07.10.04
No, Prodigy are not my favourite band, neither do I worship Keith. I simply decided to go to the concert because I had heard various things about their concerts: thrashing and shows. The band started its tour with a visit to Athens. It was a good chance for me to see them perform live and if I were lucky enough I would experience the scenes of conflict with the authorities from a close distance.
I was on Lycabettus hill at the last minute and I wouldn’t manage to get up there if I didn’t show my ticket to the cops. It was the first time I saw so many cops standing there with their shields and I admit that it seemed strange to me. The atmosphere ‘smelled’ trouble and rumours had it for certain. The return of the Prodigy was expected to be eventful. So much the better for me.
Getting there, the first thing we saw was the crowd already concentrated just like the bulls before attacking their victims. Thousands of impatient creatures (including me as well) were ready to kick and be kicked. They weren’t mean but excited. I would justify almost anything if I hadn’t met that mystery ‘body-builder’ who gave a punch on my neck (luckily, I managed to avoid it) just because I asked him to move a little bit further.
He was standing right in front of me. He was huge and muscular. I was not at all interested in arguing with him. I asked him politely (and I repeated that) to move a little bit to the right because he was hiding the view from me. Without even looking at me, he made a noise that sounded like denying to do so: ‘no way – impossible – forget it’ and all that stuff. There was room for him to move to the right, as there was room for me to move to the left. I simply didn’t want to be far from the stage. Without uttering a word, I threw my hand over the bar that I had grabbed and forced him to move. It was then when he spurred like a madman and decided to hit me.
Having avoided the punch and after screaming (I didn’t swear at him, I just screamed), I gave him a very bad look. It was dark but we were close and we could see each other. I stood still for a while and then slipped to the left. I was in no mood of getting another punch in the face and, what’s more, I had started being really fed up with the concert. The cops sprinkled some sort of pepper on us and our noses were running …Some guys who were ready to cause trouble were coming down from the rocks. As soon as I saw them I changed my mind completely. Being in the eye of the storm did not seem to be a great idea any more. As for the guy who pretended to be a man’s man, I had already cursed him. I imagined I was stabbing his back or I was putting my fingers right into his eyes. And yet I didn’t loathe him to the end. For the first time in my life, somebody was really cruel with him. It will seem crazy to you but I had fun with that. Most of the times people treat me like a baby. I hate that. Someone offered to throw a punch in my face at last.
As for Keith, I found him literally disgusting. I had never seen a man sweating so much. Poor guy, he just wanted to kiss me. I hope that I will be more polite with him next time. I also hope that he will be clean and wearing perfume when I meet him again.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
THE LITTLE SPOON (BEND THAT BLESSED THING!)
06.10.04
I still can’t bend the little spoon. I have been trying to do that for two nights now without any result. I know what is to blame. It’s just a matter of concentration and faith. Things like that can happen. I’m pretty sure. I don’t defend the gurus with the metaphysical strengths. I defend my memories.
Many years ago, when I was still in high school, Uri Geller had visited Greece to give some seminars about the way of diffusing and making the most of human energy. He taught his audience how to ‘launch’ their brains; he wanted to prove that everything can be done when someone managed to direct his/her thoughts to anything that is desirable.
My mother did not miss out on this opportunity. She went and found him. She asked him to give me some of his energy for the purpose of helping me walk. Mister Geller accepted to do that for free. He said he wasn’t sure whether he would do it or not but he would try. Moreover, he asked my mother to bring a little spoon.
With the little spoon in her bag and a lot of optimism and faith in her heart, my mother grabbed my hand and took me with her (against my will) to meet a new magician. We had arranged for a meeting at his hotel (I think it was the Caravel), where his children welcomed us. They called their father and he came; he was a little skeptical. After introducing himself to me, he asked my mother to give him the little spoon to show me what he could do with it. He caressed the metal two or three times and it started melting right in front of our eyes. For some reason, this seemed to me absolutely normal, as if everybody who I knew until then could bend little spoons effortlessly.
I was laughing really loud. I almost made fun of him, especially when he touched his hand on my thighs (I was wearing shorts). The man was polite and patient. He kept touching me for a bit and then he stopped. I didn’t let him do much. I kept laughing like a retard until I said goodbye to him. My mother was really surprised. She found me ungrateful, since I could laugh at someone’s struggling, who just wanted to help me.
Upon coming home, we placed the bent (and signed by Uri Geller) little spoon in the cabinet. Today it’s still there and I doubt if I have ever held it in my hands, even just once. Whenever I look in the cabinet, I get the impression that the little spoon is bent more and more every day. It looks like a creature that is either alive or ready to breathe its last. I get the impression that this energy wasn’t lost. I don’t feel any difference in my body but I don’t know how I would be if I hadn’t gone to that meeting. I’ve been hearing people talk about little spoons all over Greece those last days and I wonder: ‘Do you think he helped me in the end?’.
I still can’t bend the little spoon. I have been trying to do that for two nights now without any result. I know what is to blame. It’s just a matter of concentration and faith. Things like that can happen. I’m pretty sure. I don’t defend the gurus with the metaphysical strengths. I defend my memories.
Many years ago, when I was still in high school, Uri Geller had visited Greece to give some seminars about the way of diffusing and making the most of human energy. He taught his audience how to ‘launch’ their brains; he wanted to prove that everything can be done when someone managed to direct his/her thoughts to anything that is desirable.
My mother did not miss out on this opportunity. She went and found him. She asked him to give me some of his energy for the purpose of helping me walk. Mister Geller accepted to do that for free. He said he wasn’t sure whether he would do it or not but he would try. Moreover, he asked my mother to bring a little spoon.
With the little spoon in her bag and a lot of optimism and faith in her heart, my mother grabbed my hand and took me with her (against my will) to meet a new magician. We had arranged for a meeting at his hotel (I think it was the Caravel), where his children welcomed us. They called their father and he came; he was a little skeptical. After introducing himself to me, he asked my mother to give him the little spoon to show me what he could do with it. He caressed the metal two or three times and it started melting right in front of our eyes. For some reason, this seemed to me absolutely normal, as if everybody who I knew until then could bend little spoons effortlessly.
I was laughing really loud. I almost made fun of him, especially when he touched his hand on my thighs (I was wearing shorts). The man was polite and patient. He kept touching me for a bit and then he stopped. I didn’t let him do much. I kept laughing like a retard until I said goodbye to him. My mother was really surprised. She found me ungrateful, since I could laugh at someone’s struggling, who just wanted to help me.
Upon coming home, we placed the bent (and signed by Uri Geller) little spoon in the cabinet. Today it’s still there and I doubt if I have ever held it in my hands, even just once. Whenever I look in the cabinet, I get the impression that the little spoon is bent more and more every day. It looks like a creature that is either alive or ready to breathe its last. I get the impression that this energy wasn’t lost. I don’t feel any difference in my body but I don’t know how I would be if I hadn’t gone to that meeting. I’ve been hearing people talk about little spoons all over Greece those last days and I wonder: ‘Do you think he helped me in the end?’.
INTRAVENOUS
05.10.04
I saw things differently today. I had to have a magnetic scan (isn’t that how this method is called?) to finally discover what’s going on with my hand and I still suffer from so much pain despite the physical therapies and the treatment (the fall did not render the situation more difficult. I’m serious.) Due to the increased degree of cerebral palsy and of dystonia (See how well I’m writing? I’m something, huh?), I can’t stay still when I am lying down. Moreover, I suffer from a stupid phobia and I think that the ceiling will fall down on me (of course I’m not talking of the ceiling of my house, to which I’m used). This is why I was anaesthetized with an intravenous injection. I felt my hands numb and then I fell asleep. They had assured me that I would be in a state of intoxication. What intoxication and nonsense were they talking about? I slept deeply and I even had a dream (don’t ask me what, I don’t remember). That’s how I managed to stay still but what was more important is that I managed to have a rest, since lately I’ve been suffering from the syndrome of being a writer (that’s how I call it). I stay up almost all night and sleep only for three or fours hours in the morning. I wake up at around 7:45 to go to work. No problem. Everything runs smoothly (with or without luck). In case I have to repeat that scan (I’m speaking figuratively here, hopefully), I will ask for a little bit of that intravenous cocktail for home: ‘Once a druggy, never a druggy’.
I saw things differently today. I had to have a magnetic scan (isn’t that how this method is called?) to finally discover what’s going on with my hand and I still suffer from so much pain despite the physical therapies and the treatment (the fall did not render the situation more difficult. I’m serious.) Due to the increased degree of cerebral palsy and of dystonia (See how well I’m writing? I’m something, huh?), I can’t stay still when I am lying down. Moreover, I suffer from a stupid phobia and I think that the ceiling will fall down on me (of course I’m not talking of the ceiling of my house, to which I’m used). This is why I was anaesthetized with an intravenous injection. I felt my hands numb and then I fell asleep. They had assured me that I would be in a state of intoxication. What intoxication and nonsense were they talking about? I slept deeply and I even had a dream (don’t ask me what, I don’t remember). That’s how I managed to stay still but what was more important is that I managed to have a rest, since lately I’ve been suffering from the syndrome of being a writer (that’s how I call it). I stay up almost all night and sleep only for three or fours hours in the morning. I wake up at around 7:45 to go to work. No problem. Everything runs smoothly (with or without luck). In case I have to repeat that scan (I’m speaking figuratively here, hopefully), I will ask for a little bit of that intravenous cocktail for home: ‘Once a druggy, never a druggy’.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
THE FALL
04.10.04
Coming back from the cinema, we ended up in Gazi (an area around central Athens). We crossed the pavement in front of the Technopolis (City of Art: it is a whole area where festivities, events and concerts etc. are organized). It is a narrow pavement with columns stuck at different points of it. My wheelchair was just fitting the paveted street and my falling apart was actually expected. I almost waited for it. I wasn’t taken by surprise when my wheelchair was turned to the sides and threw me on the street.
I ended up lying at the end of the street. Cars and motorcycles were passing right in front of me at extreme speed while I was still lying on the asphalt. A driver stopped to lift me up. Everything happened so fast; I didn’t quite understand if I was actually in danger and in what danger. I had no time to start swearing or accuse anybody of anything. I did that later. I first took care to bring Konstantina around, who was somehow shocked. Those who are familiar with the idea of the fall are not many.
Let’s face it. When you are on wheels, a lot of things can happen to you but it’s equally possible that absolutely nothing happens. I was lucky this time. I even enjoyed it. Life is exciting even when you fall. You look next to you and you see your face reflected on the rims of the cars. You become some sort of reptile. Anybody can walk on you or even spit in your face. You look like a paper bag or a run over cat, if you are seen from a distance. The lights of the cars point at your head, making the road sparkle. You take a last look on everything and then you are up. You wipe the dust from your clothes and you thank God you are still alive. I was lifted up because someone helped me. I wonder: would someone make it on one’s own if there was nobody there? But of course. Our city is much friendlier now to us. How dared I forget that?
Coming back from the cinema, we ended up in Gazi (an area around central Athens). We crossed the pavement in front of the Technopolis (City of Art: it is a whole area where festivities, events and concerts etc. are organized). It is a narrow pavement with columns stuck at different points of it. My wheelchair was just fitting the paveted street and my falling apart was actually expected. I almost waited for it. I wasn’t taken by surprise when my wheelchair was turned to the sides and threw me on the street.
