The Wanderer By Costa

[BonaFied_CriTic]

My Acropolis

 

And when all is said and done, I’m still contented by life’s simpler pleasures.

 

I hope for seclusion in a world of my own making, for a quiet sheltering escape behind a walled garden, for a space to call my own… to call my home.

 

I dream of a private vantage point, a summit of remoteness, from where I can launch into excursions of physical and intellectual foraging into a turbulent, uncertain and often noisy world, and then return, pollen-laden, back to my nest, and digest it all surrounded by waxen serenity and sweet caches; souvenirs from my many impatient journeys.

 

That Mediterranean house awaits my Odyssean homecoming and makes imaginings swim through me, rekindling a secret desire.

It inspires me, in my quest, and rests me from my weariness - lost, as I am, in an endless stormy sea.

It seduces me...This, my private Ithaca.

 

Like an Acropolis it sits there, that Mediterranean temple, waiting for its old master to return and reclaim it, waiting for its missing inheritor to repaint its chipping walls, refurnish its desolate interiors, relight its darkened surfaces, bring life back to its empty promise ...and finally...forget.

 

I once cursed that house on that hill, overlooking all those repetitive orchards and that river which cut through their greenery, like a dark scar, and often dwindled into a murky stream, during the summer’s scorching heat.

I damned it to hell for chaining me to its existence, for tempting me, with Circe’s voice, to settle down, for milking away my energies and igniting within me...an aspiration.

I cursed its connection to my past, its nostalgia for what burdened my psyche, its long memory and many tears.

I wanted nothing more to do with these worldly things and these human wars over foreign lust.

 

Now I nurture that daydreamer’s wish. I fan it into a dancing flame, within me, and enjoy its warming spectacle as I’ve forgiven its many indiscretions and reluctantly embraced its totality, for what it was and is and will, or not, be.

 

I accept it as the creation of an old romantic who could not let go and whose soul could not heal from the ache of reality, before the end.

And in his name I dream….

 

I build imaginary gardens on its waiting soils and I design its interiors, with the mind’s omnipotent eye.

 

Full of bookshelves and carpeted marble, the interior will be. The pastel walls decked with whispering paintings and suggestive mementos.

The fireplace lit, in the winter, filling the room with the gentle light of glowing emerald along with the slight scent of timbered soot emanating from its crackling appetite.

Around it, lush carpeting full of inviting warmth and muffled ease as the wind whistles a bone-chilling tune outside.

 

In the summer, the patio doors will be flung open to allow the southern sea breezes to flow through and fill it with smells of oregano and salt.

 

My basic amenities are all there. Modern comforts that have become necessities in time:

A refrigerator filled with delicacies and gastronomic delights, a small stove to prepare them with, cabinets filled with glassware and utensils, useful knickknacks loitering on the surfaces.

 

In one corner a wooden computer desk, with accompanying machine, waiting for my thoughts during those nights when passions dwindle and the mind makes sense of itself.

Across from it, a televised window into the world will stand, from where humankind will reach me without touching me.

 

On the veranda, overlooking the farmlands and with Laconikos Kolpos shining under the sunshine in the distance, a plain table with matching chairs will be, where I’ll take my evening meals as the sun drops behind Tauetos, tinting the sky with red, or where I’ll sip my morning coffee as it rises from behind Parnonas with the golden explosion of a new day.

 

And there, around its perimeter fence, I will plant ivy, and every sort of creeping plant and shrub, to create a living boundary between my inner sanctuary and the outside world; a barrier of foliage to mark out my little paradise, my parcel of existence, my imitation of Eden.

 

Inside the fence, above the northern wall, where my mother once stretched her wash to dry, a few rows of lemon, orange and grapefruit trees, with a few olives in the mix, where I will plant tomatoes and cucumbers and green peas and watermelons, when they are in season, and all kinds of different vegetables, perennials and fruit plants, at their base, and I will garnish their perimeter with flowers to complete the aesthetic scene.

There, during the day, I will trim and pamper and stimulate them into fruition. And I will marvel at their cycled creativity and thank them for their sweet gifts.

 

Below the northern wall, I will plant a row of grapevines and knit them into thick canopies to cast a shade over the concrete driveway, just like my father dreamed of doing, and wait for their bounty to savor the sun’s joy from beneath the cooling cover, and toast the gods in his name.

 

On the western side, I will build a small chicken coop with cages for rabbits, ducks and turkeys and all kinds of domesticated beasts, which I will harvest for my sustenance and enjoy their antics and personalities as they roam free within my enclosure.

 

On the eastern side, facing the road, rows of flowers and an assortment of budding plants to ease my eyes, fill my soul with wonderment and my breath with joy.

 

And I will invite a few friends over after sunset, from time to time, when I am done with my daily chores and I have washed the grime from my fingernails, for dinner and a quiet communion, sharing bread and red wine for our sacrament.

I will serve them my own produce, sweet and pure, and feed them my own assortment of viands, fresh and clean, harvested with my own two hands and nurtured with my own labors.

 

And I will listen to them speak of everyday things, as if they were imbued with infinite meanings and transcending purposes, and enjoy the simplicity of it, the reassuring ease of it all.

And I will eavesdrop on their hopes and fears and comfort them with my selected words and delight in their talents and distinctness.

And if the mood arises, music will echo from my summit and my voice will rise to greet eternity under the starlit darkness, no more in resistance but now with a harmonic submission to its flow.

 

But these seas have unseen currents and some dreams are better left unrealized.

The boat creaks, the sails are torn and the weather threatens to cast me against Polyphemus' island.

 

Yet, still……I dream."

[Pi]

Love the writing style of the piece.

[J.Lee]

Satyr not Costa.

 

Beautiful read walee.

[BonaFied_CriTic]

Costa is the actual writer my dear - This is one argument you won't win - Besides, I care about the content not who wrote it -