lisboa
what doesn't get recycled
capitalismo mata-nos. not on a banner. not in a book. just a trash bin, tagged on a side street in lisboa.
the message was already decaying, paint dripping down like it knew no one was coming to fix this.
i didn’t take it as warning. i took it as witness.
sometimes the clearest truths live where you’re not supposed to look.
the archive lives here
naky held up a portrait like it was a mirror. virgínia quaresma— journalist, lesbian, afro-portuguese. forgotten by design. remembered anyway.
the tour wasn’t quiet. it moved. spoke back. refused the way history gets told without breath, without body.
the archive wasn’t in a museum. it was in his hands. in the cadence. in the way we stopped on cobblestones to make space for her name.
não acabou
view from the fortress
from up here, the city looks soft. terracotta roofs, blue sky, sun warming the stone.
but i know what these walls were built for. how far their reach once stretched. what was claimed from here. what was sent.
it’s beautiful. it’s brutal. it’s both.
sometimes the view is part of the violence.
edge of light
maybe this is what pause looks like. sun on porcelain. bridge in the distance. book barely opened. the city behind the cup isn’t waiting. it just moves. but for a moment, i don’t.
about
this is not a blog. not a portfolio. not an archive.
drift is a public trace of movement—across cities, across thoughts, across grief, care, and refusal. it began in #tiohtiàke and #kjipuktuk, carried through #glasgow and #lisboa, and continues anywhere i find myself slipping between presence and escape.
its geography is not linear. like all things fugitive, it follows other logics.
what appears here are fragments. notes. pauses. what I carry. what I notice. what resists resolution.
some entries may ripple into fugitives, my postdoctoral research on Black queer drift and the dérive as method. but this is not a workspace.
this is a rhythm. no updates. no announcements. no arguments. only movement.