Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Feathered finery is really the only way to Zoom right. 

I had an initiation into the uncomfortable realm of video-conferencing this week with two (technically three) Zoom sessions with friends. On the advice of my therapist, I’ve been saying yes to things I normally would avoid. (And a video-conference is very much something I would normally avoid.) Phone calls too, so I’ve been asking friends to call me out of the blue, and actually answering, which has proven helpful. It’s also a form of social connection that coincides with the online course on happiness I’m taking, further proof that I’m on the right track the universe has been designing for me of late. 

Baby steps and an O-light. 

It’s all happening here. 

Traveling back in time to the tale of the talented trickster, I turn the brittle pages of an ancient photo album, harkening back to the days when we once used physical photo albums. It was a time before photos could be taken on a phone, before they could even be taken digitally. The medium was film, the process was called development, and the whole experience was one that instilled patience and perseverance. It required mistakes and an endless cycle of trial and error, with just enough success to tantalize and keep us working for more.

All of my projects prior to 2004 were created in this old-fashioned way, some even glued and bound within a three-ring binder because that was all my limited resources and technological limits could produce. Yet rather than feel like I missed out on anything, those processes taught me more than the ease of whipping out a phone that gets perfectly-focused shots without a moment’s care could ever teach. It was the same sort of learning that cracking the Dewey Decimal system taught me in the library. We didn’t have information at the click of a mouse. We had to search. And then we had to research. And then we had to search again. It was an adventure, and yes, it took a lot of work. My patience and ability to slowly work through a problem was honed and improved. It wasn’t instantaneous, it wasn’t without effort, and it absolutely made me a better person.

That said, lugging around twenty rolls of film, a heavy, bulky camera, and waiting two weeks for photos to be developed wasn’t the ideal way of getting images. It took me a while, but eventually I came around to the digital camera. And then I gave in to the phones. Today, I find myself taking advantage of the technology, and very appreciative that I didn’t always have it. We tend to value things more when we remember what it was like before they got so easy.

As for these antiquated shots from ‘The Talented Trickster Tour: Reflections of a Floating World’, they remind me a time and space where lessons were learned – lessons that carry through to this day. In some ways, the idea of the floating world is more resonant than ever – an idea that the world is dark and destructive, and we might as well enjoy what beauty and pleasure we can find because everything is temporal and fleeting in nature. In the past, I would sometimes avoid the blooms of the cherry tree because I knew they would not last, and the regret that inevitably came with their demise would be more than the heart could handle. These days I seek out that fleeting beauty, sit with it in appreciation while I can, then move on, grateful for the experience, grateful for the smile it produced, happy with the memory. You cannot buy or keep the transitory beauty of the cherry bloom – you can only hold it in your heart.

On a rainy Sunday night, as the Sondheim 90th Birthday Celebration is getting off to a rocky, and late, start, I write this weekly recap before we begin again tomorrow. It looks to be a week of rain, a week of isolation, a week of hanging in there as best as we can. My mind is in a wonky place – perhaps the new normal is finally getting to me. I’m in the midst of writing a bit more about that for a post that will go up later this week – think ‘hot mess’ without any semblance of the hot. For now, let’s go back over what has already happened, because the past is the only thing of which we can be sure. 

I probably should have tried to stop the week when these fucking pancakes happened. 

A moment of indulgence and calm courtesy of Spring Blossom by the Beekman Boys. 

Remembering a time in Boston, long ago. 

The jonquil parade is not quite over. 

Recalibrating a meditation approach.

Franco Noriega gives the world this gratuitous beefcake post. 

Getting naked to get happy.

Whispering lily.

I’ve gone six months without alcohol. Good timing or stupid timing? See here.

The MAGA Challenge: whattya got to lose?

A crop-top and some skimpy briefs. 

Project of the Past: this was StoneLight from 2007.

Our peaceful Sunday night comfort post: awakening to awareness.

Hunks of the Day included Kip Moore, Jeffrey Bowyer-Chapman, Benjamin Godfre, Ryan Cleary, Nick Zano, Peter Locker and Jeff Goldblum. 

“My peak? Would I even have one? I hardly had had anything you could call a life. A few ripples. Some rises and falls. But that’s it. Almost nothing. Nothing born of nothing. I’d loved and been loved, but I had nothing to show. It was a singularly plain, featureless landscape. I felt like I was in a video game. A surrogate Pacman, crunching blindly through a labyrinth of dotted lines. The only certainty was my death.” ~ Haruki Murakami

All 80’s thunder and glory, the pixelated video-game dreams of my youth battled with my longing for the natural world, and while it was the latter that would win out in the end (nature always did and always will), I had my moments of sitting spellbound before a television and masterfully manipulating Player One or Player Two depending on how my brother or his friends allowed it to be. 

