Pic of the Day

I’m Dating a Man Who’s Married

 

I’m Dating a Man Who’s Married
By Aaron Smith
 
to a man who’s dating a man who’s                                                        
married to a woman. The husband
 
of the man I’m dating knows he’s
dating me and my boyfriend knows his
 
husband is dating the man who’s
married to the woman who does not
 
know her husband is gay. The guy
she’s married to—the boyfriend
 
of my boyfriend’s husband—just told
his mom he’s gay and she’s happy
 
because she never liked his wife
which is kind of funny but mostly
 
sad and I feel sad that her husband
who’s dating a man is also a man
 
with a mother who has never liked her.
I tell my boyfriend to tell his husband
 
to tell his boyfriend that he needs
to tell his wife sooner rather than later
 
and I know he knows that but still it needs
to be said. My boyfriend said his husband
 
said his boyfriend plans to tell his wife
Memorial Day weekend when his grown
 
kids are home from college and everyone,
I imagine, is eating potato salad by the pool.
 
She works at a flower shop two towns
over. I want to go there when she’s not
 
there and buy her flowers, leave a note
with her coworker at the counter:
 
              You deserve happiness, Natalie.
              You deserve love.
 
              Love,
 
              Your husband’s boyfriend’s
              husband’s boyfriend.
 
 
About the Poem
 
Aaron Smith’s poem “I’m Dating a Man Who’s Married” is a witty, layered, and poignant exploration of queer relationships, secrecy, and the tangled webs of love and obligation. At first glance, it reads like a piece of small-town gossip, the kind of convoluted story that grows more confusing the more one tries to explain it. Smith himself admits he “wanted this poem to seem like gossip and to sound convoluted in the way these scenarios sound when we try to convey them.” And indeed, the poem succeeds—its sentences loop and overlap, names vanish into pronouns, and each relationship branches into another until the reader feels caught in the same dizzying spiral as the speaker.
 
The poem begins plainly enough: the speaker is dating a man who is married to a woman. But very quickly, the cast expands—his boyfriend has a husband, that husband has a boyfriend, that boyfriend is still married to a woman, and on it goes. Each turn introduces another complication, another layer of secrecy or disclosure. The humor lies in the almost absurd wordplay of “my boyfriend’s husband’s boyfriend’s wife,” a construction that captures both the awkwardness of explaining queer love in heteronormative contexts and the entangled reality of lives lived in partial closets.
 
But beneath the comic tangle is sadness. At the heart of this web is Natalie—the unsuspecting wife, working in a flower shop two towns over. Her husband is living a life she doesn’t fully know, and the speaker’s compassion for her emerges in the imagined gesture of leaving her a note:

You deserve happiness, Natalie.
You deserve love.

It is the poem’s emotional crux. For all the confusion and gossip, Smith doesn’t let us forget the human cost of secrecy, the pain of those excluded from the truth, and the longing for everyone involved to find honesty and love.
 
The ending drives this home. The planned revelation is postponed until a convenient holiday weekend, when the family gathers “eating potato salad by the pool.” The image is almost comically suburban, yet it underscores how deeply closeted lives are woven into everyday rituals. Queerness is here, already part of the family table, even if it hasn’t been named aloud.
 
Smith’s poem is, in its way, deeply queer—not only in subject matter but in form. It resists straight lines, tidy categories, or simple relationships. It embraces convolution, contradiction, and the messy truth that love doesn’t always fit the scripts we’re handed. It is funny, yes, but also sad, compassionate, and achingly real.
 
For LGBTQ+ readers, the poem may feel familiar: the half-truths, the awkward explanations, the struggle to claim love openly without hurting others along the way. And for straight readers, it may pull back the curtain on just how complex closeted relationships can be—not only for the queer person hiding but for everyone around them.
 
Smith reminds us that at the end of all this gossip, the heart of the matter is love—love withheld, love shared, love denied, love deserved. And that is a truth worth repeating, even if it takes a whole poem of tangled pronouns to get there.
 
