The world doesn’t give the asters their proper and deserved due. Maybe, like me, too many people have written off flowers by this point in the seasonal year. I’m guilty of that, guilty of ending things too quickly when we might draw out their beauty a little while longer. It’s like the last day of a vacation – I want to get going and get home as early a possible so I can reacclimatize myself to the mundane before the cold, dark dunk of a work week begins again. There’s something to be said for that. It eases the shock of a Monday for me. But perhaps there’s something to extending pleasure and beauty for as long as possible.
Maybe that’s the lesson of these pretty little faces. Give it up for the asters. Give it up for the fall. Give it up for the people who want to make the good times last.
(And let me give up on the goddamn beer commercial I just wrote here.)
Something jarring happens when people step out of their usual roles, whether it’s a shift in style or attitude or appearance. For some reason, we want our friends to be who we think they are, the people we think we know. Personally, I appreciate a chameleon or an octopus more than a leopard who doesn’t change its spots. That’s why I adore this ‘Harper’s Bazaar’ spread of the ‘Downton Abbey’ ladies reversing their upstairs/downstairs roles. (And clearly Lady Mary rocks both stairs. Just saying.)
Speaking of role reversals, stay tuned this week for a post on my adventures in babysitting the twins – our first sleepover was a smashing success, setting the stage for when we take them to Boston for the Children’s Holiday Hour in December…
Pictured here is a clump of beauty-berry in the Southwest Corridor Park near our place in Boston. I love their color, their architecture, and their striking effect. I just don’t grow them because of their very late season pay-off. Can’t grow everything, but I can appreciate others who do.
At the time that this gets posted we are scheduled to be winding up a sleep-over with the Ilagan twins – the first of its kind here, as we will be doing it without the help and aid of my brother, so there’s no telling what shape we, or the kids for that matter, will be in. It’s a test for when/if we bring them to the Children’s Holiday Hour in Boston closer to Christmas. And it’s ok if no one passes this test. On with the faux-holiday recap…
The best part of this past week was a visit to Boston and some very dear friends. if you’ve been here before you surely know Kira and JoAnn. The journey begins here and winds through Boston and Cambridge, concluding here.
My favorite books often contain some insidious and hidden twist that comes to light in the matter-of-fact revelation of a few obscured words. I love when a writer detonates such bombs in the otherwise calm and tranquil seas of their prose. These aren’t major things – just little hints to character and history that lend shading and nuance to the story and description at hand. One doesn’t usually realize they’ve exploded until something in the future recalls it to life, and by then it’s too late to be suspect. I can’t think of any concrete examples right now, but the next time I find one I’ll try to post it.
Such hints can be found during anyone’s average day, though they are usually too subtle to be seen. That’s why I like words. They can extract more than a photograph or a melody. They extract less too, which only makes me love them more. Devastatingly devious, they can go unnoticed when put forth in simple, flippant form. Like the recent work day in which I almost had three distinctive panic attacks, and in some artfully-constructed bit of cosmic confluence I felt sudden and unavoidable failure at every turn. I’m still not quite sure how I made it through that day without incident. I was trying to tell Andy about it but we almost got in a car accident, after which he never asked anything more.
These ruminations are worthy of nothing more than passing Halloween fancy. We won’t go nearly as close to the macabre as Edgar Allen Poe dared. We shall stay to the well-lit paths when we seek our candy, stopping only at the illuminated houses our parents deem safe. It gets dark so early now. I do love the fall, but it does get dark so early. So, so early…
A night alone in the condo carries its own sense of magic and healing. There, one can be silent and still. One can embrace the quiet and the solitude and, if it’s meant to be, come to terms with it, reconciling oneself to the wonders of the world. No matter the storms outside, inside there is tranquility. Such Boston brownstones have stood for centuries; humans will come and go, but Boston will remain.
