my angels

Some things we plan, we sit and we invent and we plot and cook up;

others are works of inspiration, of poetry;

and it was this genius hand that pushed me up the hotel stairs to say my last goodbye

to a hair as white as snow and of pale blue eyes

closing my eyes and actually praying; not to God above but to you, saying:

I'll love you till the end of the world..

(images of favourite angels, words from Nick Cave, Till the end of the world

just for the unspoken prayers of these days)

the ethics of (dis)embodiment

I cannot make up my mind about the abortion performance art project at Yale university and questions of ethics, ownership and closure of representation/reproduction/embodiment and disembodiment.

Who owns the body?
How much harm can a body take?
I am not questioning whether it was 'correct' to launch such a project-or even whether it is a hoax--even the idea is quite simply incomprehensible..but then again the materiality of the body is potentially the only thing that each one of us owns?
But ultimately I cannot help but asking a rather old-fashioned question: what's next? Have we reached our limits by now?

For more see:
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,351730,00.html

u-topia

thinking of belonging these days
of belonging and home
and no man's lands
Gulliver is constantly in my mind...
probably because i am in Ireland
and the days are growing longer

να μας πάρεις μακριά
να μας πας στα πέρα μέρη..
με Λαιστρυγόνες και με κύκλωπες
όπως πριν όπως πάντα

10+1 things that i learnt on my birthday

1. that the beautiful gardens in the Museum of Modern Art are not supposed to be playgrounds
2. that it comes in handy to wear a hat on a day that starts with sun especially in case you take the Dublin Bus
3. how to pronounce correctly Aran and Leenane
4. how (not) to (dis)appear
5. that certain restaurants are closed on Sundays for dinner
6.how to eat snails in a great French restaurant in the heart of Dublin
7. that it would have come in handy to have an umbrella rather than a hat when it is raining like crazy by the end of the day
8. that it's good to be back home and smell roses, vanilla and drink aromatic tea while rethinking and rewriting about belonging and imagination
9. that some friends never forget you even if they are in the far end of the world (Australia/New Zealand)
10. that I will be able to get Far Away So Close, at least in the German version
and..
11. that life is weird..but still wonderful/wundervoll...

28 ή πάμε για άλλα

03.35 says the watch--yes, of course, this is the time of the year that we go an hour ahead--and this is the time of the year that coincides with my birthday
28 now..
they just stole an hour from the 29th year of my life

but it doesn't really matter
i will go to bed and tomorrow morning i will feel the smell of white roses, planted the same day that i was born
and hear the sounds of water
and dream of an ideal sunset somewhere in my hometown
and know deep down that everything will go fine
and i will be happy in the end
against all odds
and against all methods

been there
done that
had the T-shirt
dont want to do it anymore..
turn the page
take a deep breath
and go on..
this is my birthday present to myself this year and more will come...

what's this thing with honesty?

-I want to know everything about you. Because I am insane.
-I just want the truth.
-I'm telling you the truth.
-You and the truth are known strangers.
When I get back please tell me the truth.
-Why?
-Because I'm addicted to it. Because without it we're animals. Trust me, I love you.
What?
-I don't love you anymore.

(Patrick Marber. Closer)
ps. really..sometimes why are we so obsessed with truth and honesty? for truth's sake? for our sake? or actually when we are saying we are being honest, perhaps, those are the moments that we are being the least honest to ourselves and the world?
Next time someone says they are honest, think twice? honest to whom? and for which reason?
I love Alice--'I dont love you anymore...'
and thank you for your honesty...

angels wings

and something else..

to escape from mortality and loss, can I please have a pair of angels' wings?

time to fly away..

I blame the body
not for existing
but for not being able to block the ways it remembers
what was it this book that said that the body is an elephant?
everything prescribed, ascribed there
just there..
the moments of sadness and joy and fear all put on the map of the body
and a tiny prick can make everything burst out again
revived for a moment in the sadness of silence

tonight I drink for the body
I blame the body
I worship the memory that remains unspoken, unfound, uncompromised
and yet to be remembered...

Heaven and Hell

'but the truth was that I did not believe in heaven then, and never would. And when I thought about hell, it was just very quiet.'

Anne Enright. The Gathering

on the first night of spring, what is interruption..really?

margo writes about interruption..one thing: is time ever interrupted?
the more I think about it, the more I realise that you cannot interrupt the circular pace of time..and even if you think that you did, look back and perhaps you will find out that time was interrupted in that exact same place before..
time is a bastard, a whore, a witch, elusive and concrete..cannot be owned, cannot be interrupted
it just flows and takes you with them

on the first night of spring

the wind is blowing like crazy outside
and the candle smells like melon and mistletoe and wine-what a strange combination of Xmas and summer..but this is the first night of spring...
and on the first night of spring
I dream of a weird place with red lights and transparent light pulps
listening to Ella, drinking gin n'tonic
when was the last time that you played musical statues? well, last winter..cause it was winter after all..
the first night of spring
the equinox and all that

on the first night of spring
eat ice cream and hold the tear that is inappropriate to be shed
because it was shed a year ago
and open your purple notebook and rediscover the blue beast
and the man who travels without a story, looking for stories

look at yourself in the mirror
and try to understand who you are but accept it anyway
open the blind and look at the full moon playing hide-n-seek with the clouds..
and write a loosy, gloomy post in your blog after all this time.

