Impishly Unpredictable Even To Myself

   If it weren't for my continuous dreaming, my perpetual state of alienation, I could very well call myself a realist - someone, that is, for whom the outer world is an independent nation. But I prefer not to give myself a name, to be somewhat mysterious about what I am an to be impishly unpredictable even to myself.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 221

Over the years I've often noted that my internal battle between being a realist and a dreamer - a product of the Enlightenment or a product of Romanticism - takes on the nature and dimension of the battle of Stalingrad. I have always definitely thought of myself as a realist, but maybe that's actually a part of my nature that I dislike. At the same time, I am undeniably a dreamer, which is probably why I've fallen so deeply into The Book of Disquiet and Pessoa's own dreamlike existence (or at least ambition). Or, maybe it would be more honest to admit that this is part of my bigger desire not to be known, "impishly unpredictable" to others, although, as Pessoa proposed, "even to myself." Maybe if you're known by others then you're also owned by others, and being unknown leaves you in control of yourself. 

Side note: I started a series at Champlain entitled  Books That Matter, where people are encouraged to come give an hour talk on a book that they think is important. I presented The Book of Disquiet, and exactly four people showed up for the talk, which is a pretty good example of the general exhaustion that people feel with me. My dear friend Sandy officially retired last week and it hit me pretty hard, and made me think about my own retirement. At this point it's probably the disinterest and disrespect of my colleagues that is inspiring the decision to step away more than my own physical collapse. As I've always joked, when I'm no longer the scariest person in the room I don't want to be in the room anymore; I think I've reached the point where no one even realizes that I'm in the room.

Squid Ink Pasta Yet Again

 I have nothing to add to this picture of shrimp and squid ink pasta other than I should be eating it right now. I was fulling out picture from my phone and came across this picture from last summer's trip to Portugal. OK, look, I know I haven't even had breakfast yet but there's no reason why this isn't a perfectly legitimate choice for café da manha.

JP and I just stumbled across crazy inexpensive tickets for Lisbon for next March, which means that a spring break trip may be on the schedule - and thus this dish may be in my near future.

Save The Date Indeed

 OK, I guess it's definitely official. My son Gary and his fiancée Ali are getting married on 14 September 2024. This is such extraordinary news. She's wonderful and they're so good together. I could not be happier for them. It's funny when you realize that your kids are suddenly, finally, fully-fledged and functioning adults - which I guess doubles down when they're getting married. 

I'm assuming her song X Boyfriends will not be played at the reception.

Presepio

 One of the discoveries of this past summer's trip to Portugal was the art museum in Lisbon.  Janet was in the middle of writing so I skived off to visit the museum. There I discovered presepios - that is, cribs or mangers - or maybe it's better to think of them as religious miniatures. They might have "lived" in churches, but you were apparently also just as likely to find them in private homes. They were closed up most of the time, but then you could open them up to explore the little world inside. As a child I would have been absolutely fixated on them.

Pure Ascetic

 The rustic, the reader of novels, the pure ascetic - these three are happy in life, for these three types of men all renounce their personalities: one because he lives by instinct, which is impersonal, another because he lives by the imagination, which is forgetting, and the third because he doesn't live but merely (since he still hasn't died) sleeps.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 232

Truthfully, I don't know if I've actually processed all of this passage yet, but, like so much of Pessoa, I think he's giving me the tools to arrive at a deeper understanding. Maybe I'm just drawn to this because I've moved into the wilderness and I see myself in all three of these categories. Earlier in this chapter Pessoa notes, "Happy the man who doesn't ask for more than what life spontaneously gives him, being guided by the instinct of cats, which seek sunlight when there's sun, and when there's no sun then heat, wherever they find it." One of the reasons why I think I've been so unhappy during so much of my life - or at least much less happy than I should have been - is that I consistently over-thought everything, not necessarily because I've been too intellectual (because, well, I think we know that's not true) but because I felt that I was supposed to over-think everything, that somehow that gave me an intellectual bona fides that growing up in southern Indiana didn't provide. I used to opine that Graceland made sense once you visited Elvis's childhood home in Tupelo, Mississippi. Maybe the emotional carnage of so much of my life makes sense because of my own stunted intellectual/emotional youth. From now on, I'm following the example of the cats.

 

Yes, because I need more pictures of Wadi Rum sunsets

 Seriously, how many photos of Wadi Rum sunsets are buried here in this blog? The answer: not enough.

Why am I not there - on the cliff above Suleyman's camp - right now?

Perhaps That Is How the Iliad Was Written

   If in art there were the office of improver, then I would have a function in life, at least in my life a an artist.

  To begin with somebody else's creation, working only on improving it . . . Perhaps that is how the Iliad was written.

  Anything but to have to struggle with original creation!

  How I envy those who produce novels, those who begin them and write them and finish them! I can imagine novels chapter by chapter, sometimes with the actual phrases of dialogue and the narrative commentary in between, but I'm incapable of committing these dreams of writing to paper . . . . . .

