Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

A strong dose of color can change the world, especially a world mired in winter greys, chaos, and Mercury in retrograde. Charging into that battle with his #MakeYouSmileStyle and lifestyle blog (currently undergoing an exciting revamping), Will Taylor has been bringing color back into our lives, literally and figuratively, and I’m here for all of it.

His Instagram feed is a steady stream of inspiration, one that highlights his uncanny knack for impeccably matching his outfits to his surroundings, and offering helpful information on which products and techniques work best for him. Nothing is a hard sell, and his enthusiasm is as genuine as it is contagious. In other words, he’s the best sort of social influencer.

Lately I’ve been getting a kick out of his Twitter feed as well, as he opines his relative age in a world of youngsters who don’t remember what it was like being charged per text message. (Taylor’s a generation younger than me, so you can imagine how my dinosaur ass feels. He’s been blogging since 2009; I’ve been doing this since 2003.)

Above all else, it is his infectious spirit and unflagging optimism that has captured the fickle attention of style-watchers and design aficionados the world over. Ever-ready with a smile or a supportive response, he injects a badly-needed dose of colorful glamour into a mundane universe. Whether it’s his unabashed excitement over the new Lady Gaga song, or perennial reverence to a classic Madonna moment, he straddles the past and the future, while boldly living in the present. He bridges a clean, bright, modern aesthetic with a classic celebration of color and vibrancy, crafting a style that is at once accessible, functional and impossibly fabulous.

As evidenced by cheeky glimpses into bare-chested glory, he also knows his audience clamors as much for him to don colorful garb as they are to see him slip out of it. (A preference for briefs has endeared him to a whole new audience.)

More impressive than that pretty package is his relentless drive to better the world around him, starting with the outside and gradually and ingeniously working within. He isn’t afraid to share his personal stories and setbacks, and today we demand that from our social media stars. He’s also one of the most responsive Instagrammers out there, so if you say hello he’s likely to reply with a smile or quick word of thanks.

It’s a welcome breath of brightness in our dour and drab social media timelines, and whenever I see a new post of his pop up, it’s the first thing I click. We need more color in our lives. We need more color in the world.

Bits of wreckage strewn haphazardly about the house hinted at childhood and the wonders of youth. None of it made much sense to me as an adult, which was sad, as I pondered where I might have lost the path I once knew so well – a path of pure imagination, of whimsy and fantasy and make-believe. It was a path that led to woodland fairies perched among polka-dotted toadstools, where miniature cows moved and mooed on mounds of verdant moss, and dolls poked their heads up from frazzled piles and demanded finer frocks.

Today, there is little room or time for such happy frivolity, unless I’m spending time with my niece and nephew. Perhaps this is why people love children so much – they remind them of being young. Even though part of me feels I’ve lost my way, I still hold onto an active imagination, an appreciation of the whimsical, a respect of the power of make-believe. There is a magic that only exists in the mind. The fact that it isn’t real only makes it more potent. It cannot be stopped or limited or killed. It lives with all the creatures we conjure in our heads – in another, unreachable land, a place to which only a dreamer might gain entrance.

The first recap for March is upon us! The month of spring at last at hand! A few more weeks of winter first, so let’s rush on through this recap and move ahead. 

Mercury in retrograde knocked out the first Broadway selections of the season. 

My baby brother celebrated his birthday.

This website celebrated Ass Wednesday.

The Soup Dragons went Softly.

Teaching my Mom how to use FaceBook.

Never too late for a narcissus.

The Madonna Timeline returned with ‘Dark Ballet’. 

Sunny words of warning.

March enters with the lions. 

A brief post filled with sexy half-naked gents.

Hunks of the Day included Sam Gravitte, Nicholas Hoult, Ramone Owens, and Ben Affleck. 

The royal return of the king of beasts marks the start of March, and such thunderous entrance and cacophonous fanfare seems fitting as we continue on our not-so-merry march of Mercury in retrograde. We have entered the month in which spring officially begins, and though that’s not for a few weeks, hope is on the horizon.