...someone asked me how nights smell in Dublin
I can't really tell..
tonight I climbed the window and went off to the secret balcony
and I inhaled the night
but nothing was distinctive about it..just like in Athens
places from a point onwards lose their distinctive smell
like lovers that you've had for years and their smell blended into yours

the first night of spring smells like something you've always known
but cannot really tell..
it smells like fragments of what used to be called 'human contact'..

calendar days

tick, tack, another second
23.59, february the 29th so close..
tick tack the rain still falling
another cigarette perhaps..i thought i quit well..perhaps next time
00.00 midnight
march the first
does it matter? i guess not anymore
March..happy birth-month to me
at the end of this month, i will be 28..thirty days from now
365 days before..whatever happened..

tick tack another drop on the window
this shouldnt be a miserable post
blame the tequilas
and the blue beast attacking me for i have forgotten him for so long
nights going by..nothing new, nothing strange
αν καμια φορά είναι τόσο δύσκολο είναι γιατί
κάποιες φωνές δεν σωπαίνουν όταν τους κλείνεις το στόμα
απλά βρίσκουν άλλους τρόπους να σε κλωτσάνε..

last night i dreamt that i was dreaming
drinking champagne on a cliff
and only a room with big windows was floating in the air
on the top of the cliff
and i woke up this morning and outside there was only rain...
march finally..for another year..no matter what..

hurt (like Samantha)

independence and self-sufficiency are myths..no matter how much I respect and have worked towards them, this morning I realised how awful it is to wake up, be in pain and be alone..and the archetype of the hero does not work in such cases..because the pain is strong and even the voice of a stranger offers a lot more consolation than the voice inside you..

actually i think, i cannot really write it, but yes I must, actually I do hate being alone..especially when I know that there are certain people in this world who could be by my side, but I (chose to be) am away from them..

now that I feel better, the pain went away, it's reconstruction time again...reconsideration...think back; what is really important? what matters the most and what can you do for that?can I find a way?

ps. the title of the post is trying to distort its seriosity; did anyone understand what I am referring to?

passing by

drinking red wine in a pub when saw him passing by
he stared at her for a minute or two
in an ideal world he would approach the window wanting to take a picture of her
while later on some drunk men actually did that and she thought that it would be cool to merge the memories
but he did not
he just stared at her..for a moment remembering the moments of true naked human contact, days before...months..did this ever happen? really? did we ever have coffee at 3am?
did i ever wake up at 8.07 and you were already awake starring at me?
and why are you starring again at me tonight? from a distance?

and then still staring at her, he moved on
and disappeared from the frame
the character-passer by in the movie
no,he was not supposed to become the central character
too busy, too complicated, too complex and preoccupied for such a role
she smiled and realised one thing:this place was finally home..suffocating, familiar but home

and she wanted to fly to the island next door
and feel young again..close to..
love the simplicity of a tiny phrase...'miss you'

Copy-Cut-Paste

write about examples, singularities,pluralities, what exactly we choose to love when we fall in love, the loved one per se, and feeling that only if we stop being examples we can find our uniqueness..
a tissue of quotations, the voice inside, back to deconstruction and the death of the author...going over and over, the diaries, copying their words, mad at himself..another night, cannot get to sleep..
his voice is lost, hidden behind numbers of others who try to reach them in the darkness, whisper words in their ears, he can no longer see her, somewhere lost, holding her beautiful shoes, lingering for a moment in the tube, piccadilly line last train to caledonian road, want to get off, have to get off--kings cross--damn lost you now..
just pure gold, never heard the voice..have to make it up..

a pastiche of voices and stories and sounds inside..
for example..which one to choose?
never before so cryptic, yet so clear in his mind..

let go/ you might lose yourself (otherwise)

fading out...

some photographs might turn yellow when time goes by

and some memories when narrated for a hundred times

sound a lot more trivial than the first time

and some times it takes a lot less effort than you expected

and things just are a tiny bit easier than before

and you feel better--admit it!

it's February

and according to a particular calendar

of a place that I just get to know

this is the very first month of spring

bizarre though it might sound

I think that this time I would rather 'classify' February

into my spring months

rather than the icy heart of winter

that always left a distant memory covered in snow

fading out..again and again..

ausgang..

huge,vast parks and 'platz'

and brown leaves, no leaves

and vast skies, all the world could fit in this place

beautiful, painfully sometimes

the night close to the wall and the topography of the branches nearby

and a dim light coming from the moon? no, rather the purplish roof of the complex building

a golden aura

and a smirk in her eyes while

the bus to the zoo centre passed her by

and then, the umbrella broke

but her wings protected me--

victory at last came down the pedestal and introduced herself to me..

something is changing

don't know whether it's love

but it's gotta to be what the germans call 'ausgang'

i.e. exit

i.e. way out---free at last

writings on the sand

as if in a dream
a blindfolded woman in a red dress
writing letters and making shapes
on dust or sand
whispering or singing
something like:
'dont take your hand away.it's not that i am feeling anything for you.It's my skin that remembers. Or perhaps it doesn't matter to it,does it?
when i close my eyes you are beautiful. Or hunchbacked if I want it. The privilege of the blind.they drew the better lot in love. they are spared the comedy of circumstances: they see what they want to see. the ideal would be blind and deafmute.the love of stones.'

then opens her eyes, wipes off everything
leaves..next day she will be back as if..