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 291

I have this sinking suspicion that someday I'll be as famous/infamous as Fernando Pessoa for never actually finishing my larger writing projects. In there are probably many reasons for this ignominious reality: 1) I teach in an interdisciplinary programs with a heavy teaching load, none of the courses in my own discipline - and the curriculum is constantly being revised, and 2) I'm a very dedicated teacher who devotes an incredible amount of time to class prep and looking after my students (I suppose this is a subset of point #1, but in other ways it's a separate point - I have several colleagues who are facing the same challenges but also don't particularly give a shit about their students or the quality of their classes), and 3) I work on two many different projects - mainly, I guess, because I find all of them interesting - which means instead of simply finishing the Epics project I'm also tinkering with Ramadan in Winter (my personal reflection on Islam) and a couple creative writing projects, and 4) I'm the laziest person in the world - at least that's what my father repeatedly told me growing up and I suspect he was/is right, and 5) I'm more than a bit of a coward in regards to my writing, and 6) I'm utterly talentless.

Maybe this is why I'm so drawn to Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet: I completely understand  why - and sympathize with - his inability to finish his projects.

Oh, and I completely swiped his reference to the Iliad for this related chapter in the Epics book.

Hustle and Bustle

 Yes, this is actually where we live.

I think this satellite picture is a little misleading: there's not that much going on in Calais.

CFL Thanksgiving Excellence 2023

 As we all know, and which none of us need to be reminded, I am Vermont's leading CFL fan. Sadly, I had somehow manage3d to make it through the season without going to even one CFL game season, which says something very bad about me. Happily, I kept up a long-standing tradition of heading up to Montreal for their own long-standing tradition: the Thanksgiving (Canadian version) Montreal Alouettes game. Over the years I've dragged many of my friends up to the Thanksgiving game, and this year I brought my excellent friend Mike Kelly (who was there for his second Thanksgiving game extravaganza). Since it was the only game of the year I splurged: great seats right on the 55 yard line.

Mike and I spent a rainy, but wonderful, day analyzing the strategy.

Three things of note: 1) great Ali McGuirk hat swag; 2) my traditional Alouettes shirt; 3) damn, that dude is ancient.

As is also well-documented - as long as we see a rouge the trip is worth it. In fact, we saw two. My soon (although apparently not too soon) to be written book on the CFL will be entitled: As Long As We See A Rouge. My friends have heard me say this so many times.

Bife com Molho de Cafe

 Seriously, who wouldn't like steak with coffee sauce? Especially when it has an egg on top? I'll tell you who couldn't resist it: Fernando Pessoa. The Brasileria, one of Pessoa's haunts, was a very lovely place to sit and write or simply watch the world go by.

E batatas fritas.

And Yet Again

 OK, so I know I post too many pictures of the cabin, but, seriously, sometimes I'm just amazed that I live here. It's not perfect, certainly, and sometimes maddening (as I prepare to load all the trash into my car and head off to the dump), but it's a sweet life. Whenever Janet and I talk about moving to Portugal we also come back to the fact that it would be very hard to leave here.

Just snapped this the other night as I was climbing out of the car after class (soon, soon, all too soon, I will be coming back in pitch darkness).

Chapel of Bones

 I mentioned that when hadn't been in Evora very long before Janet began looking for property online. It's definitely a beautiful town - as I described, oddly both medieval and also hip - but I think what pushed JP over the edge was our walk through the Chapel of Bones. You would think that a room constructed out of human bones would be creepy - and I think Janet thought it would be before she walked in - but it actually ends up feeling exactly the opposite way. I suppose that it should feel like the Catacombs in Paris, but it doesn't at all, which may be because it's above ground and airy - and because it's attached to a beautiful cathedral - or maybe because the bones were volunteered and not simply moved out of perceived necessity. No matter the answer, visiting it actually felt completely life-affirming. And apparently we'll be visiting it a lot when we live in Evora.

I Dream of Sleep

 A couple days ago I was talking about our visit to Madrid and the corresponding museum orgy. It was so lovely to get back to see them again, and I was reminded what a great museum the Thyssen is.  While roaming around their modern art section I stumbled across a Tracey Emin neon light sculpture. I've made extensive use of her art, especially her neon light sculptures, over the years in various classes so it was more than a bit exciting see one in person.

If you aren't familiar with Emin's work you should really check it out. Part of it relates to a series of her (very distinctive) sketches and hand-written scrawls that she turned into neon light art. It's like walking into her head.

The Mischief of Each Day

 To see all the things that happen to us as accidents or incidents from a novel, which we read not with our eyes but with life. Only with this attitude can we overcome the mischief of each day and the fickleness of events.

Fernando Pessoa. The Book of Disquiet, ch. 246

One of my favorite bar questions has always been: what filmmaker would you choose to direct your life story - or which author would write your life story? I suppose I wouldn't choose Pessoa because he'd never actually finish the job - and then they'd find all his Scudder-related pages in a big trunk decades later, and the papers would be in not logical order and others would have the power to organize them as they see fit. Of course, actually, that might be the best fit, all thins considered. Doubtless they would do a better job making sense of my life than I have. Now, the bigger question, at least as related to this passage, is how one should approach life. As Epictetus tells us, it's not the events that happen to you that matter, but instead your response to them. 

