Alan Ilagan

In the Fall of 1995 I was living on-campus at Brandeis, but working about 35 hours a week in downtown Boston. I made the suggestion to my parents that they get a place in the city. I tried to paint it as a real estate investment, not really expecting them to show much interest, but they gave the go-ahead to start looking, and within a day I had procured a real estate agent.

He would show me three South End condos in the next few days – this was in the time just before prices in that area went prohibitively through the roof – and most were in the $130,000 – $180,000 range. (Insane, I know – but somewhat predictable: I knew that where the gays went the market value was sure to rise.)

The first place we looked at was on Clarendon, right across the street from his office, in the heart of the South End. A brick wall in the kitchen lent it a cozy feel, as did a lone bouquet of dried flowers hanging on the wall. How long had it hung there, fading as the sun moved over its brittle leaves?

It was a small place, but on that brilliant Fall day the sun lit up the expanse, a moment of October clarity in between gray showers. The key to a successful real estate agent is seduction – and our agent was quite adept at that. (Yes, I had a small, okay, big, crush on him. But that’s another story for another time.)

The second place was the largest of the lot – a labyrinth of rooms really, right near Washington Park – and while spacious, it was almost too much – so easy would it be to get lost in these rooms. And though it’s prime space now, at the time it seemed a bit of a trek to the nearest T stop, plus there hadn’t been the businesses and restaurants that currently inhabit the area. Still, there’s a big appeal for that kind of space in a city – and I did contemplate whether a long walk might be worth an extra room or two. But the three things you’re supposed to look for in a place kept ringing in my ear: location, location, location.

The very last stop was on Braddock Park, looking out onto the Southwest Corridor, and we saw it after dusk had fallen. The lights of Copley glowed in the distance, the spires of the Hancock Building and the Marriott reaching into the night firmament. Seeing a place for the first time at night is often deceptive. The building adjacent had a pad lock and chain on its front door, and looked slightly dilapidated, but the bones looked strong. A first impression after sundown also doesn’t give a good indication of light, even with the promise of a floor-through with double bay windows.

We walked up one flight of stairs to the second floor and went into the condo. The ceilings soared, and the floor was a warm shade of amber. The hardwood, just the slightest worse for wear, could easily be redone. A marble fireplace commanded the central focal point, while a pitiful gray leather sofa from Miami circa 1988 sagged to its right. In the front of the room was the first bay window, and a kitchen. A small counter separated the space. A wooden wet bar lined the wall leading into the bedroom, the original gaslight fixtures still in place. It certainly had a bit of Boston charm. The bedroom was in the back of the layout, and had its own bay window. It was next to the bathroom, which had an accent wall of clay-colored brick and a dark-tiled floor.

While I liked what I saw that night, it had to be seen during the day, and my parents had to see it as well. After walking down the steps of the building to the street, I took leave of the real estate agent and made my way through the Southwest Corridor Park and into Copley Square. It was a short walk, and if location was our prime consideration, there was no contest. A new home was in the making…

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Her voice has never sounded better. Even in the bustling pre-Thanksgiving buzz of Logan Airport, I can hear her clearly over the headphones of my portable CD player (this was 1996). I am about to board a flight to San Diego, my emotional state is shaky at best, but when Madonna is singing one of the most famous Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes of all time, ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’, I pause to listen. There are storms moving in from the West, but the flight is departing on time. A heavy coat is slung over my arm, and I wish I could leave it in the cold of a Boston November. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The iPod has chosen ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ as the next selection, and while I was hoping we might get an Evita song at this time of the year, I suddenly feel ill-equipped to fully convey the sad connotations that this song evokes.

It won’t be easy,

You’ll think it strange,

When I try to explain how I feel

That I still need your love after all that I’ve done…

The Fall of 1996 found me living in Boston, and commuting to Waltham for my last semester at Brandeis. I had fallen for a classmate in my Literary Criticism course, and for a brief moment he seemed smitten with me. We shared a love of musicals, the cute guy at the Boston Chipyard, and my impeccable sense of style. We also shared a couple of late-night talks on the telephone, some pleasantly random encounters on campus, and a slight fear of our Literary Criticism professor.

 I won’t go into other details here (that’s the ‘You Must Love Me’ story, and the iPod hasn’t shuffled that way yet), but after a few weeks of flirting, one flat semi-date, and a risky letter laying it all on the line, he was not as enthralled with me as I was with him. And as my pathology has historically shown, it’s the ones who want nothing to do with me that I seem to love the most.

