In the late 1890s, at the University of Iowa, there was a writer by the name of George Cram Cook.  From 1896 to 1899 he taught what is considered by many to be the very first creative writing course.  He titled it ‘Verse-Making.’  When he left in 1899, the course was continued by his colleagues and became what is now known as the Iowa Writer’s Workshop.  Cook then went to Stanford University and taught a similar course and, in 1915, after marrying his second wife Susan Glaspell, moved to Provincetown, Massachusetts where they founded the Provincetown Players, an avant-garde theatre group.  He produced plays written by Glaspell, some of Eugene O’Neill’s first plays and also those of Edna St. Vincent Millay.  That is just a small sample.  He worked with the group until 1919.  A long-time Hellenophile, he moved to Greece in 1922, settling in Delphi, home of the Oracle.  He died in Delphi 2 years later after contracting glanders from a dog bite.  The Greek government granted him status to be buried there, his grave marked by an ancient stone from the Temple of Apollo.  His daughter Nella was buried alongside him in the town necropolis and there is a memorial to Glaspell, Cook’s mother Ellen Dodge and his first wife Mollie on the wall above.

Jump ahead about 50 years.  My mother, the ever curious historian, began to research the P’town Players, Glaspell, Cook, et al…At that time my family lived in Provincetown as summer residents and were a part of the arts community, largely due to my novelist father.  Mom’s curiosity was such that she planned an excursion to Greece with my grandmother.  Grammaw had lived and worked in Athens and Thessaloniki in the mid-1960s and, as she was more familiar with the lay of the land, joined my mother in a search for Cook’s grave.  I do not remember if they found it, and I sense there was some disappointment to their quest.  I would have been about 7 or 8 years old at the time, so this tale is bathed in the slippery mist of memory.  I am skipping a lot here, especially about Grammaw and her interest.  Another story for a later time.

Jump ahead again to yesterday, 23 June, 2018.  I had a free day in Athens so I signed up for a tour of Delphi.  I had been there in 2006, but the Mom/Grammaw/Cook story had slipped my mind.  I decided to rectify this and follow their footsteps to find the grave.  The tour was pleasant enough and an economical way to get there, see the sacred site, the superb museum, have lunch and be transported back to the hotel later in the afternoon.  My tour mates were mostly American and Australian tourists and were curious about this aspect of my trip.  It was fun.  They enjoyed the tale as well.  I related a more truncated, less rambling version, by the way.

During a free 45 minutes between the site visit and the museum, I scurried up to the modern town and asked a local about the cemetery.  It was easy to find, and when I entered I queried two workmen if they knew of the grave.  “No..no English here…no Americans here…”  Undaunted, I looked around the small cemetery.  Among the cleanly carved headstones and markers, one stood out, up in the northeast corner, beneath a cypress tree–an ancient marble stele.  There it was.  After sweeping off the graves and taking some pictures, I looked at my watch.  I had just enough time to make it back down the hill and join my group for the museum tour.

–JDCM

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To sum up the typewriter repair…after disassembly, Alessio removed all the rubber pieces and then bathed the ornate and beautiful chassis in a gentle flow of aeronautic petrol mixed with a very fine lubricant.  This removed all the dust, ink, paper and grime that had built up over the years.  The high octane solution evaporated in the outside air, leaving behind the machine oil.  Then he cleaned up the paper roller by attaching it to a lathe and sanding it gently with fine-grit sand paper.  He cleaned and wiped down the external casing.  After reassembly and insuring mechanical perfection, he adjusted the letter ‘a’ (it wasn’t striking well), attached a new ribbon, typed a test piece of paper, and gave the machine a final swipe with the cleaning cloth.  Presto! Fini!  There was more to it obviously.   The whole repair process took about four hours.  Grazie Alessio!

I will leave for Venice on Sunday, my bag filled with cheese….but that’s another story.

–JDCM

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I feel that this dish is a symbol of what can be right with the world.  You need meat that is fresh, handled by as few people as possible, from a source you know and butcher who knows what you want, i.e. no processed, packaged brand name big store shrink wrapped meats.  Buy local, stay healthy–in mind, body and planet!