Naturally

 One of the peculiarities of this past summer's trip to Portugal is the number of folks who thought we were a charming old married couple who had somehow kept the fires burning even after all these decades. I guess "all these decades" part of the equation makes sense. Maybe it would have made more sense  if they knew that we'd only been married a year (and, in fact, celebrated our first anniversary on the trip). Yesterday we had dinner at Sarducci's and the waitress asked if we were on a date. I told her it was even worse: we're married.

This came, unbidden, but much appreciated, from a waitress we loved at the Brasileira Cafe in Lisbon.

A Not Entirely Clear and Definitive Individual

 To organize our life in such a way that it becomes a mystery to others, that those who are closest to us will only be closer to not knowing us. That is how I've shaped by life, almost without thinking about it, but I did it with so much instinctive art that even to myself I've become a not entirely clear and definitive individual.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 115

I used to joke that I could, almost innately, understand why everybody did everything, with one obvious and alarming exception: me. I don't know if that's changed much, and maybe I don't know why I've remained a mystery to myself because I've spent so much time and effort remaining a mystery to everyone else. Maybe I thought that it made me seem more interesting, more aloof and mysterious, or maybe I just found others far more interesting than myself, and thus investigating them always took precedent over exploring myself.

Dunhuang After a Fashion

 Here's another picture that has wafted in from the past. This is from my friend Kerry, who wasn't on this part of the China trip (that is, the far west) which means that I sent it to her fourteen years ago and now she's returned the favor. Here I am with the other professors on the Silk Road/Journey to the West faculty trip, in this case at Dunhuang. At the time I don't think I understand how much I was hanging by a thread emotionally (and obviously physically). In between leaving one woman and being dumped by another, I found myself being robbed of my past and my future. Obviously, I ended up in a very nice spot - and had many adventures along the way - but I think I was simply too destroyed to enjoy, appreciate, and learn from an amazing opportunity. Since that time I've taught several classes relating to Journey to the West and the Silk Road, but the classes would have been much richer if I had not been wavering so close to the edge then.

I remember not being as impressed by Dunhuang as I should have been, no doubt partially because I was still in my love affair with India - mainly I was thinking that I had simply seen more amazing places in India and thus I was mindlessly dismissive of the experience.

Lamb Loin

 OK, as promised, the top five meal that we had at the converted convent in Evora, the Convento do Espinheiro. It was such a quintessential European meal: a smaller portion and heavy on quality as compared to quantity (I'm talking to you, America). It was lamb loin, which I had never had. Oh my good God.  It also featured migas, a very traditional southern Portuguese staple (you can find it in Spain as well). I tend to think of migas as something like goetta, that is, a way, initially, for poor folks to stretch the food. Migas is often made with stale bread, which is then jazzed up with garlic and olive oil - and then often pork meat drippings or asparagus or tomato or coriander.  We had first had migas at our first meal after visiting the Chapel of Bones (when Janet started looking for property), and that's when we learned that it was a staple in the region. The chef threw a fried egg on top because, well, just because. Truthfully, as you might expect, the migas can be a bit bland, but in this case the au jus was extraordinary.

This was my order on our official anniversary meal, although I think it will now be my official go-to meal every time we stay at the Convent. 

God in the Funniest Places

 Or maybe not.

On this year's trip we included a side trip to Madrid, partially because Janet had never visited there before and partially to embark on a museum orgy. The drive from Evora to Madrid (and through the madness of Madrid traffic) was a bit of a challenge, made more so by the fact that it was 106 F. Still, it was so lovely to get back to the big three museums in Madrid: Museo Nacional del Prado, Muyseo Thyssen-Bornemisza, and Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. We almost didn't go to the Thyssen, at least until I told Janet to do a little more research; mainly, she was being sensitive to my limited mobility and thought that two long museums days in two days was already going to wear on me, let along throwing in another long museum walk for the second day. However, once she did some more research on the Thyssen it, thankfully, worked its way back into the itinerary. Even considering my pain I loved every minute of our museum tours (I had not visited them in a few years). 

I had a couple quasi-religious experiences (and I'm not throwing the term around lightly). One related to El Greco, and I'll discuss that later. The other one related to sitting down in front of Rothko's Green on Maroon. Throughout the three museums I tended to move from bench to bench, then plopping down and resting for a few (sometimes more than a few) minutes. This limited the amount that I saw, although, to bear fair, I had visited all three museums a couple times previously (again, my life makes no sense), but it also forced me/allowed me/empowered me tp devote more time and attention to individual paintings. Late in the afternoon when we visited the Thyssen I collapsed down in front of Rothko's Green on Maroon and it all but swallowed me up. I snapped this picture and texted it to a couple friends, commenting that I think I saw God in the painting. Normally, in the past, my friends would have rightly assumed that I was being facetious - and they probably would have been right - but now, they would more naturally assume that I was making a sincere point as I struggled with my understanding of the divine - and in this case they would have been right as well; essentially, I'm not the man that I used to be. If, as we're taught in the Qur'an, God is as close as our jugular vein, then God can be found anywhere, even in a painting, and maybe especially in a painting.