I ended up lying at the end of the street. Cars and motorcycles were passing right in front of me at extreme speed while I was still lying on the asphalt. A driver stopped to lift me up. Everything happened so fast; I didn’t quite understand if I was actually in danger and in what danger. I had no time to start swearing or accuse anybody of anything. I did that later. I first took care to bring Konstantina around, who was somehow shocked. Those who are familiar with the idea of the fall are not many.
Let’s face it. When you are on wheels, a lot of things can happen to you but it’s equally possible that absolutely nothing happens. I was lucky this time. I even enjoyed it. Life is exciting even when you fall. You look next to you and you see your face reflected on the rims of the cars. You become some sort of reptile. Anybody can walk on you or even spit in your face. You look like a paper bag or a run over cat, if you are seen from a distance. The lights of the cars point at your head, making the road sparkle. You take a last look on everything and then you are up. You wipe the dust from your clothes and you thank God you are still alive. I was lifted up because someone helped me. I wonder: would someone make it on one’s own if there was nobody there? But of course. Our city is much friendlier now to us. How dared I forget that?
ANOTHER MIRACLE
01.10.04
I finally climbed on the Acropolis hill! What am I to say? I have started living like a tourist and I really like it. A bit of Paralympics, a bit of walking around Athens, all those things are the best for me to prolong the atmosphere of celebration. It’s a true celebration to me guys. I had never approached the Parthenon so much. Don’t think that it was easy. We had to cross the paved street of Pikionis with my front wheels remaining in the air (otherwise it would be impossible to go further). I enjoyed every single moment, even bumping on that paved street. It was the best way to have a natural lithotripsy! Who cares about gallstones?
I’ve preserved in my darkness the picture of a miracle that is enlightened by the sun itself. Nothing has left me feeling more free and independent. It’s the feeling that you have when you and time become one. Behind the ptychoses of the marbles there is only one moment to be found but you can’t place it in a specific time-span. There is no present, no past, no future. You are alone in front of an eternal secret. You want to swear that it will last forever. It’s not the greatness of the monument. It’s the voice and the breath of what remains up there. It is everything that traveled in time and kept company to history. It is not an object of love. It’s a symbol. It is a vibrant organism. You get the impression that, if you stand next to the pillars, you will listen to the Parthenon or to the Caryatids telling you stories about your country. Some times, you want to cry when you look at the colours that fade or at the faces of the human Gods who stay numb while time is passing. You want to swear again that you understood and heard every word they said with care.
There is no point in swearing; it is wise to remain silent when a small secret comes out only for you and through you.
I finally climbed on the Acropolis hill! What am I to say? I have started living like a tourist and I really like it. A bit of Paralympics, a bit of walking around Athens, all those things are the best for me to prolong the atmosphere of celebration. It’s a true celebration to me guys. I had never approached the Parthenon so much. Don’t think that it was easy. We had to cross the paved street of Pikionis with my front wheels remaining in the air (otherwise it would be impossible to go further). I enjoyed every single moment, even bumping on that paved street. It was the best way to have a natural lithotripsy! Who cares about gallstones?
I’ve preserved in my darkness the picture of a miracle that is enlightened by the sun itself. Nothing has left me feeling more free and independent. It’s the feeling that you have when you and time become one. Behind the ptychoses of the marbles there is only one moment to be found but you can’t place it in a specific time-span. There is no present, no past, no future. You are alone in front of an eternal secret. You want to swear that it will last forever. It’s not the greatness of the monument. It’s the voice and the breath of what remains up there. It is everything that traveled in time and kept company to history. It is not an object of love. It’s a symbol. It is a vibrant organism. You get the impression that, if you stand next to the pillars, you will listen to the Parthenon or to the Caryatids telling you stories about your country. Some times, you want to cry when you look at the colours that fade or at the faces of the human Gods who stay numb while time is passing. You want to swear again that you understood and heard every word they said with care.
There is no point in swearing; it is wise to remain silent when a small secret comes out only for you and through you.
ON LOVE AND TRAGEDY
30.09.04
Something tells me that I will provoke reaction here. So much the better then. At first, I’m interested in being honest. This is why I should say that I’m not one of those whose love can be unrequited. As many other people, I am also a guy full of insecurities and this means that I hesitate to offer something without reward. On the other hand, every issue about which we are talking is a relevant one. If by the term love what we mean is good mood and offer to our neighbours, that’s fine with me. I can offer lots of love like that. But if we’re talking about love within the context of interpersonal relations and exchanges, i.e. the kind of love that comes out of daily contact and not a random meeting, then I get the impression that it’s too much to speak of love without any reward. If all this sounds strange to you, two things might be happening here: either you are very nice guys (and I am therefore very lucky to be friends with you) or you have really demystified the meaning of love. I agree with you on the fact that our acts of love set us free but I never want to pretend that I am a superman. I’d rather be loved. Am I to lie? Furthermore, if I’m loved, I must have done something good, which means that I can get away with a clear conscience.
As far as the feelings that I had for the tragic event are concerned, I say that I am sorry in general. I can’t feel more sorry for something that is not directly connected to my daily life. I think that those who abundantly express their condolences are hypocrites if the event is about people who are not known to them. Most of you will rush to judge my cruelty. But I can’t lie, not even in that case. I get the impression that my sadness and support are enough. What’s the point of saying that I’m devastated? How and why was I devastated? What do I take with me from the eternal absence of those kids? And, in the end, what’s the point of me mourning personally? Death is a part of life, whether wanting it or not. Thousands of people die every day and we don’t find out anything about them but, even when we do, we can’t do anything about it either.
In that case, the only thing we can demand is the betterment of the streets. Other than that, I get the feeling that the primary issue is not to render citizens stakeholders. This doesn’t have to do with the facts, as the war in Iraq, for instance. In such challenges of death, everybody has to express his/her opposition clearly, especially when they are responsible for the election of creeps like Bush. Nonetheless, when the unknown factor covers human mistakes, it gets to be even more difficult to find the guilty ones and say who is responsible and who isn’t, even when careless drivers are involved. Of course they are to blame but this is not the only thing that led to the tragedy. Anyway, my sadness does not correct the mistakes; neither does it turn back time. If I want to be honest, I should be sad as expected. Otherwise I look like a hypocrite.
Something tells me that I will provoke reaction here. So much the better then. At first, I’m interested in being honest. This is why I should say that I’m not one of those whose love can be unrequited. As many other people, I am also a guy full of insecurities and this means that I hesitate to offer something without reward. On the other hand, every issue about which we are talking is a relevant one. If by the term love what we mean is good mood and offer to our neighbours, that’s fine with me. I can offer lots of love like that. But if we’re talking about love within the context of interpersonal relations and exchanges, i.e. the kind of love that comes out of daily contact and not a random meeting, then I get the impression that it’s too much to speak of love without any reward. If all this sounds strange to you, two things might be happening here: either you are very nice guys (and I am therefore very lucky to be friends with you) or you have really demystified the meaning of love. I agree with you on the fact that our acts of love set us free but I never want to pretend that I am a superman. I’d rather be loved. Am I to lie? Furthermore, if I’m loved, I must have done something good, which means that I can get away with a clear conscience.
As far as the feelings that I had for the tragic event are concerned, I say that I am sorry in general. I can’t feel more sorry for something that is not directly connected to my daily life. I think that those who abundantly express their condolences are hypocrites if the event is about people who are not known to them. Most of you will rush to judge my cruelty. But I can’t lie, not even in that case. I get the impression that my sadness and support are enough. What’s the point of saying that I’m devastated? How and why was I devastated? What do I take with me from the eternal absence of those kids? And, in the end, what’s the point of me mourning personally? Death is a part of life, whether wanting it or not. Thousands of people die every day and we don’t find out anything about them but, even when we do, we can’t do anything about it either.
In that case, the only thing we can demand is the betterment of the streets. Other than that, I get the feeling that the primary issue is not to render citizens stakeholders. This doesn’t have to do with the facts, as the war in Iraq, for instance. In such challenges of death, everybody has to express his/her opposition clearly, especially when they are responsible for the election of creeps like Bush. Nonetheless, when the unknown factor covers human mistakes, it gets to be even more difficult to find the guilty ones and say who is responsible and who isn’t, even when careless drivers are involved. Of course they are to blame but this is not the only thing that led to the tragedy. Anyway, my sadness does not correct the mistakes; neither does it turn back time. If I want to be honest, I should be sad as expected. Otherwise I look like a hypocrite.
YOU ARE OUR HOPE
29.09.04
I will steal the subject from the Bear: I have hopes for as long as I live and I’ve got the look which I can always keep. What is hope? What is the human being (who hopes)?
So I had an argument with Teddy (a stupid argument, comparing it to those that I have had on this blog). So I say that, in my opinion, hope does not express anything else than man’s fear of everything that is going to happen or regarding everything that he would like (or not like) to happen.
So little boy Nicholas says to his auntie (he says nothing actually, I am just using the whole thing as an example): ‘I hope, my dear aunt, that City University of London will make an offer of admission to me’. What does little boy Nicholas say inside? He says: ‘Dear auntie, even the idea that I will be in Greece for another year in case they don’t make an offer of admission to me scares the hell out of me but, since I am an optimist, I am trying to think of the best outcome.’.
So the dreamer-mom of little boy Nicholas goes to the lottery-ticket shop and completes awkwardly a lottery-ticket of a game called LOTTO. When she comes home, she says to her kids and her hubby: ‘From next Wednesday onwards we’ll be millionaires and we will not know what to do with so much money’. What does mom say inside at this time, little boy Nicholas? She says: ‘Dear God, please wish that I have completed the right numbers so as to make my dreams come true finally, otherwise I will be dreaming for the rest of my life; and now that I come to think of it, this is what is going to happen again.’.
See what I mean? I do but the point is for you to see it.
YOUR JOYLESS LOVE IS LIKE A SPOON FULL OF SUGAR MIXED WITH A SPOON FULL OF COFFEE
Last night I slept late. You know why? Because I read Papillon’s last comment (on the eyes of hares and owls). It was impossible to stop laughing. I imagined him in front of his screen doing this and that gesture (I am too shy to describe which ones). I laughed like nuts. I burst out laughing alone in the dark so much that the dog woke up and came to see what happened. Oh Papillon, your comments sound so effortless and fun, man, when you address unknown people. There is a possibility to love you in the end (not to an extreme degree, don’t be scared!).
Serenity comes after the storm. Isn’t that what the people say? I’m sick of arguments and decided to cool down a little, just like a cool lettuce for example! The girl from the store next door came to bring me the frappe and I loved her too. Angels and demons coexist inside me (if mrs. Louka reads this, I am dead meat). You definitely won’t believe me, considering what you’ve read until now. And yet there are times when I catch myself being utterly romantic. How else could I feel tenderness for a girl who just places a glass of frappe on my desk? I adjust my thick lips (I used to play the trumpet in the Philharmonic Orchestra) to the end of my straw and let my mouth be filled with the love potion.
Nonsense. As if anybody is happy just because they bring you coffee. No matter how much money you spend, you can’t make the other happy just because you order coffee from the specific store where your waiter or your waitress works (unless of course each glass of iced coffee costs 100 Euros). No way. We are speaking of plastic glasses here. They are among those on which you can make sketches with a pen. At the end of the day I always do a sketch on my glass and then I throw it in the garbage cans. It’s a good start to learn how to stop taking myself seriously, at last.
I will steal the subject from the Bear: I have hopes for as long as I live and I’ve got the look which I can always keep. What is hope? What is the human being (who hopes)?
