Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

A Mid-Week Memorializing of a Maine Weekend – 2

Some Memorial Day weekends ring in summer unmistakably – there’s that sunny energy in the air, the excitement of a vacation town reawakening to its busy season – and some whisper more quietly, nudging the idea of summer gently into the mind with the silent welcome of flowers and the slow bell-curve rise of temperatures during the day. We lucked out weather-wise this time, with the extra-long weekend being pleasantly sunny until our final day and a half. The flowers seemed to appreciate it, throwing off blooms in fantastic fashion.

While the sights were pretty enough, Ogunquit also has some amazing food and drink, and even during our rainiest weekends the highlights have always been the dinners. This time around we found excellent meals at the Old Village Inn, Walker’s, The Front Porch, and Caffé Prego. Being near the ocean has a way of making me even more hungry than usual.

And oh what a delight it is to be on the sea – to look over the Atlantic reaching all the way out to Europe and Africa – to feel the vastness of the world, and also to dwell upon its finite expanse. We are so far and we are so close. To step into the icy water and think that this same body of water is lapping upon another shore halfway around the world makes me feel connected to this place in ways I don’t always feel. It’s a sense of belonging somewhere – something that has too often eluded me over the years.

Our time here passes too quickly, but it is just enough to satiate us until next time. There’s a calm and contentment that has been shared which I will access on more troubling days. We are always better for having touched the sea.

For our final breakfast, a warm dish of Shakshuka is the ideal antidote to the downpour of rain.

Even the rain is prettier in Maine.

Until fall…

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A Mid-Week Memorializing of a Maine Weekend – 1

Our Memorial Day weekend in Maine was a lovely affair, and the rain that everyone else seemed to get for the entire time kept away from Ogunquit until our last two days, so we will count that as a win, especially considering we’ve spent certain Memorial Day weekends getting deluged and poured upon for their entire duration. Maine manages to be magical no matter how much rain arrives, but everything is better beneath the sun.

Arriving to a town in full bloom with pinks and purples and pastels, we were greeted to spring in full effect – from the lilacs to the azaleas to the trilliums that will play a part in later posts, it seemed like everything was in full bloom. We don’t always manage to catch it in such a state – the late start and colder weather had this as a silver lining.

For better or worse, a vacation is only ever as good as its accommodations, and in this respect we have an ideal home base at the Scotch Hill Inn, where Anthony has been taking good care of us and providing spectacular breakfasts for the past several years. Our most recent visit was this past winter – which was a rare jewel unto itself – but I think it’s spring we like best, when all the hope of summer is in sight.

This fabulous frittata started things off deliciously, providing sustenance for a day along the shore.

We took a quick walk to the first section of the Marginal Way, where even the Rosa rugosa was beginning to bloom.

These sea roses always remind me of summer vacations and carefree days with family. When they come into more prolific bloom their perfume will ride on the salty sea air, delivering an intoxicating fragrance to those lucky enough to be by the sea. The Atlantic was the first ocean I ever visited, and it’s been a source of peace and contemplation ever since.

Back in town, everything else was in full bloom, including our emblem of this spring blog season – the lilac. Long borders of the shrub were on full floral display, scenting every step with their sweet perfume. Ogunquit cast its spell again, and the drone of the ocean kept gentle time to the weekend ahead…

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A Hibiscus for Everyone

Some hibiscus are happy – in their bright faces, their super-saturated hues, their splendor and magnificence.

Some hibiscus are bashful, hiding behind their foliage and barely peeking out from their ruffled curtains of petals.

And some are happiest when paired off and sitting beside their mate.

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A Cosmic Love

Stars have told stories for centuries, telling some with a twinkle, and some with an incendiary flare – the longest tales of the longest tails. They write their destined trajectories and entanglements upon the firmament – and where they cross, lovers may meet

A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud as it tore through them
And now it’s left me blind

The stars, the moon
They have all been blown out
You’ve left me in the dark
No dawn, no day
I’m always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

Flashes of light and gaseous alchemy, elements comprising life and energy, the stars seem so simple but they contain multitudes – meaning, magic, majesty – and though they seem to watch us from afar, we do not see where some might be now – so long does it take for their sparkle to reach our sight. The twinkles we see tonight were emitted long ago, depending on how distant they are, and the bending of time, the traversing of great distance, and the destiny apparently embedded in the sky might all play a part in how our lives will play out.

