Earlier this week, a cardinal fluttered into the boughs of our Seven sons flower tree, lately gone into salmon-hued seed. He stayed there, peeking through the foliage and looking around, until another cardinal joined him. Both may be seen in the blurry image not-so-beautifully captured below – the second bird is in the lower right quadrant. In the words of A.A. Milne and Winnie-the-Pooh, “It’s so much friendlier with two.”
If you’re looking for a circus, you’ve come to the right place.
If donkeys could fly, this place would be an airport.
No ifs or ands, only butts.
And full moons.
No, full MOONS.
I said MOONS! (You just had to take it to a place of beavers…)
So, I was talking about a circus, intending this post to be one of silliness and escapism, maybe elicit a laugh or a snort, ideally to induce a roll of the eyes – and in the words of Britney Jean Spears, “Why don’t you DO SOMETHIN’!“
I know you feel this.
Even if the song is pure garbage.
Yeah, I wrote that, and it’s garbage too.
Throw it all out.
Throw it away.
But only on trash days.
The sound of a garbage truck used to be music to my ears because it used to mean Friday was at hand. Now we can’t even have that reminder. When is trash day anyway?
Whoa, Nellie, did this post take a stream-of-unconscious turn or what? (Better than a stream of urine, I suppose.)
Does anyone ever answer the ‘or what’ part? It just dangles there like a dick in boxer shorts.
I tend to prefer my junk a little closer to the body. A refusal to helicopter for the crowds is a sign that one has grown up.
This post would have you believe otherwise.
It’s Friday, or in the words of Justin Timberlake, it’s Friday, yo.
{Bonus: naked Justin Timberlake post here.}
“Haunted” is a very good word.
“Haunting” is too.
And neither need refer to the macabre or sinister side of life.
Not all ghosts are scary.
To that end, on this Halloween evening, let us revisit a few ‘haunted’ posts from the past. Each is a mystery in its own way, sometimes just through the simple inclusion of it on this list. See which ones haunt you.
Haunted by the boy who was killed for being gay.
The day they said I would die.
We’re all a little broken now.
What child is this and why is he talking to me?
Once upon a time in your wildest dreams.
Dear Reader – Despite the chilling date, and the supposed proximity of the spirit world on this very date, I cannot reveal the specific background that brought me to the spooky image you may be analyzing here. As part of my holiday card, the origin and reason for Suzie and I having stumbled upon this frightening visage must be kept under wraps until the holiday season. As such, it shall remain shrouded in mystery and intrigue, and perhaps that’s more fitting on this particular day. Not all mysteries are meant to be solved.
I will say that the image captured here was an accident, an unintentional catch that was more of a lark and something to do while Suzie was setting up the shot, and we didn’t really make much of it until later on, when we were inspecting the shots. It was then that the clearer version below came into view.
There is no more to say on it until we get into the holiday card. As for Halloween, it’s my day off. Always has been, ever since I was mistaken for a vampire on an average Wednesday night at Hannford. When your customary attire is considered a costume, Halloween is amateur hour.
“Cabbage has a cabbage smell.”
I’ve never understood that line from ‘Meet Me In St. Louis’, but what can one expect from the same source of ‘That Welsh rabbit was ginger peachy!‘?
On with the weekly recap…
Saltburn on the tip of my tongue.
A comedy of holiday errors with the bestie.
An anniversary ripe for slumber: ‘Bedtime Stories’ by Madonna.
Four years ago I broke up with alcohol.
A low-key spooky weekend begins.
Out of the woods again, via Taylor Swift.
A solution to parking in downtown Albany.
Dazzlers of the Day included Matthew Mitcham, Josh Allen, Andrew Scott, Hari Nef, and Seth Rudetsky.
Taking life into a macro-level view always results in further mystery and intrigue, which aligns with the general cloak and veil aspect of the fall season. A circle of toadstools, a pair of acorns, or the umbrage of a mushroom rising seemingly overnight – these are but a few of the magical pulls of autumn. They lend an enchantment to the forest floor amid the business of preparing for the slumber of winter.
