Today, I said the last “goodbye” to my good friend and Mentor, Dimitris Skoufis.
This blog is dedicated to him, for he was the one who inspired me and encouraged me to “build” this blog.
No matter what, this man will keep on reminding me how to stay decent, patient and strong.
Thank you for everything, my friend.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
THE END
16.04.05
My dear fellow travellers. I come back with this text not only to leave your life, or even the bloggers’ community, for good. The time has finally come for me to stop talking so directly about myself.
My decision to desist from blogs does not need explanations and justifications. It’s simple. I decide to move on, intending to do equally important things that those of you who know me well already or those of you who met me recently through this almost daily contact might imagine. I would like to thank you all once again. Without understanding it, you helped me figure out a lot of things about myself, mainly as regards what I can succeed in and what heights I can reach.
It’s true that I can’t forget that this blog was created for specific reasons and this is why I couldn’t finish this personal work of mine but by being clear now about what I have been implying through my stories.
Deriving from my personal experience, I am proud to state that in this world where I’m living there is not or there should not be any person with a disability in the way that we tend to describe them or meet them, i.e. like shadows or figures or existing things inside our body or the body of the person next to us. Noone is born absolutely capable of doing everything. Noone has the same opportunities, abilities or capacities with the other. Despite that, everyone of us has the ability to choose the eyes with which he or she will look at oneself and at the other person both when we are awake and when we are dreaming.
Disability is nothing but a situation that we have invented all by ourselves (disabled or not), trying to explain the difference, the hardship, the things that are impossible to understand or the random facts. Most of the times, we decide to speak of ourselves starting with the word ‘not’. We say: ‘I cannot walk, I cannot see, I cannot hear’. This is the worst thing we can do. Without understanding it, we align our existence with a huge problem that is impossible to solve precisely because we insist on emphasizing on the problem and not on its solution. We should say: ‘I can become someone great’, persuading ourselves and the others that we have equal rights and obligations. That’s the only way we could really help you understand that there is indeed a reason to rate us highly as people who claim a place in the empire of able-bodied people. And I go on saying: ‘Despite being a person with a disability, I have the right to life and therefore I can, if I want to, go for a walk to the supermarket and then just look at the ceiling of my house. Nonetheless, the important thing is that with much effort and a little luck I can achieve thousands of things so as to have absolutely no reason to feel sorry for myself or for the people who are in my place or in an even worse state. When this happens, I stop being –or being considered- problematic and I can laugh at you who might still believe the opposite. (Somewhere deep inside I suspect that, if you look straight into my eyes you may even fall in love with me. Would you really take that?)’.
I take you by the hand before you ask me anything, before you wonder whether my words are political or not. You are ready to talk to me about the movement again. What movement? The one of the people with a disability. That’s where the wrongdoings begin; that is my answer to you. From the insiders. From the people who take advantage of their disability to make money. Not all people are the same, luckily. There are people who really fight, knowing how to claim things. I don’t belong to them either. I have done very few things to be considered a fighter. I was never a rebel with a weblog, as the ‘Postman’ wrote for me and the other bloggers. I’m just a worried passer-by and my decision to ‘quit’ this weblog proves the truth of my words. Of course, I couldn’t say goodbye but with a song, a Greek one this time. I was looking for something but I found something else. Never mind.
If you don’t find a place for yourself in a wrecked country
If wishful thinking is not enough for you
If you don’t find serenity in a magic dream-catcher
If an armful of prison’s cells are not enough for you
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You are excessive and you breathe your last
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You fit nowhere, you fit nowhere at last
If you don’t find yourself in a stupid joke
If a cruel prayer is not enough for you
If you don’t find room in an empty brothel
If a broken body is not enough for you
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You are excessive and you breathe your last
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You fit nowhere, you fit nowhere at last, nowhere at last
Thank you for being able to find room for yourselves in the pages of my weblog
My dear fellow travellers. I come back with this text not only to leave your life, or even the bloggers’ community, for good. The time has finally come for me to stop talking so directly about myself.
My decision to desist from blogs does not need explanations and justifications. It’s simple. I decide to move on, intending to do equally important things that those of you who know me well already or those of you who met me recently through this almost daily contact might imagine. I would like to thank you all once again. Without understanding it, you helped me figure out a lot of things about myself, mainly as regards what I can succeed in and what heights I can reach.
It’s true that I can’t forget that this blog was created for specific reasons and this is why I couldn’t finish this personal work of mine but by being clear now about what I have been implying through my stories.
Deriving from my personal experience, I am proud to state that in this world where I’m living there is not or there should not be any person with a disability in the way that we tend to describe them or meet them, i.e. like shadows or figures or existing things inside our body or the body of the person next to us. Noone is born absolutely capable of doing everything. Noone has the same opportunities, abilities or capacities with the other. Despite that, everyone of us has the ability to choose the eyes with which he or she will look at oneself and at the other person both when we are awake and when we are dreaming.
Disability is nothing but a situation that we have invented all by ourselves (disabled or not), trying to explain the difference, the hardship, the things that are impossible to understand or the random facts. Most of the times, we decide to speak of ourselves starting with the word ‘not’. We say: ‘I cannot walk, I cannot see, I cannot hear’. This is the worst thing we can do. Without understanding it, we align our existence with a huge problem that is impossible to solve precisely because we insist on emphasizing on the problem and not on its solution. We should say: ‘I can become someone great’, persuading ourselves and the others that we have equal rights and obligations. That’s the only way we could really help you understand that there is indeed a reason to rate us highly as people who claim a place in the empire of able-bodied people. And I go on saying: ‘Despite being a person with a disability, I have the right to life and therefore I can, if I want to, go for a walk to the supermarket and then just look at the ceiling of my house. Nonetheless, the important thing is that with much effort and a little luck I can achieve thousands of things so as to have absolutely no reason to feel sorry for myself or for the people who are in my place or in an even worse state. When this happens, I stop being –or being considered- problematic and I can laugh at you who might still believe the opposite. (Somewhere deep inside I suspect that, if you look straight into my eyes you may even fall in love with me. Would you really take that?)’.
I take you by the hand before you ask me anything, before you wonder whether my words are political or not. You are ready to talk to me about the movement again. What movement? The one of the people with a disability. That’s where the wrongdoings begin; that is my answer to you. From the insiders. From the people who take advantage of their disability to make money. Not all people are the same, luckily. There are people who really fight, knowing how to claim things. I don’t belong to them either. I have done very few things to be considered a fighter. I was never a rebel with a weblog, as the ‘Postman’ wrote for me and the other bloggers. I’m just a worried passer-by and my decision to ‘quit’ this weblog proves the truth of my words. Of course, I couldn’t say goodbye but with a song, a Greek one this time. I was looking for something but I found something else. Never mind.
If you don’t find a place for yourself in a wrecked country
If wishful thinking is not enough for you
If you don’t find serenity in a magic dream-catcher
If an armful of prison’s cells are not enough for you
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You are excessive and you breathe your last
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You fit nowhere, you fit nowhere at last
If you don’t find yourself in a stupid joke
If a cruel prayer is not enough for you
If you don’t find room in an empty brothel
If a broken body is not enough for you
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You are excessive and you breathe your last
Then what a pity, what a pity, what a pity
You fit nowhere, you fit nowhere at last, nowhere at last
Thank you for being able to find room for yourselves in the pages of my weblog
A DISEBLAD’S GOODNIGHT NOTE
05.04.05
I am diseblad. Yes, there’s nothing wrong with your vision. That’s how a guard called me a few hours ago at the court of Badminton in Goudi. We are speaking about the place where this famous musical of mister Weber, entitled ‘Cats’, is performed. Although I am a cat-hunting devotee and I don’t really dig musicals, I decided to enjoy this superior performance myself, since it was attended by most Athenians anyway.
I still laugh at the silly guard who approached us from the beginning in the mood for inquiry.
‘You know, the gentleman uses a wheelchair and this is why we would like to park the car as close to the entrance as possible.’
He bends sown and looks thoroughly at the back seat. He asks:
‘And where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘The disabled guy.’
I get out of my seat. ‘I’m here, man. A quite big lout and you don’t see me? What do you expect to see? Snow White lying in a glass coffin?’
The guy loses it. He yells at someone else: ‘Open the door, man, the kid is diseblad.’
(What am I?)
He turns to my mother. ‘How did you say that?’
She can’t answer. She bursts out laughing just like I do.
‘Oh, yeah. Disabled.’!
[Tomorrow the rest – or the day after tomorrow. I am sleepy and I have to wake up early. I would write you from work too but they cut our connection to the internet and the bosses claim that they don’t have money to pay for the subscription.]
Yours sincerely,
The diseblad.
I am diseblad. Yes, there’s nothing wrong with your vision. That’s how a guard called me a few hours ago at the court of Badminton in Goudi. We are speaking about the place where this famous musical of mister Weber, entitled ‘Cats’, is performed. Although I am a cat-hunting devotee and I don’t really dig musicals, I decided to enjoy this superior performance myself, since it was attended by most Athenians anyway.
I still laugh at the silly guard who approached us from the beginning in the mood for inquiry.
‘You know, the gentleman uses a wheelchair and this is why we would like to park the car as close to the entrance as possible.’
He bends sown and looks thoroughly at the back seat. He asks:
‘And where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘The disabled guy.’
I get out of my seat. ‘I’m here, man. A quite big lout and you don’t see me? What do you expect to see? Snow White lying in a glass coffin?’
The guy loses it. He yells at someone else: ‘Open the door, man, the kid is diseblad.’
(What am I?)
He turns to my mother. ‘How did you say that?’
She can’t answer. She bursts out laughing just like I do.
‘Oh, yeah. Disabled.’!
[Tomorrow the rest – or the day after tomorrow. I am sleepy and I have to wake up early. I would write you from work too but they cut our connection to the internet and the bosses claim that they don’t have money to pay for the subscription.]
Yours sincerely,
The diseblad.
SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF SPRING
01.04.05
Vivi asked me to become tragic again. She wanted me to find this tone of my voice that is so direct and dramatic at the same time. She was moved by that tone of voice, she says. I believe that. I did what I could to play the part of a man who looks like me but is not like me. I was thinking of all the tortures of the world in order to feel deeply sad. Today I couldn’t do the same thing. She asked me if I could understand the difference between the last and today’s rehearsals. I understood it in the way that the dissonant person understands his/her wrong notes but doesn’t know how to fix them.
Right now that I’m writing to you my dog sighs in melancholy and I wonder if he has his reasons for being sad. We are listening to the arrangement of the song ‘Ta paidia tou Peiraia’ (= ‘The children of Peiraeus’) by the Pink Martini. For some undetectable reason, my mind goes to Paris. I swore not to write anything about trips on that post but I find it to be impossible. Those days I love Athens like never before and yet I can’t manage to cancel my imaginary trips. I wish the weather would be spring again. I would at least have a good excuse for being absent-minded and also in a hurry all the time, as always.
My father would prefer that I drove with less speed. He holds the roof handle all the time and shouts ‘slow down, slow down’. I hold the gear stick in my left hand. The more I pull it close to me, the faster I drive. When I push it to the front, I pull the brakes. I have the steering wheel in my right hand, which I turn with the help of the well-known attached handle of the lorry drivers . This way of driving can lift you high. Some times, you get the impression that you pilot an aircraft and not that you are driving a car.
My palms are full of corns. I finally stopped using the walker and go around the whole house with the sticks. I put enormous strength in my hands in order to stand up. Some times I stagger, I sweat and I am scared. The physical therapist said that my fear is stronger than my weakness. I repeat that sentence every time that I think of calling it quits. In the end, I insist on doing it.
Vivi asked me to become tragic again. She wanted me to find this tone of my voice that is so direct and dramatic at the same time. She was moved by that tone of voice, she says. I believe that. I did what I could to play the part of a man who looks like me but is not like me. I was thinking of all the tortures of the world in order to feel deeply sad. Today I couldn’t do the same thing. She asked me if I could understand the difference between the last and today’s rehearsals. I understood it in the way that the dissonant person understands his/her wrong notes but doesn’t know how to fix them.
Right now that I’m writing to you my dog sighs in melancholy and I wonder if he has his reasons for being sad. We are listening to the arrangement of the song ‘Ta paidia tou Peiraia’ (= ‘The children of Peiraeus’) by the Pink Martini. For some undetectable reason, my mind goes to Paris. I swore not to write anything about trips on that post but I find it to be impossible. Those days I love Athens like never before and yet I can’t manage to cancel my imaginary trips. I wish the weather would be spring again. I would at least have a good excuse for being absent-minded and also in a hurry all the time, as always.
My father would prefer that I drove with less speed. He holds the roof handle all the time and shouts ‘slow down, slow down’. I hold the gear stick in my left hand. The more I pull it close to me, the faster I drive. When I push it to the front, I pull the brakes. I have the steering wheel in my right hand, which I turn with the help of the well-known attached handle of the lorry drivers . This way of driving can lift you high. Some times, you get the impression that you pilot an aircraft and not that you are driving a car.
My palms are full of corns. I finally stopped using the walker and go around the whole house with the sticks. I put enormous strength in my hands in order to stand up. Some times I stagger, I sweat and I am scared. The physical therapist said that my fear is stronger than my weakness. I repeat that sentence every time that I think of calling it quits. In the end, I insist on doing it.
ON BRACKETS
22.03.05
Two little hairs curled up at the end of my washbasin, forming brackets. I don’t know how many times this must have happened without me noticing it. I wound up philosophizing once again in the bathroom just like that, really out of the blue. To do that is really boring and a bit too hackneyed. Of course, I’m referring to the daily and repeated event of oversimplifying and also praising every sort of theories and things. It’s true that ideas come to your head at most improper times. If you ask me, I will answer that I don’t like that, I just accept it when it happens. Yesterday, for instance. I was shaved while listening to Sonic Youth. Everything seemed to be natural, until those small brackets were presented right in front of my eyes.
I had seen the importance of brackets very early (that’s why I use it very often in my texts). Brackets are there for something that must be said but can also be omitted, since their content are not equally important and interesting as the content of the rest of the text. Everything is all right until this point. But what happens in the case of a bigger, continuous, imaginary text, according to which our current and our future activities are constructed so as to make us able to say that we live exactly as the script says, a script that we are writing and in which we are starring without even understanding it?
We go a thousand steps further towards a direction unknown in theory, while we are trying to foresee and plan everything. And we do all that without paying attention to the brackets. At least this is how I personally understand the problem that deals with ranking desires and targets. That’s my problem. ‘I’m writing’ a multi-paged script of life and forget the brackets. Consequently, I have a hard time separating the important things from the less important things. They all look like ONE.
Most of the times, I have to lose or sacrifice something precious in order to understand what was the thing that I really needed or what was the thing or notion or idea thanks to which I could have gone even higher without material or other kind of loss. That’s when I figure out that I’m dominated by persistent ideas (like that about New York, for example), most of which are of symbolic nature. In fact, I should put myself in brackets, hoping to understand at some point what’s the meaning of the world that surrounds and forms my personality whether I like this world or not. I might then be more interested in ‘common’ things, politics, news etc etc.. Only then would my blog comprise objectively interesting texts and only then would it desist from dealing with a boring and repeated range of issues. I recognize that my last narrations are of very little interest to those who are not in my head or to those who don’t ‘experience’ me in the first place. The conclusion is that I must definitely put my (recent) self in brackets not because I want to exempt myself from life but because I want to see clearly all things that are useful and interesting and still exist around me and might have nothing to do with me in some strange way. When I achieve that, I would like you to acknowledge that for me.
Two little hairs curled up at the end of my washbasin, forming brackets. I don’t know how many times this must have happened without me noticing it. I wound up philosophizing once again in the bathroom just like that, really out of the blue. To do that is really boring and a bit too hackneyed. Of course, I’m referring to the daily and repeated event of oversimplifying and also praising every sort of theories and things. It’s true that ideas come to your head at most improper times. If you ask me, I will answer that I don’t like that, I just accept it when it happens. Yesterday, for instance. I was shaved while listening to Sonic Youth. Everything seemed to be natural, until those small brackets were presented right in front of my eyes.
I had seen the importance of brackets very early (that’s why I use it very often in my texts). Brackets are there for something that must be said but can also be omitted, since their content are not equally important and interesting as the content of the rest of the text. Everything is all right until this point. But what happens in the case of a bigger, continuous, imaginary text, according to which our current and our future activities are constructed so as to make us able to say that we live exactly as the script says, a script that we are writing and in which we are starring without even understanding it?
We go a thousand steps further towards a direction unknown in theory, while we are trying to foresee and plan everything. And we do all that without paying attention to the brackets. At least this is how I personally understand the problem that deals with ranking desires and targets. That’s my problem. ‘I’m writing’ a multi-paged script of life and forget the brackets. Consequently, I have a hard time separating the important things from the less important things. They all look like ONE.
Most of the times, I have to lose or sacrifice something precious in order to understand what was the thing that I really needed or what was the thing or notion or idea thanks to which I could have gone even higher without material or other kind of loss. That’s when I figure out that I’m dominated by persistent ideas (like that about New York, for example), most of which are of symbolic nature. In fact, I should put myself in brackets, hoping to understand at some point what’s the meaning of the world that surrounds and forms my personality whether I like this world or not. I might then be more interested in ‘common’ things, politics, news etc etc.. Only then would my blog comprise objectively interesting texts and only then would it desist from dealing with a boring and repeated range of issues. I recognize that my last narrations are of very little interest to those who are not in my head or to those who don’t ‘experience’ me in the first place. The conclusion is that I must definitely put my (recent) self in brackets not because I want to exempt myself from life but because I want to see clearly all things that are useful and interesting and still exist around me and might have nothing to do with me in some strange way. When I achieve that, I would like you to acknowledge that for me.
Here’s what one learns during the weekend and half Monday
07.03.05
Here’s what one learns during the weekend and half Monday:
That there’s a great café somewhere in Melissia called ‘Petrogaz’
That you can meet people there who remember you, whereas you give them a silly look and try to guess when and where you met them.
That it’s not so simple to paint on Photoshop, no matter how inspired you are.
That, even if you and your friend agree to wake up early to take a walk around Athens, he will be sleeping like a log while you, like a silly man, will already be drinking your coffee and will be waiting for him, having woken up at 9:30 on a Sunday morning.
That you can’t be great if you don’t have money to support your dream. In other words, most great people were already a bit great before they became really great, since they stood out from the others, at least as regards their financial ability.
That, even when you win a scholarship, this will cover your expenses only partly and thus you have to have money anyway.
That, in all likelihood, you’ll never find so much money in one year, unless you write a best seller like ‘Judas was a great kisser’ (by Maira Papathanassopoulou).
That, despite all that, your life goes on fine and you must be happy to have alternatives and spare all the time in the world to do whatever you can (even to turn things upside down if needed).
That Athens is a beautiful city when you can see it like one.
That even in your own city there are many great unknown places with very interesting people who wait to meet you even accidentally.
That there’s a great performance entitled ‘Penalty’ at the ‘Epi Kolono’ theatre. The performers are young, pretty good (and not necessarily pretty faces) and have a very interesting view of what theatre is.
That there is a small concert in the same place after the performance; small Greek bands of no importance play there but they have fun because they gather all their friends as if they have come to Athens for an excursion in a bus.
That an able-bodied guy might be right next to you but he is so drunk that he is staggering much more than you.
That, despite staggering much more than you, he is harmless and you owe him congratulations, since he is entertaining you.
That the next day (Sunday) you will wake up early again, because you have an appointment with your professor.
That you would not have to wake up early in the end, because you agreed to meet in the coming week.
That it’s a great day but none of your friends want to go out for coffee. They’re all asleep.
That you and Dimitris will go visit the newborn kittens of Soly in the end without using the car. You will use your electric wheelchair so as to practice.
That you figure out it’s not too difficult to handle but you have to be careful when you climb pavements that are taken down. It’s highly possible to end up lying down.
That you would indeed end up lying down if Dimitris wasn’t behind you to catch you.
That you figure out there’s absolutely no way to make reconciliation with cats. They hate you and they are afraid of you because you smell like a dog from head to toe.
