i wrote this letter from Crete a few weeks ago. But then Helene happened + much more pacing began than action. + it became irrelevant to what was happening back home. Back in the U.S. now + able to get distance from this writing + also able to dissuade the initial guilt of not being home, i will send this into he wilds of whyfi + trusting it will find distant screens to light up.
i do love packing up + leaving.
i believe my favorite part of my tiny life is viewing it from the other side of the planet. i like people not knowing who the hell i am - that, assuming i'm anyone at all. i like not having to plan. i like not taking care of a lot of things, not having much to keep up w/. Having experiences that were not on any list. The uncomfortable-ness of it. Of really not knowing what + where. A denominator perhaps.
The older i get, the more i understand the paradox of choice + having too many.
It's getting heavy in here. Your turn if you want to take it.
The more time i use up the more i believe time doesn't count.
But i need more time to be sure.
Difficult to explain how beautiful it is here, just now. Saying that, knowing there is beauty everywhere. There are vultures in the mountains that surround + trap this village to the sea. You can see them circling every now + again. i hear goat bells from in the hills, + mistake them for far off church bells. The frèska froùta kai lachanikà man visits coming in a blown up open bed red Toyota red mini truck tented w/ a tarp w/a bullhorn strapped to the top of the cab. i name him the ice-cream man because he uses music to call out to the village upon his approach. Thing though, that gets me to come out onto the balcony, + eventually head down to buy, is that as he is drifting down the ziggy mountain cliff road, w/ his the greek hurdy-gurdy music blasting, as gargled it is, ricochets back + echos trapped between the cliffs + sea. there is a resounding reverb inside this cavernous bowl traveling up + then back down in a beautiful answering to itself.
Working the relative into the absolute. i need to practice that. Like a friend described in the process of writing. Same in visuals. Always, always pulling away the web looking for the eternal muse that comes to play. Some days i look way past it, neglecting that it was in front of me waving frantically all along. Ah, that true quiet profound excitement.
Feeling the pull home. Just a bit. If i concentrate.
i have that familiar feeling, as though i need to be where i’m going to end up, so i can be there a while.
Sending love.
