Ditto #426

If we are not regularly deeply embarrassed by who we are, the journey to self-knowledge hasn’t begun.

--Alain de Botton

Foi neste dia #350 (1999)

Há vinte anos em Macau

Caprichos #569

De cima da tempestade vê-se o algodão doce!

Coisas que não mudam #531

Que estranho deve ser viver num país

com um buraco a ocidente!

Espantos #599

As estranhas tradições de Natal na Catalunha

Numa sala perto de mim #421

Knives Out (2019) a classic whodunit story full of twists and turns on top of twists and turns. As usual, Daniel Craig, never disappoints, not even in a heavy Kentucky accent. Nice note on the final credits... the Rolling Stones on a lovely (and rare) country style record.

Inverno #61

Ontem, em Turim

Yesterday, in Turin

Caprichos #568

A pleasure to return to Mako, in Barcelona

Numa sala perto de mim #420

The Irishman (2019) the 3h20m long mafia movie from the perspective of old age. I am not a big fan of mafia movies in general, or of Scorcese in particular, but it's well done and prone to leave you thinking about life choices and historical events, which I can't quite appreciate as I don't know much about the time period.

Palavras lidas #442

Personal Effects
by Raymond Burns

The lawyer told him to write a letter
to accompany the will, to prevent
potential discord over artifacts
valued only for their sentiment.

His wife treasures a watercolor by
her father; grandmama's spoon stirs
their oatmeal every morning. Some
days, he wears his father's favorite tie.

He tries to think of things that
could be tokens of his days:
binoculars that transport
bluebirds through his cataracts

a frayed fishing vest with
pockets full of feathers brightly
tied, the little fly rod he can still
manipulate in forest thickets,

a sharp-tined garden fork,
heft and handle fit for him,
a springy spruce kayak paddle,
a retired leather satchel.

He writes his awkward note,
trying to dispense with grace
some well-worn clutter easily
discarded in another generation.

But what he wishes to bequeath
are items never owned: a Chopin
etude wafting from his wife's piano
on the scent of morning coffee

seedling peas poking into April,
monarch caterpillars infesting
milkweed leaves, a light brown
doe alert in purple asters

a full moon rising in October,
hunting-hat orange in ebony sky,
sunlit autumn afternoons that flutter
through the heart like falling leaves.

Espantos #598

Hoje em Barcelona, momentos depois do pôr-do-sol

que coloriu o céu de laranja e rosa...

a diferença que faz o ajuste das definições da máquina fotográfica!

Numa sala perto de mim #419

High Noon (1952) tells the story of a sheriff in a remote town in the west that is threatened by the impending arrival on the noon train, of a band of criminals that terrorized it not long ago. On his wedding day the sheriff is abandoned by his wife, friends, deputies, and other figures of authority such as the judge and the priest. Also notable in the movie, the memorable song, Grace Kelly at 21 years old, the age disparity with Gary Cooper at 50.

Ditto #425

What is essential is invisible to the eye.

--Antoine de Saint Exupéry

Espantos #597

This weekend in London... curious to know whether

there was a spike after the referendum and in which direction.

Cores de Outono #68

Surprisingly, there are still fall colors in London

Caprichos #567

Tina. From Nutbush TN to the world.

Caprichos #566

Color coordinated breakfasts

Caprichos #565

Castanhas assadas... ainda que frias!

Ditto #424

Ever since we discovered that Earth is round and turns like a mad spinning-top, we have understood that reality is not as it appears to us: every time we glimpse a new aspect of it, it is a deeply emotional experience.

--Carlo Rovelli

Palavras lidas #441

December 1st
by Billy Collins

Today is my mother’s birthday,
but she’s not here to celebrate
by opening a flowery card
or looking calmly out a window.

If my mother were alive,
she’d be 114 years old,
and I am guessing neither of us
would be enjoying her birthday very much.

Mother, I would love to see you again
to take you shopping or to sit
in your sunny apartment with a pot of tea,
but it wouldn’t be the same at 114.

And I’m no prize either,
almost 20 years older than the last time
you saw me sitting by your deathbed.
Some days, I look worse than yesterday’s oatmeal.

Happy Birthday, anyway. Happy Birthday to you.
Here I am in a wallpapered room
raising a glass of birthday whiskey
and picturing your face, the brooch on your collar.

It must have been frigid that morning
in the hour just before dawn
on your first December 1st
at the family farm a hundred miles north of Toronto.

I imagine they had you wrapped up tight,
and there was your tiny pink face
sticking out of the bunting,
and all those McIsaacs getting used to saying your name.