Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Mid-Life Crisis or Mid-Life Meditation

My therapist recently indicated that in the last two years I’ve checked off most of the major boxes for a mid-life crisis, starting with the death of a parent. Since I first started seeing her about five years ago when I went through what may now have to be called my first mid-life crisis, I did balk and complain that I’d already done that. She laughed a bit, then said I was able to handle one better now, and in a moment of humble-bragging, I had to acknowledge that she is correct. 

While the fade-to-black theme of this fall has taken dark root here, I’m actually feeling ok. And, more strikingly, I’d categorize my present state of mind and existence as less a mid-life crisis and more of a mid-life awakening. That’s not something I thought possible five years ago, but it feels genuine and true now.

I’ve been maintaining my daily meditations, working on a stable base of mindfulness and taking each moment and whatever challenge that arises one thing at a time. Breaking life down into manageable minutes rather than a long pre-planned onslaught of months and years ahead. I’ve wasted far too many years pre-planning, overthinking, and preparing for scenarios that may or may not ever come to fruition.

I’ve also learned to speak my mind and let things out, even when they’re difficult to say, and difficult for others to hear. There are boundaries that I’ve set as well, and ways that I’ve started to distance myself from those who have somehow only ended up hurting me no matter how much I have tried to get closer to them. I find sanctuary in my home, with my husband, and the visits of friends, and I forge each day with the intention of being mindful. 

It’s a different sort of life, even from what I could have imagined five years ago, and a better one in many ways. Slowly, I am learning. Slowly, I am making a place for peace. Slowly… 

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A Detour

This space was originally slated for a very different post. 

It was a post that needed to be written, but it may need to be revised.

It was raw, painful to write, and painful to re-read. I put it down several times, and that was after shutting it off many more times in my head. It was a family post, one that tried to explain all the icky things I’ve felt of late but have largely kept quiet. My therapist knows. Andy has seen it. And a few close friends are aware. It’s the same things that have been fostering the dysfunction that’s gone on for almost five decades – and it’s literally taken me that long to see the overridden arcs and patterns as they repeat themselves in different ways. I’ve addressed it directly, in various ways over the years, as I’ve repeatedly had opportunity after opportunity of being hurt to do so, and the last time it happened I tried again. Exasperated, I blurted out at the end of an extended silence, “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” my Mom said.

“You’re right,” I said, speaking out in a way I don’t think I’ve ever done. “It’s not fine. But it keeps happening, and here we are again.”

I realized then that it was a familiar scene, and in its familiarity I realized it wouldn’t ever change, and there was nothing I could do to ever make it change. I’ve seen my parents and how they interact with their grandchildren – it’s startlingly different from how they interacted with me and my brother – and that’s absolutely how it should be. It only stung when my Mom let it slip once that she may be treating them differently because she wanted to make up for what we went through in our childhood. That felt like one of those back-handed compliments and acknowledgments – it’s wonderful that she dotes on her grandchildren – it’s a slap in the face to make it up with them when I’m still here and still getting hurt.

That probably sounds quite silly, and I’ve been told to grow up for saying far less. It also doesn’t much matter, other than in my own need to let it out. It won’t change anything, and after 49 years I finally get it. I’ve also been told that distancing myself might be helpful, for my own mental health and protection, and so I’ve been removing myself from those who have kept this cycle going. Not in a petty or mean way, at least I hope that’s not how it’s perceived, but in a self-preserving way – a resignation to how things have been. In place of that emptiness I once feared I find myself curating time with Andy, time with friends, planning for Boston holiday visits with old friends, and reading classics again – the way I would find comfort on scary high school nights when I felt isolated and alone, nights in which I wrote out in rage “I WILL LEAVE HERE AND NEVER COME BACK” on my bathroom mirror – losing myself in literature and trying to find a way out through words. 

And yes, this was the kinder post. Enjoy the detour.

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#TinyThreads: An Insignificant Series

Can we please start normalizing the selling of forks by the individual piece? Who seriously needs a setting for 16 people anymore? 

#TinyThreads

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A Charming Saturday with My Person

Until such time that I can afford a Rolex or the antique car that Andy deserves actually arrives, he will have to make do with birthday gifts such a preview performance of the new musical ‘Death Becomes Her’ and a night in New York City. Reviews from their Chicago run sounded promising, and since Andy has always been a fan of the movie this sounded like a perfect gift; we hadn’t been to NY for a show since seeing ‘Come From Away’ with my parents in the year before COVID. Given the way all scheduled things have gone since the pandemic, I didn’t plan anything too extravagant – not even dinner reservations, figuring that we would find a place if we started out early enough.

