Thursday, November 13, 2025
A Quick Note This Morning
I had a terrible night of sleep last night, and as a result, I just do not feel like writing anything today. Some mornings are like that, and I’m choosing to give myself a bit of slack.
I hope all of you have a wonderful day, and may it be far more restful and pleasant than mine started out to be!
Wednesday, November 12, 2025
Coded Desire: The Hidden Queer World of J.C. Leyendecker
When we think of early 20th-century American illustration, Norman Rockwell’s name often comes first. But long before Rockwell’s wholesome small-town Americana, there was Joseph Christian Leyendecker—his mentor, idol, and predecessor at The Saturday Evening Post. Leyendecker not only helped shape the golden age of American illustration; he also created some of the most striking, subtly queer imagery ever to appear on mainstream magazine covers in the early 1900s.
Between 1896 and 1950, Leyendecker produced more than 400 magazine covers and countless advertisements for brands like Arrow Collars, Kuppenheimer, and Interwoven Socks. His sharply dressed men, gleaming with confidence and sensuality, set the visual standard for masculine beauty. These “Arrow Collar Men” became the male ideal of their day—elegant, poised, athletic, and perfectly groomed. But beneath their polish lay something quietly radical: Leyendecker’s men gazed at one another—and at us—with desire.
Leyendecker lived most of his adult life with his partner and muse, Charles Beach, who modeled for many of the Arrow Collar ads and became the archetype of masculine allure. Their partnership was both personal and professional, lasting nearly fifty years, and though they lived in an era of rigid moral codes, Leyendecker found ways to encode affection, intimacy, and attraction in his art. The male figures in his paintings—posed with subtle tension, often in pairs—seem to vibrate with a kind of longing rarely seen in commercial art of that time.
His holiday covers for The Saturday Evening Post often featured wholesome domestic scenes, but even there, queer readings emerge: the bachelor trimming his own Christmas tree, the soldier straightening another man’s uniform, or two athletes sharing a private glance. These moments, hidden in plain sight, offered coded expressions of male companionship and tenderness during decades when overt queerness could not be depicted publicly.
After Leyendecker’s death in 1951, much of his reputation was overshadowed by Rockwell, who succeeded him at The Post. Yet in recent years, art historians and LGBTQ+ scholars have reclaimed Leyendecker as one of the most important queer figures in American art. His work reminds us that representation isn’t always loud—it can whisper through brushstrokes, glances, and gestures. In those polished, idealized men, he painted a world where beauty, desire, and love between men could exist—if only in coded form.
Leyendecker’s legacy today is being rediscovered in museum retrospectives and popular culture, from contemporary fashion photography to the animated short Coded: The Hidden Love of J.C. Leyendecker, which explores how he built an entire visual language of queer identity long before such language was socially permissible. His art stands as a testament to resilience and creativity under constraint—a reminder that even in eras of silence, queer artists found ways to make themselves seen.
Tuesday, November 11, 2025
From Glory to Grief: World War I Poetry and the Meaning of Veterans Day
“If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.”— Rupert Brooke, “The Soldier”
Each year on November 11, we pause to honor the men and women who have served in the armed forces. Known originally as Armistice Day, this date marks the end of World War I in 1918, when the guns finally fell silent on the Western Front. What began as a commemoration of peace after “the war to end all wars” evolved into Veterans Day in the United States—an annual moment of gratitude for all who have worn the uniform.
World War I not only reshaped geopolitics and society; it also transformed art and literature. Poetry, in particular, became the most immediate and emotional record of soldiers’ experiences. From the idealism of 1914 to the disillusionment of the trenches, poets captured both the nobility and the horror of modern warfare. Three poems—Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier,” John McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields,” and Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est”—trace the arc of changing attitudes among soldiers during the Great War.
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By Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
⸻
Brooke’s language is pastoral and spiritual: England is “richer dust,” “flowers,” and “laughter.” His tone conveys the belief that sacrifice in service of one’s country was beautiful and pure. Tragically, Brooke never witnessed the grim realities of trench warfare; he died of blood poisoning in 1915 on his way to Gallipoli. For many early in the war, his poems embodied a kind of naïve heroism that would soon fade in the face of unimaginable loss.