I had to let it happen,

I had to change…

And so, long story short, he broke my heart, in the kindest possible way, but a broken heart is a broken heart and there’s nothing much to be done about it. That November the Evita soundtrack was released. It was Madonna in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical – a gay man’s dream – but while the rest of the Madonna-mad homos celebrated, I tried to heal.

Back in those days, I lived a very organized and regimented life. Chalk it up to my Virgo birth sign, or my parents’ rigid structure – the point was, I had my school life and job and creative outlets strictly planned out, and there was little to no time for an emotional breakdown or messy feelings to muck up the flow. But I had read somewhere that Madonna claimed she allowed herself one day to get over a bad break-up, so the Tuesday that the Evita soundtrack came out I designated as that get-over-it day.

Luckily, I did not have classes on Tuesday, so I slept in and putzed around the condo a bit. The day was dim and overcast, but there was no rain. I walked over to Tower Records (again, this was 1996, and it still stood on the corner of Newbury then) and bought the soundtrack.

I vividly recall the press Madonna was getting at the time, especially the one-two knock-out punch of Vanity Fair and Vogue. She was poignant, vulnerable, and poised on the brink of her first comeback following the Sex years. She’d had her first child – a daughter named Lourdes – and she was healing her lifelong hurt of a lost mother and a number of lost loves. In my dismal state I could somehow relate, and suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

So I chose freedom,

Running around, trying everything new,

But nothing impressed me at all,

I never expected it to…

The next weekend my cousin’s wedding was taking place in San Diego. It was both exactly what I needed, and the last thing I wanted. A wedding is a wretched place to get over a broken heart, but at our darkest moments most of us turn to family – the people who have no choice but to love us. Or so we hope.

The truth is I never left you,

All through my wild days,

My mad existence…

I kept my promise,

Don’t keep your distance.

In Logan Airport, I took off my winter coat and waited for the plane to board. In my ears I listened to Madonna sing that epic song. Midway across the country, flying over all those square states, a storm appeared to the left of the plane – lightning and thick clouds swirled, and in the dark of night I almost dared God to take all of us down – I was that far gone.

Up in the sky, I felt removed from everything. The seat next to me was empty (are there ever any empty seats anymore?) so I could lie down and nap, and the flight attendants didn’t mind. While the night progressed, I was moving West and turning back time. What could be found in those three hours I was momentarily gaining? Would there be wisdom there, and would that soothe the ache?

Landing in San Diego was a healing moment of its own – the balmy humidity was a salve on the raw coldness I brought from Boston. I hopped in a courtesy van and arrived at the hotel where my family was already going about their wedding business. All except my brother would not be told of my state of mind. I wasn’t even out yet, and the accompanying loneliness and sadness weighed secretly upon me.

I tried to distract myself with the sunniness of San Diego, and the silliness of fashion, finding a tiger-print coat and a maroon ostrich boa in a vintage shop. I asked my brother to take a photo of me walking in a park, head down and countenance downtrodden, and it would become that year’s somber Christmas card. Through it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unloved, and while my head (and my own brother) was telling me that this person was not worth the trouble, my heart would not be quieted – the heart wants what it wants.

At the wedding I talked and laughed with family. There were compliments on my outfits – there would always be compliments on my outfits – and if I had nothing else, I could still look good. I wondered then, if that’s all I had to offer. My lost suitor had been captivated by my clothes – in fact our first conversations revolved around clothing. How could such a superficial thing even compare to what I was feeling on the inside? And what do you do when you’ve built up such a pretty façade, but all anyone wants to do is look?

Such silly ruminations, and such a silly boy I was for feeling so devastated. Perhaps it’s even silly to speak of such things now. Yet these are the things that shaped me into the man I am today, and in so many ways those faults have not been perfectly patched. They run deep, and they run wide, and no matter how far I think I can go, they’re always with me.

And as for fortune and as for fame,

I never invited them in,

Though it seemed to the world

They were all I desired.

They are illusions,

They’re not the solutions

They promised to be

The answer was here all the time,

I love you

And hope you love me…

I didn’t cry for Argentina. I didn’t cry for Madonna and her newborn child and first shot at movie star credibility. I didn’t even cry for the boy who never sat next to me in class again.  I cried for that fact that love would never be easy for me, and that as good as I was at dressing up and making the ladies laugh, I could never be good at love.

