My Lady of the Earth: A Tale of Renewal and Time

November 12, 2024

In the heart of a forgotten desert, a lone figure trudged down a cracked highway, each step scraping against the sun-scorched asphalt as if metal clanked against stone. His feet felt like tin cans, hollow and beaten, dragging his weary body forward as he clutched an old glass bowl—its only inhabitant a sliver of something ancient and alive, a glint of Time itself suspended in water. His arms ached, heavy and empty, as though they’d died long before, holding nothing but the fragile keepsake of ages past.

But just as his strength waned, there was a shift. She appeared as if conjured from the dust itself: My Lady of the Earth, the Sun’s seventh Queen. With a graceful lift of her arms, she raised him above the smoke, the Screen of all that clouded and concealed. Her touch was unlike anything he’d known, reaching through the rusting paths of his veins, setting them aglow with purpose. In her embrace, he felt something long lost—a feeling like Home, a warmth too timeless to describe.

He looked upon her as her veil began to dissolve. Beneath it, her face bore the quiet strength of mountains, still and unyielding, forever patient. From her eyes spilt silver brooks, flowing over her cheeks without urgency, slipping past with a gentleness that defied the chaotic world below. The brooks whispered of hidden peace, where Madonnas rested in perfect balance, and saints lay quiet in their coffins, untouched by mortal turmoil. Shadows of the powerful faded here, hollow ambitions dissipating like smoke. Even the rooster—herald of dawn and disturbance—lay silent in her presence as if Time paused.

She was both familiar and fierce, the Only Child of Passion and Earth’s eternal heartbeat. Winds swept through the dust, weaving through her form, rooting into her flesh, and carrying the age-old whispers of forgotten stars with them. Her body, raw and untamed, glistened in the light of the Sun, bound to it yet free, dancing in an endless circle of life and death, decay and rebirth.

With a flick of her golden feet, she nudged the Moon, sending it into an orbit known only to the wise and the wild, beckoning all with a silent proclamation. The man held his breath, feeling the weight of her gesture, her assurance—this was no end but the beginning, an age reborn. And as he stared into her eyes, he understood: he was no longer lost in the desert. He had been brought back to her, the soul of his journey entwined with the spirit of the Earth, who whispered to him that, like her, he too was eternal.

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Secrets Behind Sunglasses: A Poetic Conversation

November 1, 2024

The other day, I spoke with my friend who wore sunglasses, even at night. They were not just any sunglasses; they had thick, tinted lenses that turned his eyes into secrets. He sat in his bamboo chair, curled like an embryo in a second womb, and waited for the silence between songs on the record. When it came, he tilted his head, aiming his gaze—hidden behind the black glass—at me.


“Your passage shows a definite poetic sensitivity, an emotional quality that strikes one—but what does it mean?” he asked, words biting the quiet. “You are trying to communicate?” He leaned on the last syllable of “communicate,” stretching it thin, squeezing it like elegant toothpaste. “Aren’t you?”


I felt the weight of his question sink into my chest, leaving behind a sharp, echoing hollowness. I glanced at the poem I had laid bare on the table between us, exposed like a wound. His words transformed before my eyes into writhing maggots, their white bodies squirming towards the ink. Without thinking, I took off my shoe—a thin, worn sandal—and slammed it down. The thud startled the silence; the maggots burst, leaving wet smears across the wooden surface.


I didn’t speak for a moment. I scraped their remnants into an ashtray, their tiny corpses mixing with the charred remnants of past thoughts and past sins. I dropped my sandal to the floor. He laughed, a dry, brittle sound that cracked in the dimness. He crossed his legs, the fabric of his pants whispering like a taunt. The damage had been done—a single maggot had escaped my fury and burrowed, unseen, into my ear. I could feel it crawling, tiny feet clinging to the tender skin before settling into the cavity of my heart. It pulsed there, secret and vile. He knew it. His smirk was the proof.


Now I write to pull it out, strand by bloody strand, from my heart. I know that only when I spit it out, stained and gasping, will I be free.


This maggot is unlike the others; it shifts and moulds itself, a grotesque mimicry of thoughts, without shedding its true nature. Later, it transformed as I read Dostoevsky’s The Devils, a cigarette balanced between my fingers and a small, gleaming grain of eternity in the palm of my other hand. Between puffs and between sentences, I noticed that the grain had grown in weight. Kirilov had just explained why man must commit suicide to proclaim his freedom from fear. He was called a madman. I thought he made sense. I looked at my hand and saw that the grain had grown into a crumb. Realizing that Dostoevsky was performing the alchemy in person, I continued to read and commune with him.


The grain in my palm felt heavier, its edges pressing into my skin. My mind wasn’t playing tricks. It had grown into a dense and insistent crumb. I realized then that Dostoevsky had performed this alchemy, transmuting despair into something tangible, a weight that dragged at the fabric of the world. I kept reading, feeling the maggot shift inside me, watching with its eyeless stare as I communed with a man long dead but never silent.


The record ended while the needle turned and turned on the dead wax, and I looked up. My friend still sat there, sunglasses glinting darkly in the thin light, the smirk on his lips a question left unsaid. I inhaled, the smoke and the maggot’s secrets filling me to the brim.

I asked AI to make an image based on the writing. This is it.

