Sex in the plant kingdom is sometimes flagrant, sometimes furtive, and always fascinating. It happens through scent, through timing, through touch and feel – an instinct and an impulse and an intoxicating allure – and all signs point to propagating survival.
It was only ever intended as a silly time-killer, something to occupy waits in the self-service line at the market or the minutes before a therapy session when you don’t want to look at anyone else in waiting room – those in-between moments that somehow fill and comprise a day, a life. It was only when I found myself staying up past 1 AM trying to conquer the next level that I realized Block Blast was becoming a problem – and the larger realization that my phone occupied far too much of my life was not far behind. So I deleted it. Just the app. One quick click and it was gone – gone from the screen, gone from draining the battery, gone from distracting me from all the other more important items (because literally everything was more important than Block Blast).
It also got me out of my phone, and these past few months of astrological unrest were not aided by my being in the phone all day – nothing has ever been helped by being in the phone – and perhaps that was part of the reason for such unease.
I was seeking something more – something meaningful and real and concrete that wasn’t built or based on the flimsy fantasy of the false lives we depict on our phone screens. Perhaps that is the underlying purpose of this spring – to reconnect with real life, to partake in physical actions, to reinhabit the living world and communicate in ways beyond texts or e-mails or social media posts. Maybe it means sharing things in more personal and direct manners than passive-aggressive blog posts (you still know who you are).
For our first lilac blog recap of spring, I give you a photo of a gardenia. That’s the sort of silly bitch I infuriatingly refuse not to be. We have arrived at Spring 2026 on this blog – is it everything you thought it would be, or is it more? Read all that you may have missed in this weekly blog recap, and celebrate the fact that we made it through the winter wilderness.
One of the only things we as a people can do anymore is peacefully assemble, especially as one of the most basic of rights – the right to vote – is now in jeopardy. This right to protest may be our last chance to show the world, the history of this moment, and the future wonderers of what on earth we were doing at the time of all this madness.
To that end, this coming Saturday, March 28, 2026 marks the next ‘No Kings’ Rally for opposing the current fascist dictator who its got us into a war with Iran just to distract from his own pedophile allegations in the Epstein files. These past few months have left many of us feeling helpless and hopeless – this may be the only thing we can do, and possibly the last thing we can do, because our elected officials don’t want to stop anything.
I attended the last ‘No Kings’ rally in Boston this past October, and it was then that I felt how important it was for the soul to be surrounded with people for whom democracy and freedom and basic human decency still mattered. There was a galvanizing restoration of spirit and faith in our country that was vital in a way that I didn’t quite realize how badly I needed.
Visit the ‘No Kings’ website here for all the info on a rally near you. It’s time to take part, take a stand, and stake a claim in what you want your legacy to be in this moment in history. When your grandchildren or anyone in the next generation asks you what you did when all this was happening, what will you say?
Once again, thanks to the ignorant and stupid votes of people who thought Trump would control gas prices, the rest of us are paying crazy prices for gas – thanks to his ill-begotten war on Iran – a war he just haphazardly set in motion to distract from credible allegations that he raped teenage girls. There’s so much wrong with anyone still supporting that monster that I don’t even have the energy to address it. Instead, just a FAFO Award to all those car drivers (and I don’t know anyone who doesn’t drive a car that requires some gas) because gas is at an all-time high. I just paid the most for a single filling of the tank than I’ve ever paid in my life – my Mom just filled up for over $70. Thanks Trump. And thanks to the Trump voters and supporters for keeping this insanity going. (Looking at you, GOP.)
This marks my 50th spring season – a full half-century of sensing the rebirth and awakening of the land in Northeastern America. Aaron Copland perfectly rendered an annual approximation of the waking season, culminating in an ancient Quaker tune and resolving in the sonic expression of a world coming alive again.
At the time of this writing, the ground is still frozen, there are still patches of dirty snow, and thick masses of ice shift slowly in the pool. Spring always starts so hesitantly before it deigns to leap. Who can say what fits and starts need to happen before the earth really warms up and thaws out? It’s just waiting to happen, waiting to unfold and unfurl. No need to rush; be mindful of every moment. Be present. Be yourself in every conceivable way.
The lilac brigade is coming… unless the buds were killed under the cruelty of winter. That’s happened before and it’s no joke. After fifty springs, you learn to accept whatever comes.
Will spring sail in on a night wind? The lilacs, in spite of recent photos here, have yet to even swell their buds. We exist only in a lilac dream – the stuff of lilac fairies – the stuff of lilac fantasy.