Over the last few years I've found myself drawn to Rothko's paintings. I'm not certain why it took so long.

Our New Home?

 Every trip has unexpected treasures and on this summer's trip to Portugal that would definitely be our time in Evora. It's not as if I didn't know that Evora would be cool, I just didn't predict how much we would love it. After touring the Chapel of Bones (a detailed post soon) we sat down at a café and Janet immediately started researching real estate. And that was even before we checked into the converted convent that we loved so much that we cut a day off our stay in Madrid so that we could come back and stay at the convent again. In a couple days I'll post a  picture of the meal we had in the convent, which was definitely one of the five best meals I've ever had.

The dining room in the basement of the convent, the former wine cellar.

Alone During Playtime

 God created me to be a child and willed that I remain a child. But why did he let Life beat me up, take away my toys and leave me alone during playtime, my weak hands clutching at my blue, tear-stained smock? If I couldn't live without loving care, why was this thrown out with the rubbish? Ah, every time I see a child crying in the street, left there on his own, the jolting horror of my exhausted heart grieves me even more than the child's sadness. I grieve with every pore of my emotional life, and it is my hands that wring the corner of the child's smock, my mouth that is contorted by read tears, my weakness, my loneliness . . . And all the laughs from the adult life passing by are like the flames of match struck against the sensitive fabric of my heart.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 407

As I've discussed, I think I failed in my first attempt to read The Book of Disquiet. Essentially, I didn't understand what he was trying to do - and trying to say. There are definitely passages where Pessoa simply reads as merely mopey (a sort of pre-Goth Goth) but hang in there, because you eventually discover a remarkably tender and wounded heart, in addition to a profound commentator on the human condition. Maybe the passage above is somewhere in between. It clearly reveals his pain, but he can't help pointing out that when he sees the suffering child in the street "my exhausted heart grieves me even more than the child's sadness." The problem with the extreme interiorization of a writer/thinker like Pessoa is that sometimes you can't climb out of that interior. You're making contact with the rest of the world, but their suffering can serve mainly as a bridge to your own - as compared to your own suffering forming a bridge to the suffering of the world.

Obviously, this would be a good place to include a link to Young's I Am A Child. 

So Many Camel Rides

 It's funny, I hadn't thought about my first trip to China in a long time (it was fourteen years ago, and, well, a million things, both good and bad, have happened in my life since then). And then I bumped into my friend Kathy a couple weeks back and she sent me some pictures - and then my friend Kerry sent along some pictures - and suddenly I'm awash in China pictures. That said, the memories are not flowing as torrentially as the pictures are. Back in the day I used to travel with actual physical journals and I wonder if any of them from that trip are still buried in my desk? Despite the adventure of my first trip to China it was also a real low point in my life and maybe I don't want to read them. Still, I might do some digging.

Here's a picture from somewhere in western China, probably along the borders of the Taklamakan Desert. I was thinking that maybe it was the first time I ever rode a camel, but that was 2009 and I had travelled to Jordan for the first time five years earlier and I must have ridden one on my first trip to Petra. Since then I've ridden several camels. I'm sure this particular one enjoyed the ride more than most since I was about fifty pounds lighter in separation/divorce/misery diet mode.

Oddly, one place I never rode a camel was in Oman, the place where I saw the most camels. It seemed like every time Laura and I turned around there were dozens of them ambling about.

JP and FP

 Here's a silly picture from this summer's trip to Portugal and Spain. Janet and I were sitting out in front of the Brasileria, a cafe that was a personal favorite of Fernando Pessoa - and which was situated right outside our hotel in Lisbon. Janet was mugging with the Pessoa statue over her shoulder as we waited for yet another bottle of wine and yet another delicious plate of food. Sitting outside the cafe and writing was an absolute joy.

She had to suffer through the face that every time someone would come up to post with the statue I'd mutter under my breath, "I bet they've never even read The Book of Disquiet  . ."

There's Something Wrong With That Boy

 I ran into my friend Kathy Leo-Nyquist the other day and we were reminiscing about the time that we were part of a crew of Champlain professors who travelled to China. It was part of the infamous seven country/seven week trip that I made in 2009 when I was freshly separated and my sense of self-loathing was at its most intense (as you can see from my relatively skeletal body - I was in the middle of the breakup diet that far too many of us go on at one time or another); it helped that I actually had some place to sleep other than my office and something to eat other than ramen noodles. Unfortunately, on my last stop, Barcelona, my camera was swiped so most of the pictures - and memories - the trip were lost. Happily, Kathy sent me a bunch of pictures of the trip, the one below being one of them. We were all together for a week or so in Beijing before the rest of the professors took off for southern China on a faculty development tour and I went off to far western China alone on a different one.

