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..