Beco das Flores, Canedo do Mato

The first tie. The first fingernail. The fingernail clipped to the quick. Big and small fingerprints. The blooming of the daffodil and the shortcuts it takes to acquire the qualities of a man dedicated to great causes. The right elbow pressing on the left thigh, followed by the left elbow pressing on the right thigh, followed by the right elbow pressing on the right thigh, followed by the left elbow pressing on the left thigh. The heavy head held between thumb and forefinger. The finger stuck in the buttonhole. The alarm at seeing your little finger bent to exactly 162 degrees for the first time. Getting used to it. Singing lessons and your first hoarse whistle. Mastering geometry. Mastering your tongue and biting. The emergence of a canine in the smiling mouth. The fingertip dreamily tracing the surface of the misty mirror and quickly losing interest. The first bite suffered, never forgotten and treacherously returned twice as hard. The face reflected in the dark bathwater. The vacant gaze measuring the depth of each hollow. The obstruction of ferns and towels. The tormenting doubt hammered hard until it disappeared. The extinction of doubt. The fingers, soya sprouts. The fingernail, bit to the quick or left to its fate: to grow. The strangeness of seeing, now and then — but with the infallible regularity of comets passing by — the wriggling toes of a foot possessed by desire. The smell of sulphur and the yellow-green colour of sulphur. The bumpy, rocky road to Canedo do Mato, the place on Earth that hides the widest sea of blooming daffodils. The miniature pocket mirror and the greasy comb, the latter unfortunately removed from public use. Tangled fingers. Untangling fingers. The knuckles. The well-being. Gallivanting. Reinventing the wheel. The grasshopper in the rear-view mirror assessing the amplitude of its last jump. The cowbell. Brokenness. Stupor. The scrupulousness of waxing. The first flea picked. The 3rst handstand. The discovery of sexuality and the eye. The first silk shirt with the first stain. The realisation of the mediocrity of all stain removers. The deep pain of no longer seeing shirt collars with one permanently uptwisted point. The splash of grease in the right place, guided by artificial intelligence. The jam always at hand. A fingernail glistening in the depth of the dark. The look on the face of someone who knows. The look of someone who sees things from every angle. The enlightenment of children, adults and old people as they are shined on by printed A4 sheets in plastic containers as they enter the already perfectly lit white rooms. The lights go out. Checking if the electricity is on. The power restoration crew. The unpaid electricity bill. The power cut. The high cost of getting the power on again. The uncertainty that the lights will come back on. The frightening hypothesis that light has always been extinct — the most certain and perhaps the truest. The deep study of all things. The research. The great discovery. The project. The reflection. The accommodating warmly lit room, and the yoga mat on the floor for exercising the daily splits. The beauty of architecture. The beauty of the sofa. The beauty of the lamp. The filtered zenithal light. Crying over spilled milk. A deer in headlights. The first homage. The urgency of paying homages. The detachment of all homages. Smelling pipes. The lukewarm tomb. The powerful art.

An omen per stroke.

The subject fainting from inanition.

A purse stuffed with chives.

Waiting for their turn to parade in Beco das Flores, Canedo do Mato.

José Loureiro