From The Land of Tethered to the Land of Un: A Journey of Truth Toward Freedom

I can’t believe I’m starting off this piece with a biblical reference, but it seems apropos as most of us have heard the phrase, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32, KJV). That might actually be true. The truth can certainly have a positive effect on people. It can also hurt like hell. But let me focus on the clarity-providing positive aspects of the truth.

I have long avoided asking questions to which I feared the answers. Answers that I suspected I knew but didn’t officially know. In recent weeks, however, I asked some of those questions of my family, and I was graced with a bit of truth in their answers.

Imagine wandering aimlessly down a path cracked with uncertainty, overgrown with weeds of assumption, constantly trying to evade being ensnared by snaking vines of suspicion. This path is in the Land of Tethered and I’ve been walking it for a long time. Avoiding. It’s exhausting. I thought knowing the truth would hurt too much, so I avoided it. I trudged along, believing the “truth” in my head. I let the unspoken “truth” weigh me down. I’ve been rambling down the path wearing concrete shoes.

Turns out I was right about the answers. I know my family loves me. But being loved is different from being supported. Love might allow one to throw out the welcome mat but that doesn’t mean it will open all the doors. There is silence between us. Conversations, when they happen, have moved into the zone of politesse. There is no depth, no revealing honesty. We tiptoe around each other, avoiding topics like religion, politics, anything LGBTQ. We’re on different sides. What I didn’t know is there’s a perception that I am selfish and self-absorbed. Those thorny words pricked my skin. Yet, I know I can be both. But so can we all at times. It was expressed to me that I am the cause of heartbreak, which is never my intention. But sometimes our actions and choices break the hearts of those we love. Sometimes even the questions we ask. My heart has definitely been in a state of break due to the choices made by my family based on a religious moral code. But the most surprising disclosure of this truth-telling delivery was the anger. I was on the receiving end of anger that I didn’t know existed. I’m usually the angry one.

We are not entitled to know what other people think about us. And we would all probably be better served not knowing. But learning the truth, in a way, released me. I was relieved to know that what I had always thought was the truth was actually the truth. I began to accept it. I began to process the fact that I will (likely) never have the relationship with my family that I long for or the type of support from them that I desire.

I was recently speaking with a gallery associate at the Bowersock Gallery in Provincetown, Massachusetts, about the artist/owner’s series of hot air balloon paintings. I had first seen a few of the paintings in the series in June 2021, when I was there to celebrate my 50th birthday. I was so drawn to them. Initially I thought it was because in October 2010, my best friend, on the occasion of his turning 40, had planned a hot air balloon ride in the Berkshires as part of the celebration. However, the weather didn’t cooperate. The winds were too strong that day. The hot air balloon ride was cancelled.

It was nearly eleven years later that I first laid eyes on Steve Bowersock‘s hot air balloons. Set against ominous skies, these colorful hot air balloons were floating toward something, away from something, through and above. They hovered in their dreamscape world, frozen but not. Were they carrying the rider into danger or transporting him to freedom? One painting in particular continues to fascinate me. In it, a rope dangles freely from the basket of the balloon, a body clinging to it. I can’t help but wonder if the person is trying to climb aboard or trying to escape?

(I want in.)

My best friend was on that trip but not in the gallery with me on the day of discovery. I wanted him to see those beautiful hot air balloons. I found him and brought him to the gallery. I hoped he would love them as much as I did. I hoped he would buy one and then by proximity I would be able to view it and contemplate its strange surreal beauty every time I was at his home. Alas, he did not buy one. And while he liked them, he wasn’t actually as drawn to them as I.

I’ve been to Provincetown a few times since that trip. Each time I’ve stopped in the Bowersock Gallery to see if any of the hot air balloon paintings remained. There’s always been one or two available. I’ve always gotten to see them. Ponder them. Wonder what was happening in their world. But on my most recent visit in October 2023, they hung in the gallery no more. Sold. All of them. And it was during that visit, and the aforementioned conversation with the gallery associate, that I began to think more deeply about the hot air balloons.

They’re untethered. They’re free. They can float aimlessly but they can also soar with direction. I want that. I want to leave the path.

Admitting the truth that I am non-binary gave me a sense of freedom. Learning what I feared was true is true gave me a sense of freedom. What am I doing? Why do I keep trying? I want to be accepted for who I am in all of my queer, non-binary fabulousness. Not despite who I am. I’m not sure I even want to keep pushing and trying to educate. I’m kind of tired. And that’s not a bad thing. I think my family is just as stuck as I’ve been but I don’t have to be. I can soar.