(photo: Duchamp & Man Ray, L'elevage de poussière,

text with extracts from Heiner Muller's Quartet)

'at my back the ruins of Europe'

..i am dreaming of sand and heavy ladders

and plenty of neon lights like those in the tunnel of Frankfurt airport

and the sound of the iron, metal hammer

breaking down the ruins of Europe...

i dream of beautiful laces being burnt

like those that Penelope was making while waiting for Odysseus to return (did he?)

'something is rotten/in this age of hope/

let's delve in earth and blow her at the moon'

and i see the sun setting in the West

over a sea of clouds..while the beautiful couple and their baby are smiling to me

the search begins--'my drama is cancelled'..(H.M)

can the character turn into machine? and how?

2007,this one goes to my blueberry year

‘a blueberry pie is left whole every night;
Why? What’s wrong with the blueberry pie?
Nothing is wrong with the blueberry pie;
it’s just that nobody wants it.’

And so, here we go again..last year I was writing on the very last year of 2006, now I am writing in the first hours of 2008—last year I was writing about fragments and people and places and memories and moments
This year I want to write about my blueberry year, this bitter-sweet taste of a year that lasted two hours less since it started in a home that no longer exists to finish somewhere that is yet to become home and most probably will never become.

wanted to press a button and be home;
my reflection on the windows of south west trains,
sometime before midnight
tasting Guinness;
the 22nd of March, counting stops
knowing that I had to get off-the biggest mistake of the year,
but why regrets now?
Walking in the forest..why didn’t I stay there forever?

And tell you about the tree angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you; and I know 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..

The reflection of myself in your eyes
Made me understand who I am—and what I wanna be
And what I will try to become..
And this reflection is not that bad..

Not for what I thought
Bless the universe for a blueberry year
That I was never planning to have
But when I tasted, I found my way to what might this year reveal itself as home…
[a small personal note:

always friends..and I love you

last and only open letter to you-if you ever find your way back to my drifting planets, read this just to find out that what I’ve told you so many times during the year was actually true. something that belonges to the blueberry year that is now over.
(pause..sigh..change the rhythm..)]

remember (you who read this,me who write this)
be generous and grateful for the gift of life..
and make the choice to be there..
here and now

always.
..and so the story continues..

Happy New Year 2008; a year that might not taste like blueberry anymore

and who knows? this might make a difference

Οι εξαιρετικές μας στιγμές (για τους φίλους)

(αντί για ευχαριστώ, αφιερωμένο σε μια όμορφη εικόνα)

Αν υπάρχει κάτι που δεν θα πάψει να με ξαφνιάζει ποτέ, είναι το πώς και πού ενώνονται οι άνθρωποι--όχι το γιατί,ενδεχομένως εν μέρει και το πότε. Η νομοτέλεια της γνωριμίας με κάποιον άνθρωπο είναι πάντα συναρπαστική..αναρωτιέμαι καμια φορά, αλήθεια 'πότε άνοιξα τη πόρτα και μπήκε αυτός/αυτή στη ζωή μου;' και τις περισσότερες φορές δεν θυμάμαι--μάλλον θυμάμαι, τις στιγμούλες μετά, με κρασιά λιώμα σε ένα γήπεδο τένις κάποιου πανεπιστημίου στα περίχωρα του Λονδίνου, με άλλα αλκοόλ και θαύματα στο βράχο της Ακρόπολης βράδυ Ιουνίου λίγο μετά την αλλαγή του αιώνα, κάποια βράδια σε ένα μικρό καθιστικό της πρώτης ενηλικίωσης με ήχους από Ντύλαν και Σαββόπουλο και Τζόνι και Τζεφ, καπνίζοντας, δεν μιλάς--δεν μιλώ..'πςς άκου-άκου' και μετά να λες τις ιστορίες..κάτι βράδια να σταματάμε στην εθνική, για τσιγάρο και καφέ και ας είναι 3 το πρωί και η παράσταση να είναι χάλια..για να ξεχνάς της αρχαίας ζωής τα παθήματα...και χρόνια πίσω, βράδυ Ιουνίου και πάλι, σε μια βεράντα να ακούμε τον 'άνεμο της αλλαγής' και να κάνουμε τα χάρτινα πιάτα φρίσμπι, να φτάσουν στη θάλασσα του Πειραιά, να γίνουν καράβια, να φύγουν μακριά, να φύγουμε και εμείς μαζί τους..'αν σε χάσω θα χαθώ..' και να είναι η πρώτη φορά που το λες και το εννοείς..και όμως δεν χάθηκες

