He ties a turban made of sequined pants around his head, the way he did when he was a little boy trying to be a little girl. Not knowing who he was, not knowing who he is, the only way through was to try things on and out. Puzzled diners at early breakfasts watched as he walked in with a pair of Carter’s pajama pants on his head, light blue legs flowing about his shoulders and in his mind he was tossing some luxurious set of curls like the women on those shampoo commercials.
If it was all make-believe, and it most certainly was, did that dispel any of the power he felt? Misguided or unjustified confidence is still, at its heart, confidence – and sometimes more powerful than anything earned from the masses because it had to come from within. He didn’t see this as a boy; he barely registers it as a man. He only knows his worth, and that is enough. Underestimating oneself is just as bedeviling as overestimating oneself. Figuring out who you are only gets more convoluted and difficult the older we get, which is how it should be. At the same time, other things come into more focused relief. The universe isn’t entirely cruel – it offers solace and sustenance for survival when least expected.
Mr. Oud minds his memory, marks the moment, and moves on to another task.
The pictorial documentation of my life began at a relatively young age. I couldn’t have been more than even or twelve years old when I got my first Polaroid instant camera and began getting photos of my life. In this one, I posed mid-song at the piano, not because I loved playing, but because I had on a new Reebok sweatshirt and thought I was THE SHIT. There’s a better photo of me facing the camera head on, but this one has the typewritten description that I typed myself – one of the first records of my own archiving efforts.
Back then, it was oddly not about me, this shot notwithstanding. I thought I was going to capture the key piece of evidence in some murder/crime mystery in the neighborhood, catching some seemingly insignificant clue that helped solve the case. Very much influenced by the soap operas that were my obsession at the time, I yearned for intrigue and excitement, something our sleepy and safe stretch of road failed to provide (the occasional night raid by teenagers who just wanted to jump in the pool and get quickly out was about the most excitement we ever had). Knowing what I know now about the shady shit that goes down in some suburbs, I’m grateful that the only intrigue we ever had was the imaginary stuff in my head – but what fun it was to live in such dramatic make-believe. And so I would set out each day to find some act I might put down on film and help crack the case.
Within the limited confines and inactivity of Pershing Road, all I managed to get was a neighbor stepping out gingerly to get the paper in his underwear, an electric-line worker in a lift and an orange hard hat, and several out of focus and over-exposed photos of plants. Fledgling failures. Dull as dirt.
But there was also me, easily the most exciting thing in the room, with or without documented proof of my existence. We always think we’re the most exciting thing in any room, even if we’d never openly admit it. Already obsessed with any effect or influence I might have had, my sweatshirt was deliberately designed to appear as entirely casual, and thus effortlessly cool, even if it had been planned and wished-for with deliberate care and consternation. Self-awareness was already an albatross, and I chained myself to it with an unbreakable covenant; a singular interest in oneself could be the sort of contagious vanity that demanded some scrap of love.
As we exited the 80’s, and my Reebok sweatshirt slipped out of style, I studied the poses, and the outfits, and I documented the changes as they happened… on my back, in my head, and outside in the world.
My brother’s brick and mortar shop – Dead Wood Field & Furniture – just re-opened this past summer, and with Ballston Spa’s Farmer’s Market making a lovely splash right across the street on Saturday mornings, this is an ideal time to visit the handsome space. With a majestic wall of exposed brick and gorgeously ornamented high ceilings, the place is a chill location to hang and get ideas, with a comfy leather couch in the back, calming incense wafting through the air, and a turntable in constant rotation.
My brother’s rustic taste and keen eye for wooden accents imbues the space with a cozy and welcoming feel, the sort of thing one might find in a Restoration Hardware catalog without the insane price points and bourgeois pretense.
You can order a custom furniture piece to fit your space or lifestyle, and the storefront is an excellent place to find inspiration and ideas for how to create a similar look and feel for your place.
If I could make a wish I think I’d pass Can’t think of anythin’ I need No cigarettes, no sleep, no light, no sound Nothing to eat, no books to read
A cafe haunt provides the background atmosphere for the birth of a new project – one forged in the fall, when inspiration is high – when it’s been so low this feels especially powerful. I haven’t done a proper project since 2019 – and when you think of all the absolutely bat-shit crazy insanity that’s transpired since 2019, I have no idea what sort of creative dam is about to bust the fuck open, but stand back Buenos Aires or you’re gonna get something on you.
Peace came upon me And it leaves me weak So sleep, silent angel Go to sleep
It’s been such a long time since I worked on a project, and I’m only just beginning to put things together for the next one. Taking it as slow as I want, without any anticipated end date, I intend to enjoy these creative moments, to open myself up to the whims of the muses and the universe – they have always whispered and tapped me on the shoulder when I’m supposed to heed something.
Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe And to love you All I need is the air that I breathe Yes, to love you All I need is the air that I breathe
I love how much deeper the colors of the blooms that come this late in the gardening year become. Partly due to the lower light in the sky – a light that burns with more focused intensity due to its dwindling potency – and partly due to its more precarious rate of survival – any frosty night could swiftly end the spell – the color switch may be in my head, but its beauty is no less for that.
