make the ordinary 

come to life 

and the extraordinary

you

will

get

for free!

I watched a bee struggle to drink all the nectar she could from the most beautiful bloom. The way the blossom bounced in the morning light was otherworldly. A brilliant glowing buttercup against a verdant wall of green.

The forgotten hose that left a puddle in the yard became a playground for a cardinal and two pigeons while a rosy female robin kept her distance, waiting for her turn at bath.

The glory of the day started with splashes of crimson and periwinkle just before dawn, right after the deep purple of night.

All this, and the day has hardly begun!

2025-12-06 13:22:48

---

Walden, Found

Almost ten years ago, I left an assignment in New York and started driving around New England. No destination. No goal other than to discover things and places that were new to me.

Imagine my shock and awe when, on day two, I found Walden Pond.

This makes more sense when you realize I didn’t know it was a real place. I’d read Thoreau’s *Walden* and genuinely enjoyed it—but never understood that he had really gone someplace. A physical location. A place we can visit, too.

And so it was with exuberance that I turned down that drive marked by a simple sign that read: Walden Pond.

Every road I walk down, my eyes open a little wider.

Only when I have walked them all will I truly be awake

This was New England at the end of leaf season, so the trees were not quite bare—shivering their not-quite-nude bodies beneath a murky winter sky. Their golden and red glory wrapped every part of the landscape, right up to and in luscious contrast with the silky black water of the pond.

Walden is surrounded by a dense forest of red maple, pine, and several varieties of oak. The path from the entrance to the far end of the lake—where Thoreau lived his year of intention—was hilly and winding. The leaves were the perfect texture to crunch and crinkle gloriously underfoot as I trudged along.

It felt like that first reading of *The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe*, when Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy first wander into Narnia. Every step carried me farther from the twenty-first century and deeper into the nineteenth.

Adding to the mystique, the cold, damp weather meant no other human trod the lake’s shores. Just a two souls wandering on a winter day.

Magic.

We stopped occasionally so I could gather leaves and bark to paste into the pages of my journal—and in some cases send as small gifts to friends. We took longer breaks so I could sketch rocks, trees, and little details that still linger in my mind today because I once stopped long enough to draw them.

At some point, the mist of time shrouds the reason tensions developed. I probably undersold how far the walk back to the old cabin site really was. I’ve been known to soften the truth about the effort required for these sorts of sojourns. But it could have been anything. As we walked, frustration grew, and rather than smoothing it over, we each carried our own quiet superiority.

Until we spotted the site of Thoreau’s cabin.

In that instant, the argument melted away entirely. All the negative energy was drained into some unseen, ethereal lightning rod, and we were—separately and together—smitten by the romance of standing where Henry David Thoreau composed one of the great works of the nineteenth century.

Hell, it still stands head and shoulders above most things written since.

We were suddenly *together* there. Experiencing more than just the historical reality of a once-great thinker. For me, it marked a new awareness: that *Walden*, and writing in general, had far more depth than I had ever realized. Most—if not all—good writing suddenly made sense.

It comes from somewhere real.

This gave me hope. Because I am somewhere.

Experiencing things.

Later that day, we visited the home of Louisa May Alcott. That night, a fantastic public library—one both of those writers had known, along with dozens of others.

Hallowed ground.

I will never be a great writer.

But I *am* a writer.

I *am* a poet.

An artist.

And by that measure, this life is a success.

---

### Coming From Somewhere

What Walden gave me was not permission to withdraw from the world, but permission to *locate myself within it*.

Before that day, I believed—quietly, unexamined—that writing was an act of cleverness. Or sensitivity. Or emotional acuity. Something internal and almost abstract. You felt deeply enough, thought hard enough, suffered cleanly enough, and words would follow.

Standing where Thoreau’s cabin once stood corrected that illusion.

He didn’t write *Walden* because he thought beautifully in the abstract. He wrote it because he went somewhere, stayed there, noticed things, and allowed time and place to work on him. The pond was not a metaphor first. It was cold water. Dark water. Water that reflected trees and seasons and solitude long before it reflected ideas.

That realization changed my relationship to my own work.

I stopped believing that writing was something I did only when inspiration arrived. I began to understand it as something that emerges when I place myself—deliberately—in the path of experience. Walking streets. Sitting in libraries. Watching light change on stone. Listening carefully. Staying long enough for friction, boredom, and beauty to all have their say.

I learned that my notebooks mattered. That sketches mattered. That gathering leaves, recording footsteps, wandering without agenda—these were not indulgences or distractions. They were *practice*.

Walden taught me that art does not come from escape, but from attention.

From choosing a place—any place—and meeting it honestly.

I am not a man who can disappear into the woods for two years. My life is tethered to others, to duty, to obligation, to love. But I can still claim moments of intention. I can still walk with my eyes open. I can still write from somewhere real.

I don’t need a cabin.

I need presence.

And so my work now—these missives, these poems, these recordings, these wandering essays—are my Walden. Temporary clearings where I pause long enough to notice what it means to be alive in this body, in this century, carrying this particular heart.

I write because I am somewhere.

And because I am paying attention.

---

Have I ever told you about my buddy, The Ferryman?

I’ll call him that, because he wouldn’t appreciate the attention. And sometimes he’s the Ferryman and sometimes another person is. But this is mostly about one man: Ferryman.

This guy.

He’s absolutely amazeballs.

I love him to death.

He lives half a world away. We met on a volunteer project fifteen years ago, and if you’d asked me then which of those people I’d still be talking to years later—sharing my darkest fears, biggest failures, and the places where I still come up short—I never would have guessed it would be him.

But here we are.

It turns out we’re wired in remarkably similar ways. We have many of the same weaknesses. Our wives have many of the same strengths and struggles. In a strange way, talking to Ferryman is a bit like talking to myself—but with the enormous advantage of hearing my own thinking from someone who isn’t trapped inside my own head.

He’s solved problems I’m still wrestling with.

I’ve helped him through some that I’ve already fought.

There’s this beautiful exchange of ideas, encouragement, correction, and grace that I’ve only experienced a handful of times in my life.

The Bible speaks of friends who are “born for adversity.”

I’ve always loved that verse. I think Ferryman and I have become that for one another.

Ninety minutes on the phone with him leaves me feeling... human again.

Not perfect.

Not finished.

Just... capable.

Capable of being kinder than I was yesterday.

More patient.

More thoughtful.

More willing to put away selfishness and choose what matters.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about self-control.

Growing up in a violent home, anger wasn’t something you mastered. It was something people unsheathed. Tempers weren’t controlled; they were wielded.

It took decades to break that horse.

Or at least to get it mostly broken.

I thought that was the battle.

Then I discovered there’s another horse entirely.

The quieter one.

The inward storms.

The emotions that don’t explode outward but still demand to be reined in.

Apparently becoming an adult isn’t about taming one beast. It’s discovering there’s always another one waiting in the next pasture.

Being human is astonishing.

