Same Route A piece of red sail in the dark blue. Olive trees, posts, plastic bags, kisses of bathers, faces, hands, and bodies decayed in time, bitter, but interesting. Cicadas with voices floating in space, you haven’t paid attention to them, foreign. Whether you pay attention or not, whether you listened to them or not, whether you saw or not, nothing, he said. A bitter aroma, forgotten, made of mowed grass. Sit down, then, here on the warmed-up soil, untie, one by one, the knots of the napkin. Eat your bread, biting deep, beyond death. Then, the eggshells, so white and fragile, as evening comes, creak under the feet of the old blind man who walks serenely, led by a small turtle, toward the temple in Kolonos.
Evidence supporting this view lies in the fact that, by extension from the pater familias to the king, as long as this form of organisation endured, the king was simultaneously the high priest and, in certain cases, the god himself. This was the case, for example, in the pre-Hellenic Minoan civilisation of Crete, where the king was regarded as the embodiment of the deity, just as in domestic religion this function was attributed to the ancestor. Likewise, the existence of hereditary priestly families, such as the Eleusinian Eumolpidae and the Kerykes or the Lycomidae of Phlya, demonstrates that they preserved mysteries originally belonging to their own families, transmitted intact and without any interference from public authority. These constitute, to borrow the language of modern physics, merely singularities–that is, phenomena opposed to the existence of a common Greek religious doctrine–much like those logoi, or secret narratives, scattered throughout the thousands of sanctuaries spread across the Hellenic world. The complete absence of a priesthood, sacred books, and rigorously constituted religious dogmas gave rise both to a distinctive and unique Imaginative and to a distinctive understanding of the Greek human being in relation to the world. For this reason, Greece has been regarded, by comparison with other ancient civilisations, as the birthplace of the free spirit and of critical, investigative thought. Yet although liberated from religious dogma, Greek thought did not arise out of nothing through some miraculous event, as has too often been claimed ever since Burnet. Like every other spiritual manifestation of humanity, Greek thought likewise emerged from the religious determinations of the Hellenic spirit, and certainly not from the creations of Homer or Hesiod, whose works never possessed the character of sacred scriptures, despite occasional attempts to suggest otherwise.
Slanting orange safely captured in meshing of the painter’s brush
Far away I shall reach in the wind taking flight over the painter’s brush that stops before completing length and strength of my body amicably mixing water and sky upheld by my arms perplexed eyes of visitors seeing peels of my skin strips of cinnamon bark revealing my new garment of greenish tanned epidermis taken for granted by lazy eyes under the sun’s benevolent heat
A short distance below the cave, he found Ari and Ula strolling arm-in-arm by a stream bank filled with spring beauties in bloom. Not wishing to disturb the couple, Rordan stooped to admire a delicate pink trillium, blooming in the dappled shade between the roots of a budding maple. He was absorbed in the flower’s beauty when he heard a pleasant Mandan voice behind him. “Spring blossoms are beautiful to look at but poisonous to eat. That is how they are protected from being eaten by the four-legged creatures.” He turned to face Yamka, radiant in morning sunshine. “When I was little, I believed tiny fairies held their spring festivities in the hollows between the roots of forest giants such as this.” Yamka held out her hand. “Walk with me. Tell me more about your tiny fairies.” Rordan took Yamka’s hand for an instant then self-consciously let go as they both walked away from Ari and Ula who were having their own tête-à-tête. They strolled slowly, with many pauses to look around tree trunks and under the edges of clumps of brush. As they searched, they discovered a cluster of fragile blooms. There was so much beauty in the forest, and as the sun disappeared behind unexpected clouds, Rordan and Yamka realized they were lost. Both called out to Ari and Ula but there was no reply. Rordan knew that moss grows on the north side of tree trunks but that knowledge was of no use when neither knew which direction they had walked away in. As the forest grew dark and cold, the only sensible thing to do was to find shelter in a rocky overhang and wait for morning. They both gathered branches and leaves into a dry space in a small cave opening partially sheltered by a fallen tree and snuggled in for the night. The attraction and warmth they felt toward each other was now irresistible. After Brother Keallach left the cave, Father Finten paced angrily. Then he sat by his belongings and pulled out the white robe Corn Mother had mistakenly presented to Rordan. He stroked the cotton