Seriously, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing in this photo - either yelling or just gesticulating wildly in the midst of a ridiculous story or some combination of the two.

In a Future in Which I Won't Belong

 It sometimes occurs to me, with sad delight, that if one day (in a future in which I won't belong) the sentences I write are read and admired, then at last I'll have my own kin, people who 'understand' me, my true family in which to be born and loved. But far from being born into it, I'll have already died long ago. I'll be understood only in effigy, when affection can no longer compensate for the indifference that was the dad man's lot in life.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 191

Actually, beyond the number of depressing/distressing posts I've had lately, I don't necessarily consider this to a sad reflection on the part of Pessoa.  Earlier today I was talking to Janet about my interest/fascination with learning Portuguese. I told her that I think it falls into three categories: 1) whether or not we end up moving to Portugal I could very well see us spending four or six weeks in the country every year, and I'd like to be able to fit in - and not simply be one of those American wankers who live, especially on the southern coast, who don't actually try and live in Portugal, 2) I'm at age where learning a foreign language is a really good way to keep your brain lubricated, and 3) it pains me that I've reached the age of sixty-three and I'm one of those Americans - and the very ones that I make fun of - for not speaking, or even trying to speak, a second language. Essentially, I'm embarrassed that I don't speak another language, and even if I speak a particularly ugly version of Portuguese I'm still going to try and speak Portuguese.

Finally, it gets at a bigger point: how have I reached this point and have not finished a couple books? I have publications, but they inevitably relate to teaching (which, obviously, is nothing to be ashamed of - and I'll doubtless finish my life being a better teacher than a scholar). Still, I have a doctorate and people with doctorates should be produced more tangible and useful scholarship, even if future generations don't pay much attention to it. However, if they do, that may be the family reunion I finally attend.

Better the Flight of the Bird

    Better the flight of the bird that passes and leaves no trace

    Than the passage of the animal, recorded in the ground.

    The bird passes and is forgotten, which is how it should be,

    The animal, no longer there and so of no further use,

    Uselessly shows it was there.

    Remembrance is a betrayal of Nature,

    Because yesterday's Nature isn't Nature.

    What was is nothing, and to remember is not to see.

    Pass by bird, pass, and teach me to pass!

                          Fernando Pessoa (as Alberto Caeiro)

Or, as Marcus Aurelius would remind us, soon you will have forgotten the world and the world will have forgotten you. Yeah, eventually I'll push through this mood, and I'm definitely wallowing in it too much as of late. The other day my wonderful friend MK sent me a note which read, "No matter what happens with your balance or your body or any of that shit, know that you are still the awesome funny, kind, thoughtful friend you've always been and none of this bullshit will change that. Love you." I told him that I couldn't accurately express how much I loved his note, and how much I clearly needed to hear what I didn't know I needed to hear.

The Size of What I See

    From my village I see as much of the universe as can be seen from the earth,

    And so my village is as large as any town,

    For I am the size of what I see

    And not the size of my height . . .

                                 Fernando Pessoa (as Alberto Caeiro)

OK, so this is not actually drawn from Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet, but I'm still using the Disquiet tag. While Pessoa used over fifty heteronyms in his writing Alberto Caeiro was one of the holy trilogy along with Ricardo Reis and Alvaro de Campos. This is what led Richard Zenith, the most popular translator of Pessoa (I'm quoting from his A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe collection) to propose that the four important 20th century Portuguese poets were Fernando Pessoa. I guess this jumped out at me because, as one can tell from the desultory mood of a previous post, I'm struggling with a decreasing universe; essentially, if I'm the size of what I can see I'm clearly losing height. In her Persons & Portraits Cynthia Freeland discussed the four selves, with one of them being the Bodily Self, meaning that our manufactured selves are based on different experiential identities and one of them is our existence as physical beings. Yes, I know that if I'm forced to retire I could still devote myself to writing and, and least theoretically, still see a vast and fathomless universe, and thus I would be as tall as Hanuman as he jumped across the Indian Ocean to Lanka, but I'm having trouble getting to that point. 

TASTee Grill

 And after that depressing post, let me post something a little happier, Here's a picture of my dear friend Kevin entering Vermont's TASTee Grill, a place that he stumbled across. It's now become my go to place for early morning breakfasts on the nights I stay over in Burlington. Like a lot of places the guy who runs it is having trouble balancing the books and keeping wait staff, so sometimes he and I are the only people in the place.

Seriously, how can a greasy spoon inside a Sunoco station not be great?