That, in case you can’t do anything else, you have to admit that the cat’s claws cut as sharply as Uma Thurman’s sword in Kill Bill.
That you would happily eat a cat baked in the oven or a cat soup after you take off her claws one by one without having killed or anaesthetized her.
That (luckily) you are not such a barbarian to do something like that. You will have to pay someone to do this for you or undergo always the unexpected and rude behaviour of cats.
That you can open the front door all by yourself as well by using the small key and that you should have tried to do that a long time ago.
That you will finally be able to walk with the sticks soon, since you can already walk with them in the living room.
That if you turn on Mad TV you might catch a tribute to Bowie and to Prince.
That even Gods like David Jones, known as David Bowie, wear dentures when they grow old.
That they remain Gods even like that.
That Prince has pigeon lofts in his living room.
That you and Kostas will go again to Cetropia, which is next to the Escoba. Without understanding it, you already have your hangout places.
That, even if you come home early, decided to do a bunch of things, you will end up doing less than half of what you plan and thus gape idly at everything for no reason but to waste your time.
That this is acceptable to a certain extent.
That, although it may sound strange, you will wake up with a cool mood for work and will even have time to drink coffee in your house’s kitchen.
That you are already at work. Time goes by and the new week has started for good.
That two official holidays are approaching!
That you have your birthday on the 21st of March and you will become 26 years old.
That you will be 30 in 4 years.
That this is cruel and unfair.
That nobody asked you if you like that and therefore you’ll have to decide that you can’t always be 20-something.
That, since you are growing up, you definitely have to leave your house, otherwise you will end up like the creeps you mock.
That, after having thought and understood the meaning of all aforementioned statements, you are heading off to a good pathway.
Here’s what one learns during the weekend and half Monday:
That there’s a great café somewhere in Melissia called ‘Petrogaz’
That you can meet people there who remember you, whereas you give them a silly look and try to guess when and where you met them.
That it’s not so simple to paint on Photoshop, no matter how inspired you are.
That, even if you and your friend agree to wake up early to take a walk around Athens, he will be sleeping like a log while you, like a silly man, will already be drinking your coffee and will be waiting for him, having woken up at 9:30 on a Sunday morning.
That you can’t be great if you don’t have money to support your dream. In other words, most great people were already a bit great before they became really great, since they stood out from the others, at least as regards their financial ability.
That, even when you win a scholarship, this will cover your expenses only partly and thus you have to have money anyway.
That, in all likelihood, you’ll never find so much money in one year, unless you write a best seller like ‘Judas was a great kisser’ (by Maira Papathanassopoulou).
That, despite all that, your life goes on fine and you must be happy to have alternatives and spare all the time in the world to do whatever you can (even to turn things upside down if needed).
That Athens is a beautiful city when you can see it like one.
That even in your own city there are many great unknown places with very interesting people who wait to meet you even accidentally.
That there’s a great performance entitled ‘Penalty’ at the ‘Epi Kolono’ theatre. The performers are young, pretty good (and not necessarily pretty faces) and have a very interesting view of what theatre is.
That there is a small concert in the same place after the performance; small Greek bands of no importance play there but they have fun because they gather all their friends as if they have come to Athens for an excursion in a bus.
That an able-bodied guy might be right next to you but he is so drunk that he is staggering much more than you.
That, despite staggering much more than you, he is harmless and you owe him congratulations, since he is entertaining you.
That the next day (Sunday) you will wake up early again, because you have an appointment with your professor.
That you would not have to wake up early in the end, because you agreed to meet in the coming week.
That it’s a great day but none of your friends want to go out for coffee. They’re all asleep.
That you and Dimitris will go visit the newborn kittens of Soly in the end without using the car. You will use your electric wheelchair so as to practice.
That you figure out it’s not too difficult to handle but you have to be careful when you climb pavements that are taken down. It’s highly possible to end up lying down.
That you would indeed end up lying down if Dimitris wasn’t behind you to catch you.
That you figure out there’s absolutely no way to make reconciliation with cats. They hate you and they are afraid of you because you smell like a dog from head to toe.
That, in case you can’t do anything else, you have to admit that the cat’s claws cut as sharply as Uma Thurman’s sword in Kill Bill.
That you would happily eat a cat baked in the oven or a cat soup after you take off her claws one by one without having killed or anaesthetized her.
That (luckily) you are not such a barbarian to do something like that. You will have to pay someone to do this for you or undergo always the unexpected and rude behaviour of cats.
That you can open the front door all by yourself as well by using the small key and that you should have tried to do that a long time ago.
That you will finally be able to walk with the sticks soon, since you can already walk with them in the living room.
That if you turn on Mad TV you might catch a tribute to Bowie and to Prince.
That even Gods like David Jones, known as David Bowie, wear dentures when they grow old.
That they remain Gods even like that.
That Prince has pigeon lofts in his living room.
That you and Kostas will go again to Cetropia, which is next to the Escoba. Without understanding it, you already have your hangout places.
That, even if you come home early, decided to do a bunch of things, you will end up doing less than half of what you plan and thus gape idly at everything for no reason but to waste your time.
That this is acceptable to a certain extent.
That, although it may sound strange, you will wake up with a cool mood for work and will even have time to drink coffee in your house’s kitchen.
That you are already at work. Time goes by and the new week has started for good.
That two official holidays are approaching!
That you have your birthday on the 21st of March and you will become 26 years old.
That you will be 30 in 4 years.
That this is cruel and unfair.
That nobody asked you if you like that and therefore you’ll have to decide that you can’t always be 20-something.
That, since you are growing up, you definitely have to leave your house, otherwise you will end up like the creeps you mock.
That, after having thought and understood the meaning of all aforementioned statements, you are heading off to a good pathway.
WITH REVERSE STEPS: FROM INDUSTRIAL JAZZ TO WALKING STICKS WITH FOUR LEGS
01.03.05
We hadn’t been driving for more than a few metres when we heard a terrible noise. It was like something was creeping behind the car, scratching the asphalt and deterring us from moving forward. At first, I thought we had dragged some garbage can, some fallen sign or something big anyway; in fact, so big that it could cause incredibly loud noise in the middle of the night. Dimitris came out to see what was happening and he it happened. He stepped slightly on the accelerator and started sliding on the street like a bruised figured out that the spare tyre had gone out of its metal position, which was almost loose and thus dragged on the street. He took his coat off, he rolled up his sleeves and started seeking in the dark under the car, until his hands were black because of the dirt. He needed just a some string in order to tie that metal thing.
I felt really bad – as I feel every time that I can’t help and just sit there like a woman in confinement in the seat next to the driver without doing absolutely anything. My friend (what a great thing to have friends!) reminded me that I could listen to the radio if I wanted to. I didn’t want to, how could I be singing while he was there struggling? The least I could do was sit quietly, not ask too many questions (like ‘What’s up there? Did you fix it? Are you close? Can I do something for you?’) and wait.
Later he came in. I suggested him to go to the central square and ask for some string from the kiosk seller (at midnight). That’s how it happened. He steped softly on the gas and started crawling on the road like a wounded and noisy snail. The noise was deafening. We were probably hard like the cleaning vehicles of the municipality. Some people welcomed us from their balconies. They wanted to know where the noise comes from. Dimitris was cool and his composure was surprising to me. He turned up the music (It was Jazz music on the ‘En Lefko’ –this means ‘In White’- Radio Station) and closed the windows.
‘I find you really cool.’
‘And what am I to do? Spend my time in misery like my mom?’
‘Do you know how I call the kind of Jazz that mixes with the noise of a metal which by the way throws out sparks while sliding?’
‘Industrial Jazz!’
The kiosk guy gave us the string. Dimitris rolled up his sleeves again, dirtied his hands again and everything was in place. We went for a drink somewhere north. Nothing ventured nothing gained. I was experiencing ultimate pleasure. The wine was tickling my throat and hit me slightly on the head. This was the perfect compensation for the temporary bad luck. I was excited anyway. Before Dimitris came at home, I had tried to stand up on my walking sticks with the four legs, the ones that I used before I was forced to buy the walking device, while I was still a kiddo and hadn’t been under any operation. I have forgotten how to use them and it’s difficult, because they require a much bigger capacity for keeping one’s balance. Despite that, I did it. I even made a few steps from the bed to the desk. This is a big achievement for me. I decided to stop –gradually- using the device. From next week onwards I will start physical therapy again. What the hell! If I am to live in New York, I must get in and out of the limos comfortably.
We hadn’t been driving for more than a few metres when we heard a terrible noise. It was like something was creeping behind the car, scratching the asphalt and deterring us from moving forward. At first, I thought we had dragged some garbage can, some fallen sign or something big anyway; in fact, so big that it could cause incredibly loud noise in the middle of the night. Dimitris came out to see what was happening and he it happened. He stepped slightly on the accelerator and started sliding on the street like a bruised figured out that the spare tyre had gone out of its metal position, which was almost loose and thus dragged on the street. He took his coat off, he rolled up his sleeves and started seeking in the dark under the car, until his hands were black because of the dirt. He needed just a some string in order to tie that metal thing.
I felt really bad – as I feel every time that I can’t help and just sit there like a woman in confinement in the seat next to the driver without doing absolutely anything. My friend (what a great thing to have friends!) reminded me that I could listen to the radio if I wanted to. I didn’t want to, how could I be singing while he was there struggling? The least I could do was sit quietly, not ask too many questions (like ‘What’s up there? Did you fix it? Are you close? Can I do something for you?’) and wait.
Later he came in. I suggested him to go to the central square and ask for some string from the kiosk seller (at midnight). That’s how it happened. He steped softly on the gas and started crawling on the road like a wounded and noisy snail. The noise was deafening. We were probably hard like the cleaning vehicles of the municipality. Some people welcomed us from their balconies. They wanted to know where the noise comes from. Dimitris was cool and his composure was surprising to me. He turned up the music (It was Jazz music on the ‘En Lefko’ –this means ‘In White’- Radio Station) and closed the windows.
‘I find you really cool.’
‘And what am I to do? Spend my time in misery like my mom?’
‘Do you know how I call the kind of Jazz that mixes with the noise of a metal which by the way throws out sparks while sliding?’
