When I look back at my life, it’s mostly been just a bunch of damage control. That was going to be a quick ‘Tiny Threads‘ entry, but it’s such a profoundly humorous statement it deserves its own blog post. So here we are, and here it is. Making something out of nothing – words to paper, paper to laptop, laptop to blog, blog to you. A small chain of events that brings me from the cafe in which this is being written to whatever device you find yourself skimming and soon skipping due to this unimpressive tedium.
It’s what I have to so often do when my mouth runs away with too much truth, when my words cut a little too deeply, when the good-natured ribbing hits differently depending on the recipient’s day.
The Easter Bunny and I have been trauma-bonded since that fateful photo shoot in the former Mohawk Mall, in which I was held against my will on a terrifying bunny’s lap. Of course you will get that shot below, because it’s everybody’s favorite fucking picture of me, people being gratuitously thrilled whenever I’m in peril or in uncomfortable situations. Maybe that’s why nothing fazes me anymore – you’ve all worn it out of me over the years.
Since no one was going to even bother protecting me from my fears, I was forced to face them head on, from the moment they paraded me into the dim lair of this Easter Bunny from hell to all the other hellish events I fought against over the years. And don’t tell me you didn’t know I was terrified – it’s on fucking film! (See below – that’s not a happy or calm kid.)
When Suzie asked when I last had a library card, the year 1986 came to mind, but it may have been before that. We were discussing libraries and what I needed to get a library card to start visiting the library near our home – turns out daily coffee/tea and cookies/muffin take a deep toll on the monthly budget – and Suzie said libraries were free because we as tax-payers have already paid for them.
I don’t really have a need for the book aspect of a library (I usually buy the books I want to read because I believe in paying an author for their words). A quiet sanctuary in which I write these blog posts and a possible new project was more what I was seeking, and as I made my way into the florescent-flooded ‘low-volume zone’ of the second floor, my memories of the deserted pin-drop quiet space of the Brandeis University libraries (especially the science one) faded as a group of tables seemed mostly filled with tutors and students – taken together it didn’t sound very ‘low volume’ at all. Still, some surrounding background noise never bothered me much (see my beloved cafe culture, which I found myself missing already) and though it had been decades since I’d done any work in a library, this felt thrillingly familiar.
At a nearby table, a tutor awaits her student. When she arrives with her father, he says he will be right back with Starbucks and asks the tutor if she wants anything. She politely declines, and he departs to pick up the food for his daughter. In about fifteen minutes, he returns with one of those very berry hibiscus drinks, which he puts down on the table along with a cookie. He goes back downstairs and the lesson continues for a few minutes, until the girl spills her drink all over the table. Frantic motions by the tutor save the girl’s phone and some papers.
What a difference a generation makes, I think. If I’d had to be tutored in grade school my father would NOT be bringing me Starbucks in the library. Though if I had a child I also would not be bringing them Starbucks in a library, so maybe it’s not a generation thing but an Ilagan thing.
I’m just getting used to writing in this atmosphere when a wailing cry sounds from downstairs. Someone is having a tantrum, while a group of other kids is running around to the point where some lady yells, “Boys! Somebody’s going to get hurt!” I couldn’t tell if she meant by accident or by her own hand.
By the time a very young girl, left to her devices with no accompanying adult in sight, stands right beside me to hide from someone below in a one-sided game of hide-and-seek, I know my time at this library has come to a close, at least for this afternoon.
Maybe I just need to find out when the downtime is and try again then. Or maybe I give up a new bottle of cologne and pay for cafe culture for another month.
“I’m the nerd on the sales team,” the man at the table nearby says to his female companion, who doesn’t seem to understand.
“The nerd?” she asks, as I realize English isn’t her first language.
“Do you know… nerd?” he asks again.
I can’t hear what she says, and they seem to move on awkwardly.
This is very clearly a first date. Exploratory questions like ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘What do you do?’ and the difficult-to-read-what-it-means, ‘Do you see yourself here forever?’ are stilted and awkward, but mostly I wish the guy had steamed out the bold horizontal wrinkle in the middle of his short-sleeved sweater. But maybe that’s a good sign – at least he cares to fold his sweaters neatly instead of jumbling them up in a ball. Or maybe he’s a serial killer. Always so hard to read a first date… Still, a little steam on a wrinkled sweater never hurt anything.
With English not being her first language, some of his jokes are falling flat, taken literally and then followed by her questions on what was said; repeating a joke takes all the life out of it. (At one point she said she was traveling to Puerto Rico soon and he said he was jealous. She earnestly asked why he was jealous of her, and he awkwardly said, “Oh, of your going to Puerto Rico…”)
Ahh, first dates… are they still for finding lifelong love? Are they just perfunctory foreplay for sex? I have no idea, and no interest in really finding out. They talk of what they did during COVID, where they went to school, former roommates… and I think that the lives we lead seem so mundane when put into bullet points for first date fodder. And at the same time, how absolutely fascinating all those things become when you are interested in the person sitting across from you.