Let’s talk about the government for a bit.  This is what I know:  Lebanon is a ‘failed state’ and, as such, has no government.  Yes…they have a president, a parliament, etc…they even have diplomatic relations with many countries like the USA, France, Greece…so on that level they are legitimate.  But the government doesn’t run the country.  The country is run by a group of families–let’s say 20-most of whom have been in power of some sort since the Middle-Ages.  Now, these families are very wealthy and most own the very legitimate and wealthy banks.  They are also the patrons of the very good and well-known hospitals and universities in Beirut.  They are the patrons of everything.  Think of it as the Five Families that run New York in ‘The Godfather’ and you’ll get the picture.  They run it all and, for the most part, the people like it that way.

Regarding militias…all but one militia have officially disarmed.  That is good.  These patrons, these wealthy families, are not all associated with militias, but the militias are all associated with wealthy patrons.  Make sense?  So whether you are Christian, Druze, Sunni or Shia–you have a friend somewhere making sure that your children go to good private schools, your parking spaces on your street are kept up, your fuel oil is delivered in the winter, you have medical care for your family, churches and mosques are kept up and polished, etc…

Let’s talk about the Power Ship!  Electricity is scare on Lebanon, hence the air pollution problem one sees everywhere.  Private home generators are needed to compensate for daily brown-outs which as a tourist, you’ll never notice.  In 2013, a Turkish company floated this amazing thing over to Lebanon and leased it to them for a few years.  There is a better article about it and the company here.  It is a pretty interesting idea–and one that is supposed to be temporary.  The problem is that the Families that run the country cannot agree in where to put the new stand-alone, on-shore, full-time power station.  No one wants to miss out on the money and no one wants to donate the free land for building, etc…so the Power Ship sits, expensively sending its energy to the country–and everyone loses.

My friend Thanassis took the photo of supper and the Power Ship photo came from the web somewhere.  That wide angle lens on the iPhone really distorts the image a lot…

–JDCM

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So there are the bullet points.

–Santorini was good.  I went solely to visit the archeological site of Akrotiri, which was closed the last time I visited 10 years ago.  I took the ferry on Friday afternoon, saw the site and both museums the next morning and then took the boat back.  I was off-island for just over 24 hours.  I was glad to be back on Paros.  Aside from the caldera and the archeological sites, Santorini is pretty dull.  Too built up, too barren and, at this time of year, mostly closed.  Some that is no one’s fault.  3400 years ago the place blew up and has never really recovered.  I guess that is part of its charm.  It is, after all, still an active volcano.  This link is really good…Hey man…that’s my neighbourhood!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minoan_eruption

–I have been re-watching ‘The Sopranos’ since I never actually finished the series a few years years ago.  It is very good.  I have fallen in love with this clan of sociopathic narcissistic trash.  Really amazing.  Like watching a train wreck.  And then, somewhere in the middle of Season 2, or maybe 3, it dawned on me…The White House has been handed over to The Sopranos!   Think about it.  Complete with a goon squad!

–“For the love of money is the root of many evils…” (1 Timothy 6:10)  If this guy (I daren’t say his name) didn’t have any money, he’d just be another vulgar, racist, sexist, loud-mouthed, annoying asshole xenophobe sitting at the end of the bar.  Really.  No joke.  He is proof that money cannot buy you class or taste.  In fact,  he symbolizes all that is wrong and bad in our world–avarice, hubris, graft, ignorance–a deep soul-sickness lying beneath his veneer-like need for attention.  He is the winner of that contest, hands down.  I think he’d even win the popular vote.  This makes him very dangerous.  Anyone who studies history knows this.

–I’ll blog again before the new year.  There is more to report from this lovely rock in the middle of the Aegean Sea.  Have a Merry Christmas everyone, or whatever you wish to celebrate!

–JDCM

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I haven’t blogged in a long time and I apologize.  Sometimes I have had too much on my mind and to sort out any coherent thoughts and to put them down seems daunting.  What I need is time to let the events of the past year-and-half filter out into something resembling…something, something solid.

