Here we are – the high holiday season – and we are deep in it already. This past weekend I was in Boston, and whether or not there was a holiday stroll will have to remain quiet until I wrote those posts – and they will be… something. But I’m jumping ahead – let’s do our weekly look-back at the week of the Cold Moon...
The elements are all present: the velvet rose of his robe, slightly ruched at the sleeve – the ring of colorful jewels, just slightly out of focus – the way his fingers idly roam about some patch of dyed faux fur – and the fragrance of oud, alternately off-putting and intoxicating, the most compelling way to wear a fragrance.
He is there, but he is not there. When you lock eyes with him, he seems to disappear. Sleight of hand and face and body, present and absent at once. He is like scent itself – indelible and invisible.
Perhaps Mr. Oud is merely making the holiday rounds, and then he’ll disappear for good.
Or until he is seen, and not seen, again.
Memory like scent – powerful, evocative, fleeting – memory like a man gone missing.
The snow was forecast to begin at 7 AM on Tuesday, and as I turned on the work laptop around 7:30, it was already falling. Not the kind of big fluffy flakes that mark a passing squall or some brief fit of the sky, but the fine, almost-imperceptible sort of snow that usually indicates the start of something major. I’d already stocked the kitchen with the provisions for soup and stew should we be snowed in, and Andy had made a big batch of pasta fagioli the night before.
We had tickets to see Lea Salonga at the Troy Music Hall that evening, and I’d asked Mom to come with us as an olive-branch of sorts that I’d extended following a difficult talk we’d had earlier in the fall. Knowing that those concerts rarely get canceled, even in inclement weather, I’d asked her to stay over the night before so she’d be here by the time the snow started. Andy would be able to get us to Troy in the snow, but there would be no way for her to safely get from Amsterdam to Albany if she waited until that day to leave.
Alas, she chose not to stay over, and as the snow continued to pile up throughout the day, it became clear there was no way she could safely make it to us to see the show. I offered the ticket to other friends, but no one else was able to make it either, so Andy and I would be on our own, and I’d have a paid-for seat just for my coat. (No one can claim that I don’t embrace extravagance when given a chance.)
Downtown Troy was hushed and slow beneath the first substantial snowfall of the season, and it made for a sweetly romantic backdrop at this festive time of the year. We walked about near the Music Hall before finding a cozy, slightly-below-ground-level wood-fired pizza and pasta place that we’d been to before other events here – Bacchus – and it was the ideal space to warm up, fill our stomachs with salty food, and stave off the still-falling snow before the show. It turned into one of those unexpectedly magical moments of coziness twenty-five years into our relationship, one that felt familiarly destined as us against the world, and I leaned into Andy as we took our seats in the gorgeously-appointed Troy Music Hall.
Lea put on an amazing show, careening through decades of iconic musical theater and movie moments, with a nod to the Philippines and two Judy Garland classics to close the show. As she sang a song in Tagalog (‘Kailangan Kita’) I wished my Dad had taught me his native language so that I might understand better. I also wished that he could hear this now, and somehow it felt like he was listening.
Tonight’s super moon is the last one of the year. Banally christened the ‘Cold Moon’ for obvious reasons (it’s fucking cold, duh), this one is also said to inspire motions of reflection, renewal and closure. Coming at the end of the year, this seems a safe bet, along with all the other ruckus a full super moon typically raises. At the time of this writing, the forecast looks to be rather gray and unconducive to viewing, but there may be a clearing later in the evening (post-script note: the sky has cleared, so I took some new pics for this post). Temperatures, however, may not be inviting enough for a naked full moon ritual, but when you’ve done that once you don’t really need to do it again.
My main practice will be my usual practice: to lay low, look inward, and embrace my daily meditation. There is enough madness around us to occupy the drama-vacuum, and I would like no part of it.