 
About the Poet
 
Aaron Smith is the author of several poetry collections, including Blue on Blue Ground (2005), Appetite (2012), and The Book of Daniel (2019). His work often explores themes of queer identity, desire, humor, and vulnerability, blending candor with a sharp, conversational style. Smith has received fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts and the Massachusetts Cultural Council, and his poems have been widely published in literary journals. Known for his mix of wit and emotional honesty, Smith often examines the complications of gay life in America—balancing comedy, longing, and sharp social observation.

A Migraine Morning

I woke up this morning with a bad migraine. Sometimes, if I get up, take my morning medicines, and have a cup of coffee, the pain will ease enough to get through the day. Unfortunately, this is not one of those mornings.

I’ll wait until just after 6 a.m. to text my boss and let her know that I won’t be in. There are times when I can push through a mild migraine, but this one is anything but mild. I’m nauseated, and every movement makes the pain worse.

My back and leg are aching too, but they’re background noise compared to the pounding in my head. So today, I’m doing the only sensible thing I can do: calling in sick and going back to bed.

I do have physical therapy tomorrow morning, and maybe that will at least help improve my overall well-being. Here’s hoping tomorrow looks a little brighter.

Pic of the Day

 

Boasting in the Lord

 

“But, ‘Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.’ For it is not the one who commends himself who is approved, but the one whom the Lord commends.”

—2 Corinthians 10:17–18

Paul reminds us that real approval does not come from boasting about ourselves but from living a life that reflects God’s love. In today’s world, however, it often feels like those who shout the loudest about their own greatness get the most attention. Some leaders demand constant praise and belittle those who refuse to glorify them. But as Christians, we are called to a different way—the way of humility, service, and compassion.

That kind of leadership is not new. Scripture repeatedly warns us against arrogance and pride. “When pride comes, then comes disgrace; but wisdom is with the humble” (Proverbs 11:2). The one who exalts himself may enjoy temporary power, but it does not last. Self-glorification is hollow because it centers on greed, fear, and division—not on God.

By contrast, there are leaders—both within and outside the church—who live out their faith not by proclaiming themselves righteous but by working for justice. They may not wear religion on their sleeves, but they defend the vulnerable, extend compassion to the marginalized, and recognize the inherent dignity of all God’s children. “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8).

President Jimmy Carter’s life of service—building homes for the poor, advocating for peace, and living humbly even after holding the highest office—is a sermon in itself. President Joe Biden often speaks of drawing strength from Scripture and has spoken openly about leaning on faith through personal tragedy. Whether or not one agrees with every policy, there is a recognizable humility in such leaders—a willingness to see others, to work for justice, and to help the vulnerable.

For LGBTQ+ people of faith, this passage speaks directly to our lived reality. Too often, we hear leaders who boast of their own “faithfulness” while working tirelessly to take away our rights, deny our families dignity, or paint us as enemies of God. They boast in their own power, but their actions betray the spirit of Christ. “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Corinthians 13:1). Words without love are just noise.

Right now, the difference could not be clearer:

Some leaders use fear, scapegoating, and exclusion to divide.
Others seek to protect rights, feed the hungry, and extend a hand of welcome.

As LGBTQ+ Christians, we know what it means to be on the margins. But we also know what it means to encounter Christ’s love in unexpected places—in a chosen family that embraces us, in a church that opens its doors instead of closing them, in the simple kindness of a stranger who affirms our worth. These are glimpses of God’s kingdom.

Glorifying the Lord is not found in loud proclamations of greatness or in parading one’s faith as a weapon. It is found in compassion lived out, in justice pursued, in love made visible. Jesus said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35). That is the measure—not who shouts the loudest, but who loves the most.

So let us boast in the Lord by how we live:

• When we advocate for the oppressed, we glorify God.
• When we refuse to return hate with hate, we glorify God.
• When we love boldly as LGBTQ+ people of faith—without shame and without fear—we glorify God.

