strange magic
i am sixteen years old, i live in miami, a transplanted new englander, with my grandparents who were born in greece and speak the language routinely. i have an intrinsic understanding from hearing it and have learned to read and write with after-schooling twice a week in the back rooms of the church at home, now greek is becoming almost fluid, maybe more like atmospheric with a little turbulence. i am convinced there are waves crashing on rocky islands, and goatbells in it.
this miami is a new world, i've been dispatched forthwith to help my grandmother who is recuperating after surgery - because of some trouble at home, i 'ran away' a few times on adventures. so now i am enrolled at the high school near mahmi (she isnt called yiayia) and pappou's neat little neighborhood, the 23rd Terrace, southwest. i am intrigued that the streets are called terraces.
stars nod silently as if in time, it's half past ten, strumming my guitar in the 'florida room', an airy porch in the back with slat-glass windows, terra cotta tile and furniture made of bamboo cane. floppy swirling palm leaf pillows, straw mats and a folding card table. i see a tiny green lizard race across the tiles and disappear under the loveseat. i miss my friends. still i wouldnt trade this for that. this is the tropics, i turn down the lamp and tiptoe to my room.
weekday mornings i to walk to school, taking a route from the terraces straight out to the miracle mile
the colors of the jewels and fabrics, feathery and fine, draping
scarves and sundresses, beaded necklaces whisper breezily
ghost trails of a lingering silken fantasy...
it is strange and magical. on the miracle mile time has a scent of cinnamon and blossoms are spilling from balconies over my shoulder. i can hear my shoes on the pavement. from the stillness a pulse builds and emerges from the manicured marble below my feet. the cyprus trees seem to breathe, the tall palms wave. the light is so pure my irises shiver so my eyes divert to the windows of the sleeping shops.
it's still early and everything except the bakery is closed. i peer past my reflection into the darkened showrooms one after another in a blur of motion as i walk along, spotting a bit of sensual gauze or a flash of sparkling amber. i search for magenta because it seems like the richest color in the world. it vibrates in its own neonic glory...oh neonic.. .owneonic...όνειρα γλυκά
oh-neerrrah nglee-kah 'sweet dreams'
i'm transfixed by the tactile possibilities. there are so many things that i yearn to touch. to hold to feel in my hands and gaze at long and steady. i believe fashionable butterfly wings could be wearable and functional too. maybe somewhere in one of these shops...made of some alien-sourced silk/metal diaphanous blend lighter than air and strong enough to sail through a hurricane. after all, this is the hurricane capitol, miami...mon ami..mi amigo
i'm coming up on a row of shops all entirely made of glass, taken in by a deep green shawl with pearls and various gems sewn along the edges and long fringe on each end curled perfectly and bouncing with glitter. i stop, i press my face into the glass and stare. the sheer beauty of it is overwhelming. as an accomplished seamstress i know about fine fabrics and their qualities. it is in my genes. handiwork from day one through a hundred mingling generations. i just want to touch it. i would soak the rich green color through my fingertips into my veins and it would make my lips turn purple, if i could just touch it.
a little voice says 'try the door'. how odd i think but what the heck, i push slightly on the glass door and...it opens. i'm totally awestruck, the shop is dark, and no one in attendance. magnificence with peculiarity. 'i wish there were some lights' i think, trying not to disturb anything, while there are luxurious treasures everywhere, gathered in baskets, arranged on tables, willowing on garment trees. i have walked into a fairy tale spun by a dream. i have been alchemystically transported to a secret glittery world by some gigantic unseen hand of fate. the one clapping. there is no ending and that was long ago...
today i wandered into a nearby yard in search of animal traps. backstory about the property and the sparkling big house that now stands on the lot that once was a haven of wild creatures and old oak and spruce, blueberries and raspberries and grapes: now there is a stylish conspicuously modernized captain-style three-story house. the owners are retired and live in florida in the winter, but have stopped coming the last two summers and a 'for sale' sign is out on the street.
i spotted one of the feral cats in the woods behind the house, it is easy to know their areas around here because you just have to follow the little trails. 6 inch narrow pathways through the underbrush. pathways cut by the cats that have been here for decades. pathways that lead to hunting grounds and food sources. clearcut shrub paths that you cant miss.
the house is set near the edge of the wood and a deeper clearing became a rather spacious front lawn. it's an awkward layout in every way but on a small "surrounded lot" deep off the main road with access issues there are limited options. the day the grove came down was hard to withstand. as if felling the proud old trees wasnt enough, they cut back the wall of lilacs and honeysuckle that separated the lots to accommodate "10 foot space around property lines" code. my grandfather planted those lilacs and honeysuckles when he had to sell off the acreage behind him which went all the way to the sea. before the depression, that had been my grandfather's land.
it's quiet, the driveway is empty. the indian summerish morning is warm, placid and pristine. cracked shells embed the walkway to the front door. crackling with my steps. yellow asters bow along the edge with tufts of miniature daisies like petticoats underneath. dark red brick steps lead to the front door. to the right of the doorknob, inlaid in the antique barnboard trim is a brass clamshell. it is a buzzer and i push it and hear a tinkle tinkle bell inside echoing. i press it again. no answer, as expected. i was about to turn away when i hear that little voice again "try the door".
inside, the floors are gleaming hardwood. in the dining area under the formidable pale wood table is a blue-tone carpet with words written in the design, "beaches" and "vacation" and "sailing" and "happy days", words in white, navy and gray on a rich blue background crossing over and weaving into eachother.
the top floor has windows that are high enough to see over the tips of the houses circling the edge of the harbor. once small cottages now are gigantic mansions, without the benefit of more space to accommodate. you cant have a regular sized house any more to get a shoreline view. i'm sure that's why they built this one with three stories. at the far end under the arched window is a big electric organ, with hefty wooden pedals in a very candy-slick cherry finish looking like a real outstanding musical thingamajig.
there is a tiny little sink in the middle of the room. i suspect the beginning of a fifth bathroom. or a place to rinse the cocktail glasses. a cozy wraparound sofa in gold and earthtone colors w/ thick punchy embroidery trim and ever so many coordinating pillows lines the curve of the wall facing the harbor. and a giant tv screen is perched in there too. i ponder borrowing it, i reason they probably have hidden cameras watching right now so they know its me and i say so "hi" "i'm just borrowing this"
to no one in particular
except alas it is much too awkward to carry. i'll just sit here and flip it on...