I’ve found a clearing at this juncture in the path and I’ve stepped into it. The clouds might be ominous but there’s a sliver of sun shining through. There’s a balloon. It’s beautiful: pink and teal blue patterned in yellow and purple, sage and red. I feel hesitant but I also feel the thrill. I want to untie the rope and get in the basket. I want to soar upward and float freely away to the Land of Un, knowing that even if a major wind blows me off course, I will be fine because just like the balloon I can right the course or even change direction.

Using hindsight, one can always connect the dots of a past experience to that of his present, finding greater meaning in something from then when applying it to now. Maybe the meaning is something he couldn’t see at the time. It’s possible the hot air balloon paintings were simply something I loved because they made me think about my best friend and his canceled hot air balloon ride. But maybe they represented something that I longed for even before I understood fully what that was and how desperately I needed it.

Funny thing about this truth: it wasn’t as heavy as I’d feared. None of it. The fear itself is what was heavy. The fear is what choked the path, kept me tethered to the ground. I don’t believe the truth has fully set me free. Not yet. My fear did not magically disappear. But I know it has helped me feel freer. And while I will probably continue to fear the truth, even after knowing and understanding its benefits (it’s my pattern), my hope is that I will spend less time limiting myself in the Land of Tethered and more time soaring free among the clouds in the Land of Un.

Une Fondation et un Cimetière

I was nearly overcome by tears as I descended from the 4th floor terrace of the Fondation Louis Vuitton. The sky was overcast, the sun fighting to break through the haze. The air was crisp. I could hear the water gently rolling down the man made, stepped waterfall, the birds chirping, the various languages one hears in a museum full of the melting pot of people gathered to admire its contents. I was truly happy and surrounded by beauty. Hence the near trickle of tears that nearly dampened my cheeks as if it was a smaller version of the waterfall in front of me. 

The structure of the Fondation Louis Vuitton is itself a piece of art. If you're reminded of the Sydney Opera House when looking at the above pic you're in good company. I was too. Maybe that's because of the curvature. The curved glass portion of the upper levels of the Fondation are designed to look like sailboat sails inflated by air. The Opera House calls its roof "shells". Both look aerodynamically designed with wind in mind. 

Commissioned by Bernard Arnault, chairman and CEO of LVMH (Moët Hennessy • Louis Vuitton) the Frank Gehry (American) designed building is glorious and modern. Its design strikes a contemporary and artistic pose on the outskirts of an historic Paris. Although the metropolis of the business district can be seen from the second floor terrace, that image of glass towers is not the image so often associated with Paris. Which makes this contemporary structure all the more rapturous.

My wish would have been that the sun be a shining today and that I wouldn't have needed a jacket. That was not in Mother Nature's plan. As much as the sun fought to shine through the clouds the clouds proved a stronger opponent than the power of the rays.

However disappointed I may have been by the rain, I'm not sure I can say that it didn't create the perfect atmosphere for strolling through Père Lachaise Cemetery.

Two days in a row I roamed among the dead as they rest. 

On my last visit to Paris in Septembre 2015, I twice attempted a visit to this cimetière. My plans were thwarted both times so I was determined to make it this time. 

Cemeteries are like cities of the dead, don't you think? There is a design to the layout much like a city. The tombstones are monuments much like buildings. There are often flowers and in most cases grassy space--like parks. There are roads on which to drive or walk. It's a city of the dead. 

It's peaceful in a city of the dead. Think about it...one doesn't often hear raised voices or loud music in a cemetery. As I said yesterday, the dead are so respected. And they can't even appreciate it. They're dead! But I digress.

The cobblestone streets running through Père Lachaise were dappled with green grass growing between the stones, which were wet and slick from the pouring rain. The downpour shook loose the flowering buds in the trees mixing them with the rain as each fell to the ground, a mix of flurry and fury. 

To my right just after entering I saw the sign outlining the locations of the notables buried within the walls. Edith Piaf is there. Chopin, Georges-Pierre Seurat, Jim Morrison. Sarah Berhardt is there as well as Molière. These were a few of the names I recognized. I must confess though that it wasn't terribly important for me to see any of their graves. Maybe I would have felt differently if the rain hadn't soaked through my shoes to my socks. But I'm not sure it would have mattered even if the sun had been shining down on me. I just wanted to be inside the walls, see the burial markers. 

They are quite grand, most of them. Some reminded me of phone booths in their shape and height. Some of those had broken doors and revealed a space just large enough to kneel and, most likely, say a prayer for the dead. Not that they need the prayer. They are dead after all. 

