The following is a short synopsis and a few pages from my manuscript, POLLY BRILLIANT’S WILD RIDE.

 

I welcome your comments and will respond as soon as I return from Greece in November.

 

Thanks for visiting, hope you enjoy my art and photographic images as well.

 

 

POLLY BRILLIANT’S WILD DANCE is a semi-fictional novel about a middle-aged Jewish woman—a female fusion of Zorba the Greek and Odysseus. From birth until age fifty-five, when she moves to Greece, her traveling companions have been disenchantment, restlessness, and internal conflict.

 

Polly’s journey propels us through Boston, Berkeley, Barcelona, Las Vegas, Athens, Mykonos, and Kythera.

 

The story begins in a small city north of Boston where she irreverently survives her lower-middle class family, turns into a precocious five-year-old vamp and approaches her teenage years frustrated at not being able to dump her virginity because of an over-protective father. Polly fails to become a beatnik, trashes two unsuccessful marriages, and adds an illegal abortion to her sketchy history.

 

Polly spends a year on Mykonos and falls in love with Greece. When she returns to the States she promises herself to retire at an early age and live forever on a Greek island. Five years after getting her AARP card, Polly decides to pursue her dream:  to live on a Greek island. She sells her possessions, and buys a one-way ticket to the island of Kythera. It’s time for her to forget her poor choices in men and redirect her creative juices into her passion for painting and writing.

 

While living on the island, various ex-husbands and ex-lovers periodically begin to appear through a series of flashbacks, disrupting Polly’s idyllic existence:  one apparition emerges from a Byzantine church, another from behind an ancient olive tree, while a skinny naked Jewish man arises from oncoming waves with a huge crucifix in his mouth on the day of the Epiphany. Polly discovers one man pierced through with a spit, roasting over hot coals on Easter Sunday. These resurrections remind her of their zany relationships.

 

After ten years of Greek madness, Polly learns how to dance through life with wit and renewed determination. Reinvented, she returns to the States, her home within, and the circle complete.

 

 

POLLY BRILLIANT’S WILD RIDE

 

PROLOGUE

As you set out for Ithaka, hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Constantine Cavafy, Ithaka.

 

Once again the plane rumbled and dropped. An old woman appeared from under the floor, or so it seemed. She held on to the seat in front of me with one hand, gripped my shoulder with the other, and pushed her toothless grin into my face.

“No worry Americana, the plane it dances a wild dance like the Syrtaki.” Her reference to my favorite Greek dance put me at ease. “We Greeks know how to survive, we dance.” She threw her head back and cackled. The sound was similar sound to one I’d heard years ago when I worked in a mental institution on the outskirts of Boston.

She struck a familiar pose, the Zorba pose, the one he does on the beach seconds before he takes his pants off and runs into the sea. She snapped her fingers, then reached down and yanked me out of my seat, pulling me along the aisle while doing her own version of a Greek line dance. The other six passengers on this twenty-five seat, two propeller plane remained seated and shouted “Opa” and clapped. With our hands clenched, swaying high above our heads we charged up and down the aisle swaying to a rhythm only we felt. Hell, I thought, if I’m going to die, why not die inches away from my dream, laughing. Future ads for Greek dance classes might read,

 

Polly Brilliant’s Wild Dance taught in all folk dancing

classes throughout the world as a tribute to a woman

who entered life crying, and exited laughing and dancing.

 

I wished this dancing Siren to be my neighbor and friend. If we survived our precarious flight, it would prove to me she could defy the gods and, if so, I wanted her on my side. We would dance through fields and storms together. I was going to need all help I could get. I was alone in my new venture, didn’t speak Greek and determined to live on the island of Kythera for the rest of my life.

The stewardess grabbed our arms and flung us into our seats. One bounce, two bounces, a significant drop, a dramatic left tilt and the left wing outside my window did a perfect Tango Dip. Will we survive? We were so close to the sea, I could see the fish racing toward some unseen goal. Should I shed my pants Zorba style and jump or bet on the pilot?

 I’m dead, I’m dead, again this mantra, from thirty years earlier when in 1966, after my first failed journey into the world of marital bliss, I’d entered Athens on a rickety bus from the small northern port of Igomenitsa repeating that same phrase. Am I destined to live or die, or both in this magnificent country?

The young lady across the aisle turned and smiled, her face wet with tars. “My goat, she tell me no fly with two wings areoplano.”

A elderly man sitting in the aisle in front of her interpreted, “Her mean her mother say, no her goat.”

“Thank you,” I sputtered in what I hoped was intelligible Greek.

