Wednesday, September 24, 2003
I’ve told a story about California and me several times. It’s sort of a self-deprecating story of me as a too-sad but also too-silly post-teen. I had just been through a very tough time in my life up to that point: a bad, almost tragic, break-up with a woman I loved but left for a possibility of someone else, someone I hadn’t met, and I was pretty much sad-all-the-time. In Santa Cruz in never rains except when it rains. It had been raining for about a month straight, and the problem with these rains is that they weren’t the big sturm and drang romantic explosions of Arkansas, these rains were permeating and oppressive. One evening, sitting alone at the dining room table, I looked at the tabletop and started crying. But the sad and funny thing to me now, is what I was crying about. I looked at the salt and pepper shakers on the table--the omnipresent sound of the rain filled the room--and I started crying when I thought about the fact that those same products (I was reading a lot of Henry Miller) were on everyone’s table, not just in Santa Cruz--in my mind I zoomed all over the world--and every dining room table the whole world over had the same two little piles of flavor. And I cried for the sameness of all of us--the fact that my little tragedy, my little salt, was no different than everyone’s. It’s a fairly common cry in the early twenties maybe; I’m pretty sure that’s one of the reasons I loved punk rock so much: many others--my symphony friends, my parents, Mrs. Holland--didn’t. I wanted to be singular, and my experience with the salt and with the pepper told me I wasn’t.
The reason I mention that now, is that this entry is about death and what Greece is teaching me about death. In some ways, that salt and pepper moment was about non-death, about the continual grinding on of life in all its blandness--what makes the story more silly to me is that I walked to the ocean that evening, alive and churning, and I really wept then, which seems so selfish to me. That ocean! It was alive in the most grand way I’d ever seen anything alive in my life, and I was worried about salt (thank god I didn’t blame the ocean for all that salt). Non-death and non-life was really what I was mourning I think. I was living on potatoes and it was raining and I was alone, and I was sad. And I walked home in the rain, sat down and salted and peppered those potatoes, and that was so sad. Home was so sad. I left, came back to Fayetteville, fell in love again, argued a lot about nothing, then went to Mount Rushmore.
And Mount Rushmore which was great--I’d seen North by Northwest by this time, and seeing that monument from a Hitchcockian (?) rather than a patriotic viewpoint--was amazing to me. But this is about death. Again, to me this seems predictable and bland, but when I first saw the Crazy Horse monument, which is being built cleverly close to Mount Rushmore, and I read in the little brochure that it would be finished in something like 2500 or so, I felt such a hollow pang of my finality in my gut. I don’t think I told my girlfriend, Missi, about this, but I was seriously shaken, at least until we cooked up smores that night and watched the fire till we fell asleep. But I’ve thought about that moment many times. That was about not making it to see the final sculpture--I could imagine it of course, but I would never, ever, see it finished. That’s was my first experience with a momento mori. I’d read about them (something written on the back of a turtle--someone tell me what that’s from?). So, that’s about death, but it’s about the future too. It’s about the fact that you can look at something as permanent as rock uncarved and see your absence, the void you’ll leave before that’s done. That monument is about being surrounded by the future world which you will never see.
But now I’m in Greece, and I’m surrounded by the past world which I can always see. It’s very easy to climb Lycabeettus Hill and look down on the Acropolis (look down on the Acropolis!) and see the old city surrounding it. The streets are still here, and many of the structures still stand. It’s humbling to be surrounded by 2500 years of the world. The statues look down as they have, at what, 100 generations? But I can see the finished sculpture, all the amazing work on the hair and robes. So here, you’re surrounded by a death that is in some ways a momento mori but is also comforting.
In the 1800s, the wealthy and the newly wealthy, walked all over Europe sketching what they saw and keeping journals, and one of the big subjects of study were the ruins surrounding them. There were ruins in Bath, just outside of London, and all over the English countryside left from the Roman occupation, and some would make it to Italy and Greece and paint and draw what surrounds me now, and I wonder if one of the reasons these ruins were and are so popular is because, while they hint at death, they also talk about permanence. That, unlike the sculpture of Crazy Horse which won’t stand until we’re gone, these sculptures were made by our people, by those like us who came before us. I think there’s some comfort in knowing that they stand now as they have before we were here and as they will after we are gone. Maybe it’s the unknown. We can’t see how that Crazy Horse will look exactly, can’t see our future deaths there, but here we can see our future death in the absence of the generations who carved these amazing sculptures, which glow from within, and it becomes a vision of heaven--marbled and glowing. Almost.
What’s really heaven on earth is the yogurt here.
Here's a poem that's somewhat related to this long post:
The Silent Breath of Marble (not crazy about this title yet. Any suggestions?)
