The Song of Medusa

From THE DIARY OF ANA  D’MITRIEV

May 1, 1993

Sumner’s a good sort, underneath that persona.  He knows his job, even if he does seem as dense as a granite slab sometimes.

I seem to be the envy of my department, if the letters I get from some of the other grad students is any indication.  Even Sandy, who’s off to warm, tropical Belize to work on a Mayan excavation, writes that she’s envious.

“Travel to strange, foreign places, meet fascinating exotic people, dine on spice and intrigue – become an archaeologist”.  Right, if a can of cold beans as an alternative to lard soup is spicy, and being leered at by a pudgy bureaucrat whose eye level never seems to ascend beyond my chest is exotic.  Not to mention the sensual highlight of my day:  dry socks.

Bulgaria in the spring, or any other season for that matter, is not my idea of the Coconut Isles.  Not that I expected it to be.

Still, although I might be willing to commit a felony for a cheeseburger right about now, I cannot say I’m unhappy.  My own Slavic roots aside, there is something about this place that feels like home.  Not home in a folksy, comfy way (“Ya’all come on in and sit a spell”), but “home” in a much deeper, more mysterious sense.  The people here are taciturn, resigned, pragmatic – neither welcoming nor rejecting, simply preoccupied with a hard life.  I simply appreciate them, their humility, their sparse pleasures, and their ability to endure above all.

But it’s not really this culture that calls to me, that pulls at me from some corner of my psyche I can’t put a finger on.  Perhaps it’s the land itself, the rock beneath my feet, the river murmuring in the distance, the sandy soil – the roots of the place, the roots I can sense, but can’t touch.  The place hums, it’s almost like a song that’s familiar, and yet you can’t place it.

*****

May Day in Eastern Europe.

There’s a power here, an energy, a presence…..oh, I don’t know what to call it.   I certainly couldn’t tell Sumner about it, because it’s purely subjective, bordering on what he’d call mystical “brou ha ha”.

I’ll never forget the time Sam brought up the subject of dowsing as an aid to archeology.  Poor guy.

*****

May 5, 1993

This damn rain just won’t quit, which is setting us back considerably.  I spend my days in a moldy tent sorting potshards and examining what citizens of the site had for lunch during the Bronze Age.  The Prof is becoming more irritable than usual, patience (with people, anyway) not being one of his high points.

Or tact, for that matter.  Yesterday he nearly eviscerated poor Hanchrow for bringing a ghetto blaster on site, and disturbing his concentration.  Admittedly, Hanchrow’s taste in music is obscure, to say the least.

After the Prof left, I felt like giving him a hanky and a cookie, if I’d had any.   Fortunately, Hanchrow is generally lost in his own little dream world, and quite a lot of abuse seems to just roll over him like water.  A half hour later he was tapping out tribal-like rhythms at the specimen table, loosely based upon the falling rain, flowing along to his own peculiar music.  I actually found myself humming along, and for a while we had a nice harmony going.  Me, Hanchrow, and the rain; I think we just reinvented Bulgarian trance music.

Dr. Sumner is what I would call a one-pointed person; it’s not that he is uncaring, it’s just that there isn’t much room for anything that gets in the way of his work.  He’s like a coal miner; when he’s on a dig, his brain is like a torch that blazes straight forward into the tunnel he’s exploring, and everything else is just peripheral darkness.

For me, I suppose, the darkness is never just peripheral.

*****

May 10, 1993

Things move along in the usual sodden fashion.  Nothing of record breaking significance to report, except that Hanchrow and I continue to sort our potshards in the rain.  Occasionally I take walks through the countryside.

Sofia introduced me to Slivova, a plum brandy I’ve begun to acquire a taste for.  Sofia carries it with her in a small flask hidden under her vest…..Apparently women need to be, for appearances sake, more discrete about their Slivova than men.  She calls it her “foot warmer”.  So it is, let me tell you.

I have not been consistent with recording my dreams lately, a discipline I promised myself I would continue.  What was it Shannon used to say in her classes…?”Poetry is the dream made visible”?

If so, these are nursery rhymes.  I note that last night I dreamed about a quart of Haagan Daz Pecan Praline ice cream (or was that a waking dream?), I dreamed about an erotic encounter with Adam Shepard, and I dreamed I was walking along the cliffs by the Maritsa and began to notice that there were rock paintings and petroglyphs, layers of them, embedded in the rocks.  Some of them reminded me of petroplyphs I’ve seen in the Southwest, Anasazi perhaps, others seemed Pictish.  A great many of them seemed to be serpentines.

The first two dreams are rather obvious wish fulfillment.  Clearly ice cream is not the only pleasurable thing missing from my life.

The last dream is a little more obscure.  I went for a walk along the river a few days ago, an hour or so before sunset, when the shadows are long.  I remember observing the patterns the water had left in the sand on the bank, and thinking them serpentine.  According to the Chinese, “Chi” is the energy of life, and it moves across the Earth like a serpent or a dragon, so when you see the wavy, serpentine shapes in water when wind moves across it, or the patterns water leaves in the sand, you are seeing “Chi” made visible.

They call it “dragon tracks”.

Dragon tracks….nice concept.  Perhaps my “petroglyph dream” had to do with my walk?

Maybe it’s more literal…I cannot help but childishly wish it required less patience, less possibility of disappointment.  Just once, how about a few ancient markers, signs, to make it easier; like an archaic green arrow pointing the way, or an ancient X for “X” marks the spot, dig here!
Right.  Wasn’t that a movie?

This book can be purchased through Infinity Press  http://www.infinitypublishing.com/