I would quit my job, sell my house and set out for Ithaka because I think I belong to that sea
If I were guaranteed not to fail… I think I’d attempt to be honest with myself. To understand why certain songs make me cry, what wound keeps resurfacing in different masks, what version of myself I’m most afraid to become.
Maybe the fear isn’t really about failing, but about what succeeding would mean. About choosing the untethered life over the anchored one.
As you set out for Ithaka hope your road is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one. May there be many summer mornings when, with what pleasure, what joy, you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for. But don’t hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you wouldn't have set out. She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean
I can whistle almost the whole of the Fifth Symphony, all four movements, and with it I have solaced many a whining hour to sleep. It answers all my questions, the noble, mighty thing, it is “green pastures and still waters” to my soul. Indeed, without music I should wish to die.
Edna St. Vincent Millay letter to Allan Ross MacDougall
To imagine existence without music might be biologically possible but it would be emotionally smaller. Music operates on a frequency that bypasses the intellect and speaks directly to something primal within us. Unlike spoken language, which divides us into linguistic communities, music creates a universal grammar of emotion. A minor key can evoke melancholy in a child who has never learned the word “sadness.” A triumphant major chord can lift spirits across cultures, generations, and personal circumstances. This universality suggests that music doesn’t merely accompany human experience—it is woven into the fabric of consciousness itself.
Music, uniquely among the arts, is both completely abstract and profoundly emotional. It has no power to represent anything particular or external, but it has a unique power to express inner states or feelings. Music can pierce the heart directly; it needs no mediation. One does not have to know anything about Dido and Aeneas to be moved by her lament for him; anyone who has ever lost someone knows what Dido is expressing. And there is, finally, a deep and mysterious paradox here, for while such music makes one experience pain and grief more intensely, it brings solace and consolation at the same time. (Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain )
When we consider a world stripped of this universal language, we imagine not just silence, but a profound disconnection from our own emotional landscape.
First dances, lullabies, funeral hymns, graduation marches—these melodies become the soundtrack to our most significant moments. They don’t merely accompany these experiences; they preserve them in a form more vivid than photographs, more immediate than written words. A few notes can transport us instantly across decades, reconstructing not just the memory but the emotion of a moment with startling clarity.
Without music, our memories would lose this dimensional quality, the emotional peaks and valleys of our lives would lack their soundtrack, making the landscape of personal history less navigable, less meaningful.
Even beyond its role in significant moments, music provides the rhythm that makes daily existence bearable, even beautiful. Work songs have existed in every culture because they transform labor from mere drudgery into something approaching art. The person who whistles Beethoven during difficult hours understands that music doesn’t change circumstances—it changes our relationship to circumstances. It provides the cadence that makes the unbearable bearable, the monotonous meaningful.
Consider the silence that would replace this constant, subtle soundtrack.
That life without music would not be worth living might initially seem hyperbolic. However, it points to a deeper truth about being human, we don’t merely survive on bread alone—we require beauty, meaning, connection, and transcendence. Music provides all of these simultaneously. It is the art form that most directly addresses our need for both individual expression and communal belonging, for both intellectual stimulation and emotional release.
Life may be technically possible without music, but it would be missing a profound transformation: the ability to turn time into beauty. Music does not change the fact that hours pass, that we suffer, or that we long for what is lost. But it alters how we inhabit those hours, how we carry that suffering, and how we hold on to memory. In this way, music does not merely decorate time — it redeems it. And in that redemption lies its deepest necessity.
If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph: THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD WAS MUSIC
Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country
P.S. I read this today:
As a graduate student, I cared for my grandmother, who was a big fan of Ozzy’s band Black Sabbath herself. Any time we went anywhere, we put on our playlist and sang along. When, during the Covid-19 pandemic, I cut off part of my fingertip and lost access to my campus library, I had Ozzy in my ear for much-needed heavy metal pep talks as I took my PhD qualifying exams.
And when I lost both my grandmother and my California home the following year, I still had Ozzy. His music was the score as I finished my dissertation from my parents’ basement and landed my dream job at Iowa Wesleyan University. Through the submission of my dissertation and driving nearly 1,200 miles across the country to start my new job, I listened to the Blizzard of Ozz album.
Picture this: It’s 1990, and the Scorpions are belting out “Winds of Change” to massive crowds across a transforming Europe. Just a year earlier, people around the world had woken up to the impossible news that the Berlin Wall was actually falling—that the concrete symbol of Cold War division was being torn apart by ordinary people with hammers and hope.
