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Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

His Majesty’s Purple

One of my perennial favorite colors, purple has always held a special place in my heart, and all of its varying shades have held fascination and allure for this weary eyes. A color of royalty as much as of wisdom, purple feeds the soul with its soothing reconciliation of fiery red and watery blue. Lessons of color wheel science rekindle in the mind and I travel back to art classes filled with rainbow recitations and the pleasant perpetuity of the light spectrum. 

Nature knows here way around the color purple better than any of us mere mortals, as evidenced in this post where varying shades of it show off in floral and foliage form. 

I love how variable purple can be, how the slightest nod toward red or blue changes its mood. 

I also love how yellow or green can set it off so brilliantly. Once again, Nature knows what she’s doing.

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The Prettier the Flower…

… the farther from the path.

So goes a bit of ‘Into the Woods’ and as there is no more enchanting time to be in the woods than the fall, let us take a moment to pause at the start of a little journey that will bring us from October all the way into November by way of All Hallow’s Eve. 

It is whispered among those who whisper about such things that the veil between the physical world and the spirit realm is thinnest at this time of the year. If you believe those tales, you may be prone to flights of fancy, the flotsam and jetsam of fairy stories, and precisely the sort of hexed writings you may stumble upon in the next few days. 

For now, though, there is only the perfect beauty of the start, because only at the start can there be any hope of perfection. We will stumble and we will fall, and the only thing we can hope for is a big pile of leaves to blunt the impact. 

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A Solitary Road: One Year of Not Drinking

Some journeys have to be taken alone.

When I made the decision to stop drinking a year ago, it was a decision that had been in the works and the back of my mind for several months, if not years. I’d noticed the thrill and enjoyment I once elicited from alcohol had changed into something darker and more problematic. It wasn’t giving me the same sense of relaxation, and I had promised myself that if that day arrived, I would stop drinking. Circumstances and prompting from Andy and my family on certain nights when my tongue cut too deeply hinted to me that things had shifted. More basic than that, I simply wasn’t enjoying it. I saw its deleterious effects in sluggish mornings and extra weight gained, as well as the drain on my wallet (a proper cocktail averaged about $15 back then ~ no idea how much they are now). And so I gave it up – just like that ~ exactly one year ago.

In some ways, I’d been waiting for an impetus to impel me to do it, but it was less about that and more about my desire to get healthier and to grow into the next phase of my adulthood. When I look at those individuals who enjoy healthy living long and far into their retirements, I often see that they have kicked their healthy living into effect before middle age and then made those healthy habits into a regular part of their lifestyles.

While Andy and others were supportive of me not drinking, this was not something I did for anyone other than myself, and that’s part of why I was able to do it without any great difficulty. It came at the right moment, when I was ready to make the change, to put in the work, and to substitute those lifestyle moments that might otherwise be full of cocktails with things like meditation and therapy and a course on finding happiness. Some people do better making smaller changes slowly over a long period of time; I challenged myself and took this multi-pronged approach because it was what I needed to move forward in my life that winter. It was something I had to prove to myself, to once again recall what it was like to stand alone and do something just for me. It took a lot of work, and a lot of discipline, and I embraced all of it.

It had to begin with letting go of the idea that I was perfect. I had to own up to my mistakes and bad behavior. I had to acknowledge that I was letting myself down, as well as letting the people who meant the most to me down. That meant starting over again in a lot of relationships, and they evolved accordingly. I also learned that, if need be, I could find ways of survival and self-sufficiency that had been dormant for decades, and that sort of reawakening was powerful and precious. With every day that passed with meditation instead of alcohol, a little more of me was transformed and brought into better focus. So many days and nights of drinking had become hazy; I yearned for clarity and honesty and courage without the crutch of a cocktail to blunt my socially anxious edge.

In retrospect, my undiagnosed and underlying social anxiety formed the main proponent for my drinking for years ~ a habit and reliance that I could see possibly becoming an addiction, and I wanted to put a stop to that before I couldn’t. That’s where therapy came into my life, and I was finally ready to work on my most difficult truths without hiding anything, which is why it started to work so well. Along with that, I invested time and effort and a disciplined study schedule into the famous Yale University course ‘The Science of Well-Being‘.

Finally, meditation grounds me every day, creating a safe space of calm and healing and intention, that on its most basic level addresses social anxiety, but on a broader plane also transforms my brain’s basic make-up, pushing out distracting worries and tension while allowing for a blank space of quiet and peace. The world will eventually encroach on this place, that’s just the way the world works for adults, and I’ve seen the importance of consistent and meaningful meditation to counteract such stress and anxiety.

With those things in place, eliminating alcohol was actually a lesser ordeal than most people seemed to think it might be. I never thought it would be a problem, and I leaned into those early months, and that tough winter, with these new habits. By the time spring arrived, and COVID instantly changed all our lives, they had become a natural default, an integral and genuine lifestyle that felt healthy and good. As the world was rocked by the madness of 2020, and most people relied on their vodka and wine and coping crutches, I had already found my comfort cravings, and when stressed I would simply sit for an extra meditation, focus on my deep breathing, and write out any concerns for discussion at my next therapy session.

As easy as the drinking thing was on its surface, it was everything behind it that proved to be the difficult part, and those issues required the intense emotional work and discipline that being home for COVID may have helped coalesce into concrete results. Looking back on the first photo here, taken right before my very first therapy session, I see a glimpse into the fear and terror I was feeling at the start of this journey. It turned out that not drinking was going to be the easiest part of the past year, but I didn’t know that then~ I couldn’t know that ~ and perhaps that not knowing is why it went exactly as it should have gone. In owning up to everything I didn’t know, and acknowledging the many missteps I had made, and the implacable imperfections that make this life so interesting and worthwhile, I became a better person. In the photo below, taken this fall, I recognize the spark that had grown dull over a number of years of drinking and burying everything that bothered me. As the second half of my life ensues, the tools I’ve learned to use in the last year will be what I grasp when things turn difficult. There is little peace to be found unless you’re willing to work for it.

