Madonna Confesses Again: Confessions II

Madonna once proclaimed that you can never do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce. She was talking about making her ‘Erotica’ album in 1992, but after over four decades of making music and magic our queen of reinvention is recalling her past glories, while looking defiantly into the future. Her first album of new music in seven years (the absolute longest stretch of time without new Madonna music in her entire career) ‘Confessions II‘ is the companion piece to 2005’s ‘Confessions On A Dancefloor‘ but it probably should have come with its own title, as it stands alone as a work of individual art.

For all the naysayers that complain she’s still putting out photo shoots and new music while being less than nimble as she once was, the sexism and ageism is only showing their bitterness; Madonna is going to be Madonna, as she’s always been, and they’re still talking about her like it’s 1985 all over again.

While the original ‘Confessions’ was technically a seamlessly mixed group of songs, they were very much distinct and easily distinguished from each other, which made for a traditional album. This time around, the music feels more cohesive and closely linked, the sonic landscape a journey and an experience to be taken as a whole. It works like a DJ set at the clubs as Madonna used to run them, and opening salvo ‘I Feel So Free’ echoes her own ‘Future Lovers‘ which itself took its sound from Donna Summer‘s ‘I Feel Love’, setting the tone and the feel for the music to follow. Lyrically, and with frequent spoken bits, Madonna maintains the confessional mood throughout the album, notably sharing the spotlight and volleying with pop-star-of-the-moment Sabrina Carpenter, whom she asks “What are you doing it for? Is it for you? Is it them? I got something I wanna talk about.” A more glaring understatement Madonna has never made – she’s been talking for years about all that’s important to her, and sparking an international discussion on topics like sexism, homophobia, racism, and ageism.

Credit and respect must be paid to Stuart Price, who was responsible for the original ‘Confessions’ album, and whose DJ expertise has created the musical thread of hypnotic beats that runs through the heart of the proceedings; here he cements his status as one of her most important collaborators, on the level of Patrick Leonard, Stephen Bray, Shep Pettibone, William Orbit and Mirwais.

While the first few releases (‘I Feel So Free’, ‘Bring Your Love’ and ‘Love Sensation‘) were brilliantly rolled out to build momentum, it’s the next single, the banger ‘Danceteria’, that helms the record, nodding to the past and Madonna’s historical place in New York’s dance club scene. It gives lifelong fans the lifeblood that is a perfect Madonna dance song, one that name-checks her iconic crew from the 80’s, reminding us of a world long lost – a world of unabashed joy, where the only things that mattered were the dance floor, the music, and perhaps a cute boy who had the courage to dance with you.

‘Everything’ is a plea to live life outside, its racing, jittery, relentless pace driving the sort of urgent demand to meet the moment that only Madonna knows so well. In ‘Bizarre’, she paints a dramatically cinematic abstract about a relationship gone every which way but right, while on ‘School’ she seems desperate to be taught something new, something she doesn’t already know, which, when you’ve lived a life like Madonna, is a pretty tall order. Her hunger is palpable, working through artistic metaphors and seeking someone to teach her something novel about love.

‘Confessions II’ is on its surface celebratory and euphoric, yet it proves itself more resonant and rooted in deeper emotions and ruminations, particularly on the cuts where Madonna references family issues such as the loss of her brother Christopher (‘Fragile’) and her relationship with her daughter (‘The Test’) which features vocals by Madonna’s eldest Lourdes.

In the seven long years since her last original album, Madonna’s been through a lot – including a near-death experience. That sort of drama informs all that’s at work here, lending the soundscape an urgency and gravitas that transcends the boundaries of the dance floor, even if that’s where Madonna finds her salvation – it’s the place she has always found salvation, and this return feels especially poignant and powerful. After almost four and a half decades in the music business, the Queen retains her crown.

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It’s Purple and Veiny and You’re Gonna Love It

Our post is about this purple petunia, so get your mind out of the cum-gutter.

Petunias are a classic, if overly-used, annual that provides boffo floral bang for their bucks. I’ve come to appreciate such a powerhouse bloomer, though when I tried accenting our garden with a few of them lats year, they were devoured by a rabbit or groundhog before they ever got going. When they do manage to survive such attacks, they will sometimes manage to reseed themselves the next year, though never in a place nearby. Such mysteries are what makes gardening to fascinating to me. One never knows what’s going to pop up, or where or when. It’s good to have the unexpected to keep you on your toes. 

