Με τις αισθήσεις ανοιχτές

Που και που θυμάμαι να αναπνέω.

Και τότε, σαν να περίμεναν το σήμα,

Οι πιο ωραίες μυρωδιές με κατακλύζουν ξαφνικά.

Που και που θυμάμαι στον ουρανό το βλέμμα μου

Να στρέφω.

Και τότε όλα γίνονται απλά.

Που και που θυμάμαι να ακούω.

Και τότε όλες οι μουσικές του κόσμου αρχίζουν

Να παίζουν μαγικά.

Που και που επιτρέπω στον αέρα να με αγγίζει.

Και τότε νιώθω τη στοργή μου να ξυπνά.

Που και που γεύομαι μέσα από την ελπίδα τη χαρά.

Και τότε αρχίζει πάλι η καρδιά μου να χτυπά.

Που και που διαισθάνομαι ότι είμαι μέρος ενός

Μεγαλύτερου Σχεδίου.

Και μόνο τότε δεν νιώθω μοναξιά.

Μπαλκάν

Ταραζόμαστε και φωνασκούμε όταν οι Ευρωπαίοι και οι Αμερικανοί μας περιγράφουν σαν νεόπλουτους, άξεστους και κουτοπόνηρους ψευτοζορμπάδες, αλλά αντί να διαμαρτυρόμαστε ανασύροντας το ένδοξο αρχαιοελληνικό μας παρελθόν, θα ήταν ωφελιμότερο να σκεφτούμε: Γιατί είμαστε τόσο αντιπαθητικοί; Και τόσο γραφικοί; Γιατί δεν εξελισσόμαστε στο πέρασμα του χρόνου; Τι συμβαίνει στην παιδεία μας, στον πολιτισμό μας, στο κοινωνικό μας σύστημα;

Ταξιδεύοντας από την Αθήνα στη Καρδίτσα με το τρένο, παρατηρώ τις συλλογικές μας συνήθειες: οι επιβάτες μιλούν στα κινητά τους τηλέφωνα λες και βρίσκονται στο σπίτι τους ή λες και ο συνομιλητής τους είναι κουφός, όταν ρίχνω ένα βλέμμα αποδοκιμασίας σε κυρία που κραυγάζει στο τηλέφωνο, διαπιστώνω ότι φοράει κολάν λεοπάρ και ένα σωρό κοσμήματα. Είναι μεσημέρι, ταξιδεύουμε με το τρένο... Πόσο κακόγουστος μπορεί να γίνει κανείς;

Στο κυλικείο του βαγονιού δυο μέθυσοι συνομιλούν και παρενοχλούν τις κοπέλες που σερβίρουν σκληρά ποτά: «Από πού είπαμε ότι κατάγεσαι;». «Σας είπα: από τα Τρίκαλα...». «Μέσα απ’ τα Τρίκαλα;». Σ’ αυτή τη χώρα δεν έχουμε παραδεχτεί ακόμα ότι αντιμετωπίζουμε πρόβλημα αλκοολισμού, σεξισμού και αντικοινωνικής συμπεριφοράς. Εξάλλου στον χώρο του κυλικείου ακούγονται σκυλάδικα.

Πράγμα που μου θυμίζει κάτι που έμαθα προσφάτως: σε τριήμερες «εκπαιδευτικές» εκδρομές των λυκείων της επαρχίας στην Αθήνα, καθηγητές και παιδιά πηγαίνουν στα μπουζούκια. Το πρωί επισκέπτονται τα μουσεία, το βράδυ τα μαγαζιά της παραλιακής. Συμβαίνει και το αντίστροφο, από γεωγραφική άποψη: πριν από λίγο καιρό, σε επαρχιακή πόλη, μετά από πολύ ενδιαφέρουσα συζήτηση με την συγγραφέα Σώτη Τριανταφύλλου σε βιβλιοπωλείο, οι διοργανωτές της βραδιάς μας πρότειναν (εμένα και στον αλλοδαπό φίλο μου) after hours στην εθνική οδό (για να δούμε πως γλεντάνε οι «μη-φλώροι» Έλληνες). Επιστρέφοντας νωρίς στο ξενοδοχείο (εννοείται ότι δεν τους ακολούθησαμε στο σκυλάδικο), μου ερχόταν να σπάσω κάτι. Κατά προτίμηση, κάποιο κεφάλι.

Η ίδια παρόρμηση με καταλαμβάνει συχνά μέσα στα ταξί: αν δω το πράγμα στατιστικά, κινδυνεύω όλο και περισσότερο να συμπλακώ με ταξιτζή. Τις ημέρες που τα ταξί απεργούν, η πόλη βελτιώνεται: η κυκλοφορία διευκολύνεται, μπαίνω εύθυμα στο λεωφορείο με το iPod μου, κάθομαι, βλέπω τον δρόμο από ψηλά, ακούω τη μουσική της αρεσκείας μου. Δε χρειαζόμαστε ταξί. Χρειαζόμαστε μητροπολιτική, δημόσια συγκοινωνία, υπόγεια, επίγεια, υπέργεια. Χρειαζόμαστε δίκτυα για τους αστικούς πληθυσμούς, όχι ιδιωτικά αυτοκίνητα, που προορίζονται για τον ανοιχτό δρόμο. Ο άνθρωπος του 21^ου αιώνα δεν χρησιμοποιεί ταξί παρά μόνον όταν δεν υπάρχει άλλη λύση. Εξάλλου, δεν χρησιμοποιεί ΙΧ μέσα στην πόλη, χρησιμοποιεί τα πόδια του, το ποδήλατό του και τα δίκτυα.

Εμείς οι Έλληνες δεν επιτρέπουμε σε κανέναν να μας αποδοκιμάζει: μας χαρακτηρίζει αυτό που ονομάζουμε «εθνική υπερηφάνεια» και που, στην πραγματικότητα, είναι το χωριάτικο πείσμα. Είμαστε παθολογικά προσκολλημένοι στον τρόπο της ζωής μας, στις μουσικές μας προτιμήσεις, στα αντιπαραγωγικά μας ωράρια, στη παθολογία του «ξεφαντώματος». Το ξεφάντωμα μέχρις εξαντλήσεως μαρτυρεί πολύ καταπιεσμένους ανθρώπους. Κι επειδή είμαστε τόσο καταπιεσμένοι, το κάνουμε με τρόπο άτσαλο: με την κακογουστιά του κολάν λεοπάρ και των μπιζού από το telemarketing.