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Finding Meaning in the Blank Page: A Writer’s Reflection

September 27, 2024

I found some old notes written by hand—this one around 1979—and OCR scanned them. I revised and edited them, and here they are.

I have been sitting here for centuries, for months, for days, waiting. What am I waiting for, exactly? It’s a mystery that even I can’t unravel.

This blank piece of paper yawns at me again. Yes, yawning—not roaring or demanding—but simply sitting there, an expanse of white, opening its mouth to be force-fed words. But why force-feed it? Why sit here, pen in hand, scribbling down words that may or may not carry meaning?

Listen carefully. Read between the words, beneath them, through them, and beyond them. Somewhere within this ink, there is a reason, a lifeline that could pull me into a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, the mundane becomes miraculous. The world where one is equal to nothing, and nothing is equal to all. What? Am I trying to touch the portals of Heaven through this thin squirt of ink?

Listen again—is it not I who leaves the rind of the world behind? Is it not I who is lifted into the wild, illogical realm where reason twists like a pretzel and humanity shrinks to a slug? By excreting these lines (yes, excreting!), I have an activity fit for a lazy bum like me to call myself an artist, an author of the world. This is my voice, my essence, spilled onto the page.

It is as if a visitor sweeps away the remnants of me, picks up the pen, and records what he sees, feels, and tastes of this world through an eye that sees beyond the immediate, beyond the personal—the ‘cosmological eye,’ as Miller calls it. This act is like a cigarette slowly burning, like a caterpillar shedding its caterpillarness. Leaves fall from trees, and they realize they are always part of something more significant when they touch the ground. I want to understand what I am part of without leaving the tree—and the only way to glimpse that is to write myself into extinction so that the eye may peek through the smouldering ashes of these words.

And you know what? Just sitting here and rambling on is fun. But what is your aim? You might ask. Do I need one? What is your purpose? Do I need one? Few aims and purposes come with capital letters. Right now, I’m having fun, and that is all there is—pure, unadulterated fun.

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Creating Meaning: The Timeless Journey Within

September 10, 2024

Rediscovering old notes and writings I tucked away feels like opening a time capsule. As I edit and rewrite, I’m often stunned by what unfolds—almost as if someone else penned these words. Curious to see what I found? Check out the latest piece I’ve dusted off from the drawer:

Once, I believed in the world as it was handed to me—a place where no one questioned the present and bothered to ask about the origins of our existence. But something stirred in me. As the static of modern life cleared, a pulsating sense of displacement, a profound disconnect from my cultural roots, rose from within, like an echo from my ancestors. I could almost feel their journey across the Great Ocean, but something gnawed at me—a profound uncertainty that no one here could answer.

In this land, no one believed in anything beyond the horizon, not the priest, the doctor, the teacher, or even the philosopher. They were prisoners of an unshakable belief: they had always been here. No one had come from anywhere else, and nothing existed beyond the boundaries of their world. They were trapped in an eternal present, fully immersed in “Always Here and Now.” To them, the notion of elsewhere was absurd. If there was no “other place,” how could anyone have come from it?

Initially, I grappled with understanding. My friends’ reality seemed dictated by simple logic, but my thoughts wandered beyond their walls. How could anyone have come from elsewhere if there was no other place? My friends saw the compass as proof of their reality, pointing only to an endless, eternal loop. They cautioned me against delving too deeply into such thoughts, insisting the simplicity of their truth was my only sanctuary. But something within me resisted. I was resolute, against all odds, to find the home my ancestors had spoken of, a place that existed somewhere beyond their narrow vision — a place I had never seen but felt in my bones.

Speaking of this ‘other place’ was perilous. Each mention of it shook the very foundation of their beliefs. What did that mean for their carefully constructed present if there was another world? The inner became the outer, the light became dark, and everything they knew would collapse. They were content to remain in their prison of four walls, preoccupied with the décor, oblivious to who had designed their confinement.

But I couldn’t ignore the whispers of the past. My ancestors had lived on an island swallowed by time. Only a few had escaped its destruction, fishermen who drifted across the ocean with no destination, guided by nothing more than a lucky wind. They rowed, prayed, and hoped for forty days and forty nights until they reached this land. That story lived within me, waiting for me to find the same wind, to follow the arc of coincidence that had saved them.

Yet, as I reflected, I came to a profound realization. I was still searching for something I couldn’t name—a more profound significance in my surroundings. It wasn’t just about finding another place but understanding why it mattered. The abalone shell reflected the ocean’s rhythms as if it carried the pulse of an unseen world. I then realized that significance wasn’t found in the object but in my gaze. The same wind that saved my ancestors wasn’t guiding me toward another place—it showed me that meaning itself is something we create, not discover.

My ancestors braved the ocean’s winds and waves to find this land. But the distance I had to cross was between worlds, not shores—between the truth they carried and my life now. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to find meaning but to create it, and that was the natural wind that would take me home. This realisation, this understanding, was my enlightenment.

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Unlocking the Mysteries: Pavlos’s Surprising Transformation in His Grandfather’s Study

July 27, 2024

Pavlos sat alone in his grandfather’s study, a place steeped in memories and the faint scent of old books and leather. The room was his sanctuary, a haven where he found solace among familiar objects: the fruit bowl on the side table, the worn chair, and the portrait of his grandfather gazing down from the wall. The dim light filtered through the dusty curtains, casting an ethereal glow on the room. But today, something was different.