For those who were 19 in 1990, watching this unfold, the song became more than just a power ballad. It was an anthem of hope that seemed, for a while at least, to materialize into genuine possibilities. The world felt suddenly malleable in a way it hadn’t for decades. Meanwhile, in academic circles, scholars were beginning to re-examine how fear has shaped our world, while Norman Rockwell’s 1943 painting “Freedom from Fear” continued to hang in museums and some collective memories as a reminder of what we’re all supposedly working toward.
What connects these seemingly disparate cultural moments? They all grapple with the same fundamental question: How does fear drive human transformation?
In the future days, which we seek to make secure, we look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms.
The first is freedom of speech and expression–everywhere in the world. The second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own way–everywhere in the world.
The third is freedom from want–which, translated into world terms, means economic understandings which will secure to every nation a healthy peacetime life for its inhabitants-everywhere in the world.
The fourth is freedom from fear–which, translated into world terms, means a world-wide reduction of armaments to such a point and in such a thorough fashion that no nation will be in a position to commit an act of physical aggression against any neighbor–anywhere in the world
Franklin D. Roosevelt Annual Message to Congress, January 6, 1941; Records of the United States Senate; SEN 77A-H1; Record Group 46; National Archives.
I have started reading Robert Peckham’s “Fear: An Alternative History of the World”which reads like a detective story where the criminal and the hero are the same person. Starting with the Black Death in the 14th century, Peckham traces fear’s dual role throughout history—sometimes as a tool of oppression, sometimes as a catalyst for progress.
His central insight is provocative: fear has served “both a coercive tool of power and as a catalyst for social change.” Think about it. The same emotion that allows dictators to control populations also drives revolutionary movements. The fear of injustice motivates protests. The fear of environmental collapse spurs climate action. The fear of authoritarianism strengthens democratic institutions.
Peckham’s “shadow history” approach reveals how our most transformative moments—from the Renaissance to the Civil Rights Movement—often emerged from confronting our deepest collective anxieties rather than avoiding them.
Now flip to Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom from Fear.” Painted during World War II, it shows parents tucking their kids into bed while war headlines lurk in the background. It’s pure Americana—the suburban dream of safety, stability, and sleeping soundly despite the chaos outside.
But here’s what makes it powerful: Rockwell wasn’t just painting propaganda. He was painting aspiration. The image says, “This is what we’re fighting for—not just victory, but the right to live without constant anxiety.”
The painting represents the endpoint that Peckham’s historical analysis points toward: societies stable enough that families can exist in protective bubbles of normalcy, even when the world burns around them.
Which brings us to the Scorpions’ “Winds of Change.” Released in 1990, the song became an unofficial anthem for the end of the Cold War—but more than that, it captured something profound about generational hope. For those who were teenagers and young adults watching the impossible become possible, the song wasn’t just about political change. It was about the sudden realization that the world was far more malleable than anyone had imagined.
Whatever one might think about the song’s musical merits, it became a soundtrack for hope that, for a while, seemed to materialize into real possibilities. The fear that had held Europe in a stranglehold for decades—fear of nuclear war, of permanent division, of unchangeable systems—suddenly transformed into collective action and unprecedented change.
The song works because it embodies Peckham’s thesis in three-and-a-half minutes of soaring guitar solos. The fear that had held Europe in a stranglehold for decades became the very force that motivated people to tear down walls and demand change. The “winds” weren’t just meteorological—they were the accumulated anxieties of generations finally finding release.
Like Rockwell’s painting, the song also represents an aspirational moment—the belief that we could move from a world defined by fear to one defined by possibility.
We’re living through our own “Winds of Change” moment. Collective anxieties about technology, climate change, political polarization, and social inequality are reaching tipping points around the world. The question isn’t whether these fears are justified—Peckham’s analysis suggests that’s the wrong question entirely.
The real question is: Will we let fear paralyze us, or will we harness it as a force for positive transformation?
Peckham’s historical analysis gives us the intellectual framework to understand fear’s complexity. We need to recognize when fear is being weaponized against us and when it’s signaling genuine problems that require action.
Rockwell’s vision reminds us what we’re aiming for: societies where people can sleep peacefully, secure in their freedom from existential anxiety.
