I am cutting a yellow onion and it reminds me of something. The smell. Nevermind that I've probably cut over 100 yellow onions in my life, this one reminds me of something. The smell. And I read the news online, I am listening to Beirut on a cd from a friend and despite the headlines life is feeling pretty fantastic and yet this yellow onion is making me think of something. Lentil soup. Potato salad. Lila didi. Crossword puzzles. Rainy sunday afternoons, summer evenings barefoot with the fresh cut grass, Indian nights cooking with two others in such a simple kitchen, a snowy balcony. It could be anything, but it reminds me of something. I'll think on it.
2nd annual Abbey Bekha half marathon went down a treat. A year ago I shared that Eugene hotel bed with Abbey and Sarah, as Liam slept on the floor and we drank a little tequila and reminded ourselves how a good nights sleep is highly overrated, especially before race day. This year I watched Blow and went to bed early. Not quite as exciting. Next year? With limited expectations I fully expect us to be somewhere in Latin America salsa dancing the night away and again reminding ourselves not to fret about getting enough sleep. But we'll see when the time comes. This year - we started off casually making our way to the back of the pack. Who needs to be trampled by anxious Greek runners for five minutes until people sort themselves out? Not us. So we lingered and we waited and we settled in nicely. Until all at once and without any warning the entire group of 600 runners turned around in place. Not only were we instantly in the front, we were in the front facing the wrong direction as the gun went off and chaos ensued. 2 hours and 20 minutes later we were barefoot drinking a beer with our fabulous support team chit chatting about this and that. Overall the event was put together flawlessly, complete with those Grecian quirks that never get old... like handing out orange Fanta and Redbull instead of water. Put that together with the fact that they forgot porta-potties and you've got a bit of a mess. Loved every minute of it.
Fast forward to the next evening. Lo, Abbey and I decided to busk for loose change in the Paleros square. There was a rainbow in the mountains, a back drop for Lo and I as we strummed and sang as loud as we could, knowing our voices would dissipate into that night air before they had a chance to reach the ears of tourists in open restaurants nearby. Playing for them but mostly for ourselves and beyond that for the air, the stars, the chance at outdoor practice. We gathered a few fans, and came out ahead. Six euros 50 cents, 3 beers bought for us, and 3 chocolate eggs, (the kind that comes with toys - illegal in the states). And after it was Skippers, for the usual good people, a fire show, beers on tap, dancing, and a lost wallet.
And when I look at it, living here is so easy, so slow and wonderful. And my friends at home are asking for more writing in this blogg-o, but lately it's been hard as a routine develops here. My days are full to the brim even though I don't have much to do. What I do have: I have the most incredible roommates, and I am falling in love with this village. The amount of tea I consume and the sun on my face reminds me the past year and how and when to recognize the growth and continuation of it. More often than not I am cleaned by salt water instead of showers and willingly I jump, run, swing, climb, swim, thankful for this working body and wishing to do more of all that. And here, when you least expect it, the clouds drop thunder and lightning creating nighttime electric energy you can feel and nevermind all the mosquitos, all the flies. I have the opportunity to play music every minute should I choose. To dive into the ocean, spin fire, spend 15 minutes watching this one fly perched on the corner of this computer screen. It is still, and for that moment I forget how annoying they are, making room for admiration of their tiny bodies. Every miniscule moment. The kids in this town are now familiar and we've grown a family. House wine is good and inexpensive and while I'm home and while I'm away I am able to think, to listen, to try and to learn and I am genuinely thankful for all the small things.
I finish with the onion and push it to one half of the cutting board still pondering what the something is that I am reminded off but in the end I shrug because what does it matter? I know without needing to that from now on that something will be the memory of cutting a yellow onion at a white table in a living room in my house in Greece the day after I lost my wallet and the day before tomorrow. No matter the memories that came before (onion oriented or not) the current moments relevancy is much easier to pinpoint than lingering in the past looking for a broad idea of what the current moment is causing you to remember. I take the memories the smell creates and move them back a notch to make room for the now: for the steadily growing memory of what is.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Bag of tools
More moments of bliss coming at me, full force...
