Soundtracks 1

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone
I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars
Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire
Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars
Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares
Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me...

(Dante’s Prayer- listen to it always early in the morning, especially July, August and September last year- and the dawn of February 16th-I will never be able to listen to this song without remembering the first light of dawn over the roofs and the trees close to home.)

turning of the tide

sometimes life reminds me of the turning of the tide
you can never foresee when it comes
even though you have seen it happening many times before

θα φύγει και αυτό θα δεις θα περάσει σαν καράβι μικρό που λιμάνι θα πιάσει

Greatest Hits 1: the truth about the tyrant

once upon a time, a loyal dog that knows a lot about technology

met a hairless but clever goat and an obstinate donkey- and they all together walked and found a solo but beautiful camel

they asked her whether they could joined her

she said 'that's awesome-come!'

and then

they became friends and travelled together

throwing apples

'listening to jazz for fun'

dreaming and singing the moon

throwing party poppers

with loosy sounds

and 'trying to understand him'

when the ice cream van was leaving

and the ladders were left without shoes

they knew that they would go on together

travelling is always better with good company after all...

and they lived happily ever after :)

ole ole ole ole champions Cafila!

Ανασκόπηση

A for Αθέατος βασιλικός μυρίζει..
may the smell of an invisible basil always accompany me, to remind me, to recall, to narrate..

A for Athens, September 2002
‘you are about to embark on a most delightful journey’ read the note in the fortune cookie- a group of four 22-year-old girls cheered and applauded; about to go; the flight was the next morning- ‘that can only be a good sign’ thought on the way back home that night

A for Aldwych, October 2003 and the woman with the butterfly in her hair, in the Cinnamon Bar.

A for ‘αρχή του παραμυθιού καλησπέρα σας’
this is the beginning of the tale; good evening.
the beginning of a retro-month; random notes and memories and stories of the last five years; my five years in the UK which are about to end- in a month from tonight; in this turning point – shall I say ‘watershed’?- I will dedicate posts in June to some of the memories, stories, meetings of these years- forgive me if at times these writings might seem self-referential; in fact, they are not- I am sure that some of you, reading these ‘force-fed’ or not ‘force-fed’ memories, might remember that they were part of them. This is not a retrospect of my greatest hits; it is a retrospect of our greatest hits.

small request

To whoever it may concern:

I have checked the date. more than five times. I want to make sure that none turned the calendar backwards. It is confirmed: it is not the 28th of February or March but of May. This means that in three days, June and ‘summer’ will be here. Great! But .. why what I see outside my window reminds me of gloomy, miserable winter? That’s why I am writing to you (dear weather, God, Gods), like I used to do as a child- it is urgent and very important you see: Can you please bring the sun back? Because in order for me to grow, I need love, water and sunshine…

Yours sincerely,
Andromeda

A la maniere de Marcel Proust..

This is not an interview- I am just playing the game that Mia started; or that it started from Marcel Proust and lately is becoming fashionable in Greek newspapers. I am writing in English though, since I know that some of my favourite people would not be able to read it if I were to write in Greek. So, here we go:

What is absolute happiness for you?
The moment that you don’t register as absolute happiness
What makes you wake up in the morning?
A cup of strong coffee
When was the last time that you burst into laughter?
A couple of hours ago
What is the defining feature of your character?
I don’t really know
And your defining flaw?
Stubbornness, lack of patience and anger
Which mistakes can you forgive?
Those that I could have also made
With which person in history do you identify yourself?
History is not about identifying..
Who are your favourite heroes today?
Those who have no name
Which is your favourite trip?
The one that hasn’t started yet
Your favourite writers?
Dostoyevski, Kane, Τσίρκας, Σεφέρης (to name a few)
What qualities do you prefer for a man?
I’d rather be surprised but definitely I need to see a sparkle in his eye
What qualities do you prefer for a woman?
Same as above
Who is your favourite composer?
By now Χατζηδάκης
Which song do you whistle when you shower?
I never whistle- I’m terrible
A book you cannot forget?
The Idiot, Ακυβέρνητες Πολιτείες
A film you cannot forget?
Ulysses’ Gaze
Your favourite painter?
Magritte and Cezanne
Your favourite colour?
Purple of course, and these days blue
What do you think is your greatest achievement?
Everything and nothing really
Your favourite drink?
Gin n’ tonic and Guiness
What have you regretted the most?
The times I was not honest to myself
What do you despise the most?
Arrogant stupidity, lack of awareness, ungratefulness
When you don’t write which is your favourite pastime activity?
Walking around and making up stories or hanging out with my friends
Which is your biggest fear?
‘That the sky will fall on my head!’- I rarely know my fears, apart from darkness
In which cases would you rather not tell the truth?
When it’s not worth it
What is your motto?
These days, ‘let it be’
How would you like to die?
Fighting for what I believe
If you were to meet God what would you like him to tell you?
What difference would it make?
What is your mental condition these days?
As usual- hard to define.