Somewhere in Hollywood’s glamorous past a starlet strikes a pose of seduction, bedecked in lilac chiffon and not much else, while squeezing the fringed bubble of a perfume atomizer. Scented mist disperses like a sweet cloud of floral essence, invisibly traveling around the room, and she wears it like an ethereal robe.
Singing through the sadness, dancing through the madness – maybe a musical number is all we can muster right now, and maybe it’s an exercise in fatal futility, but let’s go out dancing, let’s go out living, let’s go out loving…
Let’s go out in lilac glory – on a Saturday night, and every night.
Be beautiful in the face of awfulness. Be beautiful in the face of ugliness. Be beautiful in the face of flying fucks.
Could beauty ever render hate into something meaningless and petty? Or will hate do that eventually on its own?
Isn’t the enchanting power of a lilac’s perfume more potent and convincing than any bigot’s vitriol? One way may be louder and more noticeable, but the other can more charmingly engage and disarm. You can catch more flies by sucking them off than a swift knee to the same nether region. Which holds more sway? Which affects more lives, more memories?
I choose to remember the lilacs.
I remember the hate too, but I remember the lilacs more.
You always have a choice in which memories you cultivate and which you let die.
A choker of lilac, a choke of lavender, a choker of amethyst deep and sobering – a rope of purple and prettiness intact, and it feels so good and looks so right you don’t even realize that it’s strangling you from the inside out – as if all those luscious pearls had slid down your throat and re-assembled themselves into some strand of beautiful asphyxiation.
Some men accidentally kill themselves while masturbating, trying to come close to choking themselves, literally, just to get an extra sort of high when they approach climax. I’ve had hands around my neck at such moments, so I get it, and to die at the height of ecstasy seems in some respects a perfectly marvelous way to go.
If you’re not quite ready to permanently depart, leave the choking to the pearls – purple and pink and pretty enough to do their work with the pleasure that comes purely from being beautiful, damn it.
It wasn’t long, long ago I fooled the guards, but someone tipped them off But all my cards aside, the bells still rang No charms, no claims No good for goodness sake
White asparagus is not just some variant form of the green spikes most of us know so well; it’s just green asparagus that has been completely starved and deprived of light during its growing season. That doesn’t mean it is less; in fact, it contains much the same levels of fiber and nutrients and all the good things that asparagus supplies. But it looks different. It’s been through more.
Oh, I don’t wanna run and hide I don’t wanna live a lie I?need the spotlight Like a bird inside a cage Exotic, but covered up with lace If what they say is true There’s no place for me and you But when I walk my walk When I put my makeup on Look at me, look at me Don’t you see your queen?
When mother left, the halls did cry As for the world, it went on like before But time passed, and the band began to play First, there was light, then there was sound Then all the stars came out
Some have warned that this is not the time to speak out and attract notice. Some have said it’s better to be silent, to take no side, to make no noise. Some have never even more wrong. This moment in history calls upon us to be more ourselves than we’ve ever been before. To boldly proclaim our right to exist, to live, to love – and to defy anyone standing in our way. Live and let live, or perish trying to prevent us from doing the same.
Oh, I don’t wanna run and hide I don’t wanna live a lie I need a spotlight Like a bird inside a cage Bright-eyed and longing for the stage If what they say is true There’s no place for me and you But when I walk my walk (But you better give up before you die) When I put my makeup on (Doesn’t matter who you are) Look at me, look at me Don’t you see a queen?
Too often we diminish ourselves, making our existence smaller to please others, dimming our own light as not to over shine anyone else. Fuck that. Fuck all of that in the most fucking heinous way possible. Skull-fuck it through the goddamn eye sockets of anyone who sees it that way.
There’s an empty seat That’s where you’ll find me There’s a broken heel That’s where you’ll find me If the sun doesn’t shine on you Break your glass and cause a scene And tell the world, just wait, you’ll see There’s no more time to cry when the crowd’s right there
While the Lavender Scare gave no reasonable or sane reason to fear gay people, the Lilac Scare is here to turn that on its head – because people should be scared, very much scared, very much afraid and very much in terror about what we will do when attacked. But do not worry too much – it will be done beautifully, it will be done fabulously, it will be done gorgeously – and you won’t even feel the prick of metal slicing through skin until it’s too late.
When I walk my walk And when I put my makeup on Look at me, look at me Don’t you see your goddamn queen?
It was during the mid-20th-century when something termed the ‘Lavender Scare’ was spreading across our great country. A ‘moral panic’ about homosexuality resulted in thousands of gay employees being fired or forced to resign from government employment. Branding gay employees as a national security risk due to the ignorant idea that we could be vulnerable to blackmail didn’t happen that long ago, and it doesn’t feel far-fetched at this present moment to think of something similar happening again. Look at all the persecution, threats, and violence that trans people face, some of it supported by the politicians in power.