And the Scorpions? Well, they remind us that transformation is possible—that the walls we think are permanent can come tumbling down when enough people decide they’ve had enough of living in fear. For those who lived through 1989-1990, watching seemingly impossible changes unfold in real time, the song captured not just a political moment but a feeling of generational possibility that the world could actually be different.
That sense of hope materializing into reality—however briefly—offers a template for how accumulated fears can reach tipping points and transform into collective action.
Summer, cicadas, palm trees, the Mediterranean, sunshine and sunsets, music, my dogs, surprises, chance encounters, dance classes, piles of books to read, gardening, the way when, sometimes, you’re able to connect to someone else, the happiness of strangers, New Orleans, the South of France, London, Africa, handwriting, birthdays, kindness, harbors, ice cream, feeling carefree, falling in love, notebooks, pens and pencils. I don’t think I’ve made it to 30 and because the “My favorite things” from the Sound of Music is still echoing in my mind, I asked aimusicgen to make me a song.
[Verse 1] Summer hums with cicadas’ song, Palm trees sway where hearts belong, Mediterranean skies stretch wide, Golden sunsets, waves collide.
[Chorus] Feel the rhythm in the breeze, Dancing close beneath the trees, Laughter echoing through warm air, Every glance, a secret shared.
[Verse 2] Dogs run wild in sandy bays, Books in piles, long lazy days, Gardens bloom in gentle light, Strangers smile, the world feels right.
[Pre-Chorus] A spark in a look, in a word, Unwritten poems silently heard, Kindness passed from soul to soul, Harbours whisper, we feel whole.
[Chorus] Feel the rhythm in the breeze, Dancing close beneath the trees, Laughter echoing through warm air, Every glance, a secret shared.
[Bridge] From New Orleans to southern France, London streets to an African dance, In handwritten lines and birthday cheer, The world unfolds when love is near.
[Chorus] Feel the rhythm in the breeze, Dancing close beneath the trees, Laughter echoing through warm air, Every glance, a secret shared.
[Outro] Carefree hearts and melting creams, Falling in love like summer dreams, With notebooks open, we begin, To write the song we’re living in.
It wouldn’t matter if I got to a hundred picnics in after years; they wouldn’t make up for missing this one. They’re going to have boats on the Lake of Shining Waters—and ice cream, as I told you. I have never tasted ice cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination.
L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (Chapter XIII)
Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month's newspapers. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal, Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On which she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her horny feet protrude, they come To show how cold she is, and dumb. Let the lamp affix its beam. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
I lose track of time—not just the hours in a day, but the architecture of time itself. Days blur into weeks, weeks into months, and suddenly I’m looking back at years that feel like they happened to someone else, in some other lifetime I can barely access. It’s not simply forgetting; it’s a deeper disorientation, an inability to place the events of my life on any coherent timeline.
This temporal blindness has been building gradually, like fog rolling in so slowly you don’t notice until the familiar landmarks of memory have disappeared. Most of my days feel interchangeable now, lacking the distinct markers that once helped me navigate the story of my own life. Without these anchors, time becomes elastic and strange—months can feel like weeks, years like months, and recent events feel ancient while distant memories seem immediate.
But some moments still cut through the haze with startling clarity. Travel creates these temporal anchors naturally—the sensory richness of new places, disrupted routines, the way my brain has to pay attention when everything is unfamiliar. So do moments of intense freedom and comfort, those rare times when I feel most myself, when social expectations fall away and I’m doing exactly what I want without compromise. And certain people, too, become markers in time—those who draw out different parts of me or create space for conversations that feel like they matter.
What strikes me about these clear moments is their common thread: they’re all times when I feel fully alive and present, when I’m engaged rather than going through motions. They represent pockets of authentic experience in an otherwise routine existence. The tragedy isn’t that I can’t remember what happened—it’s that so much of what happens doesn’t feel worth remembering.
Perhaps the gradual erosion of temporal landmarks isn’t just about aging or the sameness imposed by modern life. Maybe it’s about how rarely we allow ourselves to be fully present, how infrequently we create conditions for the kind of aliveness that makes moments stick. Time may not actually be speeding up—we might just be sleepwalking through most of it, leaving behind a wake of forgettable days that our minds, quite reasonably, choose not to preserve.
The solution isn’t necessarily to manufacture constant novelty or drama. But recognizing what makes certain moments memorable—travel, freedom, meaningful connection—might offer clues about what our minds need to start forming temporal anchors again. Even small acts of presence and intention might help distinguish one day from another. They create the kind of memories that come with their time signatures intact.
