May the northern lights guide you to peace and a well deserved rest.

 

Been trying to write for a couple of days now.  Owed is a letter to Wayne.  Owed to myself is some writing that is “creative”.  I had been working on a piece about how listening to Bob Seger’s Night Moves now versus fifty years ago is different.  Chances are I will finish that piece and post it in the blog. 

 

In order to get those things off and out the door I decided I would wake up, do a quick and dirty breakfast, some cereal with raisins and nuts, and go for a twenty-minute walk.  Well, I got up and was midway through that breakfast when a bit of my world changed.  In my Facebook messages was a note that a good friend had died.

 

He and I hadn’t talked in years.  I still considered him a good friend while I am pretty sure he considered me the antichrist. Life gets complicated when you are trying to do the right thing.  Sometimes those complications are so large that you can never get beyond them. Such was the case in this situation.  This is not a note of explanation, justification or recrimination, it is a note of loss because someone is now gone that meant a great deal to me.

 

In the summer of 1977, I was living in West Wilson Hall on the campus of Michigan State University.  Back then you could take a full course load in the summer and I did.  However, on the weekends the bars of East Lansing called to me.  The High Wheeler, America’s Cup, and Lizard’s Underground, these were the places that beckoned to me. Problem was that when I got a bellyful of beer it was a long, long walk back to Wilson Hall.

 

One night as I trekked back to the dorm I decided I needed a rest and I stopped and slumped up against the original Sparty statue.  It was during that rest stop that I discovered the art deco carving of football and other sports carved into the bricks at the base of the statue.  As I sat there an old Chevy Nova pulled up and the driver and another occupant started haranguing me. Apparently they felt like razzing a stupid drunk, and yes that is what I was that night.

 

Thing is I recognized the driver’s voice and I called back asking if it was in fact who I thought it was.  Sure, as all get out it was.  The driver was one of my floor mates on 2 Wilson West. We were actually taking Accounting 101 together. We both started laughing and that led to him giving my poor tired drunk legs a ride back to the dorm. 

 

Oh, the things we got into that summer. He later told me that one of the things that drew him to me was the way I baited the Campus Crusaders for Christ by implying I was okay with some very deviant acts, you know a man and his consenting sheep.  The Crusaders actually chased me out of the study lounge over that comment.  Note I am not in favor of cross species mating but back then I was willing to be a provocateur. 

 

This man convinced me to go camping.  He goaded me into canoeing. He introduced me to the joys of college hockey.  Are three of these things were an integral part of my life in the 1980s and 1990s.  When I got married he was one of the groomsmen.  Together and with a small circle of friends we began to explore every river in the northern lower peninsula of Michigan.  We camped our way across the top of Lake Superior.  We almost drowned in a hot tub in Thunder Bay.  Never drink beer and hop in a hot tub when you are exhausted from a day of hiking. Together we feel in love with Pukaskwa National Park near Marathon. And there were the sunsets on Agawa Bay.

 

Things happen between people.  Some get over it.  Some don’t. In our case there was a wide gulf that we could never reach across.  Acceptance. Equanimity.  Life is what it is and nothing more. 

 

The world is a lesser place without the man I knew in the 1970s, the 1980s and the 1990s. Without my friend I wouldn’t know what qualified as icing or why there were sometimes penalty shots.  Without my friend I would have seen the late evening sunset as I gazed west over Lake Superior’s.  Without my friend who knows if I would have half the experiences I treasure today.

 

Travel well good soul, travel well.  May the northern lights guide you to a place of peace and well-deserved rest. 

 

 

 

I usually end my posts with a bit of music.  Sometimes the pieces posted are soft and elegiac. Sometimes they are just odd because what I have written requires a specific sideways musical viewpoint. I can’t take either of those directions here. At the peak of our friendship my friend was all about the joy of life and filling it with as much fun as one could have. The music he loved was in keeping with his passion for life.