I've been putting a lot out into the wind lately. Living with less money than I have had in years, in paradise, Abbey and the sun everyday. I put intentions out there for what I hope to gain, learn, experience, and the world is returning them in more obvious ways than ever before. For as long as I've been away from any sort of home, living in continual motion aided by the wanderlust, and even during the time I was with a home, house, routine... every person and experience has had an impact, a new lesson, idea, belief to agree or disagree with. A new skill to teach. I can't help but smile that smile of thanks for the small bag of tools that I keep in my back pocket, which is now expanding without warning. I love it.
"Bag of tools" is an expression from my bass teacher, which he would use whenever I was struggling with a piece, school, or simply living where I was. He would remind that even when I have nothing else, I have a bag of tools, and that it is chock full of everything I need and expands daily through interactions with the world/people/animals around me. I have the resources already in place, but to recognize them, use them and always try for the expansion of them, is the hard part. Then to open up the bag, share it, realize how to be a learner and teacher simultaneously every day no matter the interactions, is the goal.
Lately, for me, it has been more learning than teaching, at least in the bits I am recognizing. I am accomplishing the goals I set myself on this year, (although the list is now moving slower than expected - but if nothing else, I have time). But in regards to my other aspirations, good location and timing with the people I encounter has been more than ever so APPARENT in bringing me to where I want to be, and I am beyond thankful for that. Letting intentions take to the wind like a kite, and seeing the ways in which they return. Yesterday I went on my first open water scuba dive, the first step to the first goal I set for myself this year, in Bellingham, new years day, written on some random corner of an already filled in journal page. Partnered with incredible teachers, 16 meters deep in the Ionian sea, I eventually felt beyond content within it.
My eyes opened wide so as not to miss a moment.
A window into a world I have many times attempted to imagine.
Weightlessness with the sun coming in lines through blue water, coral, rock, with the fish, sand, and all that strange underwater life.
A new feeling, and a wonderful one; I so badly hope to explore this other world on as many occasions as I can manage. I am feeling amazingly fortunate. Adding it to the bag of tools, along with spinning poi, fixing bikes, the correct ways to dance with Albanians, and when an olive is ripe to pick. Not to mention the mental shifts and enlightening moments too many to count.
Filling up the bag. Slowly, but more importantly, steadily. Day by day, siga siga.
I've been putting a lot out into the wind lately. Living with less money than I have had in years, in paradise, Abbey and the sun everyday. I put intentions out there for what I hope to gain, learn, experience, and the world is returning them in more obvious ways than ever before. For as long as I've been away from any sort of home, living in continual motion aided by the wanderlust, and even during the time I was with a home, house, routine... every person and experience has had an impact, a new lesson, idea, belief to agree or disagree with. A new skill to teach. I can't help but smile that smile of thanks for the small bag of tools that I keep in my back pocket, which is now expanding without warning. I love it.
"Bag of tools" is an expression from my bass teacher, which he would use whenever I was struggling with a piece, school, or simply living where I was. He would remind that even when I have nothing else, I have a bag of tools, and that it is chock full of everything I need and expands daily through interactions with the world/people/animals around me. I have the resources already in place, but to recognize them, use them and always try for the expansion of them, is the hard part. Then to open up the bag, share it, realize how to be a learner and teacher simultaneously every day no matter the interactions, is the goal.
Lately, for me, it has been more learning than teaching, at least in the bits I am recognizing. I am accomplishing the goals I set myself on this year, (although the list is now moving slower than expected - but if nothing else, I have time). But in regards to my other aspirations, good location and timing with the people I encounter has been more than ever so APPARENT in bringing me to where I want to be, and I am beyond thankful for that. Letting intentions take to the wind like a kite, and seeing the ways in which they return. Yesterday I went on my first open water scuba dive, the first step to the first goal I set for myself this year, in Bellingham, new years day, written on some random corner of an already filled in journal page. Partnered with incredible teachers, 16 meters deep in the Ionian sea, I eventually felt beyond content within it.
My eyes opened wide so as not to miss a moment.
A window into a world I have many times attempted to imagine.
Weightlessness with the sun coming in lines through blue water, coral, rock, with the fish, sand, and all that strange underwater life.
A new feeling, and a wonderful one; I so badly hope to explore this other world on as many occasions as I can manage. I am feeling amazingly fortunate. Adding it to the bag of tools, along with spinning poi, fixing bikes, the correct ways to dance with Albanians, and when an olive is ripe to pick. Not to mention the mental shifts and enlightening moments too many to count.
