The butterfly’s vertigo

Register of feelings at the Parque Central da Asprela [Asprela’s Central Park], in Porto

 

In the park, the butterfly dove into the abyss. This was just one event among many that I witnessed in the woods, which were spread out among the temples of scientific knowledge. The walk that I take every day at lunchtime, through the Asprela Central Park in Porto, is a magical embrace.

The park was an uncharacteristic wasteland, which enhanced the landscape of the place in May 2022. Its secret revelations go beyond the scientifically elaborate evidence. The first of these was the ebó. In the rush of the road, there were two fresh coconuts and a bowl of rice under a tender oak tree. It was an invitation from the park, which has welcomed me ever since. For days on end, I photographed the offering and thanked it for its pagan presence. Threatened by rain, wind, cold and lawnmowers, the ebó had resisted. From being a fresh offering, it became a ruin, half-eaten by animals, already dark rotten and with fungus. Until it disappeared. Was it a wish for love? Pure gratitude to the orishas? Ciphered crossroads. I intimately accepted its interpellation and made the ebó my retribution to the park that was silently transmuting every day.

 

Figure 1. Offering

 

Figure 2. The butterfly’s vertigo

 

Over time, the park was unveiling its temper. I first walked through it in early fall, when the air was still warm. With the first rains, it showed that bucolicism is superficial. Large tree branches had fallen. Thus disheveled, it had not lost its dignity, but rather strengthened it. And in the meantime, I started to raise my head to the swaying tops. Having gotten to know the park, to a certain extent, from its margins, circling along the side of Alfredo Allen Street (in the direction of Campus S. João) and returning through the Júlio Amaral de Carvalho Street, next to IPATIMUP, I entered the heart of it one day. The park was completely indifferent, focused on its own old and fallen trunks, the stream and the chatter of the lunch break. Its nonchalance had displaced me.

 

Figures 3 to 6. The park

I mentioned events. Here they are. Hidden in the trees, lovers flirt. A man dwells in the depths of the park, stepping on dry leaves and hiding under the bridge. A fear of past time had struck me. The everyday life of the park doesn’t rob it of its poetry. Even when it’s tidied up (pruning, removing garbage, leaves and mud) its irreverence comes through.

I look away from the treetops to the ground. From there, comes the scent of wild mint. Puddles of water and mole holes. I never felt the park the same. There is a stream and some small bridges, with stones marking the path. It stretches out in nuances of green in the sun and gains texture in the humidity.

On a day of heavy rain, the stream was thickening. As I walked down the entrance stairs to the park, I couldn’t believe the ferocious noise, as an airplane taking off. The water, gushing down from above, flowing out of the ground, expelling itself through the leaves, took over everything. With the usual landmarks swallowed up by the flood, the park’s transmutation made it splendidly beautiful and lonely.

 

Figures 7 and 8. The Flood

 

Rebellion aside, on calm days the park is crossed by dozens of humans. It’s a pretext for a run or a walk. Its imperfection is redeeming, in the midst of so many certainties and discoveries, pain and promising lives.

 

Teresa Lima (CECS/Universidade do Minho)

Published in March 6, 2025