Better-known ducklings have been immortalized in the Boston Public Garden, but these local beauties enchanted Andy and I as they crossed our path on the way home from Sunday dinner at Mom’s. A couple of Saratoga ducks made similar motions a few summers ago.
Ducks have played a part in all of our lives.
[Idiocy of that last sentence was absolutely intentional.]
Hello heatwave – and welcome! High summer means high heat, and I’m not at all mad about it – yet. Setting the alarm a little earlier so as to allow for some morning watering to save the hydrangeas and ostrich ferns, I’m almost able to keep them going, but after this stretch it may be time to let the summer crest. On with the weekly recap, as we do…
Beginning with a broken egg, the week was off to a shattering start.
The Dazzler of the Day was Diplo.
Theo James filled the famed Dolce & Gabbana white Speedo with his bulge.
My friends continue to dazzle me.
My ‘give-a-fucks’ are on vacation.
Escaping into a shirtless celebrity Sunday.
Truth be told, I’m not well-versed on magic mushrooms in the hallucinogenic sense of the term. I’m calling these such because they appeared overnight, as if by magic. (In this case, it was some heavy watering coupled with the heat and humidity we’ve had of late.) A charming appearance, welcome at this time of the year when summer seems to be settling into its typical rhythm and the new growth of spring has started to harden off.
Comparisons to umbrellas and parasols would be perfectly apt, but these remind me more of delicate shells or exoskeletons found at the seashore – their ribbing and radial symmetry one of nature’s works of architectural art.
There’s nothing but blades of grass to give much perspective to these beauties, so I’ll share that they are quite tiny, and extremely delicate. I was watering a different section of lawn where another one had popped up, and as soon as the first few drops of water hit it, it crumpled to the ground, almost disappearing in another feat of magic. Things can come and go awfully quickly in the garden. Ephemeral enchantments.
My friend Chris is celebrating his umpteenth birthday today (we won’t get into specific numbers as they may upset someone who has less than a year to go before turning 50). Chris has been a pal through thick and thin, and thinking back on our decades-long friendship brings back many happy memories and a joyful bit of nostalgia in which I indulge far less than I should. There’s such a comfort to the soul when one contemplates the richness of true friendships, especially those that have lasted since the 1990’s.
From dour winters in Ithaca backed by the ‘Evita’ soundtrack to spring-break copper-tinged rim-job stories in Puerto Rico, from Boones Farm wine and soda-can bongs in San Francisco to midnight meetings with Joel Schumacher in New York City, from petty blow-ups in Chicago to wedding-ceremony officiancy in Boston – it’s been one wild and wonderful ride. Onto the next adventure as we journey into the exciting Middle Ages. Many happy returns of the day, my friend.
Madonna seems to have been more enamored of Diplo than many of her fans were enamored of her collaborations with him, but that hasn’t dimmed his star or diminished his current standing as Dazzler of the Day. Thanks to his cheeky click-baiting nudity or endless musical joint-ventures, Diplo has been a force in the music industry for over a decade now. His latest collab ‘Midnight Ride’ with Orville Peck (himself no stranger to nakedness) and Kylie Minogue is on heavy rotation in these parts, sending summer into scintillating orbit.
A morning that begins with a broken egg is not what one would consider a perfect morning, and it is then that I am reminded perfect mornings don’t exist. When you take the quest for perfection out of the equation, the day suddenly becomes much sunnier. It’s a comfort that coincides with the happy and unexpected relief afforded by a Monday night. When I spent weekends dreading school and work the next day, by the end of Monday afternoon, had I been able to face the demons, I would usually return home feeling relieved and better about all the worries that came to a head on Sunday nights. Even a broken egg, in proper perspective, seems like a minor mishap unworthy of a blog post like this.
Yet in the most minor and mundane of moments and mistakes, wisdom is to be found. In the broken egg, there was instant and irrevocable loss. There’s no putting Humpty together again. There’s also no way to make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, so long as you keep them off the floor. The magic is in how you break them, and where you break them. In the examination of these things, instead of being angry at the egg, you can greet its fallen state with gratitude for pausing the brain’s jump to annoyance. Replacing anger with curiosity may be one of he more productive strategies if I can start to implement it.