There is a frenzied increase in the activities of squirrels and chipmunks now. Their summer days spent playing and chasing one another have been supplanted by the rushed stocking of their winter pantries. Acorns and nuts are dug and collected, then hidden somewhere else – the machinations of a squirrel’s plan for winter are still mysterious to me, and still a wonder to watch.
The ground is filled with life at this time of the year, if you bother to bend down and look a little closer. There is dampness here, and with water comes life. Any dry and barren dirt has been given a more hospitable constitution, and life finds a way.
Our friend JoAnn is visiting us from Cape Cod this weekend, and the stage has been set for a casual and low-key weekend of cozy food and fun, the very best way old friends find joy in the world. Once upon time we’d have been gearing up with an abundance of booze and party plans, non-stop social whirlwinds that left me mostly stressed and breathless. They served their purpose for that specific point in time, but both JoAnn and myself have grown beyond that. We find comfort in quieter and more meaningful connections now.
This weekend we are making a trip to the Armour-Stiner Octagon House in Irvington, NY. JoAnn has wanted to visit this place for a long time, and we are finally able to do it after a summer of set-backs. While that’s our marquee goal, in all likelihood the weekend’s most magical moments will be in the simple joys of comfort food and a viewing of ‘Practical Magic’. That’s the way it usually unfolds, and that’s the best way to spend a weekend.
…Velvet pumpkins, apple cider silks, and scarves to make Stevie Nicks proud… a fall weekend of enchantment convenes now…
Dear Al ~ May I call you Al? Perhaps that’s a bit disingenuous, as I’ve already called you that twice. Also a bit hypocritical, since I don’t take kindly to anyone who calls me ‘Al’ without having known me for at least twenty years. Then again, I don’t care to be particularly kindly to you, so perhaps we should keep things formal after all.
Dear Alcohol ~ You and I go way back. From my 21st birthday, when I made my friends watch ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ as I got drunk on whiskey and Coke, you’ve been a companion, savior, hindrance, crutch, fair-weather friend, mortal enemy, and ultimately an ex as of four years ago. That’s when I had my last drink, and in one of the wisest and best decisions I’ve made in life, I haven’t had you since. It’s been one of the best break-ups I’ve ever had.
It’s not entirely your fault. In fact, it’s probably not your fault at all. Just beginning to understand that leaves me exhilarated and flummoxed, because I’m still not accustomed to taking the blame, even when I’ve been so terribly wrong, so awfully seduced, so willfully deceived. You were there when no one else was, when I couldn’t be there for myself, and, more frightfully, when I did happen to be there to ambush my own heart. We had some good times – and yes, when all else failed you saved me, like on that day I had to give a presentation in one of my required literature courses. Paralyzed by social anxiety, and terrified by the thought and idea of speaking in front of the class, I had you to keep me company – a bottle of orange juice poured mostly out, replaced by the surefire strength and sting of vodka. The idea of downing it before class in the morning, on the commuter rail and the paths leading to campus, didn’t feel dangerous then the way it does when I think of it now. Survival means different things to different people. We all have to do it. In a morbid way, you helped me survive when I knew no other way. I can’t be entirely mad at you.
You were there when the awfulness of a family funeral presented itself, and my own parents, whom I had repeatedly begged not to volunteer or agree to have me do a reading in church, left me unprotected again. I smuggled you into my backpack, hurriedly guzzling another massive screwdriver in the hotel bathroom before I had to do that damn reading, my social anxiety off the charts and barely blunted by your vital sting. You held my hand as I walked to the front of that church, having lost a relative just like everyone else, and your effects lingered enough to get me through the moment. It was all I needed – just get me through the moment, I thought as my voice struggled to find itself and read verses I no longer quite believed. And you did it. Later, in the garage, with the macho straight men of my family who had always frightened me, I strode through, all confidence and sanctioned drunken grief, courage by beer at that point, and whatever it took was fine with me.
