Porto (A Return)

It’s been almost a year. Over eleven months since I last published a word to this blog. Lately, I’ve thought hard about why that is. I’ve got a handful of secret notebooks; a whole folder of private Word documents on my desktop about public writing, about authenticity, about loneliness. There are hundreds of these abandoned projects. Each false start is a stray pebble, twirling around in the pocket of my mind.

The truth is, it’s a lot easier to be honest when you can hide these pebbles within the luxury of privacy. But that luxury isn’t challenging, nor productive. So here we are. I’ve decided to try writing more for an external audience, to push my own words back into the discomfort of a public arena. I have so much to say, and I’m eager to put a voice—a true, resonant voice—to the things that I’ve seen. I hardly know where to begin.

Maybe the best place to start is with an ending.

Last weekend, I went to Porto and found myself in the midst of a Portuguese funeral procession. I was wandering around the city and had ended up in the Cemitério do Prado do Repouso when I heard someone running behind me. I turned around to see a woman in a hoodie, carrying nothing more than a wallet and cell phone, slowly jogging down the path. I stopped to let her ahead. She seemed hardly out of breath, like she was in no more than a tiny hurry to arrive somewhere. I kept walking.

I found the crematorium, where gray smoke was breezing up toward the sky, and I wondered who was inside and what the smoke had once been. As I turned away, I saw a black hearse approaching. It was glassy and glossy and flowers were exploding over an enormous coffin in the back. The woman in the hoodie was now walking beside, talking and laughing with three or four other people. They seemed impossibly relaxed. They smiled and waved at me as they passed, carrying nothing more than a few motorcycle helmets. The small group proceeded to the crematorium, where they unloaded the casket and carried it inside. They disappeared.

I have no idea if what I saw was “normal,” if Portuguese funerals are generally so casual. But I felt a pang of modest hope, watching them stroll forward. I imagined they were comfortable with mortality, that they would end the funeral and all go drink together at a sunny sidewalk café. I liked to think they’d drink a few messy toasts to the person whose body was becoming ashes, and then they’d continue with their lives. I liked to think it would be simple for them.

There were lots of other shimmery moments, images that in my recollection seem more magical and mysterious than reality. I saw cats climbing over flea market stalls toward abandoned beer glasses, an ancient bookstore filled with anxious tourists, and plain walls painted to life with Escher woodcuts. I saw sleepy men napping next to fiery peacocks at the edge of the miradouro; a photography museum nestled within in a drafty old prison. A setting sun, embarrassed in the pale ragged sky. A woman with a voice worn loud by decades of cigarettes, shouting to announce the sale of lottery tickets. Another woman, still, knowingly winking at me as I sat alone in a noisy and chaotic café. I saw warmth, and attention, and movement.

These impressions, soft and tattered, are worth more to me than any hard data about the trip. They are disparate pebbles, a mismatched set of chipped thoughts and stolen ideas polished smooth in my own head. They are a mess, but they are mine. And with them, I pave my path forward.

Looking west, Jardins do Palácio de Cristal

Portuguese Centre of Photography

II

The Rio Douro

Livreria Lello

Tracks of the Camino Portugués

O fim

Behind; Above

Looking up; the National Portrait Gallery (January 2017)

Sudden Impact

Last Friday night, I took a walk to Gillham Park and wandered around the storied old wading pool.

Built in 1977, it replaced an earlier wading pool from 1913. Because this was Kansas City in the '70's, the new pool was heavily informed by Modernist architecture: lots of low, flat, rectilinear concrete planes lead gradually into the shallow pool, which was only three feet at its deepest. This practical design meant that, though there wasn't much shade, parents and friends could nestle into the elevated concrete corners with a clear view of swimmers. It also allowed for closer proximity among strangers, as the segmented planes dictated a certain degree of personal space while still allowing visitors to sit close to one another and, perhaps, strike up a conversation. By many accounts, people felt safe and relaxed here, like they were part of a community.

The pool, which lacked a pumping and filtration system, was eventually shut down last summer after its thirty-ninth year. This represented, for many folks, a significant loss. Gillham Park had one of the few free pools in the city, which meant that it was accessible across socioeconomic boundaries. It was seen as a friendly and welcoming neighborhood space.

Neighborhood groups are currently working to raise money for a nearby spray park. This potential project would be an adequate replacement for the beloved pool, which now sits empty. Its plain white interior has become a free canvas for local artists and bored kids. Though I doubt the pool will remain the gathering space it once was, I'll watch these walls nonetheless.

"Bouncy bouncy—it's such a good time"

Southbound

Summer Sun

Zippin' around, trying to use my time wisely to make things and do things. This is easier said than done. I'm somewhat overwhelmed, even in these bright summer months, but I have small bursts of motivation to write reasoned prose.

This afternoon is not one of those bursts, but here's a nice picture to tide things over.

