Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Awakened at the ungodly hour of 5 AM with the old man’s urge to pee, I go back to bed only to toss and turn for a few minutes, realizing that my brain is already in overdrive and further sleep will be impossible. Kicking off the covers, I’m up – the irrevocable chain of morning events that will lead me back into the world has begun, earlier than usual, and therefore calmer and more mindful than usual. Time affords such mindfulness. 

Outside, the sky is mostly without light or color – all to be filled in later. I find this calming bit of music and amble into the kitchen. It’s too early to think with any clarity, and so I set up two cups of tea – one matcha and one some elderberry concoction. Normally I would just do one – what compels the double dose is beyond my reason. The piano gently moves the morning along. 

Donning a pair of reading glasses (atop my contact lenses, which went in on autopilot before I groggily exited the bathroom earlier) I type these words while sipping the matcha. ‘I’m getting old,’ I thought. Forty-seven suddenly felt daunting, because I didn’t usually feel it at all. These dark mornings certainly do work their melancholy, but the music was calming, and the tea was warm in my hand, and please God may that be enough to get us through the winter. 

At the dining room table, a collection of Christmas gifts in various states of wrapping surround my laptop. In this dim morning and its lack of light, it all feels a little sad, a little futile. The silly rituals we humans have crafted to feel just a little bit better or to believe just a little bit more. The efforts a person makes to belong and connect…

This is why it’s best to be asleep at such an hour. 

This is how we greet December. 

Speaking of squirrels, I found this whimsical sticker for Andy the last time I was in Vermont. It personifies the cozy aspects of the season, and I love an animal that wears another animal’s visage on its slippers. Hell, I love an animal that wears slippers. And a robe! This squirrel is after my own heart. Now onto the weekly recap…

A moment of beauty and respite.

Tuesday Bluesday.

These hips don’t lie.

The rush of madness.

Climb up to the partridge in a pear tree.

This is how we party now.

Happy Thanksgiving! 

Heeding the holiday start.

Royal holiday tradition.

The Madonna Timeline returned with this incongruous summer bop, ‘Beautiful Stranger’, which brought me way back into the 90’s, when mistakes were made and summers were long. 

The Christmas Wish List 2022, because I’ve been a very good boy.

When holly appears without ivy all hell breaks loose.

The diabolical shirtlessness of it all.

Climb atop this stalk.

The hairy-chested slumberjack.

Dazzlers of the Day included Patrick McNaughton and Douglas Sills.

It seems some of us have taken to sleeping more than usual as we wind our way into winter. Both Andy and my Dad have been sleeping much more than usual, with naps that last deep into the day. I find myself more sleepy than usual too, thanks partly to the reduced daylight, and the weather that makes one want to linger in a warm bed for as long as possible. Sleep is a beautiful indulgence, unappreciated by too many of us, and underutilized as well. Much healing, and healing of a profound sort, can happen in our sleep. The body works its magic then, when it can focus on what needs repair rather than the rigorous exertions required to keep us awake and functioning at any given moment. We all need rest and recuperation. 

Hunkering down for some long winter naps is a recompense of the dark and stormy seasons. On gray weekend afternoons, when the sun doesn’t really bother to truly shine, I’ll slip up to the attic, pull a few sumptuous blankets onto the bed, and read until my eyes gently close. There are far more destructive ways to pass a day, especially during the impending holiday rush; this is a pleasant and peaceful alternative. If there is a cup of tea waiting for me downstairs when the nap is done, the coziness might continue. 

Illuminated by the descending sun, in that afternoon light that is made all the more glorious for its fleeting trajectory, these straps of fountain grass have dried completely into the straw-colored stalks you see here. Topped by the plumes of their seedheads, little mops of fluffy tentacles, they sway and move in the slightest breeze, creating their own symphony of light and sound. Against a blue sky that has somehow retained more color than late November skies typically harbor, the grass rustles and murmurs – sometimes in a whisper, sometimes in a hiss, sometimes in a harsh tear – dead and dry leaves rubbing wickedly against one another. It is the music of another world, not usually heard or understood or appreciated by human ears. 

In our backyard, the squirrels rush by in small groups, chasing each other in some mad quest for more seeds and acorns, while the birds still haunt the bare stalks of the cup plant and seven sons’ flower tree, hoping to find some missed fruit of late summer hidden among the stems. Andy and I watch them go by, and though the day has grown relatively warm for this time of the year, it’s still cozier to be on the inside looking out. 

The sunlight leaves quickly after that. During my meditation, I sense the rapid draining of light from the sky, as the candle before me grows brighter in comparison. It was a sunny day, much appreciated in November, and gone much too soon; there is less than a month left of fall, and then the entirety of winter beyond that. 

I keep the music of the grass in my head, the sweetness of its rustle and cut, the way the most tattered things still manage to make something beautiful when singled out and heard. 

“It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing…” ~ Bret Easton Ellis, ‘American Psycho’