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By John McCrea
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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“In Flanders Fields” bridges two worlds: the patriotic call of Brooke’s generation and the emerging sorrow of a war that had already claimed millions. McCrae gives voice to the dead, who urge the living to “take up our quarrel with the foe.” Yet the repetition of poppies and crosses hints at the futility of such endless sacrifice. The poem’s enduring symbol—the poppy—has become a global emblem of remembrance, worn each November to honor veterans and the fallen alike. McCrae himself died of pneumonia in 1918, just months before the war ended.
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Dulce et Decorum Est
By Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer,
Bitter[note 1] as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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By ending the poem with the biting phrase “The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Owen rejects the glorification of war that poets like Brooke once embraced. His work gives a voice to the generation that witnessed industrialized slaughter on a scale never before seen. Owen was killed in action in November 1918—just one week before the Armistice.
During World War I, poetry became both a weapon and a refuge. Soldiers scribbled verses in trenches, hospitals, and letters home, using poetry to process trauma, question authority, and preserve humanity amid chaos. Newspapers published patriotic sonnets beside dispatches from the front, and later, the war poets’ raw testimonies helped shape public memory of the conflict.
The evolution from Brooke’s idealism to Owen’s bitter realism mirrors society’s loss of innocence. Through their words, we witness not just the cost of war, but the courage to speak truth against false glory.
The armistice signed on November 11, 1918, marked not only the end of World War I but also the birth of a day of remembrance. In 1954, the United States renamed Armistice Day as Veterans Day to honor all those who have served, in every war and in peacetime. The poetry of Brooke, McCrae, and Owen reminds us why this day endures—not merely as a celebration of victory, but as a solemn reflection on sacrifice, service, and the cost of freedom.
A century later, these poems still speak across the silence of the graves and trenches. Brooke reminds us of the hope that sends soldiers to battle; McCrae gives us the grief that lingers after; Owen forces us to confront the truth of what war does to the human soul. Together, they form a poetic memorial as powerful as any monument of stone—a reminder that remembrance begins not with ceremony, but with empathy.
So this Veterans Day, as poppies bloom once more in our collective memory, may we honor not only the fallen, but also the living—those who have carried the burdens of service with courage, faith, and love.
Monday, November 10, 2025
From Tun Tavern to Netflix: Celebrating 250 Years of Marines
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| Miles Heizer as Cameron Cope |
November 10, 2025, marks a truly historic milestone—the 250th birthday of the United States Marine Corps. Founded in 1775 at Tun Tavern in Philadelphia, the Marines have stood for courage, discipline, and an unshakable commitment to honor, duty, and brotherhood. Every year on this day, Marines around the world—past and present—celebrate their proud legacy. This year’s celebration carries even greater meaning as a quarter of a millennium of service is recognized.
In honor of that incredible legacy, I recently watched a new Netflix series that brings a very different but equally powerful perspective to the Marine Corps experience: Boots.
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| Max Parker as Sergeant Liam Robert Sullivan |
Based on the memoir The Pink Marine by Greg Cope White, Boots tells the story of a young gay man who joins the Marines—though, unlike the memoir which is set in the 1970s, the Netflix adaptation takes place in the 1990s, just before the era of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” What unfolds is a deeply moving, funny, and inspiring story about resilience, identity, and belonging.
The show stars Miles Heizer and Max Parker, two incredibly gorgeous gay men who both play gay men with honesty and heart. Their chemistry, vulnerability, and courage to portray queer characters in such a traditionally masculine military setting make the series truly special. Heizer brings his signature quiet intensity to the role, while Parker adds authenticity and depth to every scene.
Boots doesn’t just retell a coming-of-age story—it redefines what it means to serve, to find pride in oneself, and to carve out a space in a world that often tries to deny you one. For LGBTQ+ viewers, it’s especially meaningful to see this representation handled with respect, humor, and tenderness.
If you haven’t seen Boots yet, I highly recommend it. It’s beautifully written, well-acted, and emotionally resonant. And what better time to watch it than now—in honor of 250 years of the United States Marine Corps—a reminder that courage comes in many forms, and sometimes the bravest thing a Marine can do is to live truthfully.
Semper Fi—and happy birthday, Marines!
Sunday, November 9, 2025
Called Into the Light
“But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”
— 1 Peter 2:9
There is a transformation unfolding within the Church today—a long-awaited moment in which LGBTQ+ Christians are finally stepping out of the shadows and into God’s marvelous light. After nearly two thousand years, we are being seen not as outsiders, but as part of the royal priesthood Peter describes: God’s own people, chosen and beloved. In many congregations, the doors of affirmation have swung open, and the light pouring through them reveals the fullness of God’s love.