This is our call to action: to live as people of hope in a world often bent on fear, to shine love where others spread hate, and to trust that God’s approval matters far more than the world’s applause.

Pic of the Day

 

Moment of Zen: Showers

Pic of the Day

 

A Rough Couple of Days

 

Yesterday was a rough day. Something had me extremely drowsy. I woke up, fed Isabella, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I went back to bed. Later, I managed to write yesterday’s post and get ready for work, but I was still so out of it that I nearly fell asleep in the shower. At that point, I realized it wasn’t safe for me to drive. I texted my boss to let her know I was having some issues—balance and nausea, which were also true—and went back to bed.

When I woke up again, I felt a little better. My back and leg weren’t bothering me as much, and I wasn’t quite as drowsy, though the nausea lingered. Once I got to work, I was too busy to focus on how tired I felt, but the nausea stuck with me all day. I finally managed to eat a little dinner before heading to bed early, waiting for the dark to settle in.

This morning I woke up with a headache and lingering nausea, though I did manage some coffee and breakfast. I sort of slept well, but Isabella was agitated all night. She woke me at 10:30 for an unusual snuggle—curling up on my chest while I petted her until we both drifted off. Then she woke me again at 12:30, 1:30, 2:30, and 4:00. I got up a few times to check on things—my blood sugar (since she has woken me before when I was hypoglycemic), her food and water, even just walking around the apartment. She had plenty of water, but I topped it off anyway. I never did figure out what was bothering her.

I’ll be glad to get home after work today. If I’m still feeling rough by lunchtime, I may just call it and come home. I’m looking forward to a restful weekend, though I do have an event to work tomorrow night. Thankfully, it’s not long, and I’ll be with some people I truly enjoy working with.

Wishing you all a great Friday and a wonderful weekend ahead!

Pic of the Day

 

Balancing Acts

Yesterday was a rough day. I actually expect the same today—not for the same reasons (at least I hope not)—but because I have an event to attend that usually requires standing for long periods and sitting in those uncomfortable folding chairs. With my back, I can’t stand too long and I certainly can’t sit in the wrong kind of chair for very long either. The event is scheduled for three hours, though I suspect we’ll only be there an hour and a half or two. Still, even that feels daunting.

What made yesterday difficult was having to go down into the basement to pull some objects for this event. My boss and I have already discussed my difficulty with stairs, and I’d been told to ask a particular person for help. When I did, that person went to my supervisor to complain—and instead of backing me up, my supervisor somewhat chastised me for even asking. Thankfully, someone outside of my department offered to help, which made all the difference.

I think today will work out fine, but I know my back and leg will pay for it later. After standing longer than usual yesterday, I already paid the price last night with extra pain. Still, I’m holding onto hope that each day brings a little more strength, a little more resilience, and maybe—just maybe—a little less pain.

Pic of the Day

Running on Empty

Some mornings, the words just don’t want to come. Today is one of those mornings. I thought maybe I’d write an art history post, but nothing has clicked yet. Maybe tomorrow inspiration will strike, but today, I’m drawing a blank.

Part of the problem is that work has been so busy lately as I catch up from when I was out. Yesterday was productive—I actually managed to get quite a bit done—but by the time I got home, I was wiped out. It felt like I had run a marathon without leaving my desk. Of course, there’s still plenty more to tackle today. Somehow the pile never gets smaller, it just rearranges itself into new and interesting shapes.

Right now, though, I don’t exactly feel like conquering that pile. I’m sitting here, yawning, wishing energy would magically appear. But I also haven’t had coffee yet, and let’s be honest—without coffee, I’m basically running on fumes. A cup or two might just be the miracle cure. Isabella has already had her breakfast and is now looking far more content and energized than I feel. I swear that cat has better time management than I do. Her daily schedule mostly consists of sleeping, staring out the window at the birds, eating a snack, and then fitting in a few more naps before starting the whole cycle over again.

So here’s to coffee, to productivity (hopefully), and to finding a spark of inspiration when it decides to arrive. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an art post to share, but for now, I’ll just share the honest truth of a sleepy morning trying to find its rhythm.

