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Due to unforeseen happiness, I have forgotten to mark the passage of not only my father's birthday - but Patrick Leigh Fermor's name day (Michali to his Greek compatriots). Gdz po soljfedzhio 3 klass davidova zaporozhec. November 8 is somewhat a sacred day to me because of these two men.
My father being the underlying theme behind most of my creative work (and his death the defining influence on my life); or at least the source inspiration and deeper connection to an ancient culture that calls me back to the only place that has ever felt solid and real to me: Greece. Greece has always been a specter lurking in the corners of my mind. A place I am supposed to go, supposed to long for, supposed to make pilgramage to. The motherland. My whole life has been built around a place I can scarcely afford to visit. My father ran from it as a teenager to escape things that I have only vague notions of diluted through my mother.
He left this world when I was 17, unfortunately I was too young to ask the kind of questions you only ask as an adult. He remains a mystery. All memories I have of him confirm this. I cannot remember.
Most likely I was picking up books with interesting covers and found 'A Time of Gifts'. I won't go into detail describing his work, but suffice it to say he was the very last of his kind: adventurer-scholar. The world he lived in no longer exists.
I became infatuated with this individual, and learned as much as I could about him. His journey on foot from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople, his time in Crete, sabbaticals at monasteries throughout Europe and wanderings around the Caribbean.
PLF settled with his wife in the Mani, a particularly harsh and isolated part of the Peloponnese. Patrick Leigh Fermor died on June 10, 2011 at the age of 96. I cried for many days. A trip was planned for November of that year, where I would finally return home and when I would visit PLF's home on November 8, his name day, my father's birthday, when the doors of his beautiful home were open to anyone who wanted to visit.
I wanted to tell him what he had done for me, what I was creating and working on and how much he had inspired me and how much I related to his life. Even now as I write this, I am crying. Not for that missed opportunity, but because Patrick Leigh Fermor was a gift to this world, an actual hero, a true artist. Forensic Trinkets A child's face as a coffee mug. A skull, a mask. I remember reading about how the families of the murdered women in the NAFTA border towns would deliberately stall, pretending not to be sure if the forensic busts made by an artist were their loved ones. So they could spend more time with them.