Yesterday after a quick trip down to a hospital by the Tejo River a family decision was made to head out to the ocean. We hopped on a Carris bus to Ericiera. The trip isn't long, merely a few minutes more than an hour. The road winds a wee bit winding and the steep hillsides and the tight turns make the route a fun one.
I didn't care that much about the trip because I have not been feeling up to snuff as of late. Add in the fact that the hills in Ericiera make the hills in Lisboa look like a flat football field and I wasn't looking forward to it. But I went.
Once I got to Ericiera two things made the trip worthwhile. The first was the ocean's power. In my life the closest I have ever felt to God, or to the eternal, is when I have been by the waters of the North Atlantic. Yesterday the waters along the coast reminded me of that sense, that feeling.
As we stood on the rocky edge of the ocean the swells were three to four meters tall. You could just sense the power in that building ridge of saline water. And then it hit the rocks and threw spray at times up to a height of just shy of forty feet into the air. Then, the spray fell slapping the brown and grey rocks louder than a prissy movie queen hitting her unfaithful fictional lover.
With all that is wrong in the world today the constancy and the power of the ocean was what I needed to break the doom loop playing out in my mind. I felt at peace with nature as I watched those powerful waves. I realized again that no matter what we humans do to harm and denigrate each other nature is inherently our better. My cares dropped away.
hen there was the walk up the ramp from the fisherman's beach. So many feral cats who live off the scraps of the fishing fleet. It was surprising the number of Siamese cats walking down that ramp. But there were cats of every shape and stripe.Hey, the ocean reminded me how insignificant we are. However, the cats reminded me that there are still a few delights to be experienced in this world.
Saw this guy just watching the day go by. He seemed to take no notice of the beach volleyball game going out just fifty meters away.
This cat was walking with real purpose. It seemed like he had places to go and obnoxious humans taking his picture were not his concern.
The Captain below was just waiting for the next jaunt out onto the waves. Fish guts and fish heads await.
Today is the anniversary of my first “real” date with my wife. It was 47 years ago. Time flies.
Last night I did the dishes. A copious amount of pots and pans had accumulated during the preparation of ossos. Hey if you want an excellent meal you have to experience the clean up afterwards. This is what cosmic balance requires.
I have been washing dishes since I was 12. Yeah I came to kitchen work in the era of Vietnam, Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew. I came into the washing and drying of dishes back in the days of free form FM radio. You may not have been around and you may not remember that time. However, back then a DJ might play 12 songs in a row and never tell you what they were. It might go from Muddy Waters to Love to Fairport Convention to Julie Driscoll to the Mahavishnu Orchestra capping it off with ELP.
In the middle of those twelve tracks, you might hear a song that just made your heart really respond. This might be with meditative love or agitation about the world as it was. It would take you weeks and sometimes years to figure out what that song you love was. It was during these dishwashing sessions that I first heard Ralph McTell’s “Streets of London”, Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon”, and Fairport Convention’s “Matty Groves”. I had the pleasure of seeing Ralph McTell two weeks ago and his voice is still beautiful. He is 82.
These days I play Apple Music’s stations emblazoned with my name. It picked up what I like using one of its many nefarious algorithms. While I washed many pots last night I realized that my musical favorites with only a few notable exceptions were created between 1967-1984. The notable exceptions are songs crafted by artists performing in those years but still out on the road creatively, like Tom Waits or Emmylou Harris. This clicked for me when the station played a Steve Miller Band song that long predated "The Joker."
Yeah even my modern devices tell me I am old. But there really isn’t another alternative that I like.
Tuesday. Early morning. Early enough, it is still dark. No living thing moves outside this window, this building. The only movement is the slowly but steadily falling of the rain on this February morning. A slow grey day will come soon enough.
Read a novel last night after settling into bed at 10:45. ’Twas a tale of murder foul in the heartland of America. The first forty pages were interesting but the day’s activities clearly must have worn me way down.
Woke up at 1:30 with the iPad glowing on my chest and drool dribbling out my mouth. Got up and shuffled to the bathroom for that pre-sleep pee. Got a sip of cool water. Returned to the comforter snuggling in like a bear moving into a cave for a long cold winter.
Just like that I was off to sleep and dreaming of things most improbable and fantastic. If you quiz me now I could not tell you a single detail. But when I awoke, I was sure I would remember it all.
At 5:57 my body told me it had rested as much as it felt necessary and that I should get up, pee again and seek out some fuel for the coming hours. I fought my corpus’s demands for a time, picking up my phone and reading the headlines and my friends’ latest social media postings. But at about 6:05 I gave in got up and after hitting the bathroom headed for the kitchen.