Filling up the bag. Slowly, but more importantly, steadily. Day by day, siga siga.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
moments of bliss
Sometimes when my mind drifts in circles as I lay on the couch or wash my hair or walk the dog or smell a flower...
I think of certain times that were absolutely blissful.
Last night I was laying in bed. It was 9:00 and I was going to sleep until 11 when I was due to meet some friends at a bar for a solid night of drinks and dancing.
I started remembering a time when I was alone at my house in California, wind and rain against windows and I was wishing it would stop so I could ride my bike to Alex's and I remember I didn't have socks on. I was making tea, boiling water in a green kettle that had long lost it's whistle and had been in my life for as long as I can remember. As the water boiled I went for a mug, but there were none. The kitchen was clean because I was living with Bethany, and it too was without any mugs. Checked the living room, piano room, front porch, back porch. For all we drink, it was remarkable to not find a single one. I rounded the hall and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Ah, thought I. The small table next to my bed had probably 5 mugs, 3 wine glasses and a few more cups. I grabbed the mugs, and before I went back down the hall peaked into the room where Lauren and Taylor slept. I found there a collection of ten or so various items of drinking ware. So I made some trips. Carried mine, then theirs. On my second trip down, I figured, eh, since I am doing this, might as well see what Daniel has stocked up. And he did. Mostly water glasses, which I stacked precariously on my journey downstairs. They clattered and shifted as I set the load on the counter, and looked down at the array of glasses, now more than 20. The water was boiling, and would have been whistling if it had a whistle to whistle. For a second I reflected on that whistle. I think it had melted off or something. I can't remember the exact story. Maybe it was behind the oven with the cobwebs. I'll never know.
I set those glasses down, turned around and went into Spencer and Bethany's room. And I just had to smile to think of those lovers that I love so well sharing that space as I collected 7 or so cups and made my way back to the kitchen.
And after the dishes were done, my tea was poured, I sat down on the kitchen floor, mug in hand, sipping tea and eating a cold artichoke.
And I was boiling over with love for my roommates. If I had had a whistle, it surely would have blown pink clouds of gushy hearts and the like. Davie D came in and sat on a stool and had some artichoke and I poured him a cup of tea and told him of the mugs and he said something like "yes you sure are slobs" and I said something like "slobs but we are all slobs and I love them for it for their glass hoarding tendencies and messy beds wet towels on the floor and it all."
And maybe I was thinking too poetically but it seemed to me that in every one of those mugs there was a little story and most of the times that story was of us. Cold mornings drinking tea, nights of wine at the bedside, bottles of whiskey poured into glasses, of Bethany bringing Spencer coffee in bed, of Lauren bringing me wine after a shower, of beer with Daniel, Lauren and I laying together in my blue room. It's too sentimental now, but then and there on the floor with that mug in my hand listening to the rain and chatting with Dave I felt as blissful as could be.
I am thinking there will be more blissful posts to come. A trend perhaps.
And, my birthday. 9:30am, Greg and Abbey are still sleeping off last night but I couldn't sleep last night. This village we live in is turning wild, with tourists and noise. I danced until 3, my best partner a 50 year old English man who really did have moves. The night went on with perfect timing the right songs and new faces French American Australian English Greek. In the afternoon on my first day of my 23rd year and I've been on a bike ride jaunt, tried to help make flowers grow and am now drinking a Mythos as Greg makes spaghetti sauce, smelling boiling tomatoes garlic spices and our house is really quite warm and homey. And a thunder storm in the night, lightning like I've never seen, the thunder rattled our windows as we stayed inside with cake, whiskey and blankets, the three of us and the end to a very good day.
And an even better year.
I think of certain times that were absolutely blissful.
Last night I was laying in bed. It was 9:00 and I was going to sleep until 11 when I was due to meet some friends at a bar for a solid night of drinks and dancing.