We, the people once told to hide our hearts, are now becoming a visible part of the body of Christ. As Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14). That light shines through us—through our authenticity, our resilience, and our love. When we live openly and faithfully, we help the Church itself become that shining city, showing the world that God’s love embraces all who seek it.
Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 1:18 asks that “the eyes of your heart may be enlightened” so that we may truly know the hope to which we are called. That enlightenment happens each time we recognize that God’s light is not limited or conditional—it has always included us. The more we see ourselves as God sees us—holy, beloved, and radiant—the more we are able to reflect that light into the world.
To be called into the light is not only to be affirmed but also to become bearers of hope. We are invited to live as witnesses of God’s inclusive grace, proclaiming through our words and our lives that love is stronger than fear and light always overcomes darkness.
May the eyes of our hearts be opened this week to see the light that has always been shining within us. May we walk confidently as God’s chosen people, reflecting divine love into every corner of the world, until all God’s children stand together in that marvelous light that cannot be hidden.
Saturday, November 8, 2025
Friday, November 7, 2025
Conference: Day 3
Today is the final day of my conference, and I am more than ready to go home. Wednesday night, I got a touch of food poisoning—at least I think that’s what it was—from the sushi place where we had dinner. Yesterday was a rough one. I went to one session and managed to get lunch with some friends, but that feeling of “better” quickly disappeared. I ended up back in my room for the rest of the afternoon and skipped dinner entirely.
This morning, I’ll repack my bags, get dressed, and head down for breakfast. I’m a little aggravated that this hotel doesn’t start serving breakfast until 7 a.m. I like to eat shortly after I get up, and it’s not like their breakfast is anything to write home about anyway.
I’ve got several sessions to attend today and a closing lunch before we head home. Last year, my coworker decided to skip the closing lunch and drive back early. I’m hoping we do the same today.
Isabella will no doubt have plenty to say when I walk in the door. She’s always very vocal when I’ve been away and disrupted her routine. Some cats pout or act mad when you come home, but not Isabella—she’s just happy to see me. And honestly, I’ll be just as happy to see her.
I haven’t posted one in a while, so here’s an Isabella Pic of the Week:
Thursday, November 6, 2025
Conference: Day 2
There isn’t much to say this morning. The conference went well yesterday—better than I expected, honestly—and I actually managed to sleep in this morning (well, until 6 a.m., which still counts as sleeping in for me).
I have a full day scheduled today, but the sessions I’m really interested in don’t start until the afternoon. So, I may take it easy for a bit this morning, move a little slower, and just enjoy the quiet before the day gets busy. But first things first—I need breakfast. Hopefully, the coffee downstairs is good and strong.
Sometimes, a slow start is exactly what you need.
Wednesday, November 5, 2025
Conference: Day 1
I made it to my conference. I’m in a different hotel from the main conference one for the first night (long story), but I’ll be where I’m supposed to be for the rest of the time.
The ride down was actually more pleasant than I expected. My coworker, who usually goes silent behind her laptop whenever she’s not driving, talked the whole way this time. It made the trip go by a lot faster.
The conference starts today, and there are a few sessions I’m genuinely looking forward to. To be honest, most will probably be pretty boring, but that’s usually how these things go. This will be a short post because I need to jump in the shower and head down for breakfast. The coffee in the room was terrible, so I’m hoping the coffee downstairs will redeem the morning.
Tuesday, November 4, 2025
November
November
By Edward Thomas
November’s days are thirty:
November’s earth is dirty,
Those thirty days, from first to last;
And the prettiest thing on ground are the paths
With morning and evening hobnails dinted,
With foot and wing-tip overprinted
Or separately charactered,
Of little beast and little bird.
The fields are mashed by sheep, the roads
Make the worst going, the best the woods
Where dead leaves upward and downward scatter.
Few care for the mixture of earth and water,
Twig, leaf, flint, thorn,
Straw, feather, all that men scorn,
Pounded up and sodden by flood,
Condemned as mud.
But of all the months when earth is greener
Not one has clean skies that are cleaner.
