Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

DO YOUR BALLS HANG LOW?

CAN YOU SWING THEM TO AND FRO?

CAN YOU TIE THEM IN A KNOT?

CAN YOU TIE THEM IN A BOW?

DO THEY MAKE A HOLLOW SOUND

WHEN YOU DRAG THEM ON THE GROUND?

DO YOUR BALLS HANG LOW?

Such low-hanging dogwood fruit has been both a boon and a bane to the intrepid squirrels this fall season. There was a bumper crop, thanks to the rather long and dry summer stretch that dogwoods love. It was a blessing to the squirrels, who climb their way onto the very edge of these tremulous branches, even when hanging dangerously over the pool, and then perch on their haunches, turning the fruit in their little paws and eating them like apples. It would be comical if it wasn’t so messy.

The older I get, and the more I see of real life, the more I wish we could return to a simpler time. That meant sitcoms and pizza on weekend nights. It was a wood-paneled family room where we all gathered. A dinner where we all sat to eat, no phones or computers or televisions. In my case, it was the 80’s, and though the background was the corporate coldness of a Reagan-fueled greediness (hell, I was being raised by proud Republicans) inside our home there was safety and warmth and the innocent umbrella of childhood keeping out all the acid rain. 

Fridays were for roast beef subs with shredded lettuce, and later, when I finally acquired a taste for it, pizza (I didn’t always like it because I was a very strange child). Then we’d move into the family room for ‘Webster’ and ‘Mr. Belvedere’ and ‘CHiPS’ and ‘Dallas‘. 

Saturday mornings were about cartoons – the Snorks and the Smurfs and then whatever PBS had to offer – painting with Bob Ross if there was nothing else. Throughout it all, my brother and I would play and engage with toys and legos and other things. We could do both so watching that much television wasn’t like we were glued zombie-like to the screen. 

Saturday night television memories seem to revolve around a later section of childhood, when ‘The Facts of Life’ and ‘The Golden Girls’ were on and we could stay up a bit later. Eventually we’d graduate to ‘Saturday Night Live’ by the time I got to high school, and television was less a communal event, and more of a way to pass the weekend until Monday arrived. 

PS – Sunday shout-out to ‘Punky Brewster’!

What wonder might be found in a cup of tea?

What fortune will be spilled in the dredge of tea leaves?

What secrets will be whispered over the wisps of tea steam?

I’ve had this tea cup for over ten years. It came with a large irregularly shaped saucer, to allow for a biscuit or cookie to accompany the hot goodness. I rarely use that accoutrement. Life doesn’t let me be that fancy or precious as a general rule. But by God I try. 

“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.” â€• Fyodor Dostoevsky

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.