Père Lachaise is quite congested with graves. There's barely a space between markers. It seems there are strict limitations to who can be buried there now and the lucky families can purchase in perpetuity or for 50, 30, or 10 years. Leasing for 30 years is a popular option these days. (You can lease your burial plot like you're leasing a new Fiat.) However, if the lease isn't renewed, or the 50, 30, or 10 year time previously purchased not extended, then the bones are dug up, moved to a modern day catacombs, and the grave sight sold or leased to another family. Moral of the story: death may not be the final resting place in Père Lachaise so if you want to stay there...pay up.

The day was filled with beautiful monuments although two quite different versions of beauty--the new and the old. The new modern structure of the Fondation Louis Vuitton was contemporary, if not futuristic. While the oldest structures in Père Lachaise (my favorites) were grand on a smaller scale, mixing centuries of styles and motifs, harkening back to many other times. I do love vintage.

Mon voyage se poursuit. Au Revoir.

"Chaque petit détail joue un rôle"

The gray clouds purged themselves once more today as the City of Lights remained dimmed and dampened by the rain that, like me, hung around for another day.  

The chill of fall was in the air as the breeze blew through the City, no sun to warm it's gentle sting...er...caress. Scarves and trench coats were as normal a sight as, say, long lines at the Eiffel Tower. 

Aside from the positive aspect of getting to spend an extra day in Paris, there was the excitement of what that extra meant for me. If you've kept up with these adventures of a solo traveler (I finished reading The Phantom of the Opera during my crépe and cafè crème this morning), you know that the Water Lillies rooms in the Musée de l'Orangerie were closed through 12 Septembre. If you've seen your calendar today you know it's 13 Septembre. That means...you guessed it...I got to see the Water Lillies. As frustrating as a cancelled flight can be, this circumstance certainly had more than one upside. 

I was not prepared for the beauty that awaited me just beyond the concrete opening that led to the two oval rooms that housed the Lillies. The cold gray of the sky -- and the structure's interior -- gave way to the delicate warmth of Monet's Water Lillies as they hung, panoramic around the rooms, forever caught in their tranquil grace. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. There is color. And then there is Monet's use of color. Dark purples, sea green-blues, blue-greens, sea foam green, burgundy, brilliant blue, pink, yellow. Blends. Swirls. Up close you can see the brush strokes and maybe not quite put into focus the picture. But stepping away brings it all together. One can actually see ripples in the water. There's truth, illusion, and beauty from a distance. 

I was like a child on Christmas morning; running into the family room, starring at all the packages under the tree. I walked round and round the oval rooms, marveling at what hung in front of me. My eyes observed and absorbed. I soaked in it and soaked it in. Does it get any better than seeing art hanging in the rooms it which it was designed to hang? The scope and size of these paintings was unlike anything I can recall seeing before. I've seen large painings, but nothing quite as majestic. Even with the lack of skylight illumination (gray skies be damned) they were stunning.

Downstairs there was a long wall full of Renoir. That place. That museum. It was the one that inspired me. The pieces were hung in the open (no protective glass Mona) for close examination (no protective stanchions, Venus). The paintings seemed truly to be art for the people; for us, the visitors, to admire and enjoy. 

Matisse was there. And Picasso; Cézanne. Works by great artists that were close enough to touch. (That action would be discouraged and frowned upon.) 

I often find myself wondering why some art is considered so fabulous or important. Then I remember beauty is in the eye of the beholder and an artist's particular style can change the art form. Not everyone can do what some of these artists did. Not everyone can sing, dance, act, or write. Not everyone can paint. Not everyone can be a creative artist. 

To be an artist takes vulnerability. One has to put himself -- his vision, his point of view -- on display for all the world to admire, gawk at, or possibly, loathe. We humans are fickle, opinionated creatures. We can love you one minute then leave you the next. We might then have a change of heart and find a reason you were important all along. Or maybe we just pretend you never really mattered at all. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. And opinions, positive and negative, really don't matter as long as the artist is pleased with his finished product.

Upon exiting Musée de l'Orangerie, the sun had broken through the gray clouds. Even as sprinkles continued to fall from the stranglers, patches of blue sky were beginning to reveal themselves, daring you not to see them. "Look up! Look. Up."

Art dares you to see it. It challenges you. It makes you question what you're seeing, reading, watching. It begs you to feel something. Like any artist, the Universe is no different. It begs you to open your eyes and see, inhale deeply and smell, savor the taste of the wine, hear the music in the sounds around you.

