Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Dusk & Dawn

A couple of aborted trips to Boston and several almost-planned weekends in NYC have led me to my current state of agitated, wanderlust-laden entrapment, wherein I feel the pull and push of getting away – anywhere away – growing stronger and stronger. An all-too-brief excursion to the Cape went a small way towards alleviating this, but I need greater distance, newer pastures, and better hotel rooms. The allure of travel hangs in the coming weeks, when the spring kicks in properly. Until then I will bide my time, trying to stay occupied with gardening and home improvement, hoping it will be enough. I fear I’m growing bored – and I need new inspiration. In the garden and in the family room. Or in some hotel far, far away…

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Two-Toner

This variety of Muscari may have marked the birth of my love for a two-tone color scheme. If it can be found in nature, it’s usually a safe design bet. Blues – true blues at least – are tough to find in the flower world, and those that do exist often lean to the red side, veering onto the slope of purple. This grape hyacinth is no different, but the juxtaposition of the eggplant bottom makes the top tiers seem a bit bluer than they might otherwise be. It’s a trick that works, and nature knows her optical illusions better than we humans could ever hope to achieve, M.C. Escher notwithstanding.

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Cape Codders at The Lobster Trap

The censored pics from JoAnn’s birthday celebration. You don’t want to see the rest.

PS – Quality Inn my ass.

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Scilla So Blue

Fulfilling a promise made a week or so ago, the blue blooms of a tiny Scilla patch have opened and brought a bit of the sky down low to the ground. For many years I dismissed the tiny early-bloomers like these, not wanting to waste my time and effort on something that would require a zillion bulbs to make the most minor impact. Much more bang for your back-breaking buck in planting a tree or shrub. Yet I did manage to sprinkle a few around in the backyard, and they’ve been coming back and actually seeding themselves in the surrounding area for a couple of years. As time goes by, and winters like this last one bleed endlessly into spring, I find great joy and relief in seeing the first signs of garden life peeking through the brown layer of oak leaves and dead grass stalks.

It has me rethinking my aversion to the little beauties, and I may end up popping a few more in the ground this fall closer to the house. They’re so small and inconspicuous except for when they bloom that they shouldn’t be a bother.

Thanks to the camera, little blossoms like this can take on gargantuan proportions, becoming something quite different as you see in this progression of shots. It makes you realize how something so tiny, blooming in a sea of brown, still has its own power.

Locating a flower in bloom has always been a talent of mine. I can spot the lone lupine along the highway while speeding along at 74 miles per hour. I can pick out the tiny clusters of white blooms riding the crests of the sweet woodruff a whole backyard away. I can hone in on the scarlet banner of a fluttering cardinal flower in a meadow otherwise over-run by Queen Ann’s lace. In the case of the cardinal flower, it’s simply a matter of noticing what’s different. Certain blooms stands out like that. But in others, it takes a trained eye to pick up on the subtle call of the flowers – such as the dangling fragrant bells of the Solomon’s Seal, hidden beneath the variegated foliage, or the inconspicuous chocolate-hued bloom of the European ginger.

So much of life is about looking deeper, peering beneath the surface – and the garden is no different.

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Weep For Me, Lenten Rose

This is the Lenten Rose, Latin name Helleborus. When we first moved into our home, I plopped this into the backyard bed, almost out of a mandatory obligation that one must have at least one Lenten Rose to welcome the spring, but the fact was I had never even seen this plant in person before the blind purchase. For several years, I was unimpressed. The evergreen foliage didn’t fare well in our Northeastern winters, looking ratty and half-dead at the turn of March. It took a year or two before I had the balls to whack off the most decimated leaves and allow the plant to rejuvenate, but once I learned its resilience it made a much better show of things, finally deigning to bloom about five years after planting.

While the blooms are welcome, they are sometimes damaged by the late-winter snows we usually get. Another issue is the way they are held on the stem: drooping downward. It’s more pronounced after the frequent April rains, so unless you’re willing to perform ground-level acrobatics, it’s difficult to get a good view, and a good photo. Since I don’t like manipulating the flowers I find in the garden for photographic purposes, it makes it tough to get a decent shot, but you get the idea. There’s a different type of charm that comes from a rose when it weeps.

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Windmill & Bridge

On Saturday of this past weekend, I drove over to the Cape, just beyond the Bourne Bridge, to surprise my friend JoAnn for her birthday. That particular pocket of Cape Cod holds special meaning to me, as we spent many times at her place on North Beach, talking and sharing and healing. It’s always a treat to return and revisit that part of the past. I arrived long before check-in, so I drove around a bit – both in town, and then further into Falmouth.

