Life in the slow lane has its pleasure. I have been playing guitar and writing in the early mornings but recording them on my phone because they take time to develop and you know, relaxing swallows time like nothing I know. So I have stray lines that slip into place, they just appear at random, sometimes slipping into place and sometimes not. Like, the day after the carnival, the boats left the harbour; mistakes were made but no one cared, half way moon was only half way there, take me with you when you go; the moon, candy apple white and perfumed by jasmine, colourblind to indifference, the rag and bone man called it the greatest show on earth, big top, high wire, flying trapeze...' what's to be made of the random fragments? Time well tell in time. For now I have swim to get in before breakfast while listening to this - which has come around on the random shuffle as I write - takes me back:
Today took us across the mountains to new signs, for new places, Sougia, Paleochoraa right to the edge, almost as far as Europe would reach on the Libyan sea, unless you found a ferry to Nisson Gavdoshe. It was a drive through acres and acres of olive groves, peppered with the different green of vines and and bushes of purple and blue for nearby hives. Having wings to fly over such a place would make it hard to leave. And falling into the sea, crystal clear and deeper than standing feet could reach, held no fear. But as dusk gave way to night, the soft, hypnotic, ghost lament of the gionis nightbird, looking for a return, replaced the cicadas; the air hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and the equally hypnotic hum of rousing mosquitos now that the sun had gone down and the swallows had hunkered down for the night, at wine time.
Breakfast honey, with yoghurt and fruit, sheep's cheese and tomatoes, and coffee; we never had coffee in the flying days, fresh air and ambrosia filled our lungs and bellies. Flying close to the sun, in straight lines, following the olive trees laid in lines and the church that Maria built; while women still cycle with the moon, men build towers and turrets and shoot fireworks into the sky; they don't see us you and I, wings waxed and feather dry, still flying, still flying, flying still... fear a' bhàta... trying to find the boatman, to carry us over tonight...
At the delta, where Turtle River meets the sea, 'Looking for flying fish? Cast your hook and line aside, you need a butterfly net to get the best. But you never know what you'll catch in that net.' The bride said, 'Get me to the chapel on time,' and the blue waves, crashing over the causeway, broke white in applause. Tonight there will be music and joy and frying fish on hot coals, dancing and jouissance will follow the wine; no one will see the father and his boy, putting on their feather wings and taking to the sky. Careful how you bend me...
Can he see us, Odysseus, wandering the skies while he skirts sea islands in his fast black Pentaconter; fast back flying, we were taking in more than the view but I left a feather as a clue, just in case. Does he know she waits, knitting, unravelling, purl one, knit two, legs crossed on her olive tree bed? She sees us as we see you; he will know soon.
I am getting ready to start blogging again, this time with a little bit of a difference, we'll see. But this is just a test to see if I can still remember to set it out, format it etc. Oh, and I will begin blogging from - well see if you can guess from the picture. Where is the Chapel of the Black Madonna? Need another clue? Its one of the places in the world where I can really relax. Maybe Icarus-like I will learn to fly (another clue - and a cue for a song from Patty Griffin).
Life in the slow lane has its pleasure. I have been playing guitar and writing in the early mornings but recording them on my phone because they take time to develop and you know, relaxing swallows time like nothing I know. So I have stray lines that slip into place, they just appear at random, sometimes slipping into place and sometimes not. Like, the day after the carnival, the boats left the harbour; mistakes were made but no one cared, half way moon was only half way there, take me with you when you go; the moon, candy apple white and perfumed by jasmine, colourblind to indifference, the rag and bone man called it the greatest show on earth, big top, high wire, flying trapeze...' what's to be made of the random fragments? Time well tell in time. For now I have swim to get in before breakfast while listening to this - which has come around on the random shuffle as I write - takes me back:
