We mistakenly assume that wood is rigid and hard, tough and unyielding, but it’s much more fluid than that, especially when it’s still alive and the water of life courses through its limbs. In these exposed views, the wave-like grain of a tree reveals its fluidity, as well as the grace and beauty of such free-flowing form.
“I’m a tree. I can bend.”
If you zoom in on me, you can find among my rings what looks like a faded antique map, but it’s merely the haphazard effects of time and nature within my fallen shaft. History is kept in different ways, marked by various signs. Some count in rings, some in fallen teeth, some by the length of hair or the girth of limbs.
Here, a memoir is presented in the markings within a protective shell of rough and weathered bark. High above the earth, in the lofty reaches where only birds and squirrels dare to tread, I once soared.
If my branches could speak they would tell you tales of passing seasons, of boys running around atop my roots, of chipmunks dashing among my leaves.
Felled, my story is nearly at an end, but do not weep for me. I’ve scattered thousands of acorns over the years. Our journeys always run into each other ~ where mine leaves off another begins, and where we overlap, where we hold on and intertwine to stay connected, is the space of love.
What am I?
A treasure map?
And ancient guide?
Or something more basic?
(Return tomorrow morning for the answer.)
The way leaves collect in wind-protected corners has always fascinated me. These little spaces of respite amid howling streets offer solace on wind-chilled days. The little bit of Temple Grandin that’s in most of us desires to be protected and confined like that. The comfort of condensing the world into a small spot, of walls closing in around us – it’s not for the claustrophobic but it’s how some of make sense of the earth’s unending sprawl. It’s difficult to get your mind around how expansive the universe is. I find it helpful to zone in on a small piece of it, to study and peruse and know that little spot inside and out. You need to start somewhere before you go anywhere.
There will never be another Madonna, but there have been other artists and books and shows and movies have inspired me over the years. Shirley Horn, James and even Lady Gaga have sounded over my stereo. Sunset Boulevard, Wicked, Cabaret and Grey Gardens have strutted on stages before my eyes. Edith Wharton, Gregory Maguire, Jane Hamilton and F. Scott Fitzgerald have roped me in with their words. Bette Davis, Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman and Rosalind Russell have all mesmerized me with their screen presence. Tom Ford, David Beckham, Ben Cohen and Zac Efron have offered sweet-smelling fashion and delectable eye candy.
At one stage or another these entities have been an obsession for me, and my life has, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse, revolved around each of them for a bit. Mostly it’s been a good thing. We are always enriched by those we admire. Lately, however, I find muses in short supply. I can’t tell if it’s a dearth in fascinating people or works, or the advance of age and a Big Chill phenomenon wherein I simply don’t get excited over things as much as I once did.
I’ve noticed it most glaringly in music. Once upon a time I’d hear a certain song and have to play the devil out of it. Family, friends and one very patient husband would be subject to repeated listens at all times of the day and night, until they knew it as well as I did. I’d send out CD singles of it with the lyrics written out and implore everyone I knew to listen to it. (‘You Must Love Me‘ indeed.) It still happens on occasion (hello ‘Rebel Heart‘) but now it’s about once or twice a year. The same goes for books and movies and musicals. Fewer and fewer of them inspire me. Even Tom Ford cologne has faded. Everything feels muted, less exciting.
Maybe it’s the lull as we go into the darker seasons. It’s hard to get very thrilled about anything when it’s pitch black when you wake up (and soon when I get out of work). Or maybe it is a blunting and deadening of my senses as I get older. Maybe it’s even the technological availability of all sorts of sensory overload. All I know is that I need a new obsession. Any suggestions?
This year’s Boo-jolais Celebration was a costume party, and almost everyone was decked out in full regalia (minus a husband here and there). I’ve already shown off my sartorial splendor, so feast your eyes on some other fabulously-frocked and dazzlingly-bedecked party-goers.
The official Halloween post comes in a few hours, but before we get there let’s have our traditional look-back at the previous week. It was one in which fall most definitely arrived, in the form of win, rain and even a bunch of unseasonal snow. There’s no looking back now. We’re in it.
The party event of the year got a revamping, and I got all dressed up for it.
I returned to a very wet Boston, and a sweet reunion with Kira.
The weather was wild but somehow wonderful, enough so that I stalled leaving.
Boston beauty has a way of remaining in the heart.
Longing for summers past… and future.
Pietro Boselli’s shirtless workout routine.