We have this incredible capacity for love, generosity, courage, sacrifice, forgiveness, friendship. Entire libraries have been written trying to explain what makes people choose goodness over selfishness.

And somehow, one of the greatest gifts in that journey is another person who simply refuses to let you settle.

Someone who reminds you—sometimes without even trying—that you can be better than you were yesterday.

That’s what Ferryman has become for me.

A reminder.

An encouragement.

A friend who makes me want to become the kind of man others can trust. The kind who brings peace instead of turmoil. Hope instead of cynicism. Contentment instead of complaint.

None of us become that person alone.

So tonight, I’m raising my glass.

To fifteen years of friendship.

To honest conversations.

To brothers who tell the truth.

And to you, Ferryman.

Thank you, my friend.

I don’t usually work in this format. These smaller books look amazing, and the paper feels great, but in an effort to be in the asthetic of the form, the paper has poor or no sizing. That means they don’t take media well. A least not watercolor and ink.

So, I took the opportunity to make a book almost entirely from stencils and spray paint.

“Let her go”
Was belting up to
The mezzanine
When you, swaying
To the rhythm,
Asked me to dance.

Every time with you
Felt like the first—
You made me laugh
And I lived there,
Out of time,
Whenever I got the chance.

Long draws
After long days—
Made our hearts light,
And laughter easy,
And everything
Felt twenty-five again.

Little sister’s eyes glistened
Against the album wall,
Setting that burden down
Just for a night.

And maybe that's
Your special gift:
This spell of happiness
That opens doorways in the air.

Another day.

Life moved faster
than any of use guessed,
But never so fast
we couldn't find
Joy, delight and a little rest.

One night in amber
and it won't ever be the same—
Pouring into memory,
all joy that tempers pain.

——————————————————

May 2024.

The night felt special, but not especially so. Not like it would be the last time we’d all sit around, laugh, drink, and dance. She had cancer then, but we were so sure she was going to beat it. We never really entertained any other possibility. She was going to be fine.

Maybe that’s what happens when you tell yourself that over a long enough timeline, ‘everything is going to be fine’. You come to expect that things won’t get as bad as they can. That somehow life will stop short of the worst. Save you from the absolute longing of real absence.

Then you wake up at six in the morning, and she’s gone.

The real kind of gone.

Not the kind where you wait two months and, poof, there she is again—a visage of loveliness. Trouble squared.

All you’re left with is the memory.

And the hope.

The hope.

Hope springs eternal, they say, and you pick yourself up and count on your friends to help you through. Only it turns out you don’t really have that component the way you thought you did. It turns out you’re the one helping everyone else get through, and suddenly you can’t pull the wagon anymore.

So, you sit in the shade and sip lukewarm water, waiting for the inevitable.

And you remember.

If you skip one of these, this would be a good candidate. It was kind of a mess. I never quite got real traction, being interrupted by other patrons, or security. Honestly, I’m not even sure what I captured.

Before we even got inside, there was a cat.

His name, apparently, was Magnificiencia. Or maybe Magnificent. Either way, he had earned it. He was a nice cat, with a checkered little pattern and a pretty collar someone’s mother had made. Handmade, of course. Which immediately led to the obvious conclusion that we should learn how to knit.

Yes, we should learn how to knit.

Would I make fun of someone for knitting? Obviously not. You see me making fun of knitters all the time? Exactly.

Getting into the Prado, though, was like getting on a plane. There were scanners, bags, coats, people waiting, people not waiting, hands freezing, and the general feeling that civilization had become one long line of small procedures. I saw why they had a “friends” entrance on the other side. Friends, apparently, probably didn’t have to go through all that rigmarole.

We were trying to get everything sorted — bags, coats, olives, snacks, whatever else we had apparently brought into one of the most important museums in the world. I had food in my bag because we had gone grocery shopping first, which all of a sudden wasn’t the forward-thinking decision f a hungry human, but a crime. :-/ There were lockers. There was confusion. There was: off with the jackets. Jelly was being swept through. Someone else was worried about dogs. At one point I asked if there was room for my coat with the olives.

There was not.

“What kind of big-brother operation is this?” I asked, which seemed like a fair question.

Eventually, after much shuffling and a certain amount of domestic comedy, we made it in.

Hello, new field report from the Prado Museum.

Getting in there really was as bad as getting on an airplane. It was mid-afternoon, around four o’clock, and the place was already packed. There were people everywhere. Beautiful people, tired people, tourists, guards, couples, families, and museum-goers drifting around in that half-reverent, half-bewildered way people do when they know they are supposed to be impressed but have not yet found the correct object at which to aim their awe.

Someone said they were going to see if they recognized Jesus.

“It’s way too swanky to be Jesus,” I said. “Sorry. There’s no way.”

I got why they would think that, but no chance.

Then, naturally, there he was.

The Dead Christ.

It was a nice sculpture. A little thin, maybe, but the details were cool — the hands, the feet, the penetration marks. The toes, though, were humongous. Virtually prehensile. SOMEONE has a foot thing.

Nearby was a girl in pink, not JUST pink, the prettiest pink in the world. Eduardo Rosales’ portrait of Concepción Serrano y Domínguez, daughter of General Francisco Serrano, at the age of eleven. The fabric was wonderful. She must have been a very nice woman at eleven years old, if such a thing can be said about a painted child in a museum.

Came The Death of Lucrezia, and then The Allegory of Dance.

My attention was held.

A graceful young woman was depicted nude, playing the tambourine, encircled by mischievous children dancing around her. The description said it was especially virtuosic in technique, a decorative sculpture based on models by an artist known for idealized nudes. It was luminous. Like marble doing something marble should not be able to do.

Very nice.

Then there was The Pearl and the Wave, acclaimed at the 1863 Paris Salon during the French Second Empire. The artist, it seemed, was drawn to naked ladies. Although, to be fair, the stern-looking man in a beard nearby was not nearly as interesting as the woman lying in the waves with her milky skin.

The human form wins every time.

There were studies too, and I liked those. The working-out of a thing before the thing. The effort behind the effort. In museums, I often like the studies as much as the finished pieces because they let you see the painter thinking. The polish is gone, but the mind is still visible.

Then we reached Rosa Bonheur’s Lions and Lionesses, and I tried to take a picture.

No photos.

A guard appeared immediately. No photos. Not in the hall, not in the museum rooms, not in the first story, not in the studies. No photos.

I asked why, partly because I was curious and partly because different museums have different reasons. At the Sistine Chapel, they say no photos, and when you ask why, the answer is basically, “Because we own it.” Copyright, control, the holiness of commerce.

But at the Prado, the answer was better, reasobable. The quality of the visit changes when people are taking photos. It slows everything down. It becomes dangerous for the people who came for the experience. Everyone is looking through a phone instead of looking.

That made sense.

The guard also said the paintings were available on the museum website and could be downloaded for free.

Public domain. Imagine that. Civilization occasionally works.