And in the dark
I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped
And I was in the darkness
So darkness I became

I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

A cosmic love to outlast the lives of stars is a happy thought. Staying in darkness together lends its own sort of light. Do the stars have a say in who and how we love? And if they do, is it already set in the sky, already written by the light from long ago? The mind should bend more easily than time, but it rarely does, and never when we most need it.

The stars, the moon
They have all been blown out
You’ve left me in the dark (you left me in the dark)
No dawn, no day
I’m always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

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The Passion of the Flamboyant Flower

When someone is completely and totally who they are meant to be, it’s a glorious thing to see, probably because it doesn’t seem to happen all that often. I’m certainly nowhere near that, though I’d be bold enough to claim I’m getting closer. Still much more work to be done, more to be figured out, even at my advanced age.

Only flowers and plants and trees seem to have it all figured out, and even they are prone to evolution and change – a shifting global environment is forcing that into happening as unfair as that might be. Leave it to humans to fuck everything up with global warming. Nature laid down finite and beautiful laws, but human nature is too often infantile and stupid. We ruin all the good things, sometimes sheerly out of boredom. What a sad set of circumstances… and so I retreat to the irrefutable safety of beauty – and the beauty of the natural world, such as found in this exquisite passionflower bloom.

The passionflower wants nothing more than to climb and bloom and spread its maypops to animals who might eat and later deposit its seeds elsewhere. The passionflower doesn’t worry about dying, it simply goes through its life-cycle one day at a time. I caught this one in glorious bloom, beginning its enticement of the bees to come by and pollinate, but if that doesn’t happen, the plant still flowers, it still produces this beautiful vision. A valiant effort, worth all its work, and we are lucky enough to see it happen.

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Why Are People This Stupid?

Are traffic circles on the driving test?

Because what the actual fuck, people?

We cannot blame the full moon for all of the stupidity.

(Is it still ‘National Say Something Nice Day‘? Asking for a moron.)

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This Fucking Day

It’s supposedly ‘National Say Something Nice Day’ so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

Da fuq…

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A Blog Recap for June the First

June arrives.

May recedes.

Summer peeks around the corner, then disappears, frightened away by the fucking weather of the past week.

Here’s to sunnier days, warmer temps, and this traditional weekly blog recap

A moment aflame began things on a fiery note.

It ended, began, and continued in rainy fashion.

Tea cup for a rainy day.

This little linden grove.

The very first peony bloom of the season.

Riding into the sun begged the question, ‘What sun?’

This reminded me of you.

On the wings of Columbine.

An almost-full evening.

A moonless patch of sky.

A springtime visit to Dad.

To pass the day, a pretty little flower.

At our most skinny-dippingly beautiful.

A little purple star.

The bluest moon.

Rooms of leaves and living.

The final day of May.

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On This Final Day of May

A full, Blue Moon, a last day of May, and a resuming of cafe culture in a steaming cup of peppermint herbal tea. It’s bee a while since a proper cafe culture moment has been documented, and with the insanity of the past month – admittedly mostly in my mind – I pause to re-group, re-evaluate, and rethink some things I thought I already knew.

Every moment can be ripe for a rest, and often that helps clear out the cobwebs, recalling what’s important and what matters, especially at a juncture such as we have reached between May and June. A more magical time of the year may not occur again until the magnificent return of fall.

The madness of today’s full moon is making the writing here a bit clumsy, a tad awkward. It’s not flowing the way I know it can, and it isn’t converting what I’m trying to say. Best to put it to bed when that happens. When things stall, let them be still for a while. Sleep on it. Sometimes they just need time. And silence. Let’s regroup here tomorrow.

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Rooms of Leaves, of Living

Narcissus: “May I die before I give you power over me.”

Echo: “I give you power over me.”