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don’t sing all the time
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn’t half so bad if it isn’t you
Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to
Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs of having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally ‘living it up’
Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician
Summer, 1992. I was leaving my boyfriend’s house to head home. The night air held that particular warmth of early summer evenings—the kind that makes you believe everything is possible. I imagine I was thinking about England, where I’d soon be studying. Perhaps I was daydreaming about the perfect life that seemed to be unfolding before me. It was full of love. I was utterly in love.
And then, nothing.
The next moment in my memory is waking up in a hospital bed, looking at a woman I couldn’t recognize—my own mother. They tell me I flew 80 meters across the street when the car hit me. The driver never stopped. Never looked back to see the aftermath of their impact, both the physical body they’d broken and the future they’d altered.
I’ve had to reconstruct this night through police reports and courtroom testimonies. Witnesses described what I cannot remember. It’s disorienting to have such a significant moment of your life exist only in the accounts of strangers. It’s as if the narrative of my life has a tear in it, edges that don’t quite meet.
This was the summer before England. Before university. Before what should have been the beginning of everything.
What followed was not the perfect life I had meticulously planned. Looking back now, I see how that night became the first domino in a long sequence of self-destruction. The person who flew across that street never quite landed. Or perhaps she landed as someone else entirely.
I’ve spent years trying to understand why surviving led to destroying. Was it the traumatic brain injury altering something fundamental in my decision-making? Was it the brush with mortality that made me reckless? Or was it simpler than that—the realization that control is an illusion, that perfect lives don’t exist, that plans are just elaborate wishes?
The driver who hit me took many things. My memories of that night. My sense of safety. My trajectory. But perhaps the most significant thing they took was my belief in the orderly progression of life—that good choices lead to good outcomes, that we are the architects of our futures.
I’ve come to understand something else in the years since. That perfect life I thought I was destroying after the accident? It was never real. It was never possible. It existed only in the mind of a young woman who hadn’t yet learned that life isn’t a straight line but a series of collisions—some literal, some figurative—that push us in unexpected directions.
Sometimes I wonder who I would have become without that night. Would the perfect life have unfolded as planned? Or would some other moment have become my pivot point?
These questions have no answers. There is only this life—the one that began again in a hospital bed, looking at a mother I couldn’t recognize, piecing together a new understanding of myself from the fragments that remained.
It wasn’t the summer I expected. It wasn’t the life I planned. No bones were broken but something else was shattered.
Hit and run
More than silence was needed, what was needed was at least a screaming fit, a nervous breakdown, a fire, doors slamming, a rushing about. But you said nothing, you wanted to cry, but first you had to straighten up your hair, you asked me the time, it was 3 p.m., I don’t remember now which day, maybe a day when it was I who was dying, a day that had begun badly, I had left the keys in the lock on the inside of the door, and now there you were, dead (dead and even looking dead!), gazing up at me in silence stretched out on the road, and no one asked a thing and no one spoke aloud.
I first found this poem while browsing books at a FNAC store in downtown Porto. It stuck with me because, while in high school, a colleague was run over. Another girl and I called a friend who lived near her family (pre-cell phone era). He went to get her mum and meet us at the hospital. When they finally arrived, this boy was furious. The girl’s mother had told him to wait while she did her hair and makeup.
I have a hard time saying goodbye to all the Summers in my life.
I wish I could carry all my summers with me. Both metaphorically and literally.
in time of daffodils(who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why, remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so(forgetting seem) in time of roses(who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if, remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek(forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me, remember me
As most people, I own too many things. I could, obviously, live without most of the things I have. And I have tried, once when I was moving to a new flat, I gave away most of my possessions. This was, in some way, liberating although I’m not quite sure if I was trying to set myself free or was just to lazy to take everything with me.
He eventually realized that he was clinging to things that reminded him of people, places and experiences from his past.
“I wanted to make room for my future,”
From house move to house move I always kept steam trunks, books, photos, my grandmother’s wedding blouse and her dresses, the cake figurine of her wedding (1949) cake my great aunt wedding dress, my grandfather”s camera and photometer, birthday cards, note written by friends, sketches made by friends who have, unfortunately, died, theatre and concert tickets, my journals, my first pair of shoes bronzed in South Africa, teddy bears, notebooks and pens and pencils.