I can’t tell if this minutes-old couple is feeling any of that. Does love at first sight exist? The closest I’ve come would be Andy. It was pretty instantaneous for my part (though he’s the one who said ‘I love you’ first, in the very bar where we first met, and in his own special way).
Listening to this couple it sounds as excruciating as it does exquisite, if they are into each other. Abruptly, it ends. She says something and he exhibits a surprised look. They put on their coats and walk outside, separating and going to their respective cars. Based on his look of dejection, I don’t think it went well.
The weekly blog recap that usually appears first thing on a Monday morning is pushed back until now in order to get early birthday wishes out to my niece and nephew. I’ve also been sidelined with a nasty sinus cold thing that has thrown me off-schedule in too many respects. Enough excuses, on with the weekly recap for those who actually care about such things…
Part of my efforts to be more mindful and present, while returning to more primal roots of writing, has been to write out these blog posts (and project work – shh!) by hand in a lined notebook. I’m already on my fourth or fifth volume of nonsense since last fall. Writing things out by hand was the best learning trick of high school, when I had to remember anything historical or scientific. It serves a different purpose now – it connects me to words more directly, like they are actually a part of me now left on paper for as long as paper will last.
The act of hand-writing forces me to slow down, as it takes longer than typing or dictating. Perhaps more importantly for my situation, where there is no one to edit or rein in the hubris, I find the re-typing of these entries from notebook to blog back-end a helpful opportunity to refine and improve what rough stuff initially pours out onto the page.
Reconnecting to a physical, real world endeavor, and a chance to revive my cursive (a dying art) are small antidotes to the social media disconnection plaguing so many of us. Writing things out at a cafe while sipping herbal tea and munching on a cookie or muffin is another way to connect – whether it’s in small talk with the barista or accepting a compliment on a coat from a fellow customer or overhearing conversation of tables nearby; humanity is all around us, providing little time to be truly alone.
And sometimes there is no lonelier place than a crowded cafe.
It was only ever intended as a silly time-killer, something to occupy waits in the self-service line at the market or the minutes before a therapy session when you don’t want to look at anyone else in waiting room – those in-between moments that somehow fill and comprise a day, a life. It was only when I found myself staying up past 1 AM trying to conquer the next level that I realized Block Blast was becoming a problem – and the larger realization that my phone occupied far too much of my life was not far behind. So I deleted it. Just the app. One quick click and it was gone – gone from the screen, gone from draining the battery, gone from distracting me from all the other more important items (because literally everything was more important than Block Blast).
It also got me out of my phone, and these past few months of astrological unrest were not aided by my being in the phone all day – nothing has ever been helped by being in the phone – and perhaps that was part of the reason for such unease.
I was seeking something more – something meaningful and real and concrete that wasn’t built or based on the flimsy fantasy of the false lives we depict on our phone screens. Perhaps that is the underlying purpose of this spring – to reconnect with real life, to partake in physical actions, to reinhabit the living world and communicate in ways beyond texts or e-mails or social media posts. Maybe it means sharing things in more personal and direct manners than passive-aggressive blog posts (you still know who you are).
For our first lilac blog recap of spring, I give you a photo of a gardenia. That’s the sort of silly bitch I infuriatingly refuse not to be. We have arrived at Spring 2026 on this blog – is it everything you thought it would be, or is it more? Read all that you may have missed in this weekly blog recap, and celebrate the fact that we made it through the winter wilderness.
One of the only things we as a people can do anymore is peacefully assemble, especially as one of the most basic of rights – the right to vote – is now in jeopardy. This right to protest may be our last chance to show the world, the history of this moment, and the future wonderers of what on earth we were doing at the time of all this madness.
To that end, this coming Saturday, March 28, 2026 marks the next ‘No Kings’ Rally for opposing the current fascist dictator who its got us into a war with Iran just to distract from his own pedophile allegations in the Epstein files. These past few months have left many of us feeling helpless and hopeless – this may be the only thing we can do, and possibly the last thing we can do, because our elected officials don’t want to stop anything.
I attended the last ‘No Kings’ rally in Boston this past October, and it was then that I felt how important it was for the soul to be surrounded with people for whom democracy and freedom and basic human decency still mattered. There was a galvanizing restoration of spirit and faith in our country that was vital in a way that I didn’t quite realize how badly I needed.
Visit the ‘No Kings’ website here for all the info on a rally near you. It’s time to take part, take a stand, and stake a claim in what you want your legacy to be in this moment in history. When your grandchildren or anyone in the next generation asks you what you did when all this was happening, what will you say?
This marks my 50th spring season – a full half-century of sensing the rebirth and awakening of the land in Northeastern America. Aaron Copland perfectly rendered an annual approximation of the waking season, culminating in an ancient Quaker tune and resolving in the sonic expression of a world coming alive again.
At the time of this writing, the ground is still frozen, there are still patches of dirty snow, and thick masses of ice shift slowly in the pool. Spring always starts so hesitantly before it deigns to leap. Who can say what fits and starts need to happen before the earth really warms up and thaws out? It’s just waiting to happen, waiting to unfold and unfurl. No need to rush; be mindful of every moment. Be present. Be yourself in every conceivable way.
