Chased by demons both real and imagined, he runs down metallic stairs that echo against their concrete walls. This song runs through his head, adding to the intrigue with its dramatic push and driving beat. It is mood music, the soundtrack to an action sequence that drives the narrative while engaging with an underlying tension. Summer crafts a different sort of drama – heightened, feverish, and slightly more sinister than perhaps any other time of the year. Summer is supposed to be easy, so when trauma does rear its head, it somehow feels a little bit worse. Or a little more exciting. Life depends so much on interpretation and attitude.
Back to the opening sentence, and our protagonist, always some version of myself either current or past or even future, is running through the stairs of a Russian hotel during the summer of 1990. I was chasing myself, seeking the boy I used to be, and the man I was on the verge of becoming, and not quite catching up to either. I was just beginning to understand the art of conjuring drama, of telling a story, of being of such peaked interest to people that you stayed on their mind even and especially when absent. And in the absence of apparent love, this is what the adolescent does to emotionally survive.
The art of making an impression.
And so I ran, in the movie of my mind, and on an actual day when my absence might have been a matter of interest had anyone bothered to notice. La Habanera danced before my head, and I found a means of escape, and exit. Outside the hotel, the air was warm. A Russian night unfurled in the forest beyond the hotel grounds. Summer demands exploration, and danger bound inextricably to the fabric of discovery. The point of innocence is often only seen in its unraveling.
Writer Justinian Huang earns his first Dazzler of the Day crowning thanks to two books that have mesmerized readers for the past couple of years, especially those of us interested in intersectional LGBTQ+ themes and characters: ‘Lucky Seed’ and ‘The Emperor and the Endless Palace’ (the latter of which was recently named as a Stonewall Honor Book in Literature). Check out Justinian’s enchanting website here for further evidence of his brilliance.
A message of value, especially to the kids: maintaining your integrity is always the coolest thing to do, even, and especially, when it feels at odds with everyone around you.
Way back in the 80’s, summers felt way different. I was just a child then, so summers lasted forever. They ran so far into the future that school felt a lifetime away. The deliciousness of a July day contained multitudes, and for a child in the 80’s there was freedom and adventure and an innocence that I fear has long disappeared. It was all there, in a pop song given a reggae slant for this island summer.
Things look so bad everywhere In this whole world, what is fair? We walk blind and we try to see Falling behind in what could be…
A coconut limonada sweats down a hibiscus glass as a sprig of fresh mint perches jauntily near the rim. Summer heat and high humidity, still new enough to be welcome and not annoying, start from the earliest morning, when the stillness of the hour is enough to trick you into thinking it’s possibly cool. Friction and action lead to heat – staying quiet and stationary lends a coolness, even if it’s only the making of your mind.
Worlds are turning and we’re just hanging on Facing our fear and standing out there alone A yearning, and it’s real to me There must be someone who’s feeling for me Things look so bad everywhere In this whole world, what is fair?
Unfortunately, that effortless, carefree look requires more than just plopping some stems in a vase and letting gravity take its course. But happily not much…
A decent bouquet requires a light touch. Placing each stem and evenly spacing them from each other is the worst sort of bouquet, and we’ve all been guilty of it. Instead, I try to make an easy, sometimes unexpected focal point, and groupings of flowers that play off that focus and try to move the eye elsewhere. Color can be a way of drawing the eye as well – colors that play off each other, or echo that focal point. Don’t forget the importance of foliage, which can be a focal point in itself, but may also break up the color and architecture of the flowers.
What is it about a bundt cake that spurs conversation and camaraderie?
Is it some latent childhood memory that brings back the elusive rhythm of adults talking in the background that allowed kids to be invisible? In so many ways, that was what we always wanted as kids – to not be sticking out or the center of attention. To fade into the background so we could focus on our adventures. To not be bothered by fastidious adults and hovering parents. These days I’m on the other end of that scene – in the muffled background noise of the adults. There is a certain full circle symmetry there, mixed metaphors and all. That brings us back to the title and featured picture of this post: the bundt cake.
Our pool is open and our invitations have been delivered – the rest of the summer unfurls beyond what I can or want to see. The first summer gathering is already done, and two more weekends of guests are just ahead. Truth be told, I’ve always enjoyed the days leading up to a gathering more than most of the gatherings themselves, but I’m learning to let the enjoyment fill the occasion too. Smaller summer dinners are more my style – with casual, relaxed grill fare – no oven baking, no stove-top boiling – just simple burgers or steaks and some cool, leafy salad. The only question that remains: guess who’s coming to dinner?