He had one very special musical love, the J. Geils Band. Over several years he cajoled me, begged me, and otherwise entreated me to come to the Pine Knob Music Theatre with him to see Peter Wolf and company. In 1982, I finally gave in and he drove us down to Clarkston to see this raucous set of rock n’ rollers who were at the height of their popularity.

J. Geils did not disappoint. For about two hours we sat/stood up on the hill and sang along to every song. We, two adult assed men, danced our weird little shuffle to almost all of the songs. Okay it was more of a sway because when you have a huge beer in your hands you really can’t dance. 

There we were, just the two of us on a warm Michigan summer evening listening to loud, loud music and we had flat out fun. The surprising thing was that the two of us together with a few thousand of our friends provided crowd noise for an album, J. Geils' Showtime. There is no better time to be a music fan than when a live album is recorded at the show you attended. Here is a sample of how much fun the two of us could have when we set our minds to it. 

I need to hold on to the many, many good times. People need to remember those good days and be aware there were plenty of them.

Did You See the Moon Last Night?

 

Man with Hat watching the Parade in Loures

Over the past week I have not felt like writing. It is not because I haven't had experiences, I have. But it is a selfish and anxious reason that has grabbed at the pant leg of my consciousness and kept me from focusing.

About 18 days ago I developed an ear infection. Given I pay for expat insurance I went to urgent care at one of the local hospitals here. The person triaging me was concerned, got me on an antibiotic and gave me ear drops. I was an attentive patient and took all medications prescribed. 

The infection was weird. There was some discharge from the ear. When I put the drops in, it took 7-8 hours before the ear cleared and I could hear again. At the end of the drugs, I had okay hearing for a day and then it seemed like cotton was stuffed into my ear. As a result of the diminished hearing, I have scheduled an appointment with an ENT. 

Things are different here. My appointment is tomorrow, Saturday, at 9:40. I will get up early shower, eat my meager breakfast and head off. The meager breakfast is another thing. After I saw the first ENT I figured it made sense to get a doctor here in Portugal. The ENT gave me three names and I picked one randomly.

Spent 45 minutes detailing my long history of medical maladies to the doctor I chose. As a result of the visit, I had a blood draw. They must have taken a pint out of me. So many vials. Had a EKG. Also, I was set for both an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. Here they do them at the same time. Prep was awful, just like any other time you have those "procedures". Two days of fasting and one day of taking the euphemistically named Moviprep. Yeah, it is Go Lightly without lime flavoring. 

Given that I had fasted for three days, and given that the doctor told me to lose weight I have restarted following my Weight Watchers app. Today was hard, Tuesday was also hard. Both days I was at events where an all-you-could-eat meal was scheduled in tandem with what was going on. I was a bit high on my food points but I had a lot of exercise minutes that balanced things out.

The ear worries me. It is distracting and generally annoying. The only reason I felt like writing anything was that I had two minor wins today. My sons have been here since December and we have planned to travel while they are here. But inevitably, a conflict with another event arises, or it rains, or there is a train strike. Last week we all agreed to head to Seville on the cheap, i.e., take a bus and stay on the less luxe side of accommodations.

First, I tried to get a clean but livable place to stay. IHG has no properties in Seville so my points are useless. Kayak and Expedia were swamps with far too many listings to be as useful as I found them in the past. Years ago, I was a frequent Marriott traveler so I signed up again to look at their properties and get a feel for current rates in the city.

There was one of their second-tier properties that seemed like a good fit. I thought the price was a bit high but it was a known commodity and all. When I booked the rooms there was a button to see available offers. For about 15% off the quoted rate, you could get the same room and breakfast for two adults. I grabbed it. Win number one was in the bag.

Once I had secured the room, I needed to reserve the bus. As God is my witness I spent thirty minutes trying to get the Rede Expressos website to take my reservation. I entered, reentered and reentered again all four of our passport numbers, cell phone numbers, emails and ages. Each time I got to the payment area; the app would freeze up. After trying three I said, "Bag it I headed up to the bus station to see if I could buy the tickets there.