Aalso, because if everyone photographed every painting in the Prado, no one would ever move again.

The lion had a varnish on it, which explained the shine. It was a big lion face, beautiful and commanding. Looking at it, someone said they should just paint lions for the rest of their life.

They should.

They could become an expert lion painter.

Then came a poor old man who had apparently been painted three times and looked terrible in all three. Nude Old Man in the Sun. He did not look ancient exactly, just thin. After a certain age, the body starts to give up its architecture. Muscle goes. Volume goes. You do not necessarily look old at first. You just begin to look less defended.

The Prado is full of enormous paintings. Queen Maria Christina and her daughter Isabella. Frames so large they were artworks in themselves. These paintings could not go anywhere except a museum. No normal wall could hold them. There were royal figures in the foreground and men on the other side of a hill shooting each other, because history, apparently, is often a formal portrait in front of an active catastrophe.

The First Carlist War. Royal solemnity arranged in harmonious composition while armies skirmished in the background.

That is politics, I suppose: someone in silk, someone in mud, everyone pretending it makes sense.

Then came Fortuny. More naked ladies. I liked how the museum contrasted the naked ladies with the boring politician paintings. It was probably not intentional, but it worked. Flesh, marble, fabric, empire, generals, Venus, war. The whole human circus, hung wall to wall.

One painting looked like Mark Antony and Cleopatra, but it was not. It was Aeneas Telling Dido the Misfortunes of Troy. Or, as I first read it, Anus Telling Dido the Misfortunes of Troy.

Aeneas. Not anus.

Very different guy.

Nearby, Aeneas became a god. Venus anointed him with divine perfume, touching his mouth with a mixture of ambrosia and nectar, transforming him into something immortal. The label explained that this came from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. After ordering a river to wash away all the mortal aspects of Aeneas, Venus anointed him and elevated him.

I wondered whether the clouds had been painted later to obscure his genitals.

“High quality H2O,” someone said.

Exactly.

Vicki Vallencourt approved.

Then came Hebe, in marble and metal. She looked young, her top rolled down around her waist, the sculpted fabric impossibly translucent. I love when sculptors do that. How do you make stone look like sheer fabric? How do you persuade marble to behave like breath?

It was not the most masterful thing in the museum, maybe, but it had that magic. The body visible through material that should not reveal it. Stone pretending to be cloth pretending to conceal skin.

There were also preparatory sketches for ceilings, full-on paintings made just to solve the problem of a larger painting. I liked that. It was smart to work out the details small. The Prado has a lot of studies, a lot of process, a lot of evidence that the masterpieces did not simply appear. Someone worked them out. Someone made mistakes at a manageable scale.

Then Apollo appeared, inspired by music, holding a lyre in an elegant contrapposto pose. Very naked. I was surprised by how uncovered some of the sculptures were. In many places, later generations came along and covered things. Here, Spain seemed a little looser. Or at least less committed to retroactive marble modesty.

The amount of art was almost absurd. Everywhere you turned, there were galleries stuffed with paintings. No empty walls anywhere. I am used to museums where a painting gets an entire wall so it can breathe, so it can announce itself as significant. At the Prado, there is so much work that they seem to have shrugged and said, “Hang it everywhere.”

Then there was The Birth of Venus by Antonio María Esquivel, 1842. Not the famous Venus rising from the waves, but another one. She was beautiful. Venus is always painted beautifully. She had chubby feet and no toenail polish, but she was Venus, and Venus is allowed.

Right next to her was a drunken brawl.

Inebriation.

I had been inebriation the night before. I remembered having missed most of what someone had said to me, which was odd because apparently I had said plenty myself. How can a person say a thousand things and not comprehend what is being said back? I had not been talking at someone, exactly. I had been talking to them. But maybe I had also been feeling sorry for myself.

I did not know why.

Museums have a way of doing that. You look at Venus, then war, then kings, then dead Christ, then a lion, then a nude old man in the sun, and suddenly your own interior life starts leaking into the galleries. You arrive to look at art, but the art looks back. Not in a mystical way, necessarily. More in the way a mirror looks back when you were hoping for a window.

A young fellow in one painting looked like a very handsome woman, which reminded me of a friend who wanted to be a portrait painter. He wanted to paint presidential portraits, so he went the route of serious training and got very good at it. He painted the sort of life-size, six-foot portraits that look like they belong in places where people speak quietly and wear uncomfortable shoes.

That is the thing about the Prado. It exhausts you with abundance. You cannot possibly take it all in. You can only ricochet from object to object, half-learning, half-joking, half-overwhelmed, trying to keep some little thread of attention alive while the museum keeps throwing the entire history of Western ambition at your face.

By the end, I understood why they did not want people taking pictures. Not just because it slowed down the tour. Not just because the paintings were available online. Because the point was not possession. The point was standing there, in the room, letting the scale of human effort embarrass you a little.

The Prado was too much.

Which is exactly what a world-class museum should be.

And the bees came,
All stretches and yawns,
To start their chorus.

Between sips of honey
Tempered with coffee,
They would light upon my lobe,

And amid a flurry
Of little bee kisses,
Would sing of their love:

“This life is so sweet and lush,
We cannot resist the joy in our hearts.
Where nectar drips and floods,

Makes us drink
With happiness and joy.”

Their tiny bee lips
Pleaded with me
To lead them in dance.

They wish to see the ruler’s unique
Hybrid of clumsy and whit
Across all the meadows of the kingdom.

“Spread light, our king,
Propagate over hill and under dale,

And we will make for you
The richest honey
The world has ever seen.

For nowhere in the kingdoms
Has there ever bloomed

A flower so rare
As the union of
bee and king.”

the impossible sweetness

that happens

when both decide

to bloom together.

Oh, JOY! What day was this I had? From suns first until the gong of midnight, I sought, and found—only joy. Only love, only ache of the most welcome and glorious kind.

THIS is romance.

In truth, I started the day quite low. But, the best way to lay down a heavy heart is to pour it out. So pour I did. And pour and pour and pour. I expunged myself of that energy with passion and determination.

GETTING IT ON

We finally stepped out of the house, midday, bound for Thyssen museum. Not ideal, but I wasn’t worried. I knew we would have adventure regardless of the when or the where.

First stop: Correo! For post card stamps. More lines! The Spanish LOVE a good queue. In fact, I think that is a European thing. We are disappointed when the clerk admits they are out of stamps. We’ll have to find a second.

Strolling down the main avenue, We spot a thrift store, modernizingly named ‘Vintage’.

Inside, We find terrific coats. As winter drives in, we are both in need of warmer wrappers.

It is a delight; warm, stylish, a little snug (fitted). I have grown very fond of the cut and fit of most Spaniards. They look and no doubt feel beautiful. Green with wood buttons and an abundance of zippered pockets. This is important for an artist and writer to stick all his stuff.

Newly packaged, we decided the rest of the day, we’d lose ourselves in the work of great artists. So it was:

TO THE THYSSEN-BORNEMISZA MUSEUM!

