Pic of the Day

Wings, Lost Films, and a Kiss That Still Resonates

When people talk about LGBTQ+ moments in classic Hollywood, the conversation usually begins somewhere in the 1930s or 1940s, often in coded dialogue, lingering glances, or the carefully crafted innuendo of the Production Code era. Yet one of the most fascinating moments in early cinema happened before the Hays Code truly tightened its grip on Hollywood morality: a kiss between two men in the 1927 silent film Wings.

Most people know Wings because it won the very first Academy Award for Best Picture (then called “Outstanding Picture”) at the first Academy Awards ceremony. It was a massive World War I aviation epic, famous for its aerial combat scenes and ambitious filmmaking. What many modern viewers do not realize is that near the end of the film, there is an intimate scene between the two male leads, Jack Powell and David Armstrong, played by Charles ‘Buddy’ Rogers and Richard Arlen.

In the scene, David lies dying after being mistakenly shot down by Jack. As Jack cradles his friend in grief and desperation, he kisses him. It is brief and tender, not presented as overtly romantic, but emotionally intimate in a way that still surprises audiences nearly a century later.

Was it intended to be a “gay kiss”? Probably not in the way we would define it today. The scene is framed through the intense emotional bonds forged by war and male friendship. Yet to dismiss it entirely as devoid of queer meaning would also ignore the realities of both cinema and audience interpretation.

Hollywood has always had gay men within it—actors, directors, writers, costume designers, composers, and producers—even when they were forced to remain hidden. Silent-era Hollywood especially existed in a somewhat freer space before the stricter moral policing of later decades. Audiences, too, were more complex than historians once acknowledged. Gay men sitting in darkened theaters in 1927 may very well have recognized something in that moment that straight audiences interpreted differently. Queer audiences have always learned to read between the lines, to find fragments of themselves in stories never openly meant for them.

That is part of what makes the scene so fascinating. It works on multiple levels at once. For mainstream audiences, it was tragic camaraderie and devotion between brothers-in-arms. For others, perhaps it hinted at something deeper and more emotionally honest than Hollywood would later allow itself to show for decades.

The scene also reminds us how fluid emotional expression between men could sometimes appear in early cinema before later cultural anxieties hardened those boundaries. There is vulnerability in the moment, tenderness, physical affection, and grief expressed openly. Even today, many films struggle to portray male intimacy with such sincerity.

For many years, however, there was a chance audiences might never see Wings again at all.

Like countless silent films, Wings was once considered a lost film. The original prints existed on nitrate film stock, which was notoriously unstable and highly flammable. Nitrate film deteriorates over time, becoming brittle, sticky, chemically unstable, and eventually capable of spontaneous combustion under the wrong conditions. Entire film archives and movie vaults were destroyed in catastrophic nitrate fires during the early twentieth century. My own museum has had many nitrate reels of film in the collection over the years. Several were sent to the Smithsonian Institution to be digitized, while those that remained are stored in a special freezer designed to slow deterioration and reduce the danger of spontaneous combustion. Archivists and curators quickly learn that you never want to open an old film reel and smell vinegar. That sharp vinegar odor is often a sign of “vinegar syndrome,” a chemical breakdown process that signals the film is actively deteriorating.

When a surviving print of Wings was discovered in the archives of the Cinémathèque Française in Paris, archivists understood immediately how urgent the situation was. The film had to be copied as quickly as possible from nitrate stock onto modern “safety film” stock, which used acetate rather than nitrate and was far less dangerous and far more stable for long-term preservation.

Without that preservation effort, one of the most historically significant films ever made—and one of early Hollywood’s most unexpectedly touching moments of male intimacy—might have vanished forever.

That is one of the beautiful things about film preservation. We are not simply saving entertainment. We are saving cultural memory, emotional history, and the quiet moments that speak across generations. A nearly hundred-year-old silent film can still surprise us, still move us, and still make us wonder what certain audiences may have seen hidden between the frames.

And perhaps that is part of the enduring magic of Wings. Beneath the spectacle of airplanes and warfare lies a fleeting moment of tenderness that continues to resonate long after the silent era faded away.