The ride down along the Hudson was pretty and uneventful, following a brief delay (there is always – always – a brief delay, sometimes not-so-brief, in the trains between Albany and NYC). We arrived to a splendidly sunny day, with a lovely cooling breeze, and rather than fight for an Uber and get snarled in midtown congestion, we walked to our hotel, with a stop for lunch along the way. After we got checked in (the City Club Hotel has seen better days and we’ll leave it at that) Andy took a brief siesta, while I embarked on some cologne sampling and shopping.

While I’ve never been a big fan of New York, once in a while there is a visit that reveals the prettiness and charm of this place that has so captivated the adoration of so many of my friends. As I stepped through the jewel-box-like rooms of Bergdorf Goodman, and approached the quaint little cologne bar in the center of their fragrance room, I felt this charming magic again. A friendly older gentlemen, decked out in marvelous fashion, asked if I was looking for something, and after mentioning the new Tom Ford he steered me to a line from The Harmonist – a French perfume line that I was not looking for but turned into being precisely what I loved. The two offerings I sampled ‘Magnetic Woods’ and ‘Hypnotizing Fire’ were exquisite – and I’ll have to see about their discovery sample set as a Christmas gift. 

Pausing at a vintage shop where Pucci and Valentino paraded their colorful wares on rows of rolling racks, this little dachshund came up to me and followed me around for a bit – as if Gram was saying hello to me here. Mom said she would visit the city in October with my grandfather, and it was true that the weather was often beautiful at this time of the year.

We headed out for an early dinner along Restaurant Row since there was always space and something simple available there. After lunch neither Andy nor I was exceedingly hungry, so we kept it casual and small, trying for a seat at Joe Allen’s, which was full, then finding a new spot called Backstage Tavern a few doors down. The man at the door called us in and asked us to check them out, and he was so insistent in his indeterminate accent (Andy said he reminded him of the charismatic Emcee of ‘Cabaret’) that we took a gamble and sat down. This mocktail spritz was brilliantly bitter, and the burger and sandwich that followed were perfectly serviceable for an easy and quick dinner. 

The show itself was magnificent – opulent and excessive in the best possible way – with a quartet of stellar leads to lead the charge (sadly Megan Hilty was out for a second day; Kaleigh Cronin did amazing work in her stead). The somewhat-expected revelation was Jennifer Simard as Helen Sharp, who had the greatest character evolution and earned the heartiest laughs. Seeing two strong female leads is a tradition in shows we have seen and loved – ‘Wicked‘, ‘Side Show’, ‘Grey Gardens‘ – and ‘Death Becomes Her’ joyously joins that pantheon. 

It’s also, quite literally, very much for the gays (or ‘For the Gaze’ as the early number indicates) – with winking references as broad as Judy Garland, ‘The Wizard of Oz‘, ‘Gypsy’ and ‘Meet Me In St. Louis‘ along with numerous others that will take repeated viewings to fully encapsulate. While mostly campy fun that stays true to the movie, the theme of friendship, and what it means to be someone’s true person, resonates a bit deeper by the end of the story; the brilliant 11th-hour barn-burner ‘Alive Forever’ ties all the trauma and drama of the preceding romp neatly into an emotional resolution amid a soaring blending of two magical voices. 

It was a happy reminder of how wonderfully escapist the best of Broadway could be, and as we walked through a train station filled with the dour red-hatted hate cadres of Trump supporters filing into Madison Square Garden the next morning, I realized we might need this sort of escape more than ever. 

A box of macarons helped extend the magic for just a bit longer too, as did a sleepy husband beside me on a trip I usually make on my own. 

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Dazzler of the Day: Christopher Sieber

Broadway alum Christopher Sieber knows his way around wowing an audience, as witnessed in celebrated turns in ‘Company’, ‘The Prom‘, ‘Shrek’, ‘Spamalot‘ and ‘Triumph of Love‘. He’s currently going head to head to head with the three women of ‘Death Becomes Her‘ and to his credit, he holds his own despite the insane scenery-gulping going on around him. (See also Jennifer Simard, Megan Hilty and Michelle Williams.) That’s basically his thankless role as Ernest, who finds boozy and hilarious respite in his basement as he formulates ‘The Plan’ and turns in another show-stopping exercise in musical comedy brilliance, hence this crowning as Dazzler of the Day.

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The UnHallowed Recap

Nothing sacred or special about this recap – just an end-of-October romp to get us into the week wherein we cross over to November. That’s a sordid thought of sorts, so let’s not dwell on it – the sooner we move through this dark path of woods, the sooner we may find a way out – on with the weekly recap.

Now… a warning.

Pumpkin season.

One last swim?

