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Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Alegria: A Feather Falls

Ou te caches-tu, Alegria, pour ces enfants de la rue qui n’ont meme pas de quoi se payer un rire. Ce soir, nos cris de joie deviendront cris de rage alors que des milliers de jeunes coeurs se perdont au plus profond de notre bienveillance. Vivement que le chant d’Alegria entraine ceux de nous qui ont la volonte d’agir!

Translation: We have no illusions. The children of the streets will not see Alegria. Laughter is still a luxury they cannot afford. Tonight, our cries of joy will become screams of rage that millions of young hearts will again freeze in the gutters of our goodwill. May Alegria become a rallying cry for those of us who have a voice.

A gray feather, small and delicate and fine, floats like a tiny puff of smoke before snagging itself on a leaf the color of a canary. A sky of blue, backdrop to swiftly-moving clouds, does not betray the turbulence of the days before, but the trees still drip with remnants of the rain. Balmy October days are unexpectedly delightful in a mean sort of way, tricky enough to convince you that a bit of summer still lingers before the undeniable curtain of cold descends for good.

How sad, I think as I write this, that you will never feel the same emotional thrill I feel when listening to this song. How could you? You weren’t there in that time in my life when I was hearing it. It’s a lonely thing, that we don’t share such memories. You have songs that will instantly bring you back to certain moments in your life, and I won’t know what or how it moves you. Even if we listened to it together doesn’t mean we will both be transported to that time and place. Music affects us differently. I suppose everything does. It’s a wonder we find any commonality at all, so wondrously variable are our experiences and perception.

Most of us have those songs that mean something solely to ourselves, and maybe one or two other people, whose melody evokes a memory so indelibly seared upon our brains that it’s jarring when it surfaces again. That’s what ‘Alegria’ does to me. From the very first clanging of the bells, I am brought back to a few weeks in Boston, when I was searching for the condo, and falling madly in love with any gentleman who crossed my path. I didn’t know what the song was about, I didn’t read or understand French, but I sensed some heartache and pain at work, something that was supposed to be worked through for healing and heart-mending. I listened to the song alone, as I did most everything in those days. It forced me to be my own best friend. Solitude is soul-shaping, for better or worse.

Perched in its tree and lit with the autumnal splendor of the sun – a splendor that only comes at this time of the year when the leaves are shades of cooked corn – the little gray feather twists and turns in the wind, but refuses to fall from its place. Performing such a delicate balancing act, like an extension of the bird it came from, the feather seems to wink at me, telling me that somehow everything will be all right. I do not know that then. I do not trust it.

Then, just like that, the feather releases. It lets go. It flutters away on the briskest of breezes, giddily tumbling into the sky in whirling fashion.

I wish I could let go like that, but back then I was too frightened.

Maybe that’s what saved me.

I didn’t follow the feather to see what came of it.

It was better to keep it floating in the sky of my mind.

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A Collection of Sexy Shirtless Gents

October will always be remembered as the month of ‘Sex’ and in honor of such an erotic affiliation here is a collection of handsome gents in various states of undress, because nothing says October like gratuitous male shirtlessness. This grouping of guy candy/eye candy is anchored by a blast from our Glee-ful past: Chord Overstreet. Since his days on ‘Glee’ he’s maintained his form and figure, which is more than I can say for myself. That alone is an admirable feat.

Next up is one of our only three-time Hunk of the Day winners: Nick Adams. See his triple crowning here. After that is dancer/entertainer/actor extraordinaire Derek Hough in all his shirtless glory

Diplo got into his underwear, and then incongruously into a shower stall, but who are we to judge? He joins the Calvin Klein brigade of underwear-clad hotties

Along those same CK lines, below is Justin Bieber in his latest contribution to that underwear campaign. (If you prefer Justin Bieber’s naked ass, check out this post. Or this one.)

Taking us into Olympic territory, this is Max Whitlock. See more of him here

From across the pond comes Shayne Ward. A more naked Shayne Ward can be found in his Hunk of the Day post

Zander Hodgson brings things to a fitting, and fit, end. And posed with his boyfriend (among others) here. And brought sexy back here

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Daylight, Downtown Albany, Robe

For reasons that will be obvious to anyone who knows me, the man pictured here is my new hero. I say that without snark or sarcasm, because it has been my dream to wear a robe 24/7, and he looks to be living that dream. Sir, I commend and salute you. Keep on rocking on.