Bus-hopping has become second nature. And we are enjoying metro rides and buses here in Madrid. It’s like a game to arrive without missing a window. And then there are the people. Genuine Spaniards living life. I stand out. She fits in a little better, but still not a native.

Some of our buses see tourists, though not many. I don’t think I’ve seen any tourists on the Metro.

SIGHTS SEEING ME

We get a big picture window cruising down the grand avenue which is packed with people. It is the holiday season here in Spain (December/January).

From the rushing bus, I see a street artist I intended to patronize the day before. I take out my phone and take a few pictures, just to record her geolocation.

Weirdly, she stands up and blocks the view of her work. Then, shoots me the bird. It’s odd and performative. Reaching down she holds up a sign that says:

ME HAN ROBADO, NECESITO DINERO URGENTEMENTE.

(I’ve been robbed, I need money urgently.)

I get the desperation. But the reaction reads more like mental illness than desperation. I don’t think I’ll risk going back.

There is an accident and our bus changes routes. We jump off at the next stop and walk the quarter of a mile to the Museum.

HOW TO LOOK AT ART

Today is a great day to visit. It is hardly populated. In fact, I notice the city itself seems largely emptied of its pre holiday crowds. And I love it. I GREATLY prefer an empty museum to a packed one.

My most distracting experience in that regard was at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where we saw a Magritte show. It was shoulder to shoulder—and not the way to see art.

Art requires the ability to take your time: step back, two to the left and the right. See how the light penetrates some pigments but simply reflects off others.

And this modern and well-lit museum delivers. Plenty of room to roam and soak it in. And we drink for hours. Longed for favorites with Picasso and Degas, surprises from Okeefe and Remington. And so so many works by artists of little renown but amazing beauty.

THE TRAVELING EXHIBIT

Starting with Warhol/Pollock, it is an interesting experience. The curator is commenting on abstract versus figurative work. And I agree Warhol took figurative elements and pushed them until they are abstract.

His ‘Oxidize’ series is both appealing and off-putting. Warhol spilled body fluids on to canvas (sweat, urine and other undisclosed material) and let time do it’s work. Weird but also kind of intriguing that he had the boldness to do it. The organic nature of it triggers my nose to run and on a second visit, puts in me into a fit of sneezing.

I read at the Banksy, ‘The ultimate goal is to spend less time making the art than the public does looking at it.”

Warhol wins in this respect.

His shadow pieces manage to evoke a tear somehow. Something about they being empty places in his studio. And something about painting dozens of the same thing that is just vague shapes.

INTERMISSION

We break in the museum cafe. It is cold and we are tired. Worth the premium. I have a cream cheese croissant and water while Ange has a lintel soup.

I want wine, but I do not want wine. The evening prior shared a bottle of brut and I do not want nor need the emotional or physical cost of more today.

Post meal, I do some drawing while she chats at me. Eventually, I am so tired I nod off. A welcome respite for 10 minutes. Until my slipping elbow knocks the plate to the floor.

This is a thing for me at museums. I can do an hour, then I need a nap. Not a long one. Just enough to let my brain reset.

TWENTIETH CENTURY MASTERS

We spend the next 3 hours discovering and rediscovering masterworks. There really is nothing as enriching a a museum. Maybe a library. But a museum takes less work! I love it. I want to spend every day here. I am just a tad envious of those who work at a place like this.

To spend all your time with these ghosts. What stories they must tell the gallery attendants while they stand their station. No doubt the reality is far less romantic.

Picasso mesmerizes me. I can see the craft and the care in what, upon first glance, looks like an effortless, childlike render. But there is so much tenderness and terror in his work. I especially love his rendition of women. The way the strips away artificialty, but we still see her.

I imagine that though Picasso was a notorious womanizer, his work seems quite tender, saying, ‘hey, quiet your fears, let me show you your beauty apart from the standard you’ve been trained to expect. Your heart is where you truly shine and where live the parts that make you glow. The eye, the ear, the breast, the hand, wrist... that quiet source of life, the way the arm meets the breast. No, the physical beauty of youth is wonderful, but there is equal or surpassing beauty in an aging form.

I am smitten by so many works. My phone is filling up with photos I will forget. But, two pieces have moved into the lexicon of my memory:

1. Swaying Dancers – Edgar Degas

2. Woman with a Parasol in a Garden – Pierre-Auguste Renoir

The first because I have always loved Degas. If I imagined myself as Jack on the largest ship in the world, a vagabond artist drifting through the streets of Paris, then I was FIRST in love with the idea of being Edgar Degas.

His pastels and his dancers are simply fantastic.

When I look up at the modest sized, but incredibly delicate Swaying Dancers, I start to weep.

My first medium and love is pastels. Nothing dries... it is vibrant the instant you press to paper. I love the dust, the smell and the drawing-like finish a painting has. To me, there is no greater master than Edgar Degas.

And this piece is fantastic. Delicate and expressive. Pastel artists must have good draftsmanship skills, and Degas has otherworldly ability to capture anatomy and pose.

The painting is such a surprise after so many Picassoes, Pollocks, Kirchers, Groszs. The dancer is mid pose and her tutu is like gossamer with magenta beading. The background figures all have stories of their own and the colors talk to me. They say, ‘we’ve been waiting, and so glad you’ve finally found us.’

I can’t look away.

One of the BEST parts of the museum is the real color you see. Not reproduced or managed. the same vibrancy, or muting that the artist intended. Or at least tried to. Their voice straight into your heart without mediator. Degas painting sing when you see them in real life. Reproductions just don’t do them justice.

This one is an aria.

I stay a long time with the piece. And a few others by Degas.

The second work I find that blows me away is Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s Woman with a Parasol in a Garden. The initial hook is the color and texture. What shocks me is how similar it is to Path Leading Through Tall Grasses that hangs in the Musee d’Orsey. I check to be sure I am not crazy and find that Parasol and Tall Grasses are very similar. It is very self-satisfying to make this identity.

I feel smart.

But, though I would love to be the kind of patron that gets to spend all night with these unique experiences, 7pm comes fast and with only 15m left, I am sad that it is time to go.

My stomach does not have the same desire to stay with the masterpieces.

And so, go we do. Suiting up in our winter gear, we head out into the evening looking for what I describe as ‘Spaghetti an’ meatballs!’

There are several Italian places close to the museum, but as we’ve been living in the Latin neighborhood for the last month, I have come to sort of resist the tourist areas for meals. They are more expensive, crowded and usually not better by any measure.

DINNER TIME

Thanks to a very clever AI, I learn there is a place about a 20m bus ride away called ‘My Pasta, My Art’. And so away we fly.

It is in a new part of the city. One we haven’t visited. A little further way in a new direction. I am immediately drawn. It has the population load of the Latin quarter but the old world charm of the most popular part of the city. In short, the best of both worlds.

