Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Naked & Homophobic

This naked fluorescent lighting system is just plain homophobic.

That’s all. 

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Warts and All

It’s nice to see the warty pumpkins get their time in the proverbial sun, as these gourds and their ubiquitous popularity will attest. Way back when I was a little kid, the more perfect the pumpkin, the better, and it was always a challenge to go to some pumpkin place and find the best of the bunch. Invariably there would be a side that was obviously the one that rested on dirt, or a patch of mottled or less-than-ideal-orange that indicated some lack or excess of light or water, or some other imperfection that marred the otherwise plump and round perfection of the picture we all had of a pumpkin. It’s heartwarming to see the embrace of other forms, such as in this extravagantly bumpy specimen nestled amid a patch of ornamental cabbage that sets its coloring and texture off in gorgeous fashion. 

Halloween has come a long way since the days of flimsy plastic masks tied precariously around our heads with a bit of springy string. The perfect pumpkin has become the perfectly unique pumpkin. There’s not a better holiday to celebrate being a little different. 

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A Literal Grounding

Credit the impending arrival of the full Hunter’s Moon, or just my own dwindling sanity, I spent a day at the office wherein I forgot my belt, and was without cologne or contacts thanks to some pesky allergies. After almost getting stuck on an elevator on my way out of the building (we bolted and then walked the remaining flights when we couldn’t get down past the fourth floor) I gratefully collapsed on the floor when I got home and began my daily meditation.

A literal grounding is the ideal way to start meditating these days. I lower my body to the floor, stretching out my legs and arms and letting all of me sink into the ground. There’s something very powerful about grounding yourself like that, and letting gravity exert its full effect on your entire body. It levels everything out for a moment. It also reminds me how one day we will all become part of the earth again, no matter how we choose to exit the place. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, you know the routine. There’s a peace in that if you allow the thought to fully expand. 

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A Last Floral Dance?

At the time that I write this, it is past the nine o’clock evening hour. A hard frost has been forecast for tomorrow (today as you’re reading this), and after a day of Andy and I sneezing from allergies, I hope it takes out everything in its path. It’s time. The day hinted at colder things to come, as Andy came in chilled from a final attempt at salvaging one more pool day if it warms up next week. I captured a few final blossoms as seen here, already slightly mottled from the cool nights, and likely to be gone by tomorrow. You may be witnessing what has already departed. Ghostly apparitions befitting the season

A rare moment bordering on regret, perhaps? I wonder if I should have spent more time with these begonias. They did pretty well in a season that found usual stalwarts struggling. Hidden by a pink curtain and located behind showier and taller pots of papyrus and elephant’s ear, these begonias were paired with a red fuchsia – and both performed admirably when I thought to take in their beauty. I wish I’d thought more

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A Sorcerer by A Sorceress

Stevie Nicks is about to provide the bulk of the soundtrack for our October listening list (coming up shortly, since we just released the Fade-to-Black Fall Playlist). I hear her siren’s call, drawn to the sweet music, and the spicy scent of pine warmed by the afternoon sun in our little side-yard, and I try to join in the dance. It’s there in the wind. It’s there in a falling leaf. It’s there in the soft and sticky brush of pine needles.

I’m tiredI’m thirstyI’m wild-eyedIn my misery

Timeless in your fineryIt’s a high priceFor your luxury

In times of doubt and uncertainty, I find it best to reconnect with nature. Sitting in the soft blanket comprised of leaves and moss, the earth embraces all of us if we let it. There is healing in that embrace, and in the music of a woman who has seen more than most of us. She knows our secrets. She knows a way out. She knows. 

SorcererWho is the masterA man and woman on a star streamIn the middle of a snow dreamSorcererShow me the high lifeCome overLet me put you on ice

The wisdom unseen by men, the wisdom gleaned by women, and the wisdom discerned by those somewhere in between or beyond such limited labels is the wisdom of the ages. It changes with the passing of time, something we as humans don’t always want to admit or acknowledge, because that might require a change in our own beliefs. We don’t usually like to change our beliefs – it’s messy and makes us uneasy – but if you learn how to do that, you learn a bit of magic that will unlock hidden doors for as long as you keep your mind open. It’s the kind of magic that lights the darkest black ink nights…

All around black ink darknessAnd who found lady from the mountainsAll around black ink darknessAnd who found lady from the mountainsLady from the mountains

Lately I’ve felt the downward pull of time and age – two of many things over which a person has little to no control. Time and age – the sorcerer and the sorceress that lord their ways over us all

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LaLa LaLa

Whispers on the fall wind.

Slivers of hints written in the veins of leaves

No way to make it all make sense. 

Barely a wisp of a song, hardly a melody

Pricks in the silence.

Ripples on the water. 

The witch’s cry is silent.

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The Merry Marigolds Vamp for Me

Vamping while I return to the land of the office and regular responsibilities, these merry marigolds, hardly dampened by the rain, are taking the moment to do an impromptu parade and tide over those hungry for a traditional Tuesday morning blog post. This is it, peeps – indulge and enjoy! 

The vacation glow will be gone by the time you are reading this, and I’ll already be back in office-mode, trying to catch up on hundreds of e-mails and wondering precisely how many days remain until I might retire… a happy daydream to see us through any work-week nightmare.

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An Ornamental Recap

I love an ornamental cabbage – the colors, the architecture, the design – all of it thrills the visual sense. The way they nestle a rainfall, turning it from something annoying into something amazing is one of the greatest lessons of nature. Here, they provide a moment of pause before I muster the energy to recap our holiday weekend in Ogunquit – but first, the weekly recap begins here, a bit later than usual in the day.

A happy song reprieve.

Backlit, brilliant and beautiful.