For the moment, I’m still swearing about cleaning up this broken egg
This is a relatively quiet weekly recap. My neck has been spasming when it hasn’t been entirely stiff, making sleeping difficult and working outside on our side yard impossible. That’s the universe whispering in annoying fashion to slow down. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Nor was it built by one fucking almost-49-year-old. Both are reasons for me to slow down and self-preserve. On with the weekly recap…
A lavender daisy mocktail kicked things off in fancy and precious fashion.
Sometimes I feel straight, like in these photos.
The very last iris of the season.
The flickering wonder of hope on the 4th of July.
Let’s pop some cherries on our pants.
Reflections of an American Speedo.
Stop right now, thank you very much.
Everybody’s working for the weekend.
Keep your eye on the day at hand.
An easy guide for how to speak my language.
Does anyone else find this Instagram feature annoying as fuck?
Stretching back into childhood.
Dazzlers of the Day included Frederick Richard, Andy Towle, and Timo Cavelius.
One of my favorite places to be as a child was snuggled between my parents in the wee small hours of the morning. Whether it was the disturbing images of insects and bugs or more sinister phantom figures gliding through the hallways, the not-infrequent nightmares of my youth occasionally afforded a panicked insistence on joining my parents in bed and waking to Dad’s internal alarm clock before the sun was even out.
Their room was dim with the shades pulled, and the dim gray light only allowed for shadows and silhouettes. Still, I can remember my father next to me as he opened his day with several leg stretches before he got out of bed. He never spoke about this, never explained the purpose or reason. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb my supposed sleep. In subsequent years, I would see yoga and fitness instructors advising to do the same stretches to begin their practice.
My Dad would lift one leg up, point it at the ceiling, then slowly cross and lower it over the opposite side of his body, repeating the same motion for the other leg. He would then bring each to his chest and hold them there for a moment. This was how he entered the world each day – movements and preparations in dark, so when he got up he was agile and able to move. It must have worked as he lived for a long time, during which much of the time he got around well. Only in the last few years did that deteriorate.
At night is when I do my stretches in bed. Following Dad’s same routine, it’s a way to relax the body and muscles for a comfortable slumber. When I have time and think of it, I’ll try to begin the day in the same manner, though I’m usually rushing up and out of bed as I press the snooze button for the third and final time.
These are the mundane motions of middle age. As long as there are good memories to go along with them, I’m ok with all of it.
A stern message to Instagram: stop trying to get me to turn on push notifications whatever the fuck that means. I DON’T WANT ANY FUCKING NOTIFICATIONS. You’ve asked me 1000 times and the answer is still no, and it will always be no. STOP TRYING TO MAKE NOTIFICATIONS HAPPEN. IT’S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Now you’ve made me shout and I try not to shout on the Lord’s Day.
A lot gets lost in a text message or email. Subtlety and nuance, tone and demeanor, humor and earnestness – the online forms of communication take all of those vital components of communication away, leaving much room for misinterpretation and misunderstandings that sometimes make for a much clunkier and ineffective means of communication. Some of us don’t make it easy by how we respond to things, and I’m very much as guilty of this as anyone else, so I’ve devised a quick pocket post guide to translate what I may mean at any given time. (Do note that all of these are subject to change on a whim, so use these merely as a guide rather than a bible.) Here we go:
No worries = No worries – it’s all good, wholly devoid of snark or sarcasm
Sounds good = Completely on board with what you just said, just closing the loop in as friendly a way as possible. Note: this does not require a response, and frankly one would be unappreciated
Ok = a tricky one. For the most part it simply means ok, without excitement, enthusiasm, anger, or happiness one way or another. If it’s in response to something I’ve proposed or invited you to, there may often be a tinge of disappointment and sadness if you are declining. In what is becoming more common, it may also indicate apathy and genuine lack of care.
That’s fine = That is fine.
It’s fine = It’s probably not fine but I’m granting us the option of moving along without further discussion because you won’t want the ensuing discussion
I’m fine = Sound the alarm, light the beacons of Gondor, all hands on dick, err, deck, hide your kids, hide your wives, and be very afraid because I am most decidedly not fine and everyone in my vicinity is likely to not be fine in a very short time.
