Category Archives: General

Standing half-naked in the sunlight, I still manage to cover the decades-old bruises left on my heart. Back in the 90’s, I remember listening to Trent Reznor scream, “I wanna fuck you like an animal!” and it was all just a way of getting ‘Closer’ to God. On this particular Sunday morning, God feels far away, so I put on a piece by Reznor and Atticus Ross that was produced over a decade after ‘Closer’. What a difference a decade makes, and now almost another decade has passed beyond that. Still, I stand at the window from time to time, soaking in the sun to feel some sort of warmth in this wayward world, decade after decade after decade. I feel the subtle shift of time. I feel the differences in the years, knowing much of that is simple shifts in perspective and perception. Getting closer to peace within, even as the world grows ever divisive without. 

I like this music. It’s calm and tense at once, the way most of us are living each day out. Even at our most peaceful moments, the tension of a country teetering on the brink of collapse does’t fully allow for total release and meditative bliss. All I can do is approach… gently, slowly, in each and every breath. It’s a lovely reminder that life is never fully done, and nothing is ever truly complete. It’s all one continuously flowing stream – we dip in and out of a day, we dip in and out of a lifetime. We do our best, even when it’s all falling down around us, and when I try to sort it out in words, as in this very post, it crumbles in my incapable hands. 

Working to embrace the imperfect aspects of life, I strive to make my peace with such failures. I tell myself I’m ok with it, even though it still bothers and worries me. Putting it down here, literally and figuratively, helps a little. I put it down in writing, and then I put it down in my head. The power of acknowledgement is one of those hidden secrets of life that no one ever tells you about – at least no one told me. I only knew the power of writing – of putting thoughts to print or paper – and in a way that was its own acknowledgment. The demon is always less frightening when it can be named, then trapped on a piece of paper or in the confines of a soon-to-be-buried blog post. 

Hurrying toward Halloween, which arrives exactly one week from today, this recap is bracketed by these baby pumpkins, which have their own tales to tell – the growth of a pumpkin, no matter how small and adorable, is not without its harrowing moments. Who knows what summer stories they have which got them to this sad denouement? On with the weekly recap…

The week began amid candlelight and Shirley Horn. 

A meditative walk in the woods.

The Ben Cohen calendar signals the most wonderful time of the year is coming quickly upon us.

A sexual inspiration for the ears.

30 years of ‘Sex’ and ‘Erotica’ intertwined with death.

Andy celebrated a birthday in his preferred quiet way.

A fall pause.

Hidden hope right in the backyard.

Ornamental orthodoxy.

The view from the attic.

An Albany afternoon.

Dazzlers of the Day included Richard Marx, Mufseen Miah, and David Bagnardi.

The view looks over a bit of the neighborhood, especially in winter once the leaves have gone. From the safe vantage point of our attic, lit with candles and fragrant with their spicy traces of cardamom, cinnamon, and orange peel, the view lended to the coziness – the world from a single vantage point. A section of foliage lit in fall flames against a blue sky and framed by the branches of an old pine tree, cradled as a view within a view. 

Fall is about such layers, in what we wear, in the way the trees shake off their summer finery in stages, in the gradations of light from the window and the candles. The attic is quiet. It’s where I go to pause and think, to prepare for the coming winter and reconcile myself to the gray days on the way. There is a certain peace here, safely ensconced slightly above the lay of the land, protected and buoyed by its lofty nature. Meanwhile the outside world burns up before a bright blue sky…

Ornamental kales and cabbages are my favorite kind of cabbages and kales. (Though I’m coming around the common cooking cabbage when employed like this.) For fantastic fall color, these ornamental varieties offer some fabulous hues, accentuated by drops of rain from the previous evening – a lovely reminder of all the wonder of fall, and a recompense for the loss of summer. Fall still burns, fall still smolders. 

