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