Who the fuck am I kidding? This is shaping up to be a Dorothy Parker month, and we’re only four days into it. I’m feeling all sorts of bitter, querulous and unkind – and it makes me all the more morbidly obsessed with overthinking whether I’m the actual problem. Some of my friends and family would disagree, but they’re likely the ones who are disagreeable to me right now. At least I know enough to step back and retreat from being the sort of bad company I would prove to be, while trying to avoid too much texting that will be mis-read and misinterpreted. It’s funny how only the texts that people find personally problematic with some element of their life that has nothing to do with me are the only ones that are read or responded to. There, take that sentence-ending preposition as an indication that I just don’t fucking care anymore.
It’s too early to be over this holiday season, and so I shall withdraw into myself, into my own quiet breathing – slowly in, slowly out – enjoying the only company that has always proved to be true. I know I made a promise not to be messy this Christmas, but fuck it, I lied. Some days I’m going to be a strong cup of black and bitter coffee, and I’ll want nothing to do with a tempering of your cream, your sugar, or your holiday fucking sprinkles.
Cold mess, hot mess, bold mess, shot mess – I’m done betraying my brilliance for good behavior.
Dorothy never did.
Frustration by Dorothy Parker
If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brains Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas, I could make the moments pass Bumping off a number of People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon- Thus does Fate our pleasure step on! So they still are quick and well Who should be, by rights, in hell.
There’s a room in the cafe I frequent that is called the Library Room. I’ve sat there only a couple of times, as it’s ironically the space that is least conducive to writing, for me. The strangest reason for this is that it’s too quiet and calm. In the main cafe space, there is music and talking, the noise of plates and cups and silverware clinking, the indecisive bantering of confused customers and patient workers. It’s a challenge to block it all out, and I prosper under a challenge.
Without distraction and background noise, there is nothing to push against, no focus that must be mustered, and the words somehow don’t flow as easily. My mind hasn’t quite figured out the intricacies behind it, other than this initial hypothesis. And I’m already tired, hence this hasty ending to a post that has me antsy to get out of the Library Room and back into the main flow of life.
It is at odds with so much I once thought about myself. This room is dangerous that way.
I’m not sure that I’m the best person to guide or share anything that relates to the sweet baby Jesus, but if calm and peace and meditative endeavors bring us closer to God, maybe that’s as good as it will get. At the very least, may this be a place where there are glimmers of peace and tranquility, moments of stillness and relative silence when the rest of the world falls to noisy and chaotic pieces. I’d never be so presumptuous as to think I can change the world, but I can change what I decide to put out here, how I tell the stories I want to tell, and which was I decide to go when life demands decisions.
When you listen to the snow, you can listen to your breathing. One’s breath is sometimes all one has, and it’s the most immediately available resource we have for calming the race of the mind. When all else fails, breathe in, breathe out, slow it down a bit… and breathe in, breathe out… and again…
Despite the current White House’s attempt to erase World AIDS Day from happening, it’s still being honored among decent people, so fuck the people running the government right now. We’ve had to fight sun fights before, and we will fight them again and again, and in the end love and human decency will always prevail. Hatred eats away at itself, and one’s behavior in this world will surely not go unseen in the next. On with the weekly recap, in spite of the dumpster fire engulfing us…
… or some such bullshit rhyme. The sooner this astrologically-fucked month departs, the better. The emotional rollercoaster of the past few weeks can’t entry be blamed on the stars and planets – we each have a hand and some pull in our destinies. Personally, I’ve been doing a decent job at handling tricky events with a lighter touch, knowing full well that to incite a battle at such a time would be to incite a war – and who can be bothered with such an undertaking just as the holiday season gets under way?
While I reserve the right to wage the wrath of truth and blunt talk at any time I damn well please, I am making an effort not to burn anything to the ground right now. We shall see how long this charitable stance lasts… I suggest not pushing it.