As for this beautiful variety, I love the way the shades of the petals change, and all the intricate veining. Nature is wonderfully astounding when you take in her infinite variety – and I don’t mind if it’s the work of hybridizers. A little nudge never hurt anyone, unless they were standing on the edge of a cliff or something, and these petunias were nowhere near cliffside. This has been a remarkably dumb post, and I’m attributing it to the heat. Summer makes fools of us all. 

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Pool Light

Reflected off the pool, the light of the day is blue, especially when shaded by a cherry tree in full summer leaf. In the high heat of the afternoon, where we’ve been maxing out in the mid-90’s, the end of my work day is marked by a plunge into the pool, but it’s so there is only momentary reprieve to be found. The moment you surface, the hot air is back in your lungs, choking you from the inside out. One can’t stay safely underwater for that long; the brain and the body require more oxygen than the coolness would provide. I’m not about to trade this inferno in early for the one I may be destined for later on.

Still, the water feels good, and my aching arms and back – courtesy of the cutting-down and chopping-up of an overgrown bird-seeded weedy mulberry tree – feel relief and release in the gravity-free floating that only water can provide. For that reason, for that ease, I smile and melt into the rest of the afternoon.

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A Moment of Summer Melancholy

‘Melancholy’ is one of my favorite words.

It’s not a particularly favorite state of mind, as wildly familiar as it sometimes seems.

A melancholy summer seems a bit of an oxymoron, an unfair alignment with an emotion that seems the antithesis of what should be the sunny happy season. My infuriating pathology is such that it goes against the happy grain when sunny days are expected. I’m as much a dark cloud as a hoot and a half – it’s generally a pesky problem for all who try so hard to love me.

In the high heat of summer, after a night rain, the day begins in hazy focus or lack there-of. The eye moves in on water and light, while the grass rises to shake it off, slowly bending upward and letting any remaining raindrops fall into the ground. Summer awakens and rights the day.

I like the silence of early summer mornings when the birds aren’t even singing and the cicadas haven’t started their incessant moan. The pool is still, the air doesn’t move, and even the fountain grass that moves in the most slight of breezes stands frozen as if in sculpture. It puts me in mind of a favorite poem by Pablo Neruda, which features a favorite word.

Poem XV by Pablo Neruda

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.

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Walking on Eggshells

If you’re walking on eggshells, I don’t think you have to be all that careful.

They’re gonna break no matter what, right?

Why all the carefulness?

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Slowing Down the Summer Head

‘Summer head’ meant something different in this post.

Today it signifies my current state of mind, which I caught to put in check just in the nick of time.

An explanation of that sentence then, awkward and stilted and inelegant – all the things I try not to be: my mind was already racing toward fall, planning and plotting out a fall theme for this website, figuring out the fall wardrobe, and breaking in a special pair of fall boots. Summer is but a few days old, and I was already working on fall – and that was simply madness.

As I said, I caught it just in time to realize how stupid I was being to jump ahead and lose the present moment of the sunny season, especially this week when summer turns to high. And so I put the fall on rightful pause, and indulged in the pool and the garden and the summer at hand. Bringing myself back to the present moment and taking myself out of the phone and out of the future felt like a remarkable relief.

A return to the man I used to be, or a glimpse of the man I’m becoming

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Crop Top Pelvic Peek

Way back in the 1980’s, when I was but a wee lad, I don’t recall the crop top craze for guys, but I was so young that fashion hadn’t yet crossed my brainwaves. I’m told, and grainy photos will attest, that men did indeed enjoy their crop top moment – and I wish I had done so when it was easier to maintain a svelte figure than it is at my current age. Regardless, some decent lighting and trick angles, along with sucking in the gut at precisely the right moment manage to convince the world that things are all still somewhat presentable for the masses.

This post kicks off our July, in which this wayward country celebrates its 250th anniversary – such a shame we have such a moron sitting in and defiling the Presidency. The patriotic posts you’re about to see are all tongue-in-cheek, as I can’t genuinely celebrate what we’ve become right now, and America has always been about keeping the right to criticize. At least, it was.

Rather than dive too deep into that awfulness, I’m donning a crop top for your entertainment, and short-shorts to keep it all real. It gives some patriotism with its Wonder Woman and Superman color scheme – how fitting right now that our country’s heroes are fictional as fuck.

There’s a Fourth of July post coming up here, if I choose to post those jockstrap pics – it’s so hard to decide what best personifies the USA right now, but if it’s not a jockstrap I’m hard-pressed to find something more fitting. Come on back to see that show if I’m brave enough to do it (and I’m always brave enough to do it).

As for a happy ending to this post, you’re on your own.

Don’t get any on me.

They don’t call me Sporty Spice. (That’s it, that’s the sentence. And the post.)