Pic of the Day

Creatures of Habit

Isabella woke me up at 4:00 this morning—apparently starving, as always. She’s a creature of habit, and once she decides it’s time to eat, there’s no convincing her otherwise. So I got up, fed her, and crawled back into bed. I managed another forty-five minutes of sleep before she decided that was quite enough for both of us. I’m not entirely convinced she understands that I need to get up and get ready for work. More likely, she thinks it’s simply time for me to be awake… or perhaps she’s trying to trick me into feeding her again.

Either way, she won.

So, I got up, made a cup of coffee and some toast, and settled in for a quiet start to the morning—writing this post and half-watching the news before I have to get ready for the day. It’s not a bad way to ease into things, even if it came a little earlier than I would have preferred.

The good news is that I’m not dreading work today. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to it. I’ll be the only one there, which means no interruptions, no distractions—just the rare chance to focus. Days like that are a gift.

I’ve been working on a project that falls into that strange category of being both time-consuming and genuinely enjoyable: creating a class. It’s currently just a one- or two-day component within a larger course, but I’m also developing a full semester-long course proposal built around it. It’s the kind of work that requires patience and thought, but it’s also the kind I find most rewarding.

Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’ll decide to take advantage of the quiet in a different way—maybe pull out my Kindle and read for a bit. That’s the beauty of a day like today. I can focus on something meaningful… or, if I need to, nothing at all.

And honestly, sometimes that’s just as important.

Here’s an Isabella pic of the week: clearly exhausted from the demands of her early morning schedule, she’s already curled up and getting on with her very busy day—while I get going with mine.

Pic of the Day

Happiness / La felicidad

Happiness (La felicidad)

By Manuel Acuña

English Translation

A blue sky full of stars
shining in immensity;
a bird in love
singing in the forest;
for atmosphere the aromas
of the garden and the orange blossom;
next to us the water
sprouting from the spring
our hearts close,
our lips much more,
you rising to heaven
and me following you there—
that is love, my life,
That is happiness! …

Cross with the same wings
the worlds of the ideal;
to drain all the joys,
and all the haste that is good;
from dreams and happiness
back to reality,
waking up among the flowers
of a spring lawn;
both of us looking at each other,
the two of us kissing some more,
that is love, my life,
That is happiness …!

Original Spanish

Un cielo azul de estrellas
brillando en la inmensidad;
un pájaro enamorado
cantando en el florestal;
por ambiente los aromas
del jardín y el azahar;
junto a nosotros el agua
brotando del manantial
nuestros corazones cerca,
nuestros labios mucho más,
tú levantándote al cielo
y yo siguiéndote allá,
ese es el amor mi vida,
¡Esa es la felicidad!…

Cruza con las mismas alas
los mundos de lo ideal;
apurar todos los goces,
y todo el bien apurar;
de lo sueños y la dicha
volver a la realidad,
despertando entre las flores
de un césped primaveral;
los dos mirándonos mucho,
los dos besándonos más,
ese es el amor, mi vida,
¡Esa es la felicidad…!

About the Poem

Today is Cinco de Mayo—a day that, in the United States, often takes on a life of its own. While it is frequently mistaken for Mexico’s Independence Day (which is actually celebrated on September 16), Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla. In Mexico, it is a relatively modest holiday, but here it has become a broader celebration of Mexican culture.

So today, I wanted to turn—not to the noise of celebration—but to something quieter and more enduring: poetry. Specifically, the work of Manuel Acuña, whose words capture a simple, luminous vision of love and happiness.

There’s something striking about how simple this poem is—and how complete it feels.

Acuña doesn’t describe wealth, success, or achievement. There’s no mention of status, ambition, or even permanence. Instead, happiness is found in a moment: a sky, a bird, the scent of orange blossoms, water from a spring, two people close enough that their hearts—and then their lips—follow each other.

It’s deeply sensory, almost immersive. You can feel the air, smell the garden, hear the bird. And in the middle of it all, love isn’t something abstract or distant—it’s immediate, physical, and shared.

What I find most compelling is the second half of the poem. After soaring through “the worlds of the ideal,” the speaker returns to reality—not with disappointment, but with joy. They wake up among flowers, still together, still looking at each other, still kissing.

Happiness, then, is not escape. It’s not found in leaving the world behind. It’s found in returning to it—with someone beside you.

There’s also a quiet universality here. Though written in 19th-century Mexico, the poem transcends time and place. Anyone who has loved—truly loved—recognizes this vision: the feeling that, for a moment, the world narrows to just two people and expands at the same time.