When it comes to Boston, one of my earliest, and some of my happiest, memories involve the Red Sox, and on this morning I headed to their home to do some shopping and exploring. Much has been made of the area in the last ten years or so, and it’s very much worth a look now.
I woke early to try out the new Time Out food court in Fenway, as well as find some drapes at West Elm. The former was fabulous, the latter was lackluster, though I did settle for some clearance curtains that will work until a better alternative can be found.
My previous day’s bout with loneliness had mostly been quelled, but as I made my way past Fenway Park the streets were disconcertingly empty. For the last few years, I’ve only ever seen those streets bustling and busy with hordes of people: hot-dog vendors screaming about their wares, ticket-sellers shouting in Gahhhd-awful accents, and baseball paraphernalia hawkers squawking about their merchandise. On this Saturday morning, the place was a ghost-town, eerily bereft of excitement and celebration, and I felt the sad sense of missing my pal Skip. I almost texted him to see if he wanted me to pick up a baseball hat for him, but didn’t want to interrupt whatever weekend plan he was enjoying.
Walking on to Time Out, the day brightened and I shook off the unfamiliar remnants of vulnerability. Mamaleh’s was offering an incredible bagel sandwich with lox and capers and some wickedly delicious spread that brought it all together. I sat by a window looking out at the grassy court and the people wandering outside. I was feeling more like myself, ok with being alone again. The spell had been broken. Besides, JoAnn was arriving in a few hours, so I had to get back and prepare.
There wasn’t much time for dawdling, however, as I needed to change and put up the curtains before JoAnn came in from the Cape. We were going to walk through Cambridge – all the way from Porter Square to Central Square, culminating with a dinner at Cuchi Cuchi, which JoAnn has been wanting to try for years.
At the condo, the sun slanted in through the bedroom and I changed into some ridiculous lounge-wear. A velvet robe works wonders for the sullen soul. Moving to the front window, I opened it a bit more to allow the sound of the fountain to lend its calming music to the afternoon. This might very well be the last time we get to hear its sweet melody this year; soon it will be drained and winterized for its seasonal slumber. A sad thought indeed, and I sat down at the table and took it in while waiting for JoAnn’s arrival.
It turns out these in-between moments of waiting and stillness are just as important as the main events, and I thought back to previous times when I would wait for a friend to arrive. There has always been something joyful in that anticipation, in the full richness of something promised. The goal is to enjoy the before, during and after with equal fervor. I’m working on all of it, and so is JoAnn. She arrived and we immediately picked up where we left off, practically mid-conversation, before heading off to Cambridge, and the endless escalator of Porter Square.
Bopping from shop to shop, we made our way along Massachusetts Ave, picking up a silk scarf at a Tibetan store before arriving at two hat purchases in Harvard Square. Nobody wears a hat better than JoAnn, so when she found one at Anthropologie, we were helpless to say no. While it’s still not quite the magnificent off-set piece of millinery magic we found at Galvanized all those years ago, it’s spectacular in its own right. We’ve both come to make peace with compromise and loss, and in the magnificent waning afternoon sunlight, we arrived at our dining destination.
There’s nothing as soul-sustaining as sharing a meal with a long-time friend, especially if that friend has become a part of your family. JoAnn and I have known each other since 1998 – and we’ve been through a lot in the ensuing two decades. War buddies in a way, we’ve survived and held onto our friendship like it was some golden thread keeping us alive. We laughed at our hapless server, we ate well, and we stopped for dessert at another place in Central Square. It was the perfect evening between friends. Classic us in the best possible way.
The next morning was just as beautiful as the entire weekend had been, and we reluctantly headed back to our respective lives, promising to see each other in the coming holiday months. We both need to look forward to something – we run better that way. A bright and magnificent October weekend had come to a close, yet we did not mourn it. We celebrated that it happened, that after all these years we could still find love and laughter amid the debris of so many fall days.