I return to the island after a long weekend wth friends on another island, another archipelago.  This marks the last of my long-term commitments for 2016 and I finally feel like I can relax.  The deeply emotional yet business-like events of laying my mother to rest and selling the family home are behind me.  My inherited furnitures, works of art, books and homewares are tucked away in storage units.  I packed my bags with those things that I could smuggle and left America.  Oddly enough, I feel no sadness in leaving the house I called home for so long.  With my mother’s absence, the place felt empty and hollow.  She had been its heart and soul and without her it was just a shell.

I have finally found an ear doctor who has offered anything like a solution to my labyrinthitis/Meuniere’s/tinnitus…Dr. Peraki’s prescription has improved my hearing almost 10% over the past month so I have been told to keep at the regimen and we shall see what is what in about 2 months, just before Christmas.

Speaking of that…one novel feeling…I am not thinking about plane tickets back to America.  This time, during the past several years, I would begin looking at dates, routes, etc…not today, thank the gods.  I am looking forward to being here through all of December and January, February, without the interruption of having to leave.

And so on I ramble…

—JDCM

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–I found an excellent little taverna on the port of Merichas.  Typical family-run, spitiko, without all the frippish tom-foolery of frankish cuisine.  I ate roasted goat in lemon sauce last night; grilled fresh sardines the night before…local, mild feta on my salads.  I’ll go there again tonight.  Funny thing…when Kostas, the owner’s son, heard I was from Paros, he told me that his cousin Giorgos worked in a fish taverna in Paroikia…Hmmm…I know Giorgos well!  We had a good time and then Kostas called Giorgos and he and I had a quick chat.  I love these alliances.  So Yalos Byzantio is my spot.  I dine there again tonight.

–My lodging has been excellent.  My small studio overlooks the harbour of Merichas.  The ferries dock just a few hundred meters away and the ins-and-outs of tourist sailors in their small rented sailboats make for interesting comedy-drama.  Only some seem to be good sailors.  The rest look like they are trying too park their cars.  Oh well…I wish them all the fun in the world.  The Aegean is a lovely place to sail.

–I am tired.  I am tired of living out of my luggage.  I will have a lot more of that this summer so I suppose I should get used to it, but for the moment…

I left Paros on May 10th, after a four-day general strike which threw all my plans into the air.  As a result of this strike, I was forced to use one of the High-Speed ferries that runs around the Aegean.  I hate these things for many reasons.  The only other time I was on one was in 2006 and I picked up a terrible respiratory bug just by being shut inside the interior for several hours with no fresh air.  True to form, by the time I reached Evia on Thursday the 12th, my throat was scratchy.  By Saturday I was on antibiotics, decongestants…sick.  11 days later I am finally off the meds.  I need to go home.  I feel great, but it is time to sit on my own terrace, sleep in my own bed…

As luck would have it, the same ferry that would have brought me to Syros, continues on home to Paros.  So I will leave Kythnos Friday morning and be home in time for tea…

Pezoules, walls and and Agios Anathasios, Kythnos, 2016

–JDCM

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–Kea is a rugged place.  Smaller than Paros, yet it feels bigger.  The Port of Korissia is small and around the port are a number of meadows heading inland, but only for a short distance.  After that it is a long climb to the chora, Loulida, perched along the ravine.  The streets in the chora are steep and car-free.  It is pretty little town and the archeological museum is supposed to be one of the best in Greece.  It is, however, only open on Friday from 08:00-15:00 and so I will miss it.  Kea reminds me of a smaller and greener Naxos.

–The flora of Kea is very much the same as on Paros and many of the other islands with one lovely exception: the pedunculate oak.  For centuries, Kea supplied the tanners of Greece, Rome, Venice, etc… with acorn caps.  By the end of the 19th century this practice had been replaced with less expensive synthetic processes so the acorn was not needed and the thriving industry collapsed.  Thank God they didn’t cut down the trees!  You know what…go here instead.  These folks know more about it than I do and are a big part of the new sustainable Kea.

–Kea is still a thriving agricultural island and this is evident when one hikes along the well used donkey paths and other by-ways.  Pommes de terre are numerous!   The xcero-lithia that crisscross the island are lovely, beautiful, crafted…some are so old that the moss and lichen that cover them are dissolving them, turning their hard edges round and soft.  New wall construction is in the old fashion, so the technique is being preserved.

