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The Song of Odysseus
There was a crack that ran through
the Iliad and into the Odyssey all the way down the left ventricle and ‘round the right eyeball decorating it with tangled nerves in the tones and shades of ivy and frankincense; at least that’s what I was told at half past two when the moon sidled by the sun in the same quadrant of dawn…
Perhaps it was an eclipse that was playing an illusion on our senses which had been refashioned by new ivy league wear, while I was reading something about colours by a long begotten artist, perhaps Kandinsky, perhaps not…
And Ulix veered up towards me with wiles that had ravaged his once tarnished face to implore me, before I leave, to have a look on the right side of wherever I find myself standing in the years ahead, if indeed if will be lucky enough to stand, for the whereabouts of Telemachus—dead or alive; and Patroclus—dismembered or whole; and Heraclitus—still born or dispersed in forgotten tears…
And there I stood on one leg with my fibula in one hand and a bottle of milk-juice in the other before a vision springing from Odysseus's mouth...
There is a butterfly shaped island in the middle of the crystal-blue Aegean uncertain about its membership to the Cyclahedrons in the West and the Dodecahedrons in the East. Nevertheless, its membership implodes like a dying star unto itself, beginning with a dry plain on the West wing through a fading star in its middle and ending in a deep bay secluded from the Eastern tides. St-John’s head is perched over the West wing standing watch over past tides imploring them to remain content with the seasonal winds. The Panagia stands watch over the Eastern seaboard overlooking Levantine omens absorbing their wisdom before they incarnate.
The souls on this island come into the world with a drop on their heads signifying the fertility of the tributaries they are to cross in later life. They begin under the protection of the Quirini family who preside over the West wing’s worldly affairs from a Venetian fortress above its namesake. St-George and Madonna guide the Quirinis through the restoration of the town’s 1522 fortress into the palace of future generations. The children of the Quirinis make their journey from a height of 482 meters on the West side eating fresh fish and lodging with friendly neighbours down to the straits of Analipsi where they bathe in youthful waters and undergo, unbeknownst to them, a virginal baptism---acknowledged only by the doves above. After their rejuvenating swim, the lightness of the alkaline in their blood and skin calls out to them and they proceed to the East wing where the Kastellana family waits for them with open arms in the depths of the Panagia’s love called Mesa-Vathy.
The only sticky point
in the whole journey is at the Strait of Analipsi where Stalactites sometimes form in the blood type of the children preventing them from receiving healing from the youthful waters. In this case they must retrace their steps back to the Convent of Holy Libies where the cure of transmuting diluted blood into wine-blood, practised since the times of Asclepius, is administered. Usually the cure is lethal and the child dies. On occasion it takes root and the child becomes divine. Surpassing all other children the new darling comes to rest in the greatest depths of the Panagia’s love: Exo-Vathy.
There were many
world-navels, I thought. And at each one, one could take the high road to the gods or the low road to the ancestors. Analipsi was the fork in the road where this decision was made. According to Odysseus, I was like one of those “haemophiliac-children” back home who needed a blood transfusion. Noumea would be my last chance.