SHADOWS ARE FALLING AND I’M RUNNING OUT OF BREATH
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
IF I LEAVE YOU IT DOESN’T MEAN I LOVE YOU ANY LESS
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
Firmly embedded within the heart of fall, the October weekend unleashed a torrent of sunshine, cool breezes, autumnal beauty, laughter and healing, and it all happened with two of my favorite friends – the very best kind of fall weekend to have. It’s been ages since I’ve last seen Kira in Boston. That’s happened before, when snow or scheduling prevents our seeing each other for months at a time. It always feels a little lonelier when those stretches happen; Kira connects me to a time and a place when things were simpler and more innocent, when our main concerns weren’t aging parents or health issues, but where we would eat lunch during our break at John Hancock, or who we would invite to a work holiday party. We long for such concerns now.
It was June when we last met – before the official start of summer – and while I tend to spend more of my summer days at home by the pool, I was willing to make the trip to Boston if she was able to hang out, but we never got around to it. Then her sister passed away unexpectedly and she was called back to Panama for the services. Suddenly, life threw its seriousness in the way of get-togethers, in the way of summer, and I stepped back in requesting any frivolous weekend gatherings. Knowing when to say nothing is as important as knowing what exactly to say. And Kira has always been on the quiet side, keeping things within and not bothering others with messy emotional mayhem. I can relate to and respect that.
WHEN YOU GET UP IN THE MORNING AND YOU SEE THAT CRAZY SUN
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
THERE’S A TRAIN LEAVING NIGHTLY CALLED, “WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE”
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
To honor our reunion, I looked up some classic Panamanian dishes she might enjoy and chose a sancocho. (I kept texting her that I made a ‘sancecho’ and she thought I lost my mind.) It was all about the culantro (not cilantro!) and it turned out to be the perfect meal for a fall evening. Patches of rain hovered and moved on throughout the afternoon, the windows were open just a bit to let in the sound of the fountain, and the coziness of fall descended amid the flickering of candles. Those quiet moments before her arrival, as the soup heated up and Shirley Horn cooed her world-weary wisdom, were where I found peace in anticipation.
We had dinner then watched a bit of ‘The Witches of Eastwick’ and ‘Hocus Pocus‘ then slumbered until the early morning. Kira had to work, but we had the first part of the day to explore Boston a bit. The day was beautiful – all bright blue skies and sun-drenched flowers not yet felled by frost – and we meandered through the Southwest Corridor Park up to Copley, where the Farmer’s Market was assembling its shady stands. Vegetables and gourds and flowers spilled out of buckets – there were warnings on the bouquets that this was likely the last weekend for dahlias given the likelihood of a hard frost the next week. Baked goods sat in neat little rows, pots of herbs swayed gently in the breeze, and the very best part of fall was upon us.
SOMETIMES WHEN YOU’RE DOING SIMPLE THINGS AROUND THE HOUSE
MAYBE YOU’LL THINK OF ME AND SMILE
YOU KNOW I’M TIED TO YOU LIKE THE BUTTONS ON YOUR BLOUSE
We passed by the bench where I met the first man I ever kissed. Kira already knew the story and I didn’t feel like telling it so we walked on without remarking. The mark of real friendship is being ok to walk together in silence and quiet. Maybe we both needed that this weekend.
Even with its beauty, fall can be emotionally tricky. After the sorrow of her summer, Kira’s smiles were slightly slower in coming, but we managed a few laughs. I gave her a belated birthday gift of some Vera Bradley bags and a photo of her in this yellow dress from our last time together. Too soon, it was time for her to go to work, so I joined her on the journey to the Charles/MGH T-stop. An old stomping ground that has come to have new meaning over the years, it held memories for both of us. We hugged goodbye and she crossed the street to the hospital. I walked on further, up past the street that held such secrets and confusing sadness. Pausing where such a pivotal time of my life happened, I felt the same wonder at being in this space in the middle of the day. People rushed by, a few construction guys seemed to be on their lunch break, and at the bottom of the street was the very apartment where I first got naked with a man. What part of me did I leave there? What did I really think I would find?