I started remembering a time when I was alone at my house in California, wind and rain against windows and I was wishing it would stop so I could ride my bike to Alex's and I remember I didn't have socks on. I was making tea, boiling water in a green kettle that had long lost it's whistle and had been in my life for as long as I can remember. As the water boiled I went for a mug, but there were none. The kitchen was clean because I was living with Bethany, and it too was without any mugs. Checked the living room, piano room, front porch, back porch. For all we drink, it was remarkable to not find a single one. I rounded the hall and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Ah, thought I. The small table next to my bed had probably 5 mugs, 3 wine glasses and a few more cups. I grabbed the mugs, and before I went back down the hall peaked into the room where Lauren and Taylor slept. I found there a collection of ten or so various items of drinking ware. So I made some trips. Carried mine, then theirs. On my second trip down, I figured, eh, since I am doing this, might as well see what Daniel has stocked up. And he did. Mostly water glasses, which I stacked precariously on my journey downstairs. They clattered and shifted as I set the load on the counter, and looked down at the array of glasses, now more than 20. The water was boiling, and would have been whistling if it had a whistle to whistle. For a second I reflected on that whistle. I think it had melted off or something. I can't remember the exact story. Maybe it was behind the oven with the cobwebs. I'll never know.
I set those glasses down, turned around and went into Spencer and Bethany's room. And I just had to smile to think of those lovers that I love so well sharing that space as I collected 7 or so cups and made my way back to the kitchen.
And after the dishes were done, my tea was poured, I sat down on the kitchen floor, mug in hand, sipping tea and eating a cold artichoke.
And I was boiling over with love for my roommates. If I had had a whistle, it surely would have blown pink clouds of gushy hearts and the like. Davie D came in and sat on a stool and had some artichoke and I poured him a cup of tea and told him of the mugs and he said something like "yes you sure are slobs" and I said something like "slobs but we are all slobs and I love them for it for their glass hoarding tendencies and messy beds wet towels on the floor and it all."
And maybe I was thinking too poetically but it seemed to me that in every one of those mugs there was a little story and most of the times that story was of us. Cold mornings drinking tea, nights of wine at the bedside, bottles of whiskey poured into glasses, of Bethany bringing Spencer coffee in bed, of Lauren bringing me wine after a shower, of beer with Daniel, Lauren and I laying together in my blue room. It's too sentimental now, but then and there on the floor with that mug in my hand listening to the rain and chatting with Dave I felt as blissful as could be.
I am thinking there will be more blissful posts to come. A trend perhaps.
And, my birthday. 9:30am, Greg and Abbey are still sleeping off last night but I couldn't sleep last night. This village we live in is turning wild, with tourists and noise. I danced until 3, my best partner a 50 year old English man who really did have moves. The night went on with perfect timing the right songs and new faces French American Australian English Greek. In the afternoon on my first day of my 23rd year and I've been on a bike ride jaunt, tried to help make flowers grow and am now drinking a Mythos as Greg makes spaghetti sauce, smelling boiling tomatoes garlic spices and our house is really quite warm and homey. And a thunder storm in the night, lightning like I've never seen, the thunder rattled our windows as we stayed inside with cake, whiskey and blankets, the three of us and the end to a very good day.
And an even better year.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Konitsa
Greg was visiting and our lazy lifestyles became even lazier. A couple trips to town, one muddy romp, whiskey at bars and wine with dinner. Work on sundays, maybe saturdays. Not too much else, besides that occasional Ostrich egg and visits from the sheep. So we jumped in a cab, following Greg's longing to visit Meteora, Greece, and monasteries built on clifftops. That meter was going way too fast and we jumped right back out, and hitched a ride to Preveza with cigarette smoking gas station employees in a blue pick up who liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Abbey's eyes. From there a bus to Ioannina, where we killed five hours through wine, free food, dice and a lakeside walk. A night bus to Kalambaka so we could walk to Meteora where we stopped to shelter ourselves in a camp sight for a night.
Three of us in a tent build for one where we insisted on laughter to avoid hating each other during sleepless, uncomfortable hours. A full moon provided an illusion of dawn which lasted through the night, as I lay anxious, awaiting that feeling of sun through tent walls.
In the morning we walked. Fields of wildflowers, tall grass, and those rocks. It seemed as though we had been lifted, taken across the universe and deposited on some long lost planet where stone reached sky and color filled in the rest like Crayola streaks from a childhood hand. I tried to imagine some daring monk who had first decided to build places of worship so precariously atop those cliffs. Someone who understood a benefit in worshiping God and nature in the same sentence, perhaps. Or just had a longing for the dangerous. Whoever he was, and whatever the motivation, bravo. We followed a cobblestone trail fading away to dirt, and marveled at the flowers, trees, stones. Due to some impulse we pushed ourselves behind hanging ivy and between yellow rock following an internal notion of goodness and discovered a cave, which grew larger with every step and we rested awhile wondering about presences before us and shared space throughout time.