τις στιγμούλες μετά, όχι όμως και τη πρώτη στιγμή--τη πρώτη φορά τη θυμάται κανείς μάλλον μόνο στον έρωτα...γιατί εκεί είναι και η στιγμή που σφάζει τον χρόνο και μετά παλεύεις να την κάνεις διάρκεια--με τους φίλους, είναι αυτά τα σταυροδρόμια, είναι αυτές οι τελετουργίες που σμίγουν με μαγειρικές και όνειρα '- πωπω ρε κουμπάρα, τη τυρόπιτα έκανες πάλι -- αν πάρω τη δουλειά εκεί, τότε θα..-' τραγούδια και χορούς, τσαλακωμένα χαρτομάντηλα, ουρλιαχτά και εκκωφαντικές σιωπές--με τους φιλους είναι η πορεία..η διάρκεια,τα μπαλόνια που πετούν στον ουρανό και μετά πιάνει βροχή και όμως..
με τους φίλους είναι που χάνεσαι και ξαναβρίσκεσαι και τόσα αλλάζουν στη πορεία αλλά δεν πειράζει,θα τα ξαναβρούμε--ίσως γιατί με αυτούς οι 'εξαιρετικές στιγμές' πάντα πηγάζουν από αυτή την βαθειά γνώση του 'εγώ' και του 'εσύ' και του 'εμείς'--είναι που ξέρουν πως δεν υπάρχεις μόνο στα βαθύτερα εντός αλλά και σε κάποιες επιφανειακές περιοχές, που ξέρουν να ξεφτιλίσουν μαζί σου ό,τι αξίζει να ξεφτιλιστεί και να αγκαλιάσουν αυτά που ξέχασες να θωπεύσεις για χρόνια, που ρίχνουν 4 κουταλιές ζάχαρη στον καφέ ενώ εσύ τον πίνεις σκέτο και τη ζάχαρη στο σπίτι την έχεις μονάχα για αυτούς..

είναι που σε λίγες μέρες κάποιους από αυτούς θα τους ξαναδω κάτω από χριστουγεννιάτικα λαμπιόνια και άγιους βασίληδες και θα ξαναβρούμε παλιές διαδρομές..στα σκοτάδια και ξανά στο φως..και εγώ θα δακρύζω στη μυρωδιά του κύμινου ενώ αυτοί θα λατρεύουν τη κανέλα

break the pomegranate

if a human is not an onion, then it's a pomegranate..made of millions of red seeds..none of which is complete unless the rest is there
or it's like the clown coming out of the box-always unexpected. always recognisable. always unfamiliar. always welcome and always somehow, someway found when we least want to open the box.

you see, these days, the more I think about people, the more I decide that they are like onions..you need to have patience and peel them and even if they make you cry, go on, peeling them to find their essence--there is always an essence no? otherwise, they just hide under layers and layers and there is nothing to be found...
no, people these days remind me of onions..the white ones that take the smell of painting away and they can make you cry even if you sit in the upper circle of the theatre..

λίγες οι νύχτες με φεγγάρι που μου αρέσουν...

τελικά τα πιο όμορφα φεγγάρια τα έχω δει στον βορρά
απόψε, στο Δουβλίνο για παράδειγμα είδα από το παράθυρο τη πιο όμορφη πανσέληνο των τελευταίων μηνών..
και σκεφτόμουν αυτή την παράξενη γυναίκα με το λουλουδωτό παλτό και τα επικίνδυνα μάτια, γύρω στα πενήντα, να λεει πως μια τέτοια νύχτα στο προαύλιο του Τρίνιτι στάθηκε και ακούμπησε τη πλάτη της στον τοίχο, κοίταξε το φεγγάρι και κατάλαβε τι σημαίνει να γράφεις από τον τάφο..
για μένα βέβαια αυτή η ασημένια λάμψη πάνω από τη γειτονιά δεν μου μοιάζει με τάφο--αλλά ούτε και με κάτι ζωντανό-ενδεχομένως αν όλοι οι ήχοι σταματούσαν να ένιωθα τι ήθελε να πει αυτή η παράξενη γυναίκα, που μες στην αμηχανία μου, ακούγοντάς την γέλασα..με το καχεκτικό γέλιο του ανίδεου

Random thoughts-Monday midnight

είναι που κάποια βράδια περιμένω το τηλέφωνο να χτυπήσει
ή την οθόνη να αναβοσβήσει και τη σιωπή να σπάσει

είναι που 'το ζεστό νερό το πρωί μου θυμίζει πως είμαι ακόμα ζωντανός'
είναι που ακόμα διαβάζω Sarah Kane και ανατριχιάζω ολόκληρη

είναι που η γεύση του καφέ ακόμα μπορεί να με κάνει να αισθανθώ μια γλύκα
και η μυρωδιά του μανταρινιού φέρνει τα Χριστούγεννα πιο κοντά
και εκείνη την εικόνα του φωτός να τρεμοπαίζει

είναι που το μπλε μου θηρίο δεν κρύβεται στη ντουλάπα αλλά κοιμάται στο πλάι μου
είναι που ακόμα κάποιες φορές κοιτώ έξω από το παράθυρο και βλέπω τα φύλλα να πέφτουν

είναι που τα δάκρυα πάντα συντροφεύουν και αλήθειες και ψέματα
είναι που ξέρω πως σε κάποιες γωνιές του κόσμου ακόμα υπάρχουν δικοί μου άνθρωποι
είναι που για άλλη μια φορά μπόρεσα να θυμηθώ και να ξεχάσω
να πω ένα ψέμα και να αλλάξω πλευρό
είναι που άλλη μια Δευτέρα πέρασε και τα κατάφερα να χαμογελάσω
και να πω 'δεν πειράζει--τα καλύτερα μου την έχουν στημένη στη γωνία--και σύντομα θα βρεθούμε πρόσωπο με πρόσωπο'