Met a helpful clerk at the international bus ticketing booth. When I asked him for the least expensive but refundable tickets to Seville he quoted me half of what I would have paid on the website. It took a few minutes to get the tickets printed and paid for. However, it was far less time than I had already spent screwing around with the app. Win number two was captured. My hope is that the visit tomorrow will be win number three. Sometimes technology is great, but not always.

As for the former US President, I don't give a god-damn about him, his troubles or his prospects. As for Gaza, thousands of people, and I have to believe the majority of them are innocents and noncombatants in this struggle, are dying. Such a situation is not just, and morally indefensible. Hamas started this. Israel responded with an iron fist. Rinse and repeat. Oh, how I wish the world could change and lose the hatreds, resentments, senses of grievance and entitlement. Not in my lifetime I guess. And shock, Navalny is dead. I should append Peter Gabriel's Biko at the end of this but I won't. That is it for my current affairs commentary.

The moon is out tonight and the way it illuminates the courtyard behind the buildings of this block is gentle and beguiling. Looking at such soft pale light brings peace at least for me. In my mind I can hear a gentle tune playing in the background, a remnant from last Sunday's concert at the CCB in anticipation of Carnival. Here it is, be soothed. 

Blessed peace to you my friends, a peace that permeates every corner of your troubled souls. Sit back and take in the air slowly as you let every muscle relax. Glance up at the moon, it is free, and more importantly it is there for all of us. 

 

Two Boats and Two Bus Rides

Took the Carris 742 bus down to CUF Hospital to start up a relationship with a new physician. Been here long enough and this old '72 Chevy body needs to be maintained. I mean I am leaking some oil and the cruise control only works intermittently. My knees have rusted but they are still functional. 

Problem is the appointment I set is for tomorrow. Sigh. There was miscommunication with the person who gave me the date. I believe she told me it was Wednesday but it was 1 February which is Thursday. So be it. I was not angry, disappointed, or holding any other negative emotion. I was just empty.  Not an awful place to be after a disappointment. 

On the 742 back I read my Facebook stream. One friend posted a lovely bit of wisdom repeated by Thich Nhat Hanh,(thank you Rozan). It reads:

- The Empty Boat –

A monk decided to meditate alone, away from his monastery.

He took his boat out to the middle of the lake, moored it there, closed his eyes and began meditating. After a few hours of undisturbed silence, he suddenly felt the bump of another boat colliding with his own.

With his eyes still closed, he felt his anger rising, and by the time he opened his eyes, he was ready to scream at the boatman who had so carelessly disturbed his meditation. But when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that it was an empty boat that had struck his own. It had probably gotten untethered and floated to the middle of the lake.

At that moment, the monk had a great realization. He understood that the anger was within him; it merely needed the bump of an external object to provoke it out of him. From then on, whenever he came across someone who irritated him or provoked him to anger, he would remind himself, that the other person was merely an empty boat, the anger was within him.

I smiled after reading this. I actually had not let disappointment (an external object) provoke anger today.  This to me is a win. I am sure it is just one of many empty boats I will face today and in the days to come. It is my hope that I can attain the level of equanimity to face them all with acceptance rather than anger.

The plan today is to head out and down to the Museum of the Orient. Loren and I have planned a series of museum visits over the next few days. What good is it to live in such a large city if you don’t immerse yourself in its culture and atmosphere? 

We will take our time travelling to and exploring the museum. Learning about the history and culture of this place doesn't mean there isn't time for a coffee and a pastry now does it? After the museum, there may be more enjoyable wandering. It being in the mid-60s with sunshine, a stroll along the Tejo can't be ruled out.

And a little piano jazz can only make the day better. 

 

Late Summer 1978, The Waves Come Crashing *

Sunshine and a temperature of eighty degrees; the cloudless sky is blue and stretches uninterrupted to the horizon. Late afternoon in August, warm ocean water surrounds me. I am standing chest deep in the sea, a couple hundred feet from the shore. My neck twists to watch the wave crest behind me. Throwing my arms out to form a flesh and blood crucifix I bounce forward and up at a 45-degree angle in hope the wave catches me. It works.

