poppet penn

Anna and i once planned a trip to Croatia. delayed in London due to a disconvovalating case of food poisoning, we emerged a week later off a flight to Athens.  Through a further serendipitous and much more pleasant slew of events and boat rides, we ended up in the small town of Matala.

Matala’s artificial caves were built back in the new stone age. Famed for a broad spectrum of residents over the centuries, they have been host to Roman tombs… Zeusand Europa… the lost civilization named for king Minos… and in the 1970′s, a lot of hippies… flower children escaping to simplicity. A cross pollination of magic.

Joni visited Matala and its cliffs in the 70′s. She wrote two of her songs around her stay there.  with an urgency dictated by this information, Anna sheparded us through town, between blue beach umbrellas, to the foot of the cliffs… neither deterred nor disenchanted by the smell of urine from more recent inhabitants, we scaled the sandstone and scoured each cave… for remnants.. evidences.. messages.

While i found satisfaction in gazing back across the beach at Matala and its profound and cryptic message painted on a concrete wall… Anna had come to the esotericrealization that all messages would arrive from Africa via the wind.

We stayed in Matala for the remainder of our time in Greece… and have yet to make it to Croatia.