Menage a trois

what if you could have two hearts?
one dream and two lovers
what if your breath was exhaled
by two different lungs
and your body could be split in two

what if your arms were big to fit two men
a lifetime and a lovestory
what if your knight had a friend
and you could be a princess of two lands

what if your legs walked on two planets
jupiter and mars, the stars were spinning around you
in a milky way of hearts
what if your heart was bleeding and someone was there
to save your life and be aware.

what if you were loved twice
fiercely and indulged
what if your prayers were answered
by jupiter AND mars?

For H

A hyacinth and a gardenia
White and pure like clouds on a bright day
Royal and sweet, buried in the same ground.
Glory and feeling, at once emerged
For I'll give you my buds, if you give me your stem
And I'll take your beauty and turn it into a mist.
Our eternal tomb will be this soil
Full of ashes and love.
A sabre will pierce our hearts and our very flowers will slump.
But even then, in sudden death,
We'll be pure and white
Buried in the same soil
Only to blossom again
As Apollo's lover and a boutonnière.

Binker

Binker – what I call him – is a secret of my own,

And Binker is the reason why I never feel alone.

Playing in the nursery, sitting on the stair,

Whatever I am busy at, Binker will be there.

Oh, Daddy is clever, he’s a clever sort of man,

And Mammy is the best since the world began,

And Nanny is Nanny, and I call her Nan –

But they can’t See Binker.

Binker’s always talking, ‘cos I’m teaching him to speak

He sometimes like to do it in a funny sort of squeak,

And he sometimes likes to do it in a hoodling sort of roar…

And I have to do it for him ‘cos his throat is rather sore.

Oh, Daddy is clever, he’s a clever sort of man,

And Mammy knows all that anybody can,

And Nanny is Nanny, and I call her Nan –

But they don’t Know Binker.

Binker’s brave as lions when we’re running in the park;

Binker’s brave as tigers when we’re lying in the dark;

Binker’s brave as elephants. He never, never cries…

Except (like other people) when the soap gets in his eyes.

Oh, Daddy is Daddy, he’s a Daddy sort of man,

And Mammy is as Mammy as anybody can,

And Nanny is Nanny, and I call her Nan…

But they’re not Like Binker.

Binker isn’t greedy, but he does like things to eat,

So I have to say to people when they’re giving me a sweet,

‘Oh, Binker wants a chocolate, so could you give me two?’

And then I eat it for him, ‘cos his teeth are rather new.

Well, I’m very fond of Daddy, but he hasn’t time to play,

And I’m very fond of Mammy, but she sometimes goes away,

And I’m often cross with Nanny when she wants to brush my hair…

But Binker’s always Binker, and is certain to be there.

Πονάει ο έρωτας ή δεν πονάει;

Μπαίνει στο αυτοκίνητο συντετριμμένη. Δεν μιλάει. Δεν βγάζει άχνα σε όλη τη διαδρομή μέχρι τον «τρελογιατρό» της. Την περιμένω έξω από τη μονοκατοικία-βίλα στο Νέο Ψυχικό. Εκείνη, ξαπλωμένη στο ντιβάνι του. Λαβύρινθος, άγνοια, ακατανοησία και ο μίτος της Αριάδνης κουβάρι στα πόδια της. Είναι βαθιά ερωτευμένη, λέει. Τόσο βαθιά που η υπόλοιπη ζωή της φαντάζει απελπιστικά ρηχή. Τόσο ρηχή που ο έρωτας δεν θυμίζει τίποτα από χάδι, παρά ένα βαθύ, ανεπούλωτο γδάρσιμο. Την καταλαβαίνω, πέρα από τον ίλιγγο που μου προκαλούσε η απόπειρα ξάπλας στο ντιβάνι του «τρελογιατρού».

Το πόρισμά μου, αμετάκλητο: «Τι να μου πει τώρα αυτός για την ζωή μου; Ο έρωτας έτσι είναι. Αδυσώπητα σκληρός. Και ανεκπλήρωτος. Όλεθρος, καταστροφή, ματωμένα βράδια, μεθυσμένα πρωινά και βαρετά απομεσήμερα τίγκα στο καψουροτράγουδο…». Και απέναντί μου ο άμοιρος ο «τρελογιατρός» να προσπαθεί να καταπραΰνει τον πόνο μου: «Εάν ο πατέρας σας δεν σας είχε μιλήσει έτσι στα 5 σας, η μητέρα σας δεν σας είχε πιέσει στα 10 σας και ο προπάππος σας δεν είχε εγκαταλείψει την προγιαγιά σας στα 15 της, τότε η ζωή σας και η ματιά σας απέναντι στον έρωτα θα ήταν αλλιώς».

Μπαρμπούτσαλα και τζάμπα πεντοχίλιαρα. Ίδια και απαράλλαχτη θα ήταν η ζωή μου, ίδιος και απαράλλαχτος κι ο στραβισμός μου απέναντι στον έρωτα. Ή μάλλον σε αυτό που έχουμε μάθει να αποκαλούμε έρωτα. Όχι, φιλενάδα. Ο έρωτας δεν είναι καταδίκη ούτε απωθημένο ούτε εμμονή ούτε κόλλημα. Είναι ελεύθερος από αυτοκαταστροφές και βαθιά αλλεργικός σε αυτοκτονικούς ιδεασμούς. Κι αν κάτι από αυτά μας τον θυμίζει, τότε δεν υπήρξε ποτέ. Τότε δεν ήταν τίποτε παραπάνω από έναν υπέρμετρα εγωιστικά θιγμένο εγωισμό.

