- Speak, Memory

SKETCH MAP OF THE NABOKOV LANDS IN THE ST. PETERSBURB REGION

On the evening of Wednesday April 21st 2010, I entered the Strand bookstore with a thirst for a specific manual. Completely fallen in that moment of my profound uncertainty for what I would find upon touching the book, with a feeling as if a great discovery was about to be revealed to me, furiously engaged thinking of emotions that could not be explained or understood by anyone but only by a heart of same thirst as mine, I approached the girl with the long bright yellow curls and the thick black glasses. Her look was playfully allowing me to think that her eyes are framed so carefully within that pair of glasses in order to look only at me.

Can I help you? She said
Yes. I am looking for a memoir. It’s written by Vladimir Nabokov, I specified, pronouncing the letter “a” in my thick accent as if it was “hai”. Nabokov she replied, with that very sharp “a” that had made an exit from her mouth as a paper cutter with a mission to rip off my voice chords who were fool in their own ignorance to pronounce the writers’ name incorrectly.
I love Nabokov she said with a smile. Follow me.
At that moment, upon the sound of the words “I love”, I managed to let go all the defenses and allow myself to follow her lead. Obviously she knew what I was talking about and it was recognizable in the confidence of her speech that she had a more personal affair with V.N. and his writing than I had up to that day.

The V.N. section was all the way at the back left side of the main bookstore floor. We hid there in a small corner among thousands of books, millions of words and trillions of ideas. I could sense a feeling of happiness and ease in her posture when we arrived at the section. Maybe because that little corner wasn’t simply another section of the bookstore for her, but it was her own secret library which at that specific moment-such that could have been an eternity for me- she wanted to share solely with me.
His writing is very dear to me she said. You will also love him. How does she know that I will love him too, I wondered? That’s a very intimate assumption.

While both our heads were looking up towards the ceiling in admiration of the upper levels of the bookcase where Nabokov’s books were patiently waiting, she asked;Which book are you looking for? The book, Speak, Memory, I answered.

She frowned her eyes in such a way that I could see her eyebrows forming one thin line underneath the glasses. A type of line expressing wonder or even suprise, probably because she was not aware of this book.

There it is! she said, I can see it third from the left side on the fifth shelf. I will go bring the ladder. She came back within a second, got up to reach the book and gave it to me.

I touched the book. Then looked at her trying to meet her eyes under the glass, which has now become a veil that I wanted to uncover in order to see her raw beauty same way a lover sees it in the morning phases on a Monday, and I realized that Vladimir Nabokov was in my hands in the fullest silence and glory of his autobiography Speak, Memory while I was facing his own beloved, Lolita.

- Garia August

- Kotsifas' Navagios Cousin

Lithography by Vaso Katraki

Every year when the flowers would blossom end of May and I would finish school, the family cars (a blue and a silver Opel Kaddet) were packed and ready to take us all to Gialtra for our summer vacation. The main characters spending the whole summer at the house in Gialtra were:

Aunt Nitsa (Religious housewife married to Uncle Andrew; an old boat mechanical)
Giagia Bouboulina (The Grandmother)
Varka (Little speed boat named Nitsa after my aunt's name that was slow like aunt)
Kotsifas (My cousin)
Tsitsos (The cat)
Flatroudes (Deadly spiders. A strange species found only at Gialtra)
BMX Blue Bicycle (Kotsifas' old bicycle that became mine when he bought a fancy yellow one that I wasn't allowed to touch)
Navagio (Ship wreckage from the war with the Germans in front of the house very close to the shore. The top part of the wreckage was visible and looked haunted)

The days at the house were unbearable boring. Who would have imagined that me; a born rebel who used to drink water from the toilet would end up enclosed in a house with three old people. And old was fine, but old and crazy was too much. A typical afternoon entertainment meant being seated at the front terrace eating watermelon listening to Giagia saying stories about the dead people after the earthquake in the island of Zante where she grew up and got married, uncle saying stories about the dead people at his journeys in the wild sea and aunt lighting up candles in the middle of the day saying stories about the Saints.