The day continued on in that fashion, admiring nature, architecture, art and faith and how it is the combination that creates the religion.
We had walked far, hard, and in such heat. We needed food, drink, a good nights rest. Hitched a ride to town with a German rock climber, grabbed our bags, a beer, lunch, and a bus ticket back to good ol' Ioannina with the hope of sleeping in our own beds later that night. Arriving at the bus station the general feeling amongst us was so positive it radiated, pulsing, into all of those around us, for really, it had been a fantastic day. We purchased our tickets to Vonitsa, and had time for coffee before our bus left.
On that bus, the last one of the trip, we drank Ouzo and played 21 questions, (Scooter, Lasagna, Sunset, Jon Bon Jovi, Castle...) and swam with a comfortable ease in the fact that we would soon be back to Vonitsa, a quick 20 minutes from our house, where our neighbor would give us a ride home, and the rest of the night would be filled with wine and love and good nights of sleep.
However, as it goes, it went a little differently. The bus stopped after an hour and a half, we glanced out the windows and, knowing it wasn't our stop, stayed cozy and content in our seats as the bus emptied. Completely. Eventually the driver came on, and yelled something in Greek the must have meant,
"We're here, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get the hell off this bus. I've got a busy night and your three are slowing me way down."
So we stepped into the night, into an unfamiliar town, and man were we confused.
"Vonitsa?" We asked, to the general public. Yes, it replied, "Konitsa".
Abbey looked at me. Greg looked at Abbey. I looked... confused. Konitsa. It rang through our minds like the church bells of earlier. Konitsa, Vonitsa. Of course.
We took out our handy road map, and there it was, in small black writing. The exact opposite direction of where we wanted to go, and only about 20 minutes from the Albanian border. Lovely.
We ran through our options. Stay the night? All Lonely Planet had to say of the place was that it is "dangerous", so we decided to try our best to head out. Too dark and far for hitchhiking, we resigned to getting on another bus, if one was running so late. And, after only a little frustration, one angel of a cab driver, and some wonderful timing, we were on a bus back to Ioannina with our Ouzo and the memory of a trip to the border of Albania to look back on whenever we may need a good laugh.
The events that happened next seemed to occur in a rapid fast forward. Backtracking is never enjoyable, but we tried our best at positivity. There were only six of us onboard, and as we began chatting to the three boys sitting around us the conversation quickly grew interesting as we swapped answers to the question that is always asked first in the life of travel: "where are you from?". Two boys from Afghanistan and one from Pakistan. As we answered "America" we instantly became full to the brim with questions for one another, and in what seemed like 10 minutes, we were back at the station, in a city which, by now, we knew quite well. Our 12 brown eyes took turns exchanging glances, as hands reached towards shakes, and eight of those eyes headed for Athens, Greg included.
Abbey and I took our four to a cheap hotel, strange movies, comfy beds and new perspectives.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
An Egg
An Ostrich egg has the equivalent to 24 hen eggs. So we began thinking of what to do with it. Make the biggest scramble ever? Feed a hungry village? Hard boil, and make 100 egg salad sandwiches?
So we got the thing home. Set it on that shiny counter. Poured some Ouzo. And the events that followed... well...
We deserved another shot of ouzo.What happened can be interpreted 3 ways.
The first:
Six hands, six eyes, three similes, two holes punctured on either side of one huge egg. Simple, really. The process went much quicker than we thought...
A hammer and screwdriver were the useful tools to do the trick. As I delicately punctured the largest single cell known to mankind, patient faces stared back at me and I thought, "Alright, here we go.."
Yellow membrane and clear royal jelly escaping the shell. Spontaneous spurts of dancing accompanied by ouzo shots and laughter, what could be better than this experiment? Lights flashed and I was curious of the aftermath of the successful outcome...Fritatta? yes. Brownies? ok. Cookies? yep. All made and still, more egg left...
Looks like we're set for a week.
The second:
(and then this shit fucking happened, we were at this disco hanging out with Albanian drug lords and they were like, "Hey! Come on our yacht." And we were like, "K." Then on the way out this rival gang was waiting outside with a bunch of guns and dogs and hummers and rocket packs. And they were like, "Bro you've crossed us one too many times." Then this guy opened his shirt and had a dynamite vest on and was like, "This can go one of two ways Bro." And the other guy was like, "Bro..." Then, somebody threw a smoke bomb and we jumped on the back of a motorcycle and then next thing I remember I was on a yacht smoking cigars and being served by siamese twins from Myanmar).