‘Industrial Jazz!’
The kiosk guy gave us the string. Dimitris rolled up his sleeves again, dirtied his hands again and everything was in place. We went for a drink somewhere north. Nothing ventured nothing gained. I was experiencing ultimate pleasure. The wine was tickling my throat and hit me slightly on the head. This was the perfect compensation for the temporary bad luck. I was excited anyway. Before Dimitris came at home, I had tried to stand up on my walking sticks with the four legs, the ones that I used before I was forced to buy the walking device, while I was still a kiddo and hadn’t been under any operation. I have forgotten how to use them and it’s difficult, because they require a much bigger capacity for keeping one’s balance. Despite that, I did it. I even made a few steps from the bed to the desk. This is a big achievement for me. I decided to stop –gradually- using the device. From next week onwards I will start physical therapy again. What the hell! If I am to live in New York, I must get in and out of the limos comfortably.
ON PLANET ‘HAPPY’
14.02.05
So we decided to fly up to planet Happy . How did it stick to my mind that the aforementioned planet was on number 256 (instead of 205)? After such persistence, it’s not strange that we found ourselves outside a taxi agency, somewhere on Liossion Street. Panayiota had a hard time. It’s not easy to slide on the slope with Nicholas: you have to avoid the buses, the dug and narrow pavements and you also have to have your mind on numbers, in case you find yourself completely elsewhere.
At some point, we finally reach this ostensibly known stellar sign of the city, which is overtaken by night, without suspecting that, although we arrive late, it’s still very early. Why didn’t anyone tell us that the Mikro would appear after eleven at night and not at 21:30 as was written on the ticket? No problem (in the beginning, at least). We were watching Gousgounis’ face on the video-screen announce the ‘good old’ Greek film festival. I saw it once. I saw it twice. I had a drink too. A small quantity. Not much stuff. How could I imagine that I would desperately need to pee? I could do nothing about that of course. I stood in the front line to hold the bar (a regular one, not the prison one). The toilets were upstairs at the back. So I decided to forget about it. I got up to dance, move, struggling for good, in order to forget struggling for bad. I sat down again only for five minutes. I was standing for almost two hours.
I wasn’t excited. I found that the new songs were far too mediocre; songs of the drawer, as I call them. They are included in the category of songs that you preserve in case of an emergency when your company presses you to make an album right on the spot. At first, the band was dispirited. Afterwards, something seemed to strike them and they started bouncing all over the place alone. I was bouncing too so as not to lose my spirits. Every now and then I smiled at Panayiota. I really believe that when your expectations are proved wrong and you wind up with boredom instead of having fun, surpassing the mediocrity of the moment and making it great or at least memorable is something that is in your hands no matter what. Well, I had done it: laughing at the whole thing, which was to laugh at anyway. When I was tired, I finally sat on my chair (for the five minutes to which I referred before) and observed everyone and everything. I thought that the concert would be over. I wanted to scream: ‘All right now. It’s time to go home. Don’t you think?’.
Nah. It was time for planet Happy again and again. Hello. And if we’re up to it, hello again. And see you. And see you again.’. Same old stuff.
‘Mercy guys! When am I going to reach the magic loo?’
The concert is over (at last). When the time for freedom comes, Diamantis comes out of the crowd. Yes, Diamantis! (Not the snake. It was someone else. Unknown.) He was in the mood for talking.
‘C’mon’, Diamantis, now that we found you, do you happen to know where exactly are the toilets?’
‘You can’t go there. They’re upstairs. Be patients. Take a cab and rush home.’
‘What are you talking about, Diamantis! The situation is serious here. We’ll go and go again. We won’t take a cab anyway. We have a car.’
‘And where do you live?’
I look at Panayiota. (‘What is that fellow asking now?’)
‘Do you need help?’
‘No; well, yes. Sit here and keep an eye on the coats and the wheelchair.’
We go upstairs. We reach the top of the stairs. A fat 45-year-old lady comes out of the toilet right on time.
‘Can you give me a hand?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Take care. There’s another step inside.’
‘Wow. How big!’
I’m about to ask: ‘Who are you? The mother of the members of Mikro?’
She catches me first. She doesn’t ask questions. She explains herself.
‘Don’t close the door. We’ve seen other birdies and we know about that stuff.’
‘You’ve never seen one like mine.’ (She provoked me. Didn’t she?)
‘What do you suggest me? That I sit there looking?’
‘Do what you want. I have to pee.’
At some point, the lady loses it and disappears.
After relaxing from our serious and urgent task, we go down the stairs with the help of some other volunteer this time. We wear our coats and get ready to go outside. No word on Diamantis. We forgot him completely; not intentionally but out of forgetfulness. Suddenly, I have a flash.
‘Want to go and talk to John-John?’
‘Let’s do it.’
We didn’t found John. We found Nikos. A great guy (he seems to be). Very friendly and smart, which is exactly what I was not since I uttered my stupid words without even realizing.‘You were very good after the middle of the concert.
So we decided to fly up to planet Happy . How did it stick to my mind that the aforementioned planet was on number 256 (instead of 205)? After such persistence, it’s not strange that we found ourselves outside a taxi agency, somewhere on Liossion Street. Panayiota had a hard time. It’s not easy to slide on the slope with Nicholas: you have to avoid the buses, the dug and narrow pavements and you also have to have your mind on numbers, in case you find yourself completely elsewhere.
At some point, we finally reach this ostensibly known stellar sign of the city, which is overtaken by night, without suspecting that, although we arrive late, it’s still very early. Why didn’t anyone tell us that the Mikro would appear after eleven at night and not at 21:30 as was written on the ticket? No problem (in the beginning, at least). We were watching Gousgounis’ face on the video-screen announce the ‘good old’ Greek film festival. I saw it once. I saw it twice. I had a drink too. A small quantity. Not much stuff. How could I imagine that I would desperately need to pee? I could do nothing about that of course. I stood in the front line to hold the bar (a regular one, not the prison one). The toilets were upstairs at the back. So I decided to forget about it. I got up to dance, move, struggling for good, in order to forget struggling for bad. I sat down again only for five minutes. I was standing for almost two hours.
I wasn’t excited. I found that the new songs were far too mediocre; songs of the drawer, as I call them. They are included in the category of songs that you preserve in case of an emergency when your company presses you to make an album right on the spot. At first, the band was dispirited. Afterwards, something seemed to strike them and they started bouncing all over the place alone. I was bouncing too so as not to lose my spirits. Every now and then I smiled at Panayiota. I really believe that when your expectations are proved wrong and you wind up with boredom instead of having fun, surpassing the mediocrity of the moment and making it great or at least memorable is something that is in your hands no matter what. Well, I had done it: laughing at the whole thing, which was to laugh at anyway. When I was tired, I finally sat on my chair (for the five minutes to which I referred before) and observed everyone and everything. I thought that the concert would be over. I wanted to scream: ‘All right now. It’s time to go home. Don’t you think?’.
Nah. It was time for planet Happy again and again. Hello. And if we’re up to it, hello again. And see you. And see you again.’. Same old stuff.
‘Mercy guys! When am I going to reach the magic loo?’
The concert is over (at last). When the time for freedom comes, Diamantis comes out of the crowd. Yes, Diamantis! (Not the snake. It was someone else. Unknown.) He was in the mood for talking.
‘C’mon’, Diamantis, now that we found you, do you happen to know where exactly are the toilets?’
‘You can’t go there. They’re upstairs. Be patients. Take a cab and rush home.’
‘What are you talking about, Diamantis! The situation is serious here. We’ll go and go again. We won’t take a cab anyway. We have a car.’
‘And where do you live?’
I look at Panayiota. (‘What is that fellow asking now?’)
‘Do you need help?’
‘No; well, yes. Sit here and keep an eye on the coats and the wheelchair.’
We go upstairs. We reach the top of the stairs. A fat 45-year-old lady comes out of the toilet right on time.
‘Can you give me a hand?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Take care. There’s another step inside.’
‘Wow. How big!’
I’m about to ask: ‘Who are you? The mother of the members of Mikro?’
She catches me first. She doesn’t ask questions. She explains herself.
‘Don’t close the door. We’ve seen other birdies and we know about that stuff.’
‘You’ve never seen one like mine.’ (She provoked me. Didn’t she?)
‘What do you suggest me? That I sit there looking?’
‘Do what you want. I have to pee.’
At some point, the lady loses it and disappears.
After relaxing from our serious and urgent task, we go down the stairs with the help of some other volunteer this time. We wear our coats and get ready to go outside. No word on Diamantis. We forgot him completely; not intentionally but out of forgetfulness. Suddenly, I have a flash.
‘Want to go and talk to John-John?’
‘Let’s do it.’
We didn’t found John. We found Nikos. A great guy (he seems to be). Very friendly and smart, which is exactly what I was not since I uttered my stupid words without even realizing.‘You were very good after the middle of the concert.
LOVE ME TENDER
10.02.05
Ever since she was a child she was wondering how it is to kiss a frog on the lips. She had to wait for many years befores she could agree. It was indeed a disgusting thing to do that could shock her greatly.
Your body turns blue and there is a ringing in your ears before and after your transfer to the hospital. You are suddenly found looking at the ceiling, lying on a bed in a room with another 24 patients. You want to talk and you can’t. You want to tell your nurse that you saw him with your own eyes and that he is the one and only to blame that you still can’t sleep.
‘Elvis is sitting on the windowsill and bugs me. Please tell him to shut up.’
‘Elvis died, honey.’
‘Then who is that fat man out there? The one with the black sunglasses, the red cape and the sparkling white clothes singing Love Me Tender in broad daylight?’
‘What am I to tell you? I can’t hear anybody.’
‘You don’t have to. You can see his face stuck on the glass.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me but your frog put us in big trouble.’
‘What frog?’
‘The one you kissed a little before you came here.’
‘It was the only way to get the ring. I opened the little box and he burst out. He stood still and kept looking at me. He looked like a wise man. Jimmy said he was harmless, even though he looked scary. What I want to say is that he was green and spotted but I’m no beauty either. Right? It wouldn’t be polite to turn down one of God’s creatures without second thoughts.’