On a day like today, when celebration can sometimes feel loud or commercial, this poem offers something gentler. It reminds us that happiness is often not in the spectacle, but in the stillness—in shared moments that feel, however briefly, like eternity.

“La felicidad” is a lyric poem that reflects the Romantic sensibilities of its time—lush imagery, emotional sincerity, and an idealized vision of love. The natural world plays a central role, serving as both setting and metaphor: the sky, the bird, the garden, and the spring all mirror the vitality and purity of the lovers’ connection.

The poem also moves fluidly between dream and reality. The speaker imagines soaring through “the worlds of the ideal,” yet ultimately grounds happiness in lived experience—waking, seeing, touching, kissing. This duality reflects a broader Romantic tension between aspiration and reality, suggesting that true happiness lies not in choosing one over the other, but in holding both together.

Its refrain—“ese es el amor, mi vida, ¡Esa es la felicidad!”—anchors the poem emotionally, reinforcing the idea that love, in its simplest and most immediate form, is the essence of happiness.

About the Poet

Manuel Acuña (1849–1873) was a Mexican poet and playwright associated with the Romantic movement. Born in Saltillo, he studied medicine in Mexico City, where he became part of a literary circle that included some of the most prominent writers of his time.

Though his life was tragically short—he died at just 24—Acuña left behind a body of work marked by emotional intensity, lyrical beauty, and a deep exploration of love, longing, and existential reflection. He is perhaps best known for his poem Nocturno a Rosario, a deeply personal and melancholic work.

“La felicidad,” by contrast, shows a different side of his voice—one that embraces joy, intimacy, and the quiet completeness of love. Even within his brief life, Acuña captured both the heights of happiness and the depths of human feeling, which is part of what continues to make his poetry resonate today.

Pic of the Day

Star Wars Day

It’s Monday again—May the Fourth… Star Wars Day. There isn’t much excitement planned this week. In fact, according to my schedule, there’s no excitement at all, which can be a good thing. Sometimes a quiet week is exactly what’s needed—a chance to catch your breath, settle into routine, and simply move through the days without too much fuss.

I hope you all have a wonderful week!

May the Fourth—I mean, Force—be with you!

Pic of the Day

The Gift of Love

“And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.”

—1 Corinthians 13:13

There is something profoundly grounding about these words from 1 Corinthians. In a world that often measures worth by success, status, or acceptance, the Apostle Paul reminds us that, in the end, only three things endure: faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.

For LGBTQ+ people, this truth carries particular weight. Too often, we have been told—explicitly or subtly—that we must earn love, prove ourselves worthy of it, or change who we are in order to receive it. But 1 Corinthians 13 dismantles that notion entirely. Love, as Paul describes it, is not conditional. It is not earned. It is a gift—and one that reflects the very nature of God.

Paul writes: “If I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Corinthians 13:1). In other words, no matter how eloquent, faithful, or outwardly “righteous” we may appear, without love, it is empty. Faith that excludes, condemns, or harms is not aligned with the love Paul describes.

He continues: “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude” (1 Corinthians 13:4). Imagine what it means to apply this not only to how we treat others, but how we treat ourselves. Many LGBTQ+ individuals carry wounds—shame, rejection, internalized doubt. But the love God offers is patient with our healing. It is kind to our fears. It does not shame us for who we are.

“It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs” (1 Corinthians 13:5). How different this is from the voices that keep score—of sins, identities, or perceived failures. Divine love does not tally our worthiness. It embraces us fully, as we are.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful lines is this: “It does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth” (1 Corinthians 13:6). The truth of who you are—your identity, your capacity to love, your place in this world—is not something to be hidden or denied. It is something to be rejoiced in. You are not a mistake. You are not outside the reach of grace. You are, in fact, a reflection of it.

Paul continues with a vision of love that endures: “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends” (1 Corinthians 13:7–8). In a world where relationships, institutions, and even faith communities may falter, this promise remains: love—true, divine love—does not fail you.

And so we return to the closing verse: “And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.” Faith sustains us. Hope carries us forward. But love—love is what defines us, what connects us, and what reveals God most clearly.

Where have you experienced love that reflects God’s patience and kindness? And where might you need to extend that same love—to yourself or to others?