The call—he couldn’t think of a better name for it—began as a subtle warmth in his palms. It grew, radiating from the center of his hands to the base of his fingers, eventually reaching the tips. The warmth transformed into a quivering tingle, like millions of tiny feathers stroking under his skin. Startled, Pavlos looked around the room, his eyes landing on the picture of his grandfather. The warmth in his hands faded as he focused on the portrait, but when he redirected his attention back to his hands, the warmth returned.

Intrigued and a bit unnerved, Pavlos decided to experiment. Could he maintain the warmth in his hands while being aware of something outside himself? He chose the picture of his grandfather as his focal point. As he concentrated, a surge of energy raced up from the soles of his feet, halting abruptly near his navel. The energy solidified into a powerful sense of centeredness and balance, filling the emptiness within his chest with a newfound strength.

The sensation intensified, spreading through his body until he felt as though he were aflame from within. Strange symbols and geometric shapes, hieroglyphics, and formulas began to rise in his mind like smoke. His body blazed with a profound understanding that transcended mere thought. “This must be what religious sighs are about,” a voice said. Was it his own thought or something external? Pavlos could no longer distinguish between inner and outer reality. The posture of his body, the position of the furniture, and the entire ambience of the room reverberated through his nervous system, tingling with a new sense of expectation.

Pavlos’s heart raced, his mind spinning with questions. What was this sensation? Why was it happening now? The study had always been a place of comfort, but now it felt like a portal to another dimension, charged with an electric anticipation that made his skin prickle.

The sense of expectation coiled upwards from the base of his spine like a neon curl, sparking into his body’s nerve circuits a shock of recognition. Pavlos felt a connection to something greater, something ancient and wise. The room seemed to pulse with life, as if it held secrets waiting to be discovered. He could hear the faint ticking of the old clock on the mantle, each second amplifying the intensity of his experience.

He closed his eyes, allowing the sensations to guide him. His breath deepened, and he felt as if he were floating in a sea of energy. The warmth, the symbols, the voice—they all merged into a single, harmonious experience. When he finally opened his eyes, the room looked the same, yet everything had changed. He felt more alive, more attuned to his surroundings and to himself.

Pavlos realized that the call was an invitation to explore deeper aspects of his consciousness, to unlock potentials he had never known existed. A wave of emotions washed over him—curiosity, excitement, and a bit of fear. With a sense of purpose and curiosity, he embraced this new journey, eager to see where it would lead. The study, once a place of solace and memories, had become a gateway to a realm of profound discovery and self-awareness. As he stood up, the portrait of his grandfather seemed to smile down at him, as if approving of the path Pavlos was about to embark on.

The adventure had just begun.

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Xenitia: Nostalgia and Hardship in 1960’s Redfern, Sydney

June 30, 2024

First came the men in suits, then the bulldozers and the trucks, then the porta loos and cranes. Each day saw another house, shop, tree and a child’s doll knocked down and pulverised. Things that mattered all turned to scrap and dust. The bull dozers scraped the rubble into piles of broken bricks, concrete slabs, shattered glass and newspaper. The dust rose from under the wheels and steel jaws of the machines and swirled in the breeze. In that part of Redfern, Sydney the whole street breathed the demolition dust so holding your breath was hard. It got into clothes and between cracks along walls’ edges and footpaths. For Athena and her son Kosta, a walk down Young Street was not the easiest place to breathe.
For over three months, every day, people on Athena’s side of the road swept away sand and dust that blew from across the street onto their doorsteps. If they weren’t quick enough shutting the front door, the wind blew the sand down their narrow hallways. Every house had something tucked behind the crack between the door and the floor. Old towels, old clothes tied together, anything to stop the debris entering their homes by the wind.


As Athena opened the door, she said, “Kosta, close it quickly. We don’t want a desert in our house.” Kosta took a long look at the growing rock piles across the street. The wind blown sand prickled against his face and arms. He stepped into the hallway, sand grains tick, tick, ticked in pitter- patter against the shut door behind him.

Down the hallway, through the door, his father George squatted in front of the Kriesler radio. “Ssshh!” he said while turning the hand sized dial, “I’m looking for Greece.” The radio squawked and squealed, struck static, voices fell in and out in different tongues. Near the radio, on the table were coils of wire, screws, a rusty wire cutter and pliers. Out of the static a muffled sound came through the speaker. Then, full blown clear chimes of a bouzouki sounded from the radio. “Oppa! Ellada – Greece!” He brushed back his speckled grey, black hair with his hand. George stood up to face his wife and son. He nodded his head to the rhythm of the music, short waved all the way from Greece.


“Even in his singlet, without a shirt, he looks fully dressed,” thought Athena. George jutted his arms out to his sides, then slowly reached with his right hand for Athena. He caressed the scarf covering her hair. He returned his arm to the outstretched position and clicked his fingers, he danced a short hop to the music. Athena smiled and sat on the only soft chair in the house under the window. She took off her shoes and scarf letting her black curls fall around her face. “I fixed the antennae,” George said in Greek. Kosta stood near the cupboard with a mirror wall and glass doors. It housed the best cups and saucers for Greek coffee and small glasses for drinking ouzo and larger ones for wine and glaced cherries. Framed photos of family in Greece and their own small family in Australia covered the top of the cupboard.