fabric and rubbed his fingers over the beadwork crosses on the hem. When we arrive at Fire Maker’s camp, I shall wear this robe and my ministry will begin anew, he thought. The Brothers will be strengthened in their faith and practice once more and together we will bring these misguided heathen to the One True God. By the time Keallach and Ailan returned with Fire Maker and Bjorn and a goodsized deer buck, Finten was over his anger. Ari and Ula came in next with rosy cheeks and a basket of fresh greens but Brother Rordan and Yamka did not return. When darkness fell, the six finally sat down to supper. A search in the dark was inadvisable. Besides, Rordan and Yamka knew how to take care of themselves; they’d turn up in the morning or Ari and Ula would return to where they were last seen together. Father Finten remained awake throughout the night, not so worried about the young couple’s survival as about the Brother’s vow of celibacy. He prayed fervently that Brother Rordan would have the fortitude and grace to resist the evil lurking beneath the cover of darkness.
A New Moon 0% full moon the gauge showed on my blog page. 0% a brand-spanking-new moon then! Nonexistent and existent at the same time! 0% then, like my life! How precious the 0% can be when you search for the 100 % of life and you don’t even settle for the 99% of it? We split up because I missed that 1 %, because that cursed 1% was somewhere else, in a different house, in a different life. Tonight I gazed the beautiful full of stars sky, not a single cloud and without any shred of moon to light it and imagined what the 0 % of the moon may mean… Where was the moon tonight? Which part of the sky was illuminated by that 0 % of the moon? And how incomplete the 99 % of the full moon may be? How less it illuminate the sky than its 100 %? A game of percentages is all there is after all. But has it been like that, I wonder? And that tightness in my stomach every time I noticed your glance turn dark? Wasn’t that important even if it was the 1 %? I turned my eyes toward the sky again. I searched for the small dipper and on its edge the North Star. My compass! The guide of my life! Current Moon Phase, 0 % of full: NEW MOON.
Mirror Light wandering over four directions mirror ruminates on two diverging paths one to east, one to north go, he said, and discover your roots go and grace your face with rain overwhelming your eyelids while the smiling mirror firmly transcended your death in its darkness when moments are lost in hours’ clothes and mother’s tears vanish in drenched morning, images and colourful multitudes different pain in a black garment lighter anguish in white garments fear and slavery in yellow or pink and always death lurking inside the crevasses of a twisted mind hungry for power; the mirror that ruminates on two paths ferocious statue of hope stands on highest pedestal, middle of the plaza this deadly labyrinth, he said, and your lonely hours under the sun cover the legs of the horizon, foggy light in tension vertical, slanting wandering over four dimensions
…topping up the water in the buckets, and distributing some oats, and from the reaction of the horses, the oats were especially appreciated. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in conversation, Joel knew he had to care for the gelding he had ridden that morning. The horse had been patiently standing in the center of the alley. First, Joel loosened the cinch strap and lifted the saddle and blankets from the back of the horse; even after all of those years, Joel could still recognize an Eamor saddle when he saw one. His family never had much when he was a kid, but his dad always made sure that they always rode Eamors. He placed the saddle and the blankets on separate railings of what seemed to serve as the official tack stall in the barn. Then he led the gelding into the stall that Joel had found him in that morning and removed his bridle. In his absence, Harry had cleaned out the gelding’s stall and replaced the soiled bedding with fresh straw. Joel re-hung the bridle on a nail high on a post, and he approached the gelding to brush him down. As he groomed the sorrel gelding and waited to see what the old hand had to say, he was reminded of two of his favorite smells. Sweaty horses and leather. It had been a lot of years since he had smelled that unique combination of aromas, but there was no doubt about the rich smell. He had smelled a lot of good things in his life. The smell of the sea. The smell of pot. The smell of peppermint. The smell of fresh fruit. The smell of a fine cigar. The smell of a rich port. But none of these compared to that of sweaty horses and leather. It seemed as if the old hand was just about finished feeding the horses when he muttered, “Too bad about your dad.” “Sure is,” confirmed Joel. “I wish I was here for the funeral, just got word the other day.” “Don’t matter,” grunted the old native as he busied himself about the barn. “Doesn’t make much difference once they are gone, does it?” Joel was feeling good after hearing this.
