Athens Rebounder

In Naked, David Sedaris says of his teenage first impression of Athens,  “The Greeks had invented democracy, built the Acropolis, and called it a day.”

If you’ve ever been the part of a true democratic process, then you realize what a miracle it is that anything gets built. Ever, And calling it a day afterwards is a fine way to celebrate.

On the other hand, Athens doesn’t sleep at the end of the day. And it certainly doesn’t shut down at 2 AM. I’m obviously not a city cat, or I wouldn’t have opted to spend 3 months on an island in the off-season. But I return by way of Athens, after the orthodox Easter celebrations are complete. Easter, herald of spring, the call to opening, to resume transactions of all kinds.

These transactions mean a great deal to a country that suffered a lengthy economic recession as the pandemic years hit. The determination to survive and rebuild in nature as well as within a culture are not separate. This is historically and physically true in Greece, the rebuilding of the many-times pillaged Acropolis currently underway.

Rebounded through Athens, ready to return to the business of my own life. There’s no great epiphany (although a string of little ones). I witness my preferences and my sense of direction as both unreliable as well as fortuitous as I wander her streets. But I appreciate the layers of Athens this time as a monument of endurance. I recall my art history teacher, who once remarked of a sculpture of Athena (she was no sprite), “The Greeks liked their women strong.”

in no particular order

Angelika Vaxevanidou: reconnecting with Angelika on a few occasions was an inspiration. Click to appreciate her stunning portraits, commission work, as well as her powerful explorations of femininity.

Irini Sklavanou: my hostess along with her talented partner, Jim. Together, their artistry has crafted a sweet expression of village life.

Susan Curtis: publisher of Istros Books. I had the good fortune of spending many afternoons “pissing around” with Suzi. If it weren’t for her, I probably would have never braved so many icy swims or enjoyed so many literary chats this winter. Istros Books is dedicated to getting strong Balkan voices translated into English.

Jane Morris Pack: My amazing art ‘T’eacher from The Aegean Center! To see Jane and John still going strong was a meaningful touchstone to my trip. Jane’s sage advice still informs me from time to time. Her genius for teaching and her passion for classical technique are just two reasons why her students return again and again. (See also Aegeancenter.org)

Dimitra Skandali: Everything I say about Jane, Dimitra will say with greater enthusiasm. Dimitra lights up the room with her enthusiasm. Her conceptual art is richly informed by tradition and place (below she crochets with seaweed), and she heartily invites people to study with her each year through cycladicarts.org

Wonderful: An Incomplete List

“She’s wonderful.” It’s the only part of the dream I remember. Handwritten in pencil on some tabla rasa hanging between here and there.

Here must be the birthplace of cumulus. And there, right over there, is where I baptized myself an hour ago in the brine of infinity.

But who’s she? A friend or shade tree waving hello from the shore? A luminous bolt cracking open the suddenly dark sky? Is she a marble pillar, a windmill, the white pebble I carry home in my pocket? Or is she this blooming island, giver of vivid dreams? (She’s wonderful…)

At dawn, I wake and wonder about the single bird whose song starts first and is followed by the rest: Is she elected, is it her turn, or does she volunteer? I close my eyes, lying still until the sound of whoever she is fills me. Until I become for a moment a song without a skin.

Weeds or Wildflowers

Jim says the wildflowers I’m admiring in the field below the cottages are weeds, really. The result of the ducks trampling over the seasonal grasses he’d sown years before. Today’s confetti spread will be next season’s wilted straggle.

My father didn’t like us to call plants weeds. Plants have names. A weed, he would explain, is just a plant you don’t want. By this definition, any plant could be considered a weed.

I’ve only been watching this field for two months. Long enough to learn the names (though I’ve yet to do so). Long enough to see it drink, heighten and open into this. “This” is ancient, really.

I suppose the easiest way to weed a field, (Jim would probably agree), is to accept each sprout without preference and allow Nature to determine which will be sustained.

(Easier to do when it isn’t my field.)

Translation

By Nikiforos Vrettakos (1912-1991)

I mixed with things animate and inanimate, everything

within reach of touch, sight and the sense

that has no organ on the human face.

I came as close to them as was practically

possible, and I listened to them. I pondered

whether their languages were translatable.

And I tried. Sound into word,

sentences of silence, sign into word,

till eventually I rendered them, with just

one word. I called them light.

February has passed. Twenty-eight days spent in cooperation with the bouts of wheezing wind and sleeting cold outside, with warm meals shared and alone near a fire that needs feeding as well. February. Like a brilliant Russian short story, where one wonders after finishing it what actually happened. But invariably there are one or two lines that linger. And from these phrases, new references are established. Webs are spun.

When I have written about my life here in the past, it’s felt more difficult to describe than a dream due to the ephemeral simplicity: There is a beach with sand and marble stones and thick beds of matte sea grass. Scrubby clusters of livadia trees. Usually blustery, usually alone. Aimlessly weaving through  cats in a shuttered village. A motorbike leaning here and there. A string of laundry occasionally snapping back at a passing gust. But hardly a human to be found. Except on occasion at a bakery.

The twisted sesame biscuits have a hint of citrus. I carry them home for tea. Later this afternoon a friend tells me of my coat, left behind with the bulk of my treasures, so many summers ago.

I wear it all the time! she says and shows me how perfectly it fits. This warms us both. And in the short time it takes her to return it to its dedicated hook in the entry, three winters flash before my eyes.

Here are images from my hours spent lost in Athens. If you’d like to see next month’s post, subscribe on the “stay tuned” page. I promise to be irregular. I wish to thank again everyone who egged me on. I am deeply moved to be loved by a community that has championed my bold actions. I feel a tremendous gift in that.

Ok so, by the way, I’d forgotten that Athena was captured and hauled off to Constantinople and then supposedly destroyed in the usual way that humans handle feminine wisdom. Or wisdom in general. Gosh, even common sense.

Anyhow, I made it to Paros. It’s lovely as ever but apparently experiencing the tell-tale signs of our times. Because beauty and simplicity are handled with the same senselessness as wisdom. I am grateful to be here, grateful for the rain and howling wind outside. Grateful to realize how many friends I still have on this island. And of my past years here, what Pema said was true: that we should always be grateful for this moment because we will look back and realize it was the golden time.

I love you, my friends. Everywhere I go.