απλά βήματα..κάθε μέρα και άλλο ένα..και άλλο ένα..
ένα..άλλο..ένα..ένα άλλο και άλλο και άλλο...

instead of a proposal

felt it.here.inside.here

and when i don't feel it, it's pointless
think about getting up it's pointless
think about eating it's pointless
think about dressing it's pointless
think about speaking it's pointless

Here now.
Safe on the other side and here.

almost 7 years later, here and now..this is all that matters.

but you promised..

to tell me a fairy tale before I sleep,

never to make me listen to the same story again

dont bring me where I've been before

I'd rather sleep

dear dragon..you are the only one who is left tonight--but i know you are not a dragon,and soon you might be angry i even addressed you like that. goodnight--the clock will strike 0 soon..

dear dragon...i still read their writings and i cannot control them anymore--i want to give an end to all these stories but then if i do, who is going to keep me company in the long nights? i will never be able to write the chart of the stars and i will go on walking in the octagon room, with the inside of the pendulum staring at me..the stories should never finish even if that means that i will have to make up more for them..and swans, i need more swans close to the lake and a girl practising yoga by the baby-swans and their mother looking at her..with ...indignation--or suspicion..

dear dragon...
i looked through the looking glass of the camera obscura and i saw the cars moving over the shadow of my face--only later did i realise that this was not my shadow but what the others perceived as the shadow--the shadow grew stronger and bigger in the blue room, lavender blue room with the blue carpet and the spot lights--dancing with the shadow, i forgot about my shadow..and the girl with the white dress and the red lipstick in a car with leather, black seats

dear dragon..
the nights in that house were pretty cold and the fire would not last longer than two hours; he was walking around wearing the black raincoat, trying to concentrate, still reading the maps of the stars, not being able to complete the chart--some bastard decided to publish his unfinished chart of the stars-in turn,he decided to buy all the published charts--none should read before it's ready, before he is ready--so, yes, he was walking during the nights, looking at the stars, trying to complete the chart but the blue radiance was occasionally too strong and the nights too long and too cold--he never mapped the sky--it is only the inside of the chart that is exhibited now in that room you visited..or you are about to visit..(4,33 away)

One year old

Birthdays are always strange-you never know what to say. Today was the birthday of this blog; I had almost forgotten but then my memory is working in unexpected ways making associations between dates, people, places and things in the most awkward and occasionally painful way.

'the figure is a constellation..What else is in this universe, this drawing? Other stars, far away. I hunt through my tools and find a needle. I begin to prick the paper full of tiny holes, and each pin prick becomes a sun in some other set of worlds. And when i have a galaxy full of stars I prick out this figure, which now becomes a constellation in earnest, a network of tiny lights..'

In a moment of absolute silence, reading this passage, I remembered-as if had a moment of clarity not through myself but through the voice of another and everything that appeared absurd and happening for no reason at all, for the past year, at that moment of perfect silence, seemed to have had a reason. And for this tiny moment, everything became transparent and every pain, every joy, every fear and anger that I have carried around in my universe since that Friday afternoon a year ago, vanished--

and left only me, with my here and now, this tiny portion of this all-encompassing universe. And I guess, this is a turn of the page..

I just can't do otherwise

Ποιο είναι το σημείο που ενώνει τον έρωτα και την "τέχνη", ή ό,τι άλλο κάποιος αγαπά πολύ; Οτι απλά δεν μπορείς να κάνεις αλλιώς-- και σε αυτές τις περιπτώσεις, που ουσιαστικά δεν υπάρχουν επιλογές γιατί η επιλογή είναι μία, δεν υπάρχουν ήττες ούτε νίκες..υπάρχει μονάχα πορεία, είναι γραμμένο στο DNA σου, μέχρι τη μέρα που θα μπορείς να κάνεις αλλιώς (αν ποτέ έρθει αυτή).

(μικρή απάντηση στο post του φίλου otibaleionous

και η Tinkerbell κλείσιμο του ματιού σε όσους πιστεύουν ακόμα πως μπορούν να πετάξουν--

ζωή είναι επτά να πέφτεις και να σηκώνεσαι οχτώ;)

The kind of silence

..you sometimes get in phone calls to a person that you love.
The kind of silence people only dream of.
The kind of silence that is only for waiting in.
The kind of silence as a thief makes away with the gold.
The kind of silence in a crowded house when everyone is asleep.
The kind of silence between waves at the ocean.
The kind of silence that follows a big argument.
The kind of silence that happens when you put your head under the water of the bath.
The kind of silence that only happens at night.
The kind of silence that happens when you close the curtains and climb into bed.
The kind of silence that has everything in it.