Ερωτευμένη υπήρξα με τους άντρες που πέρασα καλά. Και εσύ το ίδιο, όσο και αν το αρνείσαι από μια ακατάληπτη εμμονή να ονομάζεις έρωτα την κάθε είδους κλοτσοπατινάδα. Δεν μπορείς να είσαι ερωτευμένη με κάτι που δεν έζησες, όπως ακριβώς δεν μπορείς να κόβεις φλέβα για κάτι που δεν την έκανε να χτυπήσει σαν τρελή. Αν δεν το πάρεις χαμπάρι, σε όσα «ντιβάνια» και αν ξαπλώσεις, μια ζωή «άρρωστη» θα σηκώνεσαι. Τη βλέπω να κατηφορίζει τα σκαλοπάτια του «τρελογιατρού» της. Αισθάνεται καλύτερα, λέει. «Παυσίπονη ανακούφιση», της απαντώ. Η κατά φαντασίαν ερωτευμένη φίλη μου έχει ακόμη πολύ δρόμο να διανύσει μέχρι να καταφέρει να ξεκολλήσει από τον μύθο πως έρωτας σημαίνει συμφορά. Και μέχρι να ελευθερωθεί από την τραγική παγίδα που κάνει όλες μας να τρώμε αμέτρητες φόλες έως ότου καταλήξουμε στο γαλλικό ακριβό τυρί.

«Εγώ, φίλε, δύο κριτήρια έχω, να καταλάβω εάν είμαι στ’ αλήθεια ερωτευμένη: το τσιμπούκι και το γέλιο. Όταν είμαι ερωτευμένη, μου βγαίνουν και τα δύο καλά. Αλλιώς δεν τα καταφέρνω. Πνίγομαι. Και με τα δύο…» της λέω. Αποστηθισμένα λόγια σοφίας της μεγάλης Μαλβίνας. Εκείνη γελάει! Τουλάχιστον, μπορεί να γελάει ξανά.

Mid-year resolutions

Τι περιμένουμε τελικά από τη ζωή μας; Όλη μέρα γκρινιάζουμε, μαλώνουμε και βρίσκουμε καταφύγιο στη δουλειά ή σε κάποια αγκαλιά, χωρίς να αισθανόμαστε τίποτα το ουσιαστικό γι’ αυτήν. Περιμένουμε να βγούμε στη σύνταξη για να ζήσουμε τη ζωή μας, περιμένουμε το Σαββατοκύριακο για να ξεκουραστούμε ή να περάσουμε καλά, περιμένουμε μια γιορτή για να βάλουμε τα καινούργια μας ρούχα, για να δείξουμε στο σύντροφό μας πόσο πολύ τον θέλουμε, περιμένουμε τη φοβερή ευκαιρία στη δουλειά για να ανέβουμε. Περιμένουμε το λαχείο για να κάνουμε όλα όσα ονειρευόμαστε. Να γίνουμε αυτοί που θέλαμε πάντα.

Και φυσικά, στο τέλος δεν κάνουμε τίποτα. Πεθαίνουμε στην αδράνεια. Θυσιάζουμε όλα μας τα όνειρα στην καθημερινότητα και τη συνήθεια και γκρινιάζουμε. Περιμένουμε να λυθούν όλα μας τα προβλήματα με ένα μαγικό τρόπο. Περιμένουμε κάποιον να μας δώσει τη λύση. Και πάντα βρίσκουμε κάτι για να μας εμποδίσει. Δεν φεύγουμε το Σαββατοκύριακο λόγω της οικονομικής κρίσης. Δε φοράμε το αγαπημένο μας φόρεμα λόγω των κιλών που πήραμε τελευταία. Δεν πάμε να δούμε τη φίλη που έχουμε να επισκεφτούμε καιρό γιατί δεν έχουμε ποτέ χρόνο. Σπάνια ακούς πλέον κάποιον να λέει ότι είναι ευτυχισμένος. Όλη μέρα κατηγορούμε όλους τους άλλους που έχουν κι εμείς δεν έχουμε. Αλλά ποτέ δεν προσπαθούμε αρκετά ώστε να τα αποκτήσουμε.

Υπόσχομαι λοιπόν στον εαυτό μου ότι από δω και πέρα θα περνάω καλά. Δε θα ξαναφήσω την ευτυχία μου στα χέρια κανενός. Θα φοράω τα καινούργια μου ρούχα στη δουλειά ή στο σουπερμάρκετ. Θα γεμίζω συχνά την μπανιέρα μου με αυτά τα υπέροχα άλατα που αγόρασα πριν κάτι μήνες και τα κρατούσα για μια ξεχωριστή περίσταση και θα λιώνω μέσα για κανένα δίωρο διαβάζοντας το αγαπημένο μου βιβλίο. Θα βγω έξω με ανθρώπους που έχω να δω χρόνια. Θα κοιμηθώ μια ολόκληρη Κυριακή αγνοώντας όλες μου τις επαγγελματικές και οικογενειακές υποχρεώσεις. Θα αγαπήσω τον εαυτό μου και θα αφήσω να με αγαπήσουν και οι άλλοι. Και όλα αυτά θα τα κάνω γιατί απλά το χρωστάω στον εαυτό μου. Εσύ;

Είμαι ένα λάθος

Είμαι ένα λάθος

Γιατί δεν ανήκω σε καμία φυλή

Είμαι ένα λάθος

Γιατί νιώθω ακόμα περιέργεια

Γιατί δεν έχω δεσμούς με τη σημερινή κοινωνία

Γιατί μισώ την μόδα

Γιατί έχω αποξενωθεί

Γιατί δεν πιστεύω στις ειδήσεις

Γιατί δεν μπορώ να υποκριθώ

Γιατί θέλω αυτό που δε μπορώ

Γιατί δεν μου αρέσει να μιλάω για τον εαυτό μου

Γιατί θέλω να είμαι ένα λάθος

Γιατί δεν είμαι ανθρώπινο πλάσμα

Γιατί είμαι Ολύμπιος θεός

Γιατί πάντοτε σκότωνα

Κάθε εξαίσιο παράφορό μου έρωτα με έναν άλλο εξαίσιο παράφορο έρωτα

Λέω ψέματα;

Ή μήπως ήταν μόνο πόθος;

Δεν μπορούσα να ξεχωρίσω την αλήθεια από το ψέμα

Αυτό πάντα με κρατούσε ζωντανή και ακόμα με κρατάει

Είμαι ένα λάθος

Γιατί η επιθυμία μου είναι ακατανίκητη - πιο σφοδρή κι από την πείνα και συνήθως πιο ακόρεστη

Η αναρχία της επιθυμίας δε συμβιβάζεται με τη ζωή

Είναι υπερβολικά ακραία και σαρωτική

Μόνο ο θάνατος μπορεί να τη σώσει, να τη δεχτεί

Ανάβεις ένα τσιγάρο για να γιορτάσεις τη χαρά ή για να κρύψεις τη θλίψη σου

Δε θα μπορούσα να ξανακοιταχτώ στον καθρέφτη

Δε θα ήξερα πώς να συνεχίσω τη ζωή μου

Και πώς να πεθάνω

Είμαι πιστή

Αλλά μόνο σε ότι με σκοτώνει.