Athena reached for a photo as George said, “Well, what did the doctor say?”
“Do you know what today is George?” asked Athena.
“Good Friday,” he replied.
Tears welled in her eyes, she crossed herself with her right hand while holding the photo with her left. She said, “Today, three years ago, Aliki died.” Tears trickled down her cheek. She pointed to a baby in Kosta’s arms, “Three years ago, today, my baby girl died.” She bent her head and kissed the photo. George stepped closer to her and took the photo from her hand and placed it back on the cupboard. He reached to touch her wet chin with his hand, “Athena that was three years ago. What did the doctor say today?”
“He said I have broken nerves, you tell him Kosta, you know English better than us, tell your father what the doctor said.”

George looked at Kosta, his 12 year old boy was strong, a pallikari and he had his father’s eyes. “Well son, what did the doctor say?” Kosta kept his hands, fumbling some marbles, in his pockets,. “The doctor said that mother has, I don’t know how to say this in Greek – “nervous breakdown” – her nerves, her nevra are broken.”
“What do you mean broken nerves? She looks alright to me.” George turned to face her, “Athena, what is it? What ails you?”

She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeves, took a deep breath and leant forward letting out a long sigh. “Oh George! What ails me? I want to go home. I want to be with my family, be able to walk the streets and breathe Greek air !”


Before George could answer she screamed, “VROOM! VROOM! all day, 12 hours a day VROOM! VROOM! The machine pricking my fingers and the boss yelling – FASTER! FASTER! VROOM! VROOM! – I want to go home. I don’t want to sew Akubra hats anymore!’ she sobbed. Her upper body folded forward and her elbows rested on her thighs while her head weighed on her hands. She didn’t look up, nor sideways, with no expression she stared at her feet. George moved closer, leant forward and gently kissed her head. He stroked her hair, slowly weaving his thumb and finger in her curls. By now he was on his knees in front of her. “Wife, you are suffering from xenitia – home sickness, that is all. I want to return as well. Do you think I enjoy my work at the Brewery?” George whispered, “ We just need another two years,” Athena did not lift her head, “The doctor said, no more overtime, better if I don’t work at all,” she replied.


George stood up and turned his back to her. He pointed to the black and yellow calendar hanging on the glossy white wall opposite them. “Look,” he said, “It will be no time at all… two years will run by.” Athena stood up and put her arm around his waist. Instead of looking at the calendar, her eyes were on the boxed stephania above it. The wooden box had six sides with hand painted green vines and black grapes, there were faded spots and some paint had chipped off. Under the clean glass cover were the stefania, the crowns of love joined by a white ribbon and worn on their wedding day. The stephania boxed on the wall were their life – husband and wife – a union for God.

“Yes George, time runs by fast. Already we have been here for 8 years and you promised we would be back in five.” She squeezed his waist with her arm pulling him closer. “Look at the stephania George,” she purred. She let go of him and returned to her soft chair feeling snug in its space. “I want to go home now. I need to go home now but not without you and Kosta. Please, we can do it – let’s go.”


Athena turned to Kosta who was on the floor playing with a lead airplane, “Kosta, bring the letter from Greece to your father.” Kosta stood up tucking his shirt into his shorts and walked to the cupboard. The letter was under the photo of him and Aliki. As he lifted the letter the photo dragged over the edge falling to the floor. Kosta immediately bent down to pick it up. The fall left a lightning crack zigzagging across the middle of the glass. Kosta stared at the little girl, his sister in his arms. He was wearing his cowboy gun holster at his waist, as long as his shorts, carrying a Colt 45 cap gun. He remembered the time it was taken, just a few months before she died of pneumonia. He was nine and she was two.


“What did you do!?” yelled George as he rushed towards Kosta. George raised his right leg ready to kick him. “Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Athena, “Don’t touch him!” she stood up quivering and crying. George stopped and let his kicking foot step onto the photo crushing the glass into a tight spider web of cracks. He snatched the letter out of Kosta’s hand. Kosta crouched still and silent waiting for a hit across his head. It didn’t come so he crept backwards in a crouching position until his back was against the wall. He was out of range and he knew from experience that this wall was the best because it was beside the hallway entrance and provided a fast exit. Kosta knew that if he didn’t do anything, just stayed there, everything would be alright because his father was walking towards his mother with the letter and photo in his hand.


“We’ve already lost a daughter, do you want to kill your only child?” George placed the photo on the table near the wire cutters. He looked at Athena sitting there and saw her sick and beautiful. He saw his love. He fell on his knees and rested his head in the crevice between her thighs. She caressed his hair, running her fingers from his forehead to the back of his head. His hand holding the letter rested on her hip. “Athena, I want to return home and work as a silversmith and be with our family.”

He saw Kosta sitting quietly against the wall. George lifted his head slightly from her lap, raised his eyebrows and nodded his head at Kosta. This meant that he could go and play. It was like that, gestures and signs for words. Kosta got up, smiled and ran down the hallway, opening the door to the wind and dust and a direct view of the demolition site.

He heard his father call out, “I’ll whistle for you!”

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Draft of First Chapter of a Book I’m Writing

June 5, 2024

I know this is unusual for a writer to post a draft of a first chapter of a book they are writing. As those who write know, writing is lonely. I’m about 3/4 of the way through with the first draft of my book and I have no idea how it will be received. It is based on my trip to Turkey looking for people who knew or are related to my grandparents who were Pontic Greek refugees during the holocaust in Turkey in the 1920’s. Let me know what you think in the comments area. By the way – Papou means grandfather and Yiayia means grandmother in Greek.

