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.