Most of the time, we don’t have an autumn show in our backyard. One or two Japanese maples might work their magic, and a weeping larch, on a good year, burns a bright golden yellow before dropping its leaves, but the rest rarely makes anything worth relating or capturing in a photo. That wasn’t the case this year, when a patch of fountain grass and an ancient oak caught the vanishing sun one afternoon, passed it to scarlet Japanese maple, and played tag with prettiness.

A soft blue sky in the background helped set everything off to striking effect, and I realized I’m not quite ready to let go of those leaves. Not that any of us has a choice in such matters, but the heart still wants.

Somewhere smoke was rising from a fire – maybe of wood, maybe of leaves – and the tell-tale incense-like scent was carrying on the wind. A quintessential autumn odor, it signified coziness. Crackling embers echoed in my sound memory, and I could almost trick myself into feeling the heat as I approached the imaginary fire in my head.

Getting caught in the woods as dusk falls is a frightening thing, even if the woods aren’t that expansive, even if they’re right at the edge of your backyard. Dark comes quickly in a forest, quicker than it does probably anywhere else. The shade inherent in such spaces hastens its descent. There’s danger in that, and fall is filled with such dangers.

I remember one late November afternoon when I was a kid. On the edge of the wooded patch behind our house, I spied the glow of the windows, a warm golden glimpse into where dinner would soon be served, but I wasn’t yet ready to come in from the dark. I had been on a mission, and my collected treasure sat in a haphazard pile on the bare ground. A mound of evergreen boughs – mostly Eastern white pine – sat awaiting an artistic endeavor that would turn them into holiday wreaths. My hands were chilled and having trouble manipulating the rigid branches, but I would wire and forced them into semi-circular forms. The scent of pine resin was a lovely complement to the smoke in the air, and the sight of our house in the distance lent a quaint cottage-like slant to the scene. It was a happy pre-holiday moment – all anticipation, all hope and possibility. My favorite time.

Eventually the light in the sky dimmed beyond the point where I could continue working. Reluctantly, I gather what wreaths I’d made, put the wire and shears in my pockets, and trudged back to the garage. The rest would have to wait for another afternoon.

The tropical elephant’s ears that made a spectacular, if slow-starting, show this summer could not handle the colder nights we’ve been having. Their beautiful canopies of waxy green foliage were no match for a freezing spell that decimated their cellular structure, reducing their expansive surface to wrinkled hoods of drooping despair.

There is a haunting beauty in these remnants, however, and a grace to anything so stricken at the height of its life. In the span of a single chilling night, it’s as if they decided they weren’t going to put on a show anymore, choosing instead to hide beneath their mottled hoods, turning themselves inside out to reveal their veiny support system, now lifeless and limp.

There’s an integrity to anything that gives up the ghost before the real chill of winter sets in.

Like lightning burning its fleeting design onto a swirling globe, so has this wooden sphere been scorched with enough heat to leave such artistic marks. A map of carbon, tributaries of burnt wood, fire and water joined in symbolic union – it’s all here. The greatest and simplest works of art draw disparate forces together, marrying aspects seemingly at odds with one another, and the resulting union can be one of tension or resolution.

Here, I find it’s one of peace and completion, all conflict resolved in a sphere of beauty. In this splendor, we can choose to peacefully coexist.

The scars may be indelibly burnt onto our little worlds, but they mark our journey and map out what we’ve learned. They show us where we’ve been and give clues as to where we might go.

There’s a lot going on in this work of art seen at Silver Fox Architectural Salvage. After a glorious brunch at dp, we drove a couple of blocks to check out what hidden treasures might be lurking at this trove of misfit objects. We’ll get to the monkeys later – for now, feast your eyes upon this three-dimensional shadow box of mythic proportion. Butterflies, roses, pussy willows and a wooden maiden. What more could a person want?

When I’m at my best, I’m pretty adept with the manipulation and machination of words to make a point or construe a sentence. Sometimes, a mere fragment is enough. Other times, lengthy ropes of letters and intertwined nets of words are required to fully capture and convey a thought or an emotion. However many characters or symbols one needs, communication is the end result of combining some very simple symbols -“ such as letters – into something that means more than their individual make-up.