‘And the ring?’
‘It was stuck immediately on my left nostril while the green monster threw his tongue over me. Jimmy gave me a meaningful look, waiting for a yes or no from me.’
‘What did you answer?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And then?’
‘I opened my eyes and saw him.’
‘Jimmy?’
‘No, Elvis.’
‘How many times will I tell you that? Elvis died!’
‘Now why are you crying?’
‘Because he died. You just said that.’
‘You mean, you didn’t know?’
‘How could I imagine that? A few hours ago he got me to the ER. He wanted to save my life and then he died in the end.’
‘You started getting your memory back. That’s good.’
‘What do you mean, I started getting my memory back?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. Tell me everything.’
‘I can’t find a reason to trust you. I don’t know you.’
‘And if I told you that I’m a relative of the frog?’
‘What frog?’
‘The one you kissed a little before you came here.’
‘No way. This frog is an orphan. We got him from the lake while he was scratching his guitar. (Jimmy was excited with his expertise and decided to adopt him). He was playing some very well known tune. I think it was Love Me Tender. It was sung by some guy called Elvis Presley. Have you ever heard of him, I wonder?’
‘It’s the first time I hear of him. He’s good.’
‘He was. Very good. Now he is dead. I’m sorry but can I ask you something?
’‘Whatever you want.’
‘What’s that green thing stuck on your shoe?’
Ever since she was a child she was wondering how it is to kiss a frog on the lips. She had to wait for many years befores she could agree. It was indeed a disgusting thing to do that could shock her greatly.
Your body turns blue and there is a ringing in your ears before and after your transfer to the hospital. You are suddenly found looking at the ceiling, lying on a bed in a room with another 24 patients. You want to talk and you can’t. You want to tell your nurse that you saw him with your own eyes and that he is the one and only to blame that you still can’t sleep.
‘Elvis is sitting on the windowsill and bugs me. Please tell him to shut up.’
‘Elvis died, honey.’
‘Then who is that fat man out there? The one with the black sunglasses, the red cape and the sparkling white clothes singing Love Me Tender in broad daylight?’
‘What am I to tell you? I can’t hear anybody.’
‘You don’t have to. You can see his face stuck on the glass.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me but your frog put us in big trouble.’
‘What frog?’
‘The one you kissed a little before you came here.’
‘It was the only way to get the ring. I opened the little box and he burst out. He stood still and kept looking at me. He looked like a wise man. Jimmy said he was harmless, even though he looked scary. What I want to say is that he was green and spotted but I’m no beauty either. Right? It wouldn’t be polite to turn down one of God’s creatures without second thoughts.’
‘And the ring?’
‘It was stuck immediately on my left nostril while the green monster threw his tongue over me. Jimmy gave me a meaningful look, waiting for a yes or no from me.’
‘What did you answer?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And then?’
‘I opened my eyes and saw him.’
‘Jimmy?’
‘No, Elvis.’
‘How many times will I tell you that? Elvis died!’
‘Now why are you crying?’
‘Because he died. You just said that.’
‘You mean, you didn’t know?’
‘How could I imagine that? A few hours ago he got me to the ER. He wanted to save my life and then he died in the end.’
‘You started getting your memory back. That’s good.’
‘What do you mean, I started getting my memory back?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. Tell me everything.’
‘I can’t find a reason to trust you. I don’t know you.’
‘And if I told you that I’m a relative of the frog?’
‘What frog?’
‘The one you kissed a little before you came here.’
‘No way. This frog is an orphan. We got him from the lake while he was scratching his guitar. (Jimmy was excited with his expertise and decided to adopt him). He was playing some very well known tune. I think it was Love Me Tender. It was sung by some guy called Elvis Presley. Have you ever heard of him, I wonder?’
‘It’s the first time I hear of him. He’s good.’
‘He was. Very good. Now he is dead. I’m sorry but can I ask you something?
’‘Whatever you want.’
‘What’s that green thing stuck on your shoe?’
FEVERISH THOUGHTS
03.02.05
I can finally stay in front of my computer and write some more crap. I am still feverish (38 degrees) but I feel all right, if you think that this was 39 and a half yesterday. If the indications of the quicksilver were translated into TV ratings, I would definitely make a big success on the small screen. I’m sick of my life here, from the couch to the bed and vice versa. I hadn’t caught a cold for more than two years. Now I’m completely stuck with it.
A little while ago I saw Pulp Fiction again. My father got it from a Sunday paper. He asked me to watch it together. I told him ‘Nah, don’t bother’. I don’t know why but I wanted to watch it again all by myself. Well, I couldn’t do a greater PhD on Tarantino. His films are the example of beyond-text-narration in cinematography. So I do that PhD. What will I be afterwards? A tarantinologist or some expert on cinema theory that everybody will hate?
I missed my job. I want to be with lots of people. I don’t like sitting at home like an old man. I have had a lot of time to think lately. I decided that my future profession must guarantee social exchange for me. All right, I’m not very patient with the others but that can be fixed. It’s enough to try. I need a creative and definitely not a lonely job. The writer in me can wait.
Do you know who put those ideas in my mind? Jonathan Coe is sure to blame. I am finally reading his book ‘What a Carve Up!’ and I confirm my opinion regarding the loneliness of the writer. Well, I am already strange enough and I don’t want to push it to the limit. Social exchange is a compass for a traveler like me. From that point of view, even that fact that part of my job is to pick up phonecalls gives me the right to believe that I’m on a good way. Many citizens might be swearing at me every time that the gardener is late in pruning their tree but they try to communicate with me at the same time. In the end we always say: ‘Thank you’ – ‘You are welcome’.
I can finally stay in front of my computer and write some more crap. I am still feverish (38 degrees) but I feel all right, if you think that this was 39 and a half yesterday. If the indications of the quicksilver were translated into TV ratings, I would definitely make a big success on the small screen. I’m sick of my life here, from the couch to the bed and vice versa. I hadn’t caught a cold for more than two years. Now I’m completely stuck with it.
A little while ago I saw Pulp Fiction again. My father got it from a Sunday paper. He asked me to watch it together. I told him ‘Nah, don’t bother’. I don’t know why but I wanted to watch it again all by myself. Well, I couldn’t do a greater PhD on Tarantino. His films are the example of beyond-text-narration in cinematography. So I do that PhD. What will I be afterwards? A tarantinologist or some expert on cinema theory that everybody will hate?
I missed my job. I want to be with lots of people. I don’t like sitting at home like an old man. I have had a lot of time to think lately. I decided that my future profession must guarantee social exchange for me. All right, I’m not very patient with the others but that can be fixed. It’s enough to try. I need a creative and definitely not a lonely job. The writer in me can wait.
Do you know who put those ideas in my mind? Jonathan Coe is sure to blame. I am finally reading his book ‘What a Carve Up!’ and I confirm my opinion regarding the loneliness of the writer. Well, I am already strange enough and I don’t want to push it to the limit. Social exchange is a compass for a traveler like me. From that point of view, even that fact that part of my job is to pick up phonecalls gives me the right to believe that I’m on a good way. Many citizens might be swearing at me every time that the gardener is late in pruning their tree but they try to communicate with me at the same time. In the end we always say: ‘Thank you’ – ‘You are welcome’.
24 HOUR PARTY PEOPLE
31.01.05
Weekends go fast, unfortunately. I will have a lot to remember from the weekend that just passed, fortunately. And of course I won’t forge that I set you all up and of course I won’t forget how often my phone was ringing when someone from you was asking ‘But where on earth are you?’. May my teddy bear be well, with his great face and unforgettable profile, entering the room and relaxing everyone: ‘Nicholas is coming’. And Nicholas was indeed coming with Dimitris.
There was a huge traffic on the road. This is no excuse. Moreover, it took us about half an hour to park (this is no excuse either) and a lot of cleverness to avoid the huge Rottweiler that we met loose on some corner of the street before it chopped us (it was the first time of my life that I was afraid of a dog) – and this can definitely not be any kind of excuse.
In the end, this meeting took place about an hour later (you know better than me how much time passed). To my great joy, I found you sitting altogether and I confess that while approaching you I was wondering whether or not I would get away with slaps and swearing. I don’t use to appear like a Diva in the middle of the stage and, although I don’t think of establishing that, I admit that I was impressed with your patience. Well, you are unbelievably polite. I congratulate you on that. I also congratulate you on your resilience regarding ‘heavy’ guitars, drums and bass or (let’s put it differently) your ability to appreciate good music. And yet the best music of the whole world would sound terrible without your presence.
Thanks to you, my dear –old and new- friends, I can experience the best thing that is happening to me right here right now. Not somewhere else, not some other time, but RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW! Somewhere among the tables with the various drinks, hiding behind smoke and colourful lights, I am standing up. I am holding you and you are holding me. We are dancing afterwards, as if this is the most natural thing in the world (not that it isn’t). Before I get tired, I let my legs fall on the floor. I move as I can. I sweat as I can and I am now sure that our sweat is what makes the ground so slippery (disgusting but plausible discovery).
When I finally decide to sit down, I’m done but I wish I can always be tired like that: being exhausted after a great party (those of you who left early will be wondering if I am exaggerating). Around 5 o’clock in the morning, having managed to arrive at home, I see that I have a treaded and dirty cigarette end stuck on my shoe. I pick it up fast before the dog finds and eats it. I take a quick look at my dirty shoes: they look as if half a centimeter from the soles is melted. I laugh at myself. I remember I used to tell my mom: ‘You know, I don’t mind that I can’t walk. What kills me is that I can’t dance.’.
Well, I’ll never say such crap for as long as I live.
Weekends go fast, unfortunately. I will have a lot to remember from the weekend that just passed, fortunately. And of course I won’t forge that I set you all up and of course I won’t forget how often my phone was ringing when someone from you was asking ‘But where on earth are you?’. May my teddy bear be well, with his great face and unforgettable profile, entering the room and relaxing everyone: ‘Nicholas is coming’. And Nicholas was indeed coming with Dimitris.
There was a huge traffic on the road. This is no excuse. Moreover, it took us about half an hour to park (this is no excuse either) and a lot of cleverness to avoid the huge Rottweiler that we met loose on some corner of the street before it chopped us (it was the first time of my life that I was afraid of a dog) – and this can definitely not be any kind of excuse.
