Photography by Nikolas Karathanasis
SWINDLED & BEWILDERED
Lincoln Way Storage, Unit #286, June 2018)
Gone: The mantel clock stepfather carved for each of my siblings. A hippo collection hand-painted
by my nephew in stripes and polka dots inspired by the song I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas. A
cross blessed by a Guatemalan priest in la Basilica de Esquipulas, home of the Black Christ. The
cross necklace my father hand-carved for me. A cheese grater Mom brought from Norway. A
ceramic platter and two coffee cups, blue with sunflowers, bought in Colima when my sister had E.
coli. The ballerina music box Gma J. gave me as a teen. A Russian music box no bigger than a
quarter that played the Dr. Zhivago leitmotif Lara’s Theme. An Indian box, bright pink, bought at
Worldly Goods with my volunteer’s discount. A puzzle box shaped like the quetzal, Guatemala’s
national bird, bought on a research trip regarding gender and the Peace Accords. A mosaic pillbox
found at a garage sale. Two Russian lacquer boxes found in a clock shop in Eugene. A hair pin and
barrette collection, one Russian, carved from wood, another Nicaraguan, turtle shell I didn’t declare
when I returned to the States. What might those have been worth? Or the silver watch Mom gave me with
a Sandburg quote Time is the coin of your life. The Swiss watch, gold, a boyfriend bought during a
conference on the Continent, still in its red box. An ivory African necklace passed down from Gma
S. that I never found the occasion to wear. An Indian necklace made from a rupee. The pearls
encased in a velvet silver box, wrapped in a silver ribbon found on the storage shed floor, the pearls
Grandma-Great wore on her wedding day, inherited upon my 16th birthday to wear on my own
wedding day, the pearls fought for when I left home at 18. I should have placed them in a safety deposit
box. And other decoratives missing. A blown glass vase from Aunt Jo. The hand carved Eskimo sled
and huskie from adventures Gpa S. had building the Alaskan railroad. The tea set with an apple
design sent from a roommate who moved to New York. A Mardi Gras doll bought in the New
Orleans French Quarter. For years I displayed these on that shelf I intended to refurbish like my
cherry wood table that won a purple ribbon at the State Fair, still in the storage shed corner. Next to
a piece of lock and a piece of cork from the Biltmore Riesling saved for graduation.
ON MY NEIGHBOR MOVING NORTH TO MILWAUKEE
(Carbondale, IL, September 2019)
This time last year I browsed his yard sale, admired a music box, ran my hand over the cracked
mosaic lid, opened it to hear the theme from Dr. Zhivago, Mother’s favorite epic, the inspiration for
my name. I don’t often see him, don’t know much about him other than he served in the Navy, a
medic, his thesis something about squid in the desert. Sometimes we wave when he smokes on his
porch or takes his wife to work. This morning taking out the garbage, I saw a moving van in his
driveway, furniture on his lawn. Strange this should upset me. Guess it’s that Upper Midwest
tugging. I remember the Brewers game, the vats at the Pabst Blue Ribbon brewery I toured with
Great Grandma Pinky. Caught a scolding from my first-grade teacher for sharing a beer can as
“show and tell.” But to beat the weekend traffic, they’ve left already. Who knows how long that blue
house will sit empty? And the river of necessity demands I’ll soon move too. Still, I cross the street
before the garbage man can junk the music box on the curb next to a mop and broom. I run a finger
over the yard sale sticker, open the lid, hear Lara’s Theme and wonder how my neighbor knew.
POSTCARD FROM CARBONDALE
“This is country,” I said to my neighbor when he told me he was done with Carbondale and moving
to Oklahoma City where there are skyscrapers. “I’m done with Carbondale” is a phrase I’ve heard
many times since I moved here, the doctoral student finishing her degree and moving home to
Indianapolis, the fiction writer who lived across the street moving back to Milwaukee. And it’s true,
Iowegians are few and far between. My first year I’d circle the Gaia Center’s Geocentric labyrinth
asking “Why am I here?” But peach cobbler welcomed me. And Kentucky bluegrass. I’ve acquired a
taste for New Year’s fare: black-eyed peas, ham, and cornbread. And discovered peppermint
toothpaste as a seed tick deterrent. Wheelchairs buzzing down the one-way lanes no longer surprise
me. On campus, The Old Baptist Foundation’s stained-glass windows soothe. A cement slab of
engraved quotes on the law building, from Cicero and Lincoln to Anonymous, inspire, as do
performances at Mcleod Theatre where I was introduced to August Wilson’s Gem of the Ocean,
entertained by the musical 9-5, and spent a delightful Sunday in the Park with George. The Green Earth
trails, like Oakland Nature Preserve, refresh, especially the StoryWalk children’s books like The Day
the Crayons Quit. And though at times I’ve longed to board an Amtrak line to Chicago, Memphis or
New Orleans, the bumper sticker: I love my coal miner, has attained meaning. So, though I too am
done with Carbondale in a few weeks, and don’t know how often I’ll return to this college town, I
want to take in as much country as I can.
O, if only we
can strive to savor exits
tend our entrances
⁓ In consideration of the Carbondale I encountered my last weeks as a resident, June 2021
About the author:
Laura Sweeney facilitates Writers for Life in Iowa and Illinois. She represented the Iowa Arts Council at the First International Teaching Artist’s Conference in Oslo, Norway. Her poems and prose appear in sixty plus journals and twelve anthologies in the States, Canada, Britain, Indonesia, and China. Her recent awards include a scholarship to the Sewanee Writer’s Conference. She is a PhD candidate, English Studies/Creative Writing, at Illinois State University.
In the artist’s words:
I am Nikolas Karathanasis, living in Athens, Greece. My implication with photography began several years ago. I associate my work with black and white film through experiment and research; the smell of chemicals, the joy & excitement of composition.
Within the past years, I work with digital photography. I have participated in several exhibitions in Greece and abroad.
Facts, pictures of everyday life, ideas, people and their passions, whatever moves in the space of exaggeration.
All this is inspirational to me.
Photography, as i see it, means communication with the world and this is my motivation. I use many photographic techniques and skills to frame daily scenes and to manipulate the light so to build a bridge of communication with people, in a subtle way. This becomes a vessel for sharing ideas, thoughts and feelings. In so, we are extracted from loneliness, and create a humane environment. New perspectives for the mind to walk on, think, wonder.
This photo is from a project I am working since late of 2016 under the name: “Surrealism Fragments in daily life.” Captured scenes of daily life in the realm of surrealism as a result of the contrasts we face everyday at home, at work, in relationships. These are the moments when the subconscious combines the fields of reality & imaginary and visualizes images of positive emotions, anxiety, fear, hope.
Laura Sweeney moved the ground under my feet.