Phaedrus
Made an about page for Phaedrus replies. No wonder I was tired.
How Not to Break
Σωκράτης: καλῶς γάρ, ὦ ἑταῖρε, λέγει.
Socrates: Beautifully said, fellow.
//
People forget the absolute confusion it would throw us into. Our poor hearts. To be flirted with by Socrates!
Everyone reacted in his own way. There were puppies, pitbulls and poodles among us, Siamese cats, golden retrievers, kosher beef hotdogs, poisonous spiders and slithering snakes, all electrified, burning cheeks, clammy hands, contemptuous coughs, eyes rolling exaggeratedly behind backs, tea-drinking, name-calling, note-taking, knowing looks, mistaken engagements, pregnant pauses, drunken outbursts, drunken confessions, drunken makeouts, sneaking sweets into pursed lips, so many petty jealousies you wouldn’t believe.
Backstabbing, frontstabbing, it got ugly, abusive. Nobody wanted to see himself like that. Some went abstract, algebraic, symbolic, tried to ignore it, tied their hands as they slept. It exhausted us all. Some dismissed her for it, pretended cute compliments were sarcastic slights, secret glances a lie, the multi-entendres a meaningless flourish, intellectual metaphor, performative bullshit, while sneaking behind bushes. Some named it irony, her beloveds and her beautifully saids, a great number of grown men turned theatrically, cartoonishly evil, sending pornography to professional inboxes, these are historical facts, they just broke.
From her simple, sweet flirtation: they broke.
The question was always, how not to break.
(Hold it together?) What does he want. (Does he want it from me?) What do I want. (Why do I want it?) Do I want to give. (Do I have what he wants?) Do I believe him. (Is it about sex?) The stimulation of bodies to pleasure, more pleasure, until lost in the pleasure. (Reforged in pleasure?) Is it empty or is it full. (It or me?) Am I safe or am I in danger. (Which is the one that holds me together?)
The heart becomes a gaping question.
After all, this is a rite of passage. Few of us pass. (Pass into what?) The beautiful is what we call it when someone just does.
//
Aventurra
Φαῖδρος: παρὰ Λυσίου, ὦ Σώκρατες, τοῦ Κεφάλου, πορεύομαι δὲ πρὸς περίπατον ἔξω τείχους: συχνὸν γὰρ ἐκεῖ διέτριψα χρόνον καθήμενος ἐξ ἑωθινοῦ. τῷ δὲ σῷ καὶ ἐμῷ ἑταίρῳ πειθόμενος Ἀκουμενῷ κατὰ τὰς ὁδοὺς ποιοῦμαι τοὺς περιπάτους: φησὶ γὰρ ἀκοπωτέρους εἶναι τῶν ἐν τοῖς δρόμοις.
Phaedrus: From Lysias, Socrates, son of Cephalus, and I am going for a walk outside the wall. For I spent a long time there, sitting since early morning. Persuaded by your fellow and mine, Acumenus, I take my walk down the paths, for he says they remedy weariness better than the racetracks.
//
I travelled to Italy when I was twenty. On a summer break from college, and all the dead men vying for my attention, I hopped on a plane, flew across the ocean and landed in a place where everything was alive, possibly dangerous, and definitely meaningful.
I went with a friend named Mary, but as it turned out we had different travelling styles. She had a schedule to see as many museums as possible. I hit a few of the famous ones but mostly I wanted to sit around. I was lazy? Unserious? Yes, and, I just wanted to sit and watch, to inhale the perfumes and eavesdrop on conversations, to take it in through my skin. To walk for a while until there appeared another cafe and sit some more. Sip espresso or wine or a spritz and feel my way into the feelings of the cities and towns with their people and fashion and vespas and cathedrals and high heels on cobblestones and cigarettes and the tiny jazz club in a basement in Rome. I think I journaled, but I don’t remember. I was busy taking it slow.
So I went around Italy mostly by myself, no cellphones in those days. Among the things that I remember best are the Sistine Chapel, where I craned my neck to gaze at the Delphic Sibyl; and crying as I stood before “The School of Athens”. Rafael made everyone look almost alive, in the world of the dead, which was already my world. I spent several days basking in the quiet magic of the Boboli Gardens, in Florence, remembering Eden. The covered porticos of Bologna made it irresistably cozy for a walker like me. My pilgrimage up the Portico di San Luca to the sanctuary was a revelation. Flushed from exertion, I ate bread and charcuteries overlooking the sunkissed countryside of Emilia-Romagna.