First up, then forward, my body blasts past, sometimes through, the old guys and small kids who are just wading. The wave has caught the bottom of my arms and I am heading quickly towards the shoreline. I rush and rush. The ocean here is gritty and has small bits of seaweed, dark green and pocketed with delicate bubbles of air floating in it. As I rush over this gunk, I invariably suck some salt water into my mouth and nose.

When the ride is over I lie for a second on the beach with sand in my swimming trunks. Standing I shake it out. In this moment all I want to do is get back out there and catch another wave. Body surfing is mindless fun. The cycle of walking out, watching the waves, tensing up and then heading back to shore in that momentary burst of motion and adrenaline joyfully sucks the energy out of you. Vigor evaporates not in little bits but by the handful, by the bucketful. Again, again, into the waves and froth. In my mind I think there will be an even larger and better wave or maybe not. However, I keep taking myself out until I am limp and pulverized.

Eventually I drag my tired waterlogged ass up to my towel. My fingers are like prunes wrinkled and unnaturally white. Lying on the blanket I close my eyes but the sun still beats its way through my eyelids especially when I am lying on my back. Turn over, turn over again. Screw any worries about skin cancer. I am decades away from forty. Hell, maybe the suntan lotion (no we are not talking about sunscreen) has an SPF of 4. Hours will pass. My tan deepens and another beach day ends.

My favorite part of the day’s end is watching the light disappear. Looking at the Atlantic from this New Jersey beach you don’t witness the brilliant colors of a sunset. You have to be on the other side of the island to see that. What you see is the ocean's color changing. It changes from bright reflective blue, almost the image of a broken mirror, to white gray, and then to dark green and black over about two or so hours.

It is that shift to the point where the water reflects the pale light of mid-twilight that I love the  most. Here I am as close to God as I can be. Walking out into the water I let my mind go blank. Warm water and warm air, this is my vision of heaven. My sense of self evaporates. It won’t last long but this is a magical moment. I am at peace, real peace, true peace. Absolved of every burdening thought, freed from every worry and demand of time the water laps against my waist.

Suddenly the day has passed.  With silence time tracks on. Quickly comes this late summer night moving into early morning with a full moon hanging clear. There is no haze tonight. On an evening like this the dunes are more moonscape than earthly world. Early August and the night should be hot and muggy but it isn't. Being on this thin strip of land with water so close on either side, the wind cools the evening quickly. There is dampness in the air. You never escape it on the beach, but it is not oppressive. 

On the beach after dark, I stare out at the rising and falling waves. I feel the rhythm as I hear the waves fall, one after another in their infinite cycle. I hum a country song, sort of. It is a new  song closer to folk rock than to Merle Haggard. “The sun is slowly sinking down, but the moon is surely rising.” Ah sweet baby James’ tune and words hang in my head. A couple of choruses play out in my head and then I grow quiet. Off I head to this summer’s rental apartment and sleep. With luck and grace tomorrow will be just as beautiful.

Another Chair is Empty in the Class of '74's Homeroom

People, they come together.

People, they fall apart.

No one can stop us now.

'Cause we are all made of stars.

 

-Moby, We Are All Made of Stars

 

 

Days in Lisboa are unpredictable. If the weather application says no rain until late in the day, it will rain at nine in the morning and continue until dark. Likewise, if the forecast is for a day full of rain, the day will dawn with bright sun. When you live this close to the Atlantic Ocean, you have to accept the weather you get. Like many things in life, you hold your hand out the window and guess what will come next and then you accept what will be.

 

On dry days I start laundry early. Doing the wash ties me to the house for hours at both the start and end of the day. On wet days I do things, I get stuff done. I go online initially. I check bank accounts, moving on to clearing out my email inbox (replying when needed) and finally writing up a to-do list for the rest of the day. There are so many things I must do with what waking time I am granted. Mine are the daily rituals of a man getting closer to 70 than to 60. 