A walk

We are walking side by side. Me noisily on my heels, trying to keep up with your step, hair stirred by the strong wind. You, tall and imposing next to me, are smiling your unsure smile. And we talk. We talk of love, of choices, of ideas, of what we’re looking for in this life and how we’re going to get it. We talk about our past, and laugh at how similarly agitating our fate – the kind that doesn’t exist – is.

We are walking side by side. Me fragile as a shell, trying not to expose myself, with feelings mixed and obscured. You, decisive and firm next to me, puzzled. And we still talk. We talk of emotions, of break-ups, of the notion of individuality; of how miserable it is to find a person that thinks like you – even though it is wonderful in reality – and of how we’re going to keep each other in our lives. We make choices, and laugh at how awfully human we are – because in the end, we’re exactly like everyone else.

We are walking side by side. Me on the verge of tears, trying to make the right decision, with a thunderstorm of confusion inside. You, scared and quiet next to me, unyielding. And we still talk. We communicate unspoken, or rather unspeakable tender balls of warmth, until something violent erupts within us and we lose control. Now, we talk with our bodies because our mouths are busy uttering noiseless sounds of pleasure, our hands discover the dents of our hearts and our legs are intertwined in a symphony of freedom. And then we laugh at how silly we’ve been all this time – and it’s so funny because it’s true.

We are walking side by side. Me lost in the turmoil of thoughts concerning your touch, trying shake off the intensity of the images. You, shy and amazed next to me, intoxicated. And we still talk. Until I turn to you and coyly say “Dear, I am out of breath… Can we rest for a while?” and you with a kind glace point at a bench on which we’ll write our own private history. Because this bench belongs to us and no-one else.

Παρελθόν

Κάθε φορά που ανοίγουμε το βιβλίο του παρελθόντος για να γνωρίσουμε από κοντά κάποια λεπτομέρεια που μας ενδιαφέρει, συνειδητοποιούμε ολοένα και περισσότερο πως το δικό μας παρόν είναι ακατανόητο χωρίς το παρελθόν των άλλων: εκείνων που έφυγαν από τη ζωή, όχι όμως και από τη ζωή μας. Αυτό άλλωστε που ονομάζουμε πνευματική ζωή είναι ένα πλέγμα δυνατοτήτων που αντιπροσωπεύουμε τόσο εμείς οι ίδιοι, όσο και οι άνθρωποι που υπήρξαν ή υπάρχουν. Πολλά είναι λοιπόν τα νήματα που συνυφαίνονται για να δημιουργηθεί εκείνο το πνευματικό φάσμα μέσα στο οποίο εκδηλώνεται η προσωπική μας ύπαρξη και μόνο όποιος ανατρέχει συνεχώς το απέραντο μήκος τους συνειδητοποιεί τον ειρμό της ανθρώπινης μοίρας, της μοίρας μας. Ακόμη κι ένα βήμα στο πρόσφατο παρελθόν μας κάνει να εκπλησσόμαστε για το πόσο κοντά και πόσο μακριά βρίσκονται όλα. Άνθρωποι που πριν από μερικές δεκαετίες έπαψαν να υπάρχουν, φαίνονται να ανήκουν σ’ ένα χώρο χωρίς διαστάσεις, αστάθμητο, χωρίς όρια. Κι ερχόμαστε εμείς με τη διάθεση να συγκεκριμενοποιήσουμε το χώρο αυτόν, να τον σταθμίσουμε και να τον ορίσουμε. Κατά πόσο είναι όμως αυτό δυνατό; Μήπως η απάντηση του Φάουστ, στο μαθητή του, θα έπρεπε να μας οδηγήσει σ’ ένα στωικό σκεπτικισμό; «Για μας, φίλε μου, οι χρόνοι οι περασμένοι βιβλίο με επτά σφραγίδες είναι. Αυτό που πνεύμα των καιρών το λες εσύ, το ίδιο μας το πνεύμα είναι που μέσα καθρεπτίζονται οι καιροί». Κανονικά βλέπουμε ακόμη και το πιο πρόσφατο παρελθόν υποκειμενικά, όμως κάθε σκεπτικισμός περιττεύει όταν δεν μπορούμε να κάνουμε αλλιώς. Σημασία έχει η επίγνωση της σχετικότητας της ερμηνείας που δίνουμε στο παρελθόν αυτό. Τώρα πια πρέπει να συγκεντρωθεί η ψυχή μας, για να πετάξει σ’ έναν ελεύθερο δρόμο, που πρέπει να ανοίξουμε εμείς οι ίδιοι, αρχίζοντας να εκτιμούμε εμάς τους ίδιους.