It seems we have discovered the Bohemian side of Madrid. Shot full of artists, galleries and music halls. It is wonderful. Every few buildings is some new creative energy. I realize: I have found where I need to explore next before we leave next week!

We spot ‘My Pasta My Art’, but are immediately drawn to a small bookstore with black cat. We cannot resist bookstores, and cute bookstores are just mandatory. This one, whose name escapes me, appears like a glowing white gem in the night with it’s huge window showcasing books in the lower half, and giving an inviting view of the shop.

Stepping in, my eye goes to a small basket of old books. At top is a pulp fiction novel by Erskine Caldwell ‘A Swell-Looking Girl’. I see it was originally published in 1931 and this is a reprint from 1950. The cover has a demure-looking blond girl with red lips and a power blue peasant dress. It is the kind of book that immediatly pulls me in. The cover illustration is heavy with shadow leaving plenty of negaive space for the ample text.

Since we are in Spain, I decide to purchase a small copy of Spanish poetry. It is good to practice my Spanish and will be a good opportunity to see how another culture thinks by translating them line by line.

The latest find is a 7th printing of Heinlein’s ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’. I read the opening paragraph:

Once upon a time there was a Martian named Valentine Michael Smith.

Yes. Please.

Since the store is buy two get one free, I am out the door for a paltry 11 euros. That is until my lovely wife finds the postcards, and I find the stickers and magnets. So much for 11 euros. We leave 55 euros lighter. But a pocket full of books and swag. No one is complaining.

Stepping into My Pasta, My Art, it has charm. Warm and tiny. Tiny is normal for Madrid. But this is the right balance of squeezing us in. We settle at a high top table and start gawking at the decor. It’s clearly swinging for the Roman fences. And winning. Rich detail without being gaudy. Plenty of mirrors in the right places to make the space feel bigger than it is.

The crowd at My Pasta is definitely skewed to: youth, fair skin, and beauty. Dress is varying levels of casual to dressy. One young woman struts up to her table across the aisle and peels her coat off to radiate. She has dared to wear as little as possible regardless of the weather. Her long dirty blond hair alternately hang over her right, then left shoulder to the front, then when the 6’ 2’ swarthy server comes, it is tossed back to swirl across the landscape of her back.

It is hard to deny the incredible power of the very young. How we all long for those bodies we had those many years ago. But I remind myself, that the costs that gave us the form we have in middle age (and older) also pay the dividend of wisdom and experience.

It is the paradox of this life to want both our youth and beauty but also the wisdom and massive heart that come with experience and age.

The staff here is outstanding. They feel fun and friendly and genuine. It is so refreshing to have this level of engagement. It reminds me that at one time people called this the hospitality business. Now they just call it job.

The meal is beyond excellent. Tremendous, even. I want wine. But since I’ve already been too loose, I opt for modesty. My body thanks me.

We linger and chat and I draw. The waitstaff is always complimentary of my draftsmanship. It is fast and sloppy, drawn in pen, the way I like it. Not perfect, but done. I always suspect they are just fishing for a nice tip. But I think about dancing in front of others. No one past puberty has anything but the utmost respect for those who perform in public. It is entertaining even when it is not very good.

I know what I am. But I also spent the day looking at drawings by my predecessors and know that you don’t get in a place like the Thyssen by sitting still. Do the work, good bad or otherwise, it compounds and one day a magnum opus is complete and everyone thinks you just materialize as successful.

The Late Stroll

As we wrap with coffee and shared tiramisu, we realize it’s time to make the trek home. My wife is in rare form tonight, never suggesting either taxi or uber, preferring instead to wander the streets until we find a metro or bus terminal.

Now that we are through the major holidays, the streets at night have that romantic quality I recall from Porto just a few weeks back. Damp cobblestones, neon signs and small clusters of comrades drinking coffees or beer. The mass of people that are ubiquitous further south are absent, having spent their holiday buying a million things.

Feeling amorous, I pull my partner in close and hold her hand. Stealing a kiss makes her laugh.

‘What’s gotten into you.’ she giggles and nudges me away.

My affection isn’t play, we are alone in a world-class city, lost in a bohemian neighborhood. Very romantic. We head to the bus terminal down the street Her love language is quality time. So a stroll through Madrid in January is very special.

I wrap my scarf a little snugger against the cold and quiet of the night.

The day has not been perfect in the sense that there were no flaws. We started late, sometimes got aggravated with each other, ran out of time, got cold... etc. clunkiness of being human beings. But in the sense that it was exactly we needed: perfection.

The absolute hilights were the emotional gift Degas gave me, the warmth and light of her laughter, the bookstore and the weight of her hand in mine. Moments I will carry with me for a long time, if not all my days. Deep moments with art and with love stick with you in an indelible way. A stain on the soul of the very best kind.

When I was a little boy, I remember my dad working in the yard. And like all little boys do, I wanted to imitate him. So I hovered nearby, doing this or that—picking up sticks, pretending they were tools, whatever felt close enough to helping.

Occasionally he’d let me put something away or explain a simple task he was doing.

One time, I remember telling him I wanted to help. I don’t recall what he was actually working on, but it was probably beyond what a five-year-old could meaningfully participate in. Instead, he showed me a pile of bricks—about three feet square and two feet tall. A large stack for a small boy.

“I need you to move these bricks from right here to over there.” He pointed to a spot on the other side of the yard.

The bricks were heavy. Dirty. Sometimes scary. Wolf spiders loved to hide in the cool, dark gaps. And while they’re largely harmless and good for the environment, they are absolute monsters to a child. Add to that the wide variety of other creepy crawlies that make brick stacks their home.

It was, essentially, a high-rise for little-boy terrors.

But it was something my father had asked me to do, and I wanted to do my best. So all day long, I dutifully moved bricks from one spot to another. I learned that if I carried three at a time, it meant fewer trips but more effort. That if I wasn’t careful, bricks could be dropped and broken.

By the end of the day, the task was complete. The pile had been moved and stacked more neatly than it had been before.
The next day, my dad told me how proud he was of the job I’d done. I listened, beaming. Then I asked what else I could do.

He explained that he needed the bricks moved again.

So I spent a second day happily being the dutiful, useful son. I didn’t complain. The idea of resentment never entered my mind. I was doing exactly what I had asked to do: helping my dad.

On the third day, I moved the bricks back to their original location. It was then that I grew suspicious my work was less helpful than I had imagined.

I didn’t ask to help a fourth time.

Life feels this way sometimes.

All I’ve ever wanted is to be helpful—to be useful to my Creator. But much of my life has felt like moving bricks.

And I have been the dutiful son. I learned to love the bricks. To understand the nuance of their texture, color, and weight. How different manufacturers vary slightly on the theme of what a brick is.
But for a long, long time now, I’ve known the score.

Still, I tried never to question the ask. If Jehovah needed me—no matter the mundanity or the absurdity—I showed up and did the work.

Day after day.

