Lisboa
The elderly woman on the balcony across from mine spends every morning ironing her elderly husband’s shirt around eleven And though there’s barely enough space on the Juliet balconette for two people to sit and share a croissant over coffee and a cigarette, She airs the windows and clipper doors open proudly. This display of love, for me, is of something of a novelty. Instances like these remind me of how easily the city slips under your skin, In the same way, I imagine, A needle would pierce a vein — and though the blood that follows would be yours and thus familiar, you can’t help but marvel (again) at the novelty of its severity in colour. Lisbon is not a city of sights and monuments in the same way as Rome or Paris, Amidst the bougainvillea in their fuchsias and violets or the whitewashed houses in Alfama, The bright yellow trams and their helpful drivers: Obrigada… Sometimes being here feels like experiencing colour for the first time.
And Lisbon at night? All encompassing and frighteningly confronting. The balmy night lights give the streets an illusion of warmth akin to that of the day Nothing lurks in the shadows and even the night sky is brutal and sincere in its darkness, with nothing to hide - it leaves nothing to fear. On my second night I sat at the steps staring up at the darkness, As if looking long enough and being quiet enough, I would somehow draw the realness of the silent but not unpleasant darkness and its featherweight purity into me and spread it through me until I was a part of it — The far awayness of it The being forever quietness of it. This was a darkness I could not relate to, For the darkness I felt in me made it seem That I had whole areas inside of me that I had to be careful of. It is this kind of darkness that causes fear, Like dancers in relentless motion trying to exhaust truths until they disappear. Here, there was a feeling almost of knowing, or being at the edge of knowing what had been hidden from me, a deceptive simplification, and later, when I thought about it, I realised it was just a feeling. And that whatever it was that was on the verge of being understood disappeared as soon as I turned away. Sometimes it seems like clarity is a game of child’s play What’s the use of chasing my own tail when it’s mine to begin with? I wonder what it would be like, if finally, I understood everything.