These photos illustrate the raw materials of writing. They are the basic building blocks of communication and connection. This is how we begin to transmit knowledge. It brings me back to grade school, when we first learned how to form letters and then used them to form words. The circle of connection has a starting point after all.

As much as I dreaded school for social reasons, I didn’t mind the learning aspect, and reading was one of my favorite activities. The best parts of any school day were when the teacher would read to us from a book (I still remember the thrill I felt when our third grade teacher read ‘James and the Giant Peach’ to the class – the way a book could transport us to another world). In later years, we were left to make our own magic during ‘silent reading’ time, and while some took the opportunity to whisper and socialize, I would always find a remote niche, hunker down behind a bookcase, and immerse myself into the letters and words that meant escape and freedom.

Up until now I haven’t written much on the election results here because there’s honestly not much more to be said. I wish I could say that I’m surprised Donald Trump won the electoral college votes necessary to be named President of our great nation, but I’m not. My family and friends will confirm that I always had doubts that America would do the right thing.

I wish I could be shocked that America voted for this man.

I wish I had the hope and belief that America would never stand for him to be President.

I wish I was so assured in the days leading up to this election that good would triumph over evil and the American people would make the right choice.

If I’d had that, if I’d been raised to have such hopeful ideals, I might relish the days of those beliefs.

But I never thought that.

I never believed.

I never had such faith in this country.

Sadly, and not for the first or last time, I was right.

I could not be surprised that this country would elect a man who represented and refused to denounce racism, homophobia, bigotry, and hatred.

How could I be?

How could I be surprised by that when I had a background and upbringing that saw me called ‘sissy’ and ‘faggot’ and ridiculed and attacked me for being gay and different?  I still get called those names on social media on a regular basis – now more than ever. And I’m supposed to be surprised when our country elects a man who panders to the people who use those words? I’ve got a long litany of things I’ve seen online over the last few months – all from Trump supporters – things that denigrate and insult and threaten minorities and women and the LGBT+ community.

Why would I be surprised that this army of deplorable hate-filled people would vote in such a detestable person? And why would I believe polls that put him behind? Who would admit to such a thing before being given the sanction of an electoral college victory? I never bought into that.

When you’re locked in a grade school bathroom because some bully thinks you’re Chinese, you don’t believe that people are inherently good.

When you get rocks thrown at you and a group of kids calling you faggot as you’re walking home at night, you don’t have faith that people will vote for equality and acceptance.

When you get death threats on Twitter because you dare raise a voice against Donald Trump, you don’t trust that this country will make the right decision.

The sad thing is that I’m not more upset by this election – because I should be. If I was raised in a world that was right, I would be.

But I wasn’t.

And we aren’t.

That doesn’t mean I won’t keep fighting.

It does, however, go some way towards explaining why I will never judge anyone who doesn’t accept Donald Trump as our President. He doesn’t deserve it.

It was the week that our electoral college elected a monster, even if almost two million more people (and counting) voted for Hillary Clinton, but we here at ALANILAGAN.com are moving ahead with trepidatious optimism and the vow to never stop fighting for what is right and just.

We started in quiet and stillness.

Some things will always hold true.

A delicious brunch at dp.

A glorious and unlikely pair that makes me smile.

A moment of peace.

My niece and my nephew.

Autumn scene.

Everything must end.

Feeling down? Get dressed up.

This Jedi isn’t going underground anytime soon.

A heartfelt set list.

Madonna was always late for the Rebel Heart Tour, and so was this review.

Throughout it all, we still have the Hunks of the Day: Jesse Wellens, Jay Ellis & Mark-Paul Vosselaar.

Bonus: a shirtless Ryan Gosling and equally-shirtless Liam Hemsworth.

And for anyone feeling down or frightened or simply dismayed with the state of affairs at the moment, there is always hope, and as long as I’m able I’ll do my best to provide a little sanctuary and escape from the rest of the insanity.