A Far Shittier Yes

 The other day I was in the midst of yet another medical test, in this case a more sophisticated vascular test, which form a seemingly boundless tapestry over the last two and a half year. When I step back and think about all the doctors' visits and tests I've waded through it's rather daunting: seven MRIs, three EMGs, two epidurals, two vascular tests, a stress test, who knows how many x-rays, seemingly gallons of blood work, etc. (truthfully, I often forget how many tests or doctors - general practitioners, spine doctors, pain doctors, neurologists, neurosurgeons, orthopedic surgeons, etc. - I've seen). Anyway, I was on my back while three doctors ran a series of tests to measure my vascular capacity (I still don't have that results on that one) and I turned to one of the doctors and said: "You know, it's strange, but whenever I get a 'no' or a 'within normal limits' on a test it actually makes me sad, because I feel that it's just setting me up for a later far shittier yes on a test." He nodded as if her completely understood. I don't mean to sound too depressed or bitter, because in many ways I'm not, even when I'm practically climbing up the stairs while using my hands or resorting to using my cane all the time. And I do appreciate all the hard work from all of these health care professionals. They can't seem to figure out my deteriorating condition, but it doesn't mean that they aren't trying. I received a lovely, and a bit heartbreaking, not from my neurologist the other day apologizing for not being able to diagnose my condition. In a previous visit I had told him that I wasn't angry or frustrated as much as simply afraid. The trajectory of my declining health doesn't inspire a lot of confidence. In November 2021, on my trip to Jordan with my son, I managed to climb all the way up to the Monastery at Petra, which was probably a ten mile hike and climb; at the end I barely dragged myself out of the siq, but, by God, I made it. Fast forward a year to November 2022 when, on a student trip, I barely made the half-hour largely flat walk in and out to the Treasury - and by the March student trip I didn't even walk from the hotel to the entrance of the siq. On the flight back by legs essentially gave up the ghost and I had to be pushed through the Istanbul Airport in a wheelchair (and experience made even worse by the nice airport assistant driving the wheelchair like I was a child on an afternoon stroll to the park - thankfully only my friend Cyndi was there to see me cry in sadness and humiliation). Unless something magical shows up on the latest vascular test, which doubtless wouldn't be very promising news, obviously, the next step will be Dartmouth-Hitchcock or some teaching hospital in Boston, as I queue up for a far shittier yes.

 

The Most Contemptible Thing

 The most contemptible thing about dreams in that everyone has them. The delivery boy who dozes against the lamppost in between deliveries is thinking about something in his darkened mind. I know what he's thinking about: the very same things into which I plummet, between one and another ledger entry, in the summer tedium of that stock-still office.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, chapter 142

But why is it so contemptible? I think Pessoa's point is that there is actually, almost universally, nothing really unique or interesting about all of us, just maddeningly subtle shades of gray mediocrity. However, that's not how we view ourselves. Rather, we see ourselves as utterly unique and fascinating creatures, distinguished only by our degree of genius. And, if we don't want to go that far, we at least hope/recognize/believe that we are more unique and interesting than the dregs with which we are forced to share the planet. That said, is the problem not that we dream the same dream, but rather that we dream it in a society that values individuality above all else? Would the shared dreams be as contemptible if we lived in a more collective society? Or, is the thing that he is struggling with is actually our shared humanity, and recognizing it means that we have to give up the vision that we are unique and fascinating creatures?

The Entourage

 I remember, years and years ago, taking my son to see my mother. At that moment I had just shaved off my beard, which I had had for almost twenty years (over the years I've occasionally shaved it off, mainly to change my luck). After about two hours my mother looked at me and said, "Something looks different about you." She didn't notice this pretty substantial alteration because I had already served my purpose: bringing her grandson (who she shamelessly doted on until the end). I thought of this recently when my wonderful friends Andy and Heidi travelled back from Michigan to visit their old friends in Vermont. Mainly, of course, they acted as chauffeurs for their daughter Sylvie Maple. It was also their tenth wedding anniversary, which speaks to the excellence of the man (could be anyone, really) who officiated at their wedding. 

Andy, of course, wore his Montreal Alouettes shirt to make me happy, he being another victim of my love affair with the CFL

Sylvie Maple looking, as always, a bit too cute.

The waterfall was a big hit.

My Assistants or Theirs

 Janet was out of town recently, down in Boston running the residency of her program, which left me alone to serve as a glorified cat baby sitter and cat couch.

It's rare that they both mob me at any one time, but here they are helping me work in my loft space. Mollie is, per usual, plopped down on my prayer rug and Cici is, per usual, exploring.

More Tests - Heavy Sigh

 I'm, once again, in the middle of a series of tests with the obvious unstated goal of not actually figuring out what's wrong with me. As my physical condition continues to decline we're again ramping up tests. Last week I made my way through three different MRIs, all of which, as usual, were mainly normal. When we get back from Portugal I'll be heading in for my third EMG (no one should ever live a life wherein they have one EMG) and apparently some sort of biopsy and a couple appointments with different doctors. I'm sorry if I sound whiney (or more whiney) because I do appreciate the efforts of my various and sundry doctors to sort out my mystery condition. I told one of the doctors the other day that this is my punishment for hoping to be known for something someday; apparently I'm just going to be famous for being the first authenticated case of Scudder Syndrome.

I'm not certain why I posted this screen capture of one of my MRIs. It's probably because I just finished reading Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain and Hans Castorp, the "very ordinary young man" and protagonist of the story, carries around an x-ray of his erstwhile beloved.