These photos were bonus shots from the ‘Weird Science’ underwear homage taken a few weeks ago. Also, they were taken right before we all started putting on the Quarantine 19 – so much more vicious than the Freshman 15 because, DUH, we are so much older than Freshmen and it’s so much harder to stay in shape. I’m not walking up five flights to get to my dorm room in the top turret of Usen Castle anymore. (And thank God because those quarters sucked.)

The party continues in the back, and if/when I get back into the fitness regime, I’m bringing the crop top back this summer, especially since it looks like we may not be having guests anytime soon. (I don’t see myself cropping it up when actual people are in my presence.) 

A nod to Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde. I thought there was a Sue but maybe I made that up?

Donald Trump, in his own words, posited the idea of injecting disinfectants into the body to help combat the coronavirus. He did this quite earnestly in a live press conference that was shown to the world (I was watching it as it unfolded). A short while later, Dr. Birx (the woman who seems to be hiding more than her neck in that endless supply of scarves) defended Trump by saying he likes to talk things out first. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the talking points that Trump had tried floating at around the same time, saying that he was only being sarcastic. Oops.

Anyway, the new MAGA challenge seems to be disinfecting the body with poisons found in most households. And since Trump is such a fan of sarcasm, I challenge everyone who still supports him to the MAGA Challenge! Find your prettiest bottle of Clorox or Pine Sol or Ammonia and set up your cocktail. (Ratio of cleaning product to mixer is entirely up to taste.) Bottoms up! And don’t forget to post your video to Twitter and tag @realdonaldtrump to win this challenge!

PS – Remember to toast to sarcasm. Trump loves it. 

Its message was, quite simply, summer. 

It whispered with its potent perfume. 

It shouted from its chartreuse throat. 

It seduced with its promise.

And in the midst of this claustrophobic darkness, I needed such a promise. If you do too, and you find a balm in beauty and flowers, seek out similar posts in the archives. The lazy isolationist side of me is winning today, so finding the links will be up to you. 

The great and all-powerful RuPaul once proclaimed, “We’re all born naked and the rest is drag.’

When we are children, we don’t think anything of nudity, and society generally doesn’t bat an eye at a naked child either. When I was a kid I used to proverbially swing my dick around all the time as far as running around naked went. My parents, usually so clinical and scientific in their words and analyses could somehow only bring themselves to call a penis a ‘thing’, so for a couple of years my brother and I referred to our dicks as our ‘things’. Probably a good idea, as we no doubt would have run around screaming ‘penis’ at the top of our lungs. (Not gonna say it didn’t eventually happen anyway.)

As a child, I remember being without pants a lot. I don’t know if I specifically enjoyed being naked as much as I simply enjoyed being free and unfettered by the bonds of clothing. It sometimes felt like such a Herculean task to simply get dressed with all the socks and belts and tucked-in-shirts. Too much bother when all I wanted to do was run around the yard in my underwear. So I often did.

I still don’t know when exactly the shame crept into being naked. It happened prior to the onset of adolescence, because I remember knowing that showing off your body was not something we were supposed to do, and it was around that time that I suddenly became very shy. It wasn’t just about the naked body either – it was a shyness I can now see as the initial onset of the social anxiety that would haunt me for my entire life. Intertwined was the shame and guilt of the Garden of Eden and a bunch of other religious dogma that fucked me up in ways I’m still trying to fix.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that my getting naked here on this blog is a way of reclaiming that childlike innocence, when I felt absolutely no shame whatsoever about the human body. It’s not easy getting rid of that kind of shame, particularly when society heaps on its antiquated enforcement of such tenets. America is hypocritically prudent when it comes to nudity, and when there’s any aspect of sexuality imbued in the mix it proves doubly resistant.

Fuck all that. We’re all naked under our clothes. Our bodies are the maps of where we’ve been – physically and mentally – they are marked with scars and flaws unique and special to each and every individual. No two are alike, but our basic make-up is remarkably similar. Underneath it all, it’s very hard to tell who is who. We should celebrate our bodies, and our differences. Every wrinkle and gray hair, every ounce of weight, every hidden muscle, every line that could tell innumerable tales of happy laughter, sorrowful tears, or righteous anger.  These bodies are our shells, and no matter how gaily or extravagantly we dress them up, in the end they will return to the earth, becoming part of the universe in some form. We will fold back into this universal womb, no longer skin, flesh and bone, but only the eternally-fading remnants of such stuff. In some ways, life is but one long series of degradations of our physical form. How much of my newborn self still remains? I can’t say I remember much of my soul in those days. We change so much.

Here, then, is a marker of where I am right now.

You can go back several years on this site to see where I was back when.

And when I’m gone, and my body is nothing but ash or dirt, maybe these photos will survive, existing in the technological cloud we’ve created, living on as proof that I was here, that this body once existed, that it once laughed and wept and breathed, that it once ran and played and danced, that it was an element of matter that, to a few select and magnificent people, actually mattered.