Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Have you followed me on Instagram yet? Oh you simply must! It’s probably the most fun and frivolous of all my social media outlets, and despite the fact that it’s probably the one I neglect the most (when you’ve been taking selfies and photos since 6th grade, the novelty wears off) it’s easily my most varied. Like my website, it provides a wide-ranging view of what tickles and delights me, and those things are often disparate and at odds with one another. That’s what makes life interesting. 

The image above is one of those things that you can scan or something – I don’t really know, being that I’ve always been more Thoreau than Jobs. But spread it around or share it or do whatever the kids are doing these days, and I promise to reinvest efforts in turning my Instagram into something so scintillating it will be worth a daily visit. 

Whether it’s vegetables or food dishes or flowers or fashion or books or candles or cologne or booty – it’s all in me – anything you want done baby, I do it naturally. 

Maybe it was this previous post that has me all nostalgic, but I needed to find this photo again for a laugh, and it worked. There’s nothing better than a lifelong friend who still brings a smile to the surface whenever certain memories are rekindled. Like this insane photo on the very windy deck of a cruise ship. I’ve featured it before but every now and then I like to revisit it. There’s a lot to unpack here – too much really – from the oddity that Suzie and I, in our late-teen years, found ourselves on a Caribbean Cruise to the notion of me wearing gauze and Suzie wearing whatever that even was. Anyway, it still cracks me up – the perfect antidote for the dark dwindling days of January. 

And just like that, it feels like a switch has been turned on that switches the world from a trajectory to hell into something that might at least point in a better direction. Maybe it’s the light at the end of the winter tunnel which is just starting to show itself – in the longer days, the daylight beginning to linger, the appearance of hyacinths and daffodils in the market – and I’m leaning into this sliver of hope cautiously, carefully. Let’s take the Monday morning quarterback look at the week before…

It certainly began in happy form, celebrating Mom’s birthday as best as COVID restrictions allowed. (Hence the photos from the past rather than present.)

A birthday bouquet for Mom. 

Cloak & Swagger should be the name of my first cologne, if someone ever wants to help me craft a cologne. 

Burrowing into hygge. 

Four years and a lifetime ago…

The pretty remnants of winter carnage.

The Hill We Climb by Amanda Gorman.

Nocturne for a winter day.

A Valentine wish for this Portrait.

One month of winter done, two to go. 

A cozy Danish quartet. 

An exotic hot-house flower. 

My virgin brush with a top coat and chest hair. 

Major martini fail. 

Gimme a break – the game is survival! Gimme a break and plan my arrival!

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

A sky-high surprise visitor.

Curry for comfort.

The day started in typical January fashion – cruel, cold, and gray – so I spent much of the morning reading on the couch, yearning for brighter light and wanting for something warm. As the hours ticked away, the sun fought to make a showing, and the clouds parted to afford a peek at a soft blue sky. The tops of trees, mostly bare branches now, were lit up brilliantly – warm wood against a cool mottled grayish-blue firmament. 

Indoors, a few ferns and a Norfolk Island Pine basked in the available light and the water vapor of the humidifier. The heat was on steadily throughout the day, drying the air and consistently reminding us that it was still winter. Not that we needed any reminders. The wind whispered fiercely, its hissing heard through the windows and the kitchen vent. January was stalling, like most guests you wanted to leave sooner rather than later. Wandering to the front door, I peered into the tall thuja hedge and noticed some movement in the upper branches. Watching to see whether a bird would emerge, or if a squirrel would scurry down the trunk, I waited until I could see the beak of a cardinal. Hopping a bit higher, it drew my gaze upward, to something I had never seen above our home in almost twenty years of living here. 

Above the trees, high in the sky, and resplendent in the light from the setting sun, a bald eagle soared. Struck by disbelief, I screamed for Andy to come and confirm what I was seeing. We hurried onto the front step and watched its bright white head and tail, unmistakable no matter how high it was. I didn’t have time to get a photo, and I just wanted to stay there and keep my eyes on its magnificence fading behind a line of trees. Standing next to Andy, the cold beginning to bite, I lingered a little while longer in case the majestic creature returned. Our brief brush with such glory felt like a benevolent sign, a blessing of some sort ~ a soaring ray of hope at a time when the world needed it. 

We stepped back inside, into the warmth of our home, and continued our walk through winter.

If we were lucky, we were all royalty in our youth. That’s when the world bestows upon us its finest favors, or so some literature and certain movies would have us believe. In truth, youth mostly provides resilience and ignorance – powerful talismans of protection, as potent as they are fleeting. One cannot get away with things in their 40’s that one did in their 20’s, and thank whatever entity in which you believe. My own blossoming came much later, and quite frankly may not even be here yet, and that is the greatest favor of all. To peak too early, as in high school or college, is certain cause for a life of ruin, and rather sad in the long run. The majority of our lives, and the bulk of our existence, extends through the long ends of middle-age. I’m glad I held out my enjoyment for now. 

There are perks to being young, and benefits to making the most of our time in youth’s ever-fading glow. It instills an essence of invincibility, a notion of royalty that puts crowns on most of our heads. Only later do we realize how dumb it all looked, with our poses and posturing and cigar-laden romps in the pool. Passing fashion, passing fads.   The surly, contemptuous entitlement of my early twenties was a necessary stage of development, one with which I couldn’t wait to get over. Not that it wasn’t fun sometimes, but I knew it wasn’t all the fun I wanted to have. 

For at least a couple of seasons of childhood, ‘Gimme A Break!’ and ‘The Facts of Life‘ formed the extent of my Saturday night entertainment. From these cultural touchstones, I gleaned the wonder of cheesy comedic timing, sophomoric slapstick, and an appreciation for catchy theme songs. I knew then that I wanted my life to resemble the safe, laughter-rich environs of a sitcom. It would be a few years before I found my true aspirational niche: night-time soap operas like ‘Dallas‘ and ‘Falcon Crest‘ but for my youthful 80’s, it was half-hour comedic romps, that started and ended with a memorable theme song. On this Saturday night, let’s go back to a simpler time, a time sweetened by the powerhouse vocals of Nell Carter, a time that feels as innocent as it does far away.

I wanted life to be this way – centered around a family room sofa, a staircase leading tantalizingly into never-seen bedrooms, potted pothos and other plants perched on shelves that could never have provided enough light – in other words, the patina of perfection with families whose problems could be solved in 22 minutes, unless it was a special two-parter. 

Life would reveal itself as much more complex, and far less bouncy and fun – with nary a theme song to be sung – but I held onto the dream, I yearned for the laughter, and I grew houseplants in every available window.