Here is a pink ‘Endless Summer’ hydrangea bloom, just coming into its own while its brethren have long since dried and withered away. A toast to such resilience.
When dealing with an invasive vine like bittersweet, show no mercy. At this point, there is more of this plant than anyone wants, so if you want to harvest its fruit for decoration, have at it. The trick and key is to pick your stems while the berries are golden but fully intact and not yet open – once cut, they will open up fully indoors. If you pick them after they’ve opened, and already sowing their bright orange guts, it’s too late, and they will shed all their golden shells everywhere, making an annoying mess.
When you’re saddled with an annoying vine that is sucking the life out of more delicate native plants, be ruthless, but try to harness the beauty if you can. (Get it from the roots after you get it from the top.)
Today marks the first super moon of the year – usually the Hunter’s Moon but this time it’s the Harvest Moon – and this Virgo will attempt to lay low while embracing and harnessing whatever positive energy may be released. At times of tumultuous astrological events, it’s usually best to go with the flow rather than fight or resist the chaos. Framing the day in that light is generally a good way to deal with whatever disruptions erupt. Expectation leads manifestation, whether we realize it or not.
At this point in the year, every swim could be the last swim, so I celebrate each one with that in mind. Looking at the next few days of weather, it is quite likely that yesterday marked that final swim of the season, and while my body laughed at the idea of skinny-dipping (skinny?!) I went ahead and doffed my pesky clothes for one last pool dunk. Summer lives in the heart – and yesterday it lived in the sun and warmth – on with the weekly blog recap because technically it’s already fall…
A door to a memory corridor has opened. Allowing in just a little light, it is enough to navigate the first few feet of space, the first few memories. Dusty and musty, with cobwebs to tickle the ears, the place is dim, but if I concentrate enough and focus, I can find my way along the darkened hall, reaching portals to more distinct memory planes. Excavating such passages is sometimes dangerous work ~ there is something to be said for leaving things in the past. How does the saying go? When you dig up the past, all you get is dirty…
Twisted all my limbs for you Two of them in knots and two of them in loops Ribbons tied around like a noose Wonder if I’ll ever get it loose
Sometimes one needs to get down in the dirt, to play with the past so as to make sense of present predicaments. This is the year for nostalgia too, as we celebrate milestone birthdays and anniversaries, including the 30th anniversary of when I found the Boston condo and convinced my parents to invest in it (which turned into the most lucrative investment of their lives). Fall brings Boston back to mind, and with it countless memories of decades ago, when living there alone made a warrior out of me.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me) Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me) Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me) Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
Being a single gay guy in Boston in the 90’s was very different from what it must be like today. There were no social media or online hookup apps, so connecting with other gay men on the prowl was a game of hunting and gathering, with the high-stakes pay-off of not having to spend a night on your own. Back then the only way we had to connect was to pick up on a knowing glance, a look held just a little longer than normal, a smile and the crinkle of a kind pair of eyes. A dance of desire would ensue, usually ending up in someone’s apartment, an awkward introduction and quick dismissal of roommates, and the frantic frenzy of a desperate act of sex in the search for love. I wish I’d known then that sometimes the chase and the sexual act were a means and an end all of their own.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held Out a gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah I’m done, I’m done, oh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
Twisting all my bones like screws Stretching my self-worth, just like you usually do Caught you like the cold or a flu Praying that I’ll someday be immune
Got me like a bad tattoo (ooh-ooh-ooh) Always under skin, even when it gets removed (ooh) Never get a chance to undo (ooh-ooh-ooh) Positions that you forced my way into (ooh)
On rare occasions I did understand this, and on those evenings I could let down my persistent guard, give in to the sheer abandon of the night, and indulge in a primal release that would rival the tentative steps to love I was usually so careful to make. The body would give in to its pleasure, sensations falling around us like the petals of a peony that let go all at once ~ a cascade of orgiastic ecstasy, sending ripples deeper and deeper into the night. Come the morning, the only danger was in risking an emotional connection by sharing something raw and tender, something easily prevented by a hasty exit and utterances of empty promise.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me) Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me) Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me) Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
More often I was alone then, it being against my nature to be forward enough to invite anyone over with any regularity. I’d twist my internal justifications around in my head, contorting my feelings into something manageable, and almost convincing myself that it didn’t matter. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely, and I determined and insisted that I was only indulging in the former. To admit loneliness would have been to admit defeat. Ever the contortionist, even then, the mind led the body, and the body followed – undefeated.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held out A gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah I’m done, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
Our squirrels and birds and chipmunks have been feasting on the bountiful dogwood fruit harvest this year, and by feasting I mean going bonkers and cuckoo for the pretty red fruits dangling in the sky. The squirrels especially have become contortionists and acrobats in order to secure their mealy meals, balancing on precious perches and somehow never falling or losing their footing (pawing?) – they are little circus performers and whenever Andy and I catch their act we pause in our day to watch for a bit.
This is crunch time for these creatures – saving up for what is typically a long and lean winter. While it’s a circus act for the eyes, it’s life or death for them: the dangerous life of a squirrel, where if the flying danger from an airborne hawk doesn’t get you, an extended winter without access to sustenance might. Fall casts a deceptively comfortable spell if you lose your focus.
