Visited Sydney in early January, 2024 and we stayed in a suite on the 13th floor at Zetland. Now, why is that special? Well, it might not be a big deal for many, but for me, it marked my inaugural night spent on a 13th-floor of anything. Exciting, right? Check out these snapshots from that memorable experience!
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photography, Uncategorized | Tagged: innerSydney, photography, travel, Zetland | 
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Posted by stavr0s
The room was dimly lit, the only source of illumination being the soft glow of the street lights filtering through the half-closed blinds. A man sat at a cluttered desk, his fingers dancing with a pen over a blank page. At first, the shapes that came from his fingers were geometrical doodles, spirals that began anticlockwise but ended up snaking clockwise. Now a triangle that grew into a star. The shapes flowed from his pen as if the pen itself inscribed the signs. Still, the scribble continued, now over half the page from the center was filled with shapes and lines.
The stars on the page weren’t even noticeable, only the light blue of the sky ran down the page making a huge teardrop. As he picked up the page with the letterhead, he noticed that the stars had grown a little brighter. He held the piece of paper up to face the window, as he did light streamed through the stars as if they were holes. He touched the spot where a star was, and he knew that it wasn’t a hole. The star, in fact, seemed to radiate more heat. Leaving it on the desk, he picks up the phone and calls Tony. No answer.
He sat down and began to scribble on a piece of paper he found on the shelf. It’s not as if he had a message for anyone in particular. In fact, he didn’t even know how he came to be in this room. The scribbles continued, forming a maze of lines and shapes that seemed to have a life of their own. The room, now filled with a quiet tension, held the secrets of the man at the desk and the enigmatic symbols he was creating. Tony walked in, the door creaking slightly as it opened.
“What’s going on, Joe?” Tony asked, eyeing the chaotic patterns on the paper.
“I don’t know, Tony. It just started. The shapes, the symbols. They won’t stop,” Joe replied, his eyes fixed on the mesmerizing dance of ink on paper.
Tony took a moment to study the page, then looked around the room. “It’s like you’ve opened a portal to another world in here.”
“Yeah, a world of shapes and lines,” Joe mumbled, almost to himself.
The two men sat in silence, watching as the scribbles unfolded. Joe pulled the blinds open. The stars outside the window seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, casting an ethereal glow on the room. The air was charged with mystery, and the wall between reality and imagination blurred.
As the night deepened, Joe continued to sketch, and Tony remained, captivated by the unfolding spectacle. The shapes on the paper seemed to tell a story, a story that transcended the boundaries of ordinary existence. The room became a sanctuary of creativity, a realm where the ordinary transformed into the extraordinary.
And so, in the dimly lit room, surrounded by the enigmatic symbols and the soft hum of the city outside, Joe and Tony witnessed the birth of something beyond comprehension, that defied the constraints of the mundane.
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Posted by stavr0s
I found an old Aussie dollar in the drawer. Reminds me of Gypsy Bob and me back at Bob Gould‘s Third World Book Shop on Goulburn Street in Sydney. For a while I was attending Bob Gould’s Socialist Resistance group meetings. Later I met some others who had more of an anarchist bent and I left Resistance. My new friends and I, put out the first and only Yippie paper in Australia, ‘Plague.’ Gypsy Bob was nothing like Bob Gould. Gypsy was a wild character with a silver and purple dyed beard and long hair with glitter. He sported a patchwork coat & trousers crafted from assorted materials. I, on the other hand, dressed plainly, but our ideas clicked.
Gould had Abby Hoffman‘s ‘Steal This Book’ and Jerry Rubin‘s ‘Do It!’ for sale.
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Posted by stavr0s
On a quiet Sunday, December 10, 2023, my mother left this world. A cherished relic, once belonging to my grandmother, had become my mother’s dearest possession. It rested faithfully by her bedside, accompanied by the constant glow of an olive oil lamp, flickering day and night.
In her room, when I visited, she would present the icon for me to kiss and cross myself.
This icon held profound significance for my family, hailing from Pontic Greeks who endured the harrowing attempted genocide in the 1920s. Known as the Great Disaster among Greeks, my grandparents faced unspeakable challenges during their escape, carrying with them this sacred icon. In those trying times, my grandmother, a beacon of strength, invoked the Mother of God, Theotoko, for solace and sustenance.