So I had an argument with Teddy (a stupid argument, comparing it to those that I have had on this blog). So I say that, in my opinion, hope does not express anything else than man’s fear of everything that is going to happen or regarding everything that he would like (or not like) to happen.
So little boy Nicholas says to his auntie (he says nothing actually, I am just using the whole thing as an example): ‘I hope, my dear aunt, that City University of London will make an offer of admission to me’. What does little boy Nicholas say inside? He says: ‘Dear auntie, even the idea that I will be in Greece for another year in case they don’t make an offer of admission to me scares the hell out of me but, since I am an optimist, I am trying to think of the best outcome.’.
So the dreamer-mom of little boy Nicholas goes to the lottery-ticket shop and completes awkwardly a lottery-ticket of a game called LOTTO. When she comes home, she says to her kids and her hubby: ‘From next Wednesday onwards we’ll be millionaires and we will not know what to do with so much money’. What does mom say inside at this time, little boy Nicholas? She says: ‘Dear God, please wish that I have completed the right numbers so as to make my dreams come true finally, otherwise I will be dreaming for the rest of my life; and now that I come to think of it, this is what is going to happen again.’.
See what I mean? I do but the point is for you to see it.
YOUR JOYLESS LOVE IS LIKE A SPOON FULL OF SUGAR MIXED WITH A SPOON FULL OF COFFEE
Last night I slept late. You know why? Because I read Papillon’s last comment (on the eyes of hares and owls). It was impossible to stop laughing. I imagined him in front of his screen doing this and that gesture (I am too shy to describe which ones). I laughed like nuts. I burst out laughing alone in the dark so much that the dog woke up and came to see what happened. Oh Papillon, your comments sound so effortless and fun, man, when you address unknown people. There is a possibility to love you in the end (not to an extreme degree, don’t be scared!).
Serenity comes after the storm. Isn’t that what the people say? I’m sick of arguments and decided to cool down a little, just like a cool lettuce for example! The girl from the store next door came to bring me the frappe and I loved her too. Angels and demons coexist inside me (if mrs. Louka reads this, I am dead meat). You definitely won’t believe me, considering what you’ve read until now. And yet there are times when I catch myself being utterly romantic. How else could I feel tenderness for a girl who just places a glass of frappe on my desk? I adjust my thick lips (I used to play the trumpet in the Philharmonic Orchestra) to the end of my straw and let my mouth be filled with the love potion.
Nonsense. As if anybody is happy just because they bring you coffee. No matter how much money you spend, you can’t make the other happy just because you order coffee from the specific store where your waiter or your waitress works (unless of course each glass of iced coffee costs 100 Euros). No way. We are speaking of plastic glasses here. They are among those on which you can make sketches with a pen. At the end of the day I always do a sketch on my glass and then I throw it in the garbage cans. It’s a good start to learn how to stop taking myself seriously, at last.
WHATEVER I DID AND WHATEVER I DESTROYED IS A DIVE HIGH INTO A LEADEN SEA
28.09.04
My mother just called to say that she saw a bathtub ad in a magazine. It’s not about any bathtub. It has equipment for 20 different kinds of water-massage and a sound-system to listen to the birds’ chirruping or to the sounds of the forest. It costs only 8,000 Euros! All right, we’ve already said that I count my little Euros with zeal but it will be long before I start counting 1,000-Euro notes. Oh, come on, mother, extraordinary things happen here and you are speaking of bubbles.
This is not a bad idea. I think of diving once anyway. It will be a dive to the top and not the opposite! On Thursday I will climb the Acropolis hill. The Athens municipality has placed there a special kind of ramp because of the Paralympics to ease the climbing of wheelchairs to the highest rock. I will definitely take advantage of this chance, since they said that they will take it (the pad) from the rock from next week. They found out, they say, that it spoils their image and ruins the beauty of the archaeological site.
I remembered Melina again, who said how ultimately happy she was every time that she climbed the Acropolis hill. Nonetheless, nobody (not even Melina) had thought of some way to make the area accessible to wheelchair users. As if culture is not for all or as if the guarantee of equal opportunities in participation has nothing to do with culture. I love Melina very much (people pass away but not the feelings we have for them. I have every right to use the Present tense here) but I want to denounce the wrongdoings of every single human being (maybe we should not bother only with the return of the Parthenon sculptures from the British Museum).
Likewise, I want to denounce the official governmental decision not to present the whole of the closing ceremony of the Games, because of the mourning for the children who died at the car accident. It is all right to mourn but we should do this by celebrating. I think that it is enough to keep schools closed on Wednesday.
My mother just called to say that she saw a bathtub ad in a magazine. It’s not about any bathtub. It has equipment for 20 different kinds of water-massage and a sound-system to listen to the birds’ chirruping or to the sounds of the forest. It costs only 8,000 Euros! All right, we’ve already said that I count my little Euros with zeal but it will be long before I start counting 1,000-Euro notes. Oh, come on, mother, extraordinary things happen here and you are speaking of bubbles.
This is not a bad idea. I think of diving once anyway. It will be a dive to the top and not the opposite! On Thursday I will climb the Acropolis hill. The Athens municipality has placed there a special kind of ramp because of the Paralympics to ease the climbing of wheelchairs to the highest rock. I will definitely take advantage of this chance, since they said that they will take it (the pad) from the rock from next week. They found out, they say, that it spoils their image and ruins the beauty of the archaeological site.
I remembered Melina again, who said how ultimately happy she was every time that she climbed the Acropolis hill. Nonetheless, nobody (not even Melina) had thought of some way to make the area accessible to wheelchair users. As if culture is not for all or as if the guarantee of equal opportunities in participation has nothing to do with culture. I love Melina very much (people pass away but not the feelings we have for them. I have every right to use the Present tense here) but I want to denounce the wrongdoings of every single human being (maybe we should not bother only with the return of the Parthenon sculptures from the British Museum).
Likewise, I want to denounce the official governmental decision not to present the whole of the closing ceremony of the Games, because of the mourning for the children who died at the car accident. It is all right to mourn but we should do this by celebrating. I think that it is enough to keep schools closed on Wednesday.
WITH LOVE FROM MEXICO
27.09.04
I came back to the office and some guys asked me if I have watched any Paralympic sport. All right, I have missed some but I spend my days at the stadium for the rest. I am very lucky that someone finally listens to what I want. I wanted to be present at a very special event. I wanted to be invited out of the blue to a celebration: not to a simple party, reception or dance. I wanted something more, anything in order to remember again how it is to mix with the crowd, to meet people who can understand you, even though they don’t speak your language. I will not forget the Mexican basketball players who I met in the tube. They were heading to the stadium to watch athletics. They forced me to utter my poor Spanish just to wish them good luck. Some of them were really pretty. I was tempted to follow them. It was impossible. They were running in front of me and thus passed on, as if they had placed special launching pads between their wheels. I stayed behind, hoping to meet them again in the stadium. When I came in through the gate, they were already gone.
I wish I had wings (no Red Bull here). I was holding a pin with Mexico’s flag, which was given to me as a gift by Patty (one of the athletes) and I was wondering whether this was the chance of my life, whether meeting those girls was not accidental. When I was eighteen, I read Jack Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’ and I have been in love with Mexico ever since. I have never loved a real picture. It is an idea that I have in my head and I don’t even know whether what I imagine about Mexico really exists. I can’t even describe what I have been imagining. The puzzle remains incomplete. Pictures mix with one another. And yet this is a reason to finally find myself in unknown beloved places. This is true love and in that case it is impossible to believe that the meeting with these girls was just casual.
I came back to the office and some guys asked me if I have watched any Paralympic sport. All right, I have missed some but I spend my days at the stadium for the rest. I am very lucky that someone finally listens to what I want. I wanted to be present at a very special event. I wanted to be invited out of the blue to a celebration: not to a simple party, reception or dance. I wanted something more, anything in order to remember again how it is to mix with the crowd, to meet people who can understand you, even though they don’t speak your language. I will not forget the Mexican basketball players who I met in the tube. They were heading to the stadium to watch athletics. They forced me to utter my poor Spanish just to wish them good luck. Some of them were really pretty. I was tempted to follow them. It was impossible. They were running in front of me and thus passed on, as if they had placed special launching pads between their wheels. I stayed behind, hoping to meet them again in the stadium. When I came in through the gate, they were already gone.
I wish I had wings (no Red Bull here). I was holding a pin with Mexico’s flag, which was given to me as a gift by Patty (one of the athletes) and I was wondering whether this was the chance of my life, whether meeting those girls was not accidental. When I was eighteen, I read Jack Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’ and I have been in love with Mexico ever since. I have never loved a real picture. It is an idea that I have in my head and I don’t even know whether what I imagine about Mexico really exists. I can’t even describe what I have been imagining. The puzzle remains incomplete. Pictures mix with one another. And yet this is a reason to finally find myself in unknown beloved places. This is true love and in that case it is impossible to believe that the meeting with these girls was just casual.
ON THE RUN
26.09.04
So, do you remember when I was writing about the boxes, the ones where I insert my desires in sizes? I don’t need them for now. I feel my body growing and my mind expanding. I haven’t pressed any magical buttons and I am not Alice in Wonderland in any case; not because it would be impossible to be Alice but because it is indeed impossible to be in a wonderland. For the moment I thought of flying to planet Happy (where the butterfly-Papillon is) but, in the end, I don’t really find it necessary. I wouldn’t do more than go to the O.A.C.A. again to drink up the bottle. The Games are going to be over in a few days and it seems that I will miss them so much. This is why I’m telling you: this is no time for boxes. I sat a lot on my desk today. I wrote much, some times without having anything special to say (like now, for example). I stand here and wait like the bloodhound (behind and not under the bar). The bell for the start will ring at any moment now and I have to be ready. I don’t know what I will be ready for but I will. Something changes inside me. I think that a life is ending and a new one is starting.
So, do you remember when I was writing about the boxes, the ones where I insert my desires in sizes? I don’t need them for now. I feel my body growing and my mind expanding. I haven’t pressed any magical buttons and I am not Alice in Wonderland in any case; not because it would be impossible to be Alice but because it is indeed impossible to be in a wonderland. For the moment I thought of flying to planet Happy (where the butterfly-Papillon is) but, in the end, I don’t really find it necessary. I wouldn’t do more than go to the O.A.C.A. again to drink up the bottle. The Games are going to be over in a few days and it seems that I will miss them so much. This is why I’m telling you: this is no time for boxes. I sat a lot on my desk today. I wrote much, some times without having anything special to say (like now, for example). I stand here and wait like the bloodhound (behind and not under the bar). The bell for the start will ring at any moment now and I have to be ready. I don’t know what I will be ready for but I will. Something changes inside me. I think that a life is ending and a new one is starting.
DECISION
25.09.04
Today I watched basketball, tennis and athletics. I was sitting again in front of my television (counting the 10-Euro notes) and thought: ‘Since I am watching this anyway, why don’t I go see it there?’. As I wrote to you before, I had been there on the previous day as well (to the O.A.C.A.). I went crazy! You can’t even begin to think how great it is. It’s the most brilliant celebration where I’ve been in the last years. And what a great organization (at this point, I should really congratulate mrs. Angelopoulou on her achievements).
Able-bodied and disabled athletes coexist in one of the most beautiful spaces of Athens in a very harmonious way. To be precise, I didn’t see there any person with a disability. I only saw happy athletes and spectators walking around with their colourful wheelchairs. I saw the blind people see me in turn and the deaf people hear me. For the first time in my life, I fell proud of what I am.