I accepted your challenge, dear Universe. I survived the rain and smiled at the sunshine and blue sky. I saw it. I knew how happy I should be and I was. I listened, and I savored. 

Merci, Paris pour le plaisir de votre compagnie.

The Day I Got Naked in Brooklyn (NSFW)

This piece originally appeared on HuffPost Gay Voices

Disclaimer: This post may contain NSFW images.

I’m was standing in his living room. I’m was wearing a long-sleeved, tangerine-colored button up shirt and nothing else. We were talking. I’m was standing there. I was exposed. That area between the last button and the bottom of my shirt was split open and my penis was exposed. The shirt did feel somewhat like a security blanket, but I was standing in his living room, having a conversation about the ups and downs of life and my mind kept reminding me that my penis was exposed. It was like an out of body experience (I’m imagining) where I was standing beside myself whispering in my own ear, He can see your penis. Let me tell you how I got there.

For years I’ve been wanting a drawing of a male nude. Anytime I find myself in an art gallery or antique shop that might cater to that style of art I look for something that might pique my interest. One random day my Facebook news feed exposed me to the drawings of an artist friend of mine. I knew that he was an artist, but I just took it for granted and never really thought about it. Drawing is something he does, like writing is something I do. But on this particular day the lightbulb lit up above my head (a Eureka! moment) and I thought to myself, I’ll ask Sean Baumgardner if he’ll draw a male nude for me. I sent him a Facebook message and much to my delight he responded, “I’ve been making male nudes since I hit puberty. Yes.” Then he posed the question, “What type of man would you like shaped on paper?” I didn’t know. I’d always assumed that I would see a finished piece of art in some gallery and know that I couldn’t live without it and that would be that. This was a commission. Should I Google hot nude men? My favorite porn stars? I had no idea. It was during a discussion about this predicament that a friend suggested I be the subject of the male nude. “If you’re commissioning an artist to draw a male nude, why not let the male be you?” That thought had never entered my mind. And it certainly threw me for a loop. Would it be narcissistic to hang a nude of myself in my apartment? Did I really want a nude of myself?

Then I heard Sex and the City’s own Samantha Jones in my head. In season 4, episode 2, Samantha decided to pose nude for a photo shoot so that she could look back one day and say, “Damn, I was hot.” I laughed to myself. That was the moment I genuinely began to entertain the idea of being the subject of the drawing. Sean is in California. I’m in NYC. The opportunity to sit for him was not an option, and I needed something better than a nude selfie from my iPhone. I asked a friend I trust if he would take photos of me. He said he would but suggested that I have a photographer take professional photos of me in a studio with lighting that neither he nor a selfie could reproduce.

Is this getting out of hand? First I wanted a drawing. Then the drawing is going to be of me. Now I’m thinking I’ll book an actual nude photo shoot so that I have a photo from which the artist can draw me. Who am I? What is going on? Immediately I questioned the expense of the photo shoot. Then the notion of me actually being comfortable as the subject of a nude photo shoot crept into my psyche. I don’t often find myself naked in front of someone who isn’t also naked in front of me. Usually there’s kissing, touching, erections, etc. I didn’t know if I could be that vulnerable. And I was damn curious if I might be embarrassed by my assets or by one particular asset’s reaction. A penis can be a delicate and sensitive member. When exposed it can shrivel up like it’s been in the pool or it can stand at attention at the mere thought of being seen. 

I needed to be courageous. I needed to access my long laid dormant vulnerability. This could be fun, I thought to myself, if you’ll let it be. I reached out to the gorgeous and generously kind Seth Fornea on Twitter, explaining the situation and asking for recommendations. He responded quickly with the name Kevin Hoover. I was familiar with Kevin Hoover’s work as I follow him on Twitter. He takes beautiful male nude photographs. I was immediately apprehensive as I looked again at the hard, masculine, statuesque bodies in the images on his Twitter page. I gave my own body a disparaging glance in the mirror and thought I didn’t measure up. Then I thought, Fuck it! I emailed him and told him I was interested in a nude photo shoot. Pressing send on that email was the first step in what turned out to be a fantastic experience.

I had a mere 27 days to mentally and physically prepare. I had been working out for years, but time and age and laziness had allowed me to get softer than I wanted to be. I began to train very hard with my personal trainer and completely changed my eating habits. My body became leaner, my muscles more defined. The changes were visible within a week. While initially difficult, the process proved to be a challenge worth taking. 