In the end, this meeting took place about an hour later (you know better than me how much time passed). To my great joy, I found you sitting altogether and I confess that while approaching you I was wondering whether or not I would get away with slaps and swearing. I don’t use to appear like a Diva in the middle of the stage and, although I don’t think of establishing that, I admit that I was impressed with your patience. Well, you are unbelievably polite. I congratulate you on that. I also congratulate you on your resilience regarding ‘heavy’ guitars, drums and bass or (let’s put it differently) your ability to appreciate good music. And yet the best music of the whole world would sound terrible without your presence.
Thanks to you, my dear –old and new- friends, I can experience the best thing that is happening to me right here right now. Not somewhere else, not some other time, but RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW! Somewhere among the tables with the various drinks, hiding behind smoke and colourful lights, I am standing up. I am holding you and you are holding me. We are dancing afterwards, as if this is the most natural thing in the world (not that it isn’t). Before I get tired, I let my legs fall on the floor. I move as I can. I sweat as I can and I am now sure that our sweat is what makes the ground so slippery (disgusting but plausible discovery).
When I finally decide to sit down, I’m done but I wish I can always be tired like that: being exhausted after a great party (those of you who left early will be wondering if I am exaggerating). Around 5 o’clock in the morning, having managed to arrive at home, I see that I have a treaded and dirty cigarette end stuck on my shoe. I pick it up fast before the dog finds and eats it. I take a quick look at my dirty shoes: they look as if half a centimeter from the soles is melted. I laugh at myself. I remember I used to tell my mom: ‘You know, I don’t mind that I can’t walk. What kills me is that I can’t dance.’.
Well, I’ll never say such crap for as long as I live.
Dreadlock holiday
27.01.05
We’ll put on a new piece based on improvisations. At first, I was happy to participate again in the municipal theatrical group. I was happy until they told us that we’ll have rehearsals twice a week. They’ll kill us again. And yet this professionalism and this responsibility do have some sense. The performances are organized for June. There’s not much time until then. I just wonder if I should sound the alarm, since I still haven’t handed out my dissertation; and I should be stressed but I’m not. But then again, why should I struggle to feel stressed anyway?
Something else makes me doubt: my work on things that I did at the age of 18 raises questions. Is it possible that I am becoming a kiddo again? Is it possible that I’m looking for new tricks among old ones? Is it possible that I’m still a teenager? Is it possible that my dog is way more mature than I am? My dog knows what he wants. He wants to play, sleep and eat. He has no inhibitions. He doesn’t go to concerts. He doesn’t think how cool it would be to have a band; neither does he write any lyrics. I did all that stuff years ago. I still go to concerts. Some times I look at the younger guys who go crazy and I say: ‘Wow! The world hasn’t changed at all in the end.’. I thought the same thing about those who work with me in the theatrical group when I saw them the day before yesterday. They’re all as I left them the last time. Is this good or bad, I wonder?
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe all of them have changed and I haven’t understood that. They’ve certainly changed. It’s not like I care about what happens to the others. I just try to see my signs of progress by observing the changes in those who surround me. No matter how strange it may seem, my fellow humans comprise elements of my external surroundings when they are perceived as subjects for observation. In other times, people are bridges for me and they unite my present with my past of my future. I remember them the way I remember a characteristic summer tune in deep winter.
Suddenly, I am singing 10cc and Dreadlock Holiday. I turn back time a little bit but I am advancing:
I was walkin’ down the street
Concentratin’ on truckin’ night
I heard a dark voice beside of me
And I looked round in a state of fright
I saw four faces one mad
A brother from the gutter
They looked me up and down a bit
And turned to each other
I say, I don’t like cricket oh no, I love it
I don’t like cricket no no, I love it
Don’t you walk thru’ my words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru’ my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet
Well he looked down at my silver chain
He said he’ll give you one dollar
I said you’ve got to be jokin’ man
It was a present from me Mother
He said I like it I want it
I’ll take it off your hands
And you’ll be sorry you crossed me
You’d better understand that you’re alone
A long way from home
And I say, I don’t like reggae no no, I love it
I don’t like reggae, I love it
Don’t you cramp me style
Don’t you queer me pitch
Don’t you walk thru’ my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet
I hurried back to the swimming pool
Sinkin’ Pena Calarda
I heard a dark voice beside me say
Would you like something harder
She said I’ve got it you want it
My harvest is the best
And if you try it you’ll like it
And whollow in a Dreadlock Holiday
And I say, Don’t like Jamaica oh no, I love her
Don’t like Jamaica oh no, I love her oh yeah
Don’t you walk thru’ her words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru’ her words
‘Cause you ain’t heard her out yet
I don’t like cricket, I love it
Dreadlock holiday, I don’t like reggae, I love it
Dreadlock holiday, Don’t like Jamaica, I love her
Dreadlock holiday.
We’ll put on a new piece based on improvisations. At first, I was happy to participate again in the municipal theatrical group. I was happy until they told us that we’ll have rehearsals twice a week. They’ll kill us again. And yet this professionalism and this responsibility do have some sense. The performances are organized for June. There’s not much time until then. I just wonder if I should sound the alarm, since I still haven’t handed out my dissertation; and I should be stressed but I’m not. But then again, why should I struggle to feel stressed anyway?
Something else makes me doubt: my work on things that I did at the age of 18 raises questions. Is it possible that I am becoming a kiddo again? Is it possible that I’m looking for new tricks among old ones? Is it possible that I’m still a teenager? Is it possible that my dog is way more mature than I am? My dog knows what he wants. He wants to play, sleep and eat. He has no inhibitions. He doesn’t go to concerts. He doesn’t think how cool it would be to have a band; neither does he write any lyrics. I did all that stuff years ago. I still go to concerts. Some times I look at the younger guys who go crazy and I say: ‘Wow! The world hasn’t changed at all in the end.’. I thought the same thing about those who work with me in the theatrical group when I saw them the day before yesterday. They’re all as I left them the last time. Is this good or bad, I wonder?
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe all of them have changed and I haven’t understood that. They’ve certainly changed. It’s not like I care about what happens to the others. I just try to see my signs of progress by observing the changes in those who surround me. No matter how strange it may seem, my fellow humans comprise elements of my external surroundings when they are perceived as subjects for observation. In other times, people are bridges for me and they unite my present with my past of my future. I remember them the way I remember a characteristic summer tune in deep winter.
Suddenly, I am singing 10cc and Dreadlock Holiday. I turn back time a little bit but I am advancing:
I was walkin’ down the street
Concentratin’ on truckin’ night
I heard a dark voice beside of me
And I looked round in a state of fright
I saw four faces one mad
A brother from the gutter
They looked me up and down a bit
And turned to each other
I say, I don’t like cricket oh no, I love it
I don’t like cricket no no, I love it
Don’t you walk thru’ my words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru’ my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet
Well he looked down at my silver chain
He said he’ll give you one dollar
I said you’ve got to be jokin’ man
It was a present from me Mother
He said I like it I want it
I’ll take it off your hands
And you’ll be sorry you crossed me
You’d better understand that you’re alone
A long way from home
And I say, I don’t like reggae no no, I love it
I don’t like reggae, I love it
Don’t you cramp me style
Don’t you queer me pitch
Don’t you walk thru’ my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet
I hurried back to the swimming pool
Sinkin’ Pena Calarda
I heard a dark voice beside me say
Would you like something harder
She said I’ve got it you want it
My harvest is the best
And if you try it you’ll like it
And whollow in a Dreadlock Holiday
And I say, Don’t like Jamaica oh no, I love her
Don’t like Jamaica oh no, I love her oh yeah
Don’t you walk thru’ her words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru’ her words
‘Cause you ain’t heard her out yet
I don’t like cricket, I love it
Dreadlock holiday, I don’t like reggae, I love it
Dreadlock holiday, Don’t like Jamaica, I love her
Dreadlock holiday.
A LITTLE MORE SMOKE
24.01.05
There are times when I have to prove myself that I’m not a nerd. There are times when I quit the books and learn to live without them. I am looking for something to lift my spirits, to make me get high, even just for a moment. Well, I hadn’t smoked narghile until recently (Jenny had brought us once a rather big one from Constantinople. It’s still somewhere in the living room).
On Saturday afternoon I was already sitting on a couch. My feet were put on carpets that were a little bit worse than those that mrs. Miraraki used to advertise on her show. I was a bit crushed for some reason (there was so much space, why didn’t you guys sit a little bit further?). The notes of the East were heavy to my ears. A bit of Volanis and a bit of Rouvas translated in Arabic. Other than that, everything was all right. The atmosphere was warm and the female presence stood out. Of course I would drink coffee. And of course I would taste the very delicious smoke of the narghile scented with apple.
What was missing? Nothing was missing. The bunch of friends was big in the end. I only wished I could have a feline lying in front of my feet. A tiger or something like that. Mr. Pi is to blame for this fantasy of mine, no doubt (I’m still reading the respective novel of Yann Martel – this has nothing to do with "P" by Aronofky, I assure you). Anyway, with or without a beast in front of my feet, I enjoyed it. Do you know where I can find smoke for narghile? It helps me relax (not more than needed) and I get the impression that it will help me do better with my study.
There are times when I have to prove myself that I’m not a nerd. There are times when I quit the books and learn to live without them. I am looking for something to lift my spirits, to make me get high, even just for a moment. Well, I hadn’t smoked narghile until recently (Jenny had brought us once a rather big one from Constantinople. It’s still somewhere in the living room).
On Saturday afternoon I was already sitting on a couch. My feet were put on carpets that were a little bit worse than those that mrs. Miraraki used to advertise on her show. I was a bit crushed for some reason (there was so much space, why didn’t you guys sit a little bit further?). The notes of the East were heavy to my ears. A bit of Volanis and a bit of Rouvas translated in Arabic. Other than that, everything was all right. The atmosphere was warm and the female presence stood out. Of course I would drink coffee. And of course I would taste the very delicious smoke of the narghile scented with apple.