Picture a group of weary children and adults, huddled around a fire by the roadside, hungry and desperate. My grandmother, with unwavering faith, would bring out the cherished icon. She urged the children to kiss it and make the sign of the cross. Then, with profound devotion, she raised the icon to the heavens, repeating the ritual three times—for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—beseeching Theotoko for divine intervention. Each time before she raised it to the star filled sky, she brought it back to her heart.
Amidst the crackling of the fire, my grandmother, holding the icon aloft, turned to share its grace with the circle of souls around her. She dipped the icon into a vessel of water three times, each motion filled with fervent prayer. As the icon emerged for the last time, she declared that the Mother of God had provided. The once-hungry children filled their cups, drank deeply, and found their hunger miraculously satisfied.
This faded icon, a witness to survival and faith, now holds a special place in my heart, connecting me to a resilient past and to my mother and her mother and to the Mother of God.
I’ve included this story in the book I’m writing which I am dedicating to my mother.
Below is a two faced icon also given to me by my mother. I thought I’d include it here. Found out through Twitter that it is a Byzantine Fan used in Liturgy and is called a ripidion, or hexapterygon.
3 Comments | History, Uncategorized | Tagged: books, Christianity, daily-readings, family, Holocaust, human rights. refugees, Mother of God, Pontic Greeks, saints, The Great Disaster | Permalink
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It was a special day in Bethlehem, Palestine, back in 2000. I had the opportunity to visit the place believed to be where Jesus was born. Afterwards, I found myself in a shop, admiring Palestinian belts. The owner, a Muslim, and I struck up a conversation. He was intrigued by the Christian belief in the Holy Trinity and the crucifixion of God. Our discussion was a fascinating exchange of our different cultural and religious perspectives.
Our conversation was interrupted when a customer entered the shop, and the owner had to leave abruptly. To my surprise, he entrusted me with his shop despite our language barrier. His unexpected trust took me aback, but he reassured me that everything would be fine and that he would return shortly.
For about an hour, I found myself alone in the shop. Customers came and went, but no one engaged with me. When the owner returned, he prepared tea, and we resumed discussing religion. It was a moment of realization for me. Despite being a stranger and not sharing his faith, he entrusted me with his shop, a gesture that spoke volumes about the trust we had built during our conversation.
Reflecting on the day, I realized I could have quickly taken advantage of the situation and walked away with something. However, our conversation created a unique connection that led to the shop owner’s trust. As a parting gift, he gave me a Palestinian belt. It was a remarkable experience, a day I will never forget from my time in Palestine.
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In the past few days, my perspective has broadened, expanding my horizons in unexpected ways. It’s as if everything has aligned serendipitously, forming a delicate snowflake of coincidences.
My mind races, breaking free from the monotony that once plagued my existence. Mundane surroundings take on a new significance, their dullness transformed into the building blocks of something extraordinary. But just as suddenly, the light illuminating this newfound perspective flickers and vanishes.
Leaning back, I consciously straighten my posture, akin to a cobra poised to strike, attuned to its melody. The familiar form remains, but the essence within undergoes a subtle transformation. I feel a fleeting sense of displacement like a fish momentarily out of water. Above me, clouds drift lazily, their ever-changing shapes mirroring my shifting thoughts.
Seeking solace, I find myself lying on the grass, immersed in contemplation. It is here, in the vastness of nature, that I ponder the metaphorical vessel that sails into my mind. Like a ship arriving through a door, it carries with it new ideas, inspiration, and possibilities.
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Leave a Comment » | Expression, fiction, lyrics, poetry, Uncategorized, writing | Tagged: Poem | Permalink
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Posted by stavr0s
One way to contemplate the concept of the fourth dimension is to envision the inhabitants of a two-dimensional world confined to the surface of a sheet of paper. In this hypothetical scenario, these inhabitants would be unaware of a third dimension, unable to fathom anything beyond length and breadth. The notion of height would be inconceivable to them, just as our three-dimensional perception might limit our understanding of the fourth dimension.
Imagine beings living in this flat, two-dimensional world, experiencing only length and breadth. If an object were to intrude into their world from “above,” introducing the dimension of height, these inhabitants would perceive it in a two-dimensional manner. For instance, if a pencil were to puncture the paper’s surface, it would appear to them as a minuscule dot, gradually expanding in diameter until it reaches a specific size and then remaining constant until it eventually disappears as the pencil passes entirely through the sheet.
