MY LONELY ROOM I THINK OF YOU
DAY AND NIGHT, NIGHT AND DAY, UNDER THE HIDE OF ME
THERE’S AN OH SUCH A HUNGRY YEARNING BURNING INSIDE OF ME, AND THIS TORMENT WON’T BE THROUGH
The one who dons the red cape is wanderer and warrior at once.
Cloaked in a blood-hued hood, a gleaming sword ensconced in folds of vermillion fabric, he trails the color of passion in his wake.
Surrounded by leaves and wood and water, but shielded from sky and sun, the realm is somewhere in-between heaven and hell. A purgatorial plane of prettiness, deceptively gentle, with poisonous flowers and slithering snakes, slowly descends to the sound of running water.
You cannot see it yet, it only mumbles vaguely in the distance, muffled by leafy undergrowth and lofty branches. The forest can hide a multitude of sins. Whole rivers of watery thieves drift through it, unheard and unseen.
On this day, the scarlet stranger stalks the winding foot path. What he seeks not even he knows, but some journeys are better when made without destination or goal. If you’re not looking for anything, you will never be disappointed. Still, something impels him onward. The path is a pretty one, the dappled sunlight shimmering somewhere ahead. Ever ahead, always forward, and by the time you look back you’ve forgotten from where you came.
Presented with a choice, a line drawn in the land where the grass ends and the trees begin, the explorer is momentarily caught between two worlds. It’s a precarious position, coming from what you’ve known and approaching something unknown. (We always come from somewhere.)
In this case, the rise of a mostly-deciduous forest in the late spring is the unknown. A small meadow is where we’ve been.
At first it feels like a comfort.
Relief and respite from the beating sun.
A cooling balm within the leafy cloak of quietude.
Looking back, the field appears blindingly bright. Where once was a varied landscape of small meadow blooms and the early formation of grass seed heads, now seems like a single veneer of pale green, harsh in the eyes of one already grown accustomed to the forest light.
The path ahead is soft and cool, a welcome contrast from the brittle and the dry, and it slopes gently downward. Everything is pulling you down this path.
