Welcome to Halloweentown

Halloween, 2014.

Goodbye, Ladybug

Ladybug in doorway.

Today may indeed be the last warm day of 2014, which reminded me of a sunny day last week, when the last of this season's ladybugs seemed to come right out of the woodwork, creating a haze of flying wings when I walked across the lawn. I thought just one or two of them were on the windows outside, not knowing I'd disturb a flood of fluttering bugs that poured out in a steady stream from under the eaves, to sun themselves on the bright yellow panels of the house. 

Ladybug on window screen.

It was one of the more beautiful things I've seen in awhile, and instead of trying to catch it on video or with a photo, I just stood there briefly before running my errands, enjoying the sight of them flying around, flitting here and there on the outside of the house. It was a magical moment that wouldn't have translated onto media anyway, because of their small size, nor would I have captured exactly how it made me feel: light, happy, and free, in the span of a very quick moment, like a ladybug's life lived in just two or three short years. Live free, then die. Not a bad way to go.

Fresh Apple Cider and Pumpkins

For you, on this Autumn day in October.

Autumn Street Scenes

Have a blessed week.

The Last of the Wood Violets

Translucent wood violet.

These delicate wood violets opened up a few weeks ago, the last of the years' flowers to blossom during the warm spell we had this fall. They were so paper thin, the sunlight shone through them to brilliant, transparent effect, imparting a fragile, see-through quality upon the already frost-threatened flower. It was a good lesson in how so easily life can be broken, like the paper-thin quality of these beautiful little petals that can tear when touched lightly. We are here for so short a time! Let's enjoy it, together.

Sunlit wood violets.

In contrast to the whisper thin petals of the last wood violets are these hardy, bulbous mushrooms that sprang up almost overnight, after we finally had a good few days of soaking rain. Alien looking, aren't they? They're a cluster of big beech mushrooms growing out of an old stump. Please, do not pick and eat any mushrooms without consulting an expert first! Edibles can be very tricky to identify correctly.

Cluster of round-topped beech mushrooms.

And lastly, we have the gorgeous striated caps of the Mycena mushroom. Again, please do not pick or eat any wild mushrooms without an expert present, especially varieties with with prominent gills. Snap a picture instead, like any good ecological tourist would do. That's what I do!

Wild Mycenas and morning dew.

On Aging

 

For the first few months I attended a full free hour of basic yoga at the library, the group of retirees who frequent the class gave me all manner of reactions. There's the bitchy overgrown cheerleader-type who gripes and gossips and bullies people, insecure that she won't get an "A' in yoga mat while she bosses around her cadre of Irish nannies, the crusty old man who, each and every time he sees me practicing martial arts, challenges me to a fight out of insecurity, not unlike the schoolyard bully who says he'll meet you at noon by the lockers for an ass whoopin' between classes. There's the twitchy small man with space issues, because he's paranoid about being touched, and also extremely touchy about "his" spot in the large conference room we use for community activities, which is, again, like an absurd older version of "This is my cubbyhole!" scuffles in grade school, even though it's clear there are no names posted or assigned areas.

Old people are weird and they stay weird, because they were the weirdo kids you weren't friends with way back when, either. I found a few gems mixed in, too, just like it was in my former school days: the lovely Brooklyn woman who sits in the first student position each and every class, coming in at the last moment, just before the teacher begins, in a stunning show of excellent timing, and placing her "blankie" at the head of the class and to the left of Teacher, in recognition of her advanced status as a student with extensive experience in yoga and Tai Chi (her flexibility is astonishing and enviable). There's also the former magazine employee at, none other than, Mad Magazine and, had I heard of it? Uh, yeah I have! There's also a pretty, charming British lady who griped with me about the local school office politics tellingly, as we looked around the yoga class in recognition of the same archetypes.