I was gaping idly at the flashy clothes of the athletes, their super wheelchairs and their ultramodern dyed hair and I felt that I was among friends and brothers, like the wolf that comes back to his herd or like the Native American who finds his lost siblings. This might sound ultimately racist. But this is how I felt: not like when you belong to a gang but like when you discover that there is a million people like you who are neither miserable nor uneducated nor lazy. Nothing but. These are people who take care of their soul and body while they are capable of entertaining you at the same time. I was not in the least as significant as they were. Just trash! I was sorry to have missed so many years turning my back on all those people. I felt that the time to do something different had come. I made my decision. I will go for sports no matter what. Hell, it’s never too late. Never!
Today I watched basketball, tennis and athletics. I was sitting again in front of my television (counting the 10-Euro notes) and thought: ‘Since I am watching this anyway, why don’t I go see it there?’. As I wrote to you before, I had been there on the previous day as well (to the O.A.C.A.). I went crazy! You can’t even begin to think how great it is. It’s the most brilliant celebration where I’ve been in the last years. And what a great organization (at this point, I should really congratulate mrs. Angelopoulou on her achievements).
Able-bodied and disabled athletes coexist in one of the most beautiful spaces of Athens in a very harmonious way. To be precise, I didn’t see there any person with a disability. I only saw happy athletes and spectators walking around with their colourful wheelchairs. I saw the blind people see me in turn and the deaf people hear me. For the first time in my life, I fell proud of what I am.
I was gaping idly at the flashy clothes of the athletes, their super wheelchairs and their ultramodern dyed hair and I felt that I was among friends and brothers, like the wolf that comes back to his herd or like the Native American who finds his lost siblings. This might sound ultimately racist. But this is how I felt: not like when you belong to a gang but like when you discover that there is a million people like you who are neither miserable nor uneducated nor lazy. Nothing but. These are people who take care of their soul and body while they are capable of entertaining you at the same time. I was not in the least as significant as they were. Just trash! I was sorry to have missed so many years turning my back on all those people. I felt that the time to do something different had come. I made my decision. I will go for sports no matter what. Hell, it’s never too late. Never!
HERE IS WHAT ONE LEARNS FROM A BISCUIT
24.09.04
Last night’s uttering doesn’t deal so much with what my readers expect from me. We have solved that issue and it would be silly to talk about it all the time. Nonetheless, on the grounds of some comments I remember behavioural patterns against which I have come up from time to time. I am not speaking of unknown people but of friends. This is not just a complaint. It is a discovery. Friends accept you but they try to change you, create you again and set you to their standards at the same time. Some time they do it consciously and some times not. I am sure I have tried to do this as well with some people, and first of all with my parents, wanting to force them to understand me, or with my friends, wanting to have them always close to me when I am doing great and demanding from them to feel equally moved as I am every time that I discover a great song or a great book, or even when I try to teach them not to renounce luxury or money.
Once I took them all to the bar ‘Galaxy’ of the ‘Hilton’ hotel. I wanted to show them how beautiful Athens is from up there. Kostas was the only one who agreed with me. All the others started complaining: ‘Why on earth did you bring us here? To pay so much for just one drink? There’s nothing to eat or what?’. We were unlucky, of course. We didn’t manage to sit on the terrace because of the crowd. We sat indoors on the couches and I confess that I didn’t like that either. Other than that, I enjoyed it as much as I could. I’m no wealthy man. I just dig luxuries and if I have to spend 20 Euros on souvlakia, drinks and ice cream at the corner shop next to my house, I’d rather spend that money for a decent mojito and admire the stunning view. Most people don’t agree with me. What am I to do? Fall down? Of course not. I’ll go to the kiosk (yes, I buy stuff from the kiosk as well, if there’s nothing better around), I’ll buy a bitter chocolate and I will eat the whole of it alone, since most people find dark chocolates unbelievably bitter. To be honest here, even my teddy bear’s biscuits seem fine to me (they are the ‘Rollers’, if I’m not wrong). All right, I should admit it, I’d rather have them filled with chocolate. If it’s bitter, so much the better.
Last night’s uttering doesn’t deal so much with what my readers expect from me. We have solved that issue and it would be silly to talk about it all the time. Nonetheless, on the grounds of some comments I remember behavioural patterns against which I have come up from time to time. I am not speaking of unknown people but of friends. This is not just a complaint. It is a discovery. Friends accept you but they try to change you, create you again and set you to their standards at the same time. Some time they do it consciously and some times not. I am sure I have tried to do this as well with some people, and first of all with my parents, wanting to force them to understand me, or with my friends, wanting to have them always close to me when I am doing great and demanding from them to feel equally moved as I am every time that I discover a great song or a great book, or even when I try to teach them not to renounce luxury or money.
Once I took them all to the bar ‘Galaxy’ of the ‘Hilton’ hotel. I wanted to show them how beautiful Athens is from up there. Kostas was the only one who agreed with me. All the others started complaining: ‘Why on earth did you bring us here? To pay so much for just one drink? There’s nothing to eat or what?’. We were unlucky, of course. We didn’t manage to sit on the terrace because of the crowd. We sat indoors on the couches and I confess that I didn’t like that either. Other than that, I enjoyed it as much as I could. I’m no wealthy man. I just dig luxuries and if I have to spend 20 Euros on souvlakia, drinks and ice cream at the corner shop next to my house, I’d rather spend that money for a decent mojito and admire the stunning view. Most people don’t agree with me. What am I to do? Fall down? Of course not. I’ll go to the kiosk (yes, I buy stuff from the kiosk as well, if there’s nothing better around), I’ll buy a bitter chocolate and I will eat the whole of it alone, since most people find dark chocolates unbelievably bitter. To be honest here, even my teddy bear’s biscuits seem fine to me (they are the ‘Rollers’, if I’m not wrong). All right, I should admit it, I’d rather have them filled with chocolate. If it’s bitter, so much the better.
A SUFFERING HEART THAT ASKS FOR EVERYTHING AND NOTHING AT THE SAME TIME
23.09.04
I finally bought tickets for the Games. I will go watch swimming and athletics and who knows what more I’ll watch. Those tickets are open to any day, any time and any sport. You get in at mornings and you get out at nights. Other sports are performed at mornings and other at nights. I say this because extraordinary things happened in the two hours that passed. People come and people go. Phones ring like crazy. I am wrapped up in cables and swear like a trooper. It’s those old cables that are tangled up. I have to untangle them every now and then. If I don’t, I raise the receiver and the whole telephone at the same time. Then it falls down and the poor citizens wait on their receiver, screaming ‘hello, hellooooo!’. I am sure I look funny at such moments, if not stupid.
Today Nikos (a good pal) came here with his nose bleeding. He says he stumbled upon the stairs of the Prefecture and had to have stitches. Poor fellow, he looked really sweet in his state. Without doubt, pain makes people look sweeter. Those who know that can pretend that they don’t suffer and fool the others (Nikos would never do that). I tried that trick once or twice, hoping to get a biscuit or something, but I didn’t succeed. As soon as I understood that those who are always whining have no hope, I became cruel and decided to treat them with the same cruelty. The truth is that nobody has asked anything from me until now (I am not speaking of material things), at least not directly. People usually don’t tell me what they want but what they don’t want. They say: ‘Nicholas, don’t be like that, don’t believe this, don’t do that, don’t write like that, don’t hate, don’t love, don’t talk like this, don’t make mistakes, don’t be sad, don’t be weak.’. In the end, of course, they don’t forget to remind me that I must always be myself.
I finally bought tickets for the Games. I will go watch swimming and athletics and who knows what more I’ll watch. Those tickets are open to any day, any time and any sport. You get in at mornings and you get out at nights. Other sports are performed at mornings and other at nights. I say this because extraordinary things happened in the two hours that passed. People come and people go. Phones ring like crazy. I am wrapped up in cables and swear like a trooper. It’s those old cables that are tangled up. I have to untangle them every now and then. If I don’t, I raise the receiver and the whole telephone at the same time. Then it falls down and the poor citizens wait on their receiver, screaming ‘hello, hellooooo!’. I am sure I look funny at such moments, if not stupid.
Today Nikos (a good pal) came here with his nose bleeding. He says he stumbled upon the stairs of the Prefecture and had to have stitches. Poor fellow, he looked really sweet in his state. Without doubt, pain makes people look sweeter. Those who know that can pretend that they don’t suffer and fool the others (Nikos would never do that). I tried that trick once or twice, hoping to get a biscuit or something, but I didn’t succeed. As soon as I understood that those who are always whining have no hope, I became cruel and decided to treat them with the same cruelty. The truth is that nobody has asked anything from me until now (I am not speaking of material things), at least not directly. People usually don’t tell me what they want but what they don’t want. They say: ‘Nicholas, don’t be like that, don’t believe this, don’t do that, don’t write like that, don’t hate, don’t love, don’t talk like this, don’t make mistakes, don’t be sad, don’t be weak.’. In the end, of course, they don’t forget to remind me that I must always be myself.
TO TASTE THE HEART OF A WOODEN DOLL (without ketchup or mustard)
22.09.04
I am so stressed with the dissertation lately. I come back home and I don’t have time to work on it. It’s really hard for me to be devoted to writing and reading after having spent two hours with the physiotherapy. I think I have some neurosis or something. How else can I justify my disgust towards this kind of treatment, which is actually a passive one? Every time it finishes I’m almost sad. I am gripped with the desire to swallow all the chocolates of the world. I blame myself for this attitude of mine. I have no reason to feel so bad. And yet, I get the impression that I’m losing my time with those treatments. Somewhere in the back of my mind I read the answer to my question: Why do I hate all this? Because I actually am the biggest coward out there. I’ve never learned how to struggle.
When I wake up in the morning I make a programme in my mind; I am not speaking of the daily routine but of a lifetime programme. I pack my future in boxes, either small or big. This helps me not to lose it. Every box contains my desires and ambitions. As soon as I close the small box, I put it in a bigger one and so on. My goal is to concentrate all the boxes in the biggest I will find. The point is that there are always bigger boxes than the ones I have at hand. This game never ends. Some times I wonder: ‘What the hell am I doing with so many boxes?’. It is when I remember my trip to Moscow. I think I was three years old when I visited Russia. To be honest here, I remember next to nothing from that experience. The only thing proving that this trip did happen is the wooden dolls (the Babushkas) with the different sizes; the one is put in the other exactly like the boxes that I described.
There are even more days when I imagine that I am in a lush green garden. I am neither lying on the deckchair nor on the grass. I am a steak that is being baked on the barbecue. Every now and then, some guy comes and says to me: ‘You are not baked yet, boy. I will turn you from the other side so that you change colour a bit’! I see a fat woman right above me. She is ready to put her fork inside me and swallow me in one single gulp. In the meantime, her mouth is watering to her chin! I have one last wish. If she is to eat me, may she eat me as I am. Without ketchup or mustard.
I am so stressed with the dissertation lately. I come back home and I don’t have time to work on it. It’s really hard for me to be devoted to writing and reading after having spent two hours with the physiotherapy. I think I have some neurosis or something. How else can I justify my disgust towards this kind of treatment, which is actually a passive one? Every time it finishes I’m almost sad. I am gripped with the desire to swallow all the chocolates of the world. I blame myself for this attitude of mine. I have no reason to feel so bad. And yet, I get the impression that I’m losing my time with those treatments. Somewhere in the back of my mind I read the answer to my question: Why do I hate all this? Because I actually am the biggest coward out there. I’ve never learned how to struggle.
