Written by Andrew K. Arnett
I’m at the Lisbon airport. Waiting on a flight back to New York. Looks like there’s a bit of a delay so we have some time here to make some notes and reflect. There’s no doubt Portugal holds enchantment, perhaps even magic. But the fact of the matter is, I feel dazed. Blasted from being on foreign shores for this extended time period. I feel cut off from reality. The world. The process of travel itself is a beast one has to contend with. A beast with many heads. And that’s no trifling matter. Even when things go smoothly (best case scenario) we are worn down by the sheer inertia of the process. And, aside from being scammed for 100 euros by the cab driver upon arrival at the airport, I think this trip has gone as smoothly as one could realistically hope for. Yet, there’s a nomadic floating sensation, like being unmoored or cast adrift in a slip stream. If you want to get into it, I will. It regards the constant flux of tourists one encounters. That is one’s own choice on where one goes of course. But it is like a miasma, this deluge of humanity, a movement like cattle, grazing on endless prairies of sidewalk cafes, gift shops and radiating a palpable death ray aura. The baggage is more than just carry on luggage, it is a toxic residue that you can feel like a black sun radiating on the inner planes.
Suffice to say, I’m burnt out.
Yesterday, my last full day in Lisbon, I stopped by, one last time, at the tiny bookstore off the main square which specializes in occult books. The window display was what caught my attention from the very start. It had it all. Andre Breton, Nietzsche, Baudelaire, Carl Jung, and a copy of Bukowski’s Mujeres. There was also a hard cover edition featuring interviews with Stanley Kubrick. Hanging on the walls inside were old postcards, posters and a Halloween mask which bore a striking resemblance to Richard Nixon. “How much for the Nixon mask?” I asked Bruno, the proprietor of the establishment. “It is not for sale,” he said.
I had gotten to know Bruno a bit over the course of the past couple of weeks through our chats. I told him he had more interesting books in his little shop than all the Bertrand combined. He laughed and said, “The Bertrand is shit.” The Livraria Bertrand opened in 1732 and is located in the Chiado neighborhood of Lisbon. It is officially the oldest bookstore in the world, verified by the Guinness Book of World Records, and as such, an obligatory tourist destination.
In a previous visit to Bruno’s store, I had purchased a necklace with a fish-shaped pendant attached to it. When I saw the piece of jewelry hanging there, I immediately thought of Sophie. The reason being is that it reminded me of the Pink Beam revelation that Philip K. Dick received in March 1974. This regards the business of Dick receiving a vision when a delivery girl dropped off medication from the dentist’ office after oral surgery. She was wearing a fish pendant and a pink beam of light shot from that into Dick’s brain that gave him a revelation regarding the matrix-like nature of this reality. As well, it beamed some vital health information to Dick regarding his son, an emergency revelation regarding a life-threatening hernia which turned out to be true. Acting upon this information, Dick ended up saving the boy’s life. The whole matter relates to Sophie as the timing and location of the event coincides with Sophie’s birth.
When I asked Bruno about the exploits of Aleister Crowley around Lisbon, Bruno insisted that “Pessoa was not initiated by Crowley,” adding, “Pessoa was a mystic and occultist before Crowley came along. He was initiated into Orders not related to Crowley.”
A gentleman then walked into the bookstore, holding a guidebook on Portugal. He wanted to sell it for some nominal fee. Bruno declined the offer. The man insisted. “No, no,” said Bruno. Then he told him to wait a second. He went to the back and fetched some empty bottles and gave it to the man, so that he could collect the deposit on the empties. The man thanked him and left the book in exchange. Bruno looked at the book and put it on a stack of discounts by the entrance.
I told Bruno that I was writing an article on the subject of Crowley in Portugal for New Dawn magazine, and wondered if he would relent to a formal interview. “Maybe next time you visit,” he said. “There is not enough time now.” I asked if he had any Portuguese editions of Crowley books and he told me that he would have one or two copies come in the following week. He recommended instead, a compilation of William S. Burroughs letters. I leafed through the edition but settled for Antonin Artaud’s The Theater and It’s Double as reading material for my flight home. I gave Bruno my card and walked over to the square. I had a 20 euro bill burning a hole in my pocket and approached a tuk-tuk driver with an offer. Tuk-tuks are the ubiquitous three wheeled motorcars that carry tourists on sight seeing trips through the city.
The listed price for a ride was 60 euros for 60 minutes. I approached a driver and told him I had wanted to spend my last 20 euros on a ride, albeit an abbreviated excursion. My guy said he would give me a 20 minute spin on his tuk-tuk and we sped up a steep hill for a close up view of St. Gorge’s castle. I got some good photos and conversation.
Afterwards, I headed over to the Bairro Alto Hotel in the Chiado neighborhood. This is the 5-star establishment (formerly the Hotel Europa) where Crowley stayed in 1930 and concocted his faked suicide plan with Fernando Pessoa. I rode the elevator up to the terrace lounge on the rooftop and ensconced myself in a seat with a view overlooking the Tagus River as the sun was setting upon the city. The lounge is a tribute to the bohemian spirit and honors the artists who shaped the city in the 19th century, a location that Crowley himself would have surely enjoined a drink or two in. I ordered one of their signature cocktails containing Bombay Gin, filtered dragon fruit juice and mint. I drank that down with a double espresso on the side—my version of a speedball these days. Mysteries long passed were stirred awake with a light breeze blowing in from over the Tagus.
Andrew K. Arnett is a writer for New Dawn Magazine and author of the novelThe Crowley Conspiracy published by Alien Buddha Press availableatAmazon. In his spare time he hunts ghosts with the Brooklyn Paranormal Society.
Find Andrew Arnett on X @AndrewArnett