A recent reading recommendation, ‘House of Leaves’ by Mark E. Danielewski, is proving to be both a challenge and an unexpected pleasure. It’s always a crap shoot when someone who knows me makes any sort of suggestion on a book or movie or show – especially if they boast that they think I will love it. Perhaps it is my contradictory nature that immediately sets up an internal bias against what people assume. Perhaps I’m just a dick who thrives on not being known or understood, a hardcore asshole whose nature has embraced its antagonistic fury.

A kinder reading of myself indicates I might simply be unpredictable, and very specific in what I like – it’s why I’ve never gotten into the ‘recommended listening’ predictions in places like Spotify – just because I love Madonna’s ‘Express Yourself’ does not necessarily mean I like Paula Abdul‘s ‘Straight Up’. In most ways, I prefer to be unknown. Despite all the supposedly-revealing things I’ve put on full-frontal display here over the decades, I’ve kept a surprisingly vast part of my life private and unseen. If you think you know, you probably don’t.

“… I’ve come to believe errors, especially written errors, are often the only markers left by a solitary life: to sacrifice them is to lose the angles of personality, the riddle of a soul. In this case a very old soul. A very old riddle.” – Mark E. Danielewski, ‘House of Leaves’

Once in a while, though, someone makes a suggestion for something that totally hits my sweet spot, which is the case with ‘House of Leaves’. It checks off most of my preferred boxes: challenging, ambiguous, infuriating, thrilling, mysterious, gritty, and disturbing.

The storytelling here is steeped in enough convincingly-academic structure to effectively immerse the reader in the impossible possibility that it might be real. More insidious is the way it might wreak havoc with the reader’s head, and once certain rooms in the mind are cracked open, you can never completely close them again – they remain there, holes of darkness, who knows how deep they go, and in the infinite capacity for black emptiness lies the seed of self-destruction just perilously within and without of reach.

We all create stories to protect ourselves.” – Mark E. Danielewski, ‘House of Leaves’

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The Bluest Moon

Tomorrow’s full Blue Moon is reportedly one of the most powerful for manifesting, whatever you might take that to mean. It’s simultaneously one of shedding, where you can let go of whatever is holding you back. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a little Blue Moon, even if it is full.

This is the second full moon of May, which may explain the craziness some of us have been feeling this entire month. The past few days it’s been nothing but red lights, crazy drivers, computer cock-ups, and a bunch of things that went balls-up. If we can move the blame to the moon, maybe it’s not us. If we can harness some lunar energy in the process, so much the better.

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A Little Purple Star

This spring I didn’t go overboard with our patio planting scheme. A few salvias and hummingbird favorites – which are working as we’ve already seen our first hummingbird of the season – a pot of papyrus (with the drainage holes mostly blocked to keep its feet wet) – and a few pots of colorful annuals, including this little purple guy, are about all I could muster.

Missing are our usual showstoppers like petunias and coleus and sweet potato vines, so this purple beauty will have to put on the brunt of the floral fireworks, along with a lone begonia. This sleepy spring has been slow to wake – no word on whether summer will follow suit.

The hummingbirds are already here, though, and I’m taking solace in that.

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At Our Most Beautiful

A new night in spring…

when every spring night feels new,

even as we move toward summer, even when spring is near its end.

The pool glows eerily on spring nights, or maybe it’s just the moon on the verge of being full.

And Blue.

It’s a little too early for a tender song called ‘Nightswimming’ – that comes later, when we’re nearer to September. For now, another R.E.M. beauty – ‘At My Most Beautiful’ which almost matches the tenderness of ‘Nightswimming’.

I’ve found a way to make you
I’ve found a way
A way to make you smile

Spring nights somehow manage to be romantic, no matter if it’s raining or clear, windy or still – and love is always right when the moon and the night conspire to create beauty. It’s there in the warm water, in the perfume of lily-of-the-valley riding on the breeze, in the clouds moving over and behind the moon. The pool is almost like the color of a jade vine bloom dangling in the night of some forest in the Philippines.

