Metaphysically Glib

 All my life I've been metaphysically glib, serious at playing around. I haven't done anything seriously, however much I may have wanted to. A mischievous Destiny had fun with me.

To have emotions made of chintz, or of silk, or of brocade! To have emotions that could be described like that! To have describable emotions!

I feel in my soul a divine regret for everything, a choked and sobbing grief for the condemnation of dreams in the flesh of those who dreamed them. And I hate without hatred all the poets who wrote verses, all the idealists who saw their ideals take shape,  all those who obtained what they wanted.

I haphazardly roam the calm streets, walking until my body is as tired as my soul, grieved to the point of that old and familiar grief that likes to e felt, pitying itself with an indefinable maternal compassion set to music.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, no. 135

When I think about Pessoa - and I think about Pessoa a lot (I told my sister yesterday that The Book of Disquiet is the book of my 60s - what really hits home with me is what a fragile, damaged, soul he was. And by this I don't mean to simply fall back on the tortured artist trope. Rather, I think Pessoa was a person who was horrified by the crass, artificial, commercial, cold world around him. There is, as I've pointed out previously, a beautiful internality to his writing. Pessoa wrote an extraordinary amount, very little of which found its way into publication during his own lifetime. In his writings in general, and specifically in this passage, you clearly get the sense of his frustration with himself. When he says, "I hate without hatred all the poets who wrote verses," he's turning the lens on himself more on them. So, why didn't he publish more in his own lifetime? In the end I think he couldn't handle the grief of handing over his work to that brutal external world that he abhorred so completely. If he didn't publish it, if it remained locked up in that infamous wooden chest, then not only did he still possess it entirely, he also assured that it was protected, safe in a womb, far away from the brutality of the world.

Praca do Giraldo

 Here are a couple shots of the Praca do Giraldo, the public square in Evora, Portugal. It has a long, and often bloody history (including the public burning of Inquisition victims), but now it's mainly a lovely place to grab a bit and people watch. Evora is the current leading option for places where we'd settle if we move to Portugal: nice size (not too big or too small), great places to eat, a pretty vibrant cultural life, only a hour and a half by train to Lisbon, and they have a great bookstore. Oh, and I can imagine us sitting in this square, grabbing lunch and taking in the sights.

An Armour of Realities

 The truly wise man is the one who can keep external events from changing him in any way. To do this, he covers himself with an armour of realities closer to him than the world's facts and through which the facts, modified accordingly, reach him.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, no. 97

I've commented, repeatedly, about the fact that one of the things that I love about Pessoa is his internality, and his recognition of the essential importance of defending ourselves from the crass, cold, and artificial outside world. When I get up in the way too early morning - I'm one of those people who is usually up before the alarm buzzes at 5:03 a.m. - I grab coffee, make room for our cat Mollie on my lap, and begin to peruse the news (eventually I transition into working on Portuguese and then writing). What has increasingly amazed/saddened me is the amount of time that the pseudo-news and social media devotes to trying to convince me to care about certain things, usually celebrities or this year's non-trauma (usually a white person being inconvenienced). It's so easy to get drawn into this nonsense, and almost impossible to avoid it. This is one of the biggest reasons why, in the space of a couple weeks, I dropped off of Instagram, Facebook, and finally even Twitter (which I used to love before Musk turned it into a right wing hellscape). It's like the soul is a baby animal that has to be lovingly protected against a violent world. When Pessoa discusses "an armour of realities closer to him than the world' facts" I don't think he's talking about ignoring the world, but instead constantly considering what the world tells us we should care about. Most of the time those are no more truly "real" than childish hobgoblins. 

Vermont Lake Monsters Opening Day Excellence 2024

 Janet, Marcel, her brother Roger, Kevin, and I attended one of the social events of the Vermont season: the Opening Day of the Vermont Lake Monsters season. They announced at the game that it was the 30th anniversary of the current group owning the Lake Monsters. This made me consider my own history with the Lake Monsters, and I realized that I've been to at least one Lake Monsters (or Vermont Expos) game for every year I've lived in Vermont. So, I guess I have a 2r year streak going myself. Later this season my excellent friend Mike's son Nicky will be pitching for the Lake Monsters, which will make the passage of time even more poignant since I used to babysit him!

As I've long opined: it doesn't matter what level it is, it's still baseball, and that means I still love it.

Janet and Marcelle obviously enjoying the game.

How many pictures of this crazy girl hamming it up do I have?

Kevin and Roger are focused on the game, and Marcelle is focused on convivial splendor.

I think this will find its way onto our Christmas card.

An Aesthetics to Wasting Time

 There's an aesthetics to wasting time. For those who cultivate sensations there's an unwritten handbook on inertia, with recipes for all the forms of lucidity. T develop the right strategy for fighting against the notion of social mores, against the impulses of all instincts and against the solicitations of sentiment requires a study that no every aesthete is prepared to undertake. A rigorous aetiology  of our scruples should be followed by an ironic diagnosis of our concessions to normality. We must also learn how to ward off life's intrusions; a [unclear] caution is necessary to make us impervious to outside opinions, and a velvety indifference to insulate our soul again the invisible blows of coexisting with others.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, no. 315

This is just about the most Pessoa-esque Pessoa statement imaginable - and also just about the most perfect statement to describe life in Portugal. Recently I read an article that that pointed out that Portugal is one of the least, if not the least, productive nations in Europe. My response was, "And this is yet another reason why I love them." I rankle every time I hear someone at Champlain champion the importance of productivity, which is one of the great diversionary attributes of late stage capitalism. Why are you not giving more to the corporation (even if the corporation is your university)? And, of course, what makes it even more insidious is that the same corporation (university) will mention work-life balance, which they're not concerned about in the least, but know that they can continue to grind you away if they've mentioned work-life balance in a public meeting. I never heard the response from the Portuguese to their low ranking on the productivity ranking, probably because they were at a café with family and friends. As I always opine, the Europeans are simply more sane than we are.