Kamala, obviously.

Skateboarding up a hill.

Perils of fall.

Sweet Ogunquit autumn.

Hold my nuts.

Super graphic ultra modern girl like me.

Five years of sober living.

Happy 30th Anniversary to Madonna’s ‘Bedtime Stories’

Sisters of the moon.

Marble and mud.

Dazzlers of the Day included Christian Siriano and Jon M. Chu.

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Marble and Mud

While ‘The Scarlet Letter’ exemplifies the atmosphere of a New England autumn, and all those other ‘A’ words, this season I’m reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘The House of the Seven Gables’ for the first time, and it’s reinvigorated my love of classic literature – those tried and true works that have withstood the test of time as much for their written beauty as their evocation of how humans interact with one another

“Nevertheless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find the same entanglement of something mean and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow. Life is made up of marble and mud. And, without all the deeper trust in a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might hence be led to suspect the insult of a sneer, as well as an immitigable frown, on the iron countenance of fate. What is called poetic insight is the gift of discerning, in this sphere of strangely mingled elements, the beauty and the majesty which are compelled to assume a garb so sordid.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne

It is very queer, but not the less true, that people are generally quite as vain, or even more so, of their deficiencies than of their available gifts.” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

“I’m as provocative of tears as an onion!” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Sister of the Moon

Some call her sister of the moonSome say, illusions are her gameThey like to wrap her in velvetDoes anyone, ooh, know her name?

A holding place for magic, then.

A sacred circle of sorts.

Some say ‘witch‘ like it’s a bad thing, the same way they say ‘bitch’, and the same way they mean it. Casting a spell of words is a dangerous ritual, and how quickly we throw them out. Ropes of words, magical lassoes – as if anything could truly force a person to tell the truth. Where does such a magic land exist? 

Maybe in my own backyard…

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A Bedtime Story That’s Lasted 30 Years

We have reached the ‘Bedtime Stories‘ section of the year – one of the seminal fall releases that this week celebrates its 30th anniversary. That’s right, it was three decades ago when Madonna released this quietly revolutionary album – one that set her up for the remarkable career that has sustained and endured the ensuing decades. Prior to ‘Bedtime Stories’, each and every Madonna moment was earth-shaking and taboo-shattering, culminating with the one-two knockout punch of ‘Sex‘ and ‘Erotica‘. For her die-hard fans, that 1992-1993 era was heaven; for casual observers it was deemed too much, too far, too whatever.

By the fall of 1994, Madonna was looking to rebound from that, and managed the remarkable feat of putting out a successful, if less hyped album, one that featured solid song-craft and continued her trademark trick of reinvention. The whole affair was a soft, pastel-hued work of delicate introspection, percolating R&B beats, and lush vocals. Opening with the jubilantly-defiant ‘Survival’, Madonna immediately and directly addressed the trauma and drama of the previous years, while introducing an of-the-moment sound that felt both fresh and slightly nostalgic.

Lead single ‘Secret’ provided our official introduction to this new era, grounded with a delicious acoustic guitar that built to a string-backed climax; it was a laid-back yet thoroughly intoxicating effort that returned her to the charts with surprising lasting power. It didn’t quite reach number one, but it bobbed around the top ten for far longer than some of her #1 hits stayed in orbit. The same would prove true for the album, which bubbled under the surface for weeks, resurging with her longest run of a #1 single, follow-up ‘Take A Bow’.

As if proving she didn’t want or need the #1s, she released the Bjork-penned title track ‘Bedtime Story’ – one of the most challenging and idiosyncratic songs she’s ever recorded. I’m not sure it even made the top forty, and by that time it seemed to be the point; this marked the major transition of Madonna in my eyes – she was creating music and videos for the sake of artistic purpose, not for chart positions or pop culture milestones. Hence ‘Human Nature’, which was never a chart hit, or one of her more creative videos in my opinion, but said what Madonna wanted, and needed, to say.

The rest of the ‘Bedtime Stories’ album was muted and hazy brilliance – from the soft-focus barely-disco shuffle of ‘Don’t Stop‘ to the lovelorn loss inherent in ‘Inside of Me’ to the sizzling slow-burn beauty that was the triumvirate of ‘Forbidden Love‘, ‘Love Tried to Welcome Me’ and ‘Sanctuary’. Taken as a whole, ‘Bedtime Stories’ was one of those rare cohesive albums whose sound and atmosphere was mostly consistent and sustained, rather than a haphazard selection of power singles for which Madonna had, wrongfully or rightly, become renowned. It was a transitional totem, one that paved the way for her next original studio album, the iconic ‘Ray of Light’ – and without ‘Bedtime’ there would likely be no ‘Light’.

