Roadbenders

Bare, but bright. I used a trick from Martha Stewart and juxtaposed three nearly matched shades of white for a sort of pearlescent, light-bending effect. This color was originally intended for the bathroom, but I made a mistake when I picked out the color for this nook, and it has been garish orange for most of the year. I found the white paint I’d set aside last year and decided to dive in and cover up the nook. I painted the frames to match, then stapled bookbinding tape to their backs to hang from the hooks. The frames came from a thrift jaunt with Jenn last year. One was originally hot pink.

I have a beautiful collection of prints from Aegean Center alumni, and one by one I’m getting them hung. I’ve collected a bunch of frames in useful sizes and am painting them all to match. I’ll admit, after years of living in boring white apartments, I am a little bummed about the monochrome design scheme, but it seems to work without being cold.

“Donkey Dusk” by Seamus Heffernan

“Old Venetian” by Mark Dunstan

It is stormy and wild on the island tonight. Everyone just left my flat, after we stuffed ourselves on revithia and xorta and Pook’s magnificent eggplant pilaf. And cheap red wine. It’s been a cozy-up kind of day, I woke up early and headed to the computer lab for some early phone calls and then spent a few hours in figure drawing.

Drawing a live model is really an amazing experience, especially when you’re lucky enough to have had the same model for months. It’s amazing how much the human body changes in the two hours I spend contemplating it while I draw; or amazing how much my perspective changes. Afterward I am always exhausted and groggy, but my hands are loose and confident and drawing seems natural for awhile.

After class, Seamus and I braved the windy seafront to go see the Cretan woman and buy provisions. He lives on the other side of the bay, so I invited him to use my kitchen to make his lunch while I fussed with my cameras, trying to load film into the Mamiya I’ll be shooting with this semester. It was impossible. So I waited until after the history of photography lecture was over, and asked my professor to load it for me. Then I went downstairs and taught a photography class. If I were not a walking mass of contradictions, I would not be able to call myself human.

I wasn’t really teaching the class, I was just introducing everyone to the equipment while John is in Athens – but it’s fun to illustrate the dichotomy. I am so confident digitally, and so woefully perplexed by the machinery of traditional photography – yet utterly absorbed by it, fetishizing my camera collection to the point of distraction, making a mysticism out of what is really a very simple process. At any rate, the damned thing is loaded now, maybe I can take some pictures with it. And the digital photography students are nice and thoroughly perplexed, so I’m satisfied with a job well done.

After my introduction, a chipped bust of Socrates and I spent some quality time together while I painted him. I rather gleefully announced after my studio time yesterday that I was painting Socrates, to which no less than three people replied “Oh? How does he like it?” It was rather a futile effort though – I spent fifteen minutes in my painting studio, and five people walked in to say hi or ask for computer help, which was very funny. Sometimes it’s like that. Other times, I wander around for days feeling lonely and wondering where everyone is. Feast or famine.

Brittany texted me asking if I wanted to have a rainy afternoon watching DVDs, so we did that, wrapped in wool blankets and drinking tea while I got up every five minutes to stir the revithia I was making for dinner. Then the kids slowly found their way to my place one by one, and Seamus read us the first two books of the Odyssey, and I sent text messages to Josh while I listened to the rain, and after dinner was over and most of the wine was gone I looked outside and noticed the storm clouds glowing white from the reflection of the moon on the marble. After that, how I could I resist going outside into the night for a bit?

It is the end of Carnival week on Paros, tomorrow is Clean Monday. The shops are closed, and the people strolling the streets casually are sometimes in costume, sometimes tarted up a bit with paint and feathers. There was live music today in one of the cafes out on the paralia seafront.

