Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

It has often been espoused on this very blog that life is not about those big event moments – the weddings and births and funerals that mark our march across time – but rather all the in-between times where nothing special seems to be going on. How dangerously off that is, and how foolish to center one’s life around anything other than, well, life. The simple moments. The moments in which we wait and plan and pretend to do something to keep us busy. Finding the joy in the little moments has been one of the primary goals of this blog, and when I look back at my life thus far, largely what I try to do when I’m at my best. 

When I’m not at my best, when the gears are spinning but nothing is catching, when my bluntness forgets that not everyone is as thick-skinned as I’ve had to be – those are the times when I need to work a little harder. That’s when I pause. (I never used to pause before. I never used to wait.) Now I pause. And breathe. And decide how to make things better instead of blowing things up.

There are still little explosions along the way, but the castle of my life can handle them without completely collapsing. 

‘Not so fast,’ the Miscanthus seemed to say to me as soon as I wrote this ghostly post. 

‘I’ll show you,’ the sky-high patch of fountain grass whispered as its reeds took the wind.

I was cowed, beat down by the impossibly-bright bonfire before an impossibly-blue sky.

You cannot fight fire with fire.

It hadn’t even bothered to unfurls its feathery seedheads yet.

It was merely flexing.

This was still the staging area. 

What winter glory was yet to come…

Devoid of the warm hues that earlier, kinder days had elicited, the leaves of our coral bark maple have faded to this pale echo of former glory. They go ghostly like this when the hard frosts begin to overtake the night. Some of our ferns do the same thing. It’s a signal for us to rethink our notions of beauty. Gone are the days of strong color and vibrant pizzazz. Late fall and winter bring muted and somber tones, and our eyes must adjust to the shift. It’s not always welcome – I love bright colors and gaudy shades – but it’s good to train our sights on texture and patterns and things that will show through the seasons of snow and ice. 

The occasionally-disconcerting shift of Daylight Saving Time inspired me to do a fall smudging, which was long overdue anyway. It’s a tradition I have embraced, usually performed at the turn of a season. On the Sunday after pushing the clocks back, it felt like the opportune moment to realign things. We are manifesting a peaceful and calm holiday season, and that begins with a steady waving of a burning sage wand throughout the house, opening windows and doors and driving out any negativity from our home.

There is a feeling of cleansing and healing that accompanies a proper smudge, a sense of purification and a chance to start anew. It doesn’t heal all the wounds, nor is that its intention. We need to remember our hurt so that we don’t repeat it. A smudge is simply a new beginning. It banishes bad thoughts and lingering regrets. Ancient mystics used it as much for its spiritual benefits as for its physical purifying of the air. 

Moving systematically throughout the rooms of our home, I wave the burning sage stick in slow, calm arcs, making sure its smoke reaches every nook and corner, opening closets and drawers and releasing anything bad that may be lingering, or that I may be holding onto. As I pass each open window or door, invigorated by the smoke and the cool November air, I feel more and more worry and stress lift from my shoulders. By the time I reach the garage and walk around our cars, the sunlight of the day is pouring in and I feel at peace. May the remainder of fall be a little bit better. 

The only thing ‘noir’ about this post is the fact that November is the month I wear Tom Ford’s ‘Japon Noir’ Private Blend. It refuses to fit anywhere else within my fragrance year. Actually, there may be a few noirish moments from this recap given that spooky nights formed a portion of Halloween week. Read on, if you dare.

Since it was all about the treats and tricks, let’s begin with our usual ending: the Hunks of the Day. Last week’s guy/eye candy included Chris Noble, Pablo Brägger, Ryan Bridge, Shep Rose, Ric’key Pageot, and Sean Doolittle. 

Donald Trump got booed and it was glorious. Freedom of speech is as good as sex.

A pair of October poems to send off the manic month. 

Unhappiness.

A friend says goodbye to her mother. 

Meatloaf: the ultimate comfort food.

No, wait… Soup: the ultimate comfort food.

A black cat, for inspiration. 

Boston days not lost to amnesia.

The parade that killed Barney.

A poem to greet November.

An unexamined life may be worth living.

Chris Hemsworth shirtless & animated.

A view of Albany from up above.

The scariest night of the year, calmed by a storm.

As the temperatures went from tropical to temperate, the winds kicked up and Halloween night suddenly turned deadly. Ever since I had a spat of nightmares a few years ago that people were trying to break into our front door, I’ve never much enjoyed Halloween, when people coming to your door in scary costumes is suddenly ok and sanctioned. Because of that, I’m not the one who hands out the candy, and if it were up to me the lights would be off, the house would be bolted shut, and a warning shot would be fired off every ten minutes or so alerting the children that no one was welcome here.

On such an uneasy night, a surge of stormy weather was, I originally thought, rather unwelcome. How could it do anything other than add to the spooky tension already pervading the atmosphere? How many tales that began on dark stormy nights ever ended happily? Leaving Andy to man the front door with nothing but a big bowl of candy to protect him and our home, I secluded myself in the basement, where I tapped away on the laptop and watched ‘Practical Magic’ out of the corner of my eye. By 11 PM the movie was done and I traipsed upstairs to bed.