But just like my affinity for "old" activities like online Mah Jong, Tai Chi, and this retiree-only yoga class that's been, so far, only been braved by one middle aged person in town, and that person is me, I remain unswayed in my devotions, despite the lingering Western stigmas about them. I know practicing these arts regularly will keep me happy and healthy in the long run. Every time my friends joke about me being the "youngster" in class at 44, I remind them of simple arithmetic, like 2 x 44 = 88, which means I am indeed in the middle of my life if I live to see 88, though I hope to surpass that modest goal by remaining alive and active well into my late 90s. Their former teacher was a spry German women who taught the class until 93, and then she died. Awesome! That's what I want. I aspire to be each and every member of my "Cranky Senior Yoga" class, because I want to be them when I grow up, er, I mean, grow older. Here's to doing it with style.

http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/aging-in-america-crisis-in-long-term-care/

The Praying Mantis

Shit, dude! I open the door to an extremely large Praying Mantis that scuttles towards me and a yellow grocery bag very quickly.

Years ago after college, I set up camp at an aunt's old apartment way out in Kensington, a still unfashionable Brooklyn neighborhood that remains resistant to gentrification and most types of hipsters, barring the toughie who likes to visit authentically scary, rundown Irish bars with actual Cirrhosis-nose victims. You know, those telltale purple and red broken blood vessels of the nose that come to all who spend the bulk of their days sodden and drunk on a bar stool. To give myself a break from the grind, I'd hooked up with a state school friend and her Roosevelt Island crew; a wealthy set of upper middle class kids who still smoked pot and drank mostly unmolested, because their hippie parents smoked with them, either in their upper west side apartments, or in their posh "rustic" cabins in upstate New York. 

That thing is, like, horror-movie huge.

Naturally, they were clustered around "tighty whitey" affluent Woodstock, and I felt uncomfortable in both locales, because unlike these boarding school kids, I was (and am) a product of actual working class roots, which is not so cool when you want to light up with your parents in their impeccably decorated country homes with an Acadian who doesn't play around with that mess. It was horribly awkward and the whole situation eventually blew up like I knew it would, with broken loyalties and intermittent friendships that lasted between high school and college, over divided lovers and who slept with who and when and such, the usual typically boring hippie shit, but in the meantime, summer was warm and fine in these rich kids parents' apartments around the city. 

Damn, dude. What crevice did you crawl out of?!

On one day, me and a bunch of these kids lit up on the terrace during an absolutely gorgeous summer NYC afternoon, enjoying the cool high floor breezes over glasses from a fully flowing batch of Margaritas that stood on the outdoor cafe table in a beautiful glass pitcher. The parents were gone, and harmony ruled the day. Surprisingly for such a high apartment, this kids' parents also had a stunning garden of plants and flowers, which we enjoyed greatly, watching the lazy, fat bees circle above them, surprised that they could make the journey to the 80th floor, or however fucking high we were. It was awesome! 

Great. Now it's scaling the front of the house, to attack from above.

And then, just like that, the vibe changed, when this ginormous fucking preying mantis landed on the edge of a planter, grabbed a bee as quick as a gunshot, ripped its' fucking head off, and then sucked the goo out of its' neck, like we sucked drinks from a straw. What was even weirder, is in that exact space of 60 seconds, each and every one of our group all saw it at the exact same time, as we screamed our heads off, like we just watched a 60s horror flick for the first time, high and drunk and getting more so by the minute. It was glorious, it was summer, we were 20-somethings in the city, and life was good. That was what I thought about later, after the initial shock of seeing a huge preying mantis scuttle at me on the old porch of a big farmhouse in the Hudson Valley on a warm day wore off. It was that good.

For scale: note size of house number in relation to "It".

Strip Mall Cemetery

A liquor store parking lot, and a journey back through time.

I've noticed this lot ever since I moved back up to Rockland County, after many years away. Last winter, I began walking to town, first from my mother's place, then closer to town on my own. It's a little cemetery squeezed in between two shopping lots, a place of history that pops out in contrast to the bland surroundings. But the headstones weren't the only thing that attracted my notice. A lot of loud-mouthed, raucous crows squawked at me whenever I walked to the grocery store, cutting across one parking lot to the next.

Who are they?