The lilac brigade is coming… unless the buds were killed under the cruelty of winter. That’s happened before and it’s no joke. After fifty springs, you learn to accept whatever comes.
It was during the mid-20th-century when something termed the ‘Lavender Scare’ was spreading across our great country. A ‘moral panic’ about homosexuality resulted in thousands of gay employees being fired or forced to resign from government employment. Branding gay employees as a national security risk due to the ignorant idea that we could be vulnerable to blackmail didn’t happen that long ago, and it doesn’t feel far-fetched at this present moment to think of something similar happening again. Look at all the persecution, threats, and violence that trans people face, some of it supported by the politicians in power.
I lost myself on a cool damp night Gave myself in that misty light Was hypnotized by a strange delight Under a lilac tree…
I made wine from the lilac tree Put my heart in its recipe It makes me see what I want to see Be what I want to be
Rather than repeat the Lavender Scare in these parts, this spring’s theme is a treacherous turnabout of the idea. This shall be the spring of the Lilac Scare – our own personal rising up against all the hate that once fomented the Lavender Scare, turning anything and everything on its head that might in any way be an attack on the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. The Lilac Scare is not some moral panic about the dangers of homosexuality – it’s a panic about the complete absence of morals in those attacking us – a panic about the hypocrisy of hate disguised as religion. This is a panic that will be instigated by the people who have been condemned and stomped on for so long that we are fed up and fighting back.
When I think more than I want to think Do things I never should do I drink much more than I ought to drink Because it brings me back you
This Lilac Scare Spring will be about the pretty, pastel, prim and proper lilac too, but do not be fooled by it perfumed beauty. People forget, or simply neglect to realize in the first place, how incredibly hardy the lilac is, how indestructible they can be with some lasting well beyond a century. They refuse to acknowledge lilac’s diabolical insistence on surviving and thriving and delivering magic and fragrant wonder every spring. They ignore the insidious way its shoots and suckers gradually strangle out a well-manicured lawn, and the stalwart, gnarled trunks each tree eventually develops as proof of its tenacity and testament to its endurance. They pretend away lilac’s ancient history, how it refuses to yield to time the way all of us must at some point do. They underestimate lilac’s power and potency, fooled by the sweet flowers and how seemingly benign they be in their fleeting duration.
Lilac wine is sweet and heady like my love Lilac wine, I feel unsteady like my love Listen to me, I cannot see clearly Isn’t that he coming to me nearly here?
They forget that lilac can be a lethal poison flower – not in any literal sense, we drink the lilac wine without harm, don’t we? – but in the way lilac calls to and captures those who happen upon its perfume, who sniff it thinking it’s such harmless stuff. Lilac enthralls with nostalgic childhood memory, spinning a sweet spider-web-like strand of silk that seductively pulls us back in time to happier, more carefree moments, lulling us with endless sentences and songs from our youth, and leading us to believe with exquisitely mesmerizing fashion that all is hope, all is possible, all is beautiful, and all is spring.
And then, sooner than its blooms turn to brown, sooner than its beauty begins to decay, lilac snatches it all away.
Precisely that for which the present moment is so desperately clamoring.
Lilac wine is sweet and heady, where’s my love? Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, where’s my love? Listen to me, why is everything so hazy? Isn’t that he, or am I goin’ crazy, dear?
Lilac sees your war, has seen your wars for centuries, and lilac knows how you are only sending your children to their deaths. Lilac sees your history, has seen your history for centuries, and lilac knows how your history is one of hate. Lilac sees all that you are doing, and all that you aren’t, in your silence, in your complicity, in your turning another blind eye to the deplorable criminals around you. Lilac offers its pretty perfume, its pretty flowers, and lets you have its beauty for only a moment, fooling you into thinking things will be all right, that things aren’t the bad, that spring will always come again. But lilac knows… and so do we.
This Lilac Scare shall be retribution for the Lavender Scare. We’re better than you, we’re stronger than you, and we no longer fucking care. I’m ready for the fight, I’m ready for the battle, I’m ready for the war to end the hate once and for all. Above all else, I’m ready for the love – the love that dares to speak its unabashed name for the entire world to hear. Love that has yet to be vanquished. Love that has yet to be defeated. Love – and only love – that shall last.
Lilac Wine, I feel I’m ready for my love Feel I’m ready for my love
Our Winter Obscura comes to a close tonight. When I think back to the very first day of winter, it feels very far away. Those first few days passed slowly, but it would actually get slower as the season waned, and the sustained cold and growing snow cover grew more unbearable. Something told me this would be a winter of obscurity, something said so in the stars, so I gave myself room for that, room for the unresolved, room for the confusion, room for not knowing. When you begin to acknowledge that you may never know, you come closer to the truth.
Rather than recap every blog post of the winter (those days are done) I’ll give you the highlights – though if you’re anything like me you won’t be revisiting this winter anytime soon.
Grogu at the Oscars is the energy and attitude I will be bringing into the spring season.
Now, I haven’t seen any Mandalorian shows, and I don’t even think this is the baby Yoda (just the same species?) so if this creature is not someone to emulate, pretend this post never happened.