Great ribbed halls beneath the earth
buried ribbons of bone under Paros
speak of the past. The dead quarry’s
meat-colored walls, the cragged teeth
tell of being shouldered forth
into four-thousand years of sculpture
and light. The stones burned from within
through the blinding light of day,
in the Cycladean starlight while slaves
stacked the earth’s bones to be sailed—
heavy burden carried by the wind—
over the Aegean northwest to Athens
and the carvers who chipped and smoothed
palmed and caressed this bone back to life
back to breath and back to stillness
as a frieze, cornice, pediment, goddess
where they loom still and silently
whisper of death, permanence
and what it means to be pulled
from life beneath the earth to life above,
mute witness to this spinning world
of sorrows and light.
The reason I mention that now, is that this entry is about death and what Greece is teaching me about death. In some ways, that salt and pepper moment was about non-death, about the continual grinding on of life in all its blandness--what makes the story more silly to me is that I walked to the ocean that evening, alive and churning, and I really wept then, which seems so selfish to me. That ocean! It was alive in the most grand way I’d ever seen anything alive in my life, and I was worried about salt (thank god I didn’t blame the ocean for all that salt). Non-death and non-life was really what I was mourning I think. I was living on potatoes and it was raining and I was alone, and I was sad. And I walked home in the rain, sat down and salted and peppered those potatoes, and that was so sad. Home was so sad. I left, came back to Fayetteville, fell in love again, argued a lot about nothing, then went to Mount Rushmore.
And Mount Rushmore which was great--I’d seen North by Northwest by this time, and seeing that monument from a Hitchcockian (?) rather than a patriotic viewpoint--was amazing to me. But this is about death. Again, to me this seems predictable and bland, but when I first saw the Crazy Horse monument, which is being built cleverly close to Mount Rushmore, and I read in the little brochure that it would be finished in something like 2500 or so, I felt such a hollow pang of my finality in my gut. I don’t think I told my girlfriend, Missi, about this, but I was seriously shaken, at least until we cooked up smores that night and watched the fire till we fell asleep. But I’ve thought about that moment many times. That was about not making it to see the final sculpture--I could imagine it of course, but I would never, ever, see it finished. That’s was my first experience with a momento mori. I’d read about them (something written on the back of a turtle--someone tell me what that’s from?). So, that’s about death, but it’s about the future too. It’s about the fact that you can look at something as permanent as rock uncarved and see your absence, the void you’ll leave before that’s done. That monument is about being surrounded by the future world which you will never see.
But now I’m in Greece, and I’m surrounded by the past world which I can always see. It’s very easy to climb Lycabeettus Hill and look down on the Acropolis (look down on the Acropolis!) and see the old city surrounding it. The streets are still here, and many of the structures still stand. It’s humbling to be surrounded by 2500 years of the world. The statues look down as they have, at what, 100 generations? But I can see the finished sculpture, all the amazing work on the hair and robes. So here, you’re surrounded by a death that is in some ways a momento mori but is also comforting.
In the 1800s, the wealthy and the newly wealthy, walked all over Europe sketching what they saw and keeping journals, and one of the big subjects of study were the ruins surrounding them. There were ruins in Bath, just outside of London, and all over the English countryside left from the Roman occupation, and some would make it to Italy and Greece and paint and draw what surrounds me now, and I wonder if one of the reasons these ruins were and are so popular is because, while they hint at death, they also talk about permanence. That, unlike the sculpture of Crazy Horse which won’t stand until we’re gone, these sculptures were made by our people, by those like us who came before us. I think there’s some comfort in knowing that they stand now as they have before we were here and as they will after we are gone. Maybe it’s the unknown. We can’t see how that Crazy Horse will look exactly, can’t see our future deaths there, but here we can see our future death in the absence of the generations who carved these amazing sculptures, which glow from within, and it becomes a vision of heaven--marbled and glowing. Almost.
What’s really heaven on earth is the yogurt here.
Here's a poem that's somewhat related to this long post:
The Silent Breath of Marble (not crazy about this title yet. Any suggestions?)
Great ribbed halls beneath the earth
buried ribbons of bone under Paros
speak of the past. The dead quarry’s
meat-colored walls, the cragged teeth
tell of being shouldered forth
into four-thousand years of sculpture
and light. The stones burned from within
through the blinding light of day,
in the Cycladean starlight while slaves
stacked the earth’s bones to be sailed—
heavy burden carried by the wind—
over the Aegean northwest to Athens
and the carvers who chipped and smoothed
palmed and caressed this bone back to life
back to breath and back to stillness
as a frieze, cornice, pediment, goddess
where they loom still and silently
whisper of death, permanence
and what it means to be pulled
from life beneath the earth to life above,
mute witness to this spinning world
of sorrows and light.