I walked so much in Italy that I wore out my sandals. I hiked between the seaside villages of Cinque Terre. I watched Aida at the Arena di Verona and Turandot with the loggionisti at La Scala in Milan. I ordered food off menus with no idea what it was. I ate a lot of gelato. My favorite flavor combinations were pistacchio and banana, or pistachio and yogurt, or straciatella and bacio (chocolate hazelnut). I met a painter in Florence who smelled like D&G Masculine (nice) and he let me crash in his uncle’s empty studio. In Rome I made friends with two girls from Naples, and we sat in cafes, smoked cigarettes, drank wine, and talked about Dante’s Divine Comedy.
The last city on my itinerary was Venice, but Venice overwhelmed me completely. On purpose I missed my return flight. I called a parent on a public phone with a shitty connection and informed them that I wasn’t ready to come home. I remember stunned silence at the realization they were no longer in control. I was holding their daughter hostage. Luckily, they didn’t refuse to pay for a later return ticket.
Mary was long gone at that point, it was just me. Hostels were full because Venice was hosting Biennale. I made friends with some artists who introduced me to a waiter called Faustus who had an extra bed in his apartment. He let me sleep there for a few weeks, I was never sure why. Possibly he was lonely.
I spent the rest of the summer in Venice walking around and trying to get lost. I got lost until I couldn’t get lost anymore, until I recognized every bridge and every turn, every shop window display of handmade sandals or stitched journals, every arched doorway with steps where I could sit with a book or a sketchpad and pen. I sat and watched the water move, imagined I could feel Venice sinking. I wrote down lots of feelings. It was inexpressibly poignant, beautiful and sad, the Medici architecture and shuffling crowds of tourists, the gondoliers pretending that nothing had changed, the water reflecting cathedrals and rowhouses in ripples of antiquity and impermanence. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to haunt Venice like a ghost.
One time, while loitering around the Piazza San Marco, I met a young man who said he was in the navy. He didn’t speak English, but kept referring to la nave, and eventually communicated that his ship was in the canale. And did I want to come see it?
It was already dark when I stepped off the pier near the Giardini Reali and onto the little transport boat. I wobbled to an empty seat. There were a few others on the boat, also midshipmen, who nodded at me politely. The ship was anchored in the Laguna Veneta. I could see it as we approached, a gray-painted steel structure towering over black water, pale under the beams of its own lights. I climed the ladder up to the deck, wondering if this was a dream or if I was getting in over my head or what. The on-duty officer took my hand and welcomed me aboard.
In a world apart, I remember the feel of the fresh paint under my hands, sticky and slick, as the young sailor (called Ismail) gave me a tour, showed me around. I remember the breeze whipping my hair around my face, the lights of Venice reflected like golden spires on the water. I remember I was left alone for a moment, all quiet on the deserted bow, and I rested my hands on the cannons mounted to the ship’s deck. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and whispered, these guns are not Athenian guns.
After dodging an awkward makeout session (I already had a boyfriend and this one was rather toothy), we got on the transport boat and went back to the Piazza. I kissed the sailor on the cheek and said thank you very much, it was nice to meet you. It was well past midnight. I snuck back into the apartment where I was a guest and slipped into bed. My heart was pounding in my chest as I replayed the night, in awe of my freedom, my recklessness, and the power of my beauty.
Youth is full of aventurra. May it always be so, wholly stupid and somehow divine. Every beautiful thing deserves to get lost for a time in the land of the living. I was radiant and glorious, I did not look down, and I was not burnt by the sun.
A few weeks later I returned to college, where we started early modernity and, soon afterward, 9/11 happened.
//
The Opening Question
Σωκράτης: ὦ φίλε Φαῖδρε, ποῖ δὴ καὶ πόθεν;
Socrates: Beloved Phaedrus, where to and where from?
//
Sometimes I long to go back. To when I first read these words, when I heard them from your lips and they were sweet words, these sweet and bitter words. I was young then, and beautiful I guess, and I was the one who you caught on the way. I was the one who you loved.
Now you are gone. These words are here, shapes on a page, but things have changed. I have changed. Meanings have changed. Has your love changed?
Did you ever love me at all?
Sometimes I wonder. Even in my salad days, we were never alone. It was never just you and me. It was always you, and me, and somebody else. You, and me, and the whole god-dammed city. I am not jealous. I am not angry. That is what made you who you were.
Who you are.
If there is one thing in this world I will never forget, it is this. Socrates came from Athens. Socrates died in Athens. Socrates, my Socrates, wouldn’t leave Athens any other way.
I too am gone from Athens, now.
//
ΦΑΙΔΡΟΣ / Phaedrus.
And I thought, if I imagine myself as an angel in heaven, what would I be doing? And I knew, I would be translating Plato’s Phaedrus.
Must be a snake nest in the garden because the cats have caught three babies so far. Small, brown, narrow heads, E says not dangerous but how they rear their heads and face you off… Then I had a dream some deity, reflected shimmering gold and black, commanded I build it a temple. It was terrifying.