For days with open windows that are not meant to end. This journal entry is from a first trip to Portugal.
I sit in the cafes long enough to see its many faces of the day. A traveler to consume cakes and coffees, to study the population with this simple act. It writes a book of truth, at day break it concludes and we will rip out the pages. I used to get scared and anxious when the seats at the cafes and bars would fill up with couples and triples and foursomes of people and parties and I would be the sole inhibitor of my place setting. But that feeling has escaped me and now I only notice it as the natural traffic of space, time and people. Some stay only a few moments, to regain their days and leave with their glasses a sip full, others linger longer, making a day of their drink.
I find myself in places and I find myself in places that I know I’ll long for, to come back to. I envision my return over and over, the comfort I feel is so automatic, I swear I’ve known this city unlike any other I have visited in my travels so far. I think there is a time and place for all my outlets and creations I wish to delve upon. I feel them all inside of me, but they only let themselves escape at certain moments. I must be patient and learn to know when it is a flight of fancy or a proper signal. At this moment words flow easily out of my heart, head and hand. It’s though I barely think about them, they simply have a way with themselves and I loosely coax and cradle them, but they continue to their preferred shapes and compositions. It’s as though every thought and feeling I attempt to render pours through me. It’s nearly uncontrollable. It’s strange to me actually, I’m only a vessel and it’s as if I could write with the inspiration of any vision that enters my field of senses. I feel it is my purpose and it is meant to be so easy and fluid. My lids can’t hold themselves up and if I noticed a feather falling from the flight of the sky, I’d try to grasp it and curl myself on its wispy limbs for a small siesta. Like I am drunk but have not ingested anything with hindrance. Maybe my vision is blurred by the galão and Portuguese cakes, which I find superior to all those I have sampled thus far in my city search.
I must learn to write with other emotions beside intrigue and wonderment, I don’t want to bore my reader. I have friends at home in New York and they look at situations and see the impossibilities form before their eyes. I am not casting criticism, as I know this view, I have felt the weight and its creation of tightly braided tensions. But it amazes me and makes me wonder because my field of vision yields something so different as if so much possibility is provided, I can’t decide my colour to pick or path to tread, they all appeal in their own shimmering ways. I think my path will take many turns and each bender before the next prepares me with strength and honesty for what follows suit. I am able to write here so quickly and with fluid motions, but I’ve been able to write many places thus far…
I aspire to journey with an open mind and find inspiration in all that I see, whether I’m pleased by it or not. I am here to learn to live with lightness.
AM / June 7, 2009, Kaffeehaus, Lisbon