So warm and safe, so sexy and seductive, so sure and certain – you were my courage and commitment in one – the surefire way to get me through any situation, and every situation. Another instance of me faking it and faking it until parts of it came true, until parts of me could genuinely believe in myself. I thought you were taking away the fear, I thought you were giving me power and confidence, and all the while you were only hiding it, allowing the anxiety to grow and evolve. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in this break-up song, and such joy in when I finally kicked you to the curb four years ago.
There is anger here, not at you Al, but at myself – at the person I didn’t quite know how to be just yet – and there is anger at all the people and events that perpetuated it over all those delicate, formative, crushing years. There were times I should have said more, explaining what was happening, and there were times when I should have said less, should have let things go and not torn myself up to the point where drinking was the only escape. I was just so mad, and so hurt, and I couldn’t see why. I’m only just starting to see why…
Four years after leaving you, I’m beginning to find the forgiveness that lessens the pain and releases the anger. (Screaming the bridge of this song always helps ~ All the time I wasted on you, All the bullshit you put me through…) Four years is a decent stretch of time to allow for some sort of reconciliation. They have been four wonderful years – and they included some very heartbreaking times, so if I can find the worth and wonder in them, and come to the realization that I did not once look for you even when my Dad died, I’m ok with where we currently stand.
And so my old friend, my old lover, my old savior named Alcohol – you have gone your way and I have gone mine, and those ways diverged four years ago. Too late, too soon, or just in the nick of time, we have reached a place of acceptance. It wasn’t you, it was me… and it’s ok now.
After last year’s epic Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, which required a Part Two and even a very-extra Part Three to fully process, Suzie and I almost took a year off from this annual-but-for-Covid event. Our first one was a whopping eight years ago, meaning that most of the Children that once formed the impetus for this gathering are now teenagers. That stings, as the passing of time so often does. Rather than skip out on a year however, we are doing it on a casual and scaled-down degree. Whatever happens is what will happen, and as long as good people are involved it can’t help but be a good time. Right. Right?
With the way this year has gone, it also looks to be a bit of a fiasco because whenever I let my planning guard down, shit goes wrong. I’m embracing that though, and playing up the ridiculous panoply that we regard as life these days. It’s the only way to survive a joint-planning expedition with Suzie. Best laid plans and all…
Here is a peek at our prep process for the holiday mayhem about to ensue:
ALAN: What are your thoughts on this year’s Boston Children’s Holiday Hour?
SUZIE: I say, charcuterie board. Pack of cards, some plastic spoons. Done. I don’t know how we can top last year what with Argentina’s massive win. So why even try.
ALAN: Don’t cry for me Argentina. I mean my wardrobe anyway. That can always be topped. It was fucking Adidas x Marimekko. Plastic spoons or chocolate spoons? Should’t we at least try something festive?
SUZIE: Yeah! That’ll totally do it! Wear the [redacted].
ALAN: Hush hush sweet Charlotte, that is a mystery of the holiday card that shouldn’t even be whispered about yet. Remember John Mulaney! Loose lips sink ships! Besides, [redacted] are too hot. Are you thinking silk organza?
SUZIE: How did you know that?
ALAN: I have a fifth sense about such matters. And no on silk organza. There’s usually at least one spill at these things. A spill that someone else will have to clean up, but still, I’m often in the general area.
SUZIE: That’s true. Silk organza is too risky…
Well, you get the idea, and you have an inkling of how this year’s holidays are going to play the fuck out. All of which brings me to the following photo, taken during our ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ era, on the morning that I served Suzie whisked eggs in Ithaca, NY.
‘Promising Young Woman‘ was one of my favorite films of the past few years, and its director Emerald Fennell has a new one coming out next month – ‘Saltburn’. It’s the only film I’ve been truly excited about seeing (I haven’t even seen that ‘Barbie’ movie yet!) And I’m not just talking about Jacob Elordi and Barry Keoghan and Rosamund Pike… this looks truly diabolical, and I can’t wait.
