Michael Bugeja and myself have been exchanging emails intermittingly for many years. I was so busy then on a full-time editorial post. There wasn't time for long exchanges. But Michael had told me that I was his only contact in Malta. Well, two years ago I met him, his wife Diane and their son Shane, at last. And we had breakfast together at the Corinthia St George before they left for Gozo.
Michael has a very distinguished career. You may google him and find out for yourselves. I can never do him justice here. Malta and his native Gozo are very proud of him. Here is his contribution towards my Corona Diary:
"As I sit at my desk to write, Facebook just posted a "memory" of where I was on this day two years ago, with my wife Diane on the Gozo ferry to the Bugeja ancestral home of Għajnsielem.
Mikayle playing his virtual computer games. Photo: Diane Bugeja
We should be there now with our two sons, Shane and Mikayle. We are all dual citizens of America and Malta. But the coronavirus had other plans for us: sheltering in place in the middle of the United States in the middle of Iowa.
To be sure, our acreage perhaps is among the loveliest in our neighborhood. Aromatic trees of crab apple and lilac surround our large house on a cul-de-sac. We have a huge garden that produces baskets of tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, cabbage, carrots, garlic, potato and onions. We have a 25-tree orchard of apple, peach, pear, plum, apricot and cherry. We also own woodland with mammoth trees rising more than 100 feet harboring deer, fox, coyote, owl, hawk and eagle.
There is a popular saying based on the movie, Field of Dreams: "Is this heaven? No, it's Iowa."
In many ways, especially now with perfumed air and blossoming palette, our abode could pass for heaven. Outside all manner of songbirds trill matins and vespers.
Since the pandemic, I have been hearing a different melody: poetry.
My Maltese family and friends know me as a journalist. I was a correspondent for an international wire service and teach media ethics at an institution of science and technology. Earlier in my career I also was a prolific creative writer with poetry and fiction books published by university presses, winning one of America's highest honors: A National Endowment for the Arts fellowship.
I was honored for short stories about Malta based in part on my rebellious aunts. One was a nun in Marsa who left the order and the other a teen stowaway who fled to Australia. I combined their personalities into a character called Luna Fortuna who was as rotund and powerful as the giantess at Xagħra's megalithic temple.
All of my life, it seems, I have heard an ancient voice summoning me to Gozo. It's in my kitchen when I make pastizzi or bake crusty bread. It's on screensavers of my computer and social media posts from hundreds of friends and family in Malta. It's in my dreams, this voice, to which I have assigned a name: Calypso.
In Greek mythology, she was the goddess whose arias held Odysseus captive.
I should be in Malta right now, paying homage to her. But travel is forbidden because of the coronavirus. My medicinal remedies have been music and poetry. Recently I have been practicing my violin and mandolin after years of neglect and writing verse.
I share some poems here. "Calypso in Ethics Class" explains my Gozitan identity. *"Calypso, Empowered" dubs the daughter of Atlas as feminist. "Suddenly Malta" speaks about my cancelled trip.
My life is more complex than music and poetry. Sheltering in place with Diane and me are our two sons, Shane, a soil scientist, and Mikayle, a special needs teen son. Shane worries that we'll catch COVID-19 and is hypervigilant about any outside contact. Mikayle escapes from home to seek just that. Diane and I teach and advise online as professors at Iowa State University. Shane does the same for University of Minnesota Extension.
And with us are a tuxedo cat named Frodo and a white German Shepherd named Ellie, demanding attention and treats.
Typically, Mikayle and I spend the day driving to rural towns, remaining in our car with the windows open and his rap music playing loud. He is on the spectrum so I hear the same songs incessantly. But the driving soothes him. We also fish in and walk around the many lakes in our vicinity. In the evening he plays video games as Diane and I watch heart-breaking news about new deaths and cases of the virus.
When I am able, and the house quiet, I write as a practicing journalist for the Iowa Capital Dispatch. I continue my research on technology's impact on culture and interpersonal relationships. The pandemic has been a wake-up call for digital natives who suddenly realize the shortcomings of online lives. For the first time, many miss human contact and ceremonies associated therewith, like graduation.
Diane and I hope to return to Malta as soon as quarantines and schedules allow. Until then, I will continue paying tribute to Calypso who one day may release me from melodic chains, perhaps upon my retirement in the vicinity of Ramla Bay.
CALYPSO IN ETHICS CLASS
Perhaps I was at fault to mention her
Enchantment of Odysseus in a talk
About identity. I wrote in chalk
The megalithic isle of her indenture
"Ogygia," also known as Gozo,
My bygone home, its ominous allure.
I know her azure windows and the contours
Of her cave. Calypso sings in shadows,
Cascading waves like cymbals keeping time
In metronomes of mortality.
She won't release me from captivity
As she did Odysseus with a rhyme
But demands that I return and then remain.
I tell my class how culture has its chains.
SUDDENLY MALTA
There have been and will be again many destructions of mankind arising out of many causes - Plato on the lost island of Atlantis
The shipwrecked at first behold Filfla,
A jagged islet eliciting dread
In turbulent seas. Then there is Malta
With its hallowed menu of honey and bread.
These ancient islands have been a haven
For the likes of Caravaggio and Coleridge
Whose madonnas and meters are engraved
In grottoes of my conscience, unabridged.
The annals of my islands are Homeric.
You can still hear the arias of Calypso
Like a summons in this pandemic.
But I cannot return to my archipelago
As tourist, emigre, citizen or sage.
Suddenly Malta has vanished, a mirage.
For my cousins, colleagues, and friends"
Artist Pauleen Micallef sent us the above painting inspired by Corona. She writes: "Quarantine is contributing to nature. Clear air helps nature take its course. Now it is up to us to keep it so. Once we are through the pandemic we should learn from the contribution of quarantine in relation to air quality and nature."
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