Breath

Σ’ αυτό το πολύ βιαστικό μας πέρασμα από τη γη καθένας μας αφήνει μια ανάσα,
μια πνοή κι όλα μετά τα σβήνει. ..

what is the colour of human breath?

a little bit of everything

a little bit of everything- beat by beat-rain with sunny intervals, cold again -everyday, more young faces in silence- don’t have the memory of how it felt -getting sick of watching them but didn’t know all these places, such a great chance at the very end-a little bit of everything-rhythmic changes, but not always- lists of things to be done, more to be added, some to be postponed, some never to be done- the bag with the carnival stuff, where is it?- the voices from upstairs getting louder, not letting sleep- went off the train at the wrong stop and then was trying to find a taxi but being unable to- it was midnight but, I swear, it was plain daylight- ‘you’re going North, apparently’- a little bit of everything- gin n’ tonic and guiness, very good company-but I’d rather sit outside- plans for travelling, more travelling- ‘what are we going to do next?’- a toast, happy smiles- a little bit of everything- a new interesting book, thank you- throwing apples, efficient once- a little bit of everything- The blue beast grows despite all- structure clear or rather satisfactory- everything will end in Greenwich-then, the story is not to be read but narrated and his name will be revealed- still don’t know his name, it’s strange but understand him, or rather begin to understand him- feel guilty when don’t write- but cannot all the time- a little bit of everything- ‘small girls love pink; when they grow up, they paint their dreams either in red or in purple’; ‘this cannot be the answer; it’s too easy’- a little bit of everything- a card and a box with chocolates- café mocha, not espresso- «Μαμά γερνάω» as background music- missing, finding anew- a little bit of everything- rain with brief sunny breaks- no, today, only rain, feels like winter- please, let the sun come back; whisper a song for the sun or for a little bit of everything..

there’s nothing you can do that can’t be done/
there’s nothing you can sing that can’t be sung/
nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game/
it’s easy.
nothing you can make that can’t be made/
no one you can save that can’t be saved/
nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time./
it’s easy.
nothing you can know that isn’t known/
nothing you can see that isn’t shown/
nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be./
it’s easy.
all you need is love

Questions for the audience

Why are Danish called Danish?
Can someone love someone else 179%?
Why 0 divided by 5 equals 0 and not 0,0005?
What happens to the wisdom that we have as children when we grow up?
Why the train station of the town I am living has not changed at all, even though more than a century has gone by?
Where is the lovely drawing I made, wrapped in red, travelling now?

τις Κυριακές από παιδί τις σιχαινόμουνα…

An awkward combination

what happens if you mix lime and cinnamon?

May finally

wishes are not to be said
they are supposed to come true

first day of May
once more, it smells like white roses

Neeext

The perfect recipe: take a train to London, have a coffee and enjoy the feeling of a relationship that has grown so much in the last four years and be assured that this person will stay in your life.
then skip the ‘serious’ performance you were supposed to go, take the tube, let a great friend lead you somewhere you’ve never been before, find a river in the middle of nowhere- sit on a fish bench and be jealous of the man in the construction site who learnt so much about you in half an hour..
then mingle with people outside a pub, then choose another beautiful bar, have some tasty margaritas (we are going back to tequilas after all these years-still tastes great after all), laughing, and remember some of your good, old witchcraft-just a lovely day.
Result? a new motto: what’s next? (a job? a new home? a new country? a new friend?? who knows…anything, anyone, anywhere.)
Life is beautiful- not necessarily because it is, but because it happens every moment.
‘that night the blue radiance covered the city, and for the first time he fell asleep’

Radio stories

I love listening to the radio- when I was younger, I thought I could always have a radio-show. Not so much for the music but for the random things that radio producers often say in order to fill in air time, including easy tips for better living, or what I call the ‘wise thoughts of the day’.
Here is today’s example. The radio producer said, quoting some ‘philosopher’: ‘it appears that the average person abandons their efforts the moment that they are closer to success. The people who succeed are those who have the patience and perseverance to carry on even if it seems that every hope is gone; because that’s the moment they are closer to the achievement of their goals.’ No comments.. if that’s what they call philosophy, who am I to contest it? I love radio-stories; they always make me laugh.

Sonata for a Good Man

He puts on the headphones, listens, takes notes. For days and nights, years in files later on. He is living the lives of Others, he is a Stagy spy in East Germany in the 1980s. He spies a writer and his actress-girlfriend.. and he keeps his eyes open. He is not watching, he is only listening..keeping his blue eyes wide-open, in an image of fixation of the life he would never have. He goes back home, to his empty flat, some rice and ketchup for dinner, and on the TV the propaganda of the ‘actually existing socialism’, where the state ‘must know everything’.
In the German film The Life of Others (Das Leben Der Anderen), the story fluctuates between the one who cannot live and the others who do not want to live. Yes, the film is indeed a strong political statement about the violation of civil rights and constant surveillance of artists and intellectuals, everyone in Socialist Germany, which somehow reminds of the present and our surveillance. But for me, the film is more about how even those who are supposed to live, cannot actually live- the writer and his girlfriend are never free to live, and this is not only because of the oppression and the ways in which the state dictates their actions. Both of them are incapable of living; she is ready to betray him or has already betrayed him from the start; he, a typical leftist intellectual (in a cynical way he reminds me of people in other countries in other times) is constantly undecided, whether he wants to act or not, whether he can live or not- none of the two actually lives. I felt no sympathy for either of the two characters tonight, while watching the film in an almost empty suburban movie theatre.
I did not feel sympathy for the one who is constantly watching them either; but I understood him. ‘The Sonata for a Good Man’ at the end of the film is an act of guilt I think- guilt of those who supposedly lived their lives, but ultimately were never ready to do so.
Definitely a good film but I would have preferred it if it was a novel- and the sounds and the images were only in the brain, as usually happens for anyone who is living the lives of others or (as someone I am starting to find out about) has no story of his own.