Να είστε άψογοι με το λόγο σας

Είναι η πιο σημαντική και ίσως η πιο δύσκολη συμφωνία. Μπορεί να ακούγεται εύκολο, όμως ο λόγος είναι ο τρόπος που καθένας από εμάς διαθέτει για να εκδηλώσει οτιδήποτε: την προθεσή του, τη σκέψη, τα όνειρα, το χαρακτήρα του... Ο λόγος είναι η δύναμη της έκφρασης και της επικοινωνίας, της σκέψης και της πρόθεσης, άρα είναι η δύναμη που δημιουργεί όλα τα γεγονότα στη ζωή μας. Μπορεί να φτιάξει το πιο όμορφο όνειρο ή να καταστρέψει τα πάντα γύρω μας. Ο άψογος λόγος είναι αυτός που μπορεί να δημιουργήσει ομορφιά και αγάπη. Ανάλογα με το πώς χρησιμοποιείται, μπορεί να μας απελευθερώσει ή να μας αιχμαλωτίσει. Το ανθρώπινο μυαλό είναι σαν ένα γόνιμο έδαφος στο οποίο φυτεύονται σπόροι. Αυτοί οι σπόροι είναι οι ιδέες, οι αντιλήψεις και οι απόψεις. Οι Τολτέκοι πίστευαν ότι οι λέξεις, η γλώσσα είναι μαγικά ξόρκια που προκαλούν αντιδράσεις, δημιουργούν καταστάσεις και εγείρουν συναισθήματα. Ένας κακός λόγος φυτεύει στην ψυχή δηλητήριο και μπορεί να κατευθύνει ολόκληρη τη ζωή ενός ανθρώπου. Βέβαια, μια αρνητική ιδέα μπορεί να καρποφορήσει στο μυαλό μας μόνο αν το έδαφος είναι έτοιμο γι' αυτή. Αν όλη η στάση ζωής μας είναι ο άψογος λόγος, τότε είμαστε έτοιμοι για τον άψογο εαυτό, έναν εαυτό που δεν πιστεύει στον "ψόγο" των άλλων και δεν φοβάται, αντίθετα ανταποκρίνεται μόνο στην αγάπη και την ειλικρίνεια. Γιατί "άψογος" σημαίνει "χωρίς ψόγο", και "ψόγος" σημαίνει "κατηγορία", "φταίξιμο". Ένας άψογος λόγος δεν σημαίνει μόνο "τέλειος", σημαίνει "λόγος χωρίς κατηγορίες και ενοχές". Είναι ο λόγος που μας κάνει να αναλαμβάνουμε την ευθύνη των πράξεών μας χωρίς να πληγωνόμαστε. Φυσικά, ο λόγος χρησιμοποιείται και εναντίον του εαυτού μας. Κυρίως. Λέμε "είμαι έξυπνη", "δεν έχω πετύχει στη ζωή μου". Με δυο λόγια, χρησιμοποιούμε τη μαγεία του λόγου μας για να ρίξουμε κακά ξόρκια στον εαυτό μας. Το μυστικό είναι να έχουμε ανοσία στη... μαύρη μαγεία του κακού λόγου. Χρησιμοποιήστε το λόγο προς την κατεύθυνση της αγάπης και της αλήθειας προς τον εαυτό σας.

***Για όσους γκρινιάζουνε ό,τι ποτέ δε γράφω στα Ελληνικά***

A few thoughts about life

In life it doesn’t matter how fast you run. It only matters that you walk forwards.

For some change is an elixir. For others it is fatal.

No matter how much time you spend with the people you love, in the end this time is always going to seem limited.

Sometimes limited is more than enough.

If we were told how difficult breaking up is, who would want to be committed to anyone?

Spring is our favorite season because it promises that life can begin all over.

We are born to live but instead we die. How can anyone cope with this knowledge?

Nothing is over, before it’s over.

Looking in the eyes of beauty, there is never a dilemma. You are surrendered with eyes shut.

When lovers say that what they do is not proper, usually they do exactly what they wish above all else.

Prohibitions and restrictions increase passion.

Nice things come at a price.

When you’re young, you always make time.

Every choice demands a rejection.

Often, the most difficult choice is the right one.

Women feel when someone is looking at them. They perceive the desire before men feel it. They even perceive the lack of desire. It’s their way of survival.

There exists a certain implication of intangible melancholy which makes some men irresistible. And many others tiring.

It is very difficult to say ‘no’ to a beautiful woman. It is not fair, but that’s the way things are.

Being faithful is a very overrated virtue. Devotion is a much more valuable.

There is no room for honesty in a healthy relationship.

If you ask her to tell you everything, it is like you ask her to lie to you.

Even though it seems otherwise, not a single day is identical with the previous one. It is always different.

To aim, to try to be accomplished, to understand what you want from your life, to look at things from the right perspective, to organize your time, to distribute energy, to prioritize in order to succeed. Don’t bother. It won’t last.

Age has to do with the way you think. (The usual lies we tell ourselves.)

In spring we fall in love easily. When should we fall in love? When we wish to suffer.

Women invented “forever”, “only you”, “for a lifetime” as a defense against time. For protection.

Time for males has a different significance. ‘Where were you last night?’ ‘It’s been a long time, I don’t remember.’ ‘Will I see you tonight?’ ‘I don’t make plans this early in the day.’ (Casablanca)

When a woman says ‘We need to talk’, it’s like you just had your dismissal announced.

No greediness, no despair. It’s a simple rule to shape your own personal conduct. At least it will be elegant.

Time does not fly. It is lost.

You never know what is exactly is going to happen.

Have you tried everything several times? Well, that certainly is a problem.

However, this year will not be the same as any other year. And it will happen only once.

Will it not be a shame if you say one day, ‘I missed it’?

Be prepared to live.

Don’t sweat yourself without any reason. We have no instruction booklet for life. Everybody makes mistakes. Life is pure improvisation.

To think or not to think?

I think, that people are ‘divided’ into two categories in their lives. The ones that think and the others that don’t. The main difference between these two categories of people is that they experience what we call ‘life’ in a very unequal way.

The ‘non-thinkers’ – without this term being an alternative for stupidity – are so much better off. They go through life accepting what is given to them, unable to recognize how the world really works and seemingly as if their way is smoothed out by an imaginary pavement of thick foam. They don’t want to change anything and they are pretty content with everything around them. Their appearance, their social status, their country, their religion, their boss and even their relationships with other people. Everything is just ‘easy.’ I cannot elaborate anymore on this since I honestly am not aware of how they do it. I think that they are born this way and their lifestyle is not a conscious decision but rather a ‘natural’ one.