I opted out of the Mardi Gras festivities last night to clear the last remaining vestiges of jet lag from my system. Sat on the rug in my bedroom in front of the space heater with a cup of tea, a dish of rice pudding, and Ted Hughes’ translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It was the first solitary evening in my apartment. I was exhausted – I asked Seamus yesterday “Seamus, ever have one of those weeks where you’ve been in four countries in four days and you find yourself a little dizzy on Sunday?”. He just looked at me. His route to Paros started in Boston, went through the Czech Republic and Serbia to Athens and then to Paros. We all looked a little shellshocked yesterday, as a matter of fact.

Anyway, I went to bed promptly and properly at ten o’clock, and when I awoke at five very sternly made myself go back to sleep. And it worked! A full night’s rest, a satisfying dinner (and then more tea and rice pudding for breakfast) and I was alright again. Happy as a peach. I don’t like shellfish metaphors, they skeeve me out, so peaches it is.

So today, in keeping with the theme of “absolute hedonism designed to keep the fatigue away” I sauntered slowly into my day, with tea on the balcony and a long bath, then a nice tidying up of the apartment. It was one o’clock before I headed into town to see if any stores were open to provision for dinner. I wandered slowly with the Sunday strollers through the twisty streets, revisiting all the nooks of the village that I hadn’t yet seen since my return. A gorgeous, bright, vivid day, and still for once – no wind rushing me through the corridors of the buildings. I finally found an open shop on the waterfront, and stocked up to make alfredo for dinner, then headed back to the studio to complete my only real chore for the day – stretching canvas.

Kathryn and Seamus were already in the studio, with the same idea in mind. We stood around chatting while we worked, catching up on what had happened over the winter. There’s this strange feeling that no time has passed, that we all left for the weekend or for a brief break and are returning, exactly the same as ever. There’s a certain unity that is only stronger now that we have returned, and we all are more determined and with greater purpose than before. It’s pretty beautiful.

Brittany showed up when Seamus and I were nearly finished, and we headed out to Zorba’s then back to my place. Brittany set up speakers and I plugged in my iPod (I’m waiting for someone to coin a name for the kind of cabaret-gypsy-jazz that’s getting popular – Andrew Bird, Jolie Holland, Paris Combo, even Fiona Apple’s new album – they all have that same thread of style between them) and we moved the settee in front of the balcony. I made espresso and Brittany curled up with a pashmina and Seamus sat on a stool on the balcony and drew in his new journal. The violins wavered with the afternoon sun and we watched two cats groom each other on the roof opposite and I thought “This is my new definition of the word ‘Sunday’”.

And that is where we are now, late afternoon in Greece, and I am moving my prepared canvases back into my studio and getting ready to go make dinner for the kids. My little flat needed the warmth of an afternoon with friends, something to really christen it into a home. Tea on the balcony, good music, laughter – kalispera.

Our first school meeting was yesterday morning, all the students lined up in chairs in a circle. I was late, of course, but Maria was too! We were late together, having gotten coffee and milopita for ourselves and John. It helps to be bringing the director breakfast, if you’re going to walk in late to the first meeting of the term.

It was indescribable, being back in the school room, the sense of purpose being at the beginning of things, knowing how much time there is between now and the summer. The entire day was made up of meetings, running from building to building, a trip to Zorba’s (where Seamus was invited to sit and have a souma with a local man and his lady, and the rest of us huffed off back to the school, alchohol free and grumpy). We got our studios assigned to us for painting, and I met with Liz in the darkroom (which has had some renovation in the last couple of months – beautifully done). I was finally done with meetings at 4pm, and joined Pook and Seamus in cutting canvas to stretch and moving my things to my new studio, not getting very far when I realized I was tipping over from fatigue. So I went home to take a “nap” and ended up missing both a meeting with John and a night at Rengas, waking for good at 2am. My schedule will get back on track eventually -I don’t remember jet lag lingering this long ever before (or ever on this side of the Atlantic) but since last night was the first consecutive multiple hours of sleep I’ve had in a week, I am not too worried.

Today, we hike. Going to Levkes, where there is the promise of blue sky and olive groves, baby lambs and goats bleating on the hillside, and maybe lunch at Flora’s, which means maybe revithia, which I have been craving. I can’t wait to see Levkes at the beginning of spring, when I know how Parikia is already so full of wildflowers – I can’t imagine how beautiful it is going to be.