Girl at the Convent

 And here's a much less ghostly, although still oddly ethereal, photo to Janet at the Convent Espinheiro in Evora. I am seriously thinking of taking the students to Evora on the March trip, although obviously they won't be staying at the Convent. I may have to sneak away to grab a meal there because,, well, I have to keep up my strength.

We were exploring a little mausoleum in the far corner of the Convent grounds.

O Fantasma do Mosteiro do Espinheiro

Here's a book that I picked up at the Convent in Evora on our last trip. I mean, seriously, there must be tones of ghosts in Convent!

Now I just need to learn enough Portuguese so that I can actually read about the ghosts in the Convent.

Girl on the Porch

 One of the biggest obstacles to Janet and I moving to Portugal is, well, Vermont itself. We both love it here, and as much as I gripe about living in the cabin throughout the winter, it's still a pretty sweet life. I'm very blessed.

And the best moments are usually the quietest ones. Here we are on the front porch, enjoying the apple blossoms, and enjoying a pre-Whammy Bar (more on that soon) drink on porch on another slow Friday evening in the wilderness.

Tanta Casa Sem Gente

 I took this picture when I was roaming around Evora on our March trip to Portugal. Janet was hanging around the Convent writing and relaxing, and I Ubered into town to look around. In rough Portuguese this bit of graffiti translates out as "too any houses without people, too many people without houses." I almost wrote, "for some reason this really spoke to me," but I didn't write it because it's more than a bit of an absurd statement: I know exactly why it spoke to me. The crime of the gross inequality of the world has always driven, and will continue to drive, my political and religious beliefs. This semester in my Secularism class we read Charles Taylor's book A Secular Age and, among a thousand great points, he proposed that there are three statements in any American argument that (rightly or wrongly, but mainly always wrongly) trump all other and end the debate. One of them is the word "freedom." You can be discussing any issue and if the other American says the word "freedom" it is supposed to tramp all arguments to the contrary and we're supposed to sit quietly and thank God for that freedom. Of course, this is preposterous - not Taylor's point, but this fact. A life where the vast majority of people lives paycheck to paycheck - and ration healthcare - and can't leave their job for fear of losing healthcare - and live in substandard housing, in not one of freedom. My students from my Marxism and the Movies class would immediately point out Althusser's Ideological State Apparatus (ISA), and I would respond, "You had me at Ideological State Apparatus."

Winter Rains

 Just a picture I snapped of our cabin on a particularly dreary/beautiful day out here in the wilderness.

As NY sang, "When the winter rains come pourin' down on that new home of mine, will you think of me and wonder if I'm fine?"

Capela Dos Ossos

 Now that I've decided to lead another student trip, this time to Portugal, in March 2025 I'm starting to think of all sorts of different ideas. I was talking to my dear friend, boon traveling companion, and titular little sister Cyndi yesterday about different things to do on the trip (of course, she, as my titular little sister, cannot imagine not going on the trip, which means she will). As we bounced around ideas I began to rethink the entire experience, which why, among many other reasons, she's such a great travelling companion on these trips. My initial thought was to spend close to a week in Lisbon and then catch a train over to Sintra for a couple days. Now I'm thinking that maybe I'll drag the students to Evora to finish the week instead. The class is, among other things, about identity, and I would argue that the interior of Portugal is more authentic to the Portuguese identity than the palaces of Sintra (although Sintra is amazing). And I'm sure they would love the Chapel of Bones. Here are some pictures I snapped on the March trip. It was our second visit to the Chapel, and if anything I loved it more on this trip than the first (which is really saying something).

And Another Student Trip - Why Not Portugal?

 And why not Portugal, indeed? One of the problems with my March 2023 trip to Jordan was that it was only my twelfth student overseas trips. Given my proclivity for prime numbers I should have stopped after the eleventh trip. This means I have to run a thirteenth trip, and if I go beyond that then it means I'll have to keep running them until I've hit seventeen. Or nineteen, I guess. I'll never live long enough to get to a twenty-third trip. And one I decided that I wanted to run another one - and, after some deep soul-searching, determined that I do think I can pull it off physically - then where do I want to go? There's no place I love more than Jordan, obviously, but considering the situation in the Middle East at the moment I can't imagine I'd be able to convinced enough students, let alone the college, to sign off on that one. I love India, but I refuse to go back there while Modi is in charge. I can't actually vote in India, but I guess I can vote economically, and I simply won't support an India under his control. Zanzibar is always a possibility, but those are always difficult challenges to put together. And then I thought of Portugal - well, obviously, I'm always thinking about Portugal. So, thought of a cool Portugal trip centered around Fernando Pessoa and I've begun to do the planning. And if I get tired, well, there's always a cafe waiting for me . . .

This Year Or Else

 OK, so I've made this promise before, but this time I mean it - or maybe it's just that this year I'm positioned to supply the superhuman effort it will take to finish my Epics book. Janet and I aren't heading out of the country for three weeks this summer (and when is this ever a good thing?) and (so far) I only have two preps for the fall semester, neither one of them new. More importantly, however, I may simply be ready to finish it - and by that I mean that I'm sick of thinking about it. Janet, who is actual real writer, says that this is an essential stage in finishing any book. I've been writing for hours every day and it's definitely coming into shape. Can I pull it off? As I'm famous/infamous for saying to students on overseas trips, "We can sleep when we're dead!"

If I can whip the Ramayana into shape I think I can actually pull this off . . .