Matthew Gallaway

Gardens as Memory (Notes on Philadelphia)

I woke up early and went for a run in Philadelphia, where some friends had recommended an American elm in a park not far from where we were staying. It made me think about my favorite elms in Fort Tryon Park, which was a theme of the weekend: should we move to Philadelphia? What we would gain, and what would we lose? 

This was not a new question for us, of course. Like many New Yorkers, we are constantly pondering moves to cities and non-cities near and far. 

I would ideally like to live in a (US) city that doesn't require owning a car, which seems to eliminate everywhere except Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington, DC. But DC and Boston are too expensive to make a move viable (if part of the rationale is affordable living, which it is). For that reason, Philadelphia is at the top of the list. Being here, it felt viable. 

The river was bathed in the morning light. 

Across from every city, it seems, is the state of New Jersey. 

After breakfast, we walked down some of Philadelphia's narrowest streets, an obvious draw. 

But then I thought about how hard it would be to leave our garden. 

And even though New York City has tons of problems -- the corruption of city government, the lack of visionary leadership, the traffic, the hassle of doing even the smallest things, the grating expense -- at least we're used to these problems. Like most New Yorkers, we've figured out how to negotiate our lives around them. The idea of moving to a new city felt exciting but daunting for this reason. Stephen and I collectively have almost five hundred years of 'institutional knowledge'; would we squander it by moving to a new city? 

After lunch, we went to Meadowbrook Farm, a garden estate that was bequeathed to the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society and is now open to the public. Many of the plants and trees were mesmerizing, including this espaliered magnolia tree planted against the side of the house.  

And this intensely pruned yew-ish beauty (sorry, I didn't get the exact name of the plant!) 

I wondered if the owners of this estate ever considered moving, or if they were too tied to their garden to consider it. 

I'm reading a book called Farm Boys: Lives of Gay Men from the Rural Midwest (open access!), which is a series of interviews of men who grew up on farms. Much of the book is quite harrowing in ways that won't be surprising -- as boys, they often suffered from isolation, judgment, scorn, loneliness, and abuse -- but it's interesting to note how many of these men, even as boys, were drawn to gardening, even though it was considered more of a 'woman's domain' and often drew the suspicion and ire of their relatives. One of the greatest things about being gay, I think, is the ability that so many of us have to sublimate hatred into something beautiful. It's sort of revolutionary, if you think about it as a response to violence, which is not to say that such a response is always available, but when it is, gays often seem to do miraculous things #pride :)

I also thought about another book I read a few years ago called Our Life in Gardens, a memoir by a gay couple who bought some property in the early seventies (I think) and over the course of four decades transformed it into another world. At the end of the book, the authors acknowledge that they are getting too old to care for the property, and while they express regret about leaving it behind, they also have come to appreciate the idea that a garden is more for the present than it is the future. 

I like conceiving of a garden as an action or a response (or a metaphor).  

I sometimes think about what will happen to our garden when we sell the house. 

Will the new owners keep anything? Or will they chop everything down and pave it over, which is so often the history of New York. Or -- more likely -- will they keep a few things and replace a few others? Every garden needs to evolve. 

And sometimes it's nice to think about leaving. 

Even while knowing that the trees we planted will have to live in my mind. 

DeathCulture@Sea (In The Time of Our Lives)

Thanks to everyone who listened to the Vermont songs I posted a few weeks ago. I'm back to recording with me, myself, and I, which isn't quite as exciting as what I did with the full band, but I'm hoping that we'll get a few more of these demos across the line next year :) 

 

Link. 
 

Early October Is Not a Choice But Other Things Are

I often think about a conversation I had a few years ago. I was talking to a friend about another mutual friend who I hadn't seen. I had met this other friend online during the glory days of Tumblr (RIP) and he was part of a group of gay 'literary bloggers' who periodically convened IRL at Julius' in the West Village to have drinks and argue about books. Post-Tumblr, this friend got heavily into the streets-safety movement in NYC, and I often saw him retweeted and quoted in relation to various scandals related to the city's refusal to help bikers.  

I asked my friend how this other friend was doing and if he was still involved in the streets-safety movement. 'No, he quit,' said my friend. 'He stopped biking and now just lives at home with his husband. They travel a lot, and he seems very happy.' It was a surprising trajectory to me, and raised the question to which I now return: is it possible to just stop being angry? Can it be a choice? 

I pondered this question as I admired the fall roses in Fort Tryon Park. There's so much to be angry about in the world right now: I'm sure everyone has a list. Beyond politics, and again like everyone else, I have personal reasons to be angry: someone I know said or did something that I found demeaning or insulting or annoying. It's easy to fixate on this kind of thing, but -- thinking of my old bike-safety friend -- do I want to? In the past, when I've been exasperated by certain people or situations, I've often removed myself from the source of my exasperation. I moved to a different neighborhood; I became a (gay) recluse; I found a new job; I stopped engaging with people. And so on. 