Learning to love differently is hard, love with the hands wide open
I suppose this answers the question, What are three objects you couldn’t live without? I just can’t bring them down to three.
I know “our memories live inside us, not in our things” but I still feel there’s a beautiful thread connecting everything I’ve kept to my personal history, relationships, and creative life. They are tangible links to my ancestry.
I’ve kept things that embody memory, relationship, and meaning rather than items of mere convenience or fleeting value. For some, they’re probably just clutter anyway. For me, these objects help tell the story of who I am and of the life of those who came before me. I have a hard time imagining a future without room for the past.
In the late 90s, when Skunk Anansie emerged with their fierce blend of alternative rock and political awareness, frontwoman Skin confronted society’s hypocrisy with unflinching honesty. Their music, to which I confess, I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but can hear it loud and clear from the first time I saw them live, offered profound commentary on disillusionment, authenticity, and betrayal that remains startlingly relevant today.
In today’s social media landscape, we curate selective versions of ourselves, seeking validation in an ecosystem that promises universal acceptance while quietly enforcing rigid conformity. The anger in Skin’s voice when challenging religious and social hypocrisy reminds us that genuine acceptance remains conditional—algorithms, trends, and social capital determining who is seen and who remains invisible.
The message behind “God Loves Only You” resonates powerfully in an era where people preach inclusivity while practicing exclusion. We’ve traded explicit prejudice for implicit bias, creating environments where belonging still comes with unspoken qualifications. How many of us perform the correct political positions online while failing to embody those principles in our daily lives?
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
“It Takes Blood & Guts To Be This Cool But I’m Still Just A Cliché” highlights our contemporary paradox. We demand authenticity yet punish genuine vulnerability. Today’s world expects us to be fearlessly original yet utterly digestible, to stand out while fitting in. The song’s provocative title captures this contradiction perfectly.
Those who dare to exist outside accepted parameters face consequences ranging from algorithmic invisibility to outright harassment. Meanwhile, true boldness gets commodified, packaged, and resold as aesthetic without substance. We’ve developed sophisticated language for social justice while failing to achieve its fundamental aims—much like the performative rebellions Skin critiqued decades ago.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
“Hedonism (Just Because You Feel Good)” offers another layer to our modern dilemma. In an era of instant gratification and endless distraction, the song’s exploration of pleasure without purpose speaks directly to our attention economy. Social media platforms are designed like casinos—engineered to maximize engagement through dopamine hits while creating little lasting satisfaction.
The chorus question, “Just because you feel good, does it mean that you’re right?” perfectly encapsulates our collective susceptibility to emotional reasoning. From consumer choices to political positions, we increasingly mistake feeling good for being right, comfort for truth. The hollow promise of digital hedonism—endless scrolling, outrage cycles, validation seeking—leaves us, as Skin powerfully articulates, “Empty like the hole you left behind.”
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
Skunk Anansie’s “Yes, It’s Fucking Political” delivers a raw, uncompromising message that challenges our ability to remain neutral in times of conflict. In today’s world, wars rage on physical battlefields and across digital information spaces. The song’s central assertion—that everything is political—cuts through comfortable illusions of neutrality.
As Skin defiantly proclaims in the song, political realities can’t be escaped or ignored; they shape our lives whether we acknowledge them or not. This truth resonates powerfully in our current moment, where algorithms curate our worldviews while creating the illusion of objective reality. The conflicts we witness—from armed struggles to culture wars—aren’t distant abstractions but forces that directly impact human lives.
The song’s visceral intensity highlights the frustration of those whose suffering is reduced to debate topics. Their existence is framed as “political.” Meanwhile, others enjoy the privilege of claiming neutrality. At a time when we can customize our information environments to screen out uncomfortable realities, Skunk Anansie’s confrontational approach reminds us that turning away from conflict doesn’t make it disappear—it merely privileges those who benefit from the status quo.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 03.18.2022
“This Means War” offers a perfect companion to these political themes by bringing conflict to the personal level. The song’s explosive energy captures the moment when diplomacy ends and confrontation becomes necessary—not just in global politics but in our individual lives and relationships.
In today’s world, we’re encouraged to compromise, to seek middle ground, to maintain peace at all costs—even when fundamental values and boundaries are at stake. “This Means War” reminds us that sometimes, drawing a line is not just appropriate but necessary. The song’s defiant stance resonates with anyone who has reached their breaking point after repeated betrayals or violations.