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Happy Return of the Yellow Flowers

One of the very first garden plants I obsessively coveted was this evening primrose, which is blanketed in beautiful yellow flowers this time of the year. They have a short blooming period, but it’s a blockbuster show while it lasts. Such a bright and cheery color is welcome no matter how brief its stay might be. How you can you be mad at the world when little drops of sunshine peer up at you from the ground?

While they used to simply be one of the flowers that signified the arrival of summer, they’ve come to embody this song about ‘the place with the yellow flowers’. Summer shifts and changes, evolving and transforming as time marches onward. We need gentle reminders of what stays the same, and what becomes something new.

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Insta’s Undue Influence

My social media engagements these days are usually far less than most people I know, coming at the three times in a day when something new is posted on my website. Those are regularly scheduled and happen without much thought or input, so it looks like I’m more regularly engaged that I actually am. That’s because I learned long ago how far removed from reality social media too often is. Even Madonna seems to have come around when it comes to something like Instagram, where she previously spilled (overspilled?) every aspect of her life. 

I still sometimes get sucked into the vortex of reels upon reels, and all the recommended videos are of course those that they intrigued your interest, your algorithm brilliantly capturing exactly what’s going to tickle your fancy – but it’s just a time sucker, a way to keep your brain and mind up way past your bedtime, scrolling past your necessary sleep cycle and taking up residence in spaces better suited for peace and tranquility. To that end, I’m limiting phone time to my waking hours, and even then I’m not on it as much as I used to be. It’s a healthier, happier space. I’m touching the grass and it’s lovely.

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Canna Do

What canna guy do? Other than make embarrassingly-bad puns and Dad jokes? In this case, we have a play on the Canna plant, whose beauty is nothing to joke about as evidenced in these fiery pics. For some reason, I rarely grow any Cannas, which is strange because they are pretty easy, and you get impressive tropical-looking blooms that set any scene aflame. Mostly I appreciate them from afar, such as when they are planted by cities in public spaces.

This season, however, I plopped one into a group pot and it’s already in bloom. Maybe it sensed we needed some cheer. Maybe it jumped the gun and wanted to steal the early glory for itself. Maybe it’s just a plant and doesn’t care either way. Whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s here, and I’m loving its vibrant color.

It’s a decent personification of the fire this week’s temperatures are set to bring. Burn, baby, burn.

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Read Your Lips, Shut My Mouth

Some songs aren’t messages meant for other people.

Some songs are posted here as a message to myself.

Sometimes I need to be told things, sometimes I need to shut my mouth and listen.

Such is the message of the song at hand. Is it for you? Is it for me? Depends who is going to be the most brutally honest. Summer seers into the mind in this way, positing questions, the most torturous and debilitating questions for anyone the least bit susceptible to hiding behind prettiness and ease and the desire not to disrupt that which isn’t entirely broken down. We have come to accept the very lowest effort and behavior of others when it comes to how we are being treated.

YOU’RE GIVING LEADING ACTOR, YOU WANNA STEAL THE SHOW
SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SHUT YOUR MOUTH, SHUT YOUR MOUTH
YOU LIE WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE TO, THEY’RE GONNA FIND YOU OUT
SHUT YOUR MOUTH

This latest Madonna song, to be featured in the FIFA World Cup halftime show it seems, is a collab with Feid, and the music propels this onto the field with a propulsive party vibe with a darker edge thanks to the lyrical bombast and indictment. I love dark parties. Especially in the summer. All that drama, all that intrigue, all that unnecessary strife – and on the hottest days of the year to make it so much more unbearable.

I DON’T BELIEVE A WORD THAT YOU SAY
I WONDER IF YOU LIKE IT THIS WAY
I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW

Today Mercury goes into annoying retrograde motion, and there is also a full moon, so welcome to hell at the height of summer. Temperatures are also set to soar up to 100 degrees this week, so my aim is to lay low, keep to the pool and the AC, and lean into my daily meditations lest I lose what little is left of my middle-aged mind. Also, I’m completely out of fucks to give, so should anyone ask for one with annoying nonsense, I won’t be responsible for my response.

