The holy smell of my grandparents' village after the rain
the wrinkled saints, with their faces scared by sun and labour
the voices of the sacred animals, the humble livestock
the psalms of the cicadas
the smooth river stones, the intricate tree barks
-the carvings of my personal sanctuary-
the baptism of the trouts in the concrete fonts,
right before their premature sacrifice to the tourists
the water running from the stone fountain
leading the creek into my mouth, into my soul
my very own holy communion.
*"Planiteron" is the name of a small village in Peloponnese, Greece, where my grandparents were born. I still go there every summer, Bo Burnham tour
to spend some time with them and clear my mind. It is known for it's small scale fish farming facilities and it's local food production of meat and dairy.