Parties

I have had always a great fondness for parties. Where most would say the same on account of their readiness to revel–and surely no one can say that they dislike festivities–I, on the other hand, am much happier planning them than attending them. I love to watch and feel winds of confidence, in the successful use by others, of plans I, myself, have devised. The ultimate compliment is that of another’s joyful abandon.

In my mind, a party is as much a work of art as any other executed by brush or chisel. A theme is recognized through instrumental subtley. The partiers must mark only vaguely the presence of contrivance. They must see enough of a hoax to recognize refinement in the execution of the festival elements, but not so very much as would break the spell of the atmosphere. In this way, a party is more like a movie in which the appearances of fear and felicity are expertly transferred, with only the slightest cushion of disbelief to render panic into celebration. One appreciates authenticity in the parts, and excess on the whole. By that same token, one must never leave a party having felt that it was entirely faithful to reality. Though devotedly authentic, yet it is tinctured with mad absurdity.

Of course, parties exist to wipe clean the woes of everyday life. They are finest when they succeed in this regard, and the revelers leave with littler thoughts of trouble and responsibility. Whatever the means, this is the preferred end.

Each year, I look forward to Halloween. It is, without doubt, my favorite holiay. And why not? When else can I dress to be the things I admire, yet am not? When else is fear so closely a brother to excitement? I host a grand party to celebrate all the beautiful, dark mysteries of night and the creatures that exult in those shadows! I invite upwards of 150 people. I work for months in purusit of the perfect menu, the perfect music. Everything must be obsessively refined.   

As I have said, my principal joy is in seeing my visions come to life; to watch with proud eyes when others find thrilling, the same things that I find thrilling. In the past, I have hosted this party in which the masterful elements were poorly combined. One saw too much the intrusions of the planner, and knew for certain that what he or she beheld, was in fact, untrue. This year, as I prepare for my annual Halloween party, I am keenly aware of the scenarios and visions that would transport a guest. I will work feverishly and in every detail, to prosecute these duties with excellence. If I succeed, my guests will feel the ecstasy of fear tempered by wonder and enchantment. 

Perhaps it is a vulnerability that I anticipate a single holiday all year long. No matter that it may be, my excitement begins anew each year, and each year, my imagination grows wilder!

O! Hypnos!

Exhaustion is such a bore. I woke this day with the feeling of a hundred restless nights. I felt nearly the rigid stilnness of a statue in my joints; my eyes burned, and my throat fairly choked on dessication. These are not the hoped-for symptoms of 8 hours slumber. And as if this state weren’t enough to vex me, it was preceded last night and the night before, by hollow reposes that had me waking early each morning, even on days when I might have slept in. Shouldn’t I be over my jet lag by now? I’ve been here nearly a week!

But I think my new city-hopping lifestyle might finally be catching up with me. In the beginning, it was not so very noticeable. Jet lag was a trifle. And I slept between Boulder and D.C., more or less, regularly. But I looked in the mirror yesterday, and was horrified to see my eyes underscored by bags and lines, as if the night had shopped there with total brand loyalty. Now I feel old!

Remembering The Child

Perhaps it is the nature of enlightenment that it lacks a certain eloquence. As a teenager, I rarely if ever found myself  at a loss for words. Though my suffusion of intellectual topics was, no doubt, less than it is today, yet I pronounced what I knew with a sharper tongue. I am not so sure why it should be so, that the child is more confident than the adult. I suppose that, as time passes, so too, our deficiencies become starker. We take account of everything that we cannot do, rather than what we can. And it is symptomatic of that awareness, that we speak more timorously, and we act with more trepidation.

As children, we embrace possibility, and no dream is unreasonable. But as adults, dreaming takes its toll exorbitantly. We are made to pay for the realities that we shun, and so slowly, year by year, we relinquish our hold on the unknown, trading it for the things we can count on. That list of indemnities grows shorter and shorter, until at last, we find ourselves relying upon only the tiniest group of people or things or conditions.

I am personally aware of the hardening of my character, and the loss of its flexibility. More and more, I recite to myself the things that I would never do. By the same token, I inhume myself in habit. Why do we allow anti-growth to happen? Why, one day, do we decide to stop moving forward, instead hanging back, or worse, throwing backwards glances to the past, as if it were some beast wanting nourishment?

I am in favor of growing and becoming better today than I was yesterday, but no one will deny how difficult it is to see old things with new eyes. I am at the point now, where I can admit yesteryear was not the glorious heyday that nostalgia recollects, but I can admit also, that there are things children do better than adults.

A child jumps, not worrying that he will hurt himself, while an adult stands forever and contemplates the fall. Children, of course, make mistakes, but their power is in their ability to shrug them off and not internalize the pain.

Picnic Today

Greetings, Friends, and Happy Sunday!