Fall packs its own punch, casting its own spells – sometimes with color, sometimes with scents, sometimes with the lightest wisp of smoke on a breeze. In the case of fall and cabbage, it takes a lackluster and utilitarian green, and turns it into this spectacular visage. Vibrant and vivacious – power of the ‘V’. 

It was the sunlight slanting through the fiery-hued lace-leaf maple tree that caught my eye and drew me outside. The air was cool as the sun began its disappearing act. I was first focused on the copper and red leaves of this little tree, which has steadily expanded its horizontal spread over the past twenty years. For all the heated shades, and the way the colors bled from one into another, there was a bright secret suddenly illuminated by the fading sunlight. 

A few pairs of maple seeds – the helicopters of our youthful springs – hung behind the curtain of leaves. I recall them mostly from the spring, and the way they fell from the two big maples trees outside the front of my childhood home. You could also split them apart, then split the base open and use the sticky white sap to stick it on the tip of your nose – hence the other name we used for them – Pinocchios. 

These dried and brown versions, lit by the sun and revealed only through a closer inspection, reminded me how spring is still around, and present in the decay of fall and winter. It’s just slumbering and waiting until the sun starts to linger again. 

The switch happened on a recent afternoon – that moment when summer was no longer in the rear-view window, when we had moved too far beyond its warmth and light to pretend otherwise. I don’t know why I felt it so keenly, but there it was – incontrovertibly autumn – and no going back now. 

The light had shifted, it slanted differently at the end of the day, which also came on quicker. The leaves in the trees were also betraying the change, with some branches already daring to go completely nude and naked. The next bout of wind and rain, no matter how insignificant, will pull the majority down, then we’ll really see it. 

For now, with the sunny days we’d been lucky enough to have of late, it’s a very pretty point in the seasonal progression. The raw and dreary days are on the way though, and the trick will be in finding the comfort in that stark new vast expanse of beauty, as it’s a beauty that often proves elusive and difficult to see on first glance. The world is no longer interested in such gradations and subtlety anymore, and it’s all the more sadder for it. 

This wasn’t my first time walking along the Sassafras Trail in my hometown of Amsterdam, NY in the fall. For some reason, I usually find myself making the trek at this time of the year, though I’ve made promises to return in the spring when the leaves are more chartreuse than golden. Fall is often when I find myself drawn into the woods – one last chance at mingling with whatever life remains out and about (and there is lots, as evidenced by the many stands of ferns, the clusters of asters in full bloom, and great swaths of horsetail reed enjoying the damp conditions by the stream). 

The light was different on this day, brighter and warmer than it was on my previous visit in the fall. The further down the path I went, the dimmer it got, but it was early enough in the afternoon that the sun always maintained its touch on the trees. 

It helped that the leaves were so bright and brilliant, adding to the illumination and setting the forest aflame. This was a soothing fire, a calm and contemplative burning that felt like a balm upon the soul. Beneath my feet, the leaf-laden forest floor was spongy and soft, lending further comfort to the walk. 

Gradually meandering downward, the path led to a stream bed, sunken lower into the earth. As the forest rose around me, there was an even more hushed aspect to this space. Every step and snap of a stick resounded through the air, and the sounds of the stream water felt wondrously amplified. There was occasionally the cry of a bird, and at one point a distinctive knocking, jarring at first, until I discovered the origin was a woodpecker coaxing its dinner out of a tree. 

More life revealed itself as my eyes adjusted to the subtlety of the woods. Mosses and mushrooms made their homes between the reaching roots of tree trunks, lichens lined fallen branches and stones, and ferns dangled their lacy fronds with delicate grace and elegance. The forest was refined in its reserved way. 

Midway on this journey, as I stopped to listen to the gurgling stream and watch the water flow, it struck me that this was its form of meditation, and I decided to try my daily practice right there and then. It was a bit of a mixed bag – going into deep breathing while moving along an undulating forest path does not quite make for easy meditation, but I was able to be momentarily mindful of where I was and what I was experiencing, and that was a start. 

