- Your Gypsy is a wish -

Through sounds lost in the past, the song that meant freedom became love tonight.

It was a night in white satin. The lady’s voice was echoing from the white polo car’s windows through the hill of Lycabettus to the tip of Mountain Dionysos to the deep blue waters of the Aegean. Athens was lighted. And so was I. I knew that a Gypsy I was. I knew that a wish I was but remained there listening to his music. I fell in love with that music. So much music. Deep in my skin.

Psichiko, Athens 2002

My Dear P.A.,

It is Sunday, March 20. Year 2011.

It is cold now. I have never imagined writing to you in these hours. But...

...Your Gypsy is here with me tonight. She definitely is a real wish. Some days, she is a wild horse running away from everyone. Other times she is a wolf who wants to eat me alive. And yet, today she confronted the truth and admitted to me that without you, she wouldn’t have become the Gypsy she is today.

As she was opening the envelope that she found this morning in the mail, she looked at me and said: “Can you hear the airplane’s engine?”. “I hear” I replied even though there was no airplane around.But we both heard that engine and felt our freedom approaching.

As the engine’s sound was becoming louder and louder and reality was drifting away from the room, all those images of suffering appeared in front of me. Images from the time that I had no name in America..no identity. An independent survivor with no real name working day and night. Images from the time that I had to eat the same can of tuna for about a month. Images from the time that the falafel place on MacDougal street was the best place in my weekly menu. Images from the time that I had to sleep on an empty room with Elvis; one of the building’s mouses walking through my hair every night.

And the engine stopped.

I opened my eyes and realized that I had managed to survive in New York and make my dreams come true. I had managed to find Garia and Eidothea. You havent met them, although I think you knew them from the start. And now your Gypsy, our Myth and I are free to fly!


I wonder, if your Gypsy comes back home, will you wait for her at the airport to take her to the city of love? Just take her there for few hours. She longs to see the view of Athens again listening the haunting voice of Stevie Nicks with you by her side. I can listen to her singing now:

"So I am back

to the velvet

..............

I am back to the

Gypsy that I was

......

And it all comes

down to you...

You see your Gypsy

........

It is cold now.

Together with this letter, I am sending you two photos. One is from the concert of Fleetwood Mac in Las Vegas two summers ago. Look at the sky now from where you are seating.

Can you see that dot in the sky? It is our airplane flying back to you,tonight.

Love,

G.

- Morning Look

I do not know if my eyes looked at him

or did not look

at him

because

the frightful produces in us

a confusion of ideas - - //

Stolen ideas //

Borrowed ideas //

- Nostalgia

It was a Thursday afternoon at the office. An uneventful afternoon as I tend to describe an afternoon at work that has no surprises. That was until D.C. arrived.

She approached my desk with a book.

“I believe this belongs more to you than it does to me” She said offering me a photography book with the title HELLAS (GREECE).

“Thank you Doris” I replied with a smile that was covered by a lipstick that had both a happy pinky color and a sad purple one.

I took the book and hid it in my drawer. The first feeling was that I am not ready to see the photos of my country being away for seven years. Who would be ready or able to remember through the pages of a book the smell of the gardenia, the view of the gold cross on top of a Greek monastery, the taste of the Vanilia placed on top of a small table at the islands’ taverna, the sound of the Happy Greek youth singing at a concert, the windsurfers’s vans parked at Vassiliki Beach in the isle of Lefkada ready to download the boards for another fight with Aiolos and the waves, the dramatic aura of an old yiayia’s face seated in one of the alleys all dressed in black, the sound of the Ferry Boats arriving at the port of Pireaus.

Few minutes later, I opened the drawer and there I was falling in love once again with my country through the photographic material that William Abranowicz’s lens has captured. His work reminded me of a country whose people know how to live, how to love, how to inspire.

He reminded me of a land that is home of my eternal summer.

He aroused in me the need for Nostalgia.

And maybe for the Return.

For more on William Abranowicz and his books you can visit:www.williamabranowicz.com

Photos from the book HELLAS

- Lupa ,Where did you go ?