(Tim Etchells, Certain Fragments

image from W.Wenders' Wings of Desire)

my prayer for tonight, for what I am longing for

Freedom is what you make of it

Στα μέσα του Οκτώβρη πια, ή μάλλον, μόλις προσπερνώ το μισό του, μένοντας κάπου στον βορρά της Ευρώπης και βλέποντας τις μέρες να περνούν, θέλοντας να γράψω κάτι ευφάνταστο που καταλήγει τελικά να φαντάζει κοινότυπο..
και εγώ όπως και τόσοι άλλοι πιασμένοι στα δίχτυα μιας τροχοπέδης ή μιας ουτοπίας που αρχίζει με το γράμμα 'ε'..ελευθερία..τόσο σημαντική πια που έχει γίνει αυτοσκοπός. και κάθε φορά συνειδητοποιεί κανείς ότι δεν είναι και τόσο εύκολα εφικτή ή ότι μάλλον ισχύει στο ιδεατό Πλατωνικό κόσμο και όχι στην καθημερινή καπιταλιστική μας ευφορία (αν όχι εφορία!)
Είναι δύσκολο να σταματήσει κανείς το τρέξιμο και να αναλογιστεί τι έχει σημασία-ίσως γιατί το να σταματήσεις μια στιγμή θα σε κάνει να φανείς πιο δέσμιος των στιγμών που δεν σταματάς. Εγώ πάντως δεν προλαβαίνω να σταματήσω και ας είναι η καθημερινότητα μου η πεμπτουσία της προσωπικής μου επιλογής και ελευθερίας--στην τελική, ελεύθερη είμαι να κάνω ό,τι θέλω, έχοντας σπουδάσει πολύ, ζώντας σε μια δημοκρατική χώρα και κινούμενη στον ακαδημαικό χώρο, συναναστρέφομαι με ελεύθερους ανθρώπους και είμαι όσο ελεύθερη είναι και αυτή..

μονάχα κάτι βράδια, αναρωτιέμαι πόσα χρόνια της ζωής ενός ανθρώπου περνούν με το να περιμένει την στιγμή της απόλυτης ελευθερίας; για να είσαι ελεύθερος, χρειάζεσαι μια δουλειά, μια οικονομική ανεξαρτησία και μια κοινωνική καταξίωση--ή μήπως όχι; εγώ πάντως ξέρω ότι πολλοί από μας 'του 90 οι εκδρομείς' ζούμε ακόμα προσμένοντας την ελεύθερη στιγμή μας και ας περνούμε τις μέρες μας κυνηγημένοι από τις αυταπάτες της ελευθερίας και των προσωπικών επιλογών μας..

to be forgiven, to be loved, to be free..(S.K.)

a famous blue raincoat

for years now, he was going around with a black raincoat and a hunger/hanger

difficult to define what exactly he was looking for

but he had no story left for himself anymore

the blue beast had devoured it already...

but he will find her who that someone else missed..

whisper at the top of the hill

'i hear that you're building your little house

deep in the desert

you're living for nothing now

i do hope that you're keeping some kind of record...

did you ever go clear?'

bobrauschenbergamerica

the painter

and the work

such a brilliant theatrical experience; bobrauschenbergamerica by siti theatre

a great gift from the Dublin Theatre Festival

colourful, playful-just reminded me what good theatre means!

melting

I feel like something is melting inside me

and I know that it's winter

and the streets that had no name

all of sudden become everyday encounters

and the blue aura is nothing more

than - and

the colour of sky in dawn

when your eyes open

the memory is half burnt

half distorted

omnipresent

something is melting inside me

no words to explain

just happens

and I am back where

he used to be

September

so, it's been a while...have not written a word here, does this mean that I live life in an 'alive' and not that 'virtual' way? well, I am not sure--I blame the 'liminal' transitional stages in life.

I don't want to write about fears, fires and elections - ήταν τέτοια η μαυρίλα αυτού του καλοκαιριού, μακάρι να μπορούσα να ξεχάσω- ο Σαββόπουλος λέει για τα κόκκινα της δύσης που ανατέλει..δυστυχώς φέτος ήταν για τα κόκκινα της φλόγας που έγινε μαύρη και φρίκη. όσο για τις εκλογές, δεν έχουμε ελπίδα καμιά-νομίζω..μονάχα σιωπή έχω.

In the meantime, I moved to Dublin-the new life that I have 'ordered', now is becoming real..it feels good most of the times-good and scary as always. new faces, new places, new words and names--September like the Septembers of my childhood, when I returned to school,craving for more and at the same time wanting to hide under the desk..

the more I grow up, the more I realise how time is circular-even in a moment that appears entirely new, you will find out something that you may have encountered before. it's like falling in love with the same person over and over again, or making the same mistake over and over again. it feels f***ing amazing because within the newness, one can recognise what they thought they lost forever.

κάθε τέλος κρύβει μια αρχή-και κάθε αρχή πάντα έχει τους σπόρους του τέλους της μαζί..

Καλή αρχή-καλή χρονιά...

simple

tried to find pictures
played with words
remembered bees,
loosy poetry and popping chewing gums
the blue radiance in the making
and spiders like branches..
failed in abstraction-
some things are only simple and
they just happen to you
while sitting on the couch
drinking lemon ice tea and
watching stupid music videos
they happen-regardless..
some things are simple
but demand your attention
and want you to accept that they exist-

one thing-simple, accepted, fact
I miss you
regardless..