His warm, toothless grin symbolized the endurance and longevity of Greek lives. I would live, if for no other reason than I was in Greece, surrounded by Greek survivors. He clicked his worry bead to the frenzied beat of the right engine; the left engine sputtered and labored, threatening to retire early.

Two suitcases in the overhead compartment fell to the floor, just missing the old man’s head.

Another swoop nearly threw me into the aisle. My seat belt expanded and contracted like a wide elastic band.

Three rows down, a woman turned to me and said, “Toula,” she poked her forefinger against her chest, “have three curtain. Curtain must have tree. Toula go in sea dead, no one give curtain tree.” She started to cry.

The interpreter turned, “She mean her chicken need food.” I must remember to get his phone number.

My hands tightened around the armrests as the plane bounced four times and came to a sudden stop. The other passengers jumped from their seats, cheering, applauded and then rushed toward the exit. By air, sea, or land, the Greeks always cheer and applaud when they arrive at their destination. I used to think they were paying tribute to the staff until I realized the accolades were self-directed; they’d endured and survived another journey into the unknown.

I’m back. It took thirty years of meandering along unwanted roads and working through an abundance of mistakes to bring me back to the old country. It isn’t my old country, I’m Jewish, but Greece is more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been or lived.

 

 

BOOK I

SPEEDY HAMID

A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free. Zorbas, Nikos Kazantzakis

In June 1995, three months after I received my AARP membership card, I bought a one-way ticket to Kythera where I would live for the next ten years. Kythera is described in the guidebooks as follows: During ancient times, gorgeous goddesses and gods floated like flower petals through the pure Greek air.”¾What, no smog?¾One star. “Myth will have it that Cronus castrated his father Uranus at the request of his mother, Gaia, in an attempt to stop him from begetting more children.” —Great! Birth control pills are a bummer; it’s their turn to suffer.—Four stars for this one. Aphrodite, the beautiful goddess of love and sex, was born from the foam as Uranus’ genitalia hit the sea.” —Wow! This is more exciting than Law and Order—a trillion stars.

What drama! What fiction! What a theme! Creativity had to abound in such an atmosphere of death, love, and blood. If I can’t find inspiration for my stories and paintings on this island, I might as well give up. I chose Kythera to be my Ithaca because of its romantic history, rustic stonewalls and fields of Seurat’s wildflowers.

 

* * *

Having survived my first year here without any serious mishaps and looked forward to my second. I enjoyed the isolation and challenge. Modern conveniences on the island were a rarity. By the middle of October the tourist were gone and winter began to wrap its ominous tentacles around the 115 square miles of this long stretch of land. The weather evolved rapidly from warm and cuddly to cold, windy and lonely.      

The winds howled as they circled the island echoing the voices of men lost long ago at sea. The heavy downpour of much needed rain often washes out necessary roads, limiting access to other parts of the island, while enriching the earth in anticipation of spring’s abundant cornucopia of fruits, vegetables and flowers.

After a simple meal of roast lamb, rice, and salad, I reflected on last night’s dream. It was a dream within a dream in which I stood in an empty room holding my first published book. The cover wouldn’t open. And, that’s when I had a complete, fluttery, strong-enough-to-wake-me orgasm. I experienced a release-of-tension orgasm, which wasn’t related to making love. Once awake, I panicked when I realized I’d neglected to read the title. I tried to sleep again, hoping to continue the dream, capture the title and use it for my half-finished manuscript. It had to be a lucky title. Too late, daylight poured into the room and the dog had to go out.

Fully awake, I shivered with delight and questioned the validity of this incredible phenomenon. Does it count when it occurs during sleep and without a penis involved? I hoped so, because a perfect orgasm without a messy sheet and annoying invasive questions, like “Did you come? I didn’t feel you squeeze. Are you sure you came?” was cathartic.

I’ve often wondered about these nocturnal pleasures. How do I know for sure if they’re real or not if I’m asleep since there isn’t any physical evidence? Guys know because they get wet and the sheets get gooey. The only proof we have is a smile and a cheery “Good Morning“ to all or to no one at breakfast, but cheery we are.

The full moon filled my patio with an eerie glow and my dog barked into the night at invisible poets. Around midnight, I logged on to the Internet hoping to link up with someone to talk to, maybe someone who might be amused by my nocturnal erotic adventure. My daughter in Los Angeles might be online, but she probably wouldn’t be amused by my dream. She’s too young and probably would rather not have an image of her mother in climactic ecstasy. Or maybe a friend in Las Vegas or another in New York might be surfing passed—they’d laugh.