In one of the magazine articles of the time, Madonna was talking about how she gained the coveted title role of the movie, and she said something that I grasped as hopeful for my goal of attaining a guy:

“I thought of a line from The Alchemist that goes something like, ‘If you want something bad enough the whole earth conspires to help you get it.’”

That’s not true in matters of love, and I think Madonna knows that too.

Have I said too much?

There’s nothing more I can think of to say to you…

But all you have to do is look at me

To know that every word is true.

Song #17: ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ – November/December 1996

A dorm room at Brandeis. The month was November, the sky gray, and the air damp – the time of year when it might rain or snow at any moment, but can’t make up its mind. Dusk settles early after the changing of the clocks, and at the dinner hour it is already dark. The radiator by the window hisses, as tiny beads of water condense on the pane. In the room, the only light comes from the outside safety lamp and the sliver of hallway fluorescence beneath the door.

The question is whether to walk all the way across campus to Sherman Hall to eat a quick dinner, or to take a nap and vainly attempt an escape until it’s really night. So much of life is taken up with these in-between moments – the ticking of the clock before or after what you think really matters. The waiting for something to begin. Five and ten-minute chunks of time where the real stuff of life happens. (Like sitting next to my husband in the moments before a movie is about to begin, holding off on the popcorn or not, and reading silly movie trivia over and over.)

On this November night – the night I am remembering from college – there is one of those transitions of time, in which I debate what to do next, while the clock ticks away. My coat is already on, but I hesitate, leaning back against the desk and looking outside. In my head, I go through the evening of coursework that should be done, that needs to be done, that absolutely must be done.

Our days are filled with hundreds of little decisions that must be made, and the thought that any one of them could be the one that changes our lives is a daunting, sometimes crippling idea. I don’t get bogged down in the details, in the endless decision-shifting. Make a choice and make the best of it. We cannot dwell in the past – but sometimes, on certain November nights, the past returns, if for no other reason than to remind us that while waiting for something to happen we might miss what is already happening.

The pockets of time we throw away – alone in a dorm room, commuting to work, waiting for the doctor to see us – have their own dim beauty, while carrying their own little light. I remember that night at Brandeis whenever I feel time might be getting away, when I question whether my life is on auto-pilot, when I need the inspiration to live in the moment. To be fully aware, to be completely cognizant, to notice and take in all of what surrounds us – this is how to be present, how to be a part of something. And after everything, all we really want is to belong.

If you’ve only kissed girls all your life, the first time you kiss a man is a shock. A rough shock. Literally. My face feels like it’s being shredded by some ridiculous grade of sandpaper. He holds my head in his hands, and this will not be the only way he hurts me. For now, though, it is completely what I want.

In the afternoon light of September, in an apartment on the steep incline of some side street in Beacon Hill, I am sharing my first kiss with a man. The year is 1994 and it’s the start of my sophomore year at Brandeis University. The room is small, and comprises both the bedroom area and the kitchen. A bathroom is outside off the hall.

The sheets on the bed are white, or the lightest of gray, and he doesn’t seem to have many worldly possessions. I’ve always envied that sparse sort of set-up, and those not bound by attachments or material goods. Even in a few short weeks I manage to accumulate things, my closet over-stuffed and scarce of empty hangers. Here, just a small collection of plates and kitchen utensils dries in a wire dish rack. A lone towel hangs on the doorknob. By the window a cluster of books stands on a table.

He excuses himself to take a quick shower, and I am shocked at his simple, instant trust of me, having only met a few hours before this. Already jaded before I’ve even been hurt – or maybe there’s some sort of hurt that I can’t even remember anymore, a phantom pain from not feeling loved or protected – and my suspicion lies hidden like a dagger, hidden but always present, ever-ready to strike, to slash, to slay.

He returns wearing only a white towel, and in that white light of the bed my summer-tanned body lays atop of his, the cool bright sheets blocking the slight breeze from the half-cracked window. I wonder what the other people on the street are doing in their apartments on this afternoon.

My face and lips feel raw after sliding against his stubble. It tickles and stings and troubles in a dangerous, intoxicating way. He admires me like no one has ever done before, but I’m still uncomfortable as he watches me pull my pants on. It seems odd to just leave, but he mentioned something about his shift, and it’s even stranger to think of staying, so I depart after leaving my phone number.

I step out of the stale smell of the old Brownstone row, and back on the street I look up to his window. He is there smiling and waving. I wave back and walk down to the bottom of Hancock Street. Across the way is the site of a former Holiday Inn that my mother once stayed in with me and my brother. We saw E.T. in the movie theater there that no longer exists. Part of me still feels like that little boy, but as I board the train I catch my reflection, and, aside from the backpack, it is the visage of a young man.

