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Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

A Sky-High Surprise Visitor

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.

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Heavy Is the Head…

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. 

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Gimme A Break!

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. 

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No Substitute for a Martini, But Olives Are Forever

It’s been well over a year since I had any alcohol, and strange or natural as it may be, I haven’t had a hankering for any in all that time. The other day, however, I did have a craving for olives, so I tried some Seedlip – marketed as an alcohol-free approximation of gin – and studded a toothpick with three queen olives. I swirled it on some ice, added a hefty dose of olive juice to make it a little dirty, and set it up in the traditional martini glass. It looked perfect, but looks are often deceiving when it comes to these sorts of things. Mocktail hour was on, and I took a sip and wondered if it would trick my tastebuds into believing it was anything like the juniper wonder. Verdict: not at all. It was actually rather disgusting, with tinges of pepper and cucumber that worked against the olive centerpiece. I’ll try it again come summer with something that utilizes cucumber. 

For this one, I plucked the olives from their branch – they were all I was after anyway – and threw the rest down the sink. Next time I’ll forego the fancy glass and just set up a proper charcuterie board. My tastes are different these days. 

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My Virgin Brush with a Top Coat & Chest Hair

He was one of the coolest guys in high school, at least in my eyes. Popular, but not the football jock kind of popular. He played sports well, but he focused on tennis. His style was preppy and elegant, but more than all of that it seemed effortless. Most importantly, he introduced me to the top coat- that often-woolen overcoat that bedecked a proper gentleman in the cutting winter months, which is when the bulk of high school took place.

His was black, and slightly boxy on his short frame, but I didn’t notice the cut as much as the way it flapped about him almost like a cape, putting him into sartorial superman status in my envious eyes. It was the ultimate visage of studied sophistication, and I wanted it.

Like me, he had a younger brother, and like me he was a rarely seen fraternizing with him. He was a few grades above me – a senior to my freshman – but we shared a gym class, where he would change into gym clothes and reveal some rather bulky and uninspiring tighty-whities at the time when boxer briefs were becoming the rage. His chest was covered in a thick coating of hair, something foreign to most of us, when I’d furtively steal glances at him.

It wasn’t out of desire or want that I looked – my observation came from a place of curiosity and collection: I coveted the hair on his chest in the same way I coveted his top coat. It was a mark of manhood in my mind – a mark of what was desired by the world at large over any specific want or attraction of my own. Not that I didn’t sense or detect his chiseled beauty, but his confident smile and charismatic laugh were what I wanted to capture – that casual sense of self that I thought were made manifest in part by a top coat and chest hair.

He was my style mentor even if he didn’t realize it or directly play a part in my improvement. The previous year – in 8thgrade – I’d started to hone a sense of style based on Bill Cosby sweaters and Benetton preppiness. By my freshman year of high school, I was ready to up my fashion game. He was my new inspiration, and so I watched closely, albeit from a distance, and worked to refine my nonchalance. It wasn’t what he wore so much as how he wore it – unconcerned, unaffected, and entirely unaware of the effect he was having. It was more mesmerizing than the simple preppy look he had adopted and made his own, and I wondered if such an effect was something he had actively worked on achieving or whether it came naturally, and that he really didn’t care. Whatever the case, I wanted it, however and whichever way it came to be.

I wondered, at first, if his powers originated in his top coat. That would seem to be the most forceful evidence of his might, seen in the way he strolled in and out of school, a formidable woolen shield against a world of literal sports jackets and puffy ski coats from which most kids hadn’t quite graduated. If that’s where his strength lay, it would be easy enough to approximate in a top coat of my own, and I eventually got a gray one for Christmas I think. It was my first major step in growing up and into a style that suited my old soul.

Other inspiration followed – I found docksiders in a light tan, similar but not quite the same as his dark brown ones. A hairy chest would not come to me for over a decade, so there was nothing to be done about that, and his bushy hair was kept tame by frequent haircuts instead of any magical product, so I took my own route to deal with my dark locks.

He was a good role model to have, even superficially. Probably in other ways as well, since he was a top student and well-liked. I was less about being well-liked at that point and more about being admired. There was already a hard line between the two, and I began a long journey of straddling that line, starting with a top coat.

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Hot-House Exotic Flower

A little floral waterfall spills over its wooden shelf in the local greenhouse. Faddegon’s is still my go-to escape when there is nowhere else providing such a green balm, and this little specimen caught my eye in its quiet corner. We’re just about out of room for plants, so I wasn’t in the market for any new acquisitions. Instead, I appreciate its beauty in that moment, soaking in the atmosphere and the induced peace, capturing the feeling of the experience, making a mental image, and taking a phone photo as insurance. It’s also to share with you on a Friday afternoon. This is how we exchange experiences when we can’t do it in person. There is distance between us – time too – yet somehow I hope the sentiment gets through, and that it’s more than just a faded echo of emotion. 