The lyrics speak to personal liberation through confrontation. This theme is particularly relevant today. We increasingly recognize how power imbalances shape even our most intimate relationships. When Skin sings about declaring war, she’s articulating the moment of reclaiming power after prolonged subjugation, of refusing further compromise after continual exploitation.
From setting boundaries with manipulative institutions to refusing engagement with bad-faith arguments, from breaking cycles of abuse to confronting systemic injustice. The song’s message isn’t about glorifying conflict but recognizing its necessity in certain contexts—a message that cuts against our culture’s emphasis on toxic positivity and endless accommodation.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
I believed in you, well, I was wrong. How many institutions have failed us? How many movements have been corrupted from within? How many public figures have revealed themselves to be contrary to their cultivated image? We’re continually investing faith in platforms, personalities, and communities that promise connection but deliver surveillance, promise empowerment but deliver exploitation. We believed in the democratizing power of technology only to watch it amplify inequality. We believed in the possibility of genuine community only to experience unprecedented isolation.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
Like the powerful vocals and words that define Skunk Anansie’s sound, perhaps mine (our ) response to today’s challenges should be neither whispered conformity nor performative outrage, but something more raw, more honest, and ultimately more revolutionary—the sound of our authentic voices, raised together. Hope, at this time, might be just naive optimism against all evidence but, it might as well be a deliberate choice made with full awareness of reality’s harshness.
In a world where climate anxiety, political polarization, economic uncertainty, and technological disruption create a perfect storm of existential dread, envisioning alternative futures becomes crucial. It is both a psychological necessity and a political act. My biggest challenge, I don’t think it’s particular to me, is how to simultaneously process difficult truths while maintaining the creative capacity to imagine beyond them.
It does take music to survive. Music like Skunk Anansie’s doesn’t just entertain—it validates our experiences, expresses our frustrations, and offers both catharsis and connection. In a world that can feel increasingly alienating and chaotic, that musical connection is essential. It becomes not just enjoyable but necessary for emotional survival.
Live performances add another dimension entirely. There’s something about being physically present in a space with other fans who understand the importance of these songs that creates a genuine community, even if just for a few hours. It’s a reminder that we’re not alone in our experiences or our reactions to the world.
There’s something comforting about the idea that certain events or connections are “meant to be” – that there’s some larger pattern or purpose to our lives. Many people find meaning in interpreting significant events as part of a larger plan.
On the other hand, I’m drawn to the perspective that we have genuine agency in shaping our lives, and that the future isn’t predetermined. There’s something powerful about the idea that our choices and actions genuinely matter in determining what happens.
Some philosophical traditions try to reconcile these views – suggesting that perhaps certain broad patterns might be destined while specific details remain under our control, or that destiny might operate at a higher level while still allowing for free choice within certain parameters.
I would say I don’t believe in fate but, I’m Portuguese….
Fado, as a music genre, is deeply tied to the Portuguese concept of saudade—a mix of longing, nostalgia, and fate. The very word “Fado” comes from the Latin fatum, meaning “fate” or “destiny,” reflecting the idea that life’s joys and sorrows are inescapable.
Even if you don’t fully believe in fate, Fado embodies a cultural perspective where destiny plays a role in shaping human experiences—especially in love, loss, and hardship. The music suggests that some emotions and events are inevitable, but at the same time, Fado is an expression of personal agency, as singers pour their souls into shaping the narrative.
Portuguese culture carries a certain introspective melancholy—not just in Fado but also in literature, poetry, and even the way history is remembered. There’s a balance between accepting sorrow as part of life and finding beauty in it.
Saudade and Fado are deeply intertwined with Portuguese history, emerging from and reflecting the nation’s unique historical experiences.
Portugal’s identity was profoundly shaped by the Age of Discoveries (15th-16th centuries), when this small nation became a global maritime empire. This period created a culture of separation and longing – sailors and explorers left home for years or forever, families were torn apart, and communities lived with constant absence. Saudade developed as an emotional response to this collective experience of separation.
The economic structure of this maritime empire meant Portugal was often looking outward rather than developing internally. When ships didn’t return or imperial ventures failed, this created a cultural pattern of anticipation followed by disappointment – another dimension of saudade.
