My Contemptible Being

 Dolorous Interlude

An object tossed into a corner, a rag that fell on to the road, my contemptible being feigns to the world.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, text 37

Once again, Pessoa manages to capture my mood. Now, if only he would improve it. I was talking to a good friend yesterday and she asked what to do when you're feeling frustrated with work. She added, and don't tell me to read Pessoa or Proust. I replied that I would never make that suggestion if the goal is to pull yourself out of the blues, although I find them both immeasurably beautiful and safe havens where I increasingly go to hide away from the world. This current dystopian madness is providing few instances for happiness, especially, as I opined the other day, for teachers, because it seems that everything we've tried to do in our career was an abject failure. Having said that, I did give her an answer that I think both Pessoa and Proust would vouchsafe: let's grab lunch or an adult scholarly beverage. The other side of this hellscape is that it's proving to be the golden age of friendships.