The Downfall

μια φορά και ένα καιρό νόμιζα ότι θα παρέμενες στο βάθρο σου για πάντα-μορφή στιλπνή σαν των φαγιούμ που είχες κρεμασμένα στο φοιτητικό σου δωμάτιο.
παράδοξο φίλε μου-απόψε σε είδα φευγαλέα στο τζάμι του μετρό μετά από περίπου 4 χρόνια-και αν και για ένα κλάσμα δευτερολέπτου σκέφτηκα να σε αντικρύσω, μετά όλα μου φάνηκαν τόσο μάταια-και έστριψα το κεφάλι-και για 2 λεπτά μοιραστήκαμε το ίδιο βαγόνι, αλλά και εσύ έκανες πως δεν με είδες και κατέβηκες μετά στην στάση Μοναστηράκι σέρνοντας μια βαλίτσα που ούτε καν το χρώμα της δεν πρόσεξα.
και εγώ σηκώθηκα να κατέβω στην επόμενη στάση γελώντας από αμηχανία και αντιλαμβανόμενη ξανά τη παντοδυναμία του χρόνου
είχες πέσει πια από το βάθρο σου-στα 33 και τίποτα δεν θύμιζε το εξαίσιο που κάποτε ήσουν για μένα.

nothing lasts forever-but nothing..

Ντροπή και οργή

Δεν ξέρω τι να πω πια- βδομάδες τώρα το ίδιο θέμα: Πάρνηθα, Υμηττός, Κόρινθος και μετά Αιγιαλεία..και άλλες πόσες περιοχές στην Ελλάδα.
Τα όμορφα δάση όμορφα καίγονται; και καλά το γνωρίζουμε ότι υπάρχουν εγκληματίες που δεν τους ενδιαφέρει να κατακάψουν τους λίγους πνεύμονες πράσινου που έχουν απομείνει σε αυτήν την χώρα-- αλλά από την άλλη, έχω την αίσθηση ότι υπάρχουν και άλλα δυο προβλήματα: πρώτον, παντελής έλλειψη κρατικού μηχανισμού- είναι γελοίο να καταδικάζουμε τους πυροσβέστες όταν άλλοι αρμόδιοι φορείς κωφεύουν και αδυνατούν να οργανώσουν τις επιχειρήσεις σωστά.άρα πρώτη ευθύνη, η πολιτική ευθύνη.
η δεύτερη ευθύνη είναι η ευθύνη όλων μας: σε σχέση με το πόσο συνειδητά ψηφίζουμε όσους ψηφίζουμε και μετά αυτοί θα επωμιστούν την προαναφερθείσα πολιτική ευθύνη. αλλά πέρα από αυτό, καιρός είναι να αναρωτηθούμε όλοι μας πόσο ενδιαφερόμαστε για το περιβάλλον και πόσο, ουσιαστικά με τις πράξεις μας προσέχουμε τα δάση, τις ακρογιαλιές, τη φύση γενικότερα. πόσοι απο εμάς έχουν δικό τους ή έχουν διακοπές σε κάποιου φίλου το σπίτι το οποίο μπορεί να το ονομάσει κανείς αυθαίρετο και βρίσκεται μέσα στο δάσος ή στην βουνοκορφή; πόσοι από εμάς δεν έχουμε μαζέψει τα σκουπίδια μας από τις παραλίες; πόσες φορές έχουμε πει "έλα μωρέ" και έχουμε ρίξει ένα τσιγάρο έξω από το παράθυρό μας όταν οδηγούμε στην εξοχή; πόσοι από εμάς είμαστε προσεκτικοί με τα σκουπίδια και ανακυκλώνουμε έτσι ώστε να μην μαζεύονται στις χωματερές ακατάσχετα πράγματα που μπορούν ενδεχομένως να οδηγήσουν σε πυρκαγιές; πόσοι από εμάς έχουμε την λεγόμενη "οικολογική συνείδηση" και καταλαβαίνουμε πως οι φόβοι των επιστημόνων για το φαινόμενο του θερμοκηπίου και την αλλαγή του κλίματος στον πλανήτη δεν είναι μόνο λόγια;
έχουμε όλοι μας ευθύνες και δυστυχώς φοβάμαι πολύ πως λίγοι από εμάς - ή για να το πω καλύτερα - η πάντα ένδοξη, σκεπτόμενη μειοψηφία (την οποία όμως ελάχιστοι υπολογίζουν) έχουν συναίσθηση τον ευθυνών τους σε καθημερινό επίπεδο. ντρέπομαι και εξοργίζομαι που χρόνο με τον χρόνο, βδομάδα την βδομάδα, μήνα τον μήνα, κάνουμε ό,τι περνά από το χέρι μας να καταστρέψουμε ό,τι πιο όμορφο και κυρίως ό,τι δεν είναι αποκλειστικά δικό μας- τον κόσμο που ζούμε. δεν υπάρχει πολύς καιρός- κάτι πρέπει να γίνει- τώρα!

ps. note for the English-speaking readers: the photograph is one of many from the huge fires that are burning some of the most beautiful forests in Greece at the moment; my rage and shame can hardly be expressed in another language- but we all need to understand that we have a huge responsibility towards this earth- NOW! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE..

the girl and the sea

να μας πάρεις μακριά
να μας πας στα πέρα μέρη
φύσα θάλασσα πλατιά
φύσα αγέρι- φύσα αγέρι..

a moment of bliss:
lying still on the surface of the sea
no movement
eyes closed
the rays of light caress you
and the warmth of the water..
a moment before you dive inside
and when you return to the surface
you have rediscovered yourself..

