I STARTED WRITING ONE THING AND I ENDED UP WITH ANOTHER

10.12.04


I was looking at Rembrandt’s engravings and I thought I was looking at sketches designed with a pen nib. I was checking out the engraved metal flagstones afterwards and was aghast. I had seen those sketches before or other similar to them in coloured pictures and I admit that I wasn’t moved at all. On the contrary, the pictures I admired yesterday were really astonishing. You don’t have to be an art critic to understand the importance of those works. You just have to have a little imagination to bring to life a scene presented right in front of your eyes and to travel in older eras, at times when there were no cameras to depict reality as it actually is, at times when the great painter was the one who could really depict the looks, the smiles, as well as the shadows of lights, exposing like that his/her own experience regarding pain, joy, expectation or relief. And this is the importance that, when attached to things that have been said a million times, makes them sound new and pioneering.

At the museum store, I met my friend Panayiota, who told me that some fascists had started a march close to the Syntagma Square. She advised us not to get there, since it was highly possible for them to beat the hell out of us. I had never thought that someone could hit me out of the blue. I was initially scared, since I wasn’t exactly looking for trouble. Later, though, I was carried away by the desire to provoke my own luck and dare to walk among the beasts. My friend Nikos said that this was not a good idea. I was finally persuaded with his words and decided just to visit the museum toilets. It was a toilet for disabled people, or probably not, since there was no easy access to those who would decide to use it despite the indication there. It was big and had room for three persons like me but there was no bar next to the bowl which I could hold and be able to stand up (I just wanted to pee). There was a bar next to the washbasin instead, as if someone would put his/her towels there.

I had no other choice. I reached the washbasin and stood up using the bar. I touched the tiles with my hands, I stuck on the wall and started moving on the sides towards the bowl. I was whispering, swearing and praying inside. The tiles were slippery and I was scared. I didn’t exactly wish to find myself lying down. I finally managed to reach the bowl and grabbed the cistern. When I sat on my wheelchair again, I already felt lighter. A little while ago I had let water run not to wash out my excrement but to get rid of all those bad thoughts that ruin my day every time that my life becomes harder due to some people’s indifference. [Since you make the bathroom anyway (and you are subsidized for that), make it right, damn you.] I didn’t lose my mood anyway. But would it have been better if I gather five or six colleagues and march with them in order to beat some guys black and blue?
Sorry, Rembrandt, I outshine your greatness.