I’m waking up to day four. And honestly, I’m wondering how much longer I’ll be asked to move these bricks.

Some days, I am the man who understands that the bricks of my life need caring hands and gentle transfer. That they deserve to be seen, supported, and placed somewhere solid and safe. That having the privilege of doing so is rare and meaningful.

And some days—

I’m just a little boy
tired of moving bricks.

Some time in December 2025

The day unfolded as a restless, rain-flecked wander through Porto—beginning with an early escape to the tide pools and a spellbinding conversation about octopuses and the ocean, followed by an impulsive train ride into the city in search of reclaimed tiles and small treasures that mostly stayed just out of reach. It became a long, uphill ramble marked by coughing fits, missed shops, narrow alleys, sudden beauty, and the quiet pleasure of getting lost, ducking into galleries, weighing gifts, and thinking of everyone back home. As evening settled in, rain returned, wine waited at home, health worries hovered, and the city glowed with holiday lights—leaving the day feeling like Porto itself: generous, disorienting, a little exhausting. A place full of moments of feeling more than for what was accomplished.

[waves crashing] Oh, my God. This is a beautiful place. I escaped my captors.

Most everyone was still asleep, though Laurie was wide awake. She’d fallen in love with the ocean, and it was easy to see why. She’s intelligent, curious, and loves to talk, especially about the tide pools. She showed videos for nearly twenty minutes of the octopuses she finds there — strange, beautiful little creatures shifting color and texture as they move.

I went out that morning around 8:30 because the tide was low, hoping to see some for myself, but I didn’t find any. Laurie had seen one that was apparently enormous, though she said most of them are tiny, only a couple of inches long. Even secondhand, it was fascinating. Inches? I don’t know. There’s, uh... It’s hard for me to tell, ‘cause I didn’t take the video. I don’t know what the scale of these things is, but they were just incredible. Watching... watching them change, uh, change colors, you know, and textures. They change textures. Ah, just incredible. Portuguese octopuses are amazing. So these sea slugs and she had all this stuff about the... I mean, this lady is right in anyone’s wheelhouse who craves going deep on subjects. I was fascinated. I really enjoyed the conversation.

Uh, she loves Jehovah. She loves the truth. She loves people. She’s so broken up about her friends in India. The Germans. They get to go home. But her friends, her Indian friends, because they are gonna go to jail for a long time.

I jumped on the train and rushed into the city, trying to reach a shop I’d heard about. It specializes in reclaimed materials from old buildings — tiles, bricks, textiles, furniture, and other architectural pieces that would otherwise be thrown away. Instead, they clean and resell them, which makes the place useful for anyone restoring an old property or trying to match missing details from an existing building.

`

I was especially interested in the tiles. In a city like Porto, where so many buildings are covered in beautiful tilework, the idea of a place preserving those fragments felt worth seeing.

Unfortunately, I got there just before closing, and they had already locked up early. This VERY Europe. 'There was no getting in. No amount of wanting it was going to change that.

There were a few charming little things tucked into the shopfronts, enough to make me stop and look more closely. I paused to take a picture, thinking I might have found a treasure, but after a second look it didn’t quite feel right.

I kept walking, half-following the route and half-letting the city choose for me. At one point I had to decide whether to turn left or keep going straight, and I went straight. The street opened into one of those scenes that makes you want to stop everything, pull out a sketchbook, and paint it before the light changes.

I lost my train of thought for a moment, probably because I was still running on the energy of the city. I had jumped on the train and hurried down to reach the place before it closed at five, but even though I arrived around 4:30, it was already locked up tight. I had thought it was a shop, but from the outside it looked more like a museum, so it may not have worked out anyway.

The whole walk from Bento Station had been uphill, and I had pushed harder than I should have. By the time I got there, my lungs were reminding me that running two and a half kilometers uphill is not exactly ideal for sport-induced asthma. So I turned around and started the slower walk back down, coughing a little and laughing at the fact that my next best option was apparently right back near the train station where I started.

I turned and found this gorgeous picturesque street. THIS is a European street: narrow, old, and full of texture.

I tried to take a picture, but I didn’t like the way it was coming out. So I turned around and, lo and behold, there they were: beautiful tiny little shops. The street wasn’t even eight feet wide. It was basically an alley.

Blurry. Of course.

So I tried again. Maybe that one worked. But then I looked at it and thought, oh, that looks fake. Wild. It looked like a composite — It was so well lit and the alley behind me was so dark.

Then it started raining again. Someone had loaned me a raincoat, which was exactly what I should have had to begin with. It didn’t breathe at all, so I got warm pretty fast. I checked my route again, trying to figure out whether I was still headed the right way.

I was still on the right route. Good.

I just needed to get to the bottom of the hill, and then I probably needed to buy an umbrella. Honestly, I should have bought one right then. I should have brought one with me in the first place, but I didn’t.

I figured I’d be out in the open soon enough and could buy one for probably twenty euros.

On a sunny day, it would have cost me two.

Supply and demand, baby. Supply and demand.

Anyway, it was Saturday night, our last night in Porto. Tomorrow night would be somewhere else, and I still had three bottles of wine to either drink or give away. Robert and Lauri were probably going to inherit them.

We thought we’d drink more during the week, but we didn’t. Mostly because I was working and Angie had been getting sick. Which was a shame, because the sparkling brut was delicious. Delicious. And it was only five euros a bottle.

I still couldn’t get over how cheap the wine was there. Even the bottle of red we bought — delivered through Uber Eats, no less — was only about eleven dollars. Pretty crazy. Back in the States, that easily would have felt like a hundred dollars worth of wine.

So it’s not the end of the world, you know, if you don’t get to drink it, other than I would really have enjoyed drinking it, especially that brut. It’s so good. I think I’m gonna drink a bottle of that tonight.

I kept thinking I should buy an umbrella. Why wasn’t I buying an umbrella? I had already walked past two umbrella stands and somehow managed not to buy one at either.

Don’t be a fool!

So I decided I’d go to the little store first and then decide about the umbrella. I crossed the street and worked my way past the tourist area, where everything started to look vaguely familiar and completely confusing at the same time. I was pretty sure I’d been to most of those places already. We had covered a lot of ground.

Then I got lost again, naturally.

The recording kept stopping every time I checked the map, so whole chunks of my wandering disappeared. One of the missing bits was a small diatribe on gold. I had stopped at a little gold shop and just marveled at the prices. Beautiful stuff, incredible craftsmanship, but everything seemed to start around two thousand euros and climb from there. They say filigree is a uniquely Portuguese gift, and I could see why. It was delicate, intricate, and gorgeous.

Also wildly out of budget.

That was the thing about gold: beautiful, but not exactly built for broke poets. If I had been a wealthier man, I probably wouldn’t have stayed one for long. I would have blown it all on pretty things, because that is apparently what I do.