Forms Forms Forms

Was it Hamlet that said ‘Words, words, words..’? Or Macbeth? (I am confused even though I am supposed to be almost a doctor in theatre.. ah!) Anyway- this is not the point.. whoever was saying ‘words, words, words’ was right, but these days I keep on sighing, muttering ‘forms, forms, forms’ (that have to be completed with words, words, words)!!!
The story of my life is full with forms- applications for Masters, PhDs, funding etc etc (and I am sure I am a typical example of my generation). But 6 applications for jobs on a week (let alone those I have already done in the past months) is a bit too much. And of course, it is reasonable to say- well, copy and paste the same thing to all required boxes- easy to be said, hard to be done. Because every form has a logic of its own, different boxes for the same thing- first give a number of publications you have in box 6 and in box 11 write the full name, where it was published, even how many pages it was! First write in abbreviated form your titles, then write the dates, courses etc etc and the titles again. (luckily they don’t ask to write first your name and then whether you are the first in the family to have this name or if not, to list all your grandparents who had this name before you!) List your teaching aspirations and then explain how you achieve it and then attach a separate document with your teaching profile. And finally, attach a CV, which supposedly includes all the above unless you have led a double life! Really, these people have nothing better to do with their lives—the question is: do I? (I hope I do!)
PS. Luckily my friends have a great sense of humour and leave me with some great things to keep me company when I get sick of all this form-filling obsession. Thanks to Dr Gonzo and Mia Wallace for giving me The Life of Brian. I have no right to complain, thinking about what poor Brian is going through in this brilliant film—and the ending is wise, to say the least.. let’s sing all together:‘always look at the bright side of life’ (regardless of forms! now let’s get back to business..)

The Other Beast

The first entry in Jorge Luis Borges’ dictionary of Imaginary Beings reads:
“on the stairway of the Tower of Victory there has lived since the beginning of time a being sensitive to the many shades of the human soul and known as the A Bao A Qu. It lies dormant, for the most part on the first step, until at the approach of a person some secret life is touched off in it, and deep within the creature an inner light begins to glow…when someone starts up the spiralling stairs, the beast is brought to consciousness.. at each level, its colour becomes more intense, its shape approaches perfection, and the bluish light it gives off is more brilliant. But it achieves its ultimate form only at the topmost step, when the climber is a person who has attained Nirvana and whose acts cast no shadows. otherwise, the beast hangs back before reaching the top, as if paralyzed, its body incomplete, its blue growing paler, and its glow hesitant.”

I came across this entry this morning and smiled. So different from his blue beast, but the blue radiance is common - sparkling at night, in the alley with the three doors.

Deja-vu,the uncanny strikes back

Could it be that we invite things and people in our lives? Could it be that what can be experienced at the present moment as an actuality was before a past imagination? Was I here before ever knowing the sensation of actually being here?
Randomly browsing a ‘no-name’ document that remained unread and incomplete for a while, I came across the fallen angel again- and now she has not only the aura of gold and purple around her but also a name. Her face is becoming more and more clear, she is definitely the youngest of all. The day she painted the walls of her room blue, she wrote down a sentence. She didn’t know that someone else would write the same line many months later, trying to breathe or trying to forget that what they were actually experiencing had actually happened before.
‘our stories are children of the same father’, you have said once- I hate to admit it but you were right.

The Belarus Free Theatre, or when politics meet theatre

In a small black-box theatre of a university campus somewhere in the North of England, last Friday, I had one of the most intense and most probably unforgettable theatrical experiences ever. I have never heard of them before but there they were in front of me, three women and four men, the members of the Belarus Free Theatre performing Being Harold Pinter, a collage of Harold Pinter’s recent political plays and his Nobel Prize Speech.
On a bare stage, with very few props but very intense performances from all seven actors, the linguistic, sexual, mental, physical and psychological violence and oppression that characterise plays such as One for the Road, Ashes to Ashes, Mountain Language, The New World Order combined with the playwright’s angry outcry for ‘human dignity’ in his October 2005 Nobel speech, came alive and left us all, academics, theatre scholars and members of the audience dumb-founded. What started as a piece about how Pinter’s characters come to life, how they dictate their actions and the playwright can do nothing else but obey them, turned into an almost autobiographical piece of the performers about their lost freedoms and constantly violated civil rights in Belarus. The piece finished with some of the true stories/letters of prisoners in Belarus at the moment, people who are not able to talk in their own Mountain Language.
The actors, director and producers of the piece talked to Harold Pinter and all of us after the end of the show; they explained how they are constantly chased by the regime, how they have to perform in small clubs and private spaces- apparently in order to rehearse the piece we saw, they had to change 20 flats because they were constantly on the run to escape the regime. The actors have lost their jobs in the 25(!) State Theatres of Belarus, some of them have been put in prison once or twice, a friend of theirs has been kidnapped and still missing. But what was extraordinary about these people, true dissidents, was that they did not show any self-pity even when one of the two producers started crying, remembering of their missing friend; there they were standing, determined individuals and artists, explaining to us how things are in Belarus and what they do about it.
And I kept thinking, going back to the discussions in another conference I had attended some months ago in Helsinki: The theatre is local; what Harold Pinter’s plays mean to these actors cannot be the same to what they mean to me or the British audience. And that is what makes theatre contextual and deeply political, after all. But that is also what makes theatre global- the travelling plays in different contexts, in different moments, with different resonances.
As I was leaving the theatre, deeply moved and unable to speak, I stopped and looked at the stage once more: the only thing that was left in the front was a crushed apple- Pinter had asked some moments before ‘What is this?’ and the performers replied ‘freedom-crushed’.