After this golden age came Portugal’s long decline – the loss of independence to Spain (1580-1640), the devastating Lisbon earthquake of 1755, the Napoleonic invasions, the loss of Brazil, and the political turmoil of the 19th and early 20th centuries. This historical arc from glory to struggle embedded a sense of lost grandeur in Portuguese cultural consciousness.
Fado emerged in the early 19th century primarily in working-class urban neighborhoods of Lisbon, coinciding with a period of national difficulty. It became a musical expression of this complex historical experience – not just personal longing but a collective cultural memory of past greatness contrasted with present difficulties.
During the Salazar dictatorship (1933-1974), this backward-looking tendency was sometimes exploited – the regime used a sanitized version of Fado and the concept of saudade in its propaganda. Yet authentic Fado remained a vital way for common people to express their emotional relationship with fate and history.
Eduardo Lourenço described Portugal as suffering from “hyperidentity” – an excessive preoccupation with national identity and destiny based on a mythologized past. Saudade and Fado became cultural spaces where this complex relationship with history could be emotionally processed rather than just intellectually analyzed.
This historical context helps explain why Fado approaches fate emotionally rather than philosophically – it emerged as a way for people to express and make sense of their lived historical experience rather than to theorize about it.
A lot of musical landscapes could exemplify this, I chose my favorite. No Teu Poema / In your Poem. A magnificent poem written by José Luís Tinoco , first sang by Carlos do Carmo in 1976, and here in my absolute favorite version by Amor Electro. Not Fado as such but the melancholy is still there.
This is a beautiful example of how the Portuguese poetic tradition captures both resignation and resistance. The lyrics acknowledge pain, struggle, and fate (a sina de quem nasce fraco ou forte), but they also hold space for courage (o passo da coragem em casa escura), hope (a esperança acesa atrás do muro), and an open future (um verso em branco à espera do futuro). A blank verse without measure exists. It suggests that within fate’s poem, there are still unwritten spaces. These are moments of possibility within destiny’s framework.
Perhaps most powerful is “A dor que sei de cor, mas não recito” (The pain I know by heart, but do not recite). This suggests that fate’s pain is so deeply internalized that it need not be explained or philosophized about—it simply exists as emotional knowledge.
For me, this song beautifully captures how Fado approaches fate—not by explaining why things happen, but by emotionally inhabiting the experience of living within destiny’s constraints while finding both beauty and dignity in that condition.
It’s like life is shaped by forces beyond our control—fate, history, circumstance—but within that, there’s still the individual’s voice, the choice to fight, to persist, or to find meaning. Do you feel like this duality is part of your own outlook on life?
No teu poema Existe um verso em branco e sem medida Um corpo que respira, um céu aberto Janela debruçada para a vida
No teu poema Existe a dor calada lá no fundo O passo da coragem em casa escura E aberta, uma varanda para o mundo
Existe a noite O riso e a voz refeita à luz do dia A festa da senhora da agonia E o cansaço do corpo que adormece em cama fria
No teu poema Existe o grito e o eco da metralha A dor que sei de cor mas não recito E os sonos inquietos de quem falha
No teu poema Existe um cantochão alentejano A rua e o pregão de uma varina E um barco assoprado à todo o pano
Existe a noite O canto em vozes juntas, vozes certas Canção de uma só letra e um só destino a embarcar O cais da nova nau das descobertas
Existe um rio A sina de quem nasce fraco, ou forte O risco, a raiva a luta de quem cai ou que resiste Que vence ou adormece antes da morte
No teu poema Existe a esperança acesa atrás do muro Existe tudo mais que ainda me escapa E um verso em branco à espera Do futuro
In your poem There is a blank verse, boundless and free A body that breathes, an open sky A window leaning into life
In your poem There is silent pain deep within The step of courage in a darkened home And open, a balcony to the world
There is the night Laughter and a voice remade by daylight The feast of Our Lady of Agony And the weariness of a body That falls asleep in a cold bed
In your poem There is the cry and the echo of gunfire The pain I know by heart but never recite And the restless sleep of those who fail
In your poem There is an Alentejan chant The street and the call of a fishmonger And a ship blown forward at full sail
There is the night The song in voices joined, voices sure A tune with just one word, one shared fate Embarking from the dock Of a new ship of discoveries
There is a river The destiny of those born weak, or strong The risk, the rage, the struggle Of those who fall or those who resist Who triumph or fall asleep before death
In your poem There is hope burning beyond the wall There is everything else I cannot yet grasp And a blank verse waiting For the future
While Socrates emphasized reflection as crucial to a meaningful life, there needs to be something substantive to reflect upon. Pure contemplation without lived experience could become a kind of hollow philosophical exercise.