What was missing? Nothing was missing. The bunch of friends was big in the end. I only wished I could have a feline lying in front of my feet. A tiger or something like that. Mr. Pi is to blame for this fantasy of mine, no doubt (I’m still reading the respective novel of Yann Martel – this has nothing to do with "P" by Aronofky, I assure you). Anyway, with or without a beast in front of my feet, I enjoyed it. Do you know where I can find smoke for narghile? It helps me relax (not more than needed) and I get the impression that it will help me do better with my study.
THE LAST DAY
02.01.05
I am still awake, although I have no obligation to fulfil and no work to see done, although I am tired to death from last night’s late feast, and I write this prologue, although I know it’s stupid to start always with a declaration such as ‘I am like this and I feel like that’ etc.. I stop it right now.
Yesterday:
Party with Vassilis somewhere near here. Invitation. 30 Euros. Free consumption of drinks. Lift only for commodities. From the side door. We cross the fridges. We see the girls. They are already down (to work). They serve drinks; with or without ice.
The space. Big. Huge. With lights and pipes on the ceiling. For decorations. The music almost horrible. A big crowd. I love that! Countless girls; with or without boyfriends. More people come. Right now they are about 700 in total! On the side. I see my ‘gang’. They greet me. We talk. More people come. Unknown. They pass before me. They walk on me. My glass is empty. My glass is filled again. It is empty again. It is filled again. 9 Ursus in total. Movement in front of the DJ. Dance. Jolt. Dizziness and need to pee. The tile is wet. Slippery. Another ten people wait outside. I bite my tie (purple, in glam rock style) so as not to pee on that too. My hands on the wall. I’m holding on. I think I’ll fall. Relief. A little more dance. People looking back. Wishes being exchanged. Friends saying goodbye. Coats that find their place around the body. 6:30 in the morning. The dark sky. We’re looking for a car. Where did we leave it? Wasted. We’re all wasted. The car is coming. The sky changes its colour. The mobile informs me of the time most definitely: 7 o’clock in the morning. 1/1/05. A simple addition (+365 days). A celebration. I want to think of a beloved face, not of family or friends. There’s noone. I am tortured. For a while. For seconds. I come around. I make a wish. A wish with a cause. Without a pretext. Vassilis is smiling. He ‘reads’ me: I return that. With a smile. The day becomes whiter. The lights go high. Higher. Higher.
I am still awake, although I have no obligation to fulfil and no work to see done, although I am tired to death from last night’s late feast, and I write this prologue, although I know it’s stupid to start always with a declaration such as ‘I am like this and I feel like that’ etc.. I stop it right now.
Yesterday:
Party with Vassilis somewhere near here. Invitation. 30 Euros. Free consumption of drinks. Lift only for commodities. From the side door. We cross the fridges. We see the girls. They are already down (to work). They serve drinks; with or without ice.
The space. Big. Huge. With lights and pipes on the ceiling. For decorations. The music almost horrible. A big crowd. I love that! Countless girls; with or without boyfriends. More people come. Right now they are about 700 in total! On the side. I see my ‘gang’. They greet me. We talk. More people come. Unknown. They pass before me. They walk on me. My glass is empty. My glass is filled again. It is empty again. It is filled again. 9 Ursus in total. Movement in front of the DJ. Dance. Jolt. Dizziness and need to pee. The tile is wet. Slippery. Another ten people wait outside. I bite my tie (purple, in glam rock style) so as not to pee on that too. My hands on the wall. I’m holding on. I think I’ll fall. Relief. A little more dance. People looking back. Wishes being exchanged. Friends saying goodbye. Coats that find their place around the body. 6:30 in the morning. The dark sky. We’re looking for a car. Where did we leave it? Wasted. We’re all wasted. The car is coming. The sky changes its colour. The mobile informs me of the time most definitely: 7 o’clock in the morning. 1/1/05. A simple addition (+365 days). A celebration. I want to think of a beloved face, not of family or friends. There’s noone. I am tortured. For a while. For seconds. I come around. I make a wish. A wish with a cause. Without a pretext. Vassilis is smiling. He ‘reads’ me: I return that. With a smile. The day becomes whiter. The lights go high. Higher. Higher.
Monday, September 18, 2006
DANCING TO THE BEAT OF ROCKABILLY
31.12.04
I just watched a DVD dedicated to the legend Jerry Lee. I thought that there hours are neither for ‘heavy’ guitars nor for whispered outbursts. I was dominated by a bizarre mood all day: happy, relieved, and yet a bit sad. But what do I have to lose? Another year passing by. Well, let the year go. May the next year that is to come be a whole lot better. It will be; it will be better for me, at least. I feel it. That’s what I told my friends and they were surprised by my good mood. They ran to put an end to my optimism. I clarified: ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to our country or to the whole planet but I will have a good year ahead of me. I am referring to my personal history and not to the history of the world. I know that the next decades are going to be hard for everyone in general. I let things go with the flow and I am dancing to the beat of rockabilly.’. Someone whispered a secret in my ear a few years ago: ‘If you want the whole world to be happy, you have no reason to pray for the common good. You should take care of yourself. Try to be alright and tell your friends to do the same thing. If we all take care of ourselves, we might achieve a better world, because we (those who are seen and those who are not) are the world. And those who are unhappy without being to blame, may they be strong enough to have hopes. That’s how they’ll make their step to happiness.’. I still remember those words, although they weren’t said in that row or in that way.
I repeat: I will try to have a better year ahead of me for as long as I can. Everything will be alright. I’m sure. I wish the same thing for you too.
I just watched a DVD dedicated to the legend Jerry Lee. I thought that there hours are neither for ‘heavy’ guitars nor for whispered outbursts. I was dominated by a bizarre mood all day: happy, relieved, and yet a bit sad. But what do I have to lose? Another year passing by. Well, let the year go. May the next year that is to come be a whole lot better. It will be; it will be better for me, at least. I feel it. That’s what I told my friends and they were surprised by my good mood. They ran to put an end to my optimism. I clarified: ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to our country or to the whole planet but I will have a good year ahead of me. I am referring to my personal history and not to the history of the world. I know that the next decades are going to be hard for everyone in general. I let things go with the flow and I am dancing to the beat of rockabilly.’. Someone whispered a secret in my ear a few years ago: ‘If you want the whole world to be happy, you have no reason to pray for the common good. You should take care of yourself. Try to be alright and tell your friends to do the same thing. If we all take care of ourselves, we might achieve a better world, because we (those who are seen and those who are not) are the world. And those who are unhappy without being to blame, may they be strong enough to have hopes. That’s how they’ll make their step to happiness.’. I still remember those words, although they weren’t said in that row or in that way.
I repeat: I will try to have a better year ahead of me for as long as I can. Everything will be alright. I’m sure. I wish the same thing for you too.
TOTAL (RE)CALL
16.12.04
I am happy and tired; happy because I finally don’t have to be sorry for not being able to use the buses for my transport and tired because I keep reading and writing non-stop and having a minimum of sleep. As for the blog, I have almost forgotten about it, because I can’t do anything else right now. Even yesterday’s news arrived in fragments: ‘3-6 hostages were released’ and so on. I was hearing about people’s troubles and remained indifferent. It’s Hollywood that has made me so indifferent to everything. I sit in front of my television and just watch the news, reacting as every spectator who has had enough, who is not moved by violence any more or by the horror of an unexpected situation and who is being constantly surprised without reacting to that. The more I think about it, the more I figure out that studying is to blame for it probably. I have become comfortably numb. There’s no other explanation to this.
At nights (if I manage to lie down before 4 o’clock) I turn the television on and I am looking for Samantha from the ‘Sex and the City’ series. Lively, mature, funny, smart and decisive. The best woman to give you exactly what you need and nothing more. When you are fed up with her, she is fed up with you as well and wishes you good night in a wicked way. You can enjoy her or dream of her but not love her. If you are to love somebody, love yourself, since yourself is the one who needs you more than anybody else. In the meantime, if you want to give explanations to anybody who believes that you have become a narcissist, you can listen to the whole last album of Morrissey and whisper song number 5:
I’M NOT SORRY
On returning
I can’t believe this world is still turning
The pressure’s on
Because the pleasure hasn’t gone
And I’m not sorry for
For the things I’ve done
And I’m not looking for
Just anyone
On competing
When will this tired heard stop beating?
It’s all a game
Existence is only a game
And I’m not sorry for
For the things I’ve done
And I’m not looking for
Just anyone
I’m slipping below the water line
I’m slipping below the water line
Reach for my hand and
The race is won
Reject my hand and
The damage is done
I’m slipping below the water line
I’m slipping below the water line
The woman of my dreams / she
Never came along
The woman of my dreams / well
There never was one
And I’m not sorry for
For the things I’ve said
There’s a wild man
In my head
There’s a wild man
In my head
I am happy and tired; happy because I finally don’t have to be sorry for not being able to use the buses for my transport and tired because I keep reading and writing non-stop and having a minimum of sleep. As for the blog, I have almost forgotten about it, because I can’t do anything else right now. Even yesterday’s news arrived in fragments: ‘3-6 hostages were released’ and so on. I was hearing about people’s troubles and remained indifferent. It’s Hollywood that has made me so indifferent to everything. I sit in front of my television and just watch the news, reacting as every spectator who has had enough, who is not moved by violence any more or by the horror of an unexpected situation and who is being constantly surprised without reacting to that. The more I think about it, the more I figure out that studying is to blame for it probably. I have become comfortably numb. There’s no other explanation to this.
At nights (if I manage to lie down before 4 o’clock) I turn the television on and I am looking for Samantha from the ‘Sex and the City’ series. Lively, mature, funny, smart and decisive. The best woman to give you exactly what you need and nothing more. When you are fed up with her, she is fed up with you as well and wishes you good night in a wicked way. You can enjoy her or dream of her but not love her. If you are to love somebody, love yourself, since yourself is the one who needs you more than anybody else. In the meantime, if you want to give explanations to anybody who believes that you have become a narcissist, you can listen to the whole last album of Morrissey and whisper song number 5:
I’M NOT SORRY
On returning
I can’t believe this world is still turning
The pressure’s on
Because the pleasure hasn’t gone
And I’m not sorry for
For the things I’ve done
And I’m not looking for
Just anyone
On competing
When will this tired heard stop beating?
