by Christos Polydorou
I hadn’t planned to be at the sea that day. I was living in Cyprus at the time, so I had a car, and there was a sea, which I could have met whenever I wanted to, but even so, I didn’t so much. I was too lazy, too bored, too distracted, too in need to lock myself away in my room and paint tall pictures with pales of prepared acrylic paint. The paint, I wanted to be near it all the time, I travelled great distances to find it, the baths of Aphrodite for all the blues, the gorge of Avakas for the yellows and oranges, the rock of Romiou for the one hundred shades of white required to represent the inner power. Even so, something human grabbed me, even though I was driving a car. A Japanese Toyota Duet is still a car. Now that I live in London and I do not need to need a car I feel something has been returned to me that was broken in me when I was driving my car. Anyway in Cyprus I was naïve and so I drove my car, ascribing to it all the personal significance of a Pegasus, but it was just a locomotive, in flimsy tin, and me in it, packed like tuna. But I ended up at the sea, by the chalky mountains plunged into it, and me on the cliffs looking out into the Mediterranean. It was a bearable July day. It was almost too beautiful. I didn’t want to go back, so I released my car into the sea. The car floated away, and a few weeks later, it ended up in Japan. I set off to walk the one hundred kilometres back home, but Cyprus is such a small island, someone eventually picked me up and took me to Nicosia. He was driving a Mercedes.