Then I came across an art store — or maybe a gallery. It had these beautiful black-and-white prints in the window, the kind of thing that makes you stop even when you’re supposed to be going somewhere else. The store name was bold, to put it mildly: “I’m The F’ing Artist,” except they were considerably more frank about the word “F.”

I laughed when I realized they signed everything, “I’m The F*&#@g Artist.” It was a bold statement, and definitely not something anyone would forget.

The gallery had sketchbooks too, including one with that same brash artist name printed on the front. It would have been funny, maybe even useful, except not exactly ideal for carrying around with my particular crowd. They were fifteen euros, which felt suspiciously like thirty dollars once my brain got involved. Besides, I had already bought a sketchbook, so I passed.

Then I saw the scarves.

Ooh. Scarves.

Pintura paintings. Pintura original acrylic paint on canvas, €1,000. Scarves, €23. Hm, textiles are a good gift. Maybe a scarf.

Hm, they have such pretty ones. They have orange, orange. And blue. And Pink!

I should just get a magnet.

I’ve already stopped twice. I seem unable to reach my destination.

Ooh, there was a great sticker. I wanted to see if I could get that one.

Nope. It had already been peeled and failed. But I’m a professional sticker remover, so I wanted to see if I could succeed where others had failed.

Could the artist succeed?

He was succeeding so far.

When peeling stickers off round cylinders, it could be tough because the angles were strange. You had to get a straight side peeled off vertically and then peel across, because if you tried to peel from top to bottom, it tore every single time.

I was totally lost there. I think I was supposed to turn back there.

I got my mom a rock from the sidewalk, so she’d really like that. Too bad it will be stuck with our luggage in Germany for months and month and months!

And then I was going home, which was by Marino. I smelled marijuana.

They smoked marijuana there?

Mm.

Those kids.

[sniffs] [sighs]

Back at Robert and Laurie’s place, there was a huge painting in the guest room where we were staying. I hadn’t looked at it closely, but it was all gray-blue and oceanic, a massive moody thing that probably cost five or eight thousand dollars. Laurie told me the story of how they got it, which seemed to involve the natural social orbit of expats. They run around together, these little crews of transplanted people, finding each other in foreign cities and collecting stories along the way.

It’s funny because I don’t think Laurie wants us to leave, I think Angie wants to leave. I think she wants to go relax in a hotel, have her own space and sleep until noon, which I don’t blame her. We’ll see. They’ll work it out.

That was the thing about not having an opinion: I was fine either way. Angie had an opinion, so I let the girls work it out.

I didn’t know. He had a stomach bug, and Angie had sinus trouble. I didn’t think they were related. I thought she was just worried he was going to catch her sinus infection. I hoped we didn’t end up having to cut the trip short.

Traffic was light that night. There weren’t a ton of people out over there. The trees were still wrapped for the holidays. Obviously Christmas wasn’t until—what was it? Wednesday or Thursday or something.

It was just very beautiful. Lots of lights.

It had rained a little bit, but I was wearing someone’s raincoat that they had loaned me, so I stayed dry that time, except for my hair, which was extremely absorbent.

I didn’t know if you’ve been to Portugal reader, or France, or London, or Switzerland, or Italy. but you should DEF go to Portugal.

As I’m reflecting on my advice, good readers, I notice I have been lazy and ignored the crosswalk. it occurred to me what a scofflaw I am/was. A bad man.

I hoped the trip would give me an opportunity to see enough of Europe to adjust my viewpoint. Joy Division had talked about choosing self-preservation against people who were really only worried about themselves, and I could identify with that. I could identify with a lot of what was in those songs.

Music and travel have an effect on the soul. It’s uncomfortable in the best possible way.

Egypt.

Stone.

Tomb.

Sarcophagus.

Ancient artifacts.

Customs.

Roofing.

Falling.

OH! MY!

The dream:

I am excavating a pyramid in Egypt. It is Ng, another woman, a local guy and myself. I explore passageways. No treasure. Just interesting things. Artifacts stacked everywhere.

Find some kind of sarcophagus. Sealed. Big and shiny, covered with blue and gold. It reminds me of a paper maché we made in 4th grade. Breaking open it is full of fresh oranges. We bag up and haul them all out. We discuss how they are worth a fortune.

The exit is at the bottom of a looong steep stone ramp. I tell the girls to wait snd let me carry down the heavy bags everyone waits and I make several trips. At one point I pass a roofing crew and I remind them all to be careful, not to fall off the high ramp. An old boss, DO (now dead) is in the group, he says, “Me? Fall off? Wish someone would what reminded me of that  in New York. Would have saved me a lot of suffering.’

I do not know the NY reference, but in the 30 years I knew him, he’d fallen off roofs several times, once almost dying.

I get back to the top but the stranger with us insists on carrying her bag down herself. I spy a customs agent who stares at me. I insist I take her bag and start to walk away when she tackles me, snatches the bag and we both tumble downed the long ramp. Her bag spills open and all the brilliant orange splay everywhere.

The dream ends with us all picking them up.

---

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” — Rumi

---

The pyramids of Egypt and the Americas always fascinated me. These structures, similar but separated by 3 millennia and an entire planet, survived when the building cultures did not. Big piles of stone, it seems, are quite indelible.

I always wonder if the similarities are physics or some common intelligence. As in, are they shaped the way they are because that is the most efficient way to make a large monolithic structure that stands the test of time and may be constructed with rudimentary equipment, or was there a shared knowledge the builders carried from a common ancestry?

Like the Tootsie Roll Pop, the world may never know.

Still, I find them interesting. Mesoamerican structures are more fun to draw because the iconography is more organic and, to me, more interesting.

Pyramids: big tombs, essentially. So my dream is set in a graveyard and surrounded by memoribilia of the interred. Who? When? Who knows, maybe i’m diving into dead parts of my pscyche.

Discovering my grade-school sarcophagus, inside should be dust and bones, but instead, it’s full of life, brilliance and color. Food: the opposite of death, it is the sustenance that keep us going and in the case of a good orange, very, very enjoyable.

My house burned down in 4th grade. It’s also the year that my shoes got so bad, I had to wear my mom’s, which happened to fit perfectly just then. I was so embarrassed. They were girls shoes. We were homeless and living with grandma.

Yet, what i found buried there, even connected to an old wound, was good, enriching, and beautiful.

It should be noted that I thought that paper maché sarcophogus was one of the most beautiful things I ever made. I don’t know what color blue we used, but in my memory is is positively ALIVE!

So much good and wonder is in us!

The dream resolution is interesting in that it pulled in old memories of dead friends and the solution was one of my favorite story-telling devices: working together to solve a problem that benefits us all. In a word: cooperation.

My insistence to take over was divisive and thoughtless, and didn’t give the other parties and agency. As a result, an accident occurred. Think of others, helping them isn’t doing for them, it’s working together.

The appearance of the dead friend with his commentary matches his insistence that he always knew best. That might be just a ‘voice of wisdom’ thing or it might represent some resentment I always harbored against someone who was inadvertently taking on a fatherly roll.