The third:
Lost a week of my memory. An empty egg shell, but where did it come from? Ah, fuck it. Lets paint it red, celebrate Easter, play soccer by the church. Look at all these brownies, and cookies! Cookies for breakfast, but ah damn, we are out of milk. Cookies and seltzer water. The pools overflowing with rain. Where do the sheep go to stay dry? Think I will stay inside today and read a book.
And apart from all that, this past month has taught me many valuable lessons. For example, when you go dancing with Albanians, you should spin three times every time they spin you. When you add ice to Ouzo, it turns a foggy gray color. You cannot buy anything between the hours of 1 and 6, so you might as well sleep. Don't leave laundry out in a windstorm, chances are it will fall in the pool. Never turn your back on the kids near the church, they have tricks up every sleeve. And, that one Ostrich egg can produce a frittata, 20 cookies, a whole plate of brownies, and you will have egg-in-a-bowl for a left over.
*this (mostly fiction) post was written by three. without our combined recollections it could never have been made possible. special thanks.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
rainy day
A rainy sunday. Thick drops flood our deck as they paint the cement dark, heavy air hanging lazily while the sky and sea blur to be one, dressed the same shade of blue.
It's everyone's day off, but we see no one. No kids playing soccer at the church, nobody works in their garden, nobody stands around talking, leaning, laughing against fence posts. Rain drives them inside. No bells on the hillsides. Even the birds have gone to bed. Quiet prevails.
We woke up late. The time change didn't help. Tea, breakfast, more tea, we nurse light hangovers as we lay back in bed to watch a movie about love. The rain steady and heavy. 4 pm comes fast, the day passing us by. Inside, hiding from that water, that cold. Remembering times in rain and all the wetness of the Pacific Northwest. We grow nostalgic, love it, and need to be in it. Raincoats on, we step out.
Up a hill, past empty playgrounds, "yassas" to wet chickens, lemons dripping from their trees. My hair grows heavy so quickly, sticking to my forehead. Pants wet to the knees. The road curves as we climb the mountain, past a small church, the place where the road fell to the sea, and to where the cement begins again. We come to a look out, that ocean so many shades of blue, a rainbow now growing out from the middle of it, curving to land on a mountain top. We sip some ouzo from a bottle and walk on, across and down, turning left on a soggy brown puddled street leading to a grass field and a small, old building. A church. On the beach.
We go in, through small blue doors, dripping water to the floor. 11 wicker chairs, and a podium decorated with a crumbling bible. I have the urge to pick it up, to see what passage it would fall open to. But all my beliefs and non believing hold me back, so I touch the spine, gently, almost as an afterthought. I light a white candle, put it in a bowl of sand. Walk outside just as the sun is burning through the clouds. Sit down with the pebbles and small pulsing waves and Abbey talks to me, says something about...
how, the world spins so fast, and here we are, this little dot in the geography of this planet, and we are still alive through it all, our hands functioning so well as we hold small pebbles, old pieces of this earth traveling across the ocean to land at our feet, and we feel so still, but in truth we spin and we spin and we spin as the moon moves the waves, and she reminds me of a sentence I read in India, that, for some reason, sticks with me. Coming to the surface at moments like these, short and sweet:
"All this and I am still alive. I fear I have no death." (Tagore).
And, also, how
"The world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, only none of us realize it. The happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream." (Kerouac).
And that is the point.
(Drawings courtesy of Abbey Koshak)
It's everyone's day off, but we see no one. No kids playing soccer at the church, nobody works in their garden, nobody stands around talking, leaning, laughing against fence posts. Rain drives them inside. No bells on the hillsides. Even the birds have gone to bed. Quiet prevails.
We woke up late. The time change didn't help. Tea, breakfast, more tea, we nurse light hangovers as we lay back in bed to watch a movie about love. The rain steady and heavy. 4 pm comes fast, the day passing us by. Inside, hiding from that water, that cold. Remembering times in rain and all the wetness of the Pacific Northwest. We grow nostalgic, love it, and need to be in it. Raincoats on, we step out.