On the other side there are the ‘thinkers’ – again the term not being a definition of intelligence or excellence in any way (and in my opinion people in this category are losers). Life for the ‘thinkers’ is a trap. In this trap, you can only expect pain, misery and a general sense of waste. Although their sense and their sensibility are evolved enough to appreciate many things in this world, this quality of theirs haunts them forever. They mostly grasp things that need change. Their lives are full of problematic relationships, troubles, dilemmas and dragging; and all this not because they carry some obscure ‘curse,’ but rather because they can actually ‘see’ the reality of things.

If I could use a metaphor to sort of roughly describe these lives, it would be the moon phases. Once a month there is a dazzling shine and that shine is truly beautiful, but the rest of the nights are gray and then dark and then even darker. It’s like a cycle that allows for hope but then hope and all the dreams that accompany it are snatched away. “Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torments of man,” as F. Nietzsche said. Things are eternally recurring, only our memories are too short to realize that events recur within the span of our conscious life. If that is not the most terrible idea possible! An image of endless suffering.

So, where am I going with this? Well, I want to say that even though ‘thinkers’ are sometimes a true value in society, I completely understand why they need to kiss this world goodbye earlier than whatever-takes-care-of-these-things willed. I understand why disappointments that hit them make them so miserable and frustrated and disillusioned about this world that they choose to leave it. I do not advocate someone killing themselves (although I do believe some people should not exist) but I certainly understand it and this is what I want to state.

Note: I am not bipolar, I do not take any depression medication, and I don’t plan to suicide (for the next month or so).

Dancing

Imagine two bodies – their gender is not important – sensually touching, approaching and removing themselves from each other. Two bodies, bending their limbs according to one another, as if they were parts of a moving puzzle that kept on changing its picture with every second passing. Each of their moves completing the squares missing and at the same time creating a new scene to be fulfilled. Arms and legs intertwined. Lips open and breathing hard. A seeking nose for a familiar scent. Sighs and a lustful curve of the neck. The feet are moving quickly, following the beats of the heart and balancing this effortless movement through space and time. Two bodies, lit by a search light, which expels the darkness surrounding them, making the tiny particles of dust lift up in the air forming intricate shapes. Shadows copying every detail of the movements, making them seem even more erotic. The bodies are performing the expressions of their inner selves. They are dancing. But as well as dancers on the stage, they are also actors performing scenes from a story. Their own personal and complex story.

There are stories which incorporate a knife fight, even a bull fight some times as in “Carmen.” Most stories have plenty of sensual scenes. It seems an unlikely mix for a dance, but it is all part of representing the human emotions. Having two bodies gives the impression of the characters as having not only a physical body but also a soul – a mental, imaginary existence which defines all our actions. There are stories which end in unison, there are dances which end in misunderstandings but most importantly there are bodies which end in pain.

Yes, dancing apart from entertainment and pleasure, also involves a lot of pain. People experience physical but mostly emotional pain. It is not easy to punish and discipline yourself as much as a dancer needs to. People are bred and trained to be weapons, to be creative and to be rational – reminiscent of our current warring state in the world. Everything we touch decays. A dancer needs to have all those qualities at hand – a big price to pay for expressing yourself in the most sensual way – decay becomes essentially you.

On the stage dancers are just that. They are an ever-moving entity, almost as magical as a poet and almost as theatrical as an actor. However, there is a lot more that goes on behind the scenes, as dancing partners fall out, fall over, or sometimes even fall in love.

Their bodies intertwine again, but this time not under the scrutiny of an audience but under each other’s caring eyes. Their dance is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.

A desire that engulfs an innocent flirty kiss to an act of pure lust, friction of bodies and a lot of physical pressure.

Dancing… Just another expression of our sensual emotions…

Relationships

My last draft started with the sentence ‘Human relationships suck.’ This is a phrase I frequently use. Today however, I feel a little bit more optimistic and I look upon this subject with a light of hope. No, I have not changed my mind (most of you know how hard that is…) but I think there might be expectancy of a change of heart. Pun intended.

The fact that people get together for totally wrong reasons, unfortunately still stands. Our loneliness is something that drives us to do things that are terrible. We lie, we cheat and say and do things that we don’t mean, and all that for no apparent reason – just to save ourselves from the ‘misery’ of being ‘single.’ The judging looks from aged aunts and coupled up friends, the unspoken notion that ‘something must be wrong with you’ since you haven’t found that special someone, the coming-back-home-to-no-one taboo and our own mother going on about grandchildren and pregnancy lead to a society made for couples and not individuals.

I believe that this situation defines the dreams and feelings people are ‘allowed’ to have. You have to marry and have kids, you have to find a job that pays well so that your children go to a private school, you have to have enough money to pick up your kid in a BMW from school, your wife or your husband need to be very beautiful and fit (mental qualities are not of interest) and lastly you need an expensive mansion so you can invite your mates to watch the football match in. Interpersonal communication and happiness are not issues of significance to our society. No one truly loves anyone and most people don’t even know who or what they seek.

Most get involved with the first random – kind of cute – person they find on their way. Their prosperity and success is only measured by how beautiful, rich or cool the person they managed to land is. We don’t take into account intelligence; we only care about connections and exclusivity.

On the one side we have the ‘children-men’ who are not able to fully become men and they linger between childhood and adolescence and on the other side we have ‘girl-sluts’ (I am referring to numbers of sexual partners) secretly looking for a prince on his white (black) horse (Honda) to swipe them off their feet (parent’s house) and become their all-forgiving, all-providing slaves. For better or for worse, Till death do us part. Obviously not, is the usual answer. The vows (of the extremely expensive wedding) only last until one of them meets a better half (with a bigger horse or a bigger number of sexual partners) and the process is then identically repeated. The saddest thing is that society encourages such behavior.

‘Children-men’ buy new gaming consoles as they come out, cool/useless/pointless/insert-your-favorite gadgets and argue about football with their friends. The ‘girl-sluts’ buy the fanciest high-heels, the tightest jeans they can fit in and the most expensive make-up in the hope that they will be able to distract their boyfriends just for a moment from the TV set. It is obvious why an economy-driven society encourages this.