This is all still relatively new to me. I wish I could better put it into words, because on some level these things too easily veer into the hokey and simplistic when expounded upon, and I only hope I’ve come somewhat closer to explaining where my head has been at for the past year. That said, this is only a day, just like any other day and filled with the same hope and opportunity and space as tomorrow will be. So I embrace the day, and beckon you to join me…

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Fall Ascendant

This climbing hydrangea usually claims its glory in late spring when it’s covered in lace-like umbrellas of sweetly-scented blooms. They sprinkle their lovely perfume about the backyard just as we are usually opening the pool – the most magical and hopeful time of the year. Their show lasts a good while, it not usually being too terribly hot at that point to quickly wilt and diminish the delicate blossoms – and then the handsome foliage remains lush and green for the duration of the summer. They will appreciate regular watering if conditions get hot and dry (there is such a long way for the water to travel, and the vines wind their way up a good forty feet). 

Happily, their show doesn’t end then – this one likes to go out in a column of fiery sunlight, golden yellow flames licking all the way up the length of its commingling with an ancient pine tree. When the afternoon sunlight pours through the bright foliage, it could be argued that this is a greater show than its late spring bloom. Fall has its powers too, and they are not to be underestimated. 

Some might say there is more magic and enchantment to be found in the unexpected beauty at hand this late in the season. I don’t have a strong argument against that, and it is always the present moment that seems to have the most pull. 

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The Last Weekly Recap of This October

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.

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An aspect of human existence

“Diversity is an aspect of human existence that cannot be eradicated by terrorism or war or self-consuming hatred. It can only be conquered by recognizing and claiming the wealth of values it represents for all.” â€• Aberjhani, Splendid Literarium: A Treasury of Stories, Aphorisms, Poems, and Essays

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Club 69: Adults Only

An oiled-up naked man graces the cover of Club 69’s debut album ‘Adults Only’ and, truth be forever told, that’s partly why I had to buy the CD at Tower Records. It was the 90’s and this was the standard club fare – house music and strong-throated divas singing power-anthems with a driving beat and a killer melody.

As the gay community smoldered in the ashes of the AIDS epidemic, and the damage to a generation was still burning strong around the world, I looked at love with wary eyes. For those of us who came of age at a certain time, sex would always be tinged with danger – and the lurking possibility that it could lead to death. What does that do to an already-marginalized population?

For the most part, I spent my weekends alone in the Boston condo – glad and comforted by the proximity of Chaps or Club Cafe, but socially anxious enough to not dare step foot into their darkened dens by myself, aside from the occasional moment of alcohol-induced bravery in which I’d join a few friends for a night of tea dancing. I always had a blast, but it was never enough to make me a regular, and hardly ever did I venture out alone. When my twinkdom was at its most potent, I was at my most hermit-like. I don’t regret it in the least. It may have saved my life. AIDS was still ravaging the gay community. Safe-sex was just starting to become the default, but people would always do what they wanted, no matter the risk or stupidity. The only person you could absolutely trust was yourself, and even then lust and desire could make you see things as they weren’t truly so.

Instead, I’d spin this CD of house music and play out fantasies of club life within the safety of my bedroom: dance party of one. I could wear only my underwear and no one would stare or cop a feel. I could get as sweaty as I wanted and just take a few short steps into the shower. I could dance the night away, absolutely safe and secure, and there was joy enough in dancing with myself.

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Berry Berry Bo Berry

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.

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Wrinkled Low Hangers

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. 

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Fall Floating Crown

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. 

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Another Poem for October

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.

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Big and Sexy Ben Brings in Another Year

No one wants 2021 to arrive quicker than I do, and here is added incentive: the 2021 Calendar of Ben Cohen as shot by Leo Holden of Snooty Fox Images. When muse, model, and magnificent photographer meet, the results are spectacular, and this is precisely the dose of beauty the world needs right now. Mr. Cohen has been celebrated here numerous times, as much for his good looks as for his good heart and social endeavors. His Stand Up Foundation continues its anti-bullying crusade around the world. Mr. Holden has also been here before most recently in his own calendar feature. Together, they make the kind of magic that only supreme artistic excellence can conjure. Get your limited edition calendar here before they sell out (and they always sell out). 

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Ghostly Shade of Pale

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. 

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These Are Sexy Days

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.

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Sexual Reconciliation

Still somewhat sour over this stunning mis-step, and without much reason to celebrate of late, I haven’t been listening to any Madonna for the past couple of months, aside from the occasional song that pops up on the radio. I’m coming around to her, deciding to forgive my pop icon even though she owes me nothing and I owe her even less, but it will take a little more time. 

Today is a Madonna holiday, however, and so I am suspending this brief break to honor the release of her most daring artistic project to date: the ‘Sex’ book. It was probably the moment when the height of my fandom crested with the height of her infamy, and that kind of cataclysmic pop culture alchemy left an indelible impression on my seventeen-year-old self. Her ‘Erotica’ album came out on October 20, 1992, but I waited a day to get it when I could bundle it with the ‘Sex’ book and have the full image-and-music experience. 

I was reminded of that magic – the kind of magic only Madonna has been able to conjure – when these Champagne Rose-tinted photos appeared recently, and so my heart softened a little toward the woman who once saved my life. 

So on this day I’m celebrating a sort of sexual forgiveness, because sex works in mysterious ways, and sometimes it brings people back together. Back then, it cemented a bond with Madonna that was less sexual and more emotional, but in a wise woman’s words, the best of both worlds is created when they come together. 

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