It’s best not to force such a thing, and my slow and thoughtful walk was meditative in its own way without needing to formalize the process. A walk in the woods has always been a cathartic experience for me, going back to the many afternoons in my childhood when I would come home from school and rush into the little stretch of forest behind our house, getting almost lost for hours until it was time for dinner, until the light drained from the sky and the woods felt suddenly dangerous. I was keenly aware of that switch, because it came on quickly, and if you were too deep into the forest the walk back could instantly be fraught with fear. 

No such fear gripped me on this day, as the sun’s light never wavered. I took my time coming back up along the trail, gazing upward every few steps to witness the lofty wonder of the trees in all their colorful sorcery. Their magic will manifest itself differently in just a few weeks, when they will rise bare against the stark sky – a magic that will have to carry them through the winter. 

The shifting of the seasons was brought to mind as I came upon this surprising re-bloom of a witch hazel tree. It hung in the air at eye level like some canary-hued spider, or a yellow star confirming my direction, and I took it as a symbol of hope that spring would return. Normally witch hazel is the first bloom to appear after winter, often bravely unfurling its wrinkled beauty in the midst of late-season snowfall. Seeing it here now was a way of tying such disparate-seeming times together, a little cry of hope as some seasonal Pandora’s box closed itself tightly in preparation for the upcoming winter. 

If you’re looking for a fix for the fall weather, might I suggest lighting a few candles and putting on Shirley Horn’s magnificent ‘Here’s to Life’ album, which formed the soundtrack to many a fall season in my long/short life. This song, ‘Quietly There’, is a pretty good indication of the languid but inspired delivery of Ms. Horn and the luscious string arrangements by Johnny Mandel that weave their gorgeous way through that entire album.

A bit of an ambivalent love song, this is sparse of words, but oh what such wicked economy can conjure when coupled with a dramatic imagination. There is just enough here to tell your own specific story, or create something for someone else to live out.

This post comes later in the day, after the sun has gone down, as the music is a little too deliciously moody for anything as vulgar as daylight. Dusk comes quickly now. These are bewitching hours, made more-so by music like this.

I light this candle and watch it throw…

This is one of those seasonal mid-points that too often go unnoticed, those in-between classic days of a season that pushes time forward without us realizing it. With the sun and relatively warm temps, it felt like a holding pattern this past week even as we clicked the calendar days past the mid-point of October. Usually I don’t pause to notice this transition, and when I stop to take stock of fall we have moved into the dreary end days of November. This weekend, I felt the shift, and stopped for a walk in the woods. More on that later… for now a recap of the previous week as is our Monday morning ritual (well, with the occasional exception). 

A tattered Tuesday started the shorter week.

The animals know.

An autumn nocturne.

A fancy post for a simple necklace.

A crystalline journey.

The fire of a saint.

Finding an owl in a pear.

A letter to a mad, musical genius who is also a friend.

Our fall holiday weekend in Ogunquit reassembled itself after a few years of missing it. It was wonderful to be back at the Beautiful Place By the Sea, where the calming strokes of the ocean worked their customary magic.

This spectacular staging of Stephen Sondheim’s “Assassins” is currently playing at the Cohoes Music Hall and is very much worth a visit before it ends on October 30.

Dazzlers of the Day included Woody Woodbeck, Sam Perwin, Meryl Streep, and Meghan Trainor.