 

If the rain has stopped by the time I pull away from the screen I head out for my daily exercise. This morning on only slightly wet pavement I walked about a mile and a half in just under half an hour. Today my musically inclined adult son accompanied me and we talked almost the whole time about Merle Haggard, Marty Robins and John Prine. We talked about the talent of telling a very visual, very visceral story in two minutes and a half. 

 

We talked about how sometimes you have to consider what the lyrics meant when the song was written. John Prine’s Sam Stone, Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore and Hello in There were all released while the Vietnam war was still raging. They were anti-establishment protest songs. As time has moved on, for almost 50 years, they have become quaint artifacts of an idealistic generation that has lost its way. So many years have passed since that first John Prine album dropped. I was a teenager then, and decades have passed since l first heard it. Those songs poured out of our family's kitchen radio while I did my chores, i.e., drying dinner dishes. That house is gone.  That radio is gone.  That part of my life is gone.

 

In years past I rode my bicycle for miles at a time for exercise. That was exhilarating. But one day I fell and tore up my rib cage. Flying down the streets on two wheels is mostly over for me. My daily walks are my exercise. My rhythmic footfalls are my meditation, my prayers to whoever might be listening. My prayers have become much more frequent, much more urgent and far more heartfelt.

 

Unlike today on most days when I wander out I travel alone. Trust me on this, I carefully watch for cracks in the stones that make up my pathway. Hundreds of thousands of cracks await my feet as I shuffle through my route. Moving carefully, I barely see the stores lining the street. Rarely do I glimpse the sky above, lest a crack reach out and grab my toes. This would give gravity the chance to wrap its tendrils around me and pull me down hard. Day, dusk, or night my focus is downward, for safety I tell myself.

 

One day less than a year ago I looked up when I set out on an evening journey. A brightly pulsing star blazed by and was lost.  Taking a solid stance with my legs apart and hands on my hips I gazed upward at the sky. What was that?  

 

In my youth, I knew the sky so well. Gazing up at the stars that moonless night, I saw that the sky I knew had been forever changed. That shooting star I watched blaze across the sky disintegrating into nothingness had once been a prominent feature on my mental map of the universe. Now a black and gaping hole left the firmament diminished. How to explain the feeling? At that moment the air in my lungs seemed inadequate and my body felt like nothing more than a shell.

 

As the year wore on more stars fell from the sky. It became obvious that the cosmos I had once known like the back of my hand was shrinking. Darkness spread. Stars that had barely registered in my awareness were now quite notable in their absence. Stars I had known since I was a teen had disappeared over the years but this was different, this was much more personal. As this year has progressed I have kept an eye out for more changes in the firmament. This universe I have known for almost my entire life seems to be ebbing away.

 

A few days ago, another bright star burned out.  She was a brilliant and magnificent star similar to the one who vanished earlier in the year. The star that streaked by had shed so much light on this world. With this one gone as well; the sky became noticeably darker. As I stare at the sky tonight I am shaken.

 

These lights burning out, or simply blinking off into nothing, will only accelerate. In just a few years the sky I knew as a young man will be no more. One by one the beacons in my firmament will fall or fade. Truth be told I may not be here when what was my sky goes completely dark. But until the day when the last of my beloved night lights turns nova and then fades I hope someone hold the memories of the original star chart near and dear to their breast.  

December 14, 2017 Six Years Passes So Damn Quickly

 

Life flies by so very quickly.  Our grip on the now, and on life itself, is tenuous even in the best of times. In the silent spaces of reflection that occur when one grows older blurred images of moments lived well, lived poorly, and spentmundanely flash in our minds. Like scenes out the window of a fast-moving car or a faster moving train, they appear and vanish in a moment. It is only when we sleep that we get a longer look at the past we wish we had grabbed more heartily. The past we wish we had held much closer to our bosoms. My advice to the young is to let your arms extend as far out as possible as you embrace life.