The day finally arrived. I was nervous — justifiably so. I was also excited. I had a somewhat distracted workout prior to heading to Brooklyn for my 2pm appointment. When I arrived at Kevin’s apartment, which comfortably transformed into his studio, I reached out to shake his hand. He gave me a big, good-natured smile and said, “We do hugs here.” I was immediately at ease. Kevin and I talked and laughed for two hours before we even started. I felt like I’d known him for years. He was so gracious that when I finally found myself standing there with my penis exposed in the split at the bottom of my shirt it didn’t really matter. I was aware, but it wasn’t awkward. I didn’t feel ashamed or the need for concealment. I wasn't shrinking from fear or getting erect from exposure. I was just there…vulnerable, seen. As the camera began to click, the posing became more fun, less tense, and the nudity became an afterthought; a state of being that was playful, celebratory, freeing.

Kevin was extremely generous with me. I was his willing victim and he the artist who listened to the ideas of the strongly opinionated man standing naked in front of him. Not every photo can be fabulous, but that’s to be expected. One never knows how many shots are taken to find the one that captures the essence of its subject. Through relaxing conversation and the courage of vulnerability, we created images that turned out to be beautiful, provocative, and fully exposed, while I met a fantastic man for whose camera I’d comfortably get naked again.

The Heels Are Killer in the Best Way at the Brooklyn Museum

How else can I begin except by saying I was giddy with controlled exuberance. It was as if I was alone in a world all my own (Michael Through the Looking Glass) as I stared at the encased heels all around me. These weren't just any heels though. These were “Killer Heels,” as in the ones currently on display in Killer Heels: The Art of the High-Heeled Shoe at the Brooklyn Museum.

Have you ever taken the time to really look at a pair of high-heeled shoes? To look beyond the color, the height, and the price tag? Get that pair of your most fabulous, treasured heels out of your closet and look at them. Look at the design elements, the craftsmanship, the architectural lines, the artistry, the creativity. Okay, so maybe the heels you have in your closet are not that interesting. Maybe you see them as just simple and plain. That may be true, but let me tell you, there are shoes in this world that are pure art; as beautiful and expressive as any painting by Monet, van Gogh, or Pollock. There are even people who can and dare to wear this art. The shoes may not always be comfortable, but one can't deny they are daring, provocative, wearable art forms.

There was no denying the artistry and creativity of the gorgeous shoes I smiled at, conversed about, and kept myself from drooling over as I ambled my way through the "Killer Heels” exhibit. There were so many different eras represented. The evolution of shoes on display. The styles (platform, stiletto, boot, mule, futuristic, etc), materials (leather, cloth, wood, metal, plastic, nylon, etc) and adornments (flames, metal spikes, crystals, hair, etc) pushing the limits beyond the boundaries of what one thinks a shoe can be, should be. Who's to say what a shoe can (or can't) be, anyway? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then fashion, much like art, is subjective. 

I spoke animatedly with a young woman about the Prada Flame Wedge Sandal (Spring/Summer 2012, below). I can usually spot a Prada shoe before I see the label. They stand out in the crowd. Miuccia Prada (Prada, Miu Miu) is a designer with a unique sense of style that, for me, at least with her shoes, is instantly recognizable. I often find myself questioning where one might wear a Prada shoe (answer: anywhere one wants). But more often than not I am thrilled by their imaginative and fanciful design elements. 

Prada Wedge Sandal in Rosso, Bianco, and Nero Leather, Spring/Summer 2012

With an older lady, whom I encountered jotting down notes over a 1960 Christian Dior/Roger Vivier evening slipper for the House of Dior (below), I exchanged thoughts on the heel of said slipper. Specifically its curved design. This particular heel could be the petite grand-mère of the heel on the fall 2014 Louis Vuitton curved-heel bootie, the “shoe to covet” this fall according the September issue of Harper's Bazaar. Invention is prone to reinterpretation and everything old can be new again.

Christian Dior, Roger Vivier for House of Dior. Evening Slippers, 1960

Fashion design thrives on imagination, limit-pushing creativity, the ability to envision then actualize. It can even beg for the update of a successful design from the past as with the heel on the aforementioned Dior/Vivier slipper. The heels in “Killer Heels” are the epitome of limit-pushing creativity, vision, and artistic expression. Just look below at the Julian Hakes "Mojito," 2012.Of course they aren't going to be for everyone, but neither is every shoe at Bergdorf’s or even…Payless. 