I love these Japanese anemones, by the way. 

But having the ability to remain in the situation and to make the decision not to be angry seems like another level of control. Or is it surrender? Or -- if the context is work -- servitude? Having spent most of my career in an office, I can attest that there are some people who always seem to be angry about something, while others don't seem as encumbered. 

As I get older, I have a better understanding of exactly why I could (or should) be angry about certain things, but I also have a better understanding of the extent of my privilege and -- at a more practical level -- the amount of time I have left on the planet, which makes me wonder if it's worth the time and effort to be angry if there's another more pleasant state in which I could pass the time.  

When I'm admiring the toad lilies framed by the twisting branches of the elm trees, I feel like the choice is pretty obvious. 

Let's Pretend that Things Are About to Get A Lot Better (Local Politics Edition)

Maybe there *is* hope for the planet, I thought while purchasing a 'vegan buffalo cauliflower wrap' at the Pittsburgh International Airport. I haven't seen actual numbers about this specific idea, but my sense from reading other articles is that if roughly 25 percent of meat dishes in the United States alone were replaced by vegetables, it would go a long way toward curbing carbon emissions. But according to the New York Times, there's almost nothing that the United States can do to curb global warming, and 'it is in some of the poorest countries on Earth that the battle to keep global warming at bay will be won or lost.' I found this perspective difficult to square with the fact that '[t]he top three GreenHouseGas emitters — China, the United States and India — contribute 42.6% total emissions, while the bottom 100 countries only account for only 2.9%.' I ate my wrap with a self-righteous vengeance. 

It was nice to get home after a week away. 

Clio, who has been spending most of her time in her new 'penthouse' was at first surprised to see me but then remembered that I had been gone.

'Oh, it's you.' -- Clio

On Wednesday, Stephen and I went to an art show at a nearby cultural institution. The art was mostly unremarkable, but the tiled floors were gorgeous. 

Our favorite exhibit was installed in a gallery in which recordings of an aviary were played over several rows of black wedges. 

We didn't realize at first that they were meant to be used as recliners. It was pleasurable and disorienting to listen to the missing birds. If the city cracked down on cars and mopeds, I thought, we could listen to real birds. 

The next morning, I went to my classic-rock dentist, where I was happy to hear 'Rocket Man' as the hygienist cleaned my teeth. There are so many songs (e.g., 'Born To Be Wild' which came on next) that I never want to hear again in my life, but there are a handful of Elton John ballads that still feel good (i.e., gay) to me.  

On the way to the dentist, I walked through Washington Square Park, which like much of the city these days was filled with people who seemed to need help, with housing or mental issues or whatever else leads someone to wander around in dirty clothes, muttering, in a daze. It's okay, I wanted to say to them as I focused my attention on the asters, Eric Adams is about to be indicted, and things can only get better from here. 

The Forgotten Hills Covered in Green (Notes on Pittsburgh)

I spent a week in Pittsburgh, where I was not surprised (but still dismayed) to see (many) more Trump signs than Harris signs. Between running errands, however, I managed to find an old hiking trail, where I saw no political signs at all.

According to the internet, this tunnel, over which the railroad passes, is more than 100 years old. It made me wish that more things were made of curving bricks these days. 

Beyond the tunnel, there was a hiking path with nobody hiking on it. 

There were fall asters in bloom. 

And contemplative graffiti: 'In every walk with nature, one receives more than one seeks.' It seemed like a lot of work to carve this into the cement barrier, but then again, it's an important message. 

Someone had left a memorial to a dog in the form of a message painted on to an empty spray-paint can: 'R.I.P. WORST DOG EVER. YOUR DIDDY MISSES YOU SO MUCH. SPLOOT DOES TOO. WE WILL TAKE A RIDE IN THE TRUCK FOR YOU LATER. DON'T YOU CRY TONIGHT.' It doesn't happen often, but sometimes make beautiful things out of nothing. 

Another railway trestle crossed over an ancient creek. 

This used to be the world, and now it's disappearing. Or maybe reappearing. 

More flowers to offer hope. 

The path was blocked by fallen trees. 

The hills were covered in green. 

DeathCulture@Sea (The Vermont Sessions)

Along with swimming with the loons, I went to Vermont to record a few songs with my old pals Mike Donofrio (from Saturnine and the New Year) and Matt Kadane (from Bedhead and the New Year). It's been a tough year with much loss and grieving, which I think is reflected in these songs, but recording them was a highlight, which I hope is also reflected in these songs. 