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A Cozy Quartet

When immersing myself in the concept of hygge, I reached out to Suzie, who spent a year abroad in Denmark during our junior year of high school. Much happened in that tumultuous and somewhat-perilous time of our lives. I think we both sometimes marvel at how we made it through when so many things were so close to going wrong. It was there that Suzie said she first experienced hygge, though she did question how meaningful it could have been for a cynical teenager. Something must have stuck, because ever since then, and even before I had heard of hygge, Suzie has been that source of safety and warmth and convivial joy for me. 

Upon my recent research and discovery of the whole Danish concept of coziness, I turned again to Suzie, who then introduced me to the Danish String Quartet, which has been providing the soundtrack to this snow-laden mid-winter stretch. This selection brings a bit of vibrancy to the white and brown outside world, where fallen hydrangea flower-heads nod beneath the fluffy weight of a recent snowfall. 

Slowly, I am learning to appreciate the season of winter, with its subtle textures and subdued beauty. One has to work a little harder to make sense of the show now, and there’s a different sort of reward when it comes into focus. For instance, see this snow. It’s not a heavy, uniform blanket of white stuff – it’s lighter, and some flakes have formed little balls, tiny pom-poms of frozen wonder. It reminds ever so slightly of the lace-cap hydrangeas of early summer. Nature is cunning like that – cunning and gorgeous. 

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One Winter Month Done

The first month of winter comes to its conclusion in sunny, happy fashion. There is a frigid bite in the air, and temperatures are due to descend even more, but these little narcissus blooms brightened the local greenhouse, reminding me that we are headed in the right direction. Along with hyacinths and tulips, the blooms that are just starting to appear will lead us directly to another spring, which will arrive no matter how many storms or difficulties arise along the way. And so I shall indulge in their beauty and fragrance, holding onto the sneak-peek of spring just a little tighter than I have in previous years. 

Maybe it’s a little premature, but this year we need it sooner rather than later. Besides, this is a week I’m choosing to focus on hope and possibility, leaving the pathos and darkness to which we’ve become accustomed swirl away down the proverbial drain. Soon enough, the snow will melt away. The earth will heave and begin to shake off the winter. Spring will come again, it always does. It always will. 

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Portrait of a Lady For This Gentleman

“He was, by the way, the most liberally-perfumed man I had ever encountered. The scent announced his approach from a great distance, and lingered for many minutes after he had gone.” ~ The Grand Budapest Hotel

With Valentine’s Day quickly approaching, and the long nights of winter still mostly ahead rather than behind us, it seems a good time to bring up this oft-desired bottle of fragrance in the event that anyone is looking for gift ideas. ‘Portrait of a Lady’ takes its name from the Henry James novel, and its scent from the incense that surrounds the base of a rose in some gorgeous Gothic cathedral. It is the exquisite stuff of dark nights lit only by candles and stars and perhaps the sparkle of freshly-fallen snow, when fire licks at the nose and smoky tendrils of incense trail in baroque fashion as fleeting as a Victorian man of mode.

My parents gifted me with a rose fragrance fit for a bright winter’s day in ‘Rose & Cuir’ by Frederic Malle. Its dirty, older, sexier cousin in the Malle line is ‘Portrait of a Lady’ – which is really only fit for the night. Since all of our nights are spent in right now, this would be a lovely way to generate a different sort of luxury in solitude. Too many people wear a scent for others when it should really be for the sole enjoyment of oneself. ‘Portrait of a Lady’ is that kind of decadence brought into potently fragrant form, and it was created by one of my favorites, Dominique Ropion, who is the mastermind behind ‘Cologne Indelebile‘ and ‘Geranium Pour Monsieur‘.

I’ve been flirting with this scent for years. At first it was too much – the name, the rose, the lingering potency – I wasn’t at the point where I could handle it. About a year ago, it whispered to me differently, or more likely I was just in a different head-space to appreciate its dark beauty. Since then, I’ve been fighting how much I’ve come around to it, and rather than wondering at my reticence I’m full-on embracing its seductive pull.

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A Nocturne During a Winter Day

For far too long I’ve looked at winter as a barren beast, something through which we must trudge, bundled and bound in scarves and sweaters and coats that erase all the turns and angles of a body. Faceless and formless, I felt that winter was something to be endured and suffered, a penance for all the summer fun we had. It was punishment and crime at once, at least it seemed to be. Looking back, perhaps I was wrong ~ wrong about winter, wrong about more.

The piano starts, stepping into the snow then stepping into the background and allowing the cello to cry out in plaintive sorrow, sharing the winter hurt. Their duet, as much a dance as a song, music and mental image, is sadness and reconciliation, much like the way my vision of winter has changed and evolved over the years. Could there be a new way of feeling winter that is comprised of gratitude and loveliness? Might the light at this time of year, be it sun or candle, appear more potent than what comes in summer? That would make this moment somehow just as precious, even as it feels more brittle. Does this nocturne by Chopin convey a similar shift in perception, embodying the way I’m finding a new appreciation for the wilderness of the season? Smoke and pine carry on the wind, the way the notes of this piece vibrate in similar and singular fashion.

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The Hill We Climb by Amanda Gorman

It feels like America is on Her way back. God I hope so. 

The amazing poet Amanda Gorman gave voice to this magnificent and challenging day. 