Julian Hakes. "Mojito," 2012

I appreciate interesting shoes. Men’s shoe choices are positively bland compared to those of women’s. I try to shake things up. In my own closet there’s a pair of chocolate brown Frye boots, a pair of blue leather Chukka’s with suede at the ankle, a pair of tan leather and ivy green suede saddle Oxfords, a pair of gray Wingtips adorned with a buckle or two. Those are just a few examples. I realize we’ve come a long way in color choices from the days of black or brown, but men are still limited to more conservative shoe choices than women. In recent years, thankfully, men have been able to express themselves by choosing shoes with pops of color in the heel or by changing the color of the laces. With the later, one not only gets to let his personality shine through, he can dramatically alter the look of the shoe by blasting the tediousness with a dash of whimsy. 

(left) A SHOE CAN BE. "Heliotrope," 2013 (right) JANTAMINIAU. "Tarnished Beauty," 2012

I mentioned the word personality in connection with shoes above. Personality is a great word to describe most, if not all, of the shoes in the "Killer Heels" exhibit. The inanimate objects of my admiration had so much personality they could rival some people. Shoes can be the centerpiece of an outfit. They can be the only bit of outrageousness in a beautifully tailored, but otherwise dull ensemble. I know I’ve been known to build an outfit around a pair of shoes. Wouldn’t it be refreshing if we all felt the freedom to let our personality run wild on our feet? Choose the height, choose the color, choose the style and design. If it makes you happy own it, then make the sidewalk your runway.

Maybe you’re a worshiper at the house of Blahnik or Louboutin, a lover of fantastical shoes, have a shoe fetish. Or maybe you’re merely interested in seeing shoes that aren't readily available just anywhere. If any of that sounds like you, then get thee to the Brooklyn Museum. You've got until February 15, 2015. Trust me when I tell you you don’t have to be wearing them to be lifted to their heights. 

Roger Vivier. "Rose N' Roll," Fall 2012

A Return to Different

I realize it’s still officially summer, but let’s face it, Labor Day came and went, school started, the days are getting shorter and there has been a nip in the morning air. That basically screams fall to me - my favorite time of year. For me, fall is a time for new beginnings; rebirth. The heat of summer goes away. New shows debut on television while old favorites return. Sweaters move from the back of the closet to the front. Hot chocolate becomes appropriate. Pumpkin makes its annual return and the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon fill the air. All that’s missing is that little square on the calendar making it official. 

I kicked off the approaching most colorful of the seasons with a return visit to Provincetown - P-town for short - during that purgatory time between summer ending and fall beginning.

The streets were the same: narrow, one-car lanes lined on either side with shingle houses, familiar to the Hampton’s and Cape Cod, in weather-worn gray that showed their age with grace. White-painted, grand homes that looked out upon the water. Colorfully painted homes that seemed to invite a party. Homes with widow’s walks that distanced themselves from the sadness of the widows that once stood, longingly staring out to sea in search of their missing husbands.

The sidewalk made of brick still lay under the tread of feet carrying visitors to the next restaurant for another lobster roll; to another art gallery to see this year’s pieces (and in some cases familiar pieces from past visits); or to the next bar in which to sip a drink and possibly strike up a conversation. In my case to gaze at the people in conversation wishing I was part of it. My issues are a subscription that I just keep piling in the basket, slowly working through until I can recycle them into something new and useful.

The lighthouses were still there, majestically standing at the far reaches of the Cape, ready to warn passing ships of the dangers that lay below the water. 

There’s something about standing in P-town, breathing deeply, that makes me close my eyes and find the stillness of being, all the while filling my lungs with oxygen from a deep inhale of salt tinged air. NYC goes away. The thump of music that I hear isn’t necessarily from a bar, it’s from a porch where men dressed in pink from head-to-toe are having a good time or from a music store trying to lure me inside. Laughter is abundant. People on bicycles whiz by. Dogs and their owners stroll down the street. 

People are not as friendly in P-town as they are in Cherry Grove on Fire Island, but it’s okay because to each his own and we each have our own reason for absorbing the atmosphere of P-town. 

This year brought a change in rental house location. We actually rented a home on Winthrop Street. For those of you who have patiently been reading my current piece of fiction, “Return to Winthrop St.,” this is the same street of the story’s title. I was inspired to start the story last year at the end of my visit to P-town. It was quite interesting to me to find myself staying on said street this year. Even more interesting was to see that one of the businesses that inspired the name of one of the characters was no longer present on the street. “Return to Winthrop St.” is inspired by true events. Inspired means loosely based. Very loosely. The story is fictionalized and embellished; it has been a way for me to work through some things in my life. I found it very telling that one of the inspiring names was no longer present on the street. It was almost as if the universe was showing me that people can move on, that we can get over things.