Pic of the Day

Those Everlasting Blues

I’ve never been much of a fan of modernist poetry. Too often, it feels esoteric—odd for the sake of odd. When I used to teach American Literature, I would show my students two classic examples from Ezra Pound:

L’Art, 1910
by Ezra Pound

Green arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,
Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

A splash of color, yes, but more like a cryptic painter’s note than a poem—striking yet emotionally opaque.

And then his most famous imagist fragment:

In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Haunting, yes, but abstract and slippery, more an intellectual exercise than a window into human feeling.

Sixteen words about a wheelbarrow, fourteen words about a metro station—striking, but also elusive.

So when The American Academy of Poets’ Poem-a-Day recently featured Alfred Kreymborg’s “Those Everlasting Blues,” I expected something similar—another cryptic fragment of modernism. Instead, I was taken aback. This poem spoke to me in a way I didn’t anticipate. Beneath its simple diction and repetition, I heard the cry of a heart broken by longing. And in that ache, I recognized something deeply personal.

Since beginning this blog, I’ve been blessed with many wonderful friendships, like my cherished bond with Susan. But there have also been two men who, in different ways, claimed my heart. One lived far away and struggled with a debilitating illness; when he passed, I mourned but had known it was inevitable. The other’s loss, though, nearly destroyed me. He was a fragile young man who had begun to rebuild his life, and though he loved someone else, he also loved me—and I him. We spoke every day, ending each night with “I love you.” Then a tragic car accident cut his life short, and with it, a piece of my own heart.

Reading Kreymborg’s poem, I felt all of that loss return—the “everlasting blues” of loving someone you cannot keep. It reminded me that poetry’s power isn’t in being clever or obscure, but in giving voice to the things we ourselves can barely name.

Those Everlasting Blues
By Alfred Kreymborg

There ain’t gonna be
any more
mad parties
between
you and me
and it ain’t
gonna be
because I
love you less
but love you more.
And there ain’t
gonna be
any more
sad parties
between us two
because I’m
gonna forget
what I want
till I see
what I want
is you.
And I ain’t
gonna find
what you are
till I find
what it is
that you want
of me
and how
am I
gonna see
what it is
till all
of myself
loves you.
And I don’t
really love
you though I
love you more
than the world
till I learn
to swallow
whatever
you’d like
me to do.
And I ain’t
gonna down
whatever
that little
may be
till I love
me less and
love you more
and love you
for yourself
alone.
If there ain’t
gonna be
any loving
just you
alone
then it’s up
to me to
be taking
myself and
moving myself
off home.
And I’ll
be dragging
what’s left of me
to my lonely
room in the blue
and never
come back
and never
crawl back
till I’m through
just hugging
me.
And I ain’t
no I ain’t
gonna stop
doing that as
I ought to do
till I’m ab-
solutely and
positively
in love and
in love with
you.
And when I’ve
done that and
done only that
and done all of that
for you
you’ll hear me
on the doorstep
ringing at the
doorbell
for one more
party for two.
With nothing
mad in it
nothing sad
in it but
a long glad
lifelong spree
with me myself
loving you yourself
and you
loving me
for me.

When reading Alfred Kreymborg’s “Those Everlasting Blues” today, it’s easy to feel the poem pulsing with queer longing. The speaker aches for someone elusive, desired but never quite possessed. The repetition of “blues” and the sense of yearning that never resolves can strike a modern queer reader as deeply familiar: the pain of unspoken desire, of wanting someone who cannot—or will not—be fully yours.

Even though the poem is voiced as a woman’s lament for a man, nothing in the language itself insists on a heterosexual relationship. In fact, if we strip away the assumed gendering, the poem reads seamlessly as one man mourning his infatuation with another. Kreymborg’s plain, conversational diction keeps the focus on raw feeling rather than social convention, which makes the poem ripe for queer reinterpretation.