If nothing else I guess this proves my father wrong because I do seem to have a brain.

Settledness

 Like all men endowed with great mental mobility, I have an irrevocable, organic love of settledness. I abhor new ways of life and unfamiliar places.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 121

I guess this proves that I do not have great mental mobility because I do no "abhor new ways of life and unfamiliar places." Pessoa travelled great distances, although internally as compared to externally. In the next chapter of The Book of Disquiet Pessoa wrote, "The Idea of travelling nauseates me. I've already seen what I've never seen. I've already seen what I have yet to see." I think this is another reflection of his rejection of the crassness, the externality, of an overly commodified world. The only real beauty is internal, in dreaming. Travel simply provides more external distraction and thus less time and intellectual bandwidth dedicated to the truly beautiful. As usual, I think he has a point. How do we venture around the world and keep it from being northing more than an external phenomena. Maybe the key, as with most things, id to lead a more intentional existence, and this includes travelling. It's not simply enough to see the Taj Mahal, to check it off your list, but rather to carve off time to live the experience.

Conscious

 I'm older than Time and Space, because I'm conscious. Things derive from me; the whole of Nature is the offspring of my sensations.

I seek and don't find. I want and can't have.

Without me the sun rises and expires; without me the rain falls and the wind howls. It's not because of me that there are seasons, the twelve months, time's passage.

Lord of the world in me which, like earthly lands, I can't take with me . . .

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 218

As is so often the case in The Book of Disquiet, Pessoa seems to be writing at cross purposes. On the one hand, "Things derive from me; the whole of Nature is the offspring of my sensations." On the other hand, "Without me the sun rises and expires." But is Pessoa really talking talking about two different things? He proposes that, "I'm older than Time and Space, because I'm conscious." So, nature carries on, "the rain fails and the winds howls", but it's his perception that constructs and gives meaning to Time and Space.

My Space

 It took about a year, but I think my personal writing space in the cabin is coming together. It's in the loft so it's also a popular spot for the cats so I often have company.

My morning spot where I work on Duolingo and serve as a car pillow.

And the desk where I fitfully write.

Finally

 I feel that Duolingo finally gets me.

G3's girlfriend Ali completely agreed with this worldview.

Sacred Texts of the East

 My 14 volume Sacred Texts of the East arrived and I think I'm just a bit too excited about this. You don't have to tell me how cool I am, I know.

It's over a hundred years old and this complete set was compiled from four different college libraries. Seriously, who would get rid of these? Granted, I think some of these college don't exist anymore.

Move to the cabin, she said

 . . . it will be fun, she said.

OK, so we've moved on to lovely June, but I feel I should post them just to remind myself of the true nature of the #YankeeHellhole.

Lula grelhada

 I don't know, do you think I'm getting excited about next month's return trip to Portugal? This was at a restaurant in the main thoroughfare in Viana do Castelo.

Seriously, I may have a problem.

That Boy

 Yes, I know I post an endless series of pictures of my son, but, some on, he's my son. Heaven forbid any grandkids ever show up.

Here's G3 jumping into Lake Champlain, which is right behind his place. He is ably assisted by Ali. I think the island in the background is where they're getting married next summer. Oh, and I can't believe how cold that water must have been - he sent me that picture in April.

Alho e vampiros

 Just a quick silly picture of the garlic I put next to our 13th century cottage window while we were in northern Portugal. In between the creepy graineries and the fact that we never saw anyone alive in neighboring Lindoso we weren't taking any chances.

Sintra Stairs

 OK, so Sintra was sort of a bust last year, mainly because all of the amazing historical sites in the nearby environs were closed because of the wildfires. Still, how can simply roaming around Sintra itself leave one unhappy?

However, you can see why getting my legs sorted out is so necessary.

Eu sou um sujeito simples

 OK, I know I've posted this picture before, but, seriously, my mouth is watering. I'm a simple man: I could eat grilled octopus every day for lunch and be quite happy. Oh, and, of course, sangria. We'll be back in Portugal in no time now. This makes me way too happy.

Polvo grelhado e batatas.

Four Missing Decades

 I was talking to my old friend Bill earlier today (in the process pointing out to him that August will be the 45th anniversary of when we became friends) and I told him that I suddenly feel like I'm missing about four decades. It's not that I'm regretting what I didn't do, because I've done more in my lifetime than can be logically explained. Rather, my declining health has led to this almost cosmic feeling of disconnect. When I turned fifty I was very sad and pessimistic about the decade to come. Instead, it was an amazing ten year stretch where I spent so much time with friends, got engaged twice, and travelled all over the globe, and my health was great. Essentially, in my 50s I felt like I was living my 30s. Almost exactly after I turned sixty my health took a turn for the worse, and suddenly I feel now like I expected to feel in my 80s. So, I feel like I'm suddenly missing several decades. So, if you find them could you drop me a line. That said, I'm not giving up and the doctors continue to test away (yes, of course, I would love a third EMG - another MRI, this time with dye - a biopsy of muscle - sure, why not? This sounds great!!). I have a lot more living to do so my body better sort itself out.