[No response] = You’re fucked. Send flowers, send gifts, send a handwritten note on pretty stationary, and then give me some time and space. If I don’t re-engage we were probably never really friends in the first place, or you’ve simply worn me out with whatever it was that merited no response.
These aren’t difficult rules. My language is simple. Let me know if you want to practice.
The day’s eye in a bloom illuminated by a single shaft of sunlight – so begins July and the ascendance of summer proper. As the world turns ever darker, I turn ever inward, closing out the worst of humanity and focusing on the best; here is my little collection of friends and family, hearth and home, calm and creation. No matter what happens outside the heart, inside one can always make a place of peace.
Shutting out the world, shutting off the news, shutting down the hate – it all serves a valuable purpose of self-care and self-preservation. We are useless to helping others if we cannot find a sense of peace within ourselves.
Today begins with an appreciation of these daisies, and all that we are lucky enough to have.
These cherries on my new swim trunks are absolutely popping. Cherries are a motif of the coquette aesthetic, so for this summer a swimsuit of such fruity charm is a necessity. From their early spring bloom to their flaming fall color, the cherry is a magnificent tree. Their scent is a bit trickier to enjoy, as evidenced by Tom Ford’s flailing cherry line, none of which really thrilled me. Instead, let’s focus on the ones we can eat, devouring their flesh and spitting out the pits – the elegant and the vulgar all at once, not entirely out of place with the multi-layered meanings of a coquette summer.
And speaking of our coquette summer, let’s play a piece of music from across the pond to set the dramatic tone on a day when I don’t feel much like celebrating for a multitude of reasons. God save the Queen – and yes, I mean me.
It’s a strange and scary time to live in America. I’m not going to pretend that there isn’t a clear and present and very prominent danger to our very democracy in the form of the Republican nominee for President – and the fact that he is a convicted felon, a morally-reprehensible adulterer, and a proven-time-and-time-again outright liar should be what our nation is focusing on. Instead, the press and media seems hellbent on focusing on the age and bad debate of the other candidate. There is no comparison, and we teeter on the complete loss of the very tenets of our country. Look up Project 2025 and be very afraid, as it’s already happening. We’ve lost the Supreme Court (which did away with the supposedly-settled right for a woman to make choices over her own body, and just recently gave king-like immunity to Presidents, even proven criminals) – a Revolutionary War was literally fought to ensure we didn’t have to live under such a king, but history is lost on idiots.
And what we have now is a country that is doing anything but keeping its eyes on the current and imminent threat to its survival.
We’ve seen that no one is going to save us. No Congressperson, no press or media, no court of law, and no historical precedent. It was always, and only, up to us – our own citizens, our own people, our own believers in what the founding fathers created when they forged a brand new government for and by the people. Do I have faith that we will do the right thing in November to turn this danger away? I don’t know… I want to have hope… but I wonder.
Wonder can be a powerful thing – it’s part of what birthed this nation, and part of what has kept it great. It also might be what sees us safely into a future that squashes the notion of a fascist dictatorship. I only hope that Liberty has the strength to carry her torch of freedom beyond November.
Vote Blue if you care about America.
{Read about Project 2025 here.}
Like when my husband brings home two melons and my first thought is doing this for the camera. Completely at odds with our demure coquette summer theme, it’s a badly-needed dose of silliness in a world that seems to be crumbling around us. In what may very well be our last summer of democracy, I urge everyone to live like this is our final gasp of freedom. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? And who is brave enough to ask at this point? Honestly, I’d rather not know.
In such ignorant bliss, I may choose to retire from the current life I live, going into exile like some forgotten Jedi, perhaps to be resurrected for a distant final act in which I might play a supporting part, or simply fading away with the gentle glow of whatever becomes/remains of this website, like the solar echoes of a long-dead star. One’s actual influence is always felt more than seen.
It seems even the silliest pose for a blog post cannot quell the underlying tones of seriousness the current moment demands. Anyway, suck on these melons – and don’t give up on summer or silliness yet…