This is the power of queer reading: taking texts from the past and listening for the silences, the undercurrents, and the ways desire breaks through the boundaries of its time. For many queer readers today, Kreymborg’s “blues” could be the blues of any marginalized love—aching, unending, and yet profoundly human.

So does this mean Kreymborg himself was gay? Not necessarily. Biographically, there is no evidence he engaged in same-sex relationships. But “Those Everlasting Blues” belongs to his 1916 collection Manhattan Men, where he frequently wrote in other voices—shifting genders, adopting dramatic personae, and speaking through masks.

This “gender ventriloquism” was part of the larger modernist toolbox. Early twentieth-century poets often experimented with persona and dramatic monologue, inspired by classical models and energized by the free verse movement. Ezra Pound spoke through medieval troubadours, H.D. adopted mythic figures like Eurydice and Helen, and T.S. Eliot gave voice to Prufrock and Tiresias. For Kreymborg, writing in a woman’s voice allowed him to explore emotional registers that might have been difficult to express directly.

While his original intent may not have been queer, his willingness to blur identity in poetry—speaking as “the other”—is what allows queer readers to hear themselves in his work. The fluidity of voice makes his poetry feel like a space where hidden or forbidden desires could be expressed indirectly.

Whether or not Alfred Kreymborg personally shared the “everlasting blues” of same-sex longing, his poem gives us a vessel to pour that experience into. That is the beauty of queer reading: recognizing how art transcends the limits of biography and becomes a space where new meanings—our meanings—can flourish.


About the Poet

Alfred Kreymborg (1883–1966) was an American poet, playwright, editor, and anthologist who played a key role in the rise of literary modernism in New York. A central figure in Greenwich Village’s bohemian scene, he was the founding editor of Others: A Magazine of the New Verse (1915–1919), which introduced American audiences to avant-garde voices like Marianne Moore, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, and Mina Loy.

Kreymborg’s career was eclectic—he wrote poetry, drama, fiction, and memoirs, and even performed on mandolin in experimental productions. His work was often overshadowed by his more famous contemporaries, but he was a connector and promoter of new voices at a time when American poetry was breaking free from strict formal traditions.

Importantly, Kreymborg moved in circles that included many queer and queer-adjacent writers: Hart Crane, Djuna Barnes, and others who challenged conventional ideas of gender, sexuality, and identity in literature. While there is no evidence that Kreymborg himself identified as gay, his friendships and collaborations with these writers placed him in a cultural moment where queer creativity thrived beneath the surface.

Pic of the Day

The Trouble with Monday Morning

Isabella decided I didn’t need to sleep in today. She woke me up way too early, and while that’s nothing unusual, I really wanted to stay asleep a bit longer and avoid the pain radiating down my leg. No such luck.

The good news is I took a vacation day today. The bad news—besides the pain—is that the only reason I took a vacation day is because of car trouble. I can’t get the car into the mechanic until tomorrow, and I don’t dare drive it anywhere else. So here I am, stuck at home, with no transportation except for that one hopeful trip to the shop tomorrow.

Honestly, with the way I feel this morning—leg pain and day two of a migraine—I probably could have taken a sick day. But since HR has managed to screw up some of my leave paperwork, I’m trying to be cautious. Until that gets fixed, I’m afraid my sick leave will get eaten up too quickly.

All I really want is to feel better. I’ve said that for years about my migraines, but at least with them, I’ve learned how to keep going and live my life. This back and leg pain is different. It makes even basic mobility a challenge, and that’s not something I can just push through as easily.

So today’s plan is pretty simple: hope the pain eases a bit, or at least that I can get some more sleep. That’s about all I’ve got in me for now.

I hope your Monday morning is starting off better than mine. Here’s to a smoother week ahead for all of us.

