Swallows in Paros

 Sun., June 9, 1985

Well, I've been in Greece now for a week. The weather has been hot, but there is usually a cool breeze at night. In Paros, however, it was windy at times during the day and I was chilled since I was not wearing more than just a shirt. 

I got off the boat in Paros instead of Naxos when I left Athens from Piraeus ("peer-ow"). I hadn't realized until the second day I was there that I wasn't on Naxos. Perhaps it was fortunate because I met a nice petite woman from Crete in a bar the night before I left for Naxos. It was the day that I witnessed by chance a baptism in the Church of the One Hundred Windows. As far as I could observe there hadn't been any water used in the ceremony, nor were there any godparents. After I left the church I espied a nest of swallows nestled in a crevice above a shop door. Two baby birds were chirping for food and the mother flew dutifully away from the nest to find some. I realized I was set free as the swallow flew from the nest in the cranny. I was determined to have a go at picking up a girl in a bar. 

I talked to Mary, however broken her English was. Her complexion was like a waning moon and her eyes blue. She had drooping eyelids that gave her a melancholic look. I rather think she was suffering from melancholia. I felt a glowing warmth from her, however weak it was, as if of dying embers. She was wearing no makeup, which made her seem still more pale. I asked her if I could sit next to her at the bar. She removed her sweater from the stool next to her so I could sit down. We started to talk. She said she thought I was Greek. I took it as a compliment and thanked her. She said it was only in my mind, the fact that I had taken it as a compliment. I ordered a gin and tonic. She was drinking and smoking Gauloises. I had a pack of Marlboros. We chatted about languages, Greek and Arabic. She taught me how to say a few things in Greek. 

I can't remember now where she said she had been working previously. She gave me the impression that she liked to travel. She said she wanted to visit Bali and knew a shipping agent there. I told her, in fact, I was going to Indonesia to teach. 

She kept averting her eyes when we spoke, which made me feel uncomfortable. Then she invited me to sit outside with her friend, a guy named Yanis. This was when she told me her name, Mary. Yanis flashed a grin and introduced himself. The evening dragged on into the night. I found out little about her except that she painted clothes. 'With a brush?' I asked. 'Yes', she replied. She reiterated that she wanted a change--a change of place I supposed. She said that she lived for the moment. 'From moment to moment', I said. 'Like a swallow', I thought.

She left the bar with Yanis and politely said that she hoped to see me again. She explained she had to work the next morning at the Argos Hotel and gave me directions to get there. I didn't leave the bar until 1:30 a.m. 

I went to see her the next morning at the hotel she had given me directions to. I wanted to give her my address in Indonesia and say goodbye to her. I was leaving for Naxos that day. I was sitting in the little restaurant next door to the hotel when I saw her. I could see she was happy to see me. As she approached me she abruptly turned her head to the side as if to hide her emotions from me. Was she not sure that I had recognized her? I wanted to gaze at her and finally I said hello. 

After I had finished eating, I gave her my address in Indonesia and jovially said that maybe we would see each other in Bali. She said, 'I hope'. I said goodbye and left her there, like the swallow.

A PREMONITION OF W. S. BURROUGHS

Perhaps, it was a premonition of your death, Bill. On June 20, 1997, I had a dream in which you appeared. You were strangely more robust and hairier than normal, a sort of barrel-chested Bill Burroughs. But it was definitely you. I watched you from the shadows of a corner of a hotel room. You got dressed, put on a hat and the polished clodhoppers of a Midwestern farmer--only they were fan-shaped at the toes, as if you had the feet of a platypus, otter or beaver. (You always seemed ichthyic, Bill.) You left the hotel and I followed from a distance until you entered a park and stopped, your back towards me, like a René Magritte man facing the horizon of an Yves Tanguy painting. Then you telepathically said to me, 'I am an emission, we are all emissions in cars'. What did you mean Bill? A radio emission? Fossil fuel fumes? An inadvertent nightly emission of sperm? An emission nebula occluded by heavy metal? When I entered the park, all that was left of you was a clump of rich Midwestern soil molded as if in a die shaped like a flower pot or funerary vase. Then all of a sudden a hole the size of a golf ball formed and began to belch noxious fumes. (A strange dream to have experienced the sense of smell.) I began to throw clumps of earth into the orifice, which immediately gulped them down. Then the clump of earth lost its form, a kind of deliquescence. (Perhaps, it was the imaginal form of the subsidence of an erection I was having.) Had some sinister autochthonic spirit swallowed you, or dare I say the Muse in her darkest, destructive aspect? You once said, Bill, that ever since the death of your wife, some maleficent specter had haunted you.

Yeats writes in his autobiography that a moralist suppresses his anti-self. Bill, O great anti-moralist of American society post-WW II, you did not suppress your anti-self but, nevertheless, were a satiric moralist who pointed out the hypocrisy of American society.