There’s a point where self-reflection can spiral into a kind of paralytic introspection or self-commiseration.
When examination turns into rumination, we find ourselves in an echo chamber of our own thoughts. This detaches us from the vitality of direct experience. Excessive self-examination can also drain experiences of their natural meaning and immediacy.
Yet, I wonder if the issue isn’t with examination itself, but with its nature and purpose. There’s a difference between examination that enriches our engagement with life – helping us understand our patterns, make better choices, appreciate moments more fully – and examination that becomes a form of self-absorbed withdrawal from life.
A little more sun – I’d have been embers, A little more blue – I’d have been beyond. To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings… If only I had stayed beneath…
Wonder or peace? In vain… All faded In a vast, deceitful sea of foam; And the grand dream awakened in mist, The grand dream – oh pain! – almost lived…
Almost love, almost triumph and flame, Almost the beginning and end – almost expansion… But in my soul, everything spills out… And yet nothing was mere illusion!
Everything had a start… and all went astray… – Oh, the pain of being – almost, endless pain… I failed others, failed myself, A wing that entwined but didn’t fly…
Moments of soul that I squandered… Temples where I never raised an altar… Rivers I lost without leading to the sea… Yearnings that passed but I never held…
If I wander, I find only traces… Gothic arches toward the sun – I see them closed; And hands of heroes, without faith, cowardly, Set bars over the precipices…
In a diffuse impulse of despair, I began everything and possessed nothing… Today, of me, only disillusion remains, Of the things I kissed but never lived…
A little more sun – and I’d have been embers, A little more blue – and I’d have been beyond. To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings… If only I had stayed beneath…
(AI translation)
Here's the original poem, Quase by Mário de Sá Carneiro:
Um pouco mais de sol – eu era brasa, Um pouco mais de azul – eu era além. Para atingir, faltou-me um golpe de asa… Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém…
Assombro ou paz? Em vão… Tudo esvaído Num grande mar enganador de espuma; E o grande sonho despertado em bruma, O grande sonho – ó dor! – quase vivido…
Quase o amor, quase o triunfo e a chama, Quase o princípio e o fim – quase a expansão… Mas na minh’alma tudo se derrama… Entanto nada foi só ilusão!
De tudo houve um começo … e tudo errou… – Ai a dor de ser – quase, dor sem fim… Eu falhei-me entre os mais, falhei em mim, Asa que se enlaçou mas não voou…
Momentos de alma que, desbaratei… Templos aonde nunca pus um altar… Rios que perdi sem os levar ao mar… Ânsias que foram mas que não fixei…
Se me vagueio, encontro só indícios… Ogivas para o sol – vejo-as cerradas; E mãos de herói, sem fé, acobardadas, Puseram grades sobre os precipícios…
Num ímpeto difuso de quebranto, Tudo encetei e nada possuí… Hoje, de mim, só resta o desencanto Das coisas que beijei mas não vivi…
Um pouco mais de sol – e fora brasa, Um pouco mais de azul – e fora além. Para atingir faltou-me um golpe de asa… Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém…
Yes, that “agony of the almost” is the heart of what makes this poem so powerful and painful. Sá-Carneiro captures something uniquely torturous about consciousness – not just the pain of failure, but the specific suffering that comes from knowing you came close and fell short. All the intention was there – just not the final decisive action. It’s the difference between never having talent and having talent you squandered.
There’s also something especially modern about this kind of suffering. In earlier times, one’s path might have been more predetermined by circumstances. But now, we face a growing burden of choice and possibility. This makes the failure to realize potential feel like a personal shortcoming instead of an external limitation.
And, again, the same question, is the unlived life worth examining? Awareness itself can be a curse. As Sá-Carneiro, we don’t just lament missed opportunities, but also knowing about them – and wish we “had stayed beneath.” Self-reflection does have a potential to become self-commiseration – when awareness of what could have been overwhelms and paralyzes rather than motivates. And we stay trapped between worlds – neither fully engaged in life nor able to transcend it (“To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings…”)
If, as Joan Didion wrote “We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not”, we might as well learn how to come to terms with the people we did not become.
References Adam Phillips, Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life
If there was a biography about you, what would the title be?
Stories from A Closet of Errors 