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The Cozy Season in Scents of Amber

Its resinous richness redolent of its namesake, ‘Amber Absolute‘ by Tom Ford is the perfect smoldering scent to greet the deep days of the fall season. I have a perfumed pathway that leads from September to December thanks to Mr. Ford and his Private Blends. It begins with the incense-like ‘Vert D’Encens‘ from his Vert line – the perfect September scent that carries some lingering sweetness from summer into fall. Those transition times are tricky, but the Vert series deftly straddles the shifting line of demarcation. After that, October brings the heat of ‘Amber Absolute’ – when fall is at its most radiant, when the forest leaves are on fire, and when the final warm days of the year release their splendor like it’s their very last show (because it is).

When October goes and November rears its cruel gray head, something smoky and dramatic is needed, which I find in the bracing ‘Japon Noir‘ – a dark shade of soapy night decadence that sparkles in the early blackness of evening. That’s a difficult one for day-wear, but I don’t mind subjecting the office to such a heart of darkness once in a while.

December calls for something special, with the celebratory spirit of the holidays when we need something to brighten the darkest and shortest days of the year. ‘Tuscan Leather‘ and ‘Santal Blush’ are the pair of unlikely sweethearts to see us through those holidays – the former with its smoky sweetness and the latter with its sandalwood opulence. Together they seduce the sense of smell, whispering and gently tugging at all those who follow in their sillage.

As we careen through autumn at full-throttle speed, I’m grateful for such small delights to ease the cooler days and nights. An embrace of cologne can be better than a hug, if you’re as cold as me.

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A Trick of Time & Light

Looking out into the backyard from the dining room window, I was struck by the reflection of water wavering on the tree leaves. It suddenly reminded me of a day from early in the summer, when the water played similar scenes on much fresher leaves. Only the trained eye could make out the differences here – the plants past their prime, the trees beyond their bloom, and the sun long since peering down from its zenith. But if you don’t look that hard, it almost feels like summer again.

In certain situations, I don’t mind being tricked. Especially if it reminds me that summer will come again.

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Our First Sleepover with the Twins

Being an adult isn’t easy and, whenever possible, I try to avoid it at all costs. But when you’re in charge of watching over your niece and nephew you have to put on the big-boy pants and act like a grown-up. For the most part, that’s what I managed to do when Andy and I hosted Noah and Emi for their first sleepover at our home. It was a test-run to see if they were going to be invited to Boston with us for this December’s Children’s Holiday Hour

It began with Suzie and her family joining us for a pizza and Ghapama, a very traditional Kardashian dish, or so I told the children. They listened a little too attentively (why does ANYONE listen to what I say, especially children?) and peppered me with Kardashian questions over the course of dinner.

Lesson #1: children are very literal. Too literal. My life is like a simile – no, my life is a metaphor, and a literal reading of what comes out of my mouth is a recipe for disaster. Oh well, it’s far too late not to be fanciful now.

After dinner, it was just Andy, the twins and me, and we went on a treasure hunt to see if the fairies left any gifts around this year, as they had in years past. It was dark out by the time we were ready to go on our search, which made following a rainbow ribbon to the metaphorical pot of gold an intriguing and slightly spooky experience. With flashlights in hand, we walked through the backyard before finding our way to their gift baskets, in which they were given a few crafts and fun Halloween items, including some monstrous fingernails. 

We also made a cornucopia for next month’s holiday which added to the coziness of the night. There was some, shall we say, discussion about whether the twins were going to sleep in the main guest room or the basement where the television was, and there was another discussion about which DVD they were going to watch, so the compromise was that Noah picked out the movie ‘The Money Pit’ and Emi picked the sleeping quarters (the guest room). 

Lesson #2: when it comes to children, especially twins, everything is a negotiation. Pray that a compromise rears its welcome head. 

Uncle Andy made some popcorn while the twins and I started the movie. It was about to be a Shelley Long weekend, which brings back its own memories of my brother, who called to see how things were going. We put him on speaker phone, gave him a brief update, then went back to the movie. The last time we attempted to watch a DVD together we couldn’t make it through the whole thing. This time we had a break to get something to drink, and then finished it out. It was a good sign, and boded well for a trip to Boston. 