To illustrate the passage of time within this context, let us calibrate the pencil into eight segments, each representing ten years. As the pencil traverses the sheet of paper, each segment corresponds to ten years for the inhabitants of this two-dimensional world. Thus, when four segments have crossed the paper’s surface, signifying forty years, it represents the midpoint of the pencil’s existence. However, the inhabitants cannot perceive the whole pencil, including the portion underneath the sheet and the remaining portion above it. Their limited perspective confines them to observe only the cross-section of the pencil intersecting their world, as they cannot comprehend the existence of a three-dimensional realm.
As beings dwelling in a three-dimensional reality, we encounter a similar limitation in perceiving the whole. Just as the inhabitants of the flat world cannot see the entire pencil but only its cross-section passing through their world, we may also be blind to the entirety of existence. Our inability to grasp the whole might lead us to perceive the past as no longer present and the future as yet to arrive. Could the signs of ageing, such as greying hair and wrinkles, serve as our human equivalent of pencil segments? Is a forty-year-old individual with grey hair comparable to four pencil segments traversing the paper’s surface?
Just as the pencil remains a complete entity even when it reaches the eighth segment, marking eighty years and exiting the paper, the inhabitants of the flat world perceive its disappearance. It no longer exists within their confined realm. Similarly, could humans passing through the three-dimensional world continue to exist within the four-dimensional realm after they cease to be visible, i.e., after death? The potential existence of such a realm is a source of profound wonder and contemplation, inviting us to explore the unknown.
The biblical verses, “And sware… that there should be time no longer” (Revelation 10:6) and “That ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, the length, the depth, and the height” (St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians 3:17, 18), resonate with this exploration of the fourth dimension. They inspire awe and encourage us to deepen our understanding and connection with the dimensions that extend beyond our perceived reality, urging us to embrace a broader perspective on existence.
In conclusion, pondering the fourth dimension allows us to transcend the limitations of our three-dimensional perception. By contemplating the possibilities beyond our conventional understanding of time and existence, we open ourselves to new realms of thought and insight. While we may never fully comprehend the fourth dimension, we can embark on a journey of expanded awareness, enabling us to appreciate the profound mysteries that lie beyond the confines of our familiar reality.
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You speak to me, I answer from I. You see a shape that is bone, muscle, skin and hair. I see through a fish eye lens this global tissue ‘man’. I see rags and leathers, suits and socks, bags and sacks that you carry.
I see me changing his tie.
I answer from the beach head I. I watch the light house flash across distant boats. I feed gulls knife gliding over grass hills. I feel Hellenic curves in the open air. I stretch my bow, my ancestor voice and call it I.
I answer from within and without which was, is and will be. My tongue is fire coursing through veins. My hands were taught by Sophie the Cleaner. Look carefully and you may see my thumb. It appears like a man. Ignore the smirk swerving at the thumbnail bottom. Doubly ignore it when it appears like me smiling.
I gently part the folds of grey matter. My instinct leads to pulsing points that lie between synaptic arcs deep within the brain. Neither here nor there, neither in nor out. Just between all and everything.
I answer from I. I walk through corridors of mortality and eavesdrop on midnight conversations behind closed doors. I seek a passage through flesh and blood, marrow and bone. From the heel of God to tumbleweed desires my longing cries out. I clap my hands in rhythm to the stars. I play solar tunes careful not to disturb the wispy boundary of lace spider webs.
I answer from I. I watch lone smudge cloud scuff across sunrise. The quickened spindly net stretches over the skin horizon. I flick a twig of humanity’s tree. Is it I or is it me?
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You are currently browsing the archives for the Uncategorized category.
On this blog I share the paths I’ve walked: outward journeys across places and causes, and inward journeys through reflection and creativity. Expect stories, poems, photos, quotes, and occasional star-gazing — astrology, I Ching, alchemy, and other ways of seeing.
You’ll also find traces of the human rights campaigns I’ve been part of, offered here as part memory, part witness.
Above all, this space is for connection — I hope you enjoy exploring, and I’d love to hear from you in the comments. I also share thoughts on politics and ideas on X (Twitter) @dodona777
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Journeys and Star Gazing 