I ask your pardon in advance, for what I know will seem overly ebullient. I speak, of course, for my own excitement in anticipation of the next two days. So rare in Washington, is a delight in Boulder: time off! My parnter and I have absolutely nothing to do these next two days, and a whole bevy of plans from which to choose, including all our favorite things: picnics, moonlit walks, video games, mini golf, baseball practice, excursions to the movie theatre, the list goes on!

Congress works us pretty hard, with sometimes 6am wakeup calls and 11pm lights out. By the time we’re reunited at the end of the day, we have at most, energy for one good activity, be it talking, playing a game, or watching a movie. Days like these, in which time is not spare for the things we love to do, are a special delight. I am always loath to share them with friends, because time to ourselves is only too precious.

I would always prefer it to be just us on the marvelous odyssey of our relationship, but a public figure is beholden, as well, to his constituents. And of course, friends, to be cherished. 

Today, we’ve made exception to that solitary ruling, and this will be to share our picnic experience with a group of friends whose smiling faces, we have not seen in over a month.

My partner and I love picnics, and have found throughout Boulder, many secret spots. Today, we are surprising our friends with a mystery basket brimming with hopefully-unforeseen edibles. And, of course, these edibles will be vegan, lest pleasure forget responsibility. Ah! The weather is changing, and the spirit is high! Today is a day for adventure!

Last Night

Alas, for deception! Private no longer means intimate! But who knew? Last night’s soiree at the Obamas was “well attended”, to say the least. So numerous was the crowd, in fact, that I found myself surrounded by familiar faces. The presence of friends is a comfort always, but especially in circumstances that tax the heart with fears of unworthiness. Indeed, I was nervous for no reason at all! In preparation for the event, I worried all day long. To find topics of interest to the most powerful man and woman in the world, is a trouble we should all have! But I am naturally quite shy, and too-easily discouraged by the appearance of boredom in my audience. Even as adventurous as I feel my experiences have been, I wonder if a President might find them equally interesting. Perhaps. In any event, I was quite silly to have let myself brood.

The event took place in a grand hallway overlooking the White House gardens. A quintet whose members were dressed all in red, played music from the center of the room. Appetizers passed in profusion, though none were vegan, and so I declined. I did, however, overhear many a compliment spoken in their honor, so it seems White House cuisine is as rumor has it, nonpareil. An open bar served many varieties of wine and mixed drinks, of which I tried a most excellent white. Perhaps most exciting, the hall in which we met led directly into each of the three colored rooms that invariably claim some part of educational books about the White House. There was a Red Room, a Blue Room, and a Green Room. All three were lavishly decorated with an economy of period pieces in coordinating colors. Gorgeous bouquets of sweet-fragranced flowers added just the freshest touch in what might otherwise have seemed “museum” settings. 

I sat for quite some time with two other spouses, in the Green Room, and we discussed children’s books, as both were planning a trip to Stockholm and would be bringing American children’s literature as a donation to a library there. 

One half hour in, the President and First Lady’s arrival prompted the crowd to the center of the room, where we lined up to shake hands and have our pictures taken. Time was barely enough to have even ten words with Mr. Obama, but we were very pleased to discover that he knew of my partner’s latest projects in Congress, and didn’t hesitate to congratulate him on recent legislative victories. Then we were off to meet the First Lady, who greeted a second crowd on the other side of the room. It is worth mentioning that the two of them negotiated the masses with extraordinary grace and elegance. Never once did we feel rushed in conversing. We talked about the Obamas’ new dog, Bo, and even discussed our own upcoming adoption of a rescue dog. 

Together with the pictures from January, I believe we now have enough to justify starting a photo album! All in all, it was an extraordinary event I won’t ever forget!

Tomorrow Night

Everyone likes a Congressional Spouse story from time to time, so here’s one to go.

Tomorrow evening, my partner and I will redeem our invitation to a private reception at the White House. The invitation read, “The President Cordially Invites”, and with those words, nothing short of fainting would calm my fevered anticipation. Truthfully, how does one prepare for such a momentous occasion? I was quite satisfied to shake Mr. Obama’s hand at the Democratic Retreat in January. More to the point, I was delighted beyond words. But this beats all! I will attempt to be my wittiest, but past experience dictates occasions like these are more often the undoing of stately composure. It’s simply too exciting! I think I’ll settle for not spilling my drink all over my shirtfront.