These twins know their way around the selfie, and I could see they are just beginning to become a bit phone obsessed, so I made the most of the time we had now. 

Lesson #3: Madonna was right when she said she lost her kids to the cel phone. Make the most of the time now. Or just tell them to shut it off and engage in the real world like Uncle Al did. 

My biggest fear was that going to bed would be an argument, but as we traipsed upstairs to the guest room, they didn’t put up any resistance. I asked them to brush their teeth and told them Andy and I would be in to tuck them in, then explained that we could go to a diner for breakfast the next morning. We hugged them good-night, then they set about to settling in. Emi asked if they could watch some videos on their phone before falling asleep. I said that was fine. 

Lesson #4: maybe cel phones aren’t entirely evil. 

The next morning, we woke and set about our day. Noah caught me brushing my teeth and did the same without asking, then we dressed for the diner. As the fun Uncle, it’s not my responsibility to nag and instill healthy-eating habits into kids, hence these ice-cream covered waffles from the 76 Diner. I ordered the Eggs Florentine but clearly no one wanted to emulate that kind of behavior. 

Lesson #5: sometimes you just have to let kids be kids, even if that means ice cream for breakfast.

For a first sleepover I think it went remarkably well. As the test run for our upcoming Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, they passed with flying colors, so Andy and I gave the go-ahead for them to join us in December. I’m already working on ways to make it magical…

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Post-Project Depression

Dipping into a lull that I still am not quite sure to attribute to the season or the lack of creative excitement in my life of late, I’ve been trying to channel inspiration wherever I can find it. Felt like a good enough time to revisit some projects and see where I might be headed next. The artistic spirit in me finds it works best when in the midst of planning or making something, rather than resting on previous projects, so I’m putting out the usual feelers into the universe, seeing what strikes my fancy and renders my creative juices. Anyway, a look back is always good at such times. How can you know where you want to go if you don’t acknowledge where you’ve been?

 

 

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Hot-Ass Asters

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.)

 

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Tiny Threads: An Insignificant Series

I’m too old to know what Fortnite is. 

And too busy with other things to care. 

#TinyThreads

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Role Reversals

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…

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A Real Mouse House?

I don’t know if this story is real or legit, and I honestly don’t care.

I just need to believe it right now.

{See also #TinyThreads.}

Man Finds A Family Of Mice In His Garden, Builds Them A Tiny Village To Live In

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The Pillager’s Holiday Recap

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

This was the week I may have come around to the charm of ‘Hocus Pocus’ thanks mostly to Bette Midler. 

It also marked the start of soup season

A dozen wasted years on FaceBook. Regrets, I’ve had a few…

Life is a cabaret, old chum, come to the cabaret!

One day Skip and I will live-blog a night at the movies. And we will want Erin there

Though scant, there were still a few #TinyThreads that poked through the balmy weather. 

Repetition at American Air.

The EXACT DATE I’m going to die. (And thus the end of this blog.)

A very gratuitous bulge post of Dan Osborne.

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

 

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The Hidden and The Insidious

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.

The book sits in deceptive peace. Its pages are silent and still but within is contained all the turmoil, anguish and terror of a ruthless world. The best authors do what they can to keep it between the covers, to encapsulate the stories within beautiful bookends. They put it all down in words in some vain attempt to trap and confine the evil to paper. A physical manifestation – because otherwise how does one destroy darkness?

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…

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Reunited: Walking Through Grief and Giddiness Together ~ Part 2

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.

I decided to walk instead of taking the T, following the well-trodden path that Skip and I had taken after many a Red Sox game, minus the hooting and hollering crowds, and honestly a little quainter for it (if less fun). The Fens stretched out to one side, and a stream filled with geese and waterfowl glistened in the mid-day sunlight. A respite of beauty in the midst of the city, and on this sunny late morning a most perfect place to slow my pace and drink in the day.

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. 

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Reunited: Walking Through Grief and Giddiness Together ~ Part 1

It’s easy to get along with people when times are good and occasions are celebratory; it’s more of a challenge to raise someone’s spirits when times are tough. That’s the true test of friendship, isn’t it? The test and the reward. I’m grateful that my true friends are there during the difficult days as much as they are there for the fun ones. I’d like to think that they know and trust the same of me. Last weekend in Boston, we put it all to the test, beneath skies of blue, nights of fall, and the soothing fountain of Braddock Park.

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
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
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