The little blue room I sleep in at my mother’s house is filled with stacks of clothes, rolls of canvas, scattered brushes and sundry cosmetics. I have been packing for over twenty four hours now, and I don’t feel I’m any closer to done.

I have gotten very good at packing in the last six months. Moving from hotel to hotel in Italy, my apartment in Paros, a brief trip to Norway, back to Paros, and then back to California – well, let’s just say that I didn’t pack my apartment up on the island until the night before, and it still only took me four hours. And that was an entire apartment. I roll my clothes tightly together, fit cylindrical brushes into canvases, boxes into larger boxes, and am merciless when it comes to culling things I don’t really NEED out of my little caravan.

I didn’t think this time that it would take too long to pack. After all, I never really unpacked after arriving from Paros – I still folded clothes into my suitcase, kept my toiletries tucked in a plastic bag. Force of habit at this point. Still, when I finally started to organize myself a bit yesterday, I found myself dragging my feet in an unexpected way.

It isn’t that I don’t want to go to school. I do, badly. It isn’t that I’m not looking forward to journeying again – I love movement and travel, airplanes and airports and strange landscapes and chance encounters with people. It’s just that there is a childish part of me that is scared to leave, that is tired from three months of a certain kind of dissolution from not being disciplined in terms of my daily schedule. I’m worried about my family. I’m worried that my mother will take a turn for the worse. I worry about my aunt taking care of everyone. I worry that I wasn’t useful enough in the time that I was here, that I didn’t do my best every day, that I didn’t spend enough real time with my mother.

Strangely, beneath all this excessive, noisome worry, my instincts are soothing me. This is right, this is what you’re supposed to be doing.

It’s nearly midnight, and my suitcase is empty. I am tired and heavy. I have burned CDs of all the files I need for work, plus a little music to keep me company. I have organized my paints and cameras and film. I have put my vitamins (of which there are many) in ziploc bags and stowed them in a sack. I have culled through old clothes and put back some well-loved items (my doily!) in favour of warm and efficient clothing.

Right outside my window right now, I can see Orion, just as I could from the villa in Italy, from my jasmine-scented apartment in Greece, from the rooftop of the Athenian hotel, hovering over the Parthenon. Almost as constant as the moon, and a friend. When I was little, I would talk to the constellation nightly as though it were a diary or a celestial parent.

No matter I forget or leave behind, it won’t matter once I’m on the plane. Soon it’ll just be me again, carrying my home on my back like the snails and periwinkles that Seamus and I found tucked like omens all over Greece. Whatever I have, it’ll be all I need.

Today I lazed in bed until 11 after staying up until 4am reading, be awakened by Seamus saying my name through the shutters, so we sat down outside and had an espresso and it was so beautiful we said “Let’s go swimming” so I texted Maria and Brett and we collected Brian and Katie at the school and we walked in a line across the bay, where we were joined by Shaggy and Archie (two of our companion dogs) and saw the flock of ducks sleeping on the water with their heads tucked under their wings, and we all ran into the water and it was freezing but the sun was shockingly hot and I stayed in forever. I walked back with Katie and we saw a bushel of oranges floating on the water next to an old fisherman, and we listened to the wind in the cypresses and I bought fruit and watched the fog roll the cold back into the bay while my hair was still drying saltily from the sea. That was today.

Last night, the soloists had their concert. It was phenomenal, a packed house at the Apothiki gallery. Afterward we went to the pomegranate cafe and I had an espresso after midnight and then couldn’t figure out why I was up at 4am reading.

(If I never again have days where I am awakened by the voices of my friends, slide easily into the morning over coffee and sunshine, then into the day with a walk and a swim, then I want this here so I can read it over and over again and be reminded of just how good things are, sometimes, when they are simple and sunny and real.)