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
HOLD ME IN YOUR THOUGHTS, TAKE ME TO YOUR DREAMS
TOUCH ME AS I FALL INTO VIEW
AND WHEN THE WINTER COMES, KEEP THE FIRES LIT
Without fanfare or warning, the day turned gray, as if the vibrant color Kira and I enjoyed earlier had been drained by some instant bit of photoshop sorcery. Shades of black and white stilled the clock. Time paused and rewound. I saw myself back in that fall of 1994, some impossibly-thin and gangly man-child making his way down these streets, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, head down and avoiding the world, simultaneously thrilled and dismayed with having just had his first sexual encounter with an older guy. I wasn’t even out yet, I wasn’t even sure I was gay, and not being able to tell anyone about what just happened left me incredibly – indelibly – isolated and alone. That’s the sad province of so many young gay people. I suppose I never thought about how lonely some of us were.
Suddenly I missed Kira, and then I realized that JoAnn wasn’t arriving until the next day. I had the rest of the day and all of the night to spend alone. It’s been ages since I’ve felt loneliness. At first, it was frightening. There’s such a primal terror in that first brush with feeling lonely, and it had been so long since I’d experienced it that I wasn’t sure what to do. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling. When I realized it – when I understood that I was, at that moment, lonely – I felt an unlikely exhilaration. I’m not sure how to fully describe it. It was almost relief that I could still be frightened by this world, that I could still access the pangs and aches of loneliness, that I could still feel that sense of loss, even if the loss isn’t apparent, even if you never had anything to lose in the first place.
AND I WILL BE RIGHT NEXT YOU
ENGINE DRIVERS HEADED NORTH TO PLEASANT STREET
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
THESE WHEELS KEEP TURNING BUT THEY’RE RUNNING OUT OF STEAM
I walked back to the condo, unsure of what to do with myself, almost paralyzed with the idea of empty hours and empty rooms. As the light waned and the day dimmed, I fired off texts inviting friends to this year’s Children’s Holiday Hour – not until December, but it was all I could do to quell the feeling of panic rising within.
Thankfully, the loneliness did not last. It had found me, like an old friend, and we nodded at each other in acknowledgement and admiration. Yes, we were both still here. Yes, we had both been around. Yes, we both remembered. Honoring what we had been to one another, we reconciled and went on our separate ways.
When loneliness departed this time, I didn’t miss it. This would not be our last meeting, and perhaps next time we will be more at ease. Old friends are like that.
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LO
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LO
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
The sign seen here “I Survived the Double M Haunted Hayrides” should be amended for me to say “For Now” based on what was foretold that evening. I’d been coerced into attending the frightful event with a few co-workers, and after dodging and ducking and screaming my way through a hayride and several houses of horror, we paused for a moment in the field, where some of the characters were making their way through the crowd. We stood talking and celebrating our survival when this grim reaper (seen below with my pal Betsy) approached our group, pointed me out, and told me I was going to die on September 23, 2021.
My first reaction was, ‘Are they supposed to say shit like that to people? That might seriously fuck up the wrong person.’
My second reaction was, ‘I could take all of this as a macabre joke if he wasn’t so specific about the date.’
My third reaction was, ‘Now that I know, I don’t need to worry about it.’
That mix of relief and exultation fueled me rather than scared me. If I’m going to die in less than two years, I’m not putting up with all the bullshit that we too often put up with. I’m also not going to bother doing things I’d rather not do. In short, I’m taking this death sentence and using it to live the life we should all be living. You should too, even if you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
(I suppose that also means September 23, 2021 is the last day this blog will exist, unless I do some major pre-populating, which seems unlikely given that I’M ABOUT TO DIE.)