May we rest in the assurance that we are created in love and for love, seen through a compassionate and gracious gaze that is patient, kind, and without condemnation. In moments when judgment—whether from others or from within—tries to take hold, may we remember that love keeps no record of wrongs and does not insist on its own way. And as we move through the world, may our lives reflect that same enduring love—one that bears, believes, hopes, and endures all things, a love that never ends.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: Sunrise/Sunset

Pic of the Day

Taking My Time

It’s Friday, and I’m back on my regular schedule of working from home. It’s always nice not to have to go anywhere—to relax with a cup of coffee and not worry about rushing to get ready. I can take my time.

I have a few things to do today, but mostly I expect I’ll be preparing for a meeting at the end of the day. I’m not quite sure how I feel about it—somewhere between trepidation, nervousness, and maybe even a little excitement. I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see what happens.

I actually talked to my doctor about it a bit yesterday. He’s been treating a plantar wart on my foot with cryotherapy. I hate even saying I have a wart, but they’re fairly common—and they can be quite painful, which mine has been. Still, I haven’t really minded the visits, because it gives me a chance to talk with him.

He’s been my doctor since I moved to Vermont, and I feel more at ease with him than with any doctor I’ve had before. He’s always positive and enthusiastic, but also serious and compassionate when it matters. I feel very fortunate to have lucked out with him.

Anyway, I hope everyone has a great day—and a wonderful weekend.

Pic of the Day

I Am Not I

I Am Not I

by Juan Ramón Jiménez

I am not I.
                I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
the one who remains silent when I talk,
the one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
the one who takes a walk where I am not,
the one who will remain standing when I die.

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, a celebration that encourages people to carry a poem with them—literally in a pocket, a wallet, or on a phone—and share it with others throughout the day. It’s a simple idea, but a powerful one: that poetry is not meant to sit quietly on a shelf, but to travel with us, to meet us where we are, and perhaps to say something we didn’t know we needed to hear.

When I started thinking about what poem I wanted to carry today, I realized I wanted something about finding oneself. Not in the grand, dramatic sense, but in the quieter, more honest way that happens over time—through reflection, contradiction, and those moments when we catch a glimpse of who we really are.

That’s what led me to this poem.

Jiménez writes of a self that is both present and just out of reach—a companion we walk beside but do not fully know. It’s a haunting idea, but also a comforting one. There is a part of us that is patient, that forgives, that waits for us to catch up to it. A self that is perhaps truer than the one we show to the world.

I think many of us, especially those of us who have had to navigate questions of identity, faith, or belonging, know this feeling well. There is the self we’ve been told to be, the self we’ve tried to be, and somewhere alongside us, the self we are becoming.

Poetry has a way of naming that space.

If I were to carry a poem in my pocket today, it would be this one—not because it gives me answers, but because it reminds me that the search itself is part of the journey. That perhaps finding oneself is not about arriving somewhere new, but about recognizing the one who has been walking beside us all along.

About the Poem

“I Am Not I” is a brief but deeply philosophical meditation on identity. In just a few lines, Jiménez presents the self as divided—one part visible and active, the other quiet, observant, and enduring.

The poem resists a fixed definition of identity. Instead, it suggests that who we are is layered:

• the outward self that speaks and acts
• the inward self that watches, forgives, and persists

The final line—“the one who will remain standing when I die”—adds a spiritual dimension, hinting at a self that transcends the physical or temporal. Whether read psychologically, philosophically, or spiritually, the poem invites us to consider that our truest self may not always be the one we immediately recognize.

Its brevity is part of its power. Like the best “pocket poems,” it can be read in a moment but linger in the mind far longer.

About the Poet

Juan Ramón Jiménez (1881–1958) was a Spanish poet and one of the most important literary figures of the 20th century. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1956 for his lyrical poetry, which is known for its clarity, emotional depth, and pursuit of what he called “pure poetry.”

Jiménez’s work often explores themes of beauty, memory, and the inner life. His writing evolved over time from richly ornamented early poems to a more stripped-down, essential style—seeking precision and truth in language.

He is perhaps best known for Platero y yo, a poetic prose work beloved for its tenderness and reflection on life and loss. Though widely read, especially in the Spanish-speaking world, many of his shorter lyrical poems—like “I Am Not I”—continue to resonate for their quiet insight into the human experience.

What poem would you carry in your pocket today?