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“You can’t go there! You’d be crazy to go,” he grabbed the towel on the chair and wiped his face, “This is not Australia; this is Greece, and you want to go to the village where your family was massacred in Turkey!” He cocked his eyebrow and wiped the corner of his mouth with his finger. We were in the kitchen. Light streamed through the window, leaving a vivid white patch on the tablecloth.

He leaned towards me with specks of sawdust in his hair. He said,

“Why go there? You can have a holiday anywhere but want to go to Bafra. Do you know how far it’s from Constantinople?”

His singlet was sweaty, and his boots and pants were spattered with cement. He sat on the fruit box, tugged at his shoes, and placed them beside the broom.

How do I explain my motives to Taki? I flew from Australia, and now, after over 40 years, I am back in my birthplace, Yannina, Greece. I wasn’t always going to be so late returning to where I was born, but raising kids and lacking money meant I couldn’t go. My father’s death made it possible for me to return from the Great Southern Land to Greece. I was a late prodigal son, now a stranger and not a son.

We migrated from Greece when I was four years old. All my memories and pictures are of a child – rolling down a hill, the log bridge I crawled across so small and scared, stuffing olive seeds down holes in the floor. My father’s recent death shocked me into looking at my life. The hourglass sand days and moments flipped over. Thoughts were framed with death, the fence around life. But after that, what? I couldn’t think of a better place to be than on the Holy Mountain celebrating Easter with these and other questions, breaking bread with monks.

“Look, I understand…..you don’t want me to get hurt,” I said

“Hurt! That’s what you call it. Hurt? I don’t want you killed! Are you stupid or what? If you go to Bafra, my dear cousin, you will either be killed or bashed to a pulp. Same thing. It’s that simple.”

He knew that as a fact.

I meticulously planned my journey from my home in Sydney over many years, studying a world map. My gaze lingered over Asia Minor and Greece, retracing the paths of my ancestry, both in blood and spirit. Countless times, my finger traced along this route. First, it pressed upon Athens, then Patras, followed by Yannina, and further to the Holy Mountain. From there, finger by finger,  it went towards Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, Mount Sinai, Cairo, and back to Athens for my return. Later, I would repeat this ritual on the computer, using a cursor and a click to delve into the two-dimensional world of maps. It was a voyage of dreams, one I had envisioned for years.

Upon learning that my mother was the child of refugees, the desire to visit the land from which my grandparents had escaped grew within me. I was born in Greece to a Pontic Greek mother and a mainland Greek father. My mother seldom spoke of her heritage, save for a few passing remarks, like, “If you think Aboriginal people are mistreated, you should have seen how we were treated in Greece!” Whenever I asked her to elaborate, she would sidestep the question. Thus, I lacked a label for my identity for the longest time — I was Greek. That was it. Until much later, I discovered I was a Pontic Greek because my mother was Pontian.

After migrating to Australia, I never had the chance to see my grandparents again. We departed Greece when I was four years old. While my father’s parents perished at the hands of the Nazis during World War II, my mother’s parents were alive when I came into this world. Turkish was the initial language that enveloped me from birth until age four. I learned this recently. My mother informed me that the Greek government had made it illegal for Greek refugees from Turkey to speak Turkish, insisting they only use Greek. It must have been a challenge if they didn’t know the language. Nevertheless, in the village of my birth, predominantly inhabited by refugees from Turkey, Turkish was spoken within the confines of the home, only giving way to Greek when outsiders visited.

So, why were there Greek refugees from Turkey? My mother never disclosed the details. Even my father remained silent on the matter. Thus, I knew nothing about the Greek Holocaust until much later in life. My mother either didn’t wish to divulge the information or was unaware. As the youngest, she wasn’t born when my grandparents fled Turkey.

“Taki, I simply want to look at the village where our grandparents resided before they were forced to flee Turkey. It’s been over 80 years since that happened! I yearn to find someone who knew them. Everyone in our family perished in Turkey, except for our grandparents. I’m curious to witness that place. I never had the opportunity to know my grandparents as you have. My parents whisked me away to Australia when I was a mere four years old. I spent my days on the opposite side of the planet, growing up and becoming a father. This morning, I finally visited Papou’s and Yiayia’s graves. And that’s precisely why I’m bound for Bafra—to connect with my ancestral roots.”

I couldn’t reveal to him that my journey harboured other destinations and motives, such as Konya in Anatolia, where I wished to pay homage to Rumi, the Sufi saint. I feared that if I disclosed this, he would utterly panic and misconstrue my intentions. In his eyes, being Greek equated to being an Orthodox Christian, and displaying any interest in Islam aroused suspicion. It pressed all the wrong buttons.

“Ah, Stavro, you think like an Australian, but history intertwines whether you like it here. One glimpse of you, and they’ll recognize you as a Greek. Then, that’s it…you become a marked man.”

I took a seat at the table, the coffee still steaming. Taki settled across from me. “What’s this? I’ve toiled all day under the scorching sun, constructing a chicken shed, and you haven’t offered me a cup of coffee!” He grinned.

I poured him a coffee. His slender hand clasped the small, white cup while his other hand gently tapped the tablecloth in rhythm with the melodies wafting from the adjacent lounge room.