Επιστροφή

After some days in a Mediterranean background, here I am again, somewhere close to London but not in London. And apparently it’s been warm and nice and sunny. Well, I think, it’s only natural, almost mid-April, things can only get better. Il cammello solo says that it just needs a sense of humour. Another friend quoted the wisdom that an old teacher used to say: ‘life is like the sea; after the tempest, you will always find calm and nice waters..’ It is hard to say what is home at this moment, but perhaps if we stop worrying too much about it, home will reveal itself to us.
One thing for sure though: things will be different from today (add some dramatic music here to really grasp the essence of my words and open your mind…)

Ερινύες

like a fairy-tale castle

and the dragon outside

guarding the door- you can't break free even if you want

like poison

spending days wishing for the taste to go away- but no..

how can I forgive, if I cannot forget?

sadly enough, some questions remain without an answer..

in time

Απρίλη ψεύτη

I am spending more and more time with them
they reveal themselves to me whenever they want
the way they like
already four of them
two balancing between fiction and disappointment
between blue and mauve
and the old couple
who never goes to sleep..

but the I will be a man
the traveller- he who has no story
and only tries to find the fallen angel…

when I get back,
have to go to Hampstead; something waits there- I know now…

ode to traitors

it is because of these days
I am thinking what betrayal means
what makes one a traitor
the one leaving
the one letting down
last thing to do:a kiss

Judas, Ελένη, Eφιάλτης, Αλκιβιάδης
random names
there are so many more
what makes one betray?
is it lack of faith? or is it that otherwise things would never change?
perhaps the traitors are the most loyal ever..
perhaps..they know that they have to change the order of things
and carry the burden of a false kiss

Bouche ferme

only silence..for once

27

tonight

with the company or memory of those who love me

tonight

with the bitter-sweet taste of the last six months

tonight instead of wishing happy birthday to me..

a picture of the universe

an appropriate ending to the 27th year of my life

an appropriate post in a blog that is about planets that drift

a blog that is all about the smallness of our lives in this big universe

about the small, the minor, the non-important but important at the same time

about what makes one smile,cry,fall in love,get angry,excited or thoughtful

in this constant motion of our lives or the universe

tonight

I close my eyes and try to imagine the universe

I don't thınk that the picture is actually real and even if it is, I don't think it is enough

I close my eyes and imagine the universe

I remind myself of how small I am in this constant movement of energy and time

never before so many conflicting feelings inside

never before feeling so young and so small

never before so scared but willing to say goodbye to this old world

and let myself be enfolded by this greatest power..

the blue beast is somewhere around,because it is not only what we are aware of that exists...

and let this be the thought that will keep me company while I continue my journey

not to be reproduced

leave me out with the waste
this is not what I do
it’s the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you
it’s the wrong time for somebody new
it’s a small crime and I’ve got no excuse
is that alright with you?
I give my gun away when it’s loaded
is that alright with you?
if you don’t shoot it how am I supposed to hold it?
is that alright with you?
no

(repetition- time is relative after all)

Βράδυ Σαββάτου

και για να θυμηθούμε λίγο και τις ρίζες μας και την εφηβεία μας:

βράδυ Σαββάτου και εσύ είσαι κάπου
άραγε πού να βρίσκεσαι, γιατί να λες;
περνάει ο χρόνος, βαρύς και μόνος
και όλες τις σκέψεις μου για σένα δεν τις θες
άδεια η πόλη πού πήγαν όλοι
και όλοι είσαι εσύ που έφυγες χωρίς να φταις
άδεια η πόλη τι γίναν όλοι
αν με θυμάσαι στην υγειά μου κάτι πιες..

because maybe I’ m too young..

R for Reasons

retrospect
rollercoaster
response
rational
return
respect
right
regret
responsibility

one

hiding and exposure is the same

Repos

even puppets need a break
somehow
with no strings

Improper

Faust falls in love with Margarita
disguised one night he goes to her room
she is not around
he walks in
observes her things
imagines her in the room
he looks at his reflection in her mirror
and stops..
I shouldn’t be here
the devil is smiling behind.

Faust has sealed a pack with him
He got a second chance to be young again.
If for one moment, though, only for one moment
he thinks ‘this is true happiness- if only time could stop here’
then he will be damned for ever.
the proper pay-back..

Have you ever wanted to be somewhere but the moment you get there,
you knew that you shouldn’t be there?
και η ερώτηση είναι: πώς φεύγεις;

Europe

These days I have been developing an obsession with an idea: Europe. The word has almost replaced another geographical location that (as the people who know me can testify) I refer to a lot: Greece. From the topical, the particular to the more general, ‘international’- but again, perhaps there is something topical and particular about Europe. Something that unites the European countries, that makes them different (not necessarily opposed to-but different) from countries in other continents. Is this a utopia or a thought that remains marginalised because of the fear to be elevated and turned into a new ideology? Because, in the past, this strong belief in European political, cultural and ideological supremacy fell apart when the same ideals caused some of the biggest wounds in history.

Starting from some very practical questions and the need to define a clear research area for an upcoming presentation, I find myself wondering more and more whether Europe is something more than a continent-a place on planet earth. Whether it is a singular entity or just a term that embraces many singulars and cannot become plural? Whether it is worth further research and what are the risks? Is it an empty signifier? An imagined non-community?
Last night, I saw David Greig’s Europe at the Barbican. I don’t think that the play or the production gave me any answers, I am not sure whether it provided me with new questions either.
But still re-reading the note for the production, I find myself wondering: are there ‘old’ and ‘new’ Europeans? Who are they and how can we tell the difference? Who can use the name ‘European’ and what are the connotations? Who is the ‘self’ and who is ‘the other’ in Europe now? Can the outsiders perceive more clearly than the insiders? and if not, how do you become an ‘insider’? And what do we long for? What have we lost?
Do we want to be called ‘Europeans’ and if we do, then what do we mean? The narratives of religion, or sovereign democracies and nation-states have supposedly been delegitimised by now (thanks to the WW2 and the ‘postmoderns’); so, what is the solid foundation for Europe? or a Union for Europe? And if it is impossible to be realised in political and institutional terms (no wonder that the European Constitution was not ratified in some member-states or that other members states did not join the EMU), can it happen in cultural terms? What does the word ‘supranational’ mean? it is obscure, it is institutional; is it void? I am questioning my intuition: ‘there is something about Europe and theatre that has not yet been found’. Or, is there? after all, what does Europe signify for me and do I have a responsibility to find out? (again, starting with autobiographical questions…unavoidable, I guess.)