–I will have shot three rolls of 35mm film when I leave on Friday as well as  fair amount of digital.  I have been hiking a lot although I did rent a car.  It is a good idea so at least get up and out of town into the interior before setting out walking to a cove or mountain top.  This time of year it is quite empty outside the port, so it has been rare to see anyone else but the occasional goat.  Most of the others I have seen are, I think, French and English.  I cannot be sure.  Athenian day sailors like Kea too.

–If I had brought my mountain bike, I would have rented a car anyway for the same reasons as above.  Mountain biking on pavement is a drag and bad for the tires.  Best to load the bike into a car and drive inland, park, and bike on the dirt roads.  For road biking, anyone who wants constant interval training on hills, come to Kea.  The fun never ends.

–JDCM

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She was my center.   She was stability and gentleness, support and unconditional love.  Regardless of my age or maturity, she was there.  I would come home and she would greet me at the door with a hug.  If I had telephoned beforehand, she would have always asked, “What do you want for dinner?”  There was always food, hugs, warmth, encouragement.  Roast chicken. Pot roast.

Amidst this crushing grief,  my family and I are all but forced to sell her house, the house where I grew up and, for 47 years of my life, the only home I have ever known.  It is a matter of practicality since none of us can afford to live there and pay the taxes–and for this I am ashamed.  I can only speak for myself.  I have had to reduce a source of protection, nurturing and golden memory into a commodity, something to be passed on to strangers.   May they find the same hub of stability there that I have known forever.

I decided 3 years ago to move to Paros full time, to make my home here, to try to sink roots in this rocky land.  The deaths of my parents has rendered my old compass obsolete and my maps out of date.   Previous points of reference have faded and mean too much or nothing at all.   My new compass is a thing of beauty–bronze, marble, sunlight and the wine-dark sea.  My new maps are crisp and unmarked.

So darkness and light, death and life…we grasp for handholds on our respective islands.  We find ourselves in treacherous waters, between rocks and the hardest of places.  Tonight at midnight the lights will go out and from behind the curtain the magic appears…a single trembling flame–hope for the hopeless, a light in the darkness.

Kalo Pascha!

–JDCM

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I have returned home from my father’s memorial service in Provincetown.  It was a lovely and moving weekend laughter and tears.  On Sunday we scattered his ashes in the bay.  We boarded the rented schooner and set sail on a foggy and grey afternoon, light winds from the south.  As the skipper cut the motor and the crew raised sail, I was struck by how calm and peaceful the air had become, silent but for the waves lapping at the hull.  Light mist settled upon us with caring hands. As we came about my sisters and I stood against the gunwale and poured him into the briny blue-green, the water turning momentarily milky as the ash melted into the deep.  And he was gone.  Afterwards we gathered with friends and told tales of the man.  We watched a moving short film prepared by his widow, and ate some food.  We all agreed he would have enjoyed  it.  He would have also exclaimed, at one point, “Enough already!”, his modesty finally outweighing his pride.  So long, weary traveler!  Kalo taxidhi!

I have been musing on happiness–again.  I have heard that it is an ‘inside job.’ If so then what are the external expressions?  I know that I am happy yet my world, to some, may look messy, chaotic, perhaps unsystematic.  There is nothing neat and orderly about it.  It is not sanitary or perfectly aligned.  Maybe a need for external neatness, a desk of neatly sharpened pencils and carefully arranged in/out boxes is actually a cry for help?  I know my father’s office, even when he was young and dementia had not taken its toll, was what would have been thought of as messy and disorganized. In fact, everything was exactly where it needed to be.  His internal life, his ethos, was ship-shape and trim.  His morality and sense of self were in alignment and he was happy.  And he left a desk of unfinished work–a sign of a life well-lived.

I celebrate the dust and disorder of the external and understand how it feeds my imagination.  It is a zen geometry, creating an oblique stack of books, random pieces of folded paper, a crumbling temple on a rock overlooking the noise and chaos–all precarious. It allows me to get lost, discovering the jewel in the mud that others will never discover.  I have permission to get muddy.  To find joy and laughter in the lack of right-angles, the subtle aspects of color and shades of grey…That is fun.  That is happiness.  Creation is messy work, full of uncertainty and risk.

–JDCM

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