Pic of the Day

 

Temples With Cracks

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” 

— 1 Corinthians 6:19–20

For many gay men, the body is a canvas. In our culture, there is often deep appreciation for youth, beauty, and the physical form—sometimes expressed in art, sometimes in fitness, sometimes in the mirror. There is nothing inherently wrong with taking joy in a healthy, attractive body. After all, Scripture tells us that our bodies are “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14). We are temples of the Holy Spirit, precious in God’s eyes. Caring for our bodies—through exercise, rest, nourishing food, and avoiding harmful excess—can be an act of gratitude to God.

But a temple is meant to glorify God, not the temple itself.

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians remind us that we “are not our own.” This isn’t a call to despise our bodies, nor to neglect them—it’s an invitation to steward them well. Honoring the temple means finding balance: “Let your gentleness be evident to all” (Philippians 4:5). Moderation keeps us from slipping into the extremes of neglect or obsession.

In the pursuit of health, some of us become caught in the endless chase for the perfect physique or the perpetual glow of youth. It’s easy to measure worth by the scale, the mirror, or the attention of others. But Proverbs 31:30 reminds us: “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a person who fears the LORD is to be praised.” Our worth in God’s eyes isn’t measured in abs, hairlines, or skin elasticity. Even the most beautiful body will age, and that is not a failure—it’s part of the holy rhythm of life.

Scripture warns against vanity: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves” (Philippians 2:3). When care for the body becomes worship of the body, we risk turning God’s temple into a shrine to ourselves.

Some of us live with scars, chronic illness, disability, or simply the normal changes of age. We may not match the glossy images that saturate social media and gay culture. But a temple need not be flawless to be holy. God doesn’t require marble perfection—He dwells gladly in weathered stone, in bodies that have been through joy, loss, and transformation.

Honoring our bodies might mean different things for each of us:

• Scheduling regular check-ups with the doctor and dentist.
• Eating balanced meals, but still enjoying dessert without guilt.
• Moving our bodies in ways that bring joy rather than punishment.
• Resting without shame.

Jesus Himself modeled balance. He fasted (Matthew 4:2) but also feasted (Luke 7:34). He withdrew for rest (Mark 6:31) but poured Himself out in service. Healthy habits matter, but so does the grace to live without fear of imperfection.

Paul writes in 1 Timothy 4:8: “For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come.” This is the healthy perspective: value the body, but not above all else. Care for it because it’s God’s dwelling place—but don’t let the mirror become your altar.

We are called to live fully in the bodies God has given us, honoring them through health, moderation, and gratitude. We can resist both the temptation to neglect our health and the temptation to idolize our appearance. A temple stands to draw people’s eyes toward God—not just toward its own beauty.

God made our bodies and called them good, and each of us carries within us a temple where the Spirit dwells. We are called to care for these temples in ways that honor Him—to nourish them, strengthen them, and allow them to rest—without bowing to vanity or living in fear. There is beauty in every stage of life, and holiness even in imperfection. When we live with this awareness, our lives—inside and out—can reflect God’s love and grace to the world.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: National Black Cat Appreciation Day 🐈‍⬛

Tomorrow is National Black Cat Appreciation Day, but since tomorrow is Sunday—and I always post a devotional on Sundays—I thought today would be the perfect time to celebrate.

Black cats have long carried unfair superstitions, but in reality they’re elegant, mysterious, and endlessly charming companions. What better way to honor them than with a little appreciation of our own? What better way than to enjoy some lovely men photographed with their sleek black feline friends?

So, in anticipation of tomorrow, here’s your Saturday Moment of Zen: handsome men and beautiful black cats—a combination that feels like good luck to me.

No National Black Cat Appreciation Day post would be complete without a nod to the queen of black cats—Isabella, who reigns supreme.  👑🐾 

Queen Isabella in all her glory!

Graceful, commanding, and regal.

Watching over her kingdom.

The real mastermind behind The Closet Professor. 

A Tribute to the Original Queen

HRH, Queen Victoria (1998–2014)

Those of you who have followed the blog for a while may remember Queen Victoria, my beloved gray tabby Siamese mix who reigned in my life from 1998 to 2014. Though she was not a black cat, she ruled with strength and benevolence, and held my whole heart before Isabella came into my life.