When I wake up in the morning I make a programme in my mind; I am not speaking of the daily routine but of a lifetime programme. I pack my future in boxes, either small or big. This helps me not to lose it. Every box contains my desires and ambitions. As soon as I close the small box, I put it in a bigger one and so on. My goal is to concentrate all the boxes in the biggest I will find. The point is that there are always bigger boxes than the ones I have at hand. This game never ends. Some times I wonder: ‘What the hell am I doing with so many boxes?’. It is when I remember my trip to Moscow. I think I was three years old when I visited Russia. To be honest here, I remember next to nothing from that experience. The only thing proving that this trip did happen is the wooden dolls (the Babushkas) with the different sizes; the one is put in the other exactly like the boxes that I described.
There are even more days when I imagine that I am in a lush green garden. I am neither lying on the deckchair nor on the grass. I am a steak that is being baked on the barbecue. Every now and then, some guy comes and says to me: ‘You are not baked yet, boy. I will turn you from the other side so that you change colour a bit’! I see a fat woman right above me. She is ready to put her fork inside me and swallow me in one single gulp. In the meantime, her mouth is watering to her chin! I have one last wish. If she is to eat me, may she eat me as I am. Without ketchup or mustard.
SOMETHING’S UP. PEOPLE HAVE SOMETHING TO KEEP THEM BUSY
21.09.04
Everything you write, Konstantina, gets me thinking about the same things for years and years. I am sitting in front of my television like a monkey and I am acting like one, both out of joy and out of embarrassment. I want to celebrate but something is holding me. I see our girls (and what great girls!) winning the medals of running (without vision) and I am kind of jealous, because I didn’t manage to break on through to the other side, i.e. become an athlete and be rewarded with distinction, and thus become one with those people who celebrate. All of them together as well as separately.
I get the impression that our athletes have fun even without the spectators, precisely because the bet for the best scores is something that has to do with them and only them. Of course it is important to support athletes. Of course we have to move our legs or our wheelchairs and rush to the stadiums. But those people don’t really need us. This is what I think, at least. By the same token, they don’t need this institution in order to make a name for themselves. It would be much different to watch only the Paralympic Games. In my opinion, they are much more interesting than the other Olympics and they involve the element of competition more directly than them. On the other hand, if they are organized with much less care than the Olympics, they actually indicate the differences much more and they don’t bridge the gap between able-bodied athletes and athletes with a disability.
On a smaller scale, they could represent the 3rd December institution, which is the World Day for people with a disability. Shall I tell you my opinion? Nothing is going to change for as long as days like this one exist. We stab ourselves in our own backs by accepting celebrations and feasts that are actually organized by the majority of people so as to show our differences with them and not our similarities. Moreover, those who organize such celebrations for us can sleep soundly and say: ‘we did this feast for them, we admired their psychological strength, we told them a fairy tale so as not to make them feel neglected. After the 4th of December, to hell with the goddamn disabled ones!’.
This is what will happen with the Paralympics. As soon as the last lights are turned off, we will all be forgotten. As for me, I couldn’t care less. I can play it more than double and I don’t feel disabled, although I am. But what will happen with those who belong in the same ‘category’ as I do? Those who have to fight for a decent life, who definitely have to find a job or study without any help whatsoever? Oh my, they are always condemned to stay indoors and suffer. How will the journalists have issues for the news otherwise?
Everything you write, Konstantina, gets me thinking about the same things for years and years. I am sitting in front of my television like a monkey and I am acting like one, both out of joy and out of embarrassment. I want to celebrate but something is holding me. I see our girls (and what great girls!) winning the medals of running (without vision) and I am kind of jealous, because I didn’t manage to break on through to the other side, i.e. become an athlete and be rewarded with distinction, and thus become one with those people who celebrate. All of them together as well as separately.
I get the impression that our athletes have fun even without the spectators, precisely because the bet for the best scores is something that has to do with them and only them. Of course it is important to support athletes. Of course we have to move our legs or our wheelchairs and rush to the stadiums. But those people don’t really need us. This is what I think, at least. By the same token, they don’t need this institution in order to make a name for themselves. It would be much different to watch only the Paralympic Games. In my opinion, they are much more interesting than the other Olympics and they involve the element of competition more directly than them. On the other hand, if they are organized with much less care than the Olympics, they actually indicate the differences much more and they don’t bridge the gap between able-bodied athletes and athletes with a disability.
On a smaller scale, they could represent the 3rd December institution, which is the World Day for people with a disability. Shall I tell you my opinion? Nothing is going to change for as long as days like this one exist. We stab ourselves in our own backs by accepting celebrations and feasts that are actually organized by the majority of people so as to show our differences with them and not our similarities. Moreover, those who organize such celebrations for us can sleep soundly and say: ‘we did this feast for them, we admired their psychological strength, we told them a fairy tale so as not to make them feel neglected. After the 4th of December, to hell with the goddamn disabled ones!’.
This is what will happen with the Paralympics. As soon as the last lights are turned off, we will all be forgotten. As for me, I couldn’t care less. I can play it more than double and I don’t feel disabled, although I am. But what will happen with those who belong in the same ‘category’ as I do? Those who have to fight for a decent life, who definitely have to find a job or study without any help whatsoever? Oh my, they are always condemned to stay indoors and suffer. How will the journalists have issues for the news otherwise?
CARRYING A BOMB-BAG AND PLAYING TRUANT
17.09.04
I am wasted today. I bent down to tie my shoelaces and my blood was up. Actually, it was down, since I was sitting almost upside down. Before I got up, I wished that the phone would ring. If only someone told me that I wouldn’t have to go to work. I imagined that something terrible could have happened; so terrible, in fact, that we would all be sent back home. As if! To say the truth, we would not have to mourn for casualties. A bad joke would do the work, like one of those done at my school by some troublemakers constantly, when I had started high school. Every time we had to sit an exam in Italian, somebody called and warned us against a bomb inside the building – allegedly.
It was great fun, really. Nobody believed those guys but the teachers had to take us away from them. If there was even the slightest possibility of carrying out those threats, then everybody would be responsible from their sides, in case they had decided to continue the class in spite of the events. They set a whole venture. They called the cops with their trained dogs. They were looking for about an hour and then they were telling us it was a joke or something. In the meantime, we had already lost more than one hour of classes. Things like that were keeping us busy at least twice a month. Ever since, I’ve got the habit of saying this every time that I find things hard: ‘I’ll call and send a warning against a bomb and everything will be alright’. Of course I’ve never done that, neither do I intend to. I have to make this clear. If something wrong happens, I’m the one who is going to be accused at work of having done it just because I dare to write that crap.
LONDON CALLING
I just came back from a great party with great music. We were upstairs, sitting on the terrace and listening to Bob Marley, the Beatles and the Clash, while watching at the same time some videos from their concerts. You have the chance to listen to such good music at parties on very rare occasions in the latest years. This was a very special occasion and called for the good music.
I wonder why I don’t go to bed, since I’m so sleepy (I know, -sleepy- is the right spelling and not –slippy- but, if you ask me, I think that –slippy- looks nicer) that I can’t really see in front of my eyes. I want so much to describe those moments, and yet it seems to me a little funny at the same time. I didn’t have a unique experience anyway, I just had a great time and this is what matters. I leave you now with two songs from the Clash, songs that are still inside my head.
I am wasted today. I bent down to tie my shoelaces and my blood was up. Actually, it was down, since I was sitting almost upside down. Before I got up, I wished that the phone would ring. If only someone told me that I wouldn’t have to go to work. I imagined that something terrible could have happened; so terrible, in fact, that we would all be sent back home. As if! To say the truth, we would not have to mourn for casualties. A bad joke would do the work, like one of those done at my school by some troublemakers constantly, when I had started high school. Every time we had to sit an exam in Italian, somebody called and warned us against a bomb inside the building – allegedly.
It was great fun, really. Nobody believed those guys but the teachers had to take us away from them. If there was even the slightest possibility of carrying out those threats, then everybody would be responsible from their sides, in case they had decided to continue the class in spite of the events. They set a whole venture. They called the cops with their trained dogs. They were looking for about an hour and then they were telling us it was a joke or something. In the meantime, we had already lost more than one hour of classes. Things like that were keeping us busy at least twice a month. Ever since, I’ve got the habit of saying this every time that I find things hard: ‘I’ll call and send a warning against a bomb and everything will be alright’. Of course I’ve never done that, neither do I intend to. I have to make this clear. If something wrong happens, I’m the one who is going to be accused at work of having done it just because I dare to write that crap.
LONDON CALLING
I just came back from a great party with great music. We were upstairs, sitting on the terrace and listening to Bob Marley, the Beatles and the Clash, while watching at the same time some videos from their concerts. You have the chance to listen to such good music at parties on very rare occasions in the latest years. This was a very special occasion and called for the good music.
I wonder why I don’t go to bed, since I’m so sleepy (I know, -sleepy- is the right spelling and not –slippy- but, if you ask me, I think that –slippy- looks nicer) that I can’t really see in front of my eyes. I want so much to describe those moments, and yet it seems to me a little funny at the same time. I didn’t have a unique experience anyway, I just had a great time and this is what matters. I leave you now with two songs from the Clash, songs that are still inside my head.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
WHEN YOU WENT TO SCHOOL TOGETHER
14.09.04
Poor kids, school started. The sprinkling of holy water is over and they will be getting their books from today. They bought their backpacks weeks before (those who won’t use last year’s backpack). School stuff is expensive, dear all, even if the ‘Jumbo’ stores advertise the opposite. They still sell bags with Phoivos and Athena; so as not to forget them.
Every year there are tons of ads with Paxos and Niki and every other brand of backpacks at this time. They all have stamps of painted creatures that are real monsters! We didn’t have such crap. Only some turtle-ninjas and only the good ones with the round eyes, not like those of the next generation (by the way, did anybody notice that difference?). The new ones are mean and wild. They go along with Yu Gee O and the mean Pokemons. Only Pikatsu is a sweetheart.
Nonetheless, the kids buy those horrible backpacks passionately. I remember I had Niels Holgerson on my first one. What a cool guy Niels was, who had the company of Akka the goose. Anyway, every time I see those ads I become mean. I think: ‘Time for school, my dear heroes. Go through this torture like we all did. I’ll be coming home and posting messages on my weblog and you’ll be doing your homework for the next day.’.
TO THE TEDDY BEAR WITH LOVE
My teddy bear reminded me of extraordinary things. First of all, my primary school’s library, which had a ton of comic besides children’s books. Issues of Asterix and Lucky Luke were in and out of the school backpacks in nanoseconds. I couldn’t figure out how it was possible to read those stories with the teachers’ consent, while magazines like ‘Mickey Mouse’ were forbidden at my house. This was precisely the issue here. I was not old enough to separate true claims to trash from true claims to greatness. They were all the same to me. Until I met Lucky Luke, this poor and lonesome cowboy.
I borrowed five issues at a time and, since I always was vain and too proud of myself, reading was not enough for me. I wanted to sketch Lucky on my own and thus make my own stories. Only one schoolmate dared to compete with me. Until I die, I will believe that my cowboy was the best. My desk as covered in sketches of him made with pencil. This is why I was poor at spelling or dumb at mathematics. I didn’t pay much attention to any of my courses. While the teachers were talking, I was sketching and if somebody happened to ask me something I used to catch the last phrase and invent an answer right then and there. I kept doing this until university, where nobody asks you who you are, what you do or why you are not paying attention. The course has to be really fantastic in order not to be distracted.