“So, is this the reason you have yet to embark on your journey to Bafra to see the homeland of our grandparents? It’s just a few days away by train and bus, yet you haven’t set foot there? I find it hard to believe that you lack the curiosity to see where they came from.”

“That’s the thing. Turks in Constantinople are tolerable; they’re city folks. But beyond the city, in the small towns and villages, Greeks face peril. Bafra, a small town on the Black Sea coast, lies over a thousand miles from the city. You don’t speak Turkish, and you can’t disguise the fact that you’re Greek. I don’t know if they still rely on donkeys and horses for transportation. You’re venturing into history, into suffering, into genocide. It’s perilous for a Greek, and there won’t be any tourists or travellers because there’s nothing to entice them. So, you’ll be on your own. Anything could befall you—imprisonment, remember the movie ‘Midnight Express’? And no one will come to your aid. I can’t think of anything more foolish than spending your vacation on that.”

“You forget one thing—I’m Australian. That’s what my passport says. Even if I don’t meet anyone, at least I can return to Australia with a collection of photographs depicting the area. Honestly, Taki, I believe you worry too much,” I remarked.

“How do you expect to find someone connected to our grandparents? You don’t have an address, you can’t speak Turkish, and no soul speaks English or Greek where you’re heading. You’re a Christian, they’re Muslim—remember, their ancestors massacred Greeks and Armenians by the millions. You do not understand what you’re getting yourself into, and I can’t bear the thought of not warning you.”

“I won’t be undertaking this journey alone.”

“What do you mean? Who’s accompanying you?”

“Well, I’ll depart for Easter for the Holy Mountain in a few days. Being there will guide me to someone who knew our grandparents, even if I can’t speak Turkish.”

“What? Will praying alongside monks in a monastery assist you in achieving your goal? Are you serious? You’re out of your mind. I had no idea you were a religious man.”

“I’m not religious if you measure it by church attendance. Besides, I had planned to visit the Holy Mountain with my father before he passed away, and now seems like the perfect time to fulfil his wish. I believe that extraordinary things can happen, and since I only have myself, why not seek the support of others who may aid me in some way? I believe that merely being on the Holy Mountain for Easter will help my desire come to fruition.”

“I don’t understand you. You’re an educated man—the first in our family to obtain a university degree. You use computers and hold a respectable job with great responsibility in Australia. How can you believe in superstitious nonsense like God, prayer, and the notion that Mount Athos and its monks hold any value? How can monks on a mountaintop in Greece assist you in Turkey? These are the things peasants or,” he widened his eyes, “madmen believe in!”

While I wasn’t a regular churchgoer, the word ‘pilgrim’ resonated with me more than ‘tourist.’ Pilgrims embark on a personal quest for truth regardless of faith or belief. I sought truth, and I craved tangible evidence of that truth. Was I a sceptical pilgrim? Was I a doubting Thomas with time on his hands?

“Have you ever been to the Holy Mountain?” I inquired.

“No, and I never will set foot there. If I ever do visit, it’ll be a day trip as part of a tourist group—take some videos, snap a few photos, and maybe buy a souvenir. But there’s no way I’ll ever spend the night and sleep there.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s those monks. They possess powers—they can see right through you. I’ve heard that once you converse with a monk from Mount Athos, they see your lies. You know, as if they have X-ray vision into your soul.”

“The X-ray eye? I’ve heard of the evil eye, but is that its reverse? You’re afraid of something you don’t even believe in.”

“Just because they possess powers doesn’t mean they converse with angels and grapple with demons. They are formidable men, and I don’t want any man peering into my soul,” he said.

“So, you’re suggesting their powers don’t come from God?”

“Nor the Devil.”

“Then where do they come from, if not God or the Devil?”

“They emanate from within themselves. How would I know? Look, there’s no way I would go to Mount Athos or Bafra. I can’t fathom your mind. You’d rather visit a monastery than Mykonos and its discos. And you’re alone—your wife is on the other side of the world—you’re on vacation. Enjoy yourself! You don’t even have a video camera! Being from Australia, everyone expects you to have money… You do have money, don’t you?”

“I have enough for my journey and to return to Australia.”

I displayed my discount watch from the supermarket. I pulled my inexpensive snap camera from my shoulder bag on the chair. “I don’t want to fret over possessions while I’m on the move. Besides, who would want to steal my watch or camera?” I chuckled.

“So, you’ve got it all figured out, huh? You want to be invisible, just like the common folks. Well, good luck with that,” he laughed.

He rose to freshen up and change.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be your tour guide. I want to take you to a special place—a wax museum showcasing the history between us and the Turks, created by the renowned Greek sculptor Pavlos Vrallis. The real history. You’ll see wax figures dressed as your grandfather and grandmother did when they arrived in 1922.”

“You know, I was in Constantinople a few months ago.”

“What? How was it?”

“Turkey was ravaged during the massive earthquake in 1999, just like Greece, but the Turks suffered even more. Many Greeks went over to lend a hand. What do you do when you witness 100,000 people perish next door? But sharing this doesn’t mean I share your enthusiasm for going to Bafra. I told you, a big city, a big heart— a small village, a small heart.”

“That’s nonsense. Do you realize we’re in a small town right now? Does that mean everyone here has a small heart? What about those monks with powers residing on an isolated mountaintop—do they possess small hearts? Do you believe that New York and London people have the biggest hearts?”