It was quite late last night that I turned my face away from the center of the bed. Facing the wall, I worked through my various prompts for bringing sleep.  Quickly I spiraled into the dark abyss of a restless mind held deep within a sleeping body. Recently dreams have been flooding my sleep in the early hours of the morning. These phantom world images and constructions are all over the place. My dreams have included scenarios ranging from me getting busted for selling opium to finding myself stuck in a mountain village with no coin and no knowledge of the language or culture but having arrived there at the end of a Disney roller coaster ride.

Last night’s dream was particularly vivid.  One minute I was talking to a dear friend sitting on a beat-up old blue green couch on the front lawn of the house I lived in over 50 years ago in East Lansing, Michigan. Next I was looking at the same scene only I held an old photograph that captured the moment instead of being there in person. Finally, I was looking at the side of the seven-story building that covers the spot where that old barn-shaped house used to be. A bar, apartments, and far too many years have obliterated all traces of the place and space. A profound sadness took hold, so many grains of sand have passed through my fingers.

Waking up I knew there was no way I was getting back to sleep. Reaching over I grabbed my watch and saw it was 6:25 AM. I tried not to stir for a few minutes hoping I was wrong and sleep would return. It didn’t and I got up as quietly as possible to avoid waking the other occupant of the bed. In the kitchen I grabbed oatmeal and some coffee. Sitting down at the dining room table, I opened up my phone and checked the news, my email and then moved on to Facebook. There it was in the suggested memory, two young men trying to get some extra sleep in the back of a car rolling down a lonely stretch of road between Sarnia and London, Ontario. I smiled and the sadness stirred by the dream faded like mist burned off by the day’s bright light.

On December 14, 2017 East Lansing suffered bad weather. Despite it being a sunny day patches of ice were all over the roads and highways from storms the night before. However, the day was clear. Having lived in the north country long enough we knew that the longer the sun was out the less dangerous the US Interstates and the Ontario freeways would be. Still, we had to add a couple of extra hours to the travel time to Lester B. Pearson airport in Toronto. 

All packed the night before, the car loaded with our suitcases, all we had to do in the morning was get up and head out. Leaving slightly earlier was an inconvenience and nothing more. But for those young men, sleeping was a priority. Itwould be a full day before they would sleep again. Me: I had just downloaded a photo app on my phone and I was damned sure going to document our first foray to the continent. Hence the sleep shots.

At about 11:30 PM that December 14th, after two de-icings, our Air Canada Rouge flight took off from Toronto destined for Lisbon Portugal. A holiday lark, nothing more. We would hit Lisbon and Porto. Back then I thought we would have seen all the worthwhile things to see in Portugal in that span before heading home via Canada on Christmas Eve. Backthen, I thought this would be just the first of many serial trips to cities all over Europe. Funny, life had other plans for me.

In the last six years since that first flight to Lisbon I have retired and have spent over a year and a half living in Portugal. Ihave gotten a tax ID, I have entered the national medical system and become a resident. I have travelled north and south through the country. I have visited towns in almost all corners of the country. Now I live in a three-bedroom apartment on the 1st floor of a 5-story building. We have a balcony that runs from one side of the apartment to the other. In warmer weather, April through October, I eat my meals on that balcony. 

In the past year I have made friends with people from all over the place from all sorts of backgrounds. There have been habits formed, such as drinking milky coffee in the afternoon or eating a pastry in a padaria. I have toured churches, museums and out of the way towns. I have attended concerts and entertained guests passing through town. Standing on the banks of the Rio Tejo I have watched tall ships parade down the river. Surrounded by thousands I watched a carnival parade.

Between December 14, 2017 and December 14, 2023, a mere six years, my life has changed for the better. Neverexpected to be an emigrant, nor expected to get used to drinking an imperial beer with lunch. I  never imagined I would hang my laundry on a line off the back of my apartment on the regular. But this life I stumbled onto by accident, it is better than good. To steal a line from out of the 1980s I am so much closer to fine.