{To be continued…}

It was in some Victorian literature class at Brandeis, I think, when the professor made the pronouncement: all novels of the time either began or ended with a wedding. The same could be said of sweeps-week for the television networks, or romantic motion picture dramedies. So the lingering question of whether one’s wedding is the end or beginning of something has not gone unnoticed by this newlywed’s eyes.

Luckily for me, and for Andy, not all that much has changed, and aside from a brief bit of relief that I don’t have to make any paper cranes or organza roses, I’m already looking forward to what’s next. Up first is the rest of the summer, where I would love to simply sit by the pool and read (which is what I did most of the weekend, and it was grand). Then there is the second leg of ‘A 21^st Century Renaissance: The Resurrection Tour 2010’ which will start back up in Ogunquit, Maine next weekend. Andy and I will be in town to catch my former favorite musical Sunset Boulevard. Following that, we’re heading back to Boston for a birthday weekend, for which I’m already mapping out a restaurant odyssey (and a nostalgic trip to the aquarium).

To occupy the mind, I’ve begun work on my next project, due for release sometime in 2011. (And if you think that’s planning ahead, you should know that I have tentative projects on the backburner for 2013 and 2015. Yes, I’m that kind of Virgo.)

For now though, it’s all about the pool lounger, the enjoyment of which, far more than an impending 35^th birthday this very month, is the true sign of adulthood.

Fourteen years ago I convinced my parents to invest in a condo in the South End of Boston. The area could have gone either way at the time - fortunately it went the right way, and that initial purchase has literally quadrupled in value (found by yours truly, so I take more than a bit of credit for this investment). It was the Fall of my junior year at Brandeis University, and we closed on the condo in November. By December, I was staying there on weekends.

Those first few weeks are memorable for their scant surroundings. We didn’t even have a bed or a couch, and certainly not a television or a lamp, but I didn’t miss any of it. I had weaned myself off TV during my Freshman year, and the fact that I was right in the heart of Boston made up for any lack of entertainment readily available in the empty condo.

 In truth, I was finding my way in the quiet. I stood in the kitchen each morning, looking out the window and up at the John Hancock Tower and the Marriott Hotel, eating my breakfast (bagels from Finagle-a-Bagel – bought as a baker’s dozen) and orange juice (the single item in the refrigerator). In the evening I would cook up a simple dish of pasta, or just slice up another bagel. The floors had recently been refinished, and their expanse in the main room glowed warmly beneath the overhead ceiling lights.

By all rights, I should have been incredibly lonely. Away from friends and family and living on my own in a city could have spelled emotional disaster – but I only felt lonely once. It was early in the evening and I was returning to the condo after a day at work or school. I made my way down the Southwest Corridor – the leaves were still coming down from the late-holding oaks. It was just about to turn dark, but there was enough light in the sky to illuminate a bit of the darkest blue. I rounded the corner and saw my building. My gaze rose to our windows on the second floor. Dark, they did not wink at me, they did not invite me inside, they were completely closed. I stopped walking and felt overcome by… something. Exhaustion maybe, or something so daunting it didn’t have a name. At that moment, I could not bring myself to go inside. I knew if I did, that would be it – I would succumb to all the loneliness that I had simply not allowed myself to feel, knowing it would destroy me, knowing it would send me back to the dorm or back home, and I knew I couldn’t go back. But I also knew I couldn’t step into that empty condo in the dark – not right then.

 I turned around and walked back to Copley Square. If I could just be around people, in a well-lit, safe place, I could re-group and be all right. I didn’t need to call anyone or talk to a familiar voice – I just needed to be around people. It didn’t matter that they were strangers, or that they paid me no attention – it was enough to hear them talking and see them going about their lives. It fortified me to return. An hour or so later, I went back, walked into the empty condo, and felt fine. It was the single moment of honest loneliness that I ever felt there, and the last.

 Since then, I have cherished my time in Boston because, more often than not, it has been alone time. As much as I thought I was missing in my life back then, a part of me also realized how lucky I was – a young guy on the verge of his life, and all of its heartbreaks, waiting for the journey to begin and not even knowing he was already on it.

 These days I often return to the city, on my own, for a weekend getaway – a chance to regroup in a different way - now I go to find the solitude, and the quiet, and the empty expanse of a hardwood floor that still glows warmly on winter nights (even if the water-heater is broken).

I am rich in many homes.