Today, like most days I set a pot of decaf on to brew. I got a bowl and a spoon. I sliced a banana up and threw some nuts on top of it. Then the Special K and the milk. My breakfast does not vary much although some days the fruit is diced apple with a dash of sultana raisins.
Coffee done, I grabbed a hot cup and took it to the dining room along with the cereal bowl and some milk. After opening the metal curtain that hides the courtyard from my view I ate in the darkness watching for the first signs of light. Those first signs of light are never the sun or a waning dark sky. Those first signs are lights appearing in windows across the courtyard of the poor bastards just getting home from a night shift or just getting ready to be in at 7.
Of the 58 windows I can observe across the courtyard four or maybe five light up before the sun comes up. My vision is poor enough that I can’t see people or anything taking place in those apartments. If the residents of those units knew, my myopia would probably make them happy. I just see blurry pastel yellow radiating out over what I know are pastel pink and green buildings.
As I sip my coffee I try to make a mental list of what I have to do today. There is a trip to the oculista. The replacement lenses for my sunglasses are in and will be placed in the frame I bought a couple of weeks ago. Initially I got a pair with UV protection but not polarization. It took only one day walking on the glaring calçadas of Lisboa sidewalks and I knew I had made a mistake. Luckily the oculista had a satisfaction guarantee for 30 days. So, in order to get the situation rectified all I had to do was pay for the add-on of polarization. A swap of lenses is required and that is why I am dropping in today.
An add-on to the list was a lunch date with friends. Luckily it is at a Vietnamese restaurant near my home. If I remember correctly the place does pho and bao buns. And there was other stuff I added to the list. These included dishes, laundry, purging email, and digging through a bag of papers shoved under the desk. This inadvertent hiding occurred when we had a new year’s party. I need to make sure nothing of importance got put away without being addressed.
As I jotted down some of the stuff to be taken care of on a Post-it I worked on my second cup of decaf coffee. Watching the eastern sky it lightened. Soft gray clouds filled the world's ceiling. Straining my eyes it appeared that a sliver of blue sky might be mixed in but it was difficult to tell. A look at my phone and the TWC app indicates the rain will not be steady but rather have breaks of several hours throughout the day. Typical Lisboa February.
With a list of to-dos in hand I will face the day. With my black rain jacket I will live in, if not conquer, this wet day in the world.
When I awake and read the tales of the current world I am driven into the small space of my insignificant life. I focus on my modest existence away from the winds of power and money. I ignore the oversized desires of the elites and the political classes. The fools in government and industry who have risen far above me cannot be changed, nor can their behaviors be changed. But here on the ground I walk I can offer love to my family, friendship to my neighbors and openness to strangers.
It is the compact space of my small life that I write about most often. I don’t talk about those broader things. It is done for me by people like Heather Cox Richardson and others of like minds. When I read today about the incoming administration almost completely clearing out the National Security Council because its members would not swear fealty above all else to the incoming President I knew these sunlit hours would be ones in which I focused on things like where can I find Ihla cheese that is marked gluten free? Did I empty the dishwasher yet?
Still, I feel guilt for writing so much about this small world of mine. I mean maybe I should detail Lisboa's art and architecture to you like an armchair Rick Steves. Instead, I talk about the windows of the apartments behind mine. As expansive as I get in these writings is when I tell you that the barber in the Belarmino barbershop down the hill from the Miradouro Sao Pedro Alicantara with all of her tattoos is one incredibly talented barber. Marta rules. Yeah, I talk about the small world because the larger world is too scary and awful for me to think about too long.
Here is what I wrote about yesterday.
Coffee? Or tea? Or maybe nothing at all. Late afternoon arrives with a day's worth of coffee already consumed. Any more and my back teeth will float. Any more and no sleep will come before three A.M. Ice cubes, lemon and tea. With the cubes clinking in a tall glass, I move out to a small table made of brown slats, an octagonal picnic table. I take in this afternoon world colored by the cool January sun. For a moment I am static as the world hurtles forward.
The sun's rays warm my face but the air is cool. I wear fleece and a down vest but both are unzipped and unbuttoned. Sitting here there is a serene atmosphere. It is a pause in time. Right here and right now sitting in this calm setting, the day’s worries are shoved out of my mind. There is only peace and contentment. It's a moment of stillness for my mind. It is a place where the soul can breathe.
The hum of traffic on the other side of the building reminds me of the chaos unfolding beyond my peaceful oasis. While my mind finds solace in the quiet of this moment, I am acutely aware of the restless and unstoppable energy outside. It is a delicate balance between inner tranquility and the frantic pace of the world around me. I will not pick up my phone and doom scroll. I just won’t, at least not right now.