This is a small tribute to the original queen, whose reign set the standard for grace, devotion, and love. In Isabella, I have found the perfect successor—different in color but equally commanding, equally cherished, and equally royal. Together, they remind me that our pets are not only companions, but sovereigns of our hearts and rulers of our homes.

Pic of the Day

 

I have to admit, when I first came across this picture, I thought of what I think is a good caption: ​

“Twink, It’s What’s for Dinner”

TGIF!

While my bosses refused to let me work from home for an extended period, I did at least get to keep my regular Friday work-from-home day—and I am so glad it’s here. This week has been a trying one, my first back in the office after my medical leave.

The first three days of the week, our parking lot was closed, which left me with two choices: park in a lot up a steep hill or park in one three times farther away but on level ground. On Monday, I tried the hill. Going down that morning was rough; going back up in the afternoon was pure agony. On Tuesday, I chose the level route—only to discover that the extra distance was even worse.

By Wednesday, I’d been told that the museum’s reserved spaces would be available because campus security was going to deal with the cars parked there that didn’t belong to museum patrons. I bet you can guess what I found when I arrived—the same cars, still in those spots. So, back to the hill it was. Going down wasn’t terrible, but going up… well, let’s just say I took my time. Once inside the museum, I had to sit before I could do anything else. By then, I knew what my body would and wouldn’t tolerate, so I paced myself.

Yesterday, the parking situation was finally back to normal. But the workday itself made up for it. A two-hour meeting in uncomfortable plastic chairs is never fun, but it’s worse with a pinched nerve. I switched to a padded chair after the first fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t much better. By the end, I was shifting around like I was sitting on a bed of nails. Lunch in the break room wasn’t an improvement—the wooden chairs are no kinder to my back.

Back at my desk, my chair finally let my leg relax, and I took my midday meds. The relief lasted until I had to get up to let someone into a locked room. That part was fine; what wasn’t fine was running into a talkative professor who’s also president of an arts organization board we both serve on. He asked about my back, and I told him about the pinched nerve. He had a similar problem before a hip replacement fixed it, and he went on to talk about the board meeting tomorrow—which I doubt I’ll make. Eventually, the pain got so bad that I had to stop him mid-story and say, “I have to go sit down.”

In short, I overdid it yesterday, and I’m paying for it today. My leg is in a lot of pain this morning, and I’m hoping my meds kick in soon. At least I can work comfortably today from my own couch.

And now, to send you into the weekend on a happier note—here’s your Isabella Pic of the Week. She’s sleeping peacefully—though she wasn’t quite so peaceful at 1 a.m. last night when she insisted I get up. Turned out her water bowl was low. I filled it, and she let me go back to bed without complaint. She’s lucky she’s cute, and even luckier that she’s the perfect Friday reminder to rest, recharge, and keep a little sweetness close at hand.

Here’s to a weekend with no steep hills, no long walks, no terrible chairs… and maybe just a few cat naps of our own.

Pic of the Day

 

Naked Among the Gods

Two nude men wrestling

James Ward

1819

I’ve always been fascinated by how the Ancient Greeks embraced the naked body—especially the male form—not as something shameful, but as something worthy of admiration, celebration, and even reverence. To modern eyes, the sheer number of nude statues and painted vases from the ancient world might seem excessive or erotic (and sometimes, they are), but to the Greeks, nudity wasn’t just about sex. It was about excellence, identity, citizenship, and being fully human.

They didn’t just tolerate public nudity in certain settings—they expected it. Athletes competed fully nude in the Olympic Games, not as a rebellious act, but as a deeply held tradition. The word gymnasium itself comes from the Greek gymnos(γυμνός), meaning “naked.” Young men trained in the nude not just to strengthen their bodies, but to shape their minds and characters. The gymnasium was a civic and educational space where nudity signaled discipline, honesty, and a commitment to becoming the best version of oneself. Nudity wasn’t a distraction—it was part of the lesson.