In fact, it has to be as fantastic as walking through landscapes of the Wild Wild West, rambling in camps of Native Americans or hunting the Daltons outside the prison. There was noone to tell me that Lucky Luke was also a cop. He was the good guy of the West, always wanting to impose the law, punish the bad guys and contribute to the extermination of Native Americans; he did all this while on the back of poor Dolly (there have been disagreements regarding Dolly’s gender, mare or horse). True, nobody ever explained to me why I shouldn’t admire so much that cowboy with the dirty (wash-‘n’-wear or just wear) blue jeans. What could I do? I loved him like crazy. I asked my mother to buy all the issues for me as a present for my birthday. I even got a gun with plastic bullets. I was pointing at the whole house; I even told my sister to stand on the wall. She was eating a little piece of chocolate and I wanted to break it in two exactly as Lucky was breaking the bottles of beer. I finally ‘shot’ her on Adam’s apple and cut her breath for a few seconds. Not too bad. (Dearest Jenny, I wonder if you remember that: or am I making this up?)
I had a second gun too, the one with the caps that we used to blow on Resurrection and Carnival. I was fed up with it soon. I crawled on the balcony. When nobody was looking at me, I threw it down from the 6th floor and saw it breaking into a thousand pieces. I hadn’t even thought that this fake gun could really kill if it fell on somebody’s head. Luckily there was noone down there and we didn’t mourn for casualties. This was unbelievable to my eyes: an iron thing turn to dust. For some strange reason, the idols died at the same time. No more gun, no more Lucky Luke, no nothing. Even my magazines disappeared as if by magic. I lent them all to my schoolmates and they never returned them to me. This was a good lesson to take care with those who I trust my favourite things. I believed I would never lend anything to I had a second gun too, the one with the caps that we used to blow on Resurrection and Carnival. I was fed up with it soon. I crawled on the balcony. When nobody was looking at me, I threw it down from the 6th floor and saw it breaking into a thousand pieces. I hadn’t even thought that this fake gun could really kill if it fell on somebody’s head. Luckily there was noone down there and we didn’t mourn for casualties. This was unbelievable to my eyes: an iron thing turn to dust. For some strange reason, the idols died at the same time. No more gun, no more Lucky Luke, no nothing. Even my magazines disappeared as if by magic. I lent them all to my schoolmates and they never returned them to me. This was a good lesson to take care with those who I trust my favourite things. I believed I would never lend anything to anyone again and it never even crossed my mind that I could be holding others’ stuff at my house. And yet I lend almost everything, including things that belong to them and I happen to possess and preserve them as if they belong to me.
Poor kids, school started. The sprinkling of holy water is over and they will be getting their books from today. They bought their backpacks weeks before (those who won’t use last year’s backpack). School stuff is expensive, dear all, even if the ‘Jumbo’ stores advertise the opposite. They still sell bags with Phoivos and Athena; so as not to forget them.
Every year there are tons of ads with Paxos and Niki and every other brand of backpacks at this time. They all have stamps of painted creatures that are real monsters! We didn’t have such crap. Only some turtle-ninjas and only the good ones with the round eyes, not like those of the next generation (by the way, did anybody notice that difference?). The new ones are mean and wild. They go along with Yu Gee O and the mean Pokemons. Only Pikatsu is a sweetheart.
Nonetheless, the kids buy those horrible backpacks passionately. I remember I had Niels Holgerson on my first one. What a cool guy Niels was, who had the company of Akka the goose. Anyway, every time I see those ads I become mean. I think: ‘Time for school, my dear heroes. Go through this torture like we all did. I’ll be coming home and posting messages on my weblog and you’ll be doing your homework for the next day.’.
TO THE TEDDY BEAR WITH LOVE
My teddy bear reminded me of extraordinary things. First of all, my primary school’s library, which had a ton of comic besides children’s books. Issues of Asterix and Lucky Luke were in and out of the school backpacks in nanoseconds. I couldn’t figure out how it was possible to read those stories with the teachers’ consent, while magazines like ‘Mickey Mouse’ were forbidden at my house. This was precisely the issue here. I was not old enough to separate true claims to trash from true claims to greatness. They were all the same to me. Until I met Lucky Luke, this poor and lonesome cowboy.
I borrowed five issues at a time and, since I always was vain and too proud of myself, reading was not enough for me. I wanted to sketch Lucky on my own and thus make my own stories. Only one schoolmate dared to compete with me. Until I die, I will believe that my cowboy was the best. My desk as covered in sketches of him made with pencil. This is why I was poor at spelling or dumb at mathematics. I didn’t pay much attention to any of my courses. While the teachers were talking, I was sketching and if somebody happened to ask me something I used to catch the last phrase and invent an answer right then and there. I kept doing this until university, where nobody asks you who you are, what you do or why you are not paying attention. The course has to be really fantastic in order not to be distracted.
In fact, it has to be as fantastic as walking through landscapes of the Wild Wild West, rambling in camps of Native Americans or hunting the Daltons outside the prison. There was noone to tell me that Lucky Luke was also a cop. He was the good guy of the West, always wanting to impose the law, punish the bad guys and contribute to the extermination of Native Americans; he did all this while on the back of poor Dolly (there have been disagreements regarding Dolly’s gender, mare or horse). True, nobody ever explained to me why I shouldn’t admire so much that cowboy with the dirty (wash-‘n’-wear or just wear) blue jeans. What could I do? I loved him like crazy. I asked my mother to buy all the issues for me as a present for my birthday. I even got a gun with plastic bullets. I was pointing at the whole house; I even told my sister to stand on the wall. She was eating a little piece of chocolate and I wanted to break it in two exactly as Lucky was breaking the bottles of beer. I finally ‘shot’ her on Adam’s apple and cut her breath for a few seconds. Not too bad. (Dearest Jenny, I wonder if you remember that: or am I making this up?)
I had a second gun too, the one with the caps that we used to blow on Resurrection and Carnival. I was fed up with it soon. I crawled on the balcony. When nobody was looking at me, I threw it down from the 6th floor and saw it breaking into a thousand pieces. I hadn’t even thought that this fake gun could really kill if it fell on somebody’s head. Luckily there was noone down there and we didn’t mourn for casualties. This was unbelievable to my eyes: an iron thing turn to dust. For some strange reason, the idols died at the same time. No more gun, no more Lucky Luke, no nothing. Even my magazines disappeared as if by magic. I lent them all to my schoolmates and they never returned them to me. This was a good lesson to take care with those who I trust my favourite things. I believed I would never lend anything to I had a second gun too, the one with the caps that we used to blow on Resurrection and Carnival. I was fed up with it soon. I crawled on the balcony. When nobody was looking at me, I threw it down from the 6th floor and saw it breaking into a thousand pieces. I hadn’t even thought that this fake gun could really kill if it fell on somebody’s head. Luckily there was noone down there and we didn’t mourn for casualties. This was unbelievable to my eyes: an iron thing turn to dust. For some strange reason, the idols died at the same time. No more gun, no more Lucky Luke, no nothing. Even my magazines disappeared as if by magic. I lent them all to my schoolmates and they never returned them to me. This was a good lesson to take care with those who I trust my favourite things. I believed I would never lend anything to anyone again and it never even crossed my mind that I could be holding others’ stuff at my house. And yet I lend almost everything, including things that belong to them and I happen to possess and preserve them as if they belong to me.
WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?
13.09.04
Another week begins under the best circumstances. A lot of work (for my dissertation, I mean; not for any other reason). We have an employee with hearing problems at the enterprise. She can’t hear absolutely anything and when she decides to talk she just screams. Those who know her well can understand her. Those who don’t have to try very hard; in fact, so hard, that most of the times they just prefer to lift their arm for a hasty gesture (a greeting one, of course) and nothing more.
Today I laughed hard. I saw her get in the director’s office (she doesn’t come often, since she works for another authority). She was trying to talk to her for long and the director was screaming so loud as if the other one would stop being deaf, as if the problem was the volume of her voice. I enjoyed that scene wholeheartedly. I remembered some times when people yelled at me as if I was deaf, let alone being possibly mentally retarded: ‘HOW ARE YOU DOING, LITTLE NICHOLAS? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?’. ‘I’m all right, damnit, but I’m not deaf. I just can’t walk like you!)
Another week begins under the best circumstances. A lot of work (for my dissertation, I mean; not for any other reason). We have an employee with hearing problems at the enterprise. She can’t hear absolutely anything and when she decides to talk she just screams. Those who know her well can understand her. Those who don’t have to try very hard; in fact, so hard, that most of the times they just prefer to lift their arm for a hasty gesture (a greeting one, of course) and nothing more.
Today I laughed hard. I saw her get in the director’s office (she doesn’t come often, since she works for another authority). She was trying to talk to her for long and the director was screaming so loud as if the other one would stop being deaf, as if the problem was the volume of her voice. I enjoyed that scene wholeheartedly. I remembered some times when people yelled at me as if I was deaf, let alone being possibly mentally retarded: ‘HOW ARE YOU DOING, LITTLE NICHOLAS? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?’. ‘I’m all right, damnit, but I’m not deaf. I just can’t walk like you!)
A SLIGHT CRASH, WITHOUT THE BOSS. LET THE DOGS RUN !
13.09.04
The bus driver who carries the citizens from the Doukissis Plakentias tube station violated a Stop sign. I don’t know exactly what happened. When I came at work, I heard of some car crash. Everybody was kind of upset, apart from me, because I came at work bleary-eyed. That’s how I am. I don’t worry about anything at mornings. If I haven’t had one or two sips from my coffee, so much the worse. So I order a good frappé (instant ice coffee of Greek origin I drink ice coffee throughout the year) and I moaned with pleasure, thinking that there are people who drive worse than I do, even if they are considered professionals.
There are no bosses at work today. Neither the President (please look at the capital ‘P’ carefully!) nor the director are here. Although this doesn’t affect my mandatory duties at all and my bosses don’t insult me, don’t hit me and don’t whip me, I feel much better when I think that I can be my own boss even just for one day. The truth is that I would love to do something crazy. I wonder what would happen if I unleashed my dog in the office. I bet everybody would run away and would leave us alone, me and my pet. I’d like to see that. I laugh at those who are afraid of dogs. I used to believe that those who are afraid of a dog are narrow-minded beyond doubt. But with time I decided to cool down a bit and admitted (to myself of course, who else?) that I’m afraid of cats. I skipped the theory of ‘narrow-mindedness’ right on the spot, since it wasn’t in my interest.
The bus driver who carries the citizens from the Doukissis Plakentias tube station violated a Stop sign. I don’t know exactly what happened. When I came at work, I heard of some car crash. Everybody was kind of upset, apart from me, because I came at work bleary-eyed. That’s how I am. I don’t worry about anything at mornings. If I haven’t had one or two sips from my coffee, so much the worse. So I order a good frappé (instant ice coffee of Greek origin I drink ice coffee throughout the year) and I moaned with pleasure, thinking that there are people who drive worse than I do, even if they are considered professionals.