Blue mid-day moment.

Welcome to a new black parade.

The real color of fall.

A new urinal cake is always cause for celebration

A faithful return.

Raw and tender dogging it.

National Coming Out Day – a thing since 1988.

‘Tis autumn.

A fall bacchanal.

Basket case.

Olfactory excess.

The Fade-to-Black Fall Playlist.

Way back in the 1990’s

Autumnal Ogunquit memories.

Wisdom in the sweetgrass.

Dazzlers of the Day included Joe Keery, Joe Locke, and Cheryl Dunye.

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Wisdom in the Sweetgrass

“In the Western tradition there is a recognized hierarchy of beings, with, of course, the human being on top—the pinnacle of evolution, the darling of Creation—and the plants at the bottom. But in Native ways of knowing, human people are often referred to as “the younger brothers of Creation.” We say that humans have the least experience with how to live and thus the most to learn—we must look to our teachers among the other species for guidance. Their wisdom is apparent in the way that they live. They teach us by example. They’ve been on the earth far longer than we have been, and have had time to figure things out.”

“Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren’t looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground. It belonged to itself; it was a gift, not a commodity, so it could never be bought or sold. These are the meanings people took with them when they were forced from their ancient homelands to new places.”

Robin Wall Kimmerer, ‘Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants’

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Autumn Ogunquit Memories

We are scheduled to be wrapping up our fall pilgrimage to Ogunquit tomorrow, and before I work up the energy to recap that, here’s a linky look back at previous Ogunquit trips in the fall. While I love the promise and hope inherent in a spring visit, our fall visits are cozy, quiet, and beautiful vacations – always worth a look-back.

Our First Trip to Ogunquit Without Dad

Autumn in Ogunquit – Part 1

Autumn in Ogunquit – Part 2

Autumn In Ogunquit – Part 3

A Brief Ogunquit Revisit

Harvest Moon Over Maine

Fall Bye OGT

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Way Back in the 90’s…

It was the 90’s, and we took photos like we were in ‘Interview’ magazine. In the attic of my childhood home, we survived the stultifyingly boring summer with photo shoots and lazy lounging while music played and someone made the two-flight trip down for more chips. We lived vicariously through videotapes, and magazines, and CDs – all relatively obsolete these days – and it was enough. We yearned and hoped and made ourselves into something better than we were before – with the sort of work and imagination that once was required. We tried harder then, back before such entertainments and passings of time came at the tap of a finger on a phone. 

People could sit still then, and simply be. We talked. We engaged. We read and laughed and made the moment mean something. We didn’t shut down by shutting out the world outside of our ridiculous phone screen. Now I’m sounding old, when I enjoy the phone as much as the next person. Maybe I just miss those 90’s days, when life seemed simpler, the way it always does in our younger years. 

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Olfactory Excess

A quick look at two of my fragrance shelves (just the two – there is a third, which is actually the top tier) reminds me of the excess and gluttony of my one true addiction – and it’s ok because we all deserve at least one indulgence in life. (Some of us deserve many.) While I’ve been eyeing the latest Tom Ford Private Blend ‘Black Lacquer’, I’m a little more intrigued by his limited edition offering of ‘Amber Intrigue’ – which is, I believe, only available at Harrod’s in London right now. They always get the best things. Until I can get my paws on a sample, this perusal through the collection will have to do – and it makes me happy to rekindle all the memories that each of these scents provides. 

The main purpose of any fragrance is, for me, in making a memory. 

And I happen to enjoy making lots of memories. 

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Basket Case

Fall and all its requisite splendors are in effect as these gourds spill out from baskets at the local nursery. I’ve always appreciated a good ornamental gourd or ninety, and here they all are in abundance and beauty. When the flowers have faded, it becomes about the gourds.

They set a cozy scene, and hint at holiday dinners to come. 

Yes, I went ahead and said the ‘H’ word.

Holiday! Celebration! Come together in every nation!

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A Fall Bacchanal

One of my favorite pieces of music is the Bacchanal from the opera ‘Samson and Delilah’. I’m not sure why it became a favorite, because it brings back bad memories of all the stress and worry and competitive ickiness of my time in the Empire State Youth Orchestra. That it contains one of the more celebrated oboe solos is one reason for how stressful those passages once felt, and I remember the first time we read through it – I think I had the solo and totally massacred it. 

The orchestra raced ahead before I even knew where we were in the score, and I was left behind, eventually taking the second seat after tryouts. In truth, I probably had no business even being in the actual Empire State Youth Orchestra – and as much as I learned there, as much as the experience hardened and honed me, I wonder if it was worth the social anxiety and stress at that time in my life. It still haunts me, and I question whether that was the best thing to do to myself as a kid (not that I was given a choice in those early days) – and did it really prove the tipping point at getting me into all of the colleges to which I applied? I doubt I’ll ever know – and there’s no point in dwelling here. Instead, let’s revel in the music at hand, and allow it to fuel this fall’s reckoning… 

If you stick it out and wait until about the 7:00 mark, you’ll hear when things really begin to soar – and it is here where I take all the trauma of the past and turn it into something else – anger, rage, triumph, revenge – and a power I’m still discovering buried within. Spreading the wings of a silky caftan, with a rope of pearls to harness the universe’s available energy, it feels like a moment ripe for flight.

The music is a seduction and a celebration in one, entrancing with its sensuous oboe solo, and then setting the scene for the destruction of a temple. Sexual symbolism and blatant hedonism brilliantly collide in a meeting of the minds and bodies of opposing forces. Prepare the way for aural ecstasy and orgasmic, orgiastic might. 

Who knew that opera could be so gorgeously filthy? It’s a perfect treat for the fall season. 

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