Kritios Boy

And that reverence for the human form found its most lasting legacy in art. One of the earliest and most striking examples is the Kritios Boy (c. 480 BCE), often seen as the turning point in Greek sculpture. Unlike the stiff, idealized youth of earlier kouros figures, the Kritios Boy is relaxed, confident, and lifelike. There’s no armor, no toga, no fig leaf—just a serene, nude adolescent standing in gentle contrapposto. He feels both real and ideal.

Polykleito’s Doryphoros

Another favorite of mine is Polykleitos’s Doryphoros (Spear Bearer), a statue designed to embody the perfect male proportions. Here again, the nudity isn’t incidental—it’s essential. You can’t demonstrate bodily harmony if the body is covered. Nudity, in this case, is a kind of visual philosophy. Then there’s the Discobolus (Discus Thrower) by Myron, which captures a man’s body in mid-motion, muscles taut, entirely nude, perfectly balanced between tension and grace. His nudity heightens the athletic drama and draws the viewer into that moment of perfection.

Myron’s Discobolus

It wasn’t just in sculpture. The Greeks captured daily life, training scenes, and intimate gatherings on painted pottery, particularly in the red-figure vase tradition. These vases, often used for wine drinking at symposia, show men wrestling, bathing, reclining with lovers, and engaging in philosophical dialogue—always nude or mostly nude. One amphora I saw during a museum visit showed a trainer instructing a youth at the gymnasium, both fully exposed, their nudity treated as entirely normal, even expected. Another vase depicts two young men sharing a kiss in a quiet, domestic scene—tender, not titillating. These glimpses into Greek life are reminders that the naked body wasn’t always about arousal. Sometimes, it was about presence—being fully seen, fully known.

Terracotta Panathenaic prize amphora

Attributed to the Euphiletos Painter

ca. 530 BCE

This attitude feels almost alien in a country like ours. Here in America, nudity is still largely taboo, wrapped up in Puritanical baggage and frequently equated with obscenity or indecency. Even in Vermont, where public nudity is technically legal in most cases (as long as you're not lewd or explicitly sexual), you rarely see anyone baring it all outside of a secluded swim spot or a clothing-optional festival. There’s something quietly telling about that—how the law might allow something, but cultural discomfort still keeps it hidden.

Terracotta skyphos (deep drinking cup)

Attributed to the Theseus Painter

ca. 500 BCE

And yet, I can’t help but wonder: what would it mean if we took a more Ancient Greek view of nudity—not as something to be feared or fetishized, but as something natural, honest, even virtuous?

A few years ago, I attended a gay men’s retreat at Easton Mountain in upstate New York, and it gave me a real-world glimpse of what the Greeks might have understood intuitively. Nudity there wasn’t shocking or scandalous—it was completely natural. The pool was always full of naked bodies, sunlit and unselfconscious. I don’t think I ever saw a bathing suit near it. The sauna and hot tub were clothing-free zones by default, and during some of the workshops—body painting, liberation exercises, guided meditations—nudity was gently encouraged as a way to connect more honestly with ourselves and others. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing up. I left feeling more open, more grounded in my body, and more aware of how rare that kind of freedom really is.

It might mean raising a generation less ashamed of their bodies. It might mean allowing ourselves to admire beauty without reducing it to sex. It might mean being more comfortable in our own skin, literally and figuratively. While the Greeks didn’t extend this attitude equally—women were mostly excluded from these public displays of nudity—there’s something liberating in imagining a culture where both women and men could be nude in non-sexualized spaces without fear or judgment.

As a gay man, I think often about how visibility and embodiment intersect. For many of us, our relationship to our bodies has been shaped by shame, secrecy, and desires we were never meant to name. What if we had grown up seeing the male body—our bodies—as something to admire without guilt? What if nudity wasn’t something to hide or automatically sexualize, but something that simply was? Would we be more honest? Kinder to ourselves? More connected to one another? Might we even find ourselves a little closer to the divine—just as the Ancient Greeks did, in their reverence for the human form and their gods?