The Hunks of the Day kept things hot: James Marsden, Paolo Roldan, Jake Arrieta, Eddie Judge, Griffin Barrows & the guy featured in the photos for this post, Sam Morris.
Tomorrow is my day off: Halloween. As someone who dresses in costumes pretty much every day, I welcome the one time of the year when the rest of the world does its best to don disguises and challenge the sartorial standard. Despite my backing out of that tradition, I do enjoy a fright and some sick imagery, so feast your eyes upon these photos of dolls and doll parts found at an antique store in Maine. They give new meaning to ‘American Horror Story’ because I can’t imagine anyone treating their children to such monstrosities.
This was the stuff of my childhood nightmares. I distinctly remember a puppet on some children’s show that scared the hell out of me. She had a raspy voice and was kind of nasty to everyone. When she came into the scene I shrunk into myself a little bit more, trying to hide from the fear of that sort of darkness.
These days I fear I am that sort of darkness, and I often wonder what kind of scary visage I must present to small children. (JoAnn still recalls an episode where I was screaming at her for something and a little kid was watching us, horrified.)
Mostly, though, kids can sense that I’m harmless, and at my heart I’m still one of them in many ways. I try to hide that, but kids see through it better than adults. That’s something that frightens me.
The Hunk of the Day feature, one of the most popular of this wayward blog, has been lacking in its daily aspect of late, so I will try to rectify that in the coming days, starting with this hunky recap.
We begin with looking back at an Essex hunk, Lewis Bloor, whose across-the-pond splendor transcends oceans and seas.
French Olympic wrestler Luca Lampis has buns of steel, and shows them off in his Hunk of the Day post.
The actor-model hyphenate gets a glorious work-out in the fine form of Ronnie Cash.
Put your dukes up for Amir Khan.
A hairy chest will always be a hit on this blog, as evidenced by the hirsute body of Benjamin Alfonso.
Two-time Hunk of the Day Wayne Parker Gregory looks best in a jockstrap.
Victor Gaspar looks great in Calvin Klein underwear, and out of it.
And Trevor LaPaglia looks good in and out of motion.
Autumn is at glorious hand.
Yellow and red and backed by blue.
All bark no bite.
That scary time of the year.
In a week where we went back up into the 80’s, it was perhaps slightly more difficult to get into the fall groove, but suddenly there were gourds and fires and fall cider as temperatures plunged into the 50’s and rain and wind descended in crazed torrents. On with the usual Monday morning recap in the midst of all the meteorological turmoil.
Good Gourd!
The sexy & shirtless Joe Jonas.
The return of Josie’s Fall Gathering.
A gratuitous Scott Eastwood post.
Remembering Ogunquit, and all that we ate.
Nakedness inspired by Madonna. (Net Booty.)
Back to where it all began… in Boston.
A rather sparse selection of Hunks of the Day included Brad Campbell, Tyler Posey & Vanilla Ice.
Wrap it in a net and pretend it’s lace.
Squeeze it into mesh and wait for grace.
Spin a 90’s tune from Ace of Base.
Super-Squishy power blanket dry hump.
Sunshine band diamond-back pump-rump.
Come hither go yon trouser-lump.
Everything about this is wrong.
Drop it like it’s hot.
See my booty get down.
Behold the gourds. Vessels of flesh and seed, bound in strange and pretty skin. Ridged, pebbled, rough, or smooth, each casts a different tactile spell. Some tiny enough to fit in a lipstick case, some too large to be hoisted by anything other than a crane, their variety is infinite, their style and spread too immense to be contained by such a simple assignation.
Most of the time, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. At this time of the year, when foliage is ripening into its autumnal hues, and asters and goldenrod line the roadside, that is most certainly true, and on a recent trip to Boston the ride there was just as magnificent as anything I accomplished while in that fine city.
A few cold nights had instigated the turn of the fall color screw, and things had just caught fire as I made my way along the Massachusetts Turnpike. Maples were flaring up in shades of bright orange and yellow, while dogwoods burned crimson both in their leaves and in their strawberry-like fruit. Speeding by the trees and plants at the side of the road, I watched out of the corner of my eye as the colors blurred into a glorious pastiche of rainbow wonder, backed by the kind of deep-blue sky that only shows itself in the fall.
The weekend had just begun.
There was promise in the air, and the smoky incense of burning wood like some sacrificial offering being made to our great fortune at witnessing such beauty.