“You seem to have all the answers. Later, I’ll take you to my workshop. I want to show you some silverware I’ve been working on. I’m crafting the Passion of Christ in bronze for the local church.”

“You’re full of contradictions. You don’t believe in God and consider religious people foolish, yet you’re sculpting the life of Christ in bronze for a church!”

“There’s no contradiction. Priests want that image, and they pay me, and I make my living. I’ve been asked to make all sorts of designs by all sorts of people. To me, they’re all the same – paying customers. The local priest wants that design, and I give it to him for a price. It’s that simple. It puts bread on my table. So, yes, I suppose I can thank God for that!”

“Ah, Stavro! How good it is to see you this morning, to hug you!” she said, “I remember you as a baby. The last time I saw you was before you left for Australia. You crawled on the floor, picked up crumbs, and put them in your mouth. Along with the crumbs, you picked up some dirt. As you ate the bread, the dirt became mud, dribbling down the side of your mouth. Soon all your mouth was covered in mud!” She laughed between the tears. Yes, we were hungry…and now here you are, returned from Australia …a palikari!” she hugged and kissed me on my eyes, forehead and cheeks. She smelt of fine mint, “Come, let me see you,” she stepped back with her hands on her hips, her white hair in a neat bun on top of her head. She looked me up and down and broke into tears. We held each other. Demoklia was my aunt, Takis’ mother.

“Mother, he’s going to Turkey in a few days to visit Bafra,” he said half whispering.

She either did not hear him or decided to ignore it.

“You have so much to learn. Your mother didn’t tell you the whole story,” she said, taking my hand resting on the table. Her clasp was like a child’s, only a little more brittle, her hand warm and smooth.

“Did you know we prayed for you, my boy? Your family names were given to our priest and placed on the holy altar. We prayed for you and your family. Your father was a good man.” She bowed her head and crossed herself.

I looked forward to the time when I was not reminded of his death. She looked like an owl, with big glasses that made her eyes seem like saucers. Her white hair was parted in the middle, creating an oval frame straight down the centre. She was my mother’s older sister.

“Your mother was very young when she married. Yes, you were born when she was only 15. A baby is having a baby. We all loved you, and we played with you as a doll. But your mother doesn’t know all the stories, doesn’t know what happened in Turkey because she left to go to Australia. We heard the stories from your papou and yia yia, our father and mother.”

“I only knew my grandparents as a baby and can’t remember them. Now that my father has died, I wish to reclaim my Greek heritage.” I said.

“You have Greek parents, speak Greek, and are Orthodox—you have your heritage!” she smiled.

“I know, but I want to see where my grandparents came from. I want to breathe the air & stand on the ground they stood on.”

I don’t know how much your mother told you about your grandparents, so I’ll share what I know. She sat, hands clasped, leaning in, eyes locked on mine.

Your papou, a brave warrior. And your yiayia, equally courageous. They weren’t into that nationalist nonsense—neither Greek nor Turkish. Their fight was against injustice. When news reached the Greeks that the Turks were massacring our Armenian kin, the Greeks knew they’d be next. They armed themselves with guns, knives, any damn thing they could find. Those readying for battle fled to the hills and hid in caves. Sometimes, they’d venture to towns for supplies and clash with the Turks. But your papou and yiayia, stubborn as ever, stayed in the city despite the warnings of certain death.” She paused, raising her arms high, head held high. A sigh escaped her lips.

“One day,  Greeks were herded into St. George’s little church. Men, women, children, the old, the young—all corralled inside, then the church was set ablaze. They all perished. Greek homes turned to ash. Your grandparents’ house, too, went up in flames. As it burned, everyone fled, chased by Turks on horseback. When Elis, your yiayia’s sister, tried climbing out of the window, a Turk on horseback spotted her and yelled, ‘Too beautiful to burn and die!’ He snatched her up onto his horse. We know ’cause Nicholas, a family friend, hid nearby, half his body burnt, watched it all unfold from the bushes.”

Somehow, your grandparents found their way to the hills and took shelter in caves. After a while, your papou and some men ventured back to town for supplies. They found nothing but ruin—no Greeks in sight. They combed the church, remnants smouldering, smoke twirling in the air. People lay there—charred, some decapitated—their clothes tarnished by smoke and soot. All dead. As they turned to leave, footsteps and gunfire echoed. Your papou gunned down a Turk while they hurried back to the hills. Little did they know that what happened in Bafra would be happening throughout our land.

Soon after, Greeks in the hills and everywhere else embarked on a journey to Constantinople and then fled to mainland Greece as refugees.

“Mother, tell him ’bout yiayia feeding the children during their trek to Greece,” Taki interjected.

“Your yiayia, a remarkable woman,” she said. “One day, after weeks of marching, exhaustion clawing at them, parched and famished, they reached the outskirts of Constantinople. Their group, about thirty strong, stumbled upon a trickling creek offering fresh water. They made camp by that creek that night. No food but water to quench their thirst and a campfire to warm their weary bones.