Over the last dozen or so years that Skip and I have been going to movies together, we’ve developed a routine that is likely as tiresome and trying to the food vendors as it is comfortable and amusing to us. I will, without fail, ask what decaffeinated sodas they have (it tends to be Sprite or Root Beer, though one time the person serving us said they had iced tea…?) Skip will do his schtick, which is way more entertaining for someone who’s never heard it before than it is to, well, me. By the time we get the extra-buttered popcorn and a Sprite, we’ve made fast friends with the staff selling all the overpriced snack food.
Every once in a while, someone stands out from the long parade of nameless faces that have filled our popcorn buckets, and they’ll remember us as much as we remember them. Enter Erin, whom we had the pleasure of ordering from a few weeks ago, at which point Skip talked up ALANILAGAN.com and my Twitter account. Apparently she immediately started following me and visiting this site. I’m usually too exhausted and tired to do much of anything after a movie, so I never got around to following her until this past week, when we were back in her line and she was admonishing me for not following her. After checking my Twitter, I found her there and instantly returned the favor. You should totally do the same: @ebakes98.
What good is sitting all alone in your room? Come hear the music play!
Life is a cabaret, old chum! Come to the cabaret!
One of my most favorite events of the year returns to the city where I first attended its splendiferous celebration: the Boo-jolais Cabaret is back in Troy, and I can’t wait to see what they do with their Cabaret theme. Bowler hats and stockings and Liza, oh my!
Taking place on Friday, October 25, 2019 from 6 to 9 PM at the Hilton Garden Inn in Troy, NY, the Boo-jolais Cabaret is a Halloween bash that benefits the Alliance for Positive Health, and as their signature event, it brings together the best that our area has to offer. Along with the wine tasting and tables of food provided by the greatest of our local eateries, there will also be a silent auction and live entertainment by Grand Central Station. Costumes and finery are encouraged, and I’m working on my outfit as I write this… You may purchase tickets for the event HERE.
The Alliance for Positive Health is a private, not-for-profit, human service organization whose mission is to reduce the impact and incidence of HIV/AIDS and other serious medical and social conditions. The Alliance for Positive Health serves a fifteen-county region in Northeastern New York headquartered in Albany. Five regional offices provide a host of services and supports as well. These offices are in Albany, Hudson, Hudson Falls, Plattsburgh, and Schenectady. Proceeds from this event support the Alliance for Positive Health’s local services to people living with or affected by HIV/AIDS and other serious medical and social conditions. For more information about the important work the Alliance for Positive Health is doing in our shared community, visit their website at: www.allianceforpositivehealth.org.
Originally I wrote this post to commemorate my 12th anniversary on FaceBook, but then I realized I didn’t do a proper comparison between my first profile pic and my most recent one, so below you have the before and after. Not sure what came before or what came after, or what before and after even means anymore, but people seem to enjoy such comparisons and I’m nothing if not a people-pleaser.
Far better than most people would expect, I have pretty much embraced getting older. I honor every wrinkle and gray hair, and while I may not exactly love the slower metabolism and expanding waist-line, I’ve learned to make my peace with it and work to keep things in check (just to hang onto some favorite pants). Everyone is getting older. If we don’t learn to love it and accept it, the world will only get more upsetting. I also love seeing how everyone deals with it – it’s fascinating to watch some fight it, some enjoy it, and most fall somewhere in-between. I’m trying my best to enjoy it. The alternative to growing old is not quite as pretty.
Pati Jinich has provided a number of recipes that warm the stomach, heart and soul, and this Tortilla Soup is one of the best, and easiest, to bring a little heat into the cold fall nights. The magic is in the guajillo chili peppers, which are a secret ingredient that should be in the arsenal of every casual cook’s kitchen. They keep forever, and with a little rehydrating they bring flavor, heat, and an earthy layer of goodness that reminds me of how important our connection to food is. The full recipe may be found on Pati’s site here.
When I made it most recently, we were in the midst of a chilly and rainy Sunday night – I was exhausted and tired, so I left out the fun details and garnishes, but the basic gist was there, and it was more than enough to warm the heart.