This time last year I was expressing the need for living my life as my own and taking risks for progress. To look at the words on the pages I’ve written since then it’s hard to see that I’ve taken any steps forward, but I have. They may be tiny steps, but I have moved. I’m still close enough to where I was to see it without the need of my glasses, but any step forward is a step away; a step toward change. 

I was very distressed emotionally last year when September rolled around and I stepped off the ferry onto the dock at P-town. I let the emotional conflict playing tennis in my head prevent me from having the vacation I should have had. I was determined this year to enjoy myself. It was my vacation and I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. Isn’t that what vacation is about?

I’m such a sit around kind of guy. Somedays I like having no plans. I realize that can get boring. I get bored with my own company sometimes, but there are days when having nothing planned - choosing to sit outside at the plastic table that has a hole for an umbrella to block the sun but no umbrella in sight, reading the September issue of Harper’s Bazaar - is just what I need. Add to that a morning bloody mary and a comfy T-shirt with the neck cut out and I’m describing a perfect morning with no cares, concerns, or anxieties.

This vacation brought the rental of bicycles. I actually wanted to rent bikes. Renting bikes last summer during my trip to the Vineyard showed me that I could still ride a bike and made it easy to say yes to renting bikes in P-town this trip. I won’t lie. Riding a bike in any kind of traffic makes me nervous, but the trafficked streets were so few compared to the open bike trails that took me to and past the beach and through a beautiful hilly, wooded area that it made the traffic worth it just to get to there. The excitement of feeling the wind brush my face as I coasted down a curvy hill can’t be matched. Not even by the serene morning of Harper’s and a bloody mary. I brought up the rear of our threesome of bike riders, but that was fine with me. It allowed me to just exist in my own space and experience my surroundings on my own time.

This trip to P-town also brought a visit to the beach. I’m a sucker for the water. Most of you who read my blog know that. I love sitting on the sand and staring out into the vastness that melds into the horizon with barely a break in color. This beach was rockier than I care for, but it was still calming - the waves rolling in and flowing out. I will admit that I don’t enjoy the slather of sunblock to prevent sunburn and skin cancer, but I know it’s a necessity. And please, I’m vain enough at 41 that I don’t want to give my skin any extra chance to wrinkle than it already has from life in general.

There were beautiful sunsets to behold. There were sailboat dotted views of the ocean from the back deck of The Red Inn - while sipping the best Cucumber vodka flavored drink I had while on vacation - that allowed for an exhale of stress so decompressing that my body became smaller. Rosie O’Donnell was there with her new wife. I gave her a shout out before I could stop myself. We’re all just people, right? 

There is still conflict in my life. Some might say I brought it all on myself. Maybe I did. Looking back over the year between P-town visits I realize that I have been dealing with so much in my life that it’s no wonder I have anxiety. Friendships have changed. Relationships have grown and in some cases fallen apart. Writing has continued with even more honesty. More responsibility has been placed upon my shoulders at work. Parasites wreaked havoc. It’s just another year in my life, but oh what a year it’s been.  

Cucumber vodka takes its place in my freezer among my other favorite - Firefly Sweet Tea vodka. A new piece of art hangs in my home. Yep, I finally bought one of the pieces I’d admired from my two previous visits. I’m ready to see the leaves change; add a dash of cinnamon to my coffee. I’m ready to put the anxiety behind me. I’m ready to close the chapter on the old challenges, and, no matter how apprehensive I may be, face the new ones. Although that scares the shit out of me. My subscription basket just got one more issue full. 

“Seasons change,” Carrie Bradshaw says in the “I Heart NY” episode of Sex and the City. She’s right and life changes along with those seasons. I continue to struggle; to grow; to change; to progress in my life. Reflection can be a melancholy affair. Cue “Moon River” and the leaf gently falling to my feet, but pour me a drink first. Maybe something cucumber flavored.

A Spirit of Experimentation

MoMA - The Museum of Modern Art; I thought I'd been there before, but when I arrived I realized I was mistaken. I have been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Guggenheim Museum and the Museum of Sex. In my nearly 14 years in New York City I've now been to 4 of the more than 80 museums that exist within its five boroughs. One thing that annoys me most about myself is that I don't take enough advantage of the glorious things this City has to offer.

Art is subjective. What is beautiful to one person may be ugly to another. What one person finds profoundly meaningful may be meaningless to another. There were things - sketches, paintings, sculptures, nets, videos - that I couldn't believe were art. There were computer monitors mounted on the wall with keyboards mounted underneath on which a person could type. The letters jumped; this is art? Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I had to remind myself that it was modern art: traditions of the past have been thrown aside in a spirit of experimentation.