Dear Joe ~

Perhaps you’re too young (gimme some!) to remember a time when teenagers used to lock their bedroom doors, turn down the lights, put on a record and lie there just listening to an entire half hour of Side A from some glorious music-maker. Perhaps I’m too young to remember such a time (I do recall the cassette tape), but we were both teenagers once, and we both found some sort of escape from this wretched world through music. Back when the whole universe felt wrong, when there was no viable way to get out, and when the meaning of life seemed so utterly lost and elusive…

Listening to your ‘Samsara’ recital last night I felt the same thrill I got back in those teenage days, when life and death were very literal choices in the course of any given evening, and the only solace was to be found in the kindred spirits who came calling with certain music and certain songs. Your work was a cathartic journey through many paths, offering different portals to multiple planes. Vast of scope and rich with densely-layered sonic details, this was a beautifully-bonkers roller-coaster ride of epic electronica. A fully-realized multi-media trip that was reminiscent of the very best albums, when the artist took the listener along on a shared adventure, it felt at times like I was experiencing life in the 1880’s, 1980’s and 2080’s all at once – a striking past/present/future moment melded into one brilliant pastiche of sound and sight. 

The hours of work and editing, and trying and failing and trying again, that go into something of this magnitude are apparent. For just three seconds of imagery and music it could take three days of trial and error and dedication and craft. The immensity of layers and details, the consistent struggle to get things just right, and the ever-germinating seeds of doubt and dread – would this be good, would this be reviled, would this be ridiculed, would this be nothing? – and the resolve to trudge boldly ahead no matter the cost, no matter the outcome – you should know it was all seen and felt and keenly admired. It was all worth it.

In a weird way, it felt like you reached back in time to my teenage years, handed me a record to play, and saved my life for one night – a night that gave me all the nights that followed in a life I have come to honor and appreciate. There is healing in that, and healing something in the past is the stuff of only the most talented mystics and musicians. 

You, my friend, are the mad genius who takes his personal turmoil and tumult, boldly faces them down, and turns the fight into the stuff of beauty and art. You interpret the ancient lessons of the sages and point their well-won wisdom at our present-day demons through the modern machinations of technology. Of course it’s a futile battle, it’s a losing battle, it’s the ultimate cancellation of cancellations, but there you are, nobly drawing your synthesized musical sword and striking at the very heart of the possibility that none of it matters. Amid all the brutal thrashing and death-throes, you conjure a work that reflects your most singular, darkest secrets and fears, and somehow that work speaks to others. What was once your story is now ours, and there’s no more reassuring comfort than finding such camaraderie in a work of art. 

Thank you for sharing this powerful, challenging, thought-provoking recital with the world. 

With great admiration and awe, 

I remain, proudly, your friend,

~ A. 

PS – Can’t wait to hear the Halloween song!

[Listen to the full ‘Samsara’ performance here.]

Torn between the lingering effects of a very relaxing vacation and the jumpstart of a new week in which I’m already behind on office work, this Tuesday is an exercise in recuperation on a number of levels, and I’m already feeling as tattered as the flowers and leaves shown here. (Even on the Monday night on which I am writing this, I feel the return to stress and wear; how quickly our vacation mode evaporates the moment we are back in the routine.)

And so I will aim to be a little gentle with myself today, and with those around me. It’s not in our nature to be on a perpetual vacation – and deep down I know a perpetual vacation would lose its glamorous appeal the moment it became perpetual. Only a fool would wish for such monotony and throw away the very thing that makes vacation such a wonderful state of being. I embrace the days off, and feel a slight, underlying sensation of gratitude for the days on. The challenge – one which I’ve always been up for – is to make these days on as enjoyable and entertaining as possible. Another weekend away will be here before we can update the automated out-of-office response. 

Our weekly recap usually happen on Mondays, but since that was a vacation day for most people, we are behind, hence this recap a day late and so many dollars short. The previous week was all about ‘FireWater’ – the 2009 project that was shelved way back then but finally saw the light of day in a litany of posts that occupied things here while I was vacationing in Maine with Andy. It forms the bulk of posts this week, and was more than enough to keep the fires burning while we were gone.

The elusive ‘Amber Absolute’ by Tom Ford sizzles for the season.

The long-list project is resurrected.

The fear before the fire.

The preamble to FireWater, because forewarned is fair-warned.

Dazzlers of the Day included Lauren Ford, Jamie Lee Curtis and Dr. Joseph Abramo.