Watching humans for any length of time always ends up moving me. That’s partly why I’ve embraced my nightly coffee stops at a nearby cafe. It allows me to work on a new project while also observing a small stream of life from a safe vantage point. Mother and son smiling at each other while waiting for their dessert order. The first few bites a gruff forty-something guy with a military buzz-cut takes, and its apparent joy judging by his slight smile.
Most of us revert to the kids we were when we think no one is watching – no matter how old we grew, no matter how much we’ve accomplished, no matter how awful we’ve been; our childhoods are always somewhere within us.
It makes it more difficult to be cross with humanity when you think of it this way – a trick I shall endeavor to employ regularly when people start getting on my last frayed nerve (I’d say about three days ago – whoopsie-daisy.)
Now that Mercury has ceased its havoc-wreaking retrograde emotion, I’m hopeful the world calms its ass down a bit for the reminder of the holiday season. We shall see.
Cradled in the fuzzy arms of a sage plant, flecks of early snow collect and lend their own fuzziness to the scene at hand. Portending of winter, it is a portrait of stillness and elegance. Muted of color palette and simple of composition. Enthralled in the throes of these last few weeks of autumn, the garden seems grateful for the opportunity to slumber – for a few months of rest from the watering, feeding, pruning, and harvesting routine that dominates the spring and summer months. Summer is a bit of a break for almost everyone other than the gardener – and the plants must feel the weight of that workload too.
This little snippet of the backyard is a cozy patch of herbs – it keeps going right until the big winter storms – certain herbs are miraculous that way. It sets the tone for the upcoming winter season: muted, calm, fuzzy, and contemplative. Outside the attic window, a small section of garden reveals itself for more herbs next year. It’s never too early to think about spring.
For those of us who take pride in our shopping, who treat shopping as an art form, an enchanting enterprise, and a way of life, Black Friday has always felt like amateur hour – the same way Halloween feels like childish fun and games for those of us who get gussied and dolled up on the regular.
Fighting with crushing throngs of shoppers hell-bent on finding a bargain, who are there partly for the participatory thrill of the day (because you can get these deals online without even leaving the house) has never appealing to the shopping aficionado I pride myself on being. When I’m shopping I like to take my time and leisurely stroll about a store’s space, to take in the meticulously-curated displays, to entirely inhabit the moment and the surroundings. Shopping as an act of meditative meandering.
For a true shopper, the art of shopping is not solely a means to a transactional end – some of my favorite shopping expeditions haven’t even yielded a bag of purchases. The art of shopping is, for me, more about the entire experience – a philosophical treatise on imagination and possibility, on the idea of what we might be – with the right outfit, the right fragrance, the right accessory. The art of shopping dangles the notion of perfection before us, and I remain powerless to its pull, no matter how impossible I know it to be.
Nobody wants to talk about the messy aftermath of Thanksgiving dinner.
That very much includes me, so let’s focus on anything else.
As soon as I wrote the promise of another post, the ambition and effort to write it dissipated, and now I sit at the cafe a few days before Thanksgiving, forcing words onto paper and lamenting the lazy lack of any driving inspiration to set this blog post on fire.
Instead, all I can muster is a resigned and lackluster rumination on the wind-down of another day of Thanks – my 50th, thank you very much (and how do I return some of them?) – as I feel every single one of those years. Looking ahead as we are wont to do here, as the good Virgos always do, this holiday season doesn’t have a definitive theme (a Ralph Lauren Christmas is redundantly foolish, and our next image overhaul on the blog won’t be until the turn of the New Year) so for the next few weeks we’ll have the final maneuverings of the mysterious Mr. Oud, and a somewhat darker encapsulation of the season as that’s the mood in the air. There’s a deep sunken beauty to a dark Christmas, to paraphrase a celebrated and maligned sadist/writer.
Perhaps this isn’t the best way to greet the season, but I can’t think of another. Buckle up, buttercups.
Do I have one more pre-populated post in me when we’re all due for a turkey-induced coma? I think I do, and if you come back tonight you may find it here…