The wind had begun in earnest, and the rain had joined in the fun. I was sublimely exhausted, and as soon as my head hit the pillow I was instantly asleep – a rarity these days, when tossing and turning seems to be my preferred method of dealing with end-of-the-day fatigue. Sleep came quickly and easily, but an hour into such heavenly bliss I was scared shitless by the frightening visage of a figure lurking in the hallway and shining a flashlight on me. I screamed like I was being murdered, so terrified was I by this stranger, before I realized it was Andy, who was saying that the power was out and I would need to set my cel phone alarm.

I would never get back to sleep now, I thought, as my mind started racing and doing all the things that usually prevent sleep from coming. The wind outside howled, and I listened as the house was pelted by rain and acorns and who knows what other sort of debris from the oak trees and pines above. I waited for another big limb to come crashing into our attic as it done once many years ago, shaking the house to its foundation, but none ever came. That didn’t mean one wouldn’t, and so I went into a sleepless fit. Resigning myself to a night of restlessness, I thought back to the storms that would hit Boston, when the rain would start dripping onto the air conditioning unit and click and echo through the night. At first it was distractingly irritating, and I thought for sure it would keep me up like some metronome or clock whose ticking doesn’t blend into the background but ends up getting louder and louder. Instead, it began to lull me to sleep, to calm and quell fear with a steady drone and drumbeat.

On this night, the windstorm worked a similar sort of magic. While it first caused consternation and concern, it soon gave way to a distinct sort of gray background noise that turned my own fitful rage on its head. As the storm itself raged outside, the cozy comfort of our bed provided refuge and safety and warmth. There was just enough noise so that the stillness and quiet of our lost electricity did not manage to mess with my head. (It is possible for the world to be too quiet, especially when trying to sleep.) The storm snuffed out the terror, and soon I was happily ensconced in slumber.

Long before I began this blog in early 2003, I’d been documenting the events of my life in diaries, journals, projects, and letters. It began with a Garfield Diary, complete with tiny lock and key, in about 6^thgrade. What goes into a sixth grader’s diary? Sadly, I don’t remember, and I’m fortunate in a way that it was nothing too serious. That’s much too young to have anything worthy of commemoration. In various fits and spurts, I’d add to the little book over the years, much in the way that I would crochet a few more rows in a never-ending blanket (that remains unfinished to this day) from time to time. Eventually the secrets got darker, and at some point in high school I decided it was safer to destroy it than keep it hidden. I don’t recall how I did it, whether I burned it or shredded it or dismantled and spread it around like a serial killer, but by the end of high school, my childhood diary was no more. My childhood had suffered the same unsensational fate.

That was when my creative projects began, and I poured the semi-auto-biographical drama of a teenager into words and images that I’ve been doing ever since. It was 1993, and since then I’ve been a keen documenter of my life in one form or another, sometimes taking creative liberty with things and changing them just so, or simply jotting things down in an old-school Backstreet Boys daily planner. (Oh relax, I had an ‘N Sync one the next year.) Eventually that release and expression took the form of this blog, but the reality is that my life has been recorded in some form or fashion for the past twenty-six years. For the first time, I’m starting to feel the fatigue of it. Maybe it’s the overwhelming wave of social media saturation that has flooded our existence in the last few years. Maybe it’s the work that goes into sustaining a daily blog that been going since 2003. Maybe it’s just finally growing up and out of the need for such self-analysis and introspection. Whatever the case, I’m tired.

I also miss being off the grid. Even when I was writing projects and sharing things with people in the 90’s, there was always the option of shutting it off and disappearing. Those options are sorely limited now. The simple necessity of a cel phone makes it almost impossible to completely turn off, and most of us have too many obligations to be absent for too long. That is taking its toll, whether we realize it or not. I firmly believe that is not a human being’s natural state. We are designed to rest and relax and simply not think for every second of the day. We were made to reflect and take in our surroundings, to be still and quiet from time to time, to fully decompress and allow our brains to settle without excessive stimuli. I look at some young people today and marvel at their inability to even sit still without scrolling through a phone or bopping to whatever is being broadcast in their earbuds. I do not envy that life. I do not envy today’s youth. And I know they don’t envy me. I guess I just miss the days of quiet.

The same goes for a bit of the unexamined life. I miss that. There is an art to simply existing, a certain beauty and skill involved in experiencing something – anything – just for the sake of experiencing it – and without recounting or documenting or telling a story about it afterward. I still manage to make such moments happen. Not always purposefully, but sometimes they are deliberate, and not always perfectly, because sometimes things don’t work out the way you envisioned. They have been moments just between me and the universe, never documented, largely forgotten, and all an integral part of enriching the soul.

I’m aiming to have more of them, and less of this.

Who knew such trauma went down at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in 1997? I was blithely unaware of this tragedy, and now that I’ve seen it, nothing will ever be the same. The drama kicks into overdrive at around the 1:37 mark. Kids – do not watch without adult supervision.