Her delivery is as powerful as her words:

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Feathers of Winter Carnage

Pigeons are quite common in downtown Albany, where I spend one or two days a work week. They are there on rooftops, flocking in little parks, or soaring in formation over the buildings. Less commonly seen, and wholly unknown to me, is the pigeon predator that did this to an unsuspecting victim whose only remnants are these feathers. Dog or cat? Or maybe something more sinister and wild…

Winter is never less than ruthless. We are all hungry at this time of the year. 

Winter also offers its own mark of dark beauty, in the barren and the sparse, in the brutal and the fallen. Among the detritus of pine needles and little branches strewn along the sidewalk, these white feathers merely hint at their story, the secret threat of their own ending. The next snowfall will sweep them away, in the manner that winter usually hides its crimes. 

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Four Years & What Seems Like A Lifetime Ago…

It showed up as a FaceBook memory, but I had recalled it quite vividly even prior to that. It was Inauguration Day 2017, when that wretched inciteful criminal was being sworn into office, and the country felt like it was being enveloped in some Orwellian nightmare. Those feelings would prove to be well-founded and mostly came to sad and unfortunate fruition, each and every single step along the way. I’d made reservations for dinner at 677 Prime that night, and after work I made my way to the bar to have a cocktail before Andy arrived.

Lifting the olive-festooned martini to my lips, I did my best to ignore the television station playing the inaugural event, but every now and then my eyes glanced up at the sad not-quite-spectacle that played out on the screen. Who could have foretold all the evils and atrocities that man would commit or attempt to commit? (Well, me.) Who could have foreseen all the disasters and deaths that he would single-handedly allow on his watch? (Again, me.) And who would have predicted that this would be the sorry state of the world four years later (Same.)

Today we stand in all the swampy muck and awful mess that he left, the shambles he and his family so heinously made of America, and we look to someone – anyone – to help clean up the disaster. In so many ways, it’s too late. The monster has been unleashed. The hatred has been given light and space in which to move and breathe and spread. It happened in ways large and small, from the liars themselves to the media who gave it a place to exist in the first place. That doesn’t mean some of us won’t fight back and work to return to the essence of what made America great from the beginning. Those basic tenets remain in place, standing despite the reckoning they’ve been given: freedom, equality, and opportunity for all of us.

I’m tentatively hopeful for the first time in four years, and that in itself is a feat worthy of respect and honor. We move forward to greater unity, essential accountability, moral come-uppance, and a better future. 

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Burrowing Into Hygge

“Hygge is about fostering a long-term sense of happiness and general well-being; material consumption and ambitious striving are ephemeral distractions that lead us not to happiness ~ but to hurriedness. Hygge gives us the opportunity to step back from our overly busy lives and instead, start to value the small, daily joys we are surrounded by. It encourages us to be present in our own lives.

Philosophically speaking, hygge is about comfort and coziness, preferably in the spirit of fellowship and family. Practically speaking, hygge is about designing a lifestyle that is simple and serene, warm and happy.” ~ Barbara Hayden, ‘Hygge: Unlock the Danish Art of Coziness and Happiness’

This winter I am taking a deeper look into the Danish concept of hygge, which is as much about finding coziness and comfort in the familiarity of friends and family as it is about learning to embrace the winter and turn the idea of darkness and cold on its head. I’m all about changing perspective as the best way to changing circumstance. Winter has always held a literal and proverbial chill – diving into hygge turns it into a season of light and warmth and joy. A candle just isn’t quite as brilliant in the summer.

 

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A Royal Bouquet for Mom

It’s taken me a while, but I’ve finally come around to enjoying tone-on-tone flower bouquets more than the riotous mix of eye-popping super-saturated combustions of colorful petals I once admire. This bouquet of purple shades was made for my Mom’s birthday. I employed the trendy practice of grouping and clumping like flowers together, instead of distributing them evenly like every other florist in the world. This new style suits me, as much for its visual interest as for its ease. It also featured irises, one of my Mom’s favorite flowers, so it worked well fir celebrating her birthday week. (We’re giving her a whole week since in times of COVID we can’t do a big gathering or celebration.)

My favorite element was the steel-blue Eryngium, a variety of which I tried to grow in our soil, but which never took off. We even had a sandy-enough patch of soil, or so I thought, but this one didn’t last a season. I wish it did better, because the architectural form of leaves and flowers is stunning, as is its rare bluish hue. 

The iris is the focal point of the scene, thanks in part to the canary tongues at the heart of each bloom – a bright spot of sunny cheer that sets off the cooler shades of the bulk of the bouquet. 

Lending some staying power – and should Mom choose she can save these for the rest of the winter – is the standard statice, which used to be more ubiquitous, a la baby’s breath, in typical rose bouquets. I haven’t seen it as much lately, and I much prefer it in this style, when its violet color adds to the overall effect instead of accenting or detracting. 

As for Mom’s birthday, we also dropped off a cake that Andy made – in French vanilla and raspberry – which is a sweet bouquet of its own. Happy birthday again, Mom! 

 

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