No answers.. the circles are growing and the centre is always displaced and dislocated. Perhaps another journey is going to start soon.. perhaps, this time, a map will be necessary.

just a perfect day..

Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road
Healthy, free, the world before me.
the long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth, I ask not good-fortune- I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth, I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road

The earth-that is sufficient
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;
I carry them, men and women- I carry them wherever I go;
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;
I am filled with them and I will fill them in return.)

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons
It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions
They may prove well in the lecture rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds,
and along the landscape and flowing currents.

W.Whitman’s song of the open road
for the simple happy thought
and the lightness
and the ending that marked a new beginning.
for a moment in London
when people kept staring at me
and I kept staring and smiling at them
and they didn’t know why
but I did- and it was enough…

looking for the blue

not know what to write
looking around the room
trying to hold on to something
some sort of inspiration, of newness-
no- not my voice
borrow words from someone else
but not the ‘usual suspects’

he kept staring at me, demanding my attention
I took the book
randomly opened a page and read

une chambre qui ressemble à une rêverie, une chambre véritablement spirituelle ou l’ atmosphère stagnante est légèrement teintée de rose et de bleu. L’âme y prend un bain de paresse, aromatise par le regret et le désir- c’est quelque chose de crépusculaire, de bleuâtre et de rosâtre ; un rêve de volupté pendant une éclipse.

Baudelaire revealed again
in blue

what lies inside..

anticipation and stress
strong heart-beat and pulse
then
wind on the face
the sight of the city over the bridge

flickering lights
and humidity
seeking orientation
taste of strange red wine
the smile on your face
and rivers of words
smell of winter
eyes open or closed
the branches of the trees struggle me
‘did I dream you dreamt about me?’

and..
walking in the rain
watching people passing by
listening to languages I don’t understand
waiting
walking some more
remembering four years

taste of orange juice
the smile on his face
‘enjoy the freedom’

life.. wide open
see what lies inside..
no singular
only plural
simply a smile
that dissolves everything
in beauty and silence

thank you

5 Random Truths about me..

So, since my dear Mia Wallace made the request/invitation via her blog for each one of us to follow her example and write 5 things about us, here is my list:

1. Since I was 7, I had a collection of paper napkins from everywhere I was going; I stopped collecting at the age of 19, and now I have more than 500 different kinds of paper napkins. Since last year, I am collecting mugs from every place I visit.
2. At the age of 9, I organised a whole plot against my nanny in order to make sure that she would go; and I succeeded. Definitely, one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
3. As a teenager, I was crazy about football but did not support the club I was supposed to (i.e., for Greek readers, I was not an Olympiakos fun). Numerous fights with the boys, including one of them tearing the lovely poster of my club that I have made for the drawing course. Ah!
4. I hate celery, beans, and (to a lesser extent) eggs.
5. I confess: I read Harry Potter and my favourite character is Lord Voldemort.

I doubt that any of the above offers any more insight into who I am; but I will return to the topic in the future talking about the things that we love to say about ourselves- our self-ideologies.

PS. for Mia: I have an intuition that I know what you are going to reveal about me via your blog: is it in any way related to your Sunday visit and sleeping in my bed? do the words ‘duvet’ and ‘buttons’ ring a bell ;)?

Algos..

nostalgia
nostos-algos
seeking
the return
home

no(st)algia
no algos
no pain
no sense of home
no strings attached

sink in the gravity
or fly away
fearless
and free
‘it’s true; you have nothing to lose
now that everything seems to have been won’

Memories of a goldfish

running over the same old ground,
what have we found?

..soul closed in a fishbowl
making rounds around same things
same thoughts
same places and dreams..
if only..
have the memory a goldfısh..
and forget about the fishbowl

Des larmes

je me fais pleurer, pour me prouver que ma douleur n'est pas une illusion

les larmes sont des signes, non des expressions.

par mes larmes, je raconte une histoire,

je produis une mythe de la douleur

R. Barthes ,Fragments d'un discours amoureux

encounters of the last night

...a colourful dinosaur jumped on her lap
turned and looked at her
as if he was expecting something..
she stroke him like she used to stroke her cat

now this is her cat
looking at her with her usual frown on her face
but she is not white anymore
but ginger and she is sitting on the table
and waiting for her to wake up
and it will be summer again

(Summer by Miro,

and notes from the diary of a hyper 'bat-nerd')

Tuesday 13th February

για τις παλιές αγάπες μη μιλάς
στα πιο μεγάλα θέλω κάνουν πίσω
δεν άντεξαν μαζί και χάθηκαν μακριά
κρυφτήκαν στις σπηλιές χαμένων παραδείσων

'remember me- always'

...some years later
tried to remember
but no
only a song
only a date
Tuesday 13th February

I guess it's true,
nothing lasts forever-but nothing..

Bat-wings on a flying broom...

The ‘hyper bat- nerd’ returns… with her large bat-wings (like her good old grey ‘blanket’ covering half her face), running up and down in the flat trying out ways to fly and go save the world (or herself). A strong sense of self-discipline, tons of caffeine, many cartons of cigarettes and very few hours of sleep are necessary for this great endeavour that she has begun.

Last night she dreamt of flying on a magic broom, her ‘bat wings’ wide open, trying to catch something as small and precious as the golden snitch. When she woke up in the morning she could not remember what she was after; in any case, one day soon she might get her golden snitch..No caffeine, no tobacco, no self-discipline will be necessary- only magic.