Summer finds us more social, at odds with the way my youth went, when school’s social activities ceased once it was July. That was always summer’s big relief for my socially-anxious disposition – but there were certain exceptions. The Fourth of July was celebrated at the grand home of a family friend on Locust Avenue, and my birthday in August always demanded some sort of social grace. In 1990, I basically extended the school year during our trip to the then-Soviet Union. That’s where and when Suzie introduced me to ‘The Mighty Quinn’ soundtrack, which is what fuels the music for this post.
High summer is at hand – memories surface from as long as 30 years ago, and from just a few days prior – time working its strange alchemy especially when tied to summer. There is a hint of mystery to it too, the way the nights are always darker in summer than in winter. Surely more mysterious things are to come…
My father shared my sun sign – Virgo – and exhibited the typical care for fastidious neatness and order throughout his life. Dad’s been on my mind of late, probably because the high summer weather we’ve had of late rekindles his last summer with us. As I was preparing for our first flush of guests this season, I thought of him again. He used to hose off the front sidewalks and driveway of my childhood home whenever guests would be visiting, and as I found myself employing the same studied techniques, I felt comfort in the memory.
There’s a better cleaning that results from a hose-down compared to simple weeping, and in these dry, hot days, it doubles as a watering for the lawn. What once made me wonder at the point of such meticulousness in method, I now employ and enjoy as the best way to spruce up the look of a home. It is comfort and care, and a nice way to remember my father. It’s also a sign of hospitality and respect, two things that my father taught me through example and illustration – the very best kind of lesson a child can have.
He has his very own category here, so it’s always a good time to add to that storied inventory, such as with these two pics of Tom Daley for a quick Monday-afternoon appreciation post. Daley has made a number of splashes here, and for anyone suffering Speedo withdrawal this summer from the lack of Summer Olympic Games, these links are for you:
This was a wonderful summer weekend – with friends and family and even the sun cooperating for a pool-centered celebration. Dive into this weekly blog recap and take it easy this week…
Summer sun saps the way our eyes take in light, and whether it’s the chlorine from the pool or the overtaxed stimulation of the pupils, near the end of the afternoon everything is hazy and drained of color. Sepia-toned memories from an isolated island of our own creation push against the encroaching reality of a world gone mad. A song sounds from a dusty antique boombox, the voice of someone long dead and still celebrated, a song of hope and defiance and love – a song of summer.
Sunday nights in summer are a strange time. They feel less wicked than they do in the winter, perhaps a residual PTSD trick from my school days. They are quieter in a different way – somehow even the light lands differently. Let the weekend linger, they seem to whisper, leave the work-week troubles for another day. Let the relaxation run on a bit, let it bleed into the wee hours of Monday.
Technically Provincetown is at the tip of a peninsula, but in many respects it feels like an island; happily isolated and apart from the rest, it is a place of magic and wonder, the kind of space that only exists in that one special location. On my first trip there with Suzie, just about thirty years ago, this song was one of her selections, and my late introduction to the Blondie classic in no way diminished my instant love and adoration for it. (Suzie knows a good song.)
It ties in splendidly to our summer island theme, conjuring images of anemones and mollusks hanging on for dear life as the tide comes in and threatens their hold. It also brings to mind the resilience of anyone who loves another person who may not love them back. That’s a ripe little topic for summer, but I’ve written enough stories on that to fill a book. This one is about something more hopeful, like the feeling of possibility that rode on the salty sea air which greeted us as we wound our way along Route 6 and entered the sandy environs of Provincetown on a rainy summer afternoon…
Wait, I already wrote about this long ago, so rather than reassemble the whole thing, let me do some searching and copying and pasting and call this post finished:
The Paradise of Provincetown
There is a paradisiacal place on this earth where the sun both rises and sets over the ocean, where sexuality is irrelevant, and where a pizza party begins at 1AM every morning. It’s a place where one can lay on the beach, bask in the sun, drink in the sights (and the cocktails), and dance the day away on the beachfront. The sky is more blue than anywhere else, the light enchants artists and lovers of beauty, and the atmosphere is one of easy acceptance, warmth, and love. The place is Provincetown ~ that magical point at the very tip of Cape Cod ~ where the ocean surrounds, protects, buffers and belts the sandy shores of a world unlike any other.
