The next day teenaged boys dove into the Aegean Sea to
look for a jeweled cross blessed by the Orthodox priest and
thrown by him into the water; one boy found it and emerged
like an elegant whale from the water, cross raised above his
head as high as he could hold it. The sun and the cross merged
into an astonishing brightness, the natural and the man-made
making the boy into some kind of religious prince. It was
beautiful and savage, and I could see myself bleeding out the
day before, a corpse on cold stone.
Knossos
I didn’t know anything about anthropology or the reconstruction of the ancient Cretan palace of Knossos by the English archeologist Sir Arthur Evans. I didn’t know it was the labyrinth of Daedalus or the palace of King Minos, the Minotaur symbolizing generations of sacralized bulls. I had no idea of
the claims that would be made for it later by feminists: the
bull was the sacred animal of Goddess religions and cults, the
symbol of the Great Goddess. One of the great icons of
modern feminism originates in Crete - the labyris, the double
ax. Both the bull and the labyris signified the Goddess religion,
and Knossos was a holy site. From 3, 700 years before Christ
to 2, 000 years before Christ, Crete was the zenith of civilization, a Goddess-worshiping civilization.
Originally I saw it from the opposite side of the road. A
friend and I went to have a picnic in the country north of
Heraklion; we had wine and a Greek soft cheese that I particularly favored; we were in love and trouble and so talked in our own pidgin tongue made up of Greek, English, and French.
I found myself going out there alone and finding refuge in the
intriguing building across the road, Knossos. I found the
72
throne room especially lovely and intimate. I would take a
book, sit on the throne, and read, every now and then thinking about what it must have been like to live in this small and intimate room. The rest of the palace that had been restored
was closed, and as soon as I heard the first busload of tourists
sometime in late April I never went back. But for a while it
was mine. I felt at home there, something I rarely feel anywhere. Once I was inside, it was as familiar as my own skin. I loved the stone from which everything, including the throne,
was made. I loved the shape of the room and the throne itself.
I loved the colors, as I remember them now mostly red and
blue but very pure, the true colors painted on stone. I don’t
think it is possible to go back to a place that has such a grip
on one’s heart; or I can’t. When I die, though, I’m going back,
as ash, dust unto dust - not to the stone walls or throne of
Knossos but to a high hill overlooking Heraklion. I belong to
the place even if the place does not belong to me.