The moment I was really waiting for with anticipation, same way a little kid is waiting for Santa to arrive at the house during Christmas, was the day my cousin Kotsifas would finish his classes at the college and would come stay with us for 1-2 months.He was my only hope since with him Aunt would let me go everywhere and most importantly to Limanaki beach where all my friends used to hang out outside of the famous Greek Lithography artist Vaso Katrakis' beach home.

Everyone loved Kotsifas at Limanaki, Peppy, Swtos, Mariana, Vagelis, Zelina,Theodora to name few. And because he wasnt the only one with that name; his friends used to call him Kotsifas o Navagios (Kotsifas The Ship Wreckage). And consequently, my name was Kotsifas' Navagios cousin.

That was till that day of the big jump.
The big jump was an incredible moment of my childhood life in Gialtra.

In front of Mrs. Katrakis' house there was a very old deck made of heavy, unevenly cut and rough stones.The very end of the deck was destroyed and a huge piece had fallen in the water diagonally making it very dangerous for everyone who would dare to jump in the water from the deck.

It was a quite, sunny Friday afternoon, and everyone was lying at the beach when Mrs. Katrakis' grandaughter;Annoula who was my best friend started urging me to finally make the attempt to jump from the deck.

Annoula: Why are you afraid to jump? Everybody had tried and nothing has happened so why are you afraid so much?
Me (thinking that probably Annoula is right replied): I will Jump!

Knowing that noone had hurt in the past, and that V. for whom I had a crash on, would see me jumping as a confident girl, I found myself at the edge of the deck crying out for help from all the saints that Aunt had mentioned throughout her stories.And I jumped.And I hit on the stone and never came out of the sea till V. rushed to save me and get me to the shore. I was probably shocked cause the only thing I remembered after the accident was that kiss V. gave me trying to do cpr on me; a great sparkling kiss that made my pain go away. When I opened my eyes still warm from that sweet kiss, to my suprise I saw the doctor of the village who kept telling everybody Get away from the girl.She needs space.

WHAT? I wanted to scream out loud. Who had invited that old guy with the beard to ruin my most precious moment with my V. ; my big love and future husband?The doctor started examining me, he wrapped my right leg that was bleeding and gave me a strong cream for the wounds in my back.
What is your name, he asked? Maria, I replied.

And since that evening, I finally got my true identity and everyone started calling me after my real name. I was no more Kotsifas’ Navagios cousin, but Maria; the first girl allover Gialtra who jumped from the deck and hit herself on the stone. But what a first summer Kiss!

- Propagating Eden

Cyanotype negative by Anna Atkins, the first woman to publish a book of scientific illustration using the cyanotype process.

I finally left the city. My friend L.K. had invited me to join her to the exhibition “Propagating Eden” at Wave Hill where the calm mystical work of Dan Peyton was showcased among books and prints from the mid-18th century to the present. A unique interpretation of Eden with Uses and Techniques of Nature Printing in Botany and Art which was originated by the International Print Center New York (IPCNY).

Cyanotype solargram by Dan Peyton

April 11, 2010
Wave Hill Gardens
2:00pm
Upon the arrival at the Gardens Garia and Maria started dancing becoming one with the nature showing the nakedness of their heart.

Even Eidothea made her appearance.

She quietly left them all at the Glyndor House & Gallery and allowed the young Nymph who was with her first to bathe her at the waters of the Aquatic Garden, then rub her with oils. When she came goddess like from the bathing place to write under the pergola the young girl held fine clothes and a cloak to put around her.

The young Nymph asked: Who are you writing for?

To that the beautifully pale Eidothea retorted:
I am writing for the Boy & his lost Eden .

Wave Hill, April 2010

.HILLS AMONG US -

With the seasoning
of the new white wrinkle in the air
It was so difficult to distinguish
the luminosity of your smile
among the fallen leaves within my hair -

Hills Among Us
Hills of anger
Hills of need
Hills of last
Of sorrow
Of cemented Ego
and Of cheat
Hills of history unspoken
Hills of secret codes unbroken
Hills of Waves
Hills of Water running through my wide open hips
Hills of Paths crossing from our rose–lipped rainy kiss

With the welcoming
Of the new propagating Eden
Its so easy to rediscover
The sounds of your harmonica's whistle
among the love making of the bees -