Yiayia shared the children’s hunger and felt it deep within her gut. With a commanding voice, she called out, “Come, children! I have food for you. Come!” Rising to her feet, she waved her hands, beckoning the children to gather. Soon, seven young ones huddled around her. Before her, a bowl of water sat as the children settled cross-legged or on their knees. Steady as a rock, yiayia held the bowl while her gaze fixed upon them. She spoke, her voice filled with faith, “The Mother of God hasn’t forgotten us.” In her tattered coat, she rummaged, retrieving a small icon of Theotokos—the Mother of God. “This icon shall nourish us,” she declared. The children leaned in, eager for a glimpse. They beheld Mary cradling her child, Jesus. “It’s a sacred icon, capable of miracles. I shall pass it on to you. Kiss it, make the sign of the cross, then pass it along.” Yiayia raised the icon to her lips, pressed a tender kiss, crossed herself, and handed it to the children. Each child, wide-eyed with anticipation, peered at the tiny icon, kissed it, made the sign of the cross, and passed it to the next in the circle. When the icon returned to yiayia, the children’s faces glowed with hope. Yiayia raised the icon above her head, then lowered it gently toward the water-filled bowl, uttering a prayer. Immersed in prayer, she lifted and immersed the icon three times.

When the prayer ended, Yiayia carefully dried the icon with a corner of her dress, stowing it back in her coat. “Now, children, this water is food. Come and eat.” She allowed each child to take a few mouthfuls, and soon, all the nourishment vanished. For that night, the children were fed, their hunger appeased.

I asked, my voice filled with curiosity, “Was it truly food?”

Dimoklea smiled and replied, “Well, the children ceased their cries and complaints of hunger. So, what do you reckon?”

Silent and awestruck, I pondered. After a while, I uttered, “I’m going to Bafra. I must.”

“All right, you’re set on going. I see your mind will stay the same. Stubborn and determined, just like your grandfather. I shall give you something that might aid you in finding people who knew your grandparents in Turkey.”

She rose from her seat and left the kitchen. Our gazes met. Taki shrugged and shook his head. None of us knew what she had in mind. After a brief absence, she returned, clutching folded paper and a photograph.

“Take this photo of your grandmother,” she said. “Your resemblance is striking. Anyone can see it. And take this letter.”

“A letter? What’s in it?” I inquired.

“It’s in Turkish, a letter from your grandaunt, your grandmother’s sister,” she replied.

“I thought everyone in our family was killed in Turkey. How could yiayia receive a letter from her sister?”

“Ah, remember her sister whom a Turk snatched on horseback? You know the tale now, just as well as your cousins do, but they’re unaware of this letter.” She waved the letter in the air.

“So, you’re saying a grandaunt remained in Turkey and might still be alive?”

“I doubt she’s alive now, for that would mean she’s over 120 years old! No, there might be a family who knows her. In this letter to your yiayia, she said she’s married and has children, and one of her children wrote it for her.”

“Hold on, hold on. It’s all happening too quickly. How did yiayia know where to send the letter?” I asked, shock evident in my voice.

“Yiayia simply addressed it to Bafra with Elis’ name on the envelope. People know each other in a village, and that’s how your grandmother’s letter reached her sister.” She paused, ensuring she had our undivided attention. “Now, I’ll translate the letter from Turkish.” Opening the already yellowed paper, she began reading it in Turkish, sentence by sentence, translating it into Greek.

The essence of the letter conveyed her immense joy upon receiving yiayia’s letter. She spoke of kissing her eyes and forehead, embracing her. She acknowledged that life continues, and although she’s now a different person and a mother, deep in her heart, she knows her true identity.

“Now, the most crucial element of this letter is the address from which it was sent—Kafkas Hotel, Bafra. Take this letter and the photo. The photo will reveal the physical resemblance to your grandmother. At the same time, the letter, written in Turkish, will indicate whom you seek and why.”

My cousin approached to examine the letter and photo in my hand. I declared, “Already, I have a solid starting point in finding someone who knew Papa and Yiayia. I might even discover relatives!”
Taki chuckled. “Well, you might find someone, but it might not be pleasant.”

I gazed at the photo and saw a similarity in the contours of our faces. As I observed the handwritten Turkish script in the letter, I perceived it as a gateway to my heritage and lineage.

5 Comments | Expression, fiction, History, human rights, Mount Athos, odyssey, personal, politics, refugees, travel, Uncategorized, writing | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
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Portal of Enigmatic Shapes

December 29, 2023

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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Gypsy Bob and the Aussie Dollar Note

December 26, 2023

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.

As we aimed to stroll out with both books, Gould halted us, asking, “Where do you think you’re going without paying for those books?” Gypsy quipped, “Hey, it says ‘Steal This Book,’ and Rubin’s says ‘Do It!’ so we’re doing it!” Gould retorted, “No way!” I clutched the books, and Gypsy brandished a dollar note, declaring, “Hey, Mr. Socialist, watch me burn this dollar if you don’t step aside!” Mesmerized, I observed as Gould protested, “Don’t burn the money, you hippie!” Igniting his lighter, Gypsy slowly brought the flame to the lifted dollar note. Gould erupted in a frenzy of profanities as we made our escape, books in hand.

I wish I still had ‘Do It’ and ‘Steal This Book.’

Months later, I revisited the shop, the sole source of alternative news and views in Sydney. Gould treated me warmly, asking, “Why’d you get mixed up with those crazy mystic acid heads? You were OK in Resistance.” I replied honestly, “Because it’s more fun than Resistance.”

Pretty dumb, huh? I was just 19.

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Words of Wisdom from Kurt Vonnegut about Creative Expression.

March 18, 2023

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