Being at work has some exciting moments for me. One of them is when the magazines arrive. Some days from Italy, others from China. Then suddenly in an unexpected hour, Gabe will bring upstairs the magazines from Japan. India might follow. Spain will also say good afternoon usually on a Friday reminding us that its passionate red travelled all the way from Europe to find us for the weekend. Once a month Greece arrives as well to remind me that I miss her blue colors. And just in time when I need to receive some fresh air, the issues from Russia appear. From so many magazines, what I mainly like reading is the editor's letter because it reminds me that magazines are mainly a way of connecting and communicating with the readers.

Today I decided to share with you the February letter from

Nikolay Uskov, Editor in Chief of GQ Russia.

The traditional Slavic name for February is luten, meaning "ferocious one". Honestly, though, as Russian winter months go, which one isnt? Even an occasional April qualifies for the title. At any rate, the velvety-sounding Roman Februarius was about something quite different from our snowbanks and piercing winds. The highlight of February in ancient Rome was a rather lewd feast, the Lupercalia, celebrating the she-wolf, who suckled Romulus and Remus, while apparently also celebra-ting the fact that the word for she-wolf, lupa, could mean a prostitute. It involved running around the streets naked and lashing random girls with goatskin straps. The girls would then get naked too. You can imagine where it went from there, and weirdly enough, the whole event was considered "purifying" by the Romans. Sadly, what's left nowdays of this wonderfully sadomasochist, exhibitionist, voyeurist and whatnot-ist tradition, is its corniest and most boring part;that is, the pieces of paper with hearts on them. Ancient Romanettes would put notes with their names on them into an urn, from which ancient Ro-men would then draw them, lottery -style, and go to cohabit for a year with whos-ever name had turned up. Not knowing who you 'd draw made it as bad as looking for a date on a social networks, so good thing we dont have that barbaric custom anymore. In later times, an unsuspecting saint by the name of Valentine happened to be beheaded around the time of Lupercalia, became fused in the popular imagination with another saint of the same name (also beheaded), an ended up forever associated with paper hearts, balloons, stuffed kittens and all the other stupid junk that's now bringing nations and faiths together.

I wish running around the streets naked had gone cross-cultural instead, but happy Valentine's anyway.

Nikolay Uskov

- La scrivania e vita ideale

- Garia August

- So Fully

*

My Forever One,

Not sure what day it is now.

I finally decided to write to you again after so much time.

Diego El Cigala is singing for us and the smoke of my cigarette is hiding the whiteness of my room. You once told me; "I do not want to be with you. I want to see you grow and this way be with you forever"

But I do NOT want to grow.

I remain at that first night that we carried that abstract painting together at your home and then started breathing for the first time so close to each other that the painting became a transparent unique color of the tranquil clear blue.

So often I wonder why the two souls of our spirits didn't manage to find shelter that night or so many other nights that I ran to you like a thirsty woman. Yes, thirsty I am for you my inspiration.

Tonight, for once I thought how beautiful it is that I have loved so fully.So fully that I am free now of myself.

I know by now that there are nights when you seat alone and read the first letter she had sent you the winter of 2007.

Winters come and go. Letters come and go.

Our love is here.

- Maria Garozi

-THE LETTER.

*

A letter sent by a woman

Received by a man

First page

Has the word

Hello.

Second page

Has a story from the

Past.

Third page

Has the

Truth.

Fourth page

Probably uncovers the biggest

Fear.

Fifth page

Is lost in the passion of becoming a

Writer.

Sixth page

Seventh page

Eight page

Ninth page leading to

Ten.

Eleventh page

A drawing of a ship and a sun

Symbols of their journey as one in her

Heart.

A letter sent by a woman

Read by a man

Is now hidden

So that it can never be opened again

For it screamed the truth people cant believe

The simplicity of the words I love you

Oh forgotten letter

The secret within their soul

Let your words appear to the man

Let him read you again

Before he sleeps

His eternal death

Loveless, rough and alone.

Or with HER -

December 2007

East Village, Apt 8R

- Garia August

- Time for the Color of L .O. V. E.

Couple at the corner of Bowery and Great Jones

Yellow Cab

take me to the city of love

dry me on a rainy day

and meet me in the corner,

the usual corner of our fire

Bowery and Great Jones

like two Lovely Ones

Yellow Cab

the burning of our heat

is about to take its seat

Yellow Cab

ride me to the city of love

again and again

and speed up cause

once you park

at the end of the street

then who knows?

at which corner

we shall meet

- Garia August