The Party Crasher

He was 13, then, and he was called a prodigy by his parents. Little wonder, for Cyrille often summoned his friends for no other purpose than to polish his oratory, and to fashion himself thus, that those in his company suffered no doubt of the greatness of their host. They were little more than an audience of bodies. They listened intently, for nothing so tempted punishment as the appearance of boredom. They did not mistake kindness where smug superiority was plain to see, yet they respected Cyrille and were bound to him, as flowers are bound that grow in the shade of a great oak. Something then happened that should never have happened. It was about the year of his sixteenth birthday. The son had begun to quit the lessons of experience, and now looked about him for worthier teachers. It was Friday evening, and the house heaved with rhapsodies of mirthful laughter. Again, Cyrille stood next to the great clock in the hallway, and gazed upon the scene of the banquet. He gazed with the starving desire to take part. At length, as the mad company toasted once again, he crept from the shadows of the hallway, fully into the light of the banquet hall. The laughter ceased. The guests straightened in their chairs. Their goblets came to rest unevenly upon the  table cloth. Many ladies drew linens to their lips, imprinting them red. And all seemed terribly embarrassed, supposing perhaps that their laughter had stirred the boy from his slumber. “Oh, dear,” he heard murmur.  

“Cyrille,” said the father. “This is my son.” And he gestured to the boy.

“Please,” said Cyrille. “I believe I’ve met each of you.” Herewith, he went to a corner and collected a stray chair. He made a seat for himself near the head of the table. A strained laughter escaped some few individuals, followed by an uncomfortable clearing of their throats.

Yuck It Up

Does anyone notice that the world is becoming a funnier place? That’s not to say more comedic, but perhaps, uneasily jocund. Humor can be such a delight, except where it is the unmistakable symptom of misery. When it becomes a manner of coping, one need look no further than the sights that inspire uproar, to find our society’s greatest ills. Indeed…you’re laughing now, as the saying goes. But let us not forget how easily joys turn to sorrows, and laughter to tears.

I notice when I go to see movies, that audiences respond with amusement when characters fall hopelessly in love, or they are despondent to the point of sobbing, or ill fate befalls a perpetual underdog. No matter the scene, general outpouring of emotion is met with levity.  The same is true of the news, which inspires horror, but elicits a bizarre form of hilarity. When people are so depressed that they know little else what to do, they laugh. So it is that our generation scoffs at things that really deserve our respect. I couldn’t believe when I bemoaned the Canadian Seal Hunt, some people actually made jokes!

I for one, am very much in favor of informality, but certain occasions do still warrant a suit, a tie, a dress, and an unwavering aspect of composure. We shouldn’t always laugh, because some things really are meant in seriousness, though they appear to our eyes a parody. Those who make jokes are best advised to consider their audiences, because some people do not want to laugh, even when social settings dictate that they do. This is why laughter can be heartbreaking, as well.

Alas, as our cynicism increases, so too, our expression of things better left unsaid. When we find something sentimental, or too wonderful to believe, we wish to be first to call it fake. Those who do are promptly congratulated for being realists. The more scathing the review, the more esteemed, the critic. But perhaps the naysayers secretly wish that dreams would come true, and that magic would be real. Those who believe in fairy tales may seem foolish to a jaded generation. The world isn’t becoming a funnier place, so why are more people laughing?

High Tea, Mocked Up

At first, his efforts at hosting were clumsy. He found a crumpled sheet of construction paper on the uppermost shelf of his bedroom closet. With crayons and glue, he fashioned it into a rather farcical invitation. The letters he intended for cursive, seemed to stumble across the page, and spoke little for the sophistication of their executor.  He tried in vain to remember the details that every guest relies upon. He knew, at least, to name the occasion. And as for the date and time, he noted them with excellence. When he came to the point at which foresight might well have counselled against nervous excitement, he simply forgot to identify a venue. Of course his friends, being devilishly clever (for scarcely would he tolerate them otherwise) knew well enough to find him on the appointed day and hour, ready and waiting, at the home of his parents. He wore his hair in slickened-back fashion. His suit was perfectly cornered and pressed, and his nose brought forth special distinction, for it rose fully to height of the candelabra with which he had set the scene. In point of fact, the table was bare, save some few chipped articles, which Cyrille had procured from a long-forgot box in the old house’s attic. He knew better than to go meddling in his mother’s curio, for she was an intemperate woman at the best of times, and likely to rob him of his books if he misbehaved.

His friends greeted him effusively, amidst mention of troublesome happenings about the neighborhood. Cyrille responded with a look of distaste, and expressed dissatisfaction with affairs in general. Whatever happened to respectability! He further straightened his posture, which, it will be understood, was quite a feat to behold, and he bid his guests be seated. “Now,” he said, in tones that echoed aloft, “I believe our distinguished guests have prepared remarks. I remind them that the point…”, and here he paused, “is to incite laughter. Should a remark be such in nature, that it inspires a grimace, or general disapprobation, it is the special right of the host…” (here standing), “to express displeasure as he sees fit. I am a jolly man, and wish not to have my humors mishandled by poorly-conceived punchlines. Ready, then?”

The company appeared grave, indeed.