Clean and clear and sweet and cold,
They shine above the earth so old,
While the after-tempest cloud
Sails over in silence though winds are loud,
Till the full moon in the east
Looks at the planet in the west
And earth is silent as it is black,
Yet not unhappy for its lack.
Up from the dirty earth men stare:
One imagines a refuge there
Above the mud, in the pure bright
Of the cloudless heavenly light:
Another loves earth and November more dearly
Because without them, he sees clearly,
The sky would be nothing more to his eye
Than he, in any case, is to the sky;
He loves even the mud whose dyes
Renounce all brightness to the skies.
About the Poem
Edward Thomas’s “November” opens with blunt realism—mud, muck, and the mess of late autumn—but soon unfolds into a meditation on beauty, humility, and the interdependence between earth and sky. The poem’s first half dwells in the physical world: sheep-trampled fields, sodden leaves, the “mixture of earth and water” that most people scorn. Thomas does not romanticize this landscape; he names it for what it is—mud—yet finds in it a strange, quiet loveliness. Even the paths “hobnails dinted” with the marks of animals and people suggest the persistence of life and movement through bleakness.
In the second half, Thomas turns his gaze upward to the brilliant clarity of the November sky. After the storms have passed, the heavens appear “clean and clear and sweet and cold,” a mirror opposite to the sullied ground below. Yet he refuses to separate them. The poem ends by contrasting two ways of seeing: one who yearns for escape into the “pure bright” refuge of the sky, and another who loves the earth all the more for its imperfections. For Thomas, the latter vision is truer. Without the mud, there would be no sky—no brightness to contrast its purity. The poem thus becomes a subtle argument for groundedness, for finding grace not in transcendence but in the honest, dirty beauty of the world beneath our feet.
In “November,” Thomas achieves a spiritual balance between realism and reverence. His speaker does not seek heaven apart from earth but sees both as part of one continuous whole—each giving meaning to the other. The mud’s dull tones make the sky’s brilliance possible, just as human imperfection gives shape to our longing for clarity.
About the Poet
Edward Thomas (1878–1917) was a British poet, essayist, and nature writer whose work bridges the late Victorian and early modernist periods. Born in London to Welsh parents, he was a close observer of the English countryside, capturing its subtle moods with honesty and restraint.
Thomas’s poetry often reflects a tension between melancholy and wonder, combining the simplicity of rural life with the philosophical depth of modern thought. Encouraged by his friend Robert Frost to write verse, Thomas began publishing poetry only a few years before his death. His brief but remarkable career produced enduring works such as “Adlestrop,” “Rain,” and “November.”
In 1915, despite being nearly forty and deeply introspective by nature, Thomas enlisted in the British Army during World War I. He was killed in action in 1917 at the Battle of Arras. His poems, written in those last few years, remain some of the most quietly profound meditations on nature, time, and the human spirit in twentieth-century English poetry.
Monday, November 3, 2025
On the Road Again
I’m afraid this week is going to feel like a long one. I’ll only be in the office for about a day and a half before heading out to a conference for the rest of the week. I’m not exactly thrilled about the trip over and back—not because of the destination, but because of the person I’ll be riding with. Let’s just say that “pleasant conversation” isn’t her strong suit. I’m planning to bring my Kindle and use my hearing aids as earbuds so I can listen to a book while pretending to read. (I can’t actually read in the car—it gives me a headache and makes me carsick.) Usually, I like to talk on long drives, but since my travel companion rarely says more than a few words to me even on a good day, I don’t think that’ll be happening.
I usually do the driving on these trips, but she decided she wanted to drive this time. I think she thought she was being difficult—you should’ve seen her face when I thanked her for volunteering. With this pinched nerve in my back, long drives can be painful, so I was genuinely grateful to hand over the keys.
Once the conference starts, I’m sure things will be fine. At least I’ll be out of town for a few days. Other than my trip to Alabama last Christmas, I haven’t gone anywhere overnight since the last time I attended this same conference a year ago. Honestly, I need a real vacation—not a work trip, not a family visit—but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.
The bright side is that I’ll get to see a few friends I rarely get to catch up with, and maybe I can do a little networking while I’m there. Like I said yesterday, you never know when a small act of kindness or a good conversation might open doors down the line. Here’s hoping the week goes smoothly, the conference is worthwhile, and the car ride passes quickly.
Wishing everyone a good week ahead!
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