As cemeteries go, the Greenville Cemetery is rather a poor show. A few picturesque headstones crowded together atop a low hill, shaded by some handsome trees. The oldest headstones, tilting at odd angles and licked clean by wind and rain, are illegible. Meanwhile, below the small rise I’m standing on, newer stones bake in the hot sun, letters and numbers still crisp and emphatic.
Continue reading “Holes”
I’m reading an English translation of The Flaw, a Greek mystery thriller by Antonis Samarakis. That characterization, mystery thriller, isn’t quite right. In fact, the book does not fit into any single category. It’s just too strange and funny and destabilizing. It dwells on banal events, some of which later turn out to be not so banal. Flits between one character’s point of view and another’s. Never pretends to know what any character is thinking or feeling, which leaves you wondering that you’re thinking and feeling. About the book, I mean.
Continue reading “Fishing for Food and Meaning in Chania”
As we entered To Mikro Karavi (The Little Boat), a bookstore on Daskalogianni Street, Maria Callas — I assumed it was Maria Callas — was deep into some aria. I could see her at stage front, shattered, bloodied, defiant. Callas was cranked up so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think.
Continue reading “Chania, Crete. Days 2 to 4 2/3”
High wispy clouds in a brilliant blue sky. Purply mountains in the distance. A red bird in a tree, flitting branch to branch. Looks like a male cardinal. But as I get closer, the markings are all wrong. A bit smaller, too, and missing the familiar crest.
At that moment, a wrangler in boots, chaps and a white multi-gallon hat is coming my way, so I flag him down.
Continue reading “More Birds of Arizona”
As I leave for today’s run, I spot an odd contraption on the back of a red Tacoma pickup. I draw closer to investigate, and the contraption turns out to be a wild turkey — a male, vast and spherical, with a tiny red and blue head. He stands on the pickup’s tonneau cover, regarding me with a kind of rage. As I step closer, he shows signs of alarm, even though he can plainly see I’m not holding a knife and fork. Hopping onto the roof of the cab, the turkey empties his bowel, glaring at me with small cruel eyes. On my return an hour later, a road runner crosses the road just ahead. Don’t ask me why he crossed the road.
Continue reading “Birds of Arizona”
because i said 