Category Archives: General

A belief in oneself can be manufactured from thin air, but it’s a difficult and arduous journey. Not for the faint of heart or weak of constitution, it requires a certain infallible confidence, often misplaced, joined with a degree of vanity and ego, and an unhealthy dash of desperation, or wanting to be something or someone greater than what you might be today – all in the name of yourself and your survival in the world at large. It’s easy to be dismissed, especially today, when so many others are willing to whore themselves out to make the loudest splash, the brashest statement, the rudest clickbait. I’ve towed such a line in the past, and I don’t recommend it. There are so many better ways to make oneself known, especially to oneself. Self-discovery is best done in a quieter and more neutral space than social media, but kids will be kids and there’s no talking to them anymore. I can’t say I would have listened any more in my younger years.

This post is somewhat ironic in the way it deconstructs its very tenets, poking holes in its own critique, illuminating its fallacies while playing up those very failures. A reflexive instance of self-ownership and self-propaganda. Do you follow me on Instagram or BlueSky or Threads? Social media mayhem abounds… join me there for the show. Oh, and please share that QR code, because sharing is caring.

Our most recent Harvest Moon beckoned to me on a clear night, illuminating the pool to magnificent effect – a thrilling send-off to a pool season that was never quite as full as it could have been. As of this writing, we have just returned from our annual fall visit to Ogunquit, Maine, and it’s a gray and rainy afternoon, made sadder by the end of a lovely vacation with Andy and Mom. Give me a day to get back into the grind before piling on ~ the heart is weary, the soul is old.

In the meantime, feed off some of this residual full-moon energy – I strode through its rays, soaking up whatever power or energy or magic it might offer – and if it’s all in my head that doesn’t negate its effects when one believes. We are what we allow ourselves to be, manifesting what we need when we focus and learn to shift perspective. A mindful pause, then, just this morning, before we get back into it.

Mid-October, and who knows what the weather might be by the time this gets posted. It may be a holiday of some sort, but it’s also a Monday, so our weekly blog recap is once again at hand, if a little later in the day. Enjoy the look back… or don’t.

When the moon gets hunty.

In a world of bitter, be the sweet.

Main character energy – over it.

October pink.

Mr. Oud comes alive.

Pessimism is realism.

Whispers of projected intentions.

A new creative haunt.

Christmas decorations already?

Stevie Nicks sounds the mystery season.

Dead Wood resurrected.

The Sweetish Cafe: Ballston Spa Destination.

This word should mean what I think it should mean.

The Archivist Insolent.

Mr. Oud is a man of memories.

Sunday morning, water and light.

Faster, faster, we need another aster.

Shirtless male celebrity Sunday: take five.

Misguided ghosts.

When the summer heat finally lifts, offering some respite and relief from its relentless glory, I find myself itching to get into the woods. It’s a need that goes back to my childhood, when I’d get home from school and hastily run in to the little stretch of forest behind our childhood home while the light was still golden. In that uncharted space, I had my own paths and knew the way by various markers – a large rock placed by God as a remarkable accent piece, an unconventional evergreen with weeping limbs, the fallen trunk of a tree beautifully mottled by moss and lichens – this was how I navigated that space.

These days I prefer a well-trodden path, or any path for that matter – just some bit of structure and order from which I might find my way back. Such was my frame of mind as I made my way along the Burden Pond Preserve in Troy the other weekend. Betsy had told me about it, saying there were waterfalls there – and who doesn’t love a waterfall? There were also whispers of suicides, lending the place a haunted aspect that aligns with this point in the year.

I decided to make my visit early in the day rather than later – I didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught near dusk when the light always falls quicker than you think it will. That’s happened in forests before and it still strikes terror in me when I recount the mad dash to beat the night.

Water birds were present – ducks and geese and a crane of some sort – I seemed to be the only disturbance in their sunny morning of peaceful swimming and/or standing. Walking along the water’s edge on a worn path, I was the first person to make this trek that morning, at least judging by the plentiful spider-webs that tickled my face and arms.

The notion of wandering alone in the woods, during daylight, has never frightened me, but as I made my way further along the path, and the woods closed in behind me, I had the typical moment of wonder and worry as to what I might do if someone intending harm came my way. It was during this time of heightened guard that I sensed something large to my right, moving swiftly but in impossibly quiet fashion.

A thick back of brownish gray fur moved sleekly through the reeds rising through the water. It was enormous, and gone before I could get a good look at it. Reason and history told me it had to be a deer, but it felt more ominous, and other-wordly; the way it traversed the water and reeds so stealthily, almost without movement, and so quickly. It felt like an admonishment of danger, or something larger looming, not only larger physically, but larger in the immensity of shadow and doubt and terrifying uncertainty.

An uneasiness had crept upon this sunny morning, the trees seeming to rise higher, the shadows elongating and deepening, and suddenly this peaceful moment was imbued with a definitive dread. I was already deeper than I’d intended to be, and a little panic surfaced, the way silent fish sometimes rose to the plane where water met air, just eliciting the slightest ripple.

The uneasiness stayed with me until I decided to turn around and head back the way I came. Possibly poisonous fruit was strewn about the pathway now in various stages of decay and decomposition. I would not venture further, or tempt fate to turn on me in any way.

Must be the season of the witch…

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.

“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful… this is my hair in the morning!”

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. 

A word that needs a better meaning than it has: sitzprobe.

My version is so much better – because life is not a rehearsal.

#TinyThreads

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.

{Dead Wood Field and Furniture is currently located at 32 Front Street, Ballston Spa, NY. Check out their FaceBook page here.}

A creative jolt is oxygen to me. Feeling the inspiration to finally crack a new project is a gift from the Gods. That process begins with a proper cafe haunt, and a writing routine that requires some practice to get back into the familiarity of the thing again.

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

While ‘The Projects’ page of this website is pretty busted (if you scroll down in each you can find the images, but most won’t be bothered) I’m embarking on what might be the next project, due tentatively in the latter half of 2026. Right now, it’s very early stages, so my ears and eyes are open to all influences the universe sees fit to throw my way. Thus far, it’s been calamitous, chaotic, and all sorts of mid-life crisis containment… this one’s going to be a doozy.

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.