For the first time since I moved to the island an empty feeling erupted in my stomach. I wasn’t homesick or lonely, just sensing my unattached existence. But tomorrow morning, once the intensity of the Greek sun filled the world around me again with its celebrated pure light and iridescent shades of purple, green, and blue shimmering off the sea, feeling alone would seem like a small price to pay for such spectacular theater.

Hotmail.com hit my screen with a glare. One legitimate email stood out from the fifty-four porno spams. The valid one read, “Hi, Mom. If you want a good laugh click on the link below. Love you, Zoe.”

The dog wasn’t fun anymore and my one neighbor, Kyria Eugenia, who didn’t speak English brought wonderful homemade food every few days and stayed to chat. I’d make her a cup of tea while she told me long stories in a language I couldn’t understand. Two nights ago her tale sounded like the boat—which she didn’t have—was ungrateful or the problem could also have been her boyfriend—who she didn’t have—cheated on her with his goat, Patoula. The last version sounded more believable and much more interesting. I kept promising myself that before I got into any serious trouble, like romance, which I was adamant about avoiding, I’d learn to speak Greek like a native.

Kyria Eugenia’s incredible moussaka and amusing interruptions were welcome respites from my winter solitude. She didn’t drive and her deaf, incontinent, ninety-eight year old father occupied most of her time. Weekly sojourns to the next village where we’d buy groceries and stop for coffee and pastry enriched our simple lives.

I’m not a web surfer but winter on a remote Greek island—and Kythera was remote, could drive one to do things one wouldn’t otherwise do. I logged on to the link my daughter sent and read a few funny stories about what people write on accident insurance forms, what little kids talk about in public, like everything from their bowel movements to the most embarrassing details of their parents’ personal moments. I glanced to the left of the screen.

It read, “Click here to read excerpts from the most recent book on laughing by Dr. Hamid Mahejarian.” I blinked and reread it. Yes, that’s what it said, “Dr. Hamid Mahejarian. Research on laughter?” Well, I might laugh myself into a coma over this one. I clicked on the link. There I was, nearly thirty years later, sitting on a Greek island in the middle of two raging seas, winds blowing around my house, facing my personal virginity disposal, Speedy Hamid, who became my first husband and wasn’t funny for the last four years of our six year relationship. I stared at his photograph; he smiled, I smiled. After all these years, he still evoked erotic fantasies and amusing memories. I read about his achievements over the past forty years and reflected on how this recipient of what my parent’s treasured most, my virginity, had flourished without me.

 

* * *

In 1957, after I feebly attempted to get a college education and become a pseudo-intellectual, my parents repotted me from a small teacher’s college in New Haven, into my old bedroom. What unpleasant incident led to this move? I flunked out after I spent most of my weekends in Greenwich Village; studying didn’t fit into my schedule. I followed the Beatniks groupies into various cafés and bars and listened to Gregory Corso or Alan Ginsburg read their poetry. Crowded into a corner of a café, I nodded along with the rest of their hypnotized fans and drank coffee out of mugs encrusted with brown and blue muck.

Living at home with Hymie and Rose meant the temporary suspension of my life as a free spirit. Within three months I found a job in a small stockbroker’s office, saved two hundred dollars, and made a down payment on a seven hundred dollar 1955 VW, my ticket to freedom. My mother, Rose, sat next to me, pen in hand, eager to co-sign. She also paid my car insurance for the first six months.

I imagined her thoughts as she wrote her name on the dotted line. Good, maybe she’ll find a rich man on the road somewhere between here and there, or get killed on the drive back home. Either way, her future will no longer be my responsibility.

Several weeks later, I saw Shaynee, a former high school classmate, standing at a bus stop down on Broadway and Cherry Street. I offered her a ride into Boston; a fortuitous beginning to a long and marvelous friendship. We were both on our way to work. She told me about two terrific guys, both Harvard students, at a university mixer two weeks earlier. We immediately bonded and made plans to go to Cambridge on Saturday night instead of the usual hang out for most young Jewish women our age.

The Saturday night ritual involved young Jewish men and women meeting at Jack and Marion’s—a well-known deli in Brookline—to eat corned beef sandwiches, pickles and cheesecake while trying to meet future spouses, my mother’s projected dream.

Once off the streets and out of the cafés of Greenwich Village, my virginity obsession returned. I stared at women my age and younger on the street, on the bus, on the train and wondered, are they doing it or aren’t they?

“I’m waiting for the man of my dreams,” Shaynee repeated whenever I mentioned sex.

“Well, I want to know what all the hoopla’s about and I want to know now while I’m still young enough to remember doing it.”

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