I lost myself on a cool damp night Gave myself in that misty light Was hypnotized by a strange delight Under a lilac tree…
I made wine from the lilac tree Put my heart in its recipe It makes me see what I want to see Be what I want to be
Rather than repeat the Lavender Scare in these parts, this spring’s theme is a treacherous turnabout of the idea. This shall be the spring of the Lilac Scare – our own personal rising up against all the hate that once fomented the Lavender Scare, turning anything and everything on its head that might in any way be an attack on the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. The Lilac Scare is not some moral panic about the dangers of homosexuality – it’s a panic about the complete absence of morals in those attacking us – a panic about the hypocrisy of hate disguised as religion. This is a panic that will be instigated by the people who have been condemned and stomped on for so long that we are fed up and fighting back.
When I think more than I want to think Do things I never should do I drink much more than I ought to drink Because it brings me back you
This Lilac Scare Spring will be about the pretty, pastel, prim and proper lilac too, but do not be fooled by it perfumed beauty. People forget, or simply neglect to realize in the first place, how incredibly hardy the lilac is, how indestructible they can be with some lasting well beyond a century. They refuse to acknowledge lilac’s diabolical insistence on surviving and thriving and delivering magic and fragrant wonder every spring. They ignore the insidious way its shoots and suckers gradually strangle out a well-manicured lawn, and the stalwart, gnarled trunks each tree eventually develops as proof of its tenacity and testament to its endurance. They pretend away lilac’s ancient history, how it refuses to yield to time the way all of us must at some point do. They underestimate lilac’s power and potency, fooled by the sweet flowers and how seemingly benign they be in their fleeting duration.
Lilac wine is sweet and heady like my love Lilac wine, I feel unsteady like my love Listen to me, I cannot see clearly Isn’t that he coming to me nearly here?
They forget that lilac can be a lethal poison flower – not in any literal sense, we drink the lilac wine without harm, don’t we? – but in the way lilac calls to and captures those who happen upon its perfume, who sniff it thinking it’s such harmless stuff. Lilac enthralls with nostalgic childhood memory, spinning a sweet spider-web-like strand of silk that seductively pulls us back in time to happier, more carefree moments, lulling us with endless sentences and songs from our youth, and leading us to believe with exquisitely mesmerizing fashion that all is hope, all is possible, all is beautiful, and all is spring.
And then, sooner than its blooms turn to brown, sooner than its beauty begins to decay, lilac snatches it all away.
Precisely that for which the present moment is so desperately clamoring.
Lilac wine is sweet and heady, where’s my love? Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, where’s my love? Listen to me, why is everything so hazy? Isn’t that he, or am I goin’ crazy, dear?
Lilac sees your war, has seen your wars for centuries, and lilac knows how you are only sending your children to their deaths. Lilac sees your history, has seen your history for centuries, and lilac knows how your history is one of hate. Lilac sees all that you are doing, and all that you aren’t, in your silence, in your complicity, in your turning another blind eye to the deplorable criminals around you. Lilac offers its pretty perfume, its pretty flowers, and lets you have its beauty for only a moment, fooling you into thinking things will be all right, that things aren’t the bad, that spring will always come again. But lilac knows… and so do we.
This Lilac Scare shall be retribution for the Lavender Scare. We’re better than you, we’re stronger than you, and we no longer fucking care. I’m ready for the fight, I’m ready for the battle, I’m ready for the war to end the hate once and for all. Above all else, I’m ready for the love – the love that dares to speak its unabashed name for the entire world to hear. Love that has yet to be vanquished. Love that has yet to be defeated. Love – and only love – that shall last.
Lilac Wine, I feel I’m ready for my love Feel I’m ready for my love
Our Winter Obscura comes to a close tonight. When I think back to the very first day of winter, it feels very far away. Those first few days passed slowly, but it would actually get slower as the season waned, and the sustained cold and growing snow cover grew more unbearable. Something told me this would be a winter of obscurity, something said so in the stars, so I gave myself room for that, room for the unresolved, room for the confusion, room for not knowing. When you begin to acknowledge that you may never know, you come closer to the truth.
Rather than recap every blog post of the winter (those days are done) I’ll give you the highlights – though if you’re anything like me you won’t be revisiting this winter anytime soon.
Grogu at the Oscars is the energy and attitude I will be bringing into the spring season.
Now, I haven’t seen any Mandalorian shows, and I don’t even think this is the baby Yoda (just the same species?) so if this creature is not someone to emulate, pretend this post never happened.
