After a non-stop Sunday of breakfast-making, driving from Albany to Ballston Spa to Amsterdam and back, working out, shopping, location-scouting, and reading by the pool to be present on a summer’s day, I found myself facing a blog bereft of an evening post and I just didn’t have the energy to make one happen. As serious work continues on the fall theme and possible project, blog posts may feel lighter and less substantial. The older I get, the more scant my energy and resources when it comes to creative output, so bear with me because the fall season here is going to be something. I promise.

In the meantime, I’m going to try to dial back the work days and enjoy the summer while it is here. Fall will bring more than enough time to focus on new web themes and projects, and I remind myself to take time in the garden, to jump in the pool, to embrace and adore the summer.

For a morning summer moment, I made myself a breakfast of eggs and brought it out to the patio, where I picked a few ripe tomatoes from the vine, popping them directly into my mouth as one can do when the harvest is heavy. Rain in the night had started to split the ripest ones, so I threw a few into the lawn for the chipmunks. Andy has seen them snacking on them by the pool and on this day my heart wasn’t into scaring them away.

As I sat there winding to the end of ‘The Summer Book’ by Tove Jansson, I heard a squirrel jump into a nearby tree. Watching its silhouette against a blue sky, I followed its quick journey down to the fence and across the yard. It disappeared into the neighbor’s yard. The only sound left was the buzzing of the bees in the hydrangea blooms, the perfume of which was slightly reminiscent of privet in Provincetown, and summer memories mingled with summer present – the happiest sort of mental collision. All felt right with the world on this Sunday morning, and I’d take this moment with me as I drove along the dusty backroads that brought me back to my childhood town.

The first week of August already done, summer hurtles into its second half, and by the end of this upcoming week August will be halfway done. That’s a bittersweet realization, the way my birth month often rolls, and no sense in waiting on this weekly blog recap... here we go.

Guilty as charged, and not one bit sorry about it. If you’re lucky enough to get texted by me, just say thank you.

The August Show is a double-edged sword.

A single branch can change the entire room, but it won’t change the heart.

Ben Platt stuffs his hirsute body into a pair of tighty-whities in this insane photo shoot.

August means Echinacea and bursts of beauty.

A bouquet of a single bloom courtesy of this plate-size Hibiscus.

A grandly-gratuitous Nicholas Galitzine post celebrates He-Man’s thighs and then some.

This golden love break… ooh I love it!

Sometimes I can’t believe what comes out of my mouth.

Once you had gold.

Feeling my naked ass again with a golden summer revamp.

How dare they call this wretched thing a ‘gown’?

A Friday night floral follow-up, because when I make a promise it will always be kept.

Who doesn’t love a good Boney with a Heart of Gold?

Pretty, pink and prickly – three of my favorite things.

How are so many Americans still this stupid?

Another glorious morning of summer.

August sweetness enticing the birds and the bees.

The sweet scent of the climbing hydrangea opened the summer a couple of months ago – now we have the August blooming tree variety to lend perfume to this section of the season. The bees have taken particular pleasure in visiting this shrub lately, buzzing around the patio and getting intoxicated on all the pollen and fragrance. I don’t blame them – a bit of fresh sweetness cuts through the soupy humidity and stultifying heat this week has wrought.

The bees know where it’s at, and their gentle background humming lends comfort to the backyard, reminding that summer is still in full, glorious effect. Get out there and make the most of it.

This isn’t hard math, except for certain dumb Americans who still support the loser Trump.

#FAFO

Flowers somehow mean more when they appear amid the spines of a cactus – maybe because we know how difficult desert survival can be, and to flower indicates a resilience and triumph of spirit and power over circumstance and environment. On my lone visit to the Southwest desert, I remember being blown away by the variety of architectural wonder on display by the cacti and succulents that dared to brave the inhospitable area. Those that managed to flower – the prickly pears and a few saguaros – were emblematic of hope and beauty defiantly existing in a world of desolation. Whenever I see a cactus in bloom, I’m humbled and awed, and it’s a good lesson and reminder of survival and strength – pink prettiness too in the case of this precious guy. 

How dare they call this a “gown“.

And how dare they suggest a shingles shot to me.

(Of course, I totally took it because I don’t fuck with shingles – I’ve heard of too many younger people getting it, and it sounds truly terrible.)

So this is me at my annual doctor’s check-up, pre-shingles shot #1 and pre-bloodwork, because on this day I will be poked more than all my spring breaks combined. The “gown” doesn’t match my underwear, which is upsetting. Not sure which is more awful.

Almost 51.

Could be worse.

Now that the sun has tinged me with some color, and I’ve decided not to throw in the towel for this summer, a second wind arrives to lift my sails and carry us through the rest of the golden season. A summer rescue mission, if you will, to save and salvage the hefty chunk of sun and heat that remains possible – still present to burn and astound.

This sort of mid-to-late season epiphany is usually reserved for a Scrooge-like redemption scene nearer to the holidays, but there’s room for salvation at any time of the year, should one’s heart be ready and open. Summer is made for second chances, for getting back up after you’ve been knocked down – by a rainstorm, by a wind gust, by the general battering of life at this particularly problematic point in time. It’s an opportunity to try again, without rush, without hurry – because while summer never lasts quite as long as we’d like, it always lasts longer than we think it does.

That means there’s still time to turn things around – and a decent amount of time at that. Summer is the promise of spring fulfilled; promises do not always deliver the way we anticipate – that whole ‘careful what you wish for’ thing rearing its tricky, infuriating head. (Hard to find good head these days, as you know better than me.)

Summer sauciness is back, and I’m feeling like myself again.

Summer sassiness never left.

Sometimes I can’t believe the things that come out of my mouth, and I don’t mean all the unwieldy ball-gags.

I found myself saying this to someone the other day and I simply had to shrug:

“My silence was not meant to indicate that you should continue talking.”

Some days I do wonder at my survival.