There are no bosses at work today. Neither the President (please look at the capital ‘P’ carefully!) nor the director are here. Although this doesn’t affect my mandatory duties at all and my bosses don’t insult me, don’t hit me and don’t whip me, I feel much better when I think that I can be my own boss even just for one day. The truth is that I would love to do something crazy. I wonder what would happen if I unleashed my dog in the office. I bet everybody would run away and would leave us alone, me and my pet. I’d like to see that. I laugh at those who are afraid of dogs. I used to believe that those who are afraid of a dog are narrow-minded beyond doubt. But with time I decided to cool down a bit and admitted (to myself of course, who else?) that I’m afraid of cats. I skipped the theory of ‘narrow-mindedness’ right on the spot, since it wasn’t in my interest.
DOG DAYS
12.09.04
When I was old enough and while still at school, I had hired a cow as a bodyguard. She was not a real cow. She was Simba, a fat stray dog I had picked from the street. She came with me wherever I walked (without a lead) and knew how to take care of me even better than a paid companion. She barked on the crossroads to make cars stop until I could pass (back then I used to drive a tricycle that functioned on batteries). When I went to parties and classes she was waiting for me to come back and once, when I collapsed on the road, she tried to lift me up. Some times she couldn’t be bothered to follow me. I had to bribe her. I was buying her a bag of chips and everything was all right. One day, some lady overtook me with her car. She saw me feeding the dog and stopped to talk to me: ‘Good for you, my dear boy. God will never forget what you’re doing!’. ‘He already has’, I replied, but she gave me no answer. She was already too far. Now I don’t know if I would utter the same words; not out of fear of God (what God?) but because I know that I have no reason to feel neither forgotten nor wronged (I write this now that I am doing fine.).
The one who should feel wronged is Simba. Not only was she not taking the care that she deserved but she was unlucky enough to get sick too. She passed away (I don’t even want to use the word ‘died’) because of Kalazar while she was already exhausted. All the tenants of the block (she had become the neighbourhood’s dog) raised money for euthanasia. I asked to be present on the day of her ‘execution’. My parents didn’t allow me to be there. They did it one day while I was at school. They buried her at a cemetery for dogs afterwards.
For some strange reason, I accepted all this with great patience. Four years had to pass before I could say goodbye to her the way I wanted. That was when I cried for the first time. This seemed to be really strange to me. Every time I was taking a walk I got the impression that I was hearing her little feet’s steps. I used to turn to look, because I was used to doing that, forgetting that my cow was not there. I was a poor and lonesome cowboy. It was enough for me to be a cowboy.
When I was old enough and while still at school, I had hired a cow as a bodyguard. She was not a real cow. She was Simba, a fat stray dog I had picked from the street. She came with me wherever I walked (without a lead) and knew how to take care of me even better than a paid companion. She barked on the crossroads to make cars stop until I could pass (back then I used to drive a tricycle that functioned on batteries). When I went to parties and classes she was waiting for me to come back and once, when I collapsed on the road, she tried to lift me up. Some times she couldn’t be bothered to follow me. I had to bribe her. I was buying her a bag of chips and everything was all right. One day, some lady overtook me with her car. She saw me feeding the dog and stopped to talk to me: ‘Good for you, my dear boy. God will never forget what you’re doing!’. ‘He already has’, I replied, but she gave me no answer. She was already too far. Now I don’t know if I would utter the same words; not out of fear of God (what God?) but because I know that I have no reason to feel neither forgotten nor wronged (I write this now that I am doing fine.).
The one who should feel wronged is Simba. Not only was she not taking the care that she deserved but she was unlucky enough to get sick too. She passed away (I don’t even want to use the word ‘died’) because of Kalazar while she was already exhausted. All the tenants of the block (she had become the neighbourhood’s dog) raised money for euthanasia. I asked to be present on the day of her ‘execution’. My parents didn’t allow me to be there. They did it one day while I was at school. They buried her at a cemetery for dogs afterwards.
For some strange reason, I accepted all this with great patience. Four years had to pass before I could say goodbye to her the way I wanted. That was when I cried for the first time. This seemed to be really strange to me. Every time I was taking a walk I got the impression that I was hearing her little feet’s steps. I used to turn to look, because I was used to doing that, forgetting that my cow was not there. I was a poor and lonesome cowboy. It was enough for me to be a cowboy.
THE QUIZ OF THE DAY
08.09.04
I would like to describe you an event and I expect your comment afterwards. Last week, when I went to sit the test for the driver’s licence, my colleague Angeliki told me: ‘Drive carefully. Look at your mirror and don’t pull the handbrakes all the time.’. I replied: ‘I’ll drive carefully and I won’t be pulling the handbrakes all the time, since I can’t leave my hands anyway, neither from the accelerator nor from the wheel.’. This answer took Angeliki by surprise, who then said: ‘You are so dull. Normally, you should have laughed, because nobody pulls the handbrakes at the time of the test but you are probably stuck on the problem.’.
Regardless of the truth of that idea, I think it’s absolutely natural to think directly of the practical problems of a procedure, even if the possibility of exceeding the limits is referred to as a joke. It’s like saying to a fat woman: ‘Take care not to pass through the bars, because you’ll fall from the balcony.’. What will she reply? ‘Are you kidding me? I can’t even pass from the door.’. That’s what she’ll say and she won’t be dull. Anyway, I passed the test without pulling the handbrakes all the time.
I would like to describe you an event and I expect your comment afterwards. Last week, when I went to sit the test for the driver’s licence, my colleague Angeliki told me: ‘Drive carefully. Look at your mirror and don’t pull the handbrakes all the time.’. I replied: ‘I’ll drive carefully and I won’t be pulling the handbrakes all the time, since I can’t leave my hands anyway, neither from the accelerator nor from the wheel.’. This answer took Angeliki by surprise, who then said: ‘You are so dull. Normally, you should have laughed, because nobody pulls the handbrakes at the time of the test but you are probably stuck on the problem.’.
Regardless of the truth of that idea, I think it’s absolutely natural to think directly of the practical problems of a procedure, even if the possibility of exceeding the limits is referred to as a joke. It’s like saying to a fat woman: ‘Take care not to pass through the bars, because you’ll fall from the balcony.’. What will she reply? ‘Are you kidding me? I can’t even pass from the door.’. That’s what she’ll say and she won’t be dull. Anyway, I passed the test without pulling the handbrakes all the time.
COME ON, BABY, LIGHT MY FIRE
06.09.04
I don’t know why but today I am very tense and nervous. I am not angry with anyone. I just want to be busy all the time. Luckily, I have a lot of things to do. I will start physiotherapies in the afternoon too. If it wasn’t for my hand, I would hate the whole of it. I like that these exercises are not going to look like those that I had to do in the past. Since it’s something different, I will undergo the procedure with much more willingness. Moreover, I feel hot-blooded. I get the impression that I can light a fire with every breath I take. I am stressed enough over the graduate course I currently attend but this is a creative form of stress. I find no reason to sleep a lot those days. I will take advantage of that in order to be really productive. It’s inspiration time again. Someone turned on suddenly the light of my mind. Everything is glowing inside me.
I don’t know why but today I am very tense and nervous. I am not angry with anyone. I just want to be busy all the time. Luckily, I have a lot of things to do. I will start physiotherapies in the afternoon too. If it wasn’t for my hand, I would hate the whole of it. I like that these exercises are not going to look like those that I had to do in the past. Since it’s something different, I will undergo the procedure with much more willingness. Moreover, I feel hot-blooded. I get the impression that I can light a fire with every breath I take. I am stressed enough over the graduate course I currently attend but this is a creative form of stress. I find no reason to sleep a lot those days. I will take advantage of that in order to be really productive. It’s inspiration time again. Someone turned on suddenly the light of my mind. Everything is glowing inside me.
I’ve got a freak taking care of my roses
05.09.04
There are tons of pictures inside my head. I want to record some of them. Let’s start with the freak and the roses. There is a beast in front of my window. A human beast. It’s a fat creature, dark-skinned, with an unshaved face and blond, dyed hair (the roots are black because the colour has faded. He has a name; it’s George. He is wearing a dirty white T-shirt and lets his arms just hang heavy while he is shoveling the ground and covers it with compost. My mother asked him to take care of our roses, with some money and a broken-down black-and-white (or white-and-black) television.
George had nowhere to go. His parish undertook the building of a little house close to the church. He refused to accept it (in the beginning, at least). He regretted that afterwards and said ‘all right’. He pronounced this ‘all right’ in broken Greek, because he is not from our country. He was working for a long time at the building site opposite our house. He woke up in the middle of the night and was stumbling on the cement he was carrying. Once he lost his balance and fell. The noise he made was so terrible that my father jumped up from the couch half-asleep and went to see what happened.
‘Stop working at night. You’ll kill yourself.’, said my dad. He got no answer. He also said that he would call the police if George did not stop working. My dad had taken up the surveillance of the building site and he would be in trouble (and so would the contractor himself), if any worker was injured while working in hours that work was not allowed on the site. And yet George would stop at nothing. ‘Do whatever you want’, he said to my dad and continued to carry the cement. George was not just a freak. He was a freak with psychological problems. The neighbours had assured us of that. He had the relevant papers in his pocket.
From a far distance, he looked like a middle-aged housewife. From a close distance, he looked like a detainee. His long blond hair was almost flashing like neon lights in the dark night. At dawn you could understand that he was no other than the ‘crazy’ George. This was not his real name. People from the neighbourhood had named him as thus, just as they name the strays that go around their houses and beg for a little bone. If they’re lucky, they get what they want and then they disappear for days or months, until they come back again. That’s how George had come back. He was standing outside my window shoveling the ground without even understanding that I was watching him. I looked at him like a jerk. He seemed to be awfully different from the whole scene. I looked at him once again and thought, ‘Man, I’ve got a freak taking care of my roses’.
There are tons of pictures inside my head. I want to record some of them. Let’s start with the freak and the roses. There is a beast in front of my window. A human beast. It’s a fat creature, dark-skinned, with an unshaved face and blond, dyed hair (the roots are black because the colour has faded. He has a name; it’s George. He is wearing a dirty white T-shirt and lets his arms just hang heavy while he is shoveling the ground and covers it with compost. My mother asked him to take care of our roses, with some money and a broken-down black-and-white (or white-and-black) television.
George had nowhere to go. His parish undertook the building of a little house close to the church. He refused to accept it (in the beginning, at least). He regretted that afterwards and said ‘all right’. He pronounced this ‘all right’ in broken Greek, because he is not from our country. He was working for a long time at the building site opposite our house. He woke up in the middle of the night and was stumbling on the cement he was carrying. Once he lost his balance and fell. The noise he made was so terrible that my father jumped up from the couch half-asleep and went to see what happened.
‘Stop working at night. You’ll kill yourself.’, said my dad. He got no answer. He also said that he would call the police if George did not stop working. My dad had taken up the surveillance of the building site and he would be in trouble (and so would the contractor himself), if any worker was injured while working in hours that work was not allowed on the site. And yet George would stop at nothing. ‘Do whatever you want’, he said to my dad and continued to carry the cement. George was not just a freak. He was a freak with psychological problems. The neighbours had assured us of that. He had the relevant papers in his pocket.
From a far distance, he looked like a middle-aged housewife. From a close distance, he looked like a detainee. His long blond hair was almost flashing like neon lights in the dark night. At dawn you could understand that he was no other than the ‘crazy’ George. This was not his real name. People from the neighbourhood had named him as thus, just as they name the strays that go around their houses and beg for a little bone. If they’re lucky, they get what they want and then they disappear for days or months, until they come back again. That’s how George had come back. He was standing outside my window shoveling the ground without even understanding that I was watching him. I looked at him like a jerk. He seemed to be awfully different from the whole scene. I looked at him once again and thought, ‘Man, I’ve got a freak taking care of my roses’.