A welcoming sky (or a better-fitting adjective)

Underlay

Sweet sweet pups

cuddled up

in the slightly-less-sweet underlay.

Plainsong (for New Beginnings)

I'm starting a new job, signing a lease, and writing spontaneous (and spotty) ekphrastic tanka poems about clouds:

When I leave this place
(even only if in thought)
dumb, I ossify
the highs of the arms-wide sky
that envelop me, all here

A Rainy Day in the Back Bay

It's been just over three months since I was in Boston.

I'm excited to be starting my "life" and to be out of the pressure cooker that Wellesley could be (maybe I'll just write a whole post about that sometime). Simultaneously, I miss it. A lot. At the most unexpected moments, I'll be entirely enveloped by this cavernous sense of longing and loss. In those moments, I'll wonder which street performers are out in Harvard Square, or what the breeze might smell like on the waterfront in the North End. Most of that feeling is fueled by a sort of nostalgia: I miss the place where I was an irresponsible college student, sheltered and safe from the world.

But there's more to it than that. Metro Boston was the first place I ever knew away from home. It was the first city I ever got to "discover," just by wandering aimlessly on the weekends. It was the first place I felt independent and confident enough to spend entire days wandering by myself. When the marathon bombings happened my first year, it was the first place I'd ever felt any sort of city-wide unity. (That's not to imply that unity doesn't exist in Kansas City; it certainly does. But tragedy and loss can leave deep and unique impacts on a place, and nothing similar has happened in K.C. during my lifetime.)

The point is: I grew there. A lot. That growth could have happened anywhere, but it was shaped by the buildings and the people I knew in Boston. And that city only exists in my recollection now, because when I do eventually return, it will be different: friends will have moved, buildings will have been demolished. I will be different, and my eyes will see the city differently. Even though that perspective will probably lack the youthful excitement of a first-timer, I can't wait to see what the years grant me and how my view matures.

I'll be back soon enough.

Commonwealth and Mass Ave; northeast toward the Common
May 2016

Rediscovery

Recently, I spent an exciting and thoughtful day with my dear pal Tory. We hadn't seen each other in four or five years, and reconnecting with her felt like rediscovering a hidden treasure.

Tor and I first connected during junior high track practice. I was the new kid at school, but I could already tell that she was someone I wanted to be friends with. Being a shy thirteen-year-old, I couldn't bring myself to talk to her. Passively, I figured that fate would introduce us if our friendship was supposed to be.

And it was. While practicing hurdles one day after school, I completely biffed on the track. The coach told me to go up to the bathroom and wash the gravel out of my legs. I was almost certainly crying, and Tory offered to go with me. I have no idea what we talked about, but we took our sweet time to return to practice. There was lots of laughing. When we finally did go back, I remember walking down the hill together and feeling comfortable, and hopeful that we would become friends.

That was nearly nine years ago. Tor remains one of the most remarkable people I know: she's absolutely irrepressible, and she can make me laugh in absolutely any situation. She seeks out the best aspects of people, and of the world. She has given me countless treasures, of memories, of music, of ideas; and she has taught me much about friendship and perspective. In short, she challenges me to grow as a person, and for her being, I am grateful.

Goodies in the wall at Prospero's Books

Beaming

The air was so humid yesterday

that halfway through my morning

run turned into a morning

swim through Line Creek

Down South

I will write more when I'm at a computer, but for now, here is a nugget from our roadtrip: the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal in Georgetown, D.C.

Virginia is absolutely beautiful, but I think Kentucky still takes the cake for my favorite landscape thus far.

On a Weekday

At the dead end

Campgrounds

Campground Beach; Eastham, MA

Discovery

After living here for four years, I'm glad that I can still find new treasures. I went for a run today in search of this specific bridge—a few friends happened upon it and encouraged me to visit—and on the way back, I found my way into the musty attic of a campus building.

I was fascinated and confused and a bit sneezy and I really wanted to shower after it all.

Memorial Day barbecue

Northampton

Weekend views; Northampton, MA

New Orleans

There are maybe a million and one things to write here, but from the airport all I can think is that this place is unlike anywhere else I've been, and difficult to understand, and absolutely vibrant. I can't wait to come back.

China Lights, City Park

Now I'm Learning to Love the War

I'm trying, futilely, to finish my book before tomorrow.

Something tells me that won't happen.

What kind of vines?

Wisconsin

Today, we go to Milwaukee. I'll have about a zillion things to post about once I'm home. Until then, here is a two-headed taxidermy calf we met yesterday in Andersonville at The Wooly Mammoth.

Brussels Sprouts

Twilight

The view from the backyard.

Contract Bridge

A Walk through the Woods

Today I was exploring a nature preserve and got a little lost on a non-path in the woods. After sliding down the world's muddiest hill, I laughed at myself for a solid ten minutes and went back to the indoor comforts of home.

Still, the sun was tantalizingly warm for early January.

Baby's first city

Leavenworth / worth leavin'