Still, this guy looks awfully happy (if weather-beaten). Janet snapped the picture in Porto on the afternoon I asked her to marry me. Fortunately, and happily, she said yes.

Pao de Lo de Saojo

 Expect a ton of posts about Portugal to pop up within the next month. We're only about five weeks away from our return trip this summer and a combination of Portugal starting to dominate my thoughts (even more) and the need to make sense of the hundreds of pictures from last year's trip will finally inspire me to get organized. One of the great finds from the last trip was the little village of Saojo, tucked high up in the mountains of northern Portugal. It's even more isolated than Lindoso, but there's a lot more going on there. Here's the lovely local delicasy - the Pao-de-Lo de Saojo - a sponge cake.

Initially Janet and I were mortified that they had the temerity to place a grainery on the box, until we discovered that they actually have more graineries than Lindoso (more on that later).

A perfectly civilized way to spend an afternoon, even if it was 104 degrees in the shade.

All Damp Cellars and Lightless Catacombs

 Life makes me cold. My existence is all damp cellars and lightless catacombs. I'm the disastrous defeat of the last army that sustained the last empire. Yes, I feel as if I were at the end of an ancient ruling civilization. I, who was used to commanding others, am now alone and forsaken. I, who always had advisers to guide me, now have no friend or guide.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, "Apocalyptic Feeling" in Anthology

This was a new passage to me, if not necessarily a new emotion. I had not seen this passage because it's buried in the back of Zenith's Anthology section; that is, the passages which didn't make it into his translation of The Book of Disquiet. As we've discussed, the work didn't come together until decades after his death when all the work was found in pieces in a large chest, which is why there is no set, established version of The Book of Disquiet. Essentially, Janet's copy of the book is different than mine, and they are both correct and incorrect at the same time. I don't know if I agree with Pessoa's point here at this point in my life, but there have definitely been times when I did.

Vermont Thoroughfares

 Here is a picture of a barn a few miles from our cabin. Yes, life in Vermont. The sign on the barn says 1903, although it's hard to believe that people have been driving under that overhang for the last one-hundred-and-twenty years.

I guess it's sort of cool, unless your vehicle is taller than 9'6".

Passing Judgment

 I'm usually not much of a fan of staged photos, but this one was a response to a student suggestion - and I think it turned out pretty well. It was snapped in the Roman theater in Amman, with yours truly playing the harsh emperor (clearly type casting).

To be fair, Caleb, Seth, and Jack earned their punishment.

Incognito

 Here's a picture of Janet that I snapped on a recent outing. Her dad just passed - more on that, obviously - so she's been feeling low. I felt she needed to get out of the house so we went for a drive. It included kite flying (I'll download the pictures of that disastrous attempt later) and sitting by Caspian Lake. It was a good, and much needed good, day.

My friend Cyndi proposed that Janet looked like a 1950s movie star incognito, hence the title.

I Punctuate Myself

 I am, in large measure, the selfsame prose I write. I unroll myself in sentences and paragraphs. I punctuate myself. In my arranging and rearranging of images I'm like a child using newspaper to dress up as a king, and in the way I create rhythm with a sense of words I'm like a lunatic adorning my hair with dried flowers that are still alive in my dreams.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 193

I think this passage jumped out at me because I've begun to write again. Now that I've made it to the other side of two student trips and Ramadan and the semester is coming to a close I can envision longer stretches of time when I can lose myself in writing. I've made myself a promise that I'm going to finish the epics book this summer, inshallah. Of course, I've made myself this promise before and failed (as I do in most things). Just thinking about it brings up all the insecurities that have plagued my writing for years. If I had half the confidence I seem to exude on a daily basis I would have finished four books by now. Instead, I faff around and never seem to  accomplish much of anything. I blame being busy (and it's not as if I'm not busy), but mainly I think it's a lack of confidence; and finishing the book, and its inevitable rejection, would simply justify and re-enforce all my profound self-loathing. To a certain degree I suppose Pessoa may have faced the same demons, with the obvious difference that he produced thousands and thousands of pages, both prose and poetry, the core of which was eventually turned into The Book of Disquiet a few decades after this death. The key to that statement being "a few decades after his death," of course. A few decades - if not years - after my death my memory and legacy will be as cold as two day old ashes in the wood stove.

Oddly, after saying that, one of the things I'm struggling with right now is another writing project. I've been kicking around this project that I've been calling "Ramadan in Winter," which I've discussed previously, and lately it's starting to come into view. I think in the end it's going to be more of a personal memoir of faith and converting at an older death and ruminations on aging - as compared to my original idea of a book solely on what Islam means as you age. I've started writing a few notes, but I need to keep at at arm's length until next fall.

Fridays

 The weather here in the #yankeehellhole is finally starting to break, which means the front porch has come back to life. I snapped this picture last Friday as we eased into the weekend.

I'm very happy and very blessed. Life is incredibly unpredictable.