Look around; soon, you will see her flying outside your window, on her magic broom, spreading her grey bat-wings..a ‘hyper bat-nerd’ is to become a witch (again)!

A white night

03.41
no sound outside
as if someone turned the volume down
I always liked staying up all night when everybody else is sleeping, wonder what dreams they are having
tonight I am awake
and in the darkness I can see pure white
snow is falling softly in the suburbs of London
covering gradually the roofs and the trees
all is becoming white
tomorrow morning people will complain about late trains and problems in commuting
all these I find boring
for me it's only about the joy of watching this silent dance of snow
covering everything
in silence
that's a moment of happiness

I will stay up all night
snow will keep me company
by the first light of dawn
the white of the snow will have covered everything
I will go out
let the snow cover me
dissolve everything
and vanish

03.51 the dance is getting wild
let it go on
in silence

A bottle in the ocean

Today I woke up and thought of three different topics I could write about in thıs blog. I thought the 'hyper bat-nerd', the icy river and the list of my recent 'discoveries' whatever this might mean. I even wrote the posts but then.
.out of the blue, as always, a surprise made me change my mind. A parcel all the way from Melbourne for me, a 'doctor'..and Elvis Costello and Leonard Cohen and sounds from our Greek childhood and some music I dont know and have to 'discover' - ..and the letter that made me smile and cry at the same time.

Thank you is never enough. A bottle in the ocean for you, for always being here even though you are so far away. For being a real friend, sharing, taking, giving..and silence in the room listening to some song and then you explaining- beauty and happiness is so simple..I just forget..

..she was wrong- she does not discover, she does not achieve or earn- she is, moves, flows, loves and people, real friends, old and new, meet her in different moments- and they simply are who they are, they share in theır presence, they laugh, they cry and then they let her go on- until the next crossroads. Until the next moment when a simple smile and a look in their eyes will make her feel warm.

And the bottle with or without a message keeps travelling in the ocean...

Friday Questions: What is?

it’s only a moment
when you can’t do anything else
it’s only a tune
that you play over and over again
it’s only a colour
that you cannot recall
unless you find it fresh and new
it’s only a madness
that can go away only if
you open your eyes
it’s only a made-up condition
that we taint by choosing words
it’s only what was left aside
and buried under piles of explanations
it’s only a moment before
building ‘I want and I can’ sentences
it’s only real and present
and you can’t do otherwise
it’s only what we make of it
and that’s why it is not one
it almost does not exist
it keeps changing
evading
escaping
flowing
it is a moment
not an eternity
not a condition
not a state
that is constantly there

it is made by each one of us
it is personal
but never alone

Only a provisional, clumsy answer to a tricky question that was asked today.
But why are we seeking definitions for things that we cannot define?
I never managed to answer this question; I always fail, somehow miss the point
Not much I can do about it because somehow I know the answer will always change along with smells, sights, colours, sounds..
What’s the question? Try to guess!
But it doesn’t really matter after all..each one of us has questions that will never manage to answer.

Υπάρχουν χρυσόψαρα εδώ;

Στον Παράδεισο έχω σημαδέψει ένα νησί
απαράλλαχτο εσύ και ένα σπίτι στη θάλασσα.
Με κρεβάτι μεγάλο και πόρτα μικρή
έχω ρίξει μες στ’ άπατα μιαν ηχώ
να κοιτάζομαι κάθε πρωί που ξυπνώ.
Nα σε βλέπω μισή να περνάς στο νερό
και μισή να σε κλαίω μες στον Παράδεισο.

(Ελύτης Το Μονόγραμμα)

Monday morning

Monday morning
echoes still softly playing in your ears
made-up stories still sleeping next to you
waiting for more life
let them sleep for now; don’t think twice

water the daffodils,
and look outside the window,
the sun is somewhere behind the clouds
‘spring is coming, I am telling you’
‘can you predict the future?’
listen to the birds
how I wish

put the kettle on,
coffee and milk,
put your papers in order, turn on the computer,
and choose between yellow, green, pink and orange,
wonder what the blue beast is
but leave it for the moment,
smoke the first cigarette,
check your diary and plan the week ahead
how I wish

water is boiling,
think what needs to be done;
‘careful, right moves and patience’,
‘just let go; it’s alright’
burn your hand- ready.

One more cup of coffee before the start.
Monday morning; smile if you can.

Another piece

almost like a jigsaw
the more you look at separate pieces,
struggling to make them fit
and connect
the more you get confused.
only when you abandon the jigsaw for a while,
and then look at the bigger picture from far away,
you might be surprised-
another piece reveals itself
actually missing
but could somehow fit in,
another piece
another step.
will it ever be finished though?

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

people standing on the train
closed in their little bubbles
reading free newspapers
guarding their stuff
avoiding to look at each other
closing their eyes
I whisper
who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?

I get back home
lock the door
turn on all the lights
the big bad wolf
the big bad wolf

keep the evil eye away
who’s afraid?
the dark
put some music
the big bad wolf
the big bad wolf
have a warm bath
talk on the phone
smoke a cigarette
and then another
make a drink
cranberry and oranges
who’s afraid?

read a fairy tale before sleeping
telling the same story again
warming up your feet
get your childhood’s teddy bear
squeeze it
until you can’t breathe
who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?

close your eyes
no tears
who’s afraid?
bring the memory of a face
bring the image of the sea
drown in it
what you’ve become
where will you go
who’s afraid?
the big bad wolf?

who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?
who’s afraid of the big bad?
who’s the big bad wolf?
I am afraid of him

True Men Part II

Back in the day, I had promised to go on with this topic.
And here he is, tonight.: the one and only Ralph Fiennes.
In spite of what other people might say, after this film, every woman in the planet would love to call her 'Catherine' (said in his distinctive, slow way).

