Recently, I had the pleasure of dancing a night away in Crew Hassan (a favorite local cultural association) to vibey vinyl curation by Cuban DJ Cami Layé Okún. After the show, in Wattusi’s living room, she commented, “I have a crush on Lisbon.” Another friend agreed and added that the city is simultaneously intimate and expansive. I’ve written this before but it bears repeating: Lisbon is polyamorous. For writers especially, it can be easy to fall into solipsism and feel that our experiences are only. I think this might be because for part of the process, in order to access the language, some of us have to go full hermit and burrow inside ourselves. I’m this way in the later stages of a poem or essay. I have to retreat, to fine-tune. So, sometimes I’m guilty of forgetting that my experiences aren’t only—that my subjectivity touches and is touched by everything else.
Denizens of Lisboa, we are all metamours.
How can you cultivate a grand romance with where you are living? What secrets can you whisper into the dormant parts of the land to awaken her?
The streets are waiting to be read like a poem, a Hejinian “open-text”1 that cycles through and isn’t complete until it is read, perceived, loved.
I like to think of Convento do Carmo in particular as an open text—recently I wandered there in the rain and contemplated the roof blown open to the sky. The disaster that shaped this city and what remains. In the earthquake of 1755, the convent’s library— among, of course, its structural elements— was destroyed (5000 books). I didn’t realize it at the time, but I visited close to the anniversary of the earthquake. I was there on Halloween, and the earthquake was on November 1st (Feast of All Saints). One of the things that made the earthquake so disastrous was the number of lit candles. After the shakes and tsunami, the city began to burn.
The convent also now houses archeological artifacts and artworks. It’s an immense skeleton, dripping from above.
It gets dark around 5 pm now. My cat is growing an undercoat (very soft) and has started exhibiting a penchant for eating paint chips. I mean, bulk up and get high isn’t a bad recipe for winter days. Also fear not, I’m in contact with her vet and we’re working on harm reduction. I myself want to hibernate. I need a lot of rest to recharge from the age we’re living in—depressed rest, pleasurable rest, overwhelmed rest, defiant rest. The only thing that really rouses me is listening to Tambourine by Eve. I start my days lately with what I can only describe as half-hearted twerking. Yes, I still have seasonal depression, an overall sense of malaise, but at least this ass is fat, and shaking it for a little reminds me that I’m capable of building little worlds and illuminating them.
I plan my day around being at a good vantage point for sunset. The sunset is like an event and I need to pause in reverence. Nothing else feels as important. I’m driven by the pinks and purples and how I can watch them. How I can feel swallowed by the sky for a little while.
I returned to the Chapel of Bones in Évora— a small city in the Alentejo region. Immigration business brought me to town and I was more than happy to tool around and revisit some haunts. The bones look great! They haven’t changed a bit!
I find the energy inside this space very nice and not creepy or heavy. It feels contemplative and existentially reassuring. The inscription on the entrance translates to “We, the bones that are here, await yours”— which could be ominous but I think it’s nice to be considered like that. No one has ever said they’re waiting for my bones.
This chapel was built in the 17th century as a monument to the fragility and transience of existence— around 5000 corpses were exhumed to make the walls and ceilings.
As I left Évora, the sky soaked itself pink again and I felt a lightness. I thought about the affirmations I whispered to myself every night last year before going to sleep. These were the seeds I planted… watered with prayer and desire. Never underestimate the power of your own want. From my restless soul to yours— amazing things are possible in this world. Keep going <3
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Songs on repeat:
Disfruto by Carla Morrison— good 4 feels.
Tambourine by Eve— good 4 cold winter mornings.
Я буду ебать by Moreart feat. IHI— good 4 twerk.
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Creative news:
I have two poems and a translation in this gorgeous first print publication from *apo-press! About the issue: A LOVER ONCE SAID, “Translation is an act of love. It’s like crossing a threshold, beginning a new cycle, words of faith whispered at the cusp of initiation, an invitation to feel the same.” The multigenre work included in our inaugural issue of *apo-press, Re-Knewing, demonstrates a grammar of exchange: what it means to give in to change, to renewal, to memory, to make rituals out of moments & moments out of rituals. Like something of the past that continues to rework its way to the surface; or the past we sacrifice to the future. This collection brings together 41 creatives from 15 countries in 9 languages, & in the process, creates a liminal space of absolute possibility. Language & art as turf & terrain caught up in mineral sediment, much like the nutrient-rich detritus from which the verge is born anew. & in the gifts & exchanges forged around the globe (which are also on these pages) we are reminded that to begin is never to start without. Our community is an expansive rhizome--an endless & ancient kind of love. Get a copy of this STUNNING art & literary journal at https://bit.ly/3wPOpsd
I have two poems coming out in the forthcoming print issue Interim: A Journal of Poetry & Poetics and one poem forthcoming in Portland Review online. So stay tuned! A couple of these poems were first posted on my paid tier— so thank you to everyone who supports my ongoing writing journey! On a very basic level, the paid tier helps to pay for submission fees. I’ve just posted a new poem there, titled “premenstrual dysphoric disorder in g sharp.” So head on over if you’d like to check it out :)
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So much gratitude to you for spending a slice of your time with me on a Tuesday. Once again, this monthly offering will always be free. If you’d like to support me further as I prepare to begin my doctoral program and work on various projects, my venmo is @ duffylala.
“The “open text,” by definition, is open to the world and particularly to the reader. It invites participation, rejects the authority of the writer over the reader and thus, by analogy, the authority implicit in other (social, economic, cultural) hierarchies”— Lyn Hejinian, The Rejection of Closure
All the walls are made of bones and skulls?! That's so intense, I wonder why they decided to do that. Love your photography!