I read bad poetry
Into your machine
I save your messages
Just to hear your voice
You always listen carefully
To awkward rhymes
You always say your name
Like I wouldn’t know it’s you
At your most beautiful

Once upon a Boston autumn, I listened to this song right around the time I started dating a sweet boy. We would last for almost two years, and I’d move halfway across the country for him, only to come back heartbroken and alone before we had the chance to share another spring together. We were so young, so hopeful, so unrocked by the world at that point. Still, we weren’t meant to be, and we couldn’t keep it together. He was brave enough to say so; I was brave enough to accept it without a brutal fight. This song brings me back to our beginning – a little slice of happiness and heaven.

I’ve found a way to make you
I’ve found a way
A way to make you smile

I remember sitting on the bed in my Boston place as the sun came in through the bay window. Fall was at hand, but it held on to the warmth of summer, the way cities sometimes hold that season’s heat well into October. Suzie was visiting and we sat on the bed catching up. Nervous to tell her about him, the way I would always be when introducing my boyfriends to her, my giddiness overrode the nerves and I remember smiling like a fool the entire time. The first inklings of love are unmistakable, and so adorably fun; I just wanted to share the feeling, to shout it and declare it and let the whole world know. It was easy to fall in love then, at least for me; my friends were much wiser – safer, too – but I didn’t care. Recklessly, ruinously, ridiculously, I would fall over and over and over again. And it was always worth it – if only for a season or two.

At my most beautiful
I count your eyelashes secretly
With every one, whisper, “I love you”
I let you sleep
I know your closed eye watching me
Listening
I thought I saw a smile

Lately I’ve been looking at long-ago romances and revisioning the hurt I felt at the end of any number of relationships. The endings usually left me sad and bereft, and in sadness there was bitterness. That’s not how I want to remember those love affairs, and so I’m shifting my view of them, choosing instead to remember how wonderful they were in their respective sections of my life. Hence the sweet song of this post, and the revelations – literal and metaphorical – of now and then.

I’ve found a way to make you
I’ve found a way
A way to make you smile

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A Springtime Visit to Dad

My father’s resting place may house his ashes, but I don’t usually feel his spirit there. That’s partly why I don’t visit it that often, choosing to mostly mark his birthday or holidays with a stop-by, and not much else. I feel him elsewhere – in the garden, on a warm breeze, in the shadow of a a tree. Lately I’ve been missing him so I stopped by his grave to say hello. The stone was warm from a day of sun, and flags lined the place in honor of Memorial Day. A few other cars with visiting loved ones of lost ones were scattered throughout the place, but none in my vicinity. As is usually the case, I didn’t feel my father there.

Even in the shade of a row of ancient evergreens, where he might have been found on a hot day, my father was missing. I looked for him briefly, knowing he wouldn’t be there, and hoping that it was the looking that mattered. As is often the case, I drove away from the cemetery feeling empty, feeling robbed of something, feeling the fact of my father’s absence. And as is occasionally the case, I wasn’t ready to let him go, so I drove to the place where I’ve gone whenever I find myself missing him: St. Mary’s Hospital. My Dad’s most regular ‘office’, where he’d be at work at all days of the day or night trying to save someone’s life and make the world better for other families, the hospital is where I remember my Dad being at key points in life.

I always return to the same space near the entrance of the cafeteria, before a locked door of offices now, but which once housed a conference room where my Dad kept me when I came home early from school one day and he had to be at the hospital. My social anxiety had worked and wreaked its havoc, and I couldn’t handle being at school with the other kids anymore that day – I thought I just missed my parents, and this was the only way to be close to them. I’d expected Dad to be angry for me making him have to pick me up early, the same way I expected him to be angry when I broke one of the garden sprinklers as a child, but he was gentle with me that day, perhaps sensing that I was only there out of fear. The memory recedes at that point, fading away to a slight ache, an emptiness. But I felt my father’s presence there, in those halls he walked, near those vending machines that offered the sandwiches he’d get when his work required him to stay beyond any sort of reasonable hours. I could hear his laughter with Hector the head janitor, his joking with the OR nurses, and his caring comfort for a little boy who mustered all his effort not to cry from missing his parents and growing up.

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