As for my personal memories of the fall of 1994, they were and remain some of the most fiery, salient, and lasting memories of my adult life. It was the first time I ever kissed a man. It was the first time I felt distinctly and terrifyingly on my own. It was the first time I felt like an adult. And throughout it all, I still wanted someone to tuck me in at night and tell me tales of comfort and warmth. Madonna became my mother-figure that fall – and she would remain so throughout all the years that followed.

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Five Years of Sober Living

Five years ago today, I had my last drink of alcohol. At that time, and in the ensuing years, I’ve always said that it was relatively easy for me to stop drinking. For me, that was the case, but what’s easy for me is not usually easy for most people, and I state that without any hubris. In truth, I did have to work at it, but that sort of work – a challenge and a goal – has always been somewhat enjoyable to me (or I wouldn’t do it). My main hat-trick, one of which I’m not even certain why I keep playing, is to do the hard work but make it look easy. Maybe it’s my penchant for wanting to make this world a little prettier; I just never wanted to reveal the effort and machinations involved because they’re rarely very beautiful or interesting. A swan is graceful because it floats and glides effortlessly across the smooth surface of the water – even when in reality it’s paddling like a crazed cyclist on the Tour de France. We don’t need to see the frenzied paddling, but it’s important to realize it’s there.

In the case of the elimination of alcohol from my lifestyle, it was a deliberate choice to be healthier and improve the relationships in my life. It worked on both fronts, but to say it was easy may muddy the waters for others who may be wondering why it was so easy. My case, as a good friend pointed out, is singular and rather rare, though there are components that others might find helpful, so here they are:

The first step – and the key step – is also the most difficult and intangible to describe. It was the realization that I was using drinking to mask/aid social anxiety. While on some level I always knew and understood this to be the case, I didn’t fully put the connection together. That came in therapy, which was the second major step.

Once I explored that, along with the other ancillary reasons for why I drank – family issues, social expectations, boredom – the real need for drinking suddenly dissipated. Superficially I got it, and the image of a drinker always seemed more interesting than the non-drinker, cloaked in wit and bonhomie and the sort of cutting persona I like to, well, cut (“I drink to make other people interesting“). Beneath that, though, I had to get to the core reasons and address those in ways that didn’t involve the band-aid of booze.

The third thing that helped was an intentional removal from social situations for a while, and the support of friends, who were cool with my decision/evolution and who completely understood without question or ribbing if I stopped joining them for a bit. A few months after that, COVID arrived which put everyone in the same isolated place, and that also helped since it afforded me a break before we all started hanging out again. Everyone was changed after COVID, and my not drinking, by that time, was not very much of note.

Fourth, I began meditating. First for two minutes a day, then three, then five – gradually increasing the minutes by one per week so it didn’t feel at all onerous or daunting – and soon enough I was up to half an hour a day of pure meditation – where I sat in silent, deep breathing, allowing thoughts to come until they didn’t come anymore, and finding a baseline of peace and calm that saw me through more stressful moments. 

The last piece that I implemented was that free online Yale course on finding happiness, which filled my time and alleviated any boredom that drinking might normally fill. Any hobby or occupation would likely do – it just had to be something I could focus on to keep the mind occupied and engaged. That’s sort of the purpose of life too I suppose. Taken together, that’s why it was easy for me to simply stop drinking.

Finally, a caveat (as in, NOW a warning?): my drinking was never to the point of chemical dependence. Was I on the verge of that becoming the case? Quite possibly. But when I stopped, I didn’t have any cravings or withdrawal and my medical tests didn’t reveal any issues caused by alcohol, so I feel confident in saying in those respects I wasn’t yet a full-blown alcoholic. I just realized that drinking was no longer serving as the solution for the issues I used it to solve. I was lucky to have supportive friends, and the privilege of being in a circumstance where I could concentrate on becoming healthier.

Five years later, it’s still one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

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Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl Like Me

Rings of fire once populated these flaming autumn days; rings of cock twirled and spun their circles of burn too. Lace of florals, fabrics of sheer, and the power of pretty – it all seems so flimsy, so easily torn. Satin sheets of leopard seemed very romantic as a wise woman wondered what happened when we weren’t in bed. That same sense of female empowerment comes across in the bop and beat of this Chappell Roan song, and female empowerment is about the only hope that seems to exist in these dark days.