My first trip to Provincetown was at the end of the summer of 1995. Dragging our August feet a few weeks before college began again, Suzie and I took an impromptu drive along the curved arm of the Cape Cod peninsula, winding our way into town in the middle of a gray drizzle. The whole trip was hazy that way ~ clouds overhead, but still bright, windy but emanating warmth ~ it lives in my memory dimly yet implacably. I don’t remember much about that first trip ~ a photo of one perfect sunflower is framed somewhere, taken behind our guesthouse looking over the bay. Suzie and I mostly did what we do best ~ a lot of nothing. We read books on the beach, browsed lazily through the boutiques, and feasted on lobster salad and fried clams. At night I strolled alone down Commercial Street, passing a long line of leering men ~ terrifying and exciting all at once ~ a thrilling, unsettling glimpse into my own future. I thought I was such hot shit in my linen pants and tight black T?shirt, holding off insecurity with aloofness, putting myself above everyone so as to be hurt or rejected by no one.
We departed Provincetown unscathed and untouched. The next five years do not prove so fortuitous, and when I return to the Cape in July of 2000, I am battle?weary and worn from a few serious relationships and subsequent break?ups, and a dizzying series of one?night?stands.
~~~
My friend Kristen and I board the ferry at Boston harbor. The wind is strong, the sun is stronger – it is the perfect July day. The jaunt to Provincetown is a rocky one, quick to be sure (at 90 minutes), but bumpy – people are getting sick right and left.
Thank God for the foresight to have taken Dramamine. We arrive at our guesthouse and unpack. It is a slow, peaceful, relaxing entry, with the good spirits of Kristen buoying me and the tranquil pull of the ocean guiding our journey. That night we head out to the Gifford house, where there is a group sing?along to ‘Delta Dawn’.
It’s so easy to get laid in Provincetown. Sex is in the air, on the beach, in the dunes, at the bars ~ it’s everywhere. But it no longer interests me. Of course, once that is the case one instantly becomes a hot commodity. In the past I would have jumped into bed with the first suitor who glanced my way, but things are different now. I’d rather play double solitaire with Kristen and have a real conversation with someone at the bar instead of going home with some beautiful but anonymous stranger.
Still, beauty casts an intoxicating spell, and a few days later I succumb to a gorgeous guy whose name is Chris. He will be my only one?night?stand for the whole week. Back in my room, there is moonlight streaming in through the window. The light is gray, our bodies just dim outlines in the hushed night. As we undress, he compliments me on my underwear. I laugh a little and kiss him.
When it’s over I ask him his last name. I don’t remember it now, but back then it was important. It is the perfect Provincetown one?night?stand ~ sweetly poignant, ferociously sexy, and a little bit sad. I see him on the street the next day. He gives me a smile and a handshake and that is the end of it. A slightly apathetic ache is all that remains. I don’t really care, but still, it might have been nice…
Suzie arrives a day or so later – we head out at night and a super?hot, and super? cool, lesbian drags us along as she crashes a friend’s party. Provincetown casts a seductive spell on most of her visitors ~ a spell of summer, of sand, of ocean and perfect sky. She embraces all outcasts and for a few days everyone lives this enchanting utopian vision. You find yourself swept away, doing things you never thought you would do.
In spite of this harmony, it is still possible to feel alone. Walking out along the pier with the moon hovering over the ocean, I stand in the night wind. Surrounded by the cries of seagulls, remembering the love of my life, I mourn. And then it is done. I return to the shore, to the lights, to the music and the drinking and the dancing. I do not know then that in a few weeks I will meet Andy. But for that moment, I am alone, and it’s okay.
~~~
By the end of the week the bartenders simply set a Tanqueray and tonic in front of me without waiting for my order. I have become a small part of P?town’s transient family, and it feels good to belong. At the daily Boatslip tea dance I find the nerve to introduce myself to the Most Beautiful Man in the World, also known as David, who, I later discover, works for Gucci. He invites us to their new store opening in Boston the next week. I shake his hand and we say good?bye.
On our last morning in Provincetown, I arise early and walk down Commercial Street alone. I have a quick breakfast at a diner and buy a box of saltwater taffy for my parents. It’s early ~ there aren’t many people out yet. And even though I am alone, I find comfort in the overwhelming sense of acceptance I feel around me ~ not worrying about being ridiculed, or yelled at or taunted, or beaten or killed. It is a healthy feeling.
The town is like that ~ a place of refuge for some, a place of enchantment for others, and a temporary home for all. There’s no place like Provincetown.
