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.