On the other side of the road, an aqueduct extends. A strange occurrence, because the construction seems to be in continuous movement, as if, from one end to the other, it were always leaving the earth to re-enter it, like a subway on the surface that for a short distance, and mere seconds, appears, fast, to then disappear into the bowels from which it was spat out. I think it is the “Muro das Nove Janelas (Wall of Nine Windows)”, or part of it. It is all covered with various vegetation, as if this had become its skin, supposing it is made of soil and not of masonry.
When the earth begins to drain from its guts and its striated colors meet the blues of the sky and the sea. Then you will understand better how I see (you).
Dreaming, I will kiss (you), being the flooding Ocean that wets (you), the ebb tide that welcomes (you), that bathes your brazen nakedness. Ecstatic, I will suppress (you), you will suppress (you).
I echo this call to you, like the roar of a riptide: remembering the ages we have spent dead, come and live the life, because death will soon return
Wandering is an art of improvisation, you don’t need to have a direction, just be, walking. Improvisation transposes the memory of what happened and the foreknowledge of the future, with reverence and detachment, is to wander through the becoming in Presence.
About Vagabondism and Illusionism
Napping Cat
Dreams all Day, Creating Reality
Sprightly cat
Lives the night utterly, Celebrating (Realism in) Vagrancy
About Illusionism and Vagabondism
Impenitent, I walked through the central nave. I stopped in the midst of the transept where, penitent, the Sun redeemed me. Setting, He shot a continuous ray between my eyes and, momentarily blinding, gave me a heartache in a twinge. I frowned and blinked until the glare, which had been compulsively tattooed in my retinas, dissipated… at least reasonably. Once the vision was recovered, I looked around, up at the vault, to the rosaceas, openings, gaps and windows. I didn’t understand how it was even geometrically possible for any sunset beam to hit me. In giving up searching for answers, I deciphered it. As always happens, by recovering the space occupied by thoughts. I had stopped precisely in the forbidden place, the line where the gazes of Pedro and Inês were to meet again. Fortunately, the apocalyptic Doomsday had not been scheduled for that instant. I deviated with the step I had not taken. Sepulchral, I contemplated them both, incarnated in their sarcophagi, resting the eternal sleep of death, in oneiric immersion.
Inês. Breathing softly. So faint that from an inspiration to an exhalation, and from an exhalation to an inspiration, it takes years. Somehow I managed to catch a glimpse of it, despite my mortal brevity. She is serene. Conscious in a mixture of deep and lucid sleep. The angels, on each side, from those who hold her head to those who secure her feet, rock her in unison, generating an undulation, catatonia of analgesia. They nodded, transmitting to me the ethereal wave. I poured, by infusion, reverent.
It was Peter who seized me. I circumvented his tomb which in turn encircled my passage. The soothing angels got agitated, laying their hands over the monarch. The powerful mastiff at his feet growled, snorted, sat his jaw down again, sleepwalking. The “Good Cruel” sleeps lightly, aware of his surroundings to the borders of the Universe, tinged by his inmost self, worn out by what he has lived, anxious for what he pleads to live. I approached his dormant face. The two angels, holding hands over their master, opened wards for me. Pedro dreams, ceaselessly. Through him pervades the dreams of all dead and living men. I dared, more than that, risked. I secretly whispered about his Inês, that she is ready, wondrous, waiting for him, lovable. I told him they will find themselves in the lap of Breath, that he should let himself be recognized united to her, delicately. Tears of limestone sprouted from his feasible body. I poured, by osmosis, empathetically. The angels mended the open gap.
Transfigured, I went away around the tombs, so not to cross the line where the gazes, amorous, will meet again in glory. It’s almost there. In fact, it is already here.
Wake up, Peter, Breathing…, Jehoel
About the tale of King Pedro I and Queen Inês of Portugal here and here.
To you who are a listener, because if you think you’re reading, make no mistake, in fact… you Listen. Yes, you Listen the words that come to your Intimate’s ear, as an imperceptible register, subtly disguised as spelling. There is here a je ne sais quois of seduction, who knows, embodied in the Trip’s tangle of curves and lines. Hence the equity with the unfolding path on a woman’s folded body.
Rout M514. Blurred by the whitish twilight, so alentejano, the line stretches endlessly. It starts to happen. There are few sensations as wonderful as the Horizon growing in front of us. I spoke in the first person plural, I know. Not that I want to appropriate you or your feelings. I would only long, in an instant of assumed attachment, to stir your Fire.
Jehoel, The Soul Reporter