Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Bruised and battered, we limp into the final few days of October, wary and quite frankly frightened of what might be on the next horizon. We need to stop saying it cannot get any worse because we all know, thanks to the bulk of 2020, that it absolutely can and in all likelihood it will. On with this recap – the sooner we finish, the better. 

It began in happy if subdued fashion as we celebrated Andy’s birthday in the way we do birthdays now – quietly and happily, grateful for the passing of another year, grateful to still be here. 

A scarlet visitor wished Andy a happy birthday. 

An October poem. 

Sexual reconciliation in motion. 

These are sexy days.

October turned a ghostly shade of pale. 

Ben Cohen’s beefcake calendar returns with a bang. 

Another October poem. 

A kid with no crown, bring him down, down.

A pair of low-hangers.

The Hunk of the Day returned with Chris O’Dowd.

Fall berrydom. 

The days of Club 69: Adults Only.

An aspect of human existence.

This hawthorn tree stands in a little gated court on the corner of Broadway and State Street in downtown Albany, right across the street from the very first state agency at which I worked almost twenty years ago. Its branches reach over the iron confines of its boundary, hanging low enough to afford these photos. In the spring it’s covered with little white flowers, and over the summer the berries develop into green and now this lovely persimmon color. I don’t often find myself passing it these days, with remote working and the increasingly inclement weather, so the changes in its seasonal garb feel more prominent and pronounced. Time moves quickly these days.

The berries are indicative of the irrevocable turn we have taken into the depths of fall. We’ve been pretty fortunate not to have had a deep hard freeze yet, and so we may have been lulled into a false sense of security. Make no mistake, and take no great comfort: winter is indeed on the way.

Autumn

By Joan Mitchell

The rusty leaves crunch and crackle, 

Blue haze hangs from the dimmed sky, 

The fields are matted with sun-tanned stalks — 

Wind rushes by. 

The last red berries hang from the thorn-tree, 

The last red leaves fall to the ground. 

Bleakness, through the trees and bushes, 

Comes without sound.

Suzie has totally ruined my view of the fruit of the dogwood tree when she likened them to testicles, and this scene, caught in our own backyard, points out that she was not totally wrong about it. This was rather a shocking find in the afternoon sun, because the majority of dogwood fruit had long-ago been ravaged and pillaged by the naughty band of squirrels currently roaming the neighborhood. Those marauders have performed miraculous feats of acrobatics, hanging upside down, twisting and turning from the very tips of the flimsiest branches, to reach almost every single fruit. Except this pair. Somehow they escaped the clutches of those fluffy thieves. 

Maybe they’ve disguised themselves so well as the similarly-mottled foliage that the tree displays at this time of the year that they’ve gone unnoticed – as seen here, they do look remarkably like the leaves just above them. Maybe they are just on the unreachable edge of a stem too thin to support a squirrel along its entire length. Whatever the case, they’ve managed to hang on this long, and I tip my hat to that kind of resilience. 

A floating crown made of oak and cherry leaves swirls in the pool as we near October’s end. When the sun shines on a fall day, and the forest is lit with a multitude of fluttering lamps, I take in the beauty and the moment, mindful of the gratitude, grateful for the present. We have had a beautiful autumn season. Some years it’s already done by now, but this season has decided to linger, acting as a balm for all that’s wrong with the world these days. That’s quite a charge, and I’m not sure it’s fair to put the weight of such trauma all on these fragile days of fall. But that’s when you put your crown of fallen leaves upon your head, tilt it just so, and in just such a jaunty fashion, then make your way into the deeper forest of autumn. Tread lightly upon wet leaves and moss, listen carefully to the signs and the way the wind rustles through the lanterns still lit, and inhale the earthy life that is all around us. 

Merry Autumn

By Paul Laurence Dunbar

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell

     About the breezes sighing,

And moans astir o’er field and dell,

     Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,—

     I care not who first taught ’em;

There’s nothing known to beast or bird

     To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway

     With countenance distressing,

You’ll note the more of black and gray

     Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around;

     The sky is blue and mellow;

And e’en the grasses turn the ground

     From modest green to yellow.

The seed burrs all with laughter crack

     On featherweed and jimson;

And leaves that should be dressed in black

     Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by;

     A singing bird comes after;

And Nature, all from earth to sky,

     Is bubbling o’er with laughter.

The ripples wimple on the rills,

     Like sparkling little lasses;

The sunlight runs along the hills,

     And laughs among the grasses.

The earth is just so full of fun

     It really can’t contain it;

And streams of mirth so freely run

     The heavens seem to rain it.

Don’t talk to me of solemn days

     In autumn’s time of splendor,

Because the sun shows fewer rays,

     And these grow slant and slender.

Why, it’s the climax of the year,

     The highest time of living!

Till naturally its bursting cheer

     Just melts into thanksgiving.

Some people prefer the big, colorful, bright and brash bombast that fall can afford, the way the forests light aflame ~ the maple trees like the rocket’s red glare and the dogwood leaves like embers. The birch turns a brilliant canary yellow and the oak burns into a reddish brown like the earth from which it rose. 

While such pyrotechnics are wonderful to watch, I’ve grown fonder of the pale faded beauty that some leaves put on as their show. They let the color drain from their leaves, growing chartreuse then yellow before finally lightening until they become a pale echo of themselves. It is this ghostly shade I now find most fascinating. It glows in the garden at a time when night comes too soon. 

Leo Holden of Snooty Fox Images continues to release remarkable work, and his collection of images for his 2021 calendar is no exception. In fact, it’s a lovely encapsulation of his ever-evolving and refined portraiture, featuring some of the most handsome gents who have found the good fortune to be standing before his lens. Check out his site here for more information, and follow his social media accounts for daily doses of beauty.

By Robert Frost

This week is going to be another light one here due to other commitments, so take your time looking back at the posts from the previous days. Don’t rush – indulge and make the most of them.

How to be a better ally.

Fall pause.

A male model.

Electric company.

This is my brain on 2020.

The real last pool day.

Spooky treasure hunt with the twins.

Emotional ballet.

We are f@cked.

Yup, Mercury is in retrograde.

Meandering toward mindfulness.

An autumn song, even if it’s no longer early.

Soup solace.

In the days following the harvest moon.