Anafi, August 2019

SURWAYA’S RESURECTION

by I.DeAltaparte

As it is, there is no other way to be born again in the very same life,
than to resurrect;

to find a breach in Death’s compact coat and pull a thread until one discovers, bewildered – and perhaps a little scared too, something close to vertigo – discovers, as if you were the first one, the permeability of Death’s impalpable fabric.

Already, you are projected – as images are projected on a screen or on ancient cave wall- unto a life where you can dissect Death and take only a part of it.

You see, in the screen of your mind’s lids the possibility to die just a little, enough though, to disappear from certainty, to become an almost, a maybe, and finally, an unsure thing.

That’s what happened to you, Surwaya, last night, a moonless night, a superbly freckled dark night, just our second night in the Cyclades, and days only after we had set sails on our Grand Journey.

So, in a way, those were your firsts steps out of your Cretan home, a very fresh start, the beginning of something unloved before.

And as your wiser than us, Surwaya, indeed infinitely wiser as you come from abyss of ages, you know something has to die for something purely new to be born, and as we did not dare kill the dream to let it bloom, as we did not dare winter our enthusiasm, and shadow the smile of our naive and enormous joy, you, with your age-old name on your shoulders, in a few hours time, killed a five year old dream.

It happened without fuzz, quietly, almost as an after nee walk in a gentle meadow, you left so slowly and confidently no one thought you might be drifting alone.

In an instant you were gone in the endless wrinkles of the night, wearing your anchor as a pearl necklace , fishing star shadows twenty meters below sea’s skin -alas such a short distance away-

You drifted at 2 knots speed, without a light as a hat -alas, not even a star in the dark Sea- until you became a vacuum, a ghost ship dangerously dancing with the Foam of Sea;

and as you were entering the winter of your kind, we, your brides, your students, your eyes and your fingers, were bathing in the early spring of the mood.

By the centre of the night, we canoed back to you. The Meltemi was roaring, making our hair impatient just as starving baby bird can be, rowing in the middle of the sea, staring in the blackness, seeing nothing but darkness, wrapped in a dark blanket of night, rocking in the shadow of a shadow, meandering very much as a leaf falling from a tree, suspended between Air and Water, dazzled not to find you, Surwaya, Earthen dream island-

No, I don’t see her, there is only a vacuum here, there are no roots here, no tree ship anchored here where had yet planted it hours before- or did we really?- nothing, really, I see nothing, a huge nothing, en enormous emptiness.

You had gone, disappeared in the foggy perspective of Somewhere;

So we were there, in the middle of the Night, in the middle of the Sea, in the middle of the Wind, and we could say, in the middle of Limitlessness, we I said: “She is gone”.

There was nothing more to say that could grab to our skin;
only Salt and the bottomless vacuity of your absence.

However, in this vaudeville constellation of our Initiation, destiny had placed, in quite perfect symmetrical taste, one sailboat on each side of the memory of your presence, so that your absence was in the middle of a limit, embraced, as it was, by two kindred, absolutely, by two Angel sailing sibling.

Also, you surely conspired for your rebirth with Aeolos and Poseidonia, for without the exact touch of their caress you could not have returned, resurrected- who can resurrect without Gods’ protection, that is, without being skinless enough to touch their romantic hearts and skilful enough to sway along the whisper of their kiss-

So it is naturally that we knocked on the open palms of Xavierangelo and Mazrcelangelo with the only words hanging from our lips:

“the green boat…have you…did you…She is gone…”

Their was a smile bright as a new moon- and this was an even more shiny one given that there was precisely no moon in this wisely chosen night- and words as comforting as feathers befell upon us:

“come on board”

Seconds later- surely seconds escaped form Time- our red blood canoe, now black as soot, was attached to Miss Regina, her anchor lifted as one lifts a lid, and on we were, on the Sea, and the Wind and Waves and Mystery, on the journey to find our lightness light in the darkest Night.

We had set up on a quest, seeking our escapist dream, our home, our vessel to Freedom-

But how to find a crater in the moon shadow?

I stood there on the nose of Miss Regina, staring at thick belly darkness, throwing my heart on the hook of my eyes to find you, Surwaya, who came to us on the turquoise feathers of a kingfisher and yes, I can still feel you on my wet feet, and I can see you through the dampness of doubt, it’s exactly like searching for a star in plain day…

I cannot see where the Sea ends and where the obsidian Sky starts.

The more I look in the void, and the more I smile.

I breathe so slowly as I dive into the depth of my soul that I can smile in the obscure night.

A strong flashlight exposes the darkness, undresses it from Port to Starboard, from here to there, from maybe, to please, to fuck.

It scars a dream in the immensity of perhaps.

It provides a limit where Life could return and cuddle itself in.

The starlit heavens are dazzling. You are here in my heart, safe. You are crashed on those islands, they are so closed I could reach them with the fur of my arms. Dreams are immortal. You are dancing Sirtaki with the dolphins. You are Wrecked on Apollo’s erected island. You went to join the Argonauts. Are you real? Dreams are immortal.

I am sorry. I’ll take better care of you.

If you go, I accept it.

I found our Dream, Son, it’s in our hands, plant a seed in your heart, water it with sweat and drops of your inner Sea, and collect in your palms the fruits of True Wishes.

Surwaya, I love you. You are free. Dreams are immortals.

I thought the greatest skill I had learn in this last life cycle was sailing; but I fell it is not true, no, there is something greater than sailing that settled within, yes, it is so brightly clear on this unclear night, this calm in the stormy event, this peaceful heart, this readiness to take it all-

Thank you, Surwaya, to be such an uncompromising teacher.

Xavierangelo interprets the radar along with Marcelangelo who joined the quest with half of our crew on la Petite Marie.

Time is melting on our cheeks. Thoughts are melting. The Wind is melting on the Sea. Darkness is melting on Darkness and it is maybe why it is so dense and suffocating.

I see something! yes, keep the light on Her!

Surwaya! Ghosty, surreal, floating in mid-night, not completely on the Sea, not exactly in the Air, wiggling your hips as if fevered in a mad rumba with the hips of waves.

We approach with the canoe- once more blood as red- and we go up and down as desire, you exist Surwaya, you are touched, you are pregnant with our dream, you drifted on the direction open to open sea, you joker, you master!

You are real, as real as this surreal Night!

The adventure shall continue. Or rather, it really starts now, the dedicated Sea Journey.

You have resurrected, Surwaya, and so did I.

…

I roll your wheel once more.

We found you 3 miles away from where you were planted.

You zigzagged between shore and rocks and doubts.

Thank you Angelitos for your unfiltered goodness and readiness.

How much greater is mankind when touched by kindness, and precision-