Greece for Stacey

There has been too much Homi Bhabha in my life of late. He's an absolutely brilliant postcolonial literary critic (for those of you who are not extreme englishy type nerds) but with brilliance comes complexity. Rather, it's bloody hard.

I think everybody has those moments where they just want to escape real life and all its Homi Bhabha-ness. For Stacey and I, this is escape is obviously and naturally to Greece.

One day, we'll live this:

Greece for Stacey

I sit here, with shoulders in twisted knots of pain, my fingers so cold they're practically numb, wearing four pairs of sock trying to write. Write about Greece.

Greece for Stacey who sits at her laptop in a different city, with shoulders in twisted knots of pain, her fingers so cold they're practically numb, wearing four pairs of socks staring out her big second story window. Staring at swirling and gusting winter.

We'd live in a white stone house with pink and blue laundry fluttering on a line, and set into a mountain, reached by wonderful winding steps. Every day stepping out our front door, and traipsing down the rock hewn stairs to the beach, sun burnt shoulders half hidden under floppy hats, wearing black bathing suits, to read Pablo Neruda, Margaret Lawrence, Mark Haddon, on the soft warm sand. We'd meet tanned, green-eyed boys--boys who are perfect because they're boys who don't speak English. We'd have a constant sun kissed view of jewel-bright sand and sparkling green water, edged with white waves, rimmed by the rest of that deep clear blue ocean. A view of Eden--of Greece, for Stacey.