Hills among us my sweetness
my dandelion boy
But the Hills today
Are blossomed
And the four rivers
Are unruffled
Pishon has fallen to a sleep dreaming of Aphrodite
Gihon is on his way to Pylos for Lord Nestor
a new prophecy for us will soon reveal
Tigris is misled in a friendly fight with Apollo
And Euphrates has been swept away by Grey Eyed Athena's strength -

My Dear Boy
You will get your Eden back at last
Its here waiting for you
Sing the rhythms of her wind blowing leaves
Your Locus Amoneus with her
Has been breathing in your hearts
And once you arrive to meet her
the storm will be a past ---

- Eidothea
April 11, 2010
Wave Hill Gardens

Wave Hill, April 2010

For more information on the exhibition and Wave Hill please visit : www.wavehill.org

Foto by Elliott Erwit

In Portnoy's Complaint, Portnoy says that underneath their skirts girls all have cunts. What he didnt say ---- and this was his trouble, his real complaint---- was that underneath their skirts they also had souls. When they were undressed, I saw their souls as well as their cunts. They wore their souls like negliges that they never took off.

And one man in a million knows how to make love to a soul.

Kafka

Was

the

Rage

The Above is an abstract from the book Kafka Was the Rage "A Greenwich Village Memoir"
by Anatole Broyard -

7:52 pm

One of these nights that one in a million who knows how to make love to her soul will approach once again. A strong but gentle man that he is,he always knew how to treat her passionately and not seductively only.

Does he know how to make love to Mine?
He is still afraid. So I keep it covered well. Not sure I will ever let him in for a ride to my souls' paths but I do admit liking the way he lights up his cigarette and then grabs me from the shoulders smoothly to undress me even though he never managed to undress the final layer.

The souls' one.
And that's where a woman's true pleasure is preserved.

- Garia August

143 E. 17th Street

Foto: St. John the Baptist church, 143 E. 17th Street - Easter 2010

When I told Eugie for the first time that I was thinking of leaving Greece and come to New York to find her, she had found it a great idea and she had given me 3 reasons why I should really do it. Upon your arrival she said;

1. you will have your own room with me in my two bedroom apartment.
You will adore the place!
2. you will also have a backyard to have your morning coffee.
There is a backyard at my place.
3. one block away from the house there is a Greek Orthodox Church for you who still believes! Nothing will change Garozi,trust me! You will have it all in New York; great home, backyard, me and your God! What more would you wish for?

What Eugie forgot to mention though was that I would be staying in a mini, let me rephrase myself, little little tiny room with a single bed which I had to share with her in a small two bedroom apartment that we were sharing with her roomate who used to cook for endless hours in the house Chinese noodle soups and the whole place would smell so bad that I definitely had to run out to the backyard for fresh air fast! Not that I have something against noodle soups but this girl was definitely cooking noodle soup with broth from very old rockford cheese.

And of course, there was no backyard the way I had imagined it...the backyard was a coffee spot on 18th Street and 3rd Avenue. We even had to pay for coffee in our own backyard. Jesus Christ as I always say...

The worse was when I visited the Church of St John the Baptist to go pray and be thankful that I have arrived safe in America. I was expecting a nice Greek Orthodox Church with a huge outdoors patio for me to rest and pray as I always loved to do in Athens at the Church of Agia Fwteinh in the area of Nea Smyrni where my first house was and at St. Panteleimon Church in Penteli where I found my spiritual guidance in the later years of my teenager life in Athens. To my suprise, St. John the Baptist was a tiny little Church built between a grocery store and a bicycle store that looked like a project and there was no outdoors patio but only one step separating the Church from the street. And to make it even more heartbreaking for me,the Church was locked and was open to the public only during the Divine Liturgy hours.

Although everything in America is supposed to be BIG and bigger than in Greece my whole new world in America was tiny compared to what I had back home. It felt strange at start but slowly with the years I got used to all these differences and St. John the Baptist became a profound ally throughout my struggles & victories.

Almost six years later and about nine houses in NYC later, every time I go in that little Church I say; Agie Iwannh eimai akoma edw! Se efxaristw!

Foto: Holy Friday 2010, Ceremony of "Epitaphios", New York
Foto: Holy Friday 2010, Ceremony of "Epitaphios", New York

- Maria Garozi