The drama created is unbelievable. Girls meet with their friends (between manicure and hairdresser appointments) to talk about the ‘hints’ (or lack of them) that their boyfriends provide. This is a pleasant break from the rest of their day which involves shopping (-therapy, since they need it after their last row with their boyfriend about which club they will entertain themselves tonight), being bored at work, talking on their mobile, texting and watching idiotic afternoon TV shows. The guys in the mean time are out checking new girls (although they are adamant that they are in love with their girlfriend), drinking beers with their mates, driving their noisy motorbike, dreaming of getting another (noisier) motorbike (even if they bought theirs a month ago), playing video games, dreaming of having a Lego factory and jerking off to porn (work is not included due to the lack of it – daddy still provides for them).

This is what ‘quality of life’ is termed as presently. This is what people do to fill their days (well, evenings since a day typically starts at 2 p.m.) and lives. This is what it takes to be able to have a ‘partner.’ So, my argument is that the fact that single people are looked upon as being ‘wrong’ and miserable, when the relationships are based on capitalism (of all things!), is at least stupid. Our society is dipped in a pool of misery and resists swimming and getting out of it. You might say that not all relationships are like that. Yes, I agree. However, the majority of them are like that and I find this alarming. The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think.

To conclude my bitter rant, I believe we can change this situation if we all were more careful on who we choose to be with, for what reasons and what we expect from our relationships. Judging from the above, the person who said that ignorance is bliss is an idiot – if ignorance was bliss the world would be a much happier place. A last advice to all the males who do not belong to the ‘children-men’ category… Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.

Identity

After a while we learn the difference between holding a hand and falling in love. We begin to learn that kisses don’t always mean something and promises can be broken just as quickly as they are made and sometimes goodbyes really are forever.

Today, as I was trying to make my way through the crowd of a central Athens street, an old creaky door opened that covered the entrance to a small yard and the most intensely luminous creature that I have ever seen appeared.

Her hair – short, almost boyish – had the color of fire, her violet eyes gleamed like diamonds under a surgeon’s light. She was covered with a dark coat and she was escorted by two men. Her height was uncommon for a woman, at first I thought that she must be a model – but her figure wasn’t that thin. She carried herself with very light steps and had the aura of a star. There was something androgynous about her. I would have certainly mistaken her for a man if she wasn’t wearing a dress.

As I stood there stunned by this sight, I doubted myself. Was she really a woman? I started looking for signs such as breast size and an Adam’s apple. None of them were present. There is something insane about a lack of doubt. Doubt, to me anyway, is what makes us human. Without doubt even the righteous lose their grip not only on reality but also on their humanity.

Hearing her very sensual female yet rough voice, and satisfied with the fact that this extraordinary creature did not belong to the “brutal sex,” I kept on walking thinking about identities. I find fascinating the question, “How do we identify ourselves, and how do we settle into other people’s expectations for our identity?” There is such an effort to try and explain people… We need to get out of the box we’ve been raised in, otherwise we will not be able to understand how much bigger the world is.

After walking for a few blocks, me on my noisy heels and firm step – she with her inaudible muffled walk, she stopped, said goodbye to the men next to her and turned around facing me. I tried not to stare, or look interested in her, but apparently she was determined to talk to me. As I was passing next to her, she spoke with a very familiar to me accent. She must have been from the north of Scotland since her speech was heavy and distinct – maybe Inverness. She asked me something completely obsolete about a street name or something and seemed surprised that I could actually understand her. We kept on walking and talking for a while and then suddenly, she stopped, leaned in and gave me a kiss. I think I froze at that moment. Not so much because of shock – I secretly wished that I would have the chance to touch her at some point, but because this signified the end.

She looked at me for a moment, with those intense eyes of hers, as if reading my soul and then turned around and left as if we had never met.

War

No more loneliness. Just an invisible boundary that I cannot surpass no matter what effort I put in. Actually, I will rephrase. No more loneliness of the heart – because all other kinds are still present.

My heart has put up a terrible war on two fronts: love and loneliness. It’s a fight with no survivors. It’s a fight, which is dipped in lies, mysteries, fast encounters and a heavy past looking towards a gloomy future. It’s a fight. A fight – lost. It’s getting darker and darker, no matter how light we need to appear to each other.

Kisses… Your kisses… They make my skin want to engulf you in its roots. Your breath on my neck is like the breath of a dragon burning me up. And the touch of your hand all over my body casts a magic spell I cannot shake off. I remember your look when you want me… It’s like you’re a beast wanting to tear its prey apart. Like you’re a lion and I am a lamb waiting for you to savor my taste and enjoy it. I’m a lamb happy to be eaten. Wanting it even. You grab me, pin me down and work your way around my body. Combining lips with fingertips, and teeth with soft whispers.

I can see Love, making small appearances while I’m lost into your eyes, but then it runs away. I run away when you hold my hand. I run towards an empty church, a shelter. All the guests are present. It’s only empty because you’re not there. However you’re standing next to me.

A poem, a story and then a heartbreak. Say you love me. But be careful because I might do something crazy… like believe it.

A dream of all that… all the bad things. I ask for reassurance – but I get a plain playful play list of pop. ‘P’… Like your initials. ‘P’ has suddenly become a part of me. A part of my own language. The language of letters, thoughts and revelations.

The ‘one’ before the ‘one.’ The ‘one’ that defines ‘one.’

I say that I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone. You smile. As if you know what I’m talking about. Fear. That’s what I’m talking about. The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind. I fear you – you intimidate me the most. Only because I cannot or maybe don’t want to set boundaries.

As if the music, in all its majesty is created by your fingers. I am the piano. You touch me and I cry out the notes. I put them on paper and you play them for me. On me.

The battle is still on. I can’t get my hands off of you. Not because I need you, but because I want you to want me. I don’t feel anything for you – at least anything real. I don’t love you. I don’t really think about you. I don’t even get butterflies. I just know that I belong somewhere around you. A kind of intuition.

I set the reminder for the next call. It’s not that I forget. I even appreciate you. Frozen in my warmth. I seem to get a bit lost with daily life. Routines, do’s and wishes, only you’re not officially there.

Let me rephrase. It’s a fight, a battle royal between my heart against loneliness and love. If I were my heart, I would kill myself. I think my heart lives in fear of loving again. And there’s nothing more dangerous for a human than a broken heart that tells you to be lonely.