Just when I couldn't take another second of design and architectural art I found myself in front of a painting bursting with blue. I was drawn to it because of its color. It was then that I began to notice its composition. Being drawn to the color seemed to be my calling card when it came to abstract art. The colors speak to me and lure me in and then I look at the piece as a whole and search for its meaning. I didn't always find a love beyond the color. Sometimes however I found a beauty I didn't even know was there.

Pollock. I will admit that I don't understand the popularity of Pollock. When I look at his paintings I can't seem to get beyond the drips and splatters passing for art. Somebody loved it though and deemed it worthy enough for the public attention. I can officially say I'm glad they did. I expressed my thoughts freely and openly with Brandon and Anna, two painters/artists in their own right. I didn't feel ignorant in my lack of understanding the Why? factor. We stood in that gallery and looked and talked. Brandon had plenty of knowledge on Pollock to share. He was passionate about it; passionate the way I get when I talk about something I truly love. We made our way to another of his paintings, White Light, 1954. We three stood in front of it, view unobstructed by other onlookers. We were then joined by a man who had been eaves dropping on our earlier discussion. It was not intrusive. He instigated another Pollock conversation. He had been coming to MoMA since he was 6. He loved Pollock. Now in his 30's he'd had plenty of moments at the painting in front of which we stood. I didn't interject much during that conversation, but it was interesting to listen to Brandon and the man discuss. As I stood there and stared at this painting of drips and splatters and lines and swooshes and smears, an image began to emerge for me. I saw it as the chaos of New York City, specifically Times Square. I think I can honestly say the yellow of the painting had something to do with that. It reminded me of the many taxicabs that permeate our streets and avenues. There are also spots of gray where the black and white have been blended together that reminded me of streets. My chaos idea is completely informed by the fact that I live in New York City. There's no way to know what I might have seen if I still lived in Arlington, KY. Maybe I was trying to find something literal in all the abstractness. I don't know. That's just what I saw. Art is subjective.

Van Gogh. I didn't realize until more than a day later how amazing it was that I had actually stood close enough to touch Van Gogh's Starry Night, 1889. Of course touching it would probably have set off some alarm and gotten me tossed straight out onto the cold, gray street. That painting is one that has been in my memory for many years. I don't even remember when I first saw it on a postcard or in a book. This was no reproduction though. This was the real thing. I went back a second time to gaze upon it again, the significance still not really setting in. Anna was very excited to be in its presence. I may be mistaken, but I believe she said it was her favorite painting. I guess for her, standing in front of Starry Night would be like me sitting in a theatre listening to an orchestra play any Sondheim score for the first time. It's heart-pounding, tear-inducing excitement.

Seurat. Speaking of Sondheim he wrote a beautiful score for the musical Sunday in the Park with George about the life of Georges Seurat. Seurat invented pointillism defined from Wikipedia as "a technique of painting in which small, distinct dots of pure color are applied in patterns to form an image." In the musical, Seurat is painting one of his most famous paintings, the gorgeous A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. I have a copy of that painting hanging in my apartment. I've had it for years. It's a beautiful piece of art. I'm sure that its beauty is enhanced by my love of the musical that tells the story of the painter and the people in the painting. I'm not sure how long it would have been, if ever, until I discovered it if not for that musical. I have no memory of ever seeing another work by Seurat except maybe in an art book. Nothing stands out though. I now have three more images in my memory from this trip to MoMA. The one that stood out for me the most was Port-in-Bessin, Entrance to the Harbor, 1888. I know myself well enough to know that it was the blues depicting the water that drew me to the piece. I also know that the scene seemed so peaceful. It's amazing to me that dotting the canvas with multiple dots of color can create such an image. Day after day of dot after dot and then you end up with water and land and sail boats and sky. Oh to have the drive and motivation to create something that creates beauty and stirs emotion.

Critics to make fun of what Seurat was doing used the word pointillism. All these years later he is credited with creating a new style of painting. Art is subjective. Creating a new style could be said of Pollack; most certainly if you ask Brandon. Pollock dripped and poured his paint onto a canvas he laid on the floor instead of placing on an easel. His technique is now thought to be one of the origins of the term "action painting". Boldly creating something new without worrying about the naysayer is something to aspire to. I can't seem to release my hindrance of caring what people think. It holds me back. It helps me to live in fear. I'm sure these artists felt a puncture wound to their souls when their art was spoken of negatively, but they didn't stop creating in their style or with their vision.

Here's to obtaining the freedom to drip the music, swirl the words and dot the i's with confidence. "White. A blank page or canvas. So many possibilities..."