This sort of reminds me of ‘The Talented Mr. Ripley’, another thriller that came out right around the holidays, adding intrigue and drama to the festive season. I’ll be looking for escapism and thrills right about late November…
“Honestly, home doesn’t mean the same for me as it does for you, Felix. I don’t think I’ll ever go home again.”
Our colder nights and rainy days have brought beautiful color to the trees in this area, and if there was any hesitation or doubt, this is the week fall confirmed its presence. On with the weekly recap…
It began with the promise of gilded beauty (a promise which looks to be fulfilled October 29).
This shirtless gay brigade was headed up by Jim Verraros, Gus Kenworthy and Tom Daley.
At the ripe old age of 48, I can’t remember a thing.
The best part of that Harry Potter play.
A celebration indeed: Madonna returns in fighting form.
Our first trip to Ogunquit without Dad.
The blush off an Ogunquit rose.
Through the eyes of rusted berries.
Dazzlers of the Day included Ross Lynch, Alexis Nikole Nelson and Yono Purnomo.
Winding my way along a path blessedly bereft of other travelers, I reach a point hidden from the view of the main road, as well as the walkers along the shore. In this little pocket of solitude, I unwind and relax my countenance, easing into the comfortable state of being alone. This has always been my comfort zone, and it is here where beauty has always opened up to me.
Leaves rich with their fall color are scattered along the side of the path. Looking up, I see their source still holding many points of color against the sky, most of them fluttering in the slight breeze. I wait and watch a few more fall to the ground; the passing of time can sometimes be seen in such plain form. Is there irony in watching this passing of time while creating a memory to still the moment?
Above my head another tree leans down to whisper more secrets, its berries like wandering eyes, offering another look, and possibly some poison. I walk onward.
The days following a lovely vacation can feel gruesome. The return to work, the daily grind of living, the laundry and cleaning and putting away of the luggage – it’s all just insult to injury, as if ending a brief stay in paradise wasn’t sorrowful enough. And yet there is gratitude, that these minor discomforts, which only a week ago felt like home and habit, make us luckier than so many others right now. Then I remind myself that no matter which side we may find ourselves on, comparison is invariably the thief of joy.
It was in Trader Joe’s, after a quick shopping expedition in the early evening, that I found myself blankly staring at the vegetable section, somehow and suddenly on the verge of tears – not for any specific or profound reason, but simply because the world, in all its awfulness, felt briefly unbearable, the way it does when the weather turns, when the veil of enchantment is lifted by a wayward wind, when things appear as starkly and honest as they will ever be, and that terrifying glimpse behind the curtain threatens to upend our happy and intentional illusions. Staring there and hoping my look convincingly appeared as some close examination of the fennel, I felt lost and ready to buckle. My eyes welled up a bit, and I didn’t fight it. That seemed to be enough.
The allowance of the feeling.
The acknowledgment of the sadness.
I turned around and walked over to the nuts, locating the Savory and Sweet mix that Skip and I favored, picking up two packages – one for each of us – because at such a time it was good to remember my friends. Winding my way around the store, I found some butternut squash appetizers that we will bake for JoAnn’s upcoming visit, and a few boxes of Fig and Olive crackers that would open some fall dinner with other friends. This is how life cajoles us back into living. The little flickers of friendship igniting in the future, the gentle tucking away of the past, not forgotten, not misplaced, simply marked for another time… and then the forced march to the check-out, where someone else is there to help, to smile, to remind me what we’re supposed to be doing at Trader Joe’s on a weeknight.
I post these pictures of a cheerful yellow flower, procured while on a vacation with Andy and Mom. They are meant to lift the spirits. They are here to nudge us along.
The best part of the Harry Potter play is the ‘Staircase Ballet‘ by Imogen Heap.
Without Netflix, Hulu, Peacock, Disney+, or any other streaming service save Amazon Prime, I don’t watch many series or shows. A notable exception, and one of the reasons we still have HBO and MAX, is that I do enjoy ‘The Gilded Age’ – the guilty pleasure that is sort of an American version of ‘Downton Abbey‘ by the same creative team. It’s set to return for a second season on October 29, and I cannot wait. Bring back Bertha already!
