A Greek Adventure It was a holiday of several weeks and Zucchi was fascinated by the blow of the winds, and she finally remembered that she has come to Greece. Only last week.The Madrid man was just a memory. Something she wants to forget and then to recollect at will. She was aware of those sensations, that she broods over sometimes, as a strange occurrence for a smile, the final theme of the surrender of a whim which was very real when it happened, but not so later. The physical aspects are good enough, they are the lullabies for growth and sometimes a way of living, just another way. But she was that adventurer in the world of physical and otherwise… She had men and adventure, enough of that. She was in Germany. Munich. Those clean places as well as cluttered flanks, streets, cruises, churches. The visitor to many rooms, large and petite, simple and palatial. Confessed up too many pastors about. She was helpless. But her father used to caution her when she grew up. His cuneiform letters, and the Ur Nina tales. She was a descendant of the line, as they said. Her model, once her teacher, then her father, then brother, then who- the last part was the beginning of her voyages to the East and the West and that style her daughter is picking up. The visually challenged man in Madrid is also over. So too are the poetry clubs with blank verses. Germany also is over. But, here in Greece, the Thessaly plains, the hike to the monastery over a mountain climb. No more the rope stairs of yesterday years. Her daughter had grown up.. There are thrills and adventure in her gestures- ‘Mama, can I make you a model’, she asks. Then she smiles, and thinks at heart, who else baby… She wrote always to her father. Then the teacher. She wrote two amorous epistles to her teacher. Who was only five years above her. That was thirty-two years ago. But time is a fiction. It started with a tuition session. ‘Will you make it, come to my house. I will acquaint you to my brother. We will talk and also walk in the garden.By the weeds, we will sit and chit chat…’ Now you are here. You can perceive Greek panoramas. Those solid welkins. The Thessaly plains, the Pineios River, the sturdy mountains: The Pindus mountain range to the west. Mount Pelion to the east. Now no more aunt Nora evenings. She is quiet. She has a book. A rapiarium of her own. Now she was all the hastily brooding over that crush, the teacher. Again,the skies, the wildernesses, all..In the monastery, she has come with another mate — ‘Imitation of Christ’- the book she kept and of course the well-cherished book of the pure black cover. We sin, sin often. Still, we want redemption. We want to look at the azure skies in the morning and say our thanks… In the craft her daughter was rowing, She is almost a replica of her mother. Only apparently. But she is more into the film world. At her age, she read books, many classics- Siddhartha, The Idiot, Exile and Kingdom, Now her daughter watches movies. They have a mini theatre on the yacht. Which has been the home for the last six months. She got the idea from Paris over the Seine. Watching those boats, and these people. What if life’s that way. Only too good to believe. She did not want to make anything permanent. According to her, there are two types of people, including writers and philosophers and businessmen. The one increases in the physical plane that everybody can comprehend, one house, two houses, three houses, cars, automobiles, shirts, pants, overcoats, shorts, dainties. bonnet. That is the first category. Then there is the second category- adventurers of the body, mind and the soul. The great people on the planet who lived in this world and built up treasures that are permanent. Buddha, Jesus, Socrates, her father, who had three houses when he was youthful but died in a rented flat in 93. At ninety-three he had a muscular shank and young maidens, the servants of the family would make tease him, what is the use of this bulky body old papa, your wife is no more, come for a swing. And he will laugh and listen to Bach,’ The body is not for connubial affairs , It is for the adventure of the mind, soul, children ‘ and he tapped some on the shoulders and said,’Now you bring me coffee, also use less pül biberi’ [red pepper flakes] in the dish.Her brother in the other chamber chuckles amidst the piano session. In those eras, she was planning her next circuit to Greece with her sidekick. She thought about how as a young woman she sat by the Rethymno Lighthouse with him one evening and sipped orange juice. He was from a Venetian Harbor is filled with fishing boats and lined with tavernas…Now she must meet new souls and engage in the most valuable communication. ………………. She took her journal up and scripted to her friend, Jason…, he approached me etc. As if she were narrating a new story of her friend. Now she does not need his material embraces, she has had many of them..She wants to caress his soul, how can one do that, she recollects his smiling face, the graceful beam on lips, he is a strict in his vows, he does not show the teeth when she saw last time.., She is different and she shows her full teeth which the exact replica of her heart. Nothing to hide… All that is there is to give. Her teeth are not as uniform as such, but one can discern the efflorescence of her soul on the teeth. She was loving, she was happy, she had taken great undertakings and can live in any shelter in any swarm. She can live like a tramp and a diva, she had scattered her coins wisely. She is tough, physically, mentally, still, she understands the weeping of a distressed dame. She nearly hit a man crouching on a juvenile lady behind the rostrum without her permission, She went away and hit him between limbs and lo.. She had only her two karate moves. She knows 51 karate moves, in case of danger which her papa taught her as a young lass.. 2 ‘Who are you writing to, mama?’ her daughter asked. She said ‘It is to my classmate and over at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. This is my old love. The address might have changed. The man may have changed. But not love. If the address is not correct, the epistle will return. Not her love. It is like a shaft. The moment it went out,it has hit the mark. You see, it is not his love or my love. Just love. ‘Who are your readers,’ her kin asks again. ‘My readers… No, there is only one reader. A single peruser. Somewhere over there. I have seen that person numerous times. Do not question when, where. It is so. He/She, who is beyond distance or time. I address that single human being. That God among human being. With whom, if I meet in person can communicate without the aid of language, she said. ‘Is it fiction or reality?’ her daughter asked. ‘It is reality’, she stated adamantly and then went to the sauna. ……………… Because the end and the origin are one and the same. Dear, you know it is like a physical consummation, The end moment and the beginning moment are the same. I write for a single reader. My direct spiritual ne plus ultra. When I write I always see that solitary reader before me. In fact, all my writings are love letters. If not, what is the use of writing. She would ask. The end is now. She addressed a fortnight ago a meeting of young matrons– She said- ‘You ladies, don’t cry before men for your food and honour, work hard and get it. You are strong and contain many worlds, If you don’t believe, come to my flat on this Saturday, I will teach you some of the this. Then after this thought, Zucchi took her diary– and wrote down in her cuneiform script her thoughts of the day- You know ladies. This is my great adventure physically, mentally, spiritually do you know what I am doing now, right this moment, which is not part of the time, never, never the part of time as I am communicating to my brother/ sister in Europe, Asia, the Americas and perhaps in those vessels in the sea… not through words, not through magic, but through right loving thought, just love. That brings her/his happiness and glory.. In straightforward terms, I am talking through the language of love, can you hear that., The brother emerges now,’ my piano concourses are over, now it is your turn..’. …………………………………………. Because you know the secret of the secrets. So far as you have love, you won’t be given to your tormenter. There is correction /victory in the fraction of a second. ‘Really, mama?’, her daughter asked,’ Really, dear’, she said confidently… 3 Claim your power, you are closer to God than man, by at least one step. You don’t believe… Then I believe and that is why my life is different from yours. When you are crying before your husbands, I stay stern and look at the eyes and smile. Simply smile, and he will know that I am above these. And then by the best choice I will take a two hour voyage and stroll and look at the blossoms in the garden and come back and make my favourite meal and if the fellow wants a share, give him , and I go to sleep and tell him, not to disturb my repose, today, not tomorrow. Who has seen tomorrow.… —[ From a of a work of Fiction in progress]