Finally, here is ‘FireWater’ in all its burning glory:

The Overture

Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave., Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco, CA

Scene 4: Sunday mornings, Boston & Provincetown

Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA

Scene 6: Times Square, New York

Scene 7: Tapas & Tinis, Ogunquit, ME

Scene 8: Hollywood Brown Derby, Albany, NY

Scene 9: Holiday Cocktail Hour, Albany, NY

Scene 10: My Brother’s First House, Amsterdam, NY

Scene 11: A friend’s home, Stormville, NY

End Scene.

Post Script: the ashes of FireWater.

“Being a freelance explorer of spiritual dangers, the Artist gains a certain license to behave differently from other people; matching the singularity of his vocation, he may be decked out with a suitably eccentric lifestyle, or he may not. His job is inventing trophies of his experiences – objects and gestures that fascinate and enthrall, not merely (as prescribed by older notions of the Artist) edify or entertain. His principal means of fascinating is to advance one step further in the dialectic of outrage. He seeks to make his work repulsive, obscure, inaccessible; in short, to give what is, or seems to be, not wanted. But however fierce may be the outrages the Artist perpetrates upon his audience, his credentials and spiritual authority depend depend on the audience’s sense (whether something known or inferred) of the outrages he commits upon himself.” ~ Susan Sontag 

It’s been my one constant companion for over a decade. Friends and lovers and family have come and gone, but alcohol has always endured – a comfort, an unbreakable contract, a covenant with a reliable savior. 

It’s been with me for the most important events of my life – weddings of friends, graduation parties, birthdays, holidays, reunions, vacations, even funerals. One of my favorite family memories is of standing in the garage on the evening before a relative’s funeral, knocking back beers with my Uncle and talking with the men of the Ilagan family. It was the only way we could relate to each other sometimes. 

It’s been the bearer and witness to some of my most heinous acts, my most embarrassing and deplorable behavior, and my cruelest blows – always without judgment, always without condemnation – forgiving me when forgiveness was the very last thing I deserved. 

It is with me now, in the back of my mind, waiting to be released, to wash away the pain and sorrow, to end the doubt and worry, to drown the fiery demons of my heart – and it will not let me go. 

In this bar, in this bar, I am dying
In this bar, in this bar, I am dying

Disassociated, keep off the grass
I prefer you naked, this too shall pass
Nuance carefully weighted, too slow, too fast
Too slow, too fast

I wanna go home, right now
I wanna go home, right now
I wanna go home, right now
I wanna go home

Kissing is forbidden, biting leaves marks
Sex is overrated, I need to dance
Calmly understated, well, you always had class
This too shall, hide is amour-plated
Oblivious to darts, this too shall pass

I wanna go home
I wanna go home, right now
I wanna go home, right now
I wanna go home, right now

How it should be that I’m sitting in the glow of this lone computer screen and a sextet of candles, scared out of my mind and listening to Philip Glass and his take on ‘Dracula’, is not entirely known to me. I ventured into the attic in the early hours of night, where it was dark and cool – not cold like winter, merely cool, as befitting of fall. This once-cozy place turned into something infernal once the candles were lit and the diabolical score for ‘Dracula’ began playing. It is, I suppose, the season to be frightened. 

A pointed hat is perched on the edge of the wooden desk. A pair of stones – one of rose quartz and one of carnelian – sits in the center of a mushroom-shaped pedestal. A brooch of indeterminable origin occupies another mushroom-like bowl. The candlelight is little solace, the flames dancing in macabre and unpredictable fashion, skittering like the violins across the darkness. 

It’s just pre-project-birthing nerves, perhaps, the usual doubt and fear that accompanies any creative release, even if there is distance from when this one was written. Thirteen years of distance. It does lend a certain enchantment, a protective talisman to keep the demons at bay, if only for a night. When the harsh light of day returns, there may also be terror. 

And then the start of the ‘FireWater’ journey. 

Walk with me…