Gillian Bouras
An Australian
Writer
Living in Greece

It's Still Greek to Me!

 

January 2012

 

Here it is again, that time for review and resolutions. I can’t claim to be at all like our lady Queen, who apparently spends Christmas Day in seclusion, and passes the day quietly with prayer and meditation. I rather wish I could be, as I’m sure this sort of activity is very good for one.

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December 2011

I have a problem with time, and with the inexorable march of. Like the White Rabbit, I’m always late, late for various important dates. (And this piece is overdue: no surprises there, then.)

So it’s that time again, a fact that is scarcely to be believed. Of course time gathers speed as one ages, so that Christmas, as well as one’s birthday, now seems to occur every six months. That’s my experience, anyway, although said time is such a peculiar concept and commodity that it seems only a few years since I went rummaging through an old wardrobe in our very modest holiday house on the south-west coast of Victoria. The cupboard was in my grandparents’ room, and housed a variety of what they considered junk. In fact the stereo-optic photos, if that’s the word, which it probably isn’t, plus the two viewers, would fetch quite a lot of money in today’s antique shops.

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November 2011

One of the many advantages of a crazily peripatetic life is the way in which said life ensures that you meet a wide variety of people. And of course you see some marvellous places. Santorini, from which island I have just returned, quite simply dazzles. I flew in on this, my second visit, but the first time I went there, I went by ferry, and thus had the pleasure of experiencing one of the great arrivals of the world. A distant view is a black-and-white one: jet-black cliffs covered by a thin line of white. As the ferry draws closer, the black resolves itself into rather mysterious deep purples and charcoal greys, with the mass of mountain, jagged outcrops, and crags supporting rows of cube-like white houses, some of which are gouged and carved out of the rock itself. The closer view suggests, more than anything else, a surrealistic wedding cake with a layer of icing on its top.

 

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October 2011

October is the time in which the weather breaks, usually mid-month, with the change of season evident in the piles of cloud that start to build in the middle of the day.  They start, brought by the wind called themeltemi, in the east: sometimes they are benign heaps of cotton-wool fluff, casting a few shadows on the mountains, but at other times they are a deep and threatening black. Then we have violent storms. And it is in this month that the swallows gather for the migration.

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September 2011

The peripatetic life continues, and so does the struggle with the divided heart.
A week or more ago I said goodbye to my eldest son and his wife, who are newlywed, and to my brother and his family; I’m told some people become used to saying goodbye, but I never do. Instead I try to concentrate on the next thing, and so I prepared to say hullo to my other sons and to my grandsons.


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August 2011

I’m still here in Melbourne, the city of my birth. That’s the theory, anyway, but the fact is that half of me is still in Greece. August is holiday month, but I wonder how many carefree spirits are at the beach this year, for Greek hearts must be burdened with worry right now; 

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July 2011

 

July is the hottest month in Greece. Schools have been out for a month already, and will remain so until early September: the period is an adolescent idyll of swimming, beach-basking, and the company of the peer group. Gardens and terraces are pictures in the brightest technicolour: bougainvilleas blaze in scarlet and mauve, jacarandas drop their purple bells, zinnias bloom in rainbow ostentation, while roses, carnations and jasmine scent the heavy air. The red earth lies baking in the heat, the stubble in the olive groves is tinder-dry.

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Gillian Bouras

 

Eureka Street

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Gillian Bouras 2018 CreativityGames.net