I scan the world of the block’s courtyard. White sheets flutter below windows, building after building. Lightweight shirts can be found at the ends of those sagging lines holding fitted sheets. It is clear today, but the temperature won't reach sixty. Maybe stuff will dry, maybe not. You can tell Americans' apartments by their heavy blue jeans hanging from their lines.
Fire escapes have become porches where short middle-aged men smoke cigarettes in the evening and where middle-aged women put potted palms to catch the afternoon sun's warmth. Most metal exterior curtains/shutters have been rolled up to let the sun in.
Sun warmth is an ancient, natural and economical way to dry clothes. None of the people around here have energy-hog dryers. Additionally, most of these apartments are unheated. A full sun boosts the comfort of these living spaces, but so do the portable heaters we all purchase. This winter sunlight nourishes those potted plants on the fire escapes, adding a touch of needed greenery to the urban environment.
The contrast between the apartments is striking—on the far side of the courtyard the windows are very small. They let in little heat in the summer and very little cold in the winter. These windows are small pock marks on otherwise flat pastel facades.
The buildings along the sides are different. The buildings on both sides of the courtyard have balconies, which have long been covered with wide and high glass to create sun rooms. In one of these sun rooms hangs a disco ball. At night the room is flooded with red light. Another room in a building further down holds a comfy leather chair and a goose neck lamp. This lamp would have been appropriate for an episode of Father Knows Best.
Each window tells a story, revealing cultural differences in lifestyle and habits. While Americans cling to their sturdy jeans, others embrace the lightness and simplicity of the day. They let the sun flood their space with warmth and optimism.
I cannot sit long in this space. My life will not allow me to immerse myself in this meditation away and apart from this particular January's madness for more than a few minutes at a time.
22 December 22, 2024 as I craft this. The sky at 4 pm (1600) here in Lisboa is powder blue and cloudless. A few minutes ago, I started reading an Irish novel and now I have to decide whether or not to buy it. None of my online libraries have it in their collections but Apple Books does. But the phrasing is so beautiful it is almost impossible not to punch that little button to buy. Here is the sentence that captured my attention. “The Irishmen look out blithely at the faces that pass by in a blur of the seven distractions-love, grief, pain, sentimentality, avarice, lust, want of death.” I mean golly gosh how do you reach the stage in life where you can construct that sentence?
Most years I would have put together a Christmas message touching on family achievements and joys shared with friends. Maybe it is the bug that I have been fighting for five days, but I'm not feeling it. As far as I can tell, things to be on an even keel. John Lee is working hard at his software engineering position and Loren is furthering his education. Having them both here in Lisboa for the whole of the Christmas holidays is a wonderful thing too. And Loren, God bless the boy, sang in a Christmas concert in the metro.
There were events with friends. We took a road trip with Fred and Anne to Evora and Monseraz and wandered among the megaliths. We visited a historical astronomy lab, the national archives and the money museum with our social group. Houseguests arrived and with Francie as expedition leader they toured sites near and far. For me wandering around the Foz in Porto on a sunny day was a brilliant moment. Francie organized a Thanksgiving feast for 18 people and with everyone’s help and contributions of time and food it came off wonderfully.
But not everything went as I hoped for this year. With that being the case, I think I should close with the words of the Christ we purportedly celebrate at this the turning of the seasons. The Christ who as a child was a refugee in Egypt offered these words to guide our behaviors. In the years ahead I hope we will cleave to them when pressures will be many to walk away or turn away our eyes from need and injustice. From Matthew 25:34-45.
“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
“Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’
“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’
“He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’
And if religion is not your thing maybe you will want to consider Kurt Vonnegut’s thoughts on what it means to be a humanist. “Some of you may know that I am neither Christian nor Jewish nor Buddhist, nor a conventionally religious person of any sort. I am a humanist, which means, in part, that I have tried to behave decently without any expectation of rewards or punishments after I’m dead.”
Red letter Christian or humanist the next four years will be challenging. Merry Christmas and Keep the Faith.
A squirrel is justbarking chuck, chuck, snort, chuck in the tree behindme. An odd birdtweets out a sound that to my worsening hearing sounds like water falling over rocks on a mountain'sedge. The squirrel is hidden in the tree and I have no idea why or how Ihave aggravatedhim (or her).
These areenjoyablesounds. They are nottelevision. They are not angrypeople. They are not coming from the artifices of humankind. Theyare of the world around me.
