Like the cloud... I am flying

With breakfast harvested, this little fella decided to stop by - and he/she (for I know not which and there may be an lgbtqia thing going too, for all I know) put on quite a show. Instead of flying around (and why wouldn't you if you could while looking this beautiful) she (lets settle on that for now) crept up the tree trunk waving her wings as she did so. Now I am sure, given time and space and another university education I could find out why, though I am content she

stopped long enough to let me take the picture. You don't have the same problem with tomatoes - pretty as they are too. And of course, as Pirsig says, 'For every fact there is an infinity of hypothesis...' That's the good thing about being a writer, you can just make it up as you go along, just as long as you are not claiming an empirical fact - I could go with that. But as I write I have just been sent this message from my friend Maria here in Crete, which I am happy to share because its a wonderfully evocative song: 'Lefteris sends you the songs of the song about the pilot killed in the Aegean sea.'

Like the cloud i flee, I am flying,

I have  friend the sun, god,

With the wind the nectar I intoxicate,

I hug earth and sky

And without the wings I'm not afraid

The light blue, warm hug

on the high mountains to  sleeping  

In the Aegean to give kisses              

I ask freedom at the winds

I have ceased to be a mortal

I rise up high that I love

Without  body, golden eagle

And without tha wings I'm not afraid

The light blue, warm hug

on the high mountains to  sleeping  

In the Aegean to give kisses 

 Like the cloud i flee, I am flying,

I have  friend the sun, god,

With the wind the nectar I intoxicate,

I hug earth and sky

Music upside down

Last night's moon was little more than a leftover smile and this picture does it little credit. But it was a warm  balmy evening even after the sun had gone. And tonight I am thinking about music and how places sound different but how music crosses borders. Jimi Hendrix played a right hand guitar left handed but strung the left way up and died way too young, another young man played a right hand guitar left handed and strung the right way but the wrong way for most players, probably because he just picked up a guitar and played and knew no other way (he was blind so how was he to know what was the right way up, he'd never seen anyone playing, hey I guess he soon learned about right and wrong and difference), he also sang in his own Yolŋu and died too young; its an upside down world though music survives the years and cuts through the cultures in its own way. Last night Maria and Lefteris took us to see a fantastic Cretan singer Vassals Skoulas and his band and music and it wasn't difficult to follow what was going on - I'll leave this post with two pieces of music in the hope they cross borders.

Life in the slow lane

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:

Scops owl song

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...

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...

Its a nice day... for a white wedding

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...