I have been reading too long, just having finished George Crane's Bones of the Master. The cement floor, painted with zig-zagging white lines to mimic the Grecian sidewalks outside, heaves and swells if I stare too long; text's effects on vision. The book was wonderful, poetry layered sweetly into prose, and not just in the poems themselves; George writes with a simple grace that belies the wonder and deep spirituality of his work. I know him – he is one of my teachers here, on Paros. We have spoken about writing, about life, about the particulars of his. He told me that he once smuggled hashish in and out of Marrakesh in the 70s, after having dodged the draft via Canada. He has lived, and I want to follow him as he followed Tsung Tsai in Bones. He may be what other people refer to as a Role Model.
He gave me the single biggest piece of advice I have received from any writer:
Just write. Everyday. Do not wait for inspiration. Drag the Muse out.
According to him, 300 words a day is enough for him; if he can do 600, he feels like Superman; if 1000, God.
And so I have been trying. No. Not trying. Doing, or not doing. Some days I do, some I do not. But more doing than before, more writing. It is difficult sometimes – I don't know if I feel the way he does as often as he does: that is, that writing is a necessity, a grinding need, the only thin toothpick holding up a hundred-ton ceiling of insanity. Some days, sure. Mostly when things are going wrong, when, say, I've just been broken up with (or, as has happened, a year hence), or am fearing for my future, or the like. Those sorts of days aren't usually writing days, to be honest. They are drinking days, or grumpy days, or drinking-grumpy days. But if I manage to get myself before a pad and pen, or a computer, then oftentimes that need builds itself. It's odd, really: that you could need something so badly and not even know it. A microcosm of life as a whole, I suppose.
Anyway. I feel better, more balanced, than I have in months. Years, even. This place, these people, are good for me.
I know, I know, I haven't been posting much. Partly, it's the fact that I have been writing so much otherwise. Partly also that I haven't written things I consider public material.
The only major trip we've taken is to Naxos, the largest island in the Cyclades. It was good. Jarre gave his Historical Sites presentation (we all do one; I am signed up for Delos, I believe) at Apollo's Gate at sunset. The only pictures I took were analog, however, so you'll just have to do without.
A few weekends ago, we rented a variety of motor vehicles and sped across the island to a magnificent beach called Molos:
Word of advice: Never rent a moped. Ever. They are tiny two-wheeled deathtraps, and they have minds of their own. Vicious, evil little minds bent only on your murder and/or horrible injury. Robbie and I, after sunning ourselves for several hours in the warm Grecian air, decided we would detour from the others (who wanted to go get Thai food at the semi-nearby Taoist Center) and go down to the southwest side of the island. Go exploring. We end up on a high trail going -- we figure -- over the highest peak on Paros and down the other side. We miss the turnoff, if there is one, and find ourselves exploring this creepy, seemingly abandoned radio installation, built next to an ancient church:
We look for a way down the other side. It will be dark soon, and we know that we have to return the 'peds before 9:00 as the next day is Pascha (Greek Easter) and the rental place will be closed.
We see a small goat-path, which Robbie assures me is the right way. Apparently he spoke to a man on the ferry a few days prior who told him that he had made the same mistake we had and that, though the trail was hard, it was definitely doable on a moped. So we set out.
Mopeds do not like non-paved surfaces. They make them angry. Rocky, pitted trails doubly so. We decided to simply turn our engines off and guide our barely-controllable two-wheeled friends down the mountains by simple expedient of gravity and brake. It works as well as you might expect; that is, terribly. Still, better than the alternative: an accidental twist (say, to keep oneself from falling), revving the throttle and sending a rogue bike careening off the cliffs, perhaps with one of us still attached.
It gets still darker. We find ourselves in goat country; low shrubland, thick with oregano spines and rocks. This thin, rutted trail is dangerously close to a precipitous drop-off on one side as it zig-zags down. I master the art of starting my bike in-motion as we hit the few flat stretches which require some kick; leaping on, squeezing the brake, applying enough throttle to get the engine purring, and releasing the brake, all in one fluid move. I feel like a badass doing this, oblivious the fact that one false move will probably send me to an early and spikey grave. At least I'll smell like oregano.
We reach a point where things level out, only to have some farmer's pack of dogs burst into angry yelping. Off the side of the trail, his lot is peppered with them -- small, with bared teeth, in every color and variety, they seem to be leashed to every single object in the junkyard-like space. A wrecked car skeleton there, an old washing machine still covered in the remnants of scraped green paint, all surrounding a small white-washed hut with a tiny porch. Whoever owns the lot is nowhere to be seen, and so Robbie and I help each other around the barbed wire with watchful eyes. There is no other way to go but back, an impossibility with our street 'peds.
Finally, we roll out onto a perfectly paved road. My knees ache from standing up on the bike to absorb the shock from larger rocks and potholes. My hands are clutched white-knuckle on the handlebars and I know I won't be able to grip anything ever again. We could have stopped to rest, but Robbie's engine is crapping out -- the regular starter doesn't function, and the kickstarter only worked after several minutes last time. He is afraid that if he stops, he will not be able to start again. So we drive. Luckily, the road is fairly deserted and, despite our pains, we arrive back in Parikia with plenty of time to spare.
All in all, a good day. But I'm never renting one of those little bastards ever again.
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