I’m off to Lisbon!
It’s a holiday. I’ll take some photos that have to do with Pessoa and put them up when I get back. I may also have something to say. Maybe I’ll write a clever essay, like those Benjamin ones about Moscow or Marseilles. Hell yeah! I could do that.
In the forgotten streets of Lisbon there is a sort of tiny chaos that reveals the Europe that Europe denies, a kind of amorphic reality that eternally abrogates the possibility of comprehension. The Portuguese aversion to the integrated and the renovated haunts the written word of this belated moment. It is the murmur of the ecstatic hermit as he throws pages from the sacred books into the black estuarine mud.
Fuck it. I don’t really need to go. I can just sit here, take some photos of blurry lights, write more of that stuff and play Advance Wars for five days. Sounds like a holiday to me.
In the meantime, here’s a little quiz. Who’s this bit of slashfic about?
Both men were breathing heavily. The tension was definitely sexual now. They looked at each other. Funny how as the years went by he was increasingly beginning to resemble D––––––, P––––– thought. Like a dog looking like its master. Or the other way round.
Funny too – that face, so near to his own now, was bringing on the sort of feelings that had long since disappeared between him and E––––. Maybe he was just attracted to odd looking people. There was a definite beauty in the strange…the thought was interrupted by D––––––’s hand on the back of his neck. P–––––’s face was pulled forward. The slight resistance was overcome very easily.
Easy to google, hard to forget.
I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the abyss pulls up. I don’t know where it will take me, because I don’t know anything, I could see this inn as a prison, for I’m compelled to wait in it. I could see it as a social centre, for its here that I meet others. But I’m neither impatient nor common. I leave who will to stay shut up in their rooms, sprawled out on bads where they sleeplessly wait, and I leave who will to chat in the parlours, from where their songs and voices conveniently drift out here to me. I’m sitting at the door, feasting my eyes and ears on the colours and sounds of the landscape, and I softly sing – for myself alone – wispy songs I compose while waiting.
Night will fall on us and the coach will pull up. I enjoy the breeze I’m given and the soul I was given to enjoy it with, and I no longer question or seek. If what I write in the book of travellers can, when read by others at some future date, also entertain them on their journey, then fine. If they don’t read it, or are not entertained, that’s fine too.
Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
I haven’t posted in an age. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. I’ve been moving flat. I find this hard. I am moving in with the love of my life, but she’s making me put many of my books in the attic, which to my mind implies I’ve fallen for some kind of sea-witch, or possibly a lamia. However, she’s a foxy librarian, so what can you do?
Things here will be busier soon. I want, in particular, to write about something I’ve only got time to mention briefly now, and that’s Ivor Cutler. I’m very sad at his death.
A 2 meg mp3.
You know how TV presenters say ‘genius’ after showing a Robbie Williams video or a clip of Richard Madeley doing something stupid? I wish they wouldn’t. The word means something, and Cutler was it.
(Best coverage? The Mirror’s SILLY POET DIES AT 83)