I'm no stranger to the bird of my Corvus line, an ancestry of Norman, French Swiss, and Irish, who take their heraldic symbol from the large black crow. Whenever I cawed back at them, they answered me every single time, being the excellent and highly intelligent mimics that they are. The names on the stones read Bogert (http://books.google.com/books?id=WdwNExWb7_QC&pg=PA42&lpg=PA42&dq=Jan+Bogert+New+York&source=bl&ots=aNFCMqTdtM&sig=5YRC7DNAO9ON14cu-meztwUv8nw&hl=en&sa=X&ei=6FNBVMi-LajlsATNs4Eo&ved=0CEYQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q=Jan%20Bogert%20New%20York&f=fals), a family that I thought could be remnants of the old French Huguenots who sailed down the Hudson from Canada, looking for lumber and good farming, which is something this river valley has always had in abundance.

A historical marker: hidden, but also in plain sight.

Since then, I've read excerpts about the Bogerts (www.mytrees.com/ancestry/New-York/Died-1707/Bo/Bogert-family/Jan-Bogert-an001161-302.html), a prominent New York Dutch family who changed their name immediately upon arrival in New Amsterdam, when they began buying land in large parcels. 

A noisy family of crows circled overhead, whenever I came near.

And just like so much in my life, a seemingly random gaggle of circling, noisy black birds led me back in time to a place of big mythological significance to me, because not only am I heir to the oldest Métis (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis) and Acadian roots of this New World, but I am also a descendant of the very first Dutch and British families, too.

Cemetery in wintertime.

Such is the nature of inheritance, in this Autumn time when the old spirits and the new mingle in the air over cemeteries from times long past, beckoning to me again and again, by no mere accident or quirk of chance. That's the power of fate.

Ah, yes. This is no accident or random event.

When our local historian, who is also one of our librarians, told me that the old Bogert farm was near a large well and the encampments of two Indian tribes, I had to smile because deep down, I already knew it. I felt it in my bones, just as the crows called it out to me showily, heralding aloud that I had arrived safely home, from travels near and far, surviving adventures both small and frightful, big and powerful, dangerous and heady, just like my ancestors had.  I'm back, and I'm ready to share my story with all of you. 

Marker I.

Marker II.

It was a dark and stormy night...

Misty stormy foggy nighttime...ahh, I love it.

We're having one last spate of warm weather here in the autumnal Northeast, resulting in atmospheric mists that hover over the street during nighttime visits to the store for movie candy (that was me). Spooky? Yes! 

Boooo! The streets are empty and scary on a wet night.

It was also cool and invigorating and exciting, because that's the nature of a good thrill: a little scary but still safe, like watching a gory horror movie at home, tucked under the covers. Enjoy the recent warmth, New York. It'll turn cold soon.

Dark, lonely, foggy streets at night. Breathe it in...

Georgian Court

Welcome to Georgian Court.

Last week, while photographing a enigmatic stone house, I noticed a "For Rent" sign parked on the lawn of a 50s mod building. Stylin'! Prominently displayed on the brick front is a gorgeous, cheerful script of a logo, emblematic of the kind of "can-do" energy that sparked the post-war Baby Boom, fueled by an economy pumped full of spoils and profits from a war won well. 

Seems very quiet and quite safe.

In an effort to regain some of the normality that was lost during war time, conformity was key. A soldier in enemy territory stands out much more by not blending in, and it was a lesson learned well. After looking at the grounds, I walked up the small hill to a surreal picture of similarity: each and every apartment was exactly the same, and I mean, down to the very last detail. 

It's well-manicured. Each bush is the same.

There are no anomalies of any kind in the small, handkerchief-sized lawns; no wild, weird decorations, no decor at all, actually. Everything had a comforting, bland sameness to it, and that's exactly the point: to be the same, to have the same things, to live the same day over and over again, without any traumas, shocks, or surprises, as a relief to a post-traumatic life. In it's own way, it's a lot scarier than the dark, mysterious house next door, for the sheer effort it makes to present a unified front, like a artificially fake neighborhood in Disneyland, unmarked by any sort of identifying characteristics whatsoever. 

I bet nothing ever really changes around here.

There's a desperate quality in maintaining that kind of approach, which stands out in stark contrast to say, an overblown, badly decorated kitschy style. A slight, warm wind swirled through the leaves that day, as I left the apartment grounds exactly the way it has always been, and will always be, for here on out, until it crumbles to the ground. How's that for a good scare?

Creepy. Nothing moves but the leaves. Where the people at?