Here they are for your listening pleasure: 

'Circus of Life'

'Traces'

'SeaWaves'

 

 

Early September

It was nice to spend time in Vermont, but it was also nice to get back to the garden. The hardy begonias -- we have two varieties: pink and white -- continue to save us during what has often been a difficult time of year for a shady garden like ours. The Lychnis senno has also been a good addition, although its orange flowers only last a few days.  

I had spent a few days with some old friends in Vermont, and now that I was home, I continued to think about our jokes and conversations. We met in our twenties, and now thirty years had passed. We seemed pretty old when we were talking about our aches and pains, but time vanished when we were sitting on the deck, sipping tequila and telling stories punctuated by the calls of the loons. 

Time had never seemed more malleable. 

The afternoon sun descended through the leaves and apartment buildings to light up the garden for a few minutes. 

Somehow, the world -- its problems and its wonders -- felt very close and very far away. 

The Pleasure of Lakes (Notes on Vermont)

I arrived at the lake in time to watch the sunset, which quickly washed away the residual trauma of the automobile traffic I had endured while crossing through Connecticut. 

Earlier in the day, as I drove up the middle of the state along a highway bordered with fields of goldenrod, milkweed, and lush trees as far as I could see, I wondered if this region of the world had been spared the effects of global warming. When I made this observation, however, my friends informed me that the rains had become very intense over the past few years, and even when they didn't cause severe flooding, they led to a sopping landscape that made the mosquitos unbearable. Because of my New York City-centric view of the news cycle, I had forgotten about the floods, which in the past few summers have washed away big chunks of little towns. So the short answer was no, Vermont had not escaped climate change.   

In happier news, a pair of loons were raising a new chick this year. The father likes to patrol the lake with a calm assertiveness that can be a bit unnerving, even when he's just slowly paddling by and there's no risk of attack. Apparently, loons like to inhabit one lake per couple, although they will sometimes visit nearby lakes to gossip and discuss important matters. 

After the loon had passed, I went for a swim, diving into the deep waters from a dock. It was cold enough to take my breath away, but only for a second. 

The next day, Mike D took me on a bike ride around the area. None of the roads were paved, which made it feel safer; drivers tend to go slower on dirt roads. We stopped to admire a little house at an intersection known as the Shire, where the owners had installed a sunken garden next to a culvert. Fortunately, they had rebuilt the culvert a few years earlier, which had saved them from the floods. In many other places, the culverts are falling apart, a problem we agreed could be easily fixed with the same solution that could fix so many other problems: tax the rich and reinvest the money in public infrastructure. 

We passed lakes dotted with flowering waterlilies. The mountains continued to be very green in the distance as the sky turned from blue to gray and, after a bit of rain, blue again. Back at the lake, we went swimming while the loon kept an eye on us. 

'Don't fuck with me, bitches.' -- a loon in Vermont 

The next morning, the lake was covered with mist, which made it almost more beautiful, a dream.  

The shoreline hovered magically above the invisible water. 

I thought about our birch tree in New York City and wondered if it had regrets about spending its life so far removed from its natural habitat. 

The clover leaned toward the lake. 

Once again, I dove in and for a second felt weightless.

Late August in the Trees

The cool air arrived this week and for a few minutes I remembered what it felt like not to be hot. 

The flowers welcomed the change. 

The anemones were celebrating. 

As were a river of allium. 

The echinacea were fading, however. 

The oak-leaf hydrangeas looked relieved. 

The afternoon sun barely made it through the trees. 

Flowers around the GWB

The downtown skyline wavered in the August haze. 

Were the Canadian wildfires back? A few times over the past week, I thought I smelled smoke, or maybe it was just that I had read something somewhere that suggested that the smoke was coming back. It's hard to know anything these days. 

I stopped to admire a rose bush that's been growing along the banks of the Hudson for as long as I've been running here. 

I once bumped into an old college friend who lives on the Upper West Side. When he told me he liked to walk up to the bridge and take photographs, I asked him if he had seen the rose bush, and he nodded enthusiastically. It was like we were talking about a mutual friend. "I love that guy!" 

For years, near the base of the bridge, there's been a small triangle of land that has always been mowed (and sad). This year, the Parks Department transformed it into a small garden that's now bursting with brown-eyed susans and other flowers. 

It was nice to see an explosion of color where previously there had been a patchy brown lawn. I thought about my mother's garden, which is similarly overflowing with brown-eyed susans. 

I also thought about my fantasy of replacing a row of parking spaces on my block (and on every block) with a native perennial garden. Why aren't we doing this? 

A few spaces (maybe even one!) would be enough to start. This entire plot of land was probably no bigger than three or four parking spots. 

If I'm ever in a position to retire, I think this will be my cause.