Monday, September 22, 2003
Howdy. I'm at the American School for Classical Studies in the bottom of the library. The tech guy has been helping me off and on for the past several days trying to get my wireless hookup working. The computer is fine, but the thing just won't work. He's taking it for tests right now. All is pretty well, I walked a long way to the National Gardens yesterday and hung out there reading for a few hours. It was very beautiful and free and there were many tourists wandering around which I like sometimes--to hear a english accent is nice. I haven't been talking much at all for the past week since Kirsten has been gone, so even if I don't say anything to the couple sitting next to it's nice to hear. My language consists of "hello" "two beers" "thank you." That kind of stuff. It has been great out, though today, weighted down with my books to return, and my computer, I got hot. I'm heading out as soon as I finish this, I think. At the market this weekend, I got some great eggplants and sauteed them with red peppers and the all knowing tomato and served it with rice, and a nice homemade wine. When Kirsten gets back, I think I can borrow her camera to take some panoramas of the area. I will talk to you all later. --Sean
Monday, September 15, 2003
Hello. We went to our second market this last Saturday and I bought so many tomatoes that I had a make a giant bowl of salsa--this in a land of very few corn chips. The market was great again, and we had a good time walking the streets. We got some huge beans, called gigantes (for some reason) and made those last night. They're kind of like giant navy beans, and they're usually served with some sort of red sauce and feta, so I tried that, and it was good. I think it might have rained last night--the last time we saw rain was in New Orleans, and I'm ready for a bit at least. The climate here is very much like Northern California, and I think once it starts raining it doesn't stop, but I hope not. Tomorrow Kirsten leaves for a nine day trip up to central Greece, and I guess I'll be reading and running--my usual hobbies these days (well reading at least, I just threw the running bit in, but I'd like to run some more)--oh and writing. I've been working on a pretty bad story, and I have some poem ideas that have been kicking around. OH! And I need to get a job. That's what I'll do. I did walk into a school two doors down, but they didn't bite, so I went back to my reading. I've read two Nick Hornby books since I've been here, and I just started Nickel and Dimed about working in low wage jobs. The American School has a big bank of good books to read. I grabbed Lovely Bones as well. Saturday night we went looking for Cracker (an old Santa Cruz aquaintance is in it), but we couldn't ever figure out where there were, so we went looking for a vegetarian restaurant which Kirsten remembered (she remembered the restaurant, not the location), and we did find it, so that was great. We haven't been getting much tofu lately and we tried to stock up. We may have found a connection though. All right. That's all for now. It's cheaper for you to call us than the other way around, Kirsten says, which is because of the rates or something (that and we wouldn't have to pay for the call). Talk to you all soon and send us emails and letters. And tofu. And corn chips. And peanut butter.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Wages and Deflation in ChinaFstrong>
Well, I had a long explanation about the photos. Just ask if you're curious about any one. They are from all over the Cyclades Islands. So long. And I have no idea about wages in china.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Just a quick update. We are pretty well settled in. I got speakers for the computer, so we can play all the music I've been madly importing lately, and that's been really nice. No TV, no radio, so we don't really know what's going on in the world other than Bush is still making people mad over here--one really wonderful woman whose hotel we stayed at in Mykonos said she'd like to slice him up. More later. Take care of yourselves. Love, S and K.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
A quick note to say that we're in Athens now at our address:
Sean and Kirsten
Axaias 23
Ampelokepoi
115 23 Athena
Greece
Phone (for when you're drunk and rich)
(011-30) 210-69-26-145
The numbers in parentheses will get you out of the states and into Greece.
We love our apartment--mable sink, big patio (with pigeon feathers (etc)). There's a great mile long market here on Saturdays which is when we arrived. Talk to you again soon when my time's not up. Love, S and K.
Sean and Kirsten
Axaias 23
Ampelokepoi
115 23 Athena
Greece
Phone (for when you're drunk and rich)
(011-30) 210-69-26-145
The numbers in parentheses will get you out of the states and into Greece.
We love our apartment--mable sink, big patio (with pigeon feathers (etc)). There's a great mile long market here on Saturdays which is when we arrived. Talk to you again soon when my time's not up. Love, S and K.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Well, I was wrong. We thought about going back to Tinos, but decided instead to head for Paros and see a new place, and I'm very glad we did. I love this island. Very quiet right now, full of fantastic restaurants where you can watch the sunset and eat fish from the sea. We did that last night, watching the sun fall behind Mykonos in the far distance. The port city is very quiet and calm at night contrasted with Mykonos with all the scooters scooting and the youth and mackerel crowded seas and such. Here is very calm (I'm losing my English bit by bit--every now and then I turn to Kirsten and say, "is good, yes? You like?"). I think we may rent a cursed scooter and scout the island this afternoon, then pizza on the beach and perhaps watch About Schmidt in an outdoor theater here. Today we had lunch at the apartment (Gouda, big bottle of local wine, nuts, loaf of bread from the bakery) for about 8 bucks! You should come visit! This is my favorite island so far.
Monday, September 01, 2003
We're still on Mykonos and today we rented a scooter to tool around the town. We went to a couple of beaches, one really chic and the other abandoned. The abandoned one was near an old defunct iron plant (at least that's my theory). There were great seams of iron in the granite all around the area. I walked around this place for awhile, empty buildings, a date book from 1976 (in english), ladders to nowhere. We left there and headed to the beach where I put on my trusty goggles for a bit and checked out the fish and flora etc. We then left to recover from the sun, and hit the town. Tonight, pizza. I think we'll leave here tomorrow afternoon, head back to Tinos, stay a day there, then head to Athens.