Monday, October 24th was Seamus’ birthday, and his only request was that we all meet in the courtyard of the Aegean Village (our apartments) for a grand potluck. We scoffed – we were going to do that anyway!

So Monday night, Kathryn and I flung our doors wide open and Maria-Elena came over with raddichio and spinach that we made into horta, and Brittany flitted through both of our flats grabbing wineglasses as she passed, lighting candles and hanging streamers. The music was up loud (probably Sting) and we were bathed in candlelight and you could hear the voices all over the courtyard from all of our kitchens as each of us cooked and laughed and drank wine.

We met out under the vines and Brittany’s streamers and sang Happy Birthday and ate an amazing meal – Gabriel made mushroom pie, Becky made spanakopita, Kathryn made something glorious out of potatoes and bacon, and I cheated and bought half a kilo of gelato so that I could spend less time cooking and more time wandering around with my wineglass saying helpful things like “Oh, that streamer just caught on fire, you should do something about that”.

We laughed and ate and marvelled at what an amazing group of cooks we have and the evening wound down and people started to disperse, and we cleaned up a bit and I blew all the candles out and the talk turned to politics so I fled to the school to close down the computer room for the night. On my way back, I stopped back in the courtyard and found a few people remaining, including the birthday boy and Maria-Elena. The night was young and we were restless so we decided to walk out along the waterfront and down a bit to the Cave of the Nymphs. Two of us had flashlights and we walked in a straight line down a crumbly path on the side of a cliff over the ocean. The night was so warm.

At the end of the path, tucked inside the rocks was a door. We silently went inside, and found ourselves in a little grotto, a holy place of faded icons and unlit lamps hanging from a whitewashed, rocky ceiling. One side of the cave had been set behind a wooden screen, and on that screen people had hung icons and little slips of paper with prayers and wishes for their family tucked inside. Anne, who was a student on Paros a few years ago, quietly explained how to trim the wicks of the lamps and we quickly refilled the lamps and relit the candles until we were all once again bathed in candlelight, bathed in silent contemplation of the devotion of people. I had brought my own candle, because I knew I would need it. We had a jug of wine leftover from the party and we each took a sip in reverence, then wandered out to the rocks beneath the cave with the candles still flickering through the doorway, and chatted quietly in the warmth. I dozed on the rocks, under the light of half a moon. I awakened when a few more people were leaving, carrying their torches with them, and stumbled up the path to the street above, until I remembered that Maria was staying with me that night, so I called down to the rocks below and heard the three of them stumbling back up the path laughing. By the time they met me under the lamppost, I was awake and restless again, so we began our wandering anew, stopping at a playground and conducting experiments in leverage with the seesaw, playing on the swings, drinking from the jug of wine.

When we left the playground and continued along the beach, I looked out across the bay and at the clear moonlit sky and the waves of stars overhead and felt the warm breeze and thought of the cold week that had just passed and said “We should go for a swim. Let’s swim.” As we walked, we collected three or four of the local dogs and they followed us and took turns defending us from each other until we reached the sandiest part of the beach and stripped off our clothes and ran screaming into the gasping cold water. I could see the stars reflected in the water as I floated, Orion walking on water, shining clear through down to the sandy seafloor below. The night was so warm and I was swimming in stars and stars and you couldn’t see where the water met the land or the air. Across the bay the windowlights twinkled one by one, going out as the night wore on. I looked up and saw four stars fall into the ocean and I knew it might be the last chance for a night swim for awhile.

Blessed Maria had blessedly brought us towels and we wandered onto the sand and I was so surprised at how warm I still was so I walked with my towel to the dark space between trees and slowly got dressed without taking my eyes off the moon or the stars or the dogs at my feet fighting over my shoes. We headed back out into the lamplighted street and Maria kissed us all goodnight and climbed on her bike, and as we walked away I turned and watched and she flung her arms out and I could see the wild wave of her hair over her coat collar as she called out “Kalinixta!” as she rode and I thought to myself “Now THAT is an exit”.