Roofing was 25 years of my life and represented a lot of anxiety for me when I was doing it for a living in my teens and early 20’s. Roofers exist in that space in life where they are doing the work of necessary business, and are constantly on the edge of danger. Warning them might just be me saying hey, this is serious, you could really get hurt. Really make a mess, which i did.

it might even be teh NY reference was me dredging up dangerous actions when I travel. Thoughtless acts that cost me dearly on occasion. In other words, when someplace new, take care you don’t let your guard down and do things you’ll later regret.

Like spilling your oranges down the ramp.

What we’re filled with is not just beauty, but wonder and joy. Here, my subconscious painted it to look like oranges: nourishing and attractive. And it seems, worth a fortune. And something we all carry around in us even though we usually forget it’s there, or ignore it intentionally.

Extracting it is the difficult part. We have to choose to do it and dig through some darkness to find it. Wander through the graveyard of our hearts, if you will.

We might even make a mess in the process.

But that’s fine. Messes can be cleaned up and in them, we find those treasures we thought were lost entirely. And who of us doesn’t love discovering treasure?

The best part of my dream? I wasn’t doing it alone. We all have our tribes. Some are born to us, some are found. But we love them. We want them to succeed. And they want the same for us.

Dream work, lets the team work.

---

Morning came timely today and dawn gloriously welcomed me. I wanted to find wonder the world. To discover every lost fascination.

I am breaking fast in a very fancy-shmancy restaurant here at the Torel Avantgarde. IT IS a pretentious name for a hotel. But earned. This place is really impressive. Situated on the ancient wall looking down on the Douro river in Porto. This place is an extravagance and our gateway to our 3 months in Europe.

Morning dew glistens on the ancient tile roofs below me. Amidst the old homes is a striking derelict. Roof collapsed, stucco walls are bald and crumbling. The iron terraces, once striking in their ornateness, are now just rusted calligraphy. A record of once better times.

It’s hard to see but there the grand old dame sits.

Isn’t that true of all of us though? The older we get, the more the flesh slides into disrepair. We call it character because time does make us more interesting. But given the choice, I know we’re rather stay ravishing and boring-looking.

White Christmas drifts out of a speaker nearby. These are pre-holiday days.

A church up the hill rang me awake some hours ago and now sits a silent sentinel over its subjects.

An orange tree pregnant with winter fruit is my breakfast companion this luscious morning. It is not much for conversation, but I find it enthralling nonetheless.

Between my fruited neighbor and me, a flowing hedge row of sage contributes visually and aromatically to our scene.

And in front and below, stone houses cascade down ancient cobblestone where the streets splash into a finger of the Atlantic that snaked its way inland where is blends with the fresh water pouring high out of the Sierra de Urbión mountains.

Jealous more of my eggs and ham than my reverie. A massive gull has landed on a nearby handrail and does a circus balancing act in hopes that my appreciation will deliver it a boon.

I am sorry, bird-friend, there’ll be no scraps left for thee. You’ll have take your show on the road.

Winter in Porto is a very pleasant affair, especially the days. The sun warms as the breeze crisps cold and a little biting. Pedestrians everywhere celebrate their holiday. Everyone is happy and festive. The faces and countenance seems altogether different from home. Even frustration here seems less like loss of control or being overridden with emotion and more like a natural expression of circumstance.

The Douro below

A sailboat is pushing up the river in the dancing sunlight. I wonder how the captain feels this Sunday morning.

He is living his dream. Is he content? Is he striving for more? Is he single and hoping for a wife? Or married and praying for children or grandchildren. Or that the ones he has be successful and happy. Perhaps he just longs for a bigger sailboat.

Everyone wants something they don’t have.

Aspiration.

But what is happiness? Not having what you want, but wanting what you have!

And so, the artist works. What else is he to do? What appears luxurious and opulent to a mortal Is tortuous existence for the creative mind.

This moment, like ever, is passing too quickly. I wish only I had a companion with which to share it. Mine is still socked in sleep, stuck on that old clock. I am determined to shift to this new zone.

But, it ain’t easy!

At some later time she will stir and then we will laugh together, eyes dancing in the sunlight as I tell her about boats and oranges and birds.

And one day, long from now, I’ll say ‘remember when?’ And she’ll nod, just like I do when I oversleep and she gets the eggs, the oranges and the river.

Originally published 2025-12-15 04:32:47

I’m reflective of our time in Iberia tonight. Which puts me in mind of my 2010 week in Rome. I doubt I’ll ever be able to relive that time.

I love Roman Holiday. The film is anything but silent, yet when I visited Rome in the fall of 2010, I discovered a quiet reverence that emerges late at night—especially in the piazzas, where mist settles on the cobblestones and the noise of the day finally gives way to stillness.

Rome is so saturated with iconic imagery that no single vision can define it: the Colosseum, the Vatican, Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps. A city of many faces and thousands of years, it offers as many impressions as it has visitors. But once you’ve walked its streets—smelled the roasting chestnuts, watched lovers linger near ancient stone—Rome distills itself to a single memory.

For me, it was a stenciled portrait of Audrey Hepburn.

We had spent the afternoon beneath golden leaves in the park outside Villa Borghese, then made our way through the winding streets back to our lodging near the Pantheon. It was late, quiet. We passed through an alley when a lime-green graffiti tag caught my eye. There she was—Audrey, staring out from the wall like a ghost of cinema past, etched into the stone like she’d always belonged there.

The first thing I did when I got home was cut my own stencil of Audrey Hepburn.

To most people, it means nothing. But to me, it’s a private seal. A reminder of that trip, that night, that reverent stillness. Of a city always caught between the ancient and the modern—where history echoes, but sometimes whispers.

I fantasize about an entire book written, designed, cut and hand painted as stencils. But I’m a HUGE fan of hand-made/written books.

Not sure they’d find mass appeal.

Artists have a problem: they are addicted to art supplies. It’s like a drug. Paints, brushes, papers, books, pencils, sharpeners, pastels, pens. Pens. Pens. Markers.

It’s crazy. Two things happen with them:

You’re really excited and immediately make whatever new thing into your primary stable of tools.

Then, everything else lies fallow.

Paints dry out. Papers get stained. Markers get forgotten.

Tonight, we’re initiating a new ceremony. Starting with the pens and markers we’re going to dump then ALL into one big bin and watch an old movie while we got through them and TEST each one as for it’s keep-worthiness. We’ll separate them into three categories.

1. KEEP KEEP KEEP. this thing is amaze amaze amaze.
2. Eh, it’s okay, but I’m never going to use it, will you? GIVE IT AWAY!! Our loss is your gain! Well, someones. We’ll probably give them to kids so they can draw on their parent’s wall’s with a $20 Molotow 15mm marker instead of the 4¢ they usually use.
3. Trash: dry junk, unrecoverable.

Think it will be a fun ritual and I’ll do away with carrying around 30-40 markers that I rarely or never use.