My most favourite, almost archetypal man!

2046

‘Why can’t it be like it was before?’

2046, a year that nothing happens, nothing changes. Like embarking on a train that never arrives at its final destination. Can you escape from there? Do you want to? And if you do, what story are you going to say to explain why you left at the first place?

In 2046 (2004), a beautiful, sensational and thought-provoking film by Kar Wai Wang, a writer is writing a novel, making up a story about a future moment when all memories can be captured and in a new context relived. Throughout his many encounters/fragments with different women in an old hotel in Hong Kong in the 1960s, he travels between past and future, illusion and reality, cigarettes, red lipsticks, mirrors and sliding doors and the number 2046. A film about love, loss, remembering and forgetting- a film about a future moment somewhere in the past. Definitely, a must-see.

Ceasefire

‘ο έρωτας του κορμιού
ο έρωτας της ψυχής
πρόσεξε μην τ’ αναμίξεις’
[‘the love of the body
the love of the soul
careful; don’t blend them’]

your face on the window
on the train
travelling at night
no-not night
late in the evening
faster and faster

rehearsing words
‘have to be witty
have to be smart’
closer and closer

for the battle
under the hill
‘bring out your sword
I’ll count up to three’
‘I don’t want to fight you- walk with me’
the streets turn
like a labyrinth
a black shadow is following
but you cannot see her
where is the end of the line?

the library
smell of rotten paper
and old books
the first light of day
déjà-vu
covered with flowers
drops of water
falling

two little bottles
a dark blue
and a white
‘don’t blend them’
too late
the colour of the sword
was now light blue

(notes for a Saturday,

borrowing from G.S. always

and the faces of the Fayum, Egypt)

A thought a day

How many thoughts cross your mind everyday?
I dont know; never counted them.
One thing leads to another.
the 'association game'.
in the middle of a thought, something breaks.
something is lost.
another comes.
and the journey goes on..
But eventually, I don't care how many thoughts I have a day
as long as I have one.
But what is the colour of (my) thought?

Once more

a white piece of cloth
a red ribbon
a blue beast
an old hanger
two people
no sense of home
travelling ‘flying Dutchmen’

a smile in Latin characters
the face of a woman
popping a pink chewing-gum
the smell of oranges in November
and fires burning in the night

first material
for something
that travels on its own
despite me
like a cheek pea
that might never grow
but I will carry in my pocket

Will the Greek remain..?

Ξύπνησα με το μαρμάρινο τούτο κεφάλι στα χέρια
που μου εξαντλεί τους αγκώνες και δεν ξέρω που να
τ’ ακουμπήσω
έπεφτε στο όνειρο καθώς έβγαινε από το όνειρο
έτσι ενώθηκε η ζωή μας και θα είναι πολύ δύσκολο
να ξαναχωρίσει.

Γιώργος Σεφέρης. Μυθιστόρημα

[I woke up with this marble head in my hands
and it exhausts me, I don’t know where to put it down
it was falling into a dream as it was coming out of the dream
so our lives became one and it will be very difficult to break.]

remembering of olive trees

and beautiful first lights of dawn

and summer sunsets in open air theatres

and the image of the city from the hill

nostalgia but unavoidable some times..

Technology or Nervous Breakdown?

This might seem like a change of tone for this blog but I will allow myself to do it for once.

Today, I want to write about something that might seem small and trivial which, though, is extremely important for me and makes my life a lot easier. I am referring to ‘my precious’ laptop that for the last couple of days, it’s been going crazy, turning itself off for no obvious reason, and making my life difficult. This IT crisis is about to lead me to a nervous breakdown…
Because when you are stuck somewhere in the suburbs of London, without many things to do, and you want to survive these ‘rainy days’, at least what you need is a computer in order to stay in touch with the world. I do not want to list how many things I am doing through my computer, because I know that I am not the only one who lives and works in this way. But just because, I am not the only one in the flat who suffers an IT crisis, I wonder whether the technology breakdown is a sign.
Perhaps, I should stop living that much through the laptop and start spending more time in the real world. Perhaps, I should understand whether I have a software or hardware problem and get it fixed..

Suspension

the moment before
stands still
in the stillness
a million potential of movement enclosed

the moment before
about to make a decision
which direction to take
which line to draw

halas! the direction already there

the moment before
any decision
any choice

‘regarde! the Foucault’s pendulum’
embrace the delicate and harmonious
perpetual movement
beauty, for
stillness and movement become one

Quo vadis?

insatiable and never-ending

take the wrong turn
'do not hurry the journey at all'
and ask: what's next?
and 'pray that the road is long'
and nobody gives me a map

Reflections

and wonder who you are but accept you anyway
and tell you about the tree angel enchanted forest boy
who flew across the ocean because he loved you

and tell you the truth when I really don't want to
and try to be honest because I know you prefer it
and I think it's all over
but hang on in for just ten more minutes
before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am
because it's beautiful learning to know you
and well worth the effort

New Year's resolution: Find your reflection in other people's eyes...