Up a hill, past empty playgrounds, "yassas" to wet chickens, lemons dripping from their trees. My hair grows heavy so quickly, sticking to my forehead. Pants wet to the knees. The road curves as we climb the mountain, past a small church, the place where the road fell to the sea, and to where the cement begins again. We come to a look out, that ocean so many shades of blue, a rainbow now growing out from the middle of it, curving to land on a mountain top. We sip some ouzo from a bottle and walk on, across and down, turning left on a soggy brown puddled street leading to a grass field and a small, old building. A church. On the beach.
We go in, through small blue doors, dripping water to the floor. 11 wicker chairs, and a podium decorated with a crumbling bible. I have the urge to pick it up, to see what passage it would fall open to. But all my beliefs and non believing hold me back, so I touch the spine, gently, almost as an afterthought. I light a white candle, put it in a bowl of sand. Walk outside just as the sun is burning through the clouds. Sit down with the pebbles and small pulsing waves and Abbey talks to me, says something about...
how, the world spins so fast, and here we are, this little dot in the geography of this planet, and we are still alive through it all, our hands functioning so well as we hold small pebbles, old pieces of this earth traveling across the ocean to land at our feet, and we feel so still, but in truth we spin and we spin and we spin as the moon moves the waves, and she reminds me of a sentence I read in India, that, for some reason, sticks with me. Coming to the surface at moments like these, short and sweet:
"All this and I am still alive. I fear I have no death." (Tagore).
And, also, how
"The world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, only none of us realize it. The happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream." (Kerouac).
And that is the point.
(Drawings courtesy of Abbey Koshak)
Saturday, March 19, 2011
movement through stillness
Signed my name above that thick black line. Free of a lease. I study the form. 6 names. Andi, Daniel, Bethany, Spencer, Rebecca, and Amelia. And I realize with a small shiver that I am feeling quite sentimental about this. With our names all in a row, this random selection of various residents, we have put into a legal document the cold hard fact that a chapter has closed. The pages have been turned, all covered in writing, paint, doodles. Whiskey and coffee stains. Cigarette burns. Lines crossed out and rewritten in a sloppy sideways fashion. And the book has turned to lay open, page up, on a clean white sheet. Now being slowly filled in with a doodle of a mountain side dotted with sheep. Guitar chords and a sharpie drawing of a sunflower.
And what is it that I am talking about?
I am just thinking that I will miss those big echoing hallways. The sounds of bare feet slapping old wooden steps. A blue room and breezy sunlight coming in through curtains brushing my face as I sleep away some afternoon or another. And even when I didn't live there, I did. And now we've signed away any responsibility to damage done to that house over 4 years, and are free to walk away with a book full of memories and one of the biggest, closest families I've ever known. Bravo 12th and C.
All this and these, memories of yours and mine, coming at me during a lull. Like the one between waves. Ocean waves. Salt and kelp and that slow soft pounding. A lull because, I've really been moving a lot in this past year. Traveled the USA, finished college, saw Mexico, China and now the brakes hit the floor and I am a little dizzy but happy to be here. I lay around on a big white bed, next to a big wide window, watch the sunrise in those lazy shades of pink of blue and they reflect off walls and window panes and I just smile, roll over, sleep again, easily. Because, things move slowly here. Sheep make their way idly down the hillside, to where grass meets water. Cars putt past spilling the dirt road into the air. Sailboats sit, waiting for the wind, the sun. No work for at least two weeks, everyone says. So we relax. We drink wine and we play music and we lounge and laugh. Climb mountainsides and watch the sun make the way across the day. We wait patiently for that sun to grow warmer, to bring sails to bring tourists to bring us work and the waiting is, perfect. Is paradise right now in a quiet sleepy town ideal for all this reflection and recognition of these silly sentimental feelings.
Like being on the beach in Mexico. Working slowly southward day by day. Time passing as the scenery stayed the same. I moved, but had the thought that maybe I was still. And in my blue tent night after night I ran out of books to read and my mind played small tricks on me but I figured as long I put foot in front of foot it would lead somewhere and I HAVE to be moving. Not keeping still, but moving forward, no matter how much the sky, beach, sand appeared unchanging. At least thats what logic declared.
And this doesn't make much sense, but the fact is, I am still as can be, sitting on this bed by the window, listening to Abbey play the guitar and then leave to comb her hair. And we've got nowhere to be. So we'll stay here. Yet through all this staying I am feeling an undeniable sense of movement not through time or space but in my mentality to be able to stay, and wait.
And that is something I am so very happy about.
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