Out of place

  Homens que são como lugares mal situados Homens que são como casas saqueadas Que são como sítios fora dos mapas Como pedras fora do chão Como crianças órfãs Homens sem fuso horário Homens agitados sem bússola onde repousem Homens que são como fronteiras invadidas Que são como caminhos barricados Homens que querem passar pelos … More Out of place

even though it isn’t mine

even though I feel at home in most places I travel to, even though I can’t wait to leave, even though it now looks mostly as a theme park, I sometimes can’t help but feel that Porto  belongs to me because I belong to it. References  Truman Capote

Rust and stardust

Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to account for every month of 2017. I needed to go through all the photos in my phone to be able to do this. It seems that without them it would not … More Rust and stardust

No wrong notes

The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes – ah, that is where the art resides. Artur Schnabel   References: “The piano ain’t got no wrong notes.” ― Thelonious Monk Photo: Vintage market at Armazém, Porto, November 18, 2017  

Arriving

Porto always seems to be movingly beautiful from a safe distance. It never feels like this after landing. Photo: November 6, 2017 before landing   Transformation

Running aimlessly

I am not, nor have I ever been a focused person. My attention is always distracted by some real or imagined connection or possibility. This obviously means that I’m the least efficient person I know. I get things done when they need to get done because I do not like to disappoint those who depend … More Running aimlessly

I am not done with my changes

I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray.     References Stanley Kunitz, “The Layers” The Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz. Copyright © 1978   Photo: Braga getting into Noites Brancas, September 2017

By heart

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow, For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh … More By heart