READ MY LIPS, TELL IT TO MY FACE
AND YOU CUT ME WITH YOUR LIES
‘CAUSE YOU HURT ME WITH YOUR KISS AND I REALIZE
YOU’RE JUST BROKEN, BROKEN UP INSIDE
BUT I WILL SURVIVE

It’s kind of cruel to tell someone they’re broken and basically tell them to fuck off in the same breath. But maybe cruelty is the kindest way to send certain messages. Madonna has always been one for summer drama, and this week her new album comes out. I’m planning on dancing the Mercury and full moon troubles away…

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Dazzler of the Day: Keke Palmer

Keke Palmer is one of those thrilling multiple-threats on the entertainment front, having conquered movies and television and music and Broadway, easily earning her this Dazzler of the Day crowning. Her popular appearances with Hot Ones host Sean Evans have endeared her to him, and her to us, while her engaging personality is a natural for hosting gigs and podcasts and interviews. I would watch her read the phone book (which dates me more than I’d like since no one even knows what a phone book is anymore).

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Cloud 7

A friend recently asked if I was still on Cloud 9 after some happy outcome, and I replied without thinking or knowing what I was even saying, “Maybe Cloud 7.”

I was going to look it up for you, to share the origin of the term ‘Cloud 9’ but after a half-hearted Google search I gave up because I just don’t give a shit. If you’re reading this, you have access to Google. Do your own research.

As for the ‘Cloud 7’ answer, it feels more fitting than originally intended. Some summers are Cloud 7 summers; they can’t all be Cloud 9. That’s life. We deal with it.

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Golden Summer Reflections

YOUR FEET MOVE JUST LIKE A DANCER
YOUR SOUL BEATS JUST LIKE A DRUM
TOMORROW HAS ALL THE ANSWERS
TODAY SAYS WE’VE JUST BEGUN…

Catching fifty years of living in this body can sometimes be a jolt, especially when you come upon your visage early in the morning and the light is harsh and the day is new and the sleep has settled into your lines and gray hair. Once in a while, though, in the golden hour’s light and the filtered reflection of a door window, a quick change out of swim trunks following a pool dip reveals a body that is keen on getting healthier, on surviving and thriving, on being something better than it was yesterday. 

DON’T YOU FEEL THE SUN
HOPEFUL HEARTS OF THE HUMAN RACE
SHINING DOWN FROM ABOVE…

Golden hours in summer hit differently than at any other time of the year. The sun is still burning its heat through the air, you can feel it warm your skin. You’re reminded of your golden worth – the way true gold reveals itself in the end – and you suddenly see through all those flimsy gilded superficial wanna-bes void of substance. Their empty, albeit shiny and new, vessels of temptation and flash always out themselves in the end, and if you’ve been smart and careful you never took them too seriously in the first place.

WE’RE GOLDEN
BURN LIKE THE STARS
STAY GOLDEN
STRAIGHT FROM YOUR HEART

Gold can be one’s heart and constitution, or gold can be one’s deceptive covering. Only you can accept and acknowledge which gold you are, because only you in your heart truly know. And we all know, even when we don’t want to admit it to ourselves. We always know. The soul will see to what the brain might try to avoid – and the heart… well, I don’t know why any of us even tries to fool the heart after a certain age. 

WITH A VOICE SAYING, “I’LL NEVER GIVE IN”
GET KNOCKED DOWN, BACK UP AGAIN
WE’RE GOLDEN, GOLDEN
THAT’S WHO WE ARE

Sometimes I forget, and it takes a fleeting glimpse of myself in the glass reflection of a summer afternoon by the pool to remind me of all that I am, the man I’ve worked years to become. Sometimes I have to call a friend and ask them to remind me of who I am, because unlike the way it’s supposed to work, the older I get sometimes the more I doubt myself. My friends are all good enough to oblige on these rare moments of faltering and questioning. They prop me up when, weary and bedraggled, I have those moments of pause. We all have them. 

LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE YOU’RE STEALING
EVERY LITTLE MOMENT IN TIME
INFINITY GOES ON FOREVER
LAY YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE

DON’T YOU FEEL THE SUN
HOPEFUL HEARTS OF THE HUMAN RACE
WRAPPED IN THE ARMS OF LOVE

Summer brings me back to the little boy I used to be, the boy who had the confidence and power and a belief in himself that he was already all that he needed to be. How strange that as our lives go on, they bring us further and further from the truths with which we are all born. Maybe I’m at the bend of a boomerang, and it’s time to start returning to those childhood truths. There are so many tantalizing ways to veer off our path, so many seductive wolves in granny’s guises, so many illusory traps whispering false words that meant nothing to anyone other than a way to pass the time. Many speak of the folly of youth – when so much more folly follows us into adulthood. Maybe growing up doesn’t involve losing ourselves to adulthood, but rather finding our way back to who we were in the beginning. 

WE’RE NOT YOUNG AND WE’RE NOT OLD
WE’RE THE STORIES NOT YET TOLD
WON’T BE BOUGHT AND CAN’T BE SOLD
WE ARE GOLDEN

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