After days of rain the grass is as green as itis ever going toget. Mosquitoes are starting toemerge. But it is 8:44 p.m. and there is plenty of light in the sky.
I havetaken this moment towrite. Over the past few days momentsof real writing have been few and far between. On occasion as I walk, I willgrab a snapshotof a interesting door or a goofy carand post that toFacebook. I will add alittle commentary. Facebook postsare not writing. Facebook posts are like saying hello as you pass someone in the hallway.
A walnutjust wailed down upon thedeck. Damn squirrels.
Inthis golden afternoon/coming evening, I want to write about what is in myheart. But what is in my heart has been buried so deep for somany years I wonder if it stillexists. A long time ago therewas electricity thatarced when I thought of ripe watermelon's scentand full red lips. A long time ago I could draw a picture of the naked form of the first woman I ever really loved frommemory. But time spent buryingthose feelingshas dulled the passion.
Lifecontinues on and forsome, passion will always be there. I think of artists and poets whowork into their eightiesand nineties. Maturity was seen in those later works for sure, but the thread of red-hot passion never left theimages. Poets as they grow older write poems that are more complex, but the raging heart is still at the core. I must recapture some of this lightning in abottle. My hand must raise up into the sky daring the jolt to pass through me.
Are there regretsinliving?
Of course there are, my dear.
But are the regrets soprofound as to be unbearable?
Only if you make themso.
Only if you give them such weight.
And we must bear the weight of those lives
That as the years have passed have attached themselves to ours
And fromthose entanglements there are no easy extrications.
And we must bear the weight of ourhearts'desires,
Of our passions not yet dead,
Of our dreams perceived only at the edges
When weareclosestto beingawake in the late evening or early morning,
Thatbother uslike a fever.
And we must bear the weight offrustration.
At nothaving more control,
At nothaving made things better,
At notreaching out and grabbing the golden apple
That “they” have always told us wecould do.
Arethere any regrets?
Of course there are silly.
But if youthink about these things
Your heart will lead you to where you mustturn.
Regret comes with living but as long as you live
You canbalance out regret with joy in action.
Twelve. Number twelve. Yesterday began with number twelve. Yesterday ended with songs sung subterranean to passing metro passengers. Yesterday actually ended with a cookie and a coffee consumed in a ‘healthy’ restaurant and a ‘healthy walk down a steep hill to the metro.
My wife has been dealing with a cold and it has disrupted her sleep patterns. She has tossed and turned and has seemed to never be comfortable throughout the night. Me, except for the normal trips to the washroom sleep soundly but woke early. As I tried to dress without waking her I heard her voice say, “Twelve”. Looking at her it was clear she was still sleeping. She then shook and again said “TWELVE.” Her head fell back to the side and she started softly snoring.
When the was awake and moving around a little later in the day, I told her about the two recitations of the number twelve. She had absolutely no memory of it. We played our little game of trying to suss out where the number twelve might have come into her consciousness recently. Nothing popped up, nada.
The rest of the day was pretty much like ever single other day I live. Laundry, dishes, making the bed, purging emails and looking with horror at the news. The one thing that was different was that Loren’s choral group was performing in the metro station at Marques Pombal. I had bugged him that we should go see them and see if he knew anyone still in the group. He agreed.
But then when time came to go he dawdled. He suggested we should walk to the station despite the much nearer metro station to us that would have provided a faster trip to the performance site. At this point it was clear to me he was dogging it trying to delay as much as possible. Loren would never suggest a long walk all other things being equal.
Because of Loren’s long stride we got to the site about 18 minutes before the performance. As soon as the choir director saw him he pointed for Loren to take a place in the back row. Loren had not practiced the music. He hadn’t been with the choir in nine months. He didn’t have the music. He hadn’t warmed up. Afterwards he told me it was about the same as living the dream of showing up to the final having never gone to class and being naked.
Loren gave it his all. He shared a choirboy with a man who was a foot shorter than he was. His head kept dropping down to read the next line and then popping back up to bring the bass line forward. When the choir began to do some simple choreographed steps to accompany a very repetitive song, he watched and fell into the rhythm. It was hard to miss him with his head towering above the rest of the choir.
When it was done people shook his hand and the choir assistant made sure that Loren committed to coming to practices in January. Loren then looked at me and demanded sweet potato fries from Honest Greens. So, off we went looking at Christmas lights and store window decorations. We were got there a gluten free cookie was the choice instead of fries. Then it was down, down the high hill to the nearest metro stop.
Loren acquitted himself well singing naked last it was. A boring Monday was punctuated with joyful serendipity.
