I stopped my ford fiesta

by João Luís Carrilho da Graça

It was night, and I was driving up from Alcântara Valley into Espanha Square. I parked on the right. Took the key from the ignition. Opened the door and got out. Combed my hair. Closed the door, then closed my scarf around my neck. Up the incline was a construct of some sort. An army of radiant poles.
This place is always looked at in passing. As if it wasn’t part of the city. It's a bit abandoned, crisscrossed by streets and overpasses. The conglomeration of poles is wondrous.
I stumbled. The land had been worked. I looked at my watch. This land isn’t ready to be visited. But it’s been levelled. Anyone levelling land intends to construct something. The vertical poles are incredibly elegant, and the light is stupefyingly intense. It's reflected between them all.
It’s not raining. Happily, it's not raining. But the land is moist. The olive tree is all wet. This is an illuminated temple. What might the purpose of this house be?
(From afar, in passing, I’d already seen it. It was a surprise, however, that I didn't need more than a fraction of a second to see it all: the olive tree, the platform and this abstract construction of light leading toward the Aqueduct.)
Myriad species of insects were attracted to the light. The wings of these compound-eyed insects vibrate. The white poles, topped by spheres of glass, vibrate too. It could be a truly new form of construction.
Nobody's here except me. I sit down. I didn’t say anything.

October 1994