It’s all a game
Existence is only a game
And I’m not sorry for
For the things I’ve done
And I’m not looking for
Just anyone
I’m slipping below the water line
I’m slipping below the water line
Reach for my hand and
The race is won
Reject my hand and
The damage is done
I’m slipping below the water line
I’m slipping below the water line
The woman of my dreams / she
Never came along
The woman of my dreams / well
There never was one
And I’m not sorry for
For the things I’ve said
There’s a wild man
In my head
There’s a wild man
In my head
Friday, September 15, 2006
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.
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.
ON THE SEABED
06.12.04
Thanks for your namesake wishes. It’s beautiful to go to work in the morning and read wishes on your screen. I apologize for not writing so often now but I really sleep and wake up lying on the books. I’ve become unbelievably boring both to the others and to myself. I will make up for it. Other than that, I have no other way to ‘walk around’ online. Some programme destroyed the Explorer and I decided to take advantage of the situation, since I am handing out my dissertation in the end of February.
I visited the ocean closest to me to figure out how cold the water of the sea is during the winter. I found a deserted submarine somewhere there. It was made of metal and its colour was electric blue. I got it and was buried under tons of water. I stepped on the accelerator, hoping to overcome myself. I was on the seabed. I lifted my head, as I used to when I looked at the sky, and I saw people from the backward reflection of the water. I saw people passing by, sliding skillfully on the waves. They were on the surface and I was lost down there. I have a lot of work to do. The sharks are watching me. In the end, they will either reward me for my hard work or simply give me my life. When this happens, I will be brought out again.
Best wishes both to me and to Nick Cave, whom we saw yesterday and he was great.
Thanks for your namesake wishes. It’s beautiful to go to work in the morning and read wishes on your screen. I apologize for not writing so often now but I really sleep and wake up lying on the books. I’ve become unbelievably boring both to the others and to myself. I will make up for it. Other than that, I have no other way to ‘walk around’ online. Some programme destroyed the Explorer and I decided to take advantage of the situation, since I am handing out my dissertation in the end of February.
I visited the ocean closest to me to figure out how cold the water of the sea is during the winter. I found a deserted submarine somewhere there. It was made of metal and its colour was electric blue. I got it and was buried under tons of water. I stepped on the accelerator, hoping to overcome myself. I was on the seabed. I lifted my head, as I used to when I looked at the sky, and I saw people from the backward reflection of the water. I saw people passing by, sliding skillfully on the waves. They were on the surface and I was lost down there. I have a lot of work to do. The sharks are watching me. In the end, they will either reward me for my hard work or simply give me my life. When this happens, I will be brought out again.
Best wishes both to me and to Nick Cave, whom we saw yesterday and he was great.
THE PINKY DRINKS LIFT MY SPIRITS
27.11.04
I’ve had some drinks with a pinky colour that are sweet and drive you crazy. I’m really stoned and I like it a lot. I came back home with a taxi and the driver was listening to radio ‘Cosmos’. I’m talking about a crazy drive, I’m telling you. Full of sax and husky voices. Afterwards, we listened to Lou Reed on ‘Take a walk on the wild slide’ and I wanted nothing more. Honestly. We had our drinks, we said a lot and this was enough to make us happy.
You should be there to look at me gaping idly at the colourful lights and the wooden table. I confess that some times I fall in love with objects. I let my eyes stick on them for hours, especially on details that would be considered stupid by some people. That’s why it takes me an hour to go from one room to the other, because while going there I look and think. I admire my dog, for he seems to be the sweetest dog on the planet for me, I look at Melina’s portrait and try to understand the shape of her smile. I’m in my world. Imagine me drinking. What nonsense am I talking and what stupid things am I doing!
Throughout this funny delusion I remembered to call two friends and asked them to record on video for me the interview of Soti (Triandafyllou) on NET. I love her very much and I wish she logged on my blog to read it too. Later (later means now) I understood it was time to lie down on my great bed, in order to wake up quite early tomorrow morning and work on my great dissertation. But I’ll first take a walk on the wild slide, as mister Lou Reed orders:
Holly came from Miami, F.L. A.
Hitch-hiked her way across the USA
Plucked her eyebrows on the way
Shaved her legs and then he was a she
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
She said, Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild slide
Candy came from out on the Island
In the backroom she was everybody’s darlin’
But she never lost her head
Even when she was giving head
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
Said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
And the coloured girls go
Doo do doo do doo do do doo
Little Joe never once gave it away
Everybody had to pay and pay
A hustle here and a hustle there
New York City’s the place where they said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
I said, Hey Joe
Take a walk on the wild slide
Sugar Plum Fairy came and hit the streets
Lookin’ for soul food and a place to eat
Went to the Apollo
You should’ve seen ’em go go go
They said, Hey sugar
Take a walk on the wild slide
I said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
All right, huh
Jackie is just speeding away
Thought she was James Dean for a day
Then I guess she had to crash
Valium would have helped that bash
Said, Hey babe,
Take a walk on the wild slide
I said, Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild side
And the coloured girls say,
Doo do doo do doo do do doo
Please don’t freak out with dirty words!
I’ve had some drinks with a pinky colour that are sweet and drive you crazy. I’m really stoned and I like it a lot. I came back home with a taxi and the driver was listening to radio ‘Cosmos’. I’m talking about a crazy drive, I’m telling you. Full of sax and husky voices. Afterwards, we listened to Lou Reed on ‘Take a walk on the wild slide’ and I wanted nothing more. Honestly. We had our drinks, we said a lot and this was enough to make us happy.
You should be there to look at me gaping idly at the colourful lights and the wooden table. I confess that some times I fall in love with objects. I let my eyes stick on them for hours, especially on details that would be considered stupid by some people. That’s why it takes me an hour to go from one room to the other, because while going there I look and think. I admire my dog, for he seems to be the sweetest dog on the planet for me, I look at Melina’s portrait and try to understand the shape of her smile. I’m in my world. Imagine me drinking. What nonsense am I talking and what stupid things am I doing!
Throughout this funny delusion I remembered to call two friends and asked them to record on video for me the interview of Soti (Triandafyllou) on NET. I love her very much and I wish she logged on my blog to read it too. Later (later means now) I understood it was time to lie down on my great bed, in order to wake up quite early tomorrow morning and work on my great dissertation. But I’ll first take a walk on the wild slide, as mister Lou Reed orders:
Holly came from Miami, F.L. A.
Hitch-hiked her way across the USA
Plucked her eyebrows on the way
Shaved her legs and then he was a she
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
She said, Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild slide
Candy came from out on the Island
In the backroom she was everybody’s darlin’
But she never lost her head
Even when she was giving head
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
Said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
And the coloured girls go
Doo do doo do doo do do doo
Little Joe never once gave it away
Everybody had to pay and pay
A hustle here and a hustle there
New York City’s the place where they said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
I said, Hey Joe
Take a walk on the wild slide
Sugar Plum Fairy came and hit the streets
Lookin’ for soul food and a place to eat
Went to the Apollo
You should’ve seen ’em go go go
They said, Hey sugar
Take a walk on the wild slide
I said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild slide
All right, huh
Jackie is just speeding away
Thought she was James Dean for a day
Then I guess she had to crash
Valium would have helped that bash
Said, Hey babe,
Take a walk on the wild slide
I said, Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild side
And the coloured girls say,
Doo do doo do doo do do doo
Please don’t freak out with dirty words!
STORIES
26.11.04
A great walk around New Orleans on dirty streets while worried passengers stare at me, either inside or outside a circus. People who look strange, bored performers on a show that is repeated in order to entertain, to empty the pockets of citizens, to make profit; for the rich to be richer and the poor to be poorer, for the gangster to get away with it all and the creep to rot in prison or the creep to get away with it all and the gangster to rot in prison. And all this takes place in a space blurred by the fumes of the cigarettes of those who smoke in the basements, listening to piano being played from the hands of black musicians. The dark colour, the dark looks and the bright imagination that describe what happened and what didn’t happen. Whatever I saw and did not see yesterday on my small screen.
This is what I like. This is what pleases me, along with voodoo and angry cocks ready to kill one another, because when the cock is well prepared, he takes that out and thus his ‘colleague’ spurs like mad. The others just place their bets on the name of entertainment. Watching a crash is always attractive to the viewers. That’s how it always goes. That’s what happens here too, except for the fact that there’s no winner here but, even if there was one, he wouldn’t earn money. He would only take what would be left from a story with ambiguous end. This end might be different not only for its quality but also for its outcome.
I remember my father telling me stories while on trips. I was little and had to sleep. My father slept first before he even finished with his story. I was then left with the complaint and told myself: ‘When I grow up, I will make my own stories all by myself with my own beginning and my own end.’. That’s what I said and did and it seems that I will be doing this for a long time.
A great walk around New Orleans on dirty streets while worried passengers stare at me, either inside or outside a circus. People who look strange, bored performers on a show that is repeated in order to entertain, to empty the pockets of citizens, to make profit; for the rich to be richer and the poor to be poorer, for the gangster to get away with it all and the creep to rot in prison or the creep to get away with it all and the gangster to rot in prison. And all this takes place in a space blurred by the fumes of the cigarettes of those who smoke in the basements, listening to piano being played from the hands of black musicians. The dark colour, the dark looks and the bright imagination that describe what happened and what didn’t happen. Whatever I saw and did not see yesterday on my small screen.
This is what I like. This is what pleases me, along with voodoo and angry cocks ready to kill one another, because when the cock is well prepared, he takes that out and thus his ‘colleague’ spurs like mad. The others just place their bets on the name of entertainment. Watching a crash is always attractive to the viewers. That’s how it always goes. That’s what happens here too, except for the fact that there’s no winner here but, even if there was one, he wouldn’t earn money. He would only take what would be left from a story with ambiguous end. This end might be different not only for its quality but also for its outcome.
I remember my father telling me stories while on trips. I was little and had to sleep. My father slept first before he even finished with his story. I was then left with the complaint and told myself: ‘When I grow up, I will make my own stories all by myself with my own beginning and my own end.’. That’s what I said and did and it seems that I will be doing this for a long time.
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