It’s my job to delve into the uncomfortable, the difficult and the challenging. It’s a job that doesn’t pay very well…

When I have a little girl...

For my beautiful Elpida.

When I have a little girl... She can wear party dresses to school. She can be fresh to unpleasant people. She can go through all my bureau drawers... and try on rings and bracelets and scarves without asking. She can have a party every week... and go to a restaurant once a month and order whatever she wants. She can go without a coat or hat or boots... the very first warm day... even if it snows again later. She can let her hair grow.............................................. as long as she wants. She can have a friend stay overnight whenever she wants. And one bath a week will be enough. And nobody will tell her in winter to stop eating snow. Or in summer to come out of the sea even if she is turning blue. She can touch the fur collars of ladies in front of her on the bus or train... or standing in line. And she can pat any dog she wants without asking if it's friendly. (She'll know. I always do.) She can tell anything she wants about me to anyone she wants. She can always answer the phone and talk first to anyone who calls even if it's business. She can have a new box of crayons every week even if the older ones are still good and just not pointed anymore. She can uncover the leaves around the crocus shoots and then cover them up if it should snow again. She won't have to be home before dark, so she will be able to see the moon rise. And she can get up in the morning before it's light and go out in her nightgown to watch the sun come up. She can give milk to all the cats and if they don't go away afterward... they can live with her. When I have a little girl all the rules will be different. And I will never say to her, "When you are a mother you will understand why all these rules are necessary." My mother says... her mother used to say it too.

Time

Right now, I can do anything. Except of course to think clearly. I am on an imaginary drive in the streets of an unknown city. I see modern buildings mixed with Victorian architecture. I see lights shouting at me “your time is now… join us.” The lights almost welcome me to the other side. I feel – more like sense – I am soon going to crash.

Then, as if in a dream, I sail on a vast ocean. The waves are calm and the wind is slow. Still scared though, I hear my breath wheezing as if I’ve been crying for hours.

Someone taps my shoulder. Gives me a kiss on the neck and listens carefully to my heavy breathing. I am stained by his perfume. A familiar song is heard through the window. It’s like a spell an evil wizard casts upon me and I’m back to my driving through the Unknown city. People pass by with great speeds, the word ‘future’ terrifies them and they never look at each other in the eye.

It is difficult to express your feelings in this city. No one seems to speak the same language. They don’t have buses, but shuttles that only carry one person at a time. Like their ideas, shuttles are not to be shared. The only company they have is their own self and the mixed view of buildings. Buildings… our legacy…

And then, the earthquake happened. I was awakened to the reality. No, I was forced back to the reality. Dragged by the feet on a stone covered pavement. The word ‘future’… such a terrible word. Fu…tu…re. Can’t time stop for a while?

I’ve dodged this bullet of a question long enough, and as I cringe at the thought, I am hit. I can’t stand by in silence any longer. The death is inevitable. It is slow. Painful? Weird. There’s something about death that is comforting. The thought that you could die tomorrow frees you to appreciate life now. Divisions, bonds, honesty, conventions, age, forces, here and now, society, labels and the words that love don’t always make sense. Guilt. Feelings. The masterpiece of the human brain: poetry and communication, life and its representations, ideals and history.

If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise. Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved. When you make the right choices in the present, you have a good past and the ability to anticipate a better future. Future…

Suddenly I am furious at myself. How could I allow my imagination to go that far? Will I fall in love with his strength and then love him for his weaknesses? Mastering others is strength. Mastering yourself is true power. And I am powerless. Will he love me for that? I am blocked. Declare this an emergency. Time is running out. As if a sick clown has broken the notion of an hourglass. Sand fills my hands, covers me fully but I somehow manage to breathe. I hold on to the memories tightly. Memories are the only thing that doesn’t change when everything else does.

I want to be politically correct and honest at the same time. Something that in this society is not likely to ever happen. Such a twisted term… politically correct. The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.

I am totally and utterly confused. Both terrified and in absolute bliss. Distracted and unnerved. Relaxed and tense at the same time. My aims? None. My expectations? Non-existent.

I am fragile and yet strong like steel.

Not all scars show, not all wounds heal.

Sometimes you can’t see the pain someone feels.

As if a doctor tries to anesthetize me. I am almost at ease. Tranquil.

Until the next wave is born. Until the next step is taken. Suddenly. A torrent of thoughts overwhelms me. Right now, I cannot do anything.

I got the blues

Equiped with a synthetic scarf around my neck, I bear the change of the temperature as if it was a milestone. I place the pictures in frames and I march towards the darkness. The gray intermezzo does not scare me. It makes me melancholic. I got the blues and I like it. The day, blurry and nerveless, is allowed to make me sad. So? Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or something of that sort. The Mayor interrupts my colorless thoughts. They organize a New Year’s Day party, a project since last year that came up against the dilatoriness of a group that deposited its excitement in the big bucket of recycling of nice plans. This year however, much more organized, they have started to count incomings from now. I have to respond until the end of the week. I wonder if there will be any guests I haven’t met, how long will the dancing last, what did I do last year and why mistletoe is necessary.

I burden my electronic calendar with another reminder, stunned by the view of a wet Lycabettus.

I think about the near future and keep on bumping on clichés. A friend of mine asserts that surprises have ended – even in Kinder eggs. I don’t know, I wonder. And if everything is over, why doesn’t someone nullify the counter so everything can start from the beginning?

The tyrant of my dullness woos me and I yield. The scarves are not pink anymore. Athttp://www.poodwaddle.com/worldclock.swf, the international Internet clock records everything that happens by each passing second. The timekeeper has a loose screw… I have a loose screw. World population is 6,638,143,547. Abortions 42,564,601, bicycles produced, species extinct. No, nothing comes back and “sorry” is the pseudo-elegance of hypocrisy. Thankfully, the conspiracy is prevailing and the volunteers come in hordes. We don’t live in the Matrix – we only created the Matrix. It’s even better. Who knows what an inspired director would do.

I drink red wine and I call for the spirit of goodness to kiss me again.

The spirit seems busy… I’ll call later.