Athens Beautiful hour when Athens gives itself to April like a lover fragrance in the air, lustful enticement nothing more the soul could wish as evening leans over the houses its heavy silver eyelid and at the far end the Acropolis wears the purple dusk like a gown. A kiss of light when the first star appears by the Illissos River, breeze falls in love with the bridal dress shivering oleanders. Beautiful hour of joy and love when birds chase each other around the Olympian Zeus air-struck stelae.
…was that the cigarette smoke overpowered any other bodily foul smell expected in such cases. They arrived in front of the store they were headed to at eight forty-five, so they had an hour and a quarter to wait outside until the famous store opened its doors. The driver calculated quickly that this meant about twenty-some dollars of waiting time; however, he turned the engine off and stretched his legs in front of his seat, trying not to pay attention to the click of the taxi meter, which clicked ten cents every few seconds, a sound so loud you’d think the whole neighbourhood could hear it. Right at that time, the driver counted it as about seven in the evening in his homeland. He wondered what his parents could be doing at this time while he waited outside the government-run Liquor Store, where his customers wanted to buy something. Perhaps his parents were having their supper at this time, or they had gone to a local taverna to have their meal along with friends. His eyes fell on the customers in the back seat who were almost asleep in their drunken stupor, and he lowered the window of his door a little to let some fresh air come into the space and freshen it up. Without any unforeseen things, the doors of the Government- run Liquor Store opened at exactly ten o’clock when he woke up his customers, who helped each other get out of the car and staggered into the store. Minutes later, they got out, joyous and smiling like kids who got a good mark for their schoolwork, each holding a Mickey of whisky. They got into the taxi again, and the driver started taking them back to their place, which they reached in fifteen minutes. The fare was eighteen dollars and some cents. The white guy took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the driver. The customer didn’t ask for his change. The driver didn’t rush to hand it over to him. The thing was, they went and bought two Mickeys, which cost them around four dollars each, while they paid twenty bucks to the taxi driver. Yes, as strange as it might sound, the earth kept on going around its axis with no thought about the two drunk customers who had collected the Government cheque a couple of days ago…
The naked statue, out in the garden, always fought against the clouds, the rain, the winds, not from spite but in a courageous natural way. At this exact moment it took a small halo, made peace with time and the garden and it looked like a Magus, the fourth one; it could lift a lamb on its shoulders, in such a way that it wouldn’t make Uncle John angry. Then, suddenly the sun disappeared again. The statue rediscovered its lonely, unadjusted nakedness. Six glasses suddenly fell off the windows of the Tower all the way down to immeasurable depth; No sound was heard nor did we find out whether they broke or landed somewhere softly and were reused. The rain started falling again, covering almost indifferently that depth. Uncle John, wearing his velvet slippers, sauntered endlessly, always angry at the weather, the rain, the mud and even more so when the sun shone as if he was losing his arguments. The first woe, he’d say, and the second and third one. And alas, what can one understand? His glasses sat on his eyebrows like two pieces of ice on top of two precipitous mountains drawn in microscale in the first page of a thick book that we never read to the end. But then how can one reach the end? And what would the end mean? The potters would gather in the basement in a secret convention undisturbed rats passed over their feet; their hands were thick like two five-footed bears;