(baby) this is not goodbye..

just before night falls;21.33- train from New Cross to London Waterloo East, I look outside the window- know very well the movement of the trains- and the sight of the city, walking from Waterloo East to Waterloo Central, my eye perceives Charing Cross station, a glimpse of the Embankment Bridge- feel a knot in my throat- so many times, so many moments—in this city, the city which is full with associations and I am leaving behind-- but keep on walking- the ticket inspector smiles at me and I smile back—feel beautiful yet sad..’you’re still here’
and the movement of people in London Waterloo, stopping for a moment to look at the screens, then rushing to their trains- platform 16 tonight, 21.50 train to Reading via Richmond- the usual voice announces the stations with the tone that I know so well and I’ve imitated so many times..
and then the train goes, leaves London behind, past the stations I’ve known, past the places I’ve been, past those five years, the same old journey—
the train will arrive at 22.27, still light in the horizon. go up the bridge, see the tip of the hill and the clock of Founder’s..for the first time in five years—and really when did Café Uno become Chez Gerrard? Where have I been living? and why do I notice things, why does it matter now that I am leaving? that’s why I don’t like ‘goodbyes’; because they make you feel that the day is special, that you have the pay attention to all the details that you’ve previously ignored and you would go on ignoring if you didn’t leave, separate etc.
that’s why I don’t like goodbyes..because they demand from your memory to freeze and keep a set picture- not the movement.. but memory is alive and moves and does not want to freeze—and I will be back and don’t want melodramatic goodbyes..it’s just that the page turns.
it’s just see you later-not goodbye.. I am taking with me all that I can’t leave behind but I’ll be back soon—for the time being, though, we are moving south!

I never liked looking at old photographs- they make me sad.
I see all these faces of people that i used to have in my life but some of them are now only vague memories.
But tonight, I felt this nostalgia--and instead of looking at old photos, I started reading old emails--some of them will remain all time classic even if the people who wrote them are by now outsiders.
there is a sense of joy always hidden in pain, even though it shouldn't be this way...

how do you know that you don't love someone anymore?
and how do you understand that actually nothing has really changed?
and actually does it really matter?

a new friend called these years a rite of passage
for me the last year was only the beginning

but really I am asking the sun whenever it comes out:
does love ever end? and how?

Guinness and I

Back in 2002, having just arrived at the United Kingdom, somewhere near London but not in London, every Thursday we used to go to this pub called The Crown (there is always a pub called a crown, or a red lion or Shakespeare in every little town in the UK). And my friend used to drink Guinness and I kept on interrogating her: ‘how on earth do you like this drink? why?’ No matter what and why, she kept on drinking it and I kept on wondering why.
Some years went by and suddenly last summer, I started drinking Guinness- I remember going to a pub around late May and saying what the hell? I will try its taste-I might be wrong..and so the story goes.. I drank many pints of Guinness in the past year, in good and bad and confusing and lovely and miserable and glorious occasions—it became my most beloved drink, almost like gin n’tonic. not love at first sight but it just grew in me and by now, it’s almost inconceivable for me to go to a pub and not drink Guinness…

Tonight, five years later, I drank two pints of Guinness- one, to bid farewell to this place close in London but not in London that was my home for the last five years. not in the Crown but in a pub nearby which almost felt like the crown.
the second, to celebrate my moving to the land of Guinness in the very near future..this will be the next home. And yes, as Mia Wallace put it in her lovely post in Wildflower Soul for my upcoming moving to Dublin, ‘good things happen to those who wait…’ but finally one day, the long wait is over and one starts drinking Guinness…

DUBLIN HERE I/ WE COME!

no title is good enough

Δεν ξέρω πολλά πράγματα από σπίτια,
θυμάμαι τη χαρά τους και τη λύπη τους,
καμιά φορά σα σταματήσω…

I don’t know much about homes
I only remind myself of their joy and their sadness,
sometimes when I stop…

home? not yet found-
and not sure whether it actually exists
this afternoon, only an appropriate goodbye to this one
which hosted me, my good and bad moments in the last three years,
my old and new friends, my ‘blue beast’, people I loved
the first part of my adult life…

goodbye? how do you say goodbye to four walls and four windows?
perhaps you don’t-
just thank you for the nights I was coming back and
whispered ‘it’s good to be back home’

moving resolutions 1

Next time, wherever I go,
I will take with me only a back-pack
or an old hanger just to hang my hat
and feel at home...

Call me Doc!

when I grow up, I want to be like him..:)
well...not exactly but still a doc!
PhD over! finally!

A Midsummer's Morning Dream

and finally here we are. some things, some days you think that will never come. but here I am-one day before, waiting, preparing and hoping that this long and most fulfilling trip will end in the best possible way.
one day before my viva-
take your positions, put on your best smile, look for a last time whatever you created.
and then...
Ready? Go!

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