Mapping Minor Modes of Multiple Muted Memories (part 1)

Landed in Lisbon.

Hangar—our dropzone, an art-research nerve center, opposite the gaze-point of Graça, where the city spills down to the Tejo like braised cod. Start here, summon inner ghosts, snatch outer visions—chromatic pulses, stray verses, floaty fragments of unsure futures.

We descend >Northbound< twisting steep bends, spiraling staircases like thought-loops.

First break point: an old tile factory, legacy-laced with future-glint eyes. Facade tales—folk fashion gone retro-pop, history sold off to a gift shop hawking curated junk. Crowded, still … where identities are up for sale.

Cross the square, then: up, up, up. Tiles everywhere—fractal skins guarding soft bones of buildings against corrupted skies. Faded blues, dizzy yellows—fado patterned. Comfort’s a trick of the grid.

Narrow alleys now—hunting the invisible link between our moving feet and a fake sense of peace. Aroma of laundry-fresh linen dangles in the air from balconies like offerings. Their fabric matches the walls. Coincidence or code? Are Lisbon’s ghosts color-coordinated?

Follow the golden thread through lush cliché and patriarchal monuments to the community center where art shook hands with the economy. Surrounding ruins whisper palace secrets. Inside: uplifted decay—mothers, babies, milk-talk … breastfeeding love into the architecture. We watch workshops scroll: ecstatic dance/ tap jam/ geo-sound/ silk road redux/ android dreams. Target audience … unclear.

Ghost-walk. Vanish north and drift. Corner stop. Among trash, a mattress speaks melancholy with spraypaint breath:

I REMEMBER THE LOVE WE NEVER HAD

Phantom eateries flicker by, eclectic architecture stitched from dreams and disrepair. It’s all care-wrapped, prepped for an end-times photo portrait.

Just when you think you have hit rock bottom—

a Banksy museum yells through tech park fog:

NO FUTURE

FUCK OFF

PUNK IS NOT DEAD

Skip this spectacle. Exit via gift shop. Up, up, up.

Next: a chapel for the dead—we tag it in passing:

PLAN B?

The path bends toward Gulbenkian, where art’s power is gospel—transformation, reconfiguration, soul shift.

First, a drink