(borrowing words from Sarah Kane's Crave, painting by Paul Cezanne)

Fragments, places, words

Every year
same old habit
putting the baggage of a year aside
the ritual
remembering
good
bad
moments
of the year that is about to go away

every year
same old habit
spending the last 24 hours
of the last day
of the year
playing the game
which word describes each month?
which colour?
what was the best moment of the year?

every year
same old habit
on the pages of green diaries
the review of the year
classifying it
a ‘good year’
a ‘bad year’
‘productive’
‘a year to forget’

every year
same old habit
now on the page of this blog
fragments
pictures of places
each place
a story/stories
to remember
or to forget

but again only fragments

fragments
words that were said
others that were silenced
dreams that came true
those that lasted only for a night
moments of joy
of frustration
loneliness
at a loss
for words, for things, for eyes
brief unexpected encounters
surprises
stories to put myself to sleep
fragments
of myself
a year before
a year after
a year in review
not as easy anymore

pigments of colour on white canvas
and blank spots
and roads that I walked
and roads that I missed
and those that wait for me
in the New Year
and places that I dreamt of
those that I’ve been
and those that I will not return
and people
and moments

all fragments
my fragments
my 2006.

What makes one a grown-up?

A blurred image.
I have spent years wondering
'how and when am I going to grow up?'
A blurred image.
Of my first Christmas tree,
away from what I used to call home.
Now here is what I call home.
And this is the first time I will spend Christmas
at this home.
Is this the end or a new beginning?
Have I grown up after all?
A song
A tear of joy
A smile in spite of pain
A blurred image
of gold, silver and red Christmas lights.
This is adulthood for me tonight.
Merry Christmas to all of you.

The fate of the romantics

-all romantics meet the same fate someday
cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café
You laugh.
You think you're immune, go look at your eyes, they're full of moon
You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you
all those pretty lies
When you gonna realize they're only pretty lies
just pretty lies?
-you haven't really changed
it's just that now you're romanticizing some pain that's in your head
you got tombs in your eyes, but the songs you punched are dreaming
listen, they sing of love so sweet
when you gonna get yourself back on your feet?
love can be so sweet.

(painting by Magritte

words by Joni Mitchell)

What keeps me company

Alone..after such long time.
Stuck in front of a computer..working constantly.
Memories of the summer return.
Days without meeting anyone.
Strange, stong feeling.
Silence.
And the sounds of the songs that keep me company.
Like this one:

I lost myself on a cool damp night
I gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotised by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see
And be what I want to be
When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more that I ought to drink
Because it brings me back you
Lilac wine is sweet and heady,
Like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady,
Like my love
Listen to me, I cannot see clearly
Isnt that she, coming to me
Nearly here
Lilac wine is sweet and heady,
Where's my love?
Lilac wine,
I feel unsteady,
Where's my love?
Listen to me,
why is everything so hazy?
Isn't that she, or am I just going crazy, dear
Lilac wine, I feel unready for my love
Feel unready, for my love.

This is what keeps me company tonight. And the memory of dear friends- like you with whom I first heard this song in a cool, damp night last year and then you got me Jeff Buckley's Grace as a birthday present.
Now that you're so far away and we cannot drink wine together, at least I have the song to keep me company and remind me of you..

Memoirs of a Week II: The Playmobil City

Living with a six-year old boy for six days
with no adults
no internet
no blog
can it be that I ended up hallucinating or
is it really that I saw playmobils walking
drinking coffee
eating du canard in restaurants?
Find out for yourself:
visit Nantes in Loire Antlantique
and perhaps you will see
playmobils waiting for the green traffic light..
Otherwise, this is my private hallucination
thanks to my lovely nephew.

Advice of the day: if you feel that your life is not that good and you get disappointed or miserable at times, spend some time with a child..this will definitely make you change your mind and see things in a brighter way. Even playmobils can walk in the streets then..and you will sleep as a child..sweet dreams μωρό μου.

Memoirs of a Week I: Brief Encounters

Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport. Saturday afternoon, second day of December. Sitting on a red couch, drinking gin and tonic, waiting for the flight after the one I missed, the flight after, I am watching people coming and going.
A sound like the music that used to play when I was a baby, sleeping in my cradle. Departures, arrivals, the sound of baggage, bags, trolleys rolling..
Watching the crowd, looking at the bar in front of me: a woman in her early forties, beautiful eyes and make-up that reminds me of an aunt that used to visit us every December before Christmas, is talking with a man. They are strangers, I think. After all, she was sitting already atthe bar when he came, asked for a lighter and ever since then they started talking.
Twenty minutes are past, they are chatting as if they’ve known each other for ages. I go on observing them: she is smiling while he is trying to hold her hand-could they’ve known each other or is it a brief unexpected encounter in an airport, where strangers can become friends in a very short time because they need company? Sound of departures and arrivals, I am looking for the sign of brief unexpected encounters.
A man is staring at me for some time now- or is he staring at me? or is he wondering what I am writing? You see, the problem with writing is that it is active and attracts attention, especially in places like this bar in a big airport in the centre of Europe, where everyone is either reading or chatting with a stranger, or at least staring at other people doing different things. The sound again.. I am staring at the man too- he starts writing.
I am stopping for a moment, ordering coffee, lighting a cigarette, looking around, waiters are serving people, smiling, with some of them they are rather friendly. The woman and the man go on talking, they are laughing loudly now. Last sip of gin, first sip of espresso, a sweet nostalgia for an unexpected, brief encounter, somewhere in the past or the future. I pick up the pen again and get ready to go on writing:
‘Strangers at airports can’/but.. hold on a minute.
The man and the woman are getting ready to go, he is helping her put on her coat- perhaps they knew each other after all? They are walking to the exit together and, then, he is helping her with the suitcase, she is kissing him. No.. this was not an unexpected ‘airport’ encounter, I was wrong. That was a moment of life that I only happened to witness in an airport. So much about unexpected circumstances and brief encounters…
Final sip of the espresso, the sound of departures reminds me that I should get ready, no more writing. I am walking to the exit, I am looking at the man (he stopped writing when he saw me leaving), he is vaguely smiling at me, I am smiling back and start walking fast- I am almost running away.
‘I have to catch the flight after/after the one I missed’, she said.