You know what they say:
Never waste a Friday night on a first date
But there I was, in my heels with my hair straight
And so I take him to this bar – this man wouldn’t dance
He didn’t ask a single question
And he was wearing these fugly jeans
It doesn’t matter though
He doesn’t have what it takes to be with a girl like me

Some songs remind you of what you needed to be all those years ago, and if you stomp through today with a little extra casual cruelty, the piercing punctures of stilettos piercing hearts that didn’t quite deserve it, more power to you. A riveting thread runs from Madonna through Lady Gaga all the way to this pulsating pussy-power anthem – and self-empowerment lifts everyone, regardless of gender labels and limitations.

Years ago, long before Andy, and somewhere after yet another failed romance, some hyper mega bummer boy, I remember walking through Copley Square on a windy, sunny, and somehow still-cutting day, blaring the bridge of Madonna’s ‘Express Yourself’ and pounding the pavement with purposeful strides, “And when you’re gone he might regret it, think about the love he once had…” My heart was as hurt as it was hellbent on hurting whomever was next

I’m not proud of all the collateral damage that I left in my wake, and all the pain that begot more pain. All I cared about was that my coat billowed beautifully behind me, that I could walk fabulously forward without looking back, and that I would do the dancing and the trouncing and the pummeling on hearts that inadvertently crossed my dangerous and ridiculously dramatic path. 

Get up off your feet, get up on that bar
Walk that walk from Tokyo to New York
With everything you feel and everything you are
Walk that walk, flash the camera
Flash the camera, flash the camera, you’re a star!

Perhaps this false confidence was a major misstep, and I’m not averse to acknowledging the many flaws in the way I executed portions of the past. Perhaps my strut was a mask; perhaps it was the key element to my survival. Perhaps it was the only thing that kept me in existence. Whatever the case, it got me through – or maybe I got through in spite of it all. I still revere the power of a pop song, and the song of a siren who is thoroughly sick of the fucked-up patriarchy that has informed centuries of who we are. 

A super graphic ultra modern
Ooh you got me la-la-la-ing
Hyper-sexy top to bottom girl like me.

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Holding My Nuts

This helpful squirrel loves to hold my nuts.

Well, mine and Andy’s. 

Something for the booty and the mind at the same time

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Sweet Ogunquit Autumn

“I will sleep no more but arise,

You oceans that have been calm within me!

how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.” ~ Walt Whitman

Our autumn trip to Ogunquit was blessed with some of the nicest weather we’ve had on our fall excursions – full sun and breezy days, with only one bout of gray and a bit of rain near the end. Staying at the Anchorage, our group of three – me, Andy and Mom – was right on the shore, and the backdrop of the ocean provided a calm setting for the long weekend. 

While the pumpkins and gourds and corn stalks were on their fall display, summer lingered in the blooms that were till going. Like our cleome at home, the cleome here was still blooming, along with cosmos and roses and that October showpiece the aster

While our last trip to Ogunquit was our first without Dad, this one felt a little lonelier. Back then we were just finding our way – and it was all new and uncharted – enough so to distract us. This time we were also back at the place where he and Mom always stayed, which I think made it a little sadder for her. Still, there was beauty, and someone was smiling upon our quiet and pretty weekend by the shore. 

The weather looked to be best on our first full day there, so we made that our Marginal Way day, taking our time walking along the majestic stretch of shoreline, pausing on a couple of benches and taking in the brilliance of the day, and the ocean. 

And so the other days passed – the weather turned for the better when storms were predicted, holding off until the end. We napped, and we sat by the ocean, and I made a few solitary walks and shopping excursions about town. A welcome break from our fade-to-black fall, even if the cowboy hat remained. 

Fall unfurled its golden hour moments – the golden hour of the day, the golden hour of the year.

Saving our favorite restaurant for last – the cozy Walker’s, where a couple of fireplaces staved off the cold night – we arrived and peered into the warm environs.

We were seated near the main fireplace, which was kept stocked with fresh logs throughout the evening. I had one of the best duck dinners I’ve tasted in years – something Dad would have ordered and loved. 

We closed out the holiday weekend as the weather turned to something similar to spring, and since spring will come again that feels like a fitting place to close this little chapter. 

“Whenever I look at the ocean, I always want to talk to people, but when I’m talking to people, I always want to look at the ocean.” ~ Haruki Murakami

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Perils of Fall

Falling horse chestnuts.

Shit is real. And dangerous.

They’ll poke your eye out, just as you’re looking up.

In Ogunquit, there is a majestic horse chestnut tree right on the main drag, with a sign above that warns passers-beneath it to ‘watch for falling horse chestnuts’. I don’t think looking up is the best advice at such a time, but I get what they meant. 

Stay tuned for our brief Ogunquit recap – it was truly beautiful. 

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#TinyThreads: An Insignificant Series

Skateboarding up a steep hill. Why?

Also, skateboarding. Why?

#TinyThreads

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