I have a soft spot for lions, as evidenced by this dreamy song, and this summer memory. As for their connection with the start of March, I’m all for it, and if history is any indication they’ll see us through the entire month. Lambs don’t get their meteorological match until May usually. March is much more volatile, and the first days have Mercury behind them, leading to the kind of war I’d much rather avoid. To that end, I will maintain my schedule of meditation. It isn’t much, just fifteen minutes a day, but those fifteen minutes matter and make a world of difference. Silence and stillness are undervalued in today’s world, which means carving out a time and place for both can be difficult. It’s not something you can do in the car on your daily commute, or in the shower, or even lying in bed. It takes concentration and work ~ it’s not just lounging and chanting and ommmmm. But I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, particularly if tranquility and serenity might be one of the outcomes. They will be especially important as the lion rages and March rears its hot-blooded head. We must also remember that lions can be peaceable creatures as well, so long as we don’t interrupt the hunt.

When the sun begins its late winter burn, that’s when it might be at its most dangerous. After a winter of darkness and gloom, the days have been growing longer. It began almost imperceptibly, right after the winter solstice, and only now, with the benefit of hindsight, can we see the progress. The brilliant bookend of a Thanksgiving/Christmas/Easter cactus, which had its initial flush of blooms when the light first leaked from the sky at the end of fall, recently started its re-blooming period, indicating that the light had returned.

As lovely as that may be, I feel we need to slow down and take the universe’s gradual progression to heart. At this point in life, I can step back and not rush into anything. That’s for the young and foolish, and there’s a time when that’s right. I’ve passed that point. Luckily, the universe has its own way of doling out lessons and warnings, and it’s powerfully effective at slowly but persistently making sure we heed its signs. Like the slow trudge to spring, it warns with almost unseen form. In fact, it may dangle something tempting or exciting in front of you even if it’s not right. Or maybe we simply ignore such warnings when we want something. At those times, the universe steps in with small signs and blips – maybe a recurring cold or other issue. If you fail to listen, or if you don’t want to listen, you might be able to ignore it a little longer. Fear not, the universe will continue to work to correct the path.

It may knock a little louder, and things may get a little rockier. Perhaps other systems fail, perhaps everything else seems to go wrong. That’s the universe nudging a little more forcefully. If you still don’t heed its signs, it shines its sunlight of truth with relentless intensity. It’s the kind of sunlight that only comes in late winter, before the leaves are on the trees, before the haze of warmth and humidity. It’s this sunlight that can burn, and the universe bangs on your front door, waking you from whatever spell holds you blind to the path you should be on, to right the wayward turns you may have taken.

One must have faith at such times. It’s possible for the world to be both too bright and too dark to see clearly. 

The usual time for forcing bulbs has already passed. In many parts of the country, the real deal is already poking through the ground. Spring and all her requisite beauty will be upon us soon enough. Typically, I do most of my bulb forcing starting in November, when the days are grey and grim, and I need a jolt of hope and the promise of greenery and blooms. That’s what I did late last year, just as the holidays were getting underway. It was a rather piss-poor batch of them though, as if dark forces were stymying their growth. Many buds were stillborn – the saddest thing a plant can do – and a number of bulbs didn’t even bother sending up buds. Sometimes that happens. I’d purchased enough bulbs for several rounds of plantings, but after that initial dismal showing I didn’t have the heart to start over again.

The holidays passed, thankfully, and then the bulk of winter. The days weren’t as harsh as they could have been, and could still be, and at the time I gave in to the darkness at hand, forgetting about the resort the bulbs that were stored on a shelf in the unheated garage. It wasn’t until I painted and needed to do some work requiring tools that I stumbled upon the bulbs again. This late in the game I was surprised to find them with buds of green. Little tiny hints of hope at the edge of winter. Still, I was hesitant. Perhaps too much time had passed. Maybe too much damage had been done. It hadn’t been a particularly brutal winter, but there had been days and stretches of ultra-frigid weather. We just came off a twenty-degree day, for example.

I held their brittle shells in my hands and wondered if it was worth a try. Part of me wanted to throw it all away. My heart had been broken by the first batch already, why should I risk more pain? I felt them in my fingers, pressing into their bodies a bit, trying to decipher if they were still intact, still solid enough to put forth any buds. They felt all right. They still felt substantial. I decided to give them a chance.

Resurrecting the glass container that had housed previous failures, I covered them with gravel and warm water, then placed them by the window in the dining room. Within days they perked up, sending a few straps of leaves into the air, and immediately following that a heavy crop of buds. I don’t know if they will bloom. I had such hope before, only to be left with disappointment and disaster, but I’m hesitantly optimistic. At the very least, there is already the essence of hope. That’s more than some of us ever get these days. The only things to do are wait and gauge their growth and progress, keeping them watered well but not too well. The precarious balance between life and death. For now, there is new life.