The day was gray and overcast, spitting out rain and making most photo ops impossible. I did get these two, however ~ the windmill and the bridge ~ a pair of structural elements that defied the somber lack of color. On Main Street, I ducked into a French bakery to escape the wind and rain, hunkering down at a window table and devouring an almond croissant and, I admit, a chocolate chip cookie. A cup of coffee rounded out the breakfast, and when the rain let up a little I ventured back out.

No matter how much we try to tame her, nature will not be stopped. On this day, she only roared in the morning, and as the hours progressed her agitation diminished, until by three o’clock she was showing some of her blue sky, and it was again time to eat.

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Tom Daley: Bulge & Pits

Because it’s Monday.

Because it’s always a good time for a gratuitous photo of Tom Daley in a Speedo.

Because Tom Daley looks good showing off his bulge, his arm pits, and his torso.

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Oranges

That’s about as profound as it’s going to get here today. Just another Manic Monday…

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Cap Me Off

It was a week dominated by the unreal tragedy at the Boston Marathon, and the subsequent manhunt surrounding the Boston area, and as such I was slightly all over the place, unsure quite how to deal with it blog-wise, ultimately ending up with a single written letter to the city I love so much. I have nothing left to say about it at the moment.

When things turn crazy in the outside world, I tend to turn inward, to friends and family, especially when they remind of childhood innocence, as in the birthday joy of my niece and nephew.

Other distractions could be found in the vain, vapid, and ridiculous pornstache I had going (and which finally went bye-bye for real last night.)

What separates the men from the real mean, and the women from the real women.

Once-a-freaking-century this happens, and of course it has to happen to my prized possession.

There was only one official Hunk of the Day for the week, and he managed to shine and doff his shirt, as evidenced by the great Colby Keller.

To make up for the dearth of shirtlessness and male nudity, I offered what was behind Doors One, Two, and Three.

April showers sometimes bring April flowers, as seen here and here.

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My Easter Finest, A Sunday or Two Late

While searching through my flash drive I realized that I never posted the Easter outfit from Boston, and as I’ll be departing Massachusetts for another week or two, it seems a fitting time to put it up. Besides, these are all filler posts until I return with a new batch of inspirational photos. As you read this, I’ll hopefully be traversing Massachusetts and New York, a little spent, a little tired, but emotionally satiated from having seen some very good people.

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Wedding Flower

This Phalaenopsis was a wedding gift from a friend, but in the stuffed car that transported all our gifts from my parents’ home to ours, there was no room for the magnificent spray of blooms that rose from it at that time. Since then, we never got around to bringing it over, so it has remained in residence there, where it has sent up at least two rounds of blooms since 2010. It’s showing off again, a reminder of that glorious summer, and a bang-up banner way of announcing the new spring. Let the showers bring the flowers.

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Ground Breaking

This small patch of Scilla siberica marks the first bit of greenery and color the garden has produced this year. It goes head-to-head with the blooming of the Helleborus a few feet away. It’s been a slow spring to break, and I’m hopeful it continues to take its time before the deadening heat of high summer. Most years the beauty of spring goes by too fast – one of the reasons I love it so much. The temporal, the fleeting, the evanescent – these will always have the greatest draw. In people, and in plants.

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Nautical Whimsy, Owls & Dessert

To the person who successfully identifies where all three photos were taken in Boston, a cocktail of your choosing. (And yes, I know I already owe one or two of you cocktails for some musical trivia – just remind me and we’ll sauce it up.)

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In the Land of Make-Believe

A castle with a turret and a drawbridge. A damsel in anything-but-distress. A fireside hearth, before which a pink and diamond-studded shoe dries on a grate. And a yarn-tailed pony, resting on its side, ready to be brought back to life by a little hand.

When I was a kid, this sort of scene would have kept me occupied for hours, as I imagined all kinds of scenarios, setting and reconfiguring this castle, moving all its occupants (Piglet included) and enacting various far-fetched daily dramas for the knights and queens and animals. In truth, I made just as much out of a cardboard box that Dad would bring home from the hospital, and never really thought to want more until I got older. I grew and fostered my imagination because I had to, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. If children can’t learn to entertain themselves on their own, without fancy phones or sensory overload, they will never be satisfied as adults.

I’m starting to sound like a grumpy old man, and perhaps I am. There may be nothing new under the sun. I do wonder what’s becoming of imagination, when all the wildest experiences can be conjured on a computer screen, so readily at hand, so easily explored. Maybe I just want to go back to being a kid again. Maybe that’s what we all want in some way. Maybe that’s why children are so captivating to some of us.

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