LET’S ALL GO TO A BEACH. A REAL VIDEOGAME.
02.09.04
There is still something I haven’t told you. When I went to the country cottage to celebrate Christina’s birthday and after having had an almighty fight with my parents who wanted to sit over my head until all my friends came there, I decided to do a really dirty trick; out of reaction maybe, out of madness maybe, but more out of a dire need. I wasn’t alone on that one. I was with Sophocles and we decided to go to the beach and walk a distance of 200 metres on foot. It doesn’t sound difficult at all. And yet it was a real videogame for me (not for Sophocles, though):
1st stage:
To get out of the house, climb the stairs without holding on to any handrail, slowly so as not to break the branch of the tree that was used as a prop, always turning to the right in order not to fall in the gap to the left. I managed to do all this only in one way. I climbed the stairs on both hands and feet. Afterwards, I sort of slipped and grabbed the walking device. Standing on my feet, I walked through the garden amidst stones and grass that literally immobilized the device’s wheels. I was already bathed in sweat and fully ready to go on to the next stage.
2nd stage:
We climb another six stairs, stuck on the wall next to us (like Spiderman), while we take care not to walk on the fallen figs. Having crushed only one fig under the sole of my shoe, we cross the narrow side street covered in stones, passing through rusty barbed wires and plants that touch our heads. Refusing to accept the offers of help from neighbours, we reach the exit that leads to the large street down.
3rd stage:
Holding the back part of my walking device from the other side in order to use it as a protective barrier for the downhill slope, with the fig always stuck under my shoe, I start walking down. Sophocles is in front of me and claps his hands to encourage me. I am full in sweats and my glasses slip from my nose. Since we have just got out of the house, this is only the beginning.
4th stage:
Walking always by the end of the street so as to avoid being run over by the cars and stopping often to have some rest, we continue to head off in order to pass the next street and cross it and thus reach the second downhill slope that leads to the beach. Throughout this entire journey, people look at us as if we’re aliens. Their intentions are pure. They offer us help all the time and we refuse to take it. In fact, we look like lunatics. A guy with crooked legs who walks like a turtle (literally), pulling an iron thing in front of him and another madman who stumbles upon everything, claps his hands and yells ‘let’s go / pick it up’ and so on.
5th stage:
Having reached the second downhill slope, we have to go down the large stairs that lead to the beach! The slope is now much larger but, thanks to my luck, there are barbed wires on my right side again, which I can grab while making sidesteps. I am worn out but the view of the sea gives me unbelievable strength. Every now and then I take a look behind to see the distance that I’ve covered. Reaching the end of the cement, where the sand begins, I see that there is a difference in height from the ground. I have to make a big jump so as to put my foot on the ground. I decide to hang from the barbed wire and slowly lower my body. Sophocles is standing right in front of me and tries to hold me as I stretch out and touch the ground softly. I feel my hands being drawn out like the hands of the policeman Sainis. I finally step on the sand. Sophocles, who was carrying my walking device all this time on my behalf, places it in front of me. I stand still, looking at the sea like Christopher Colombus who has just discovered America.
6th stage:
I lift my walking device, since it’s impossible to walk around with it on the sand. With my mouth dry and my heart missing a beat, I see the waves approaching me. Or am I the one to be approaching them? The people are looking at us in curiosity again. And yet I couldn’t care less. I love them all, because, regardless of what they believe for me, I’m sure that I will be looking to their eyes neither miserable nor tired. I’ve done something that seemed to be impossible. I can finally rest my arse on the sand, just a few metres away from the sea, and let out this cry of relief or triumph that I had kept inside for an hour. This was how much time we needed to cover the distance of the 200 metres that separated us from the sea. We did it.
Game Over!
Mission accomplished!
All accounted for after that whole dirty trick was: a great accomplishment, my left shoulder almost fallen apart and the pain reaching my nape. The doctor diagnosed some kind of tendon problem because of the burden on the shoulder. The problem existed a long time ago when I was moving my wheelchair alone, walking on the tube’s corridors and crossing the Syntagma square and then Stadiou street in order to go to the university buildings where I took my courses. Those days I can’t sleep because of the pain; plus I find no place to suit me. I barely use the walking device because it is a burden to my whole bad condition and intensifies my pain. I will start psysiotherapy again with special exercises in the coming week.
I didn’t say anything to my parents those days about the adventure I just told you. Later, a full of pride Nicholas confessed everything. Do you know what their answer was? ‘You are stupid, because you exhaust your body and worsen your situation. If you hurt, so much the better.’. They are neither wrong nor right. If only they knew how satisfied I feel when I prove to myself that I am capable of living the way I want. I wanted to go to the sea and I did it. I didn’t think of the consequences and this might make me seem to be immature to your eyes but noone of you can offer me any greater pleasure than whenever I am beyond myself. Bring me the gold (medal) and we’ll see to it. I swear. I wasn’t doped at all.
There is still something I haven’t told you. When I went to the country cottage to celebrate Christina’s birthday and after having had an almighty fight with my parents who wanted to sit over my head until all my friends came there, I decided to do a really dirty trick; out of reaction maybe, out of madness maybe, but more out of a dire need. I wasn’t alone on that one. I was with Sophocles and we decided to go to the beach and walk a distance of 200 metres on foot. It doesn’t sound difficult at all. And yet it was a real videogame for me (not for Sophocles, though):
1st stage:
To get out of the house, climb the stairs without holding on to any handrail, slowly so as not to break the branch of the tree that was used as a prop, always turning to the right in order not to fall in the gap to the left. I managed to do all this only in one way. I climbed the stairs on both hands and feet. Afterwards, I sort of slipped and grabbed the walking device. Standing on my feet, I walked through the garden amidst stones and grass that literally immobilized the device’s wheels. I was already bathed in sweat and fully ready to go on to the next stage.
2nd stage:
We climb another six stairs, stuck on the wall next to us (like Spiderman), while we take care not to walk on the fallen figs. Having crushed only one fig under the sole of my shoe, we cross the narrow side street covered in stones, passing through rusty barbed wires and plants that touch our heads. Refusing to accept the offers of help from neighbours, we reach the exit that leads to the large street down.
3rd stage:
Holding the back part of my walking device from the other side in order to use it as a protective barrier for the downhill slope, with the fig always stuck under my shoe, I start walking down. Sophocles is in front of me and claps his hands to encourage me. I am full in sweats and my glasses slip from my nose. Since we have just got out of the house, this is only the beginning.
4th stage:
Walking always by the end of the street so as to avoid being run over by the cars and stopping often to have some rest, we continue to head off in order to pass the next street and cross it and thus reach the second downhill slope that leads to the beach. Throughout this entire journey, people look at us as if we’re aliens. Their intentions are pure. They offer us help all the time and we refuse to take it. In fact, we look like lunatics. A guy with crooked legs who walks like a turtle (literally), pulling an iron thing in front of him and another madman who stumbles upon everything, claps his hands and yells ‘let’s go / pick it up’ and so on.
5th stage:
Having reached the second downhill slope, we have to go down the large stairs that lead to the beach! The slope is now much larger but, thanks to my luck, there are barbed wires on my right side again, which I can grab while making sidesteps. I am worn out but the view of the sea gives me unbelievable strength. Every now and then I take a look behind to see the distance that I’ve covered. Reaching the end of the cement, where the sand begins, I see that there is a difference in height from the ground. I have to make a big jump so as to put my foot on the ground. I decide to hang from the barbed wire and slowly lower my body. Sophocles is standing right in front of me and tries to hold me as I stretch out and touch the ground softly. I feel my hands being drawn out like the hands of the policeman Sainis. I finally step on the sand. Sophocles, who was carrying my walking device all this time on my behalf, places it in front of me. I stand still, looking at the sea like Christopher Colombus who has just discovered America.
6th stage:
I lift my walking device, since it’s impossible to walk around with it on the sand. With my mouth dry and my heart missing a beat, I see the waves approaching me. Or am I the one to be approaching them? The people are looking at us in curiosity again. And yet I couldn’t care less. I love them all, because, regardless of what they believe for me, I’m sure that I will be looking to their eyes neither miserable nor tired. I’ve done something that seemed to be impossible. I can finally rest my arse on the sand, just a few metres away from the sea, and let out this cry of relief or triumph that I had kept inside for an hour. This was how much time we needed to cover the distance of the 200 metres that separated us from the sea. We did it.
Game Over!
Mission accomplished!
All accounted for after that whole dirty trick was: a great accomplishment, my left shoulder almost fallen apart and the pain reaching my nape. The doctor diagnosed some kind of tendon problem because of the burden on the shoulder. The problem existed a long time ago when I was moving my wheelchair alone, walking on the tube’s corridors and crossing the Syntagma square and then Stadiou street in order to go to the university buildings where I took my courses. Those days I can’t sleep because of the pain; plus I find no place to suit me. I barely use the walking device because it is a burden to my whole bad condition and intensifies my pain. I will start psysiotherapy again with special exercises in the coming week.
I didn’t say anything to my parents those days about the adventure I just told you. Later, a full of pride Nicholas confessed everything. Do you know what their answer was? ‘You are stupid, because you exhaust your body and worsen your situation. If you hurt, so much the better.’. They are neither wrong nor right. If only they knew how satisfied I feel when I prove to myself that I am capable of living the way I want. I wanted to go to the sea and I did it. I didn’t think of the consequences and this might make me seem to be immature to your eyes but noone of you can offer me any greater pleasure than whenever I am beyond myself. Bring me the gold (medal) and we’ll see to it. I swear. I wasn’t doped at all.
GHOSTS
31.08.04
I have nothing special to add. There were shadows behind me following me today. No, this is not some poetic line. Some times I think that there is someone beside me. And yet there’s nobody. This doesn’t happen often. If it did, I could say that I need a doctor. Nonetheless, with things like that I remembered the old times when I wanted to believe that those who pass away are never really lost. I don’t know if it was good from my side to have posted this message. I’m afraid that you’ll think I am a lunatic or something. But no. It has been long since I last watched ‘The 6th Sense’.
I have nothing special to add. There were shadows behind me following me today. No, this is not some poetic line. Some times I think that there is someone beside me. And yet there’s nobody. This doesn’t happen often. If it did, I could say that I need a doctor. Nonetheless, with things like that I remembered the old times when I wanted to believe that those who pass away are never really lost. I don’t know if it was good from my side to have posted this message. I’m afraid that you’ll think I am a lunatic or something. But no. It has been long since I last watched ‘The 6th Sense’.
THE NEXT DAYS
30.08.04
I am sitting in my office again and it doesn’t seem to me strange at all that I have to be here. It’s as if I pressed a button of automatic adjustment to daily life. The difference is that now I feel much more proud of myself. Before the holidays, I thought that it was pointless to work at an office just picking up phonecalls or completing application forms. My duties haven’t changed and my work hasn’t become more exciting. What has changed is that I am less ashamed of myself. How can I put this? I don’t feel like the laziest guy on earth, precisely because I now know how it is to wake up at 12 and not at 7:30, how it is not to answer the phonecalls if you don’t want to, how it is to be able to work on your dissertation for your degree in the mornings, how it is to spread your papers all over the room, the one on the other, and how it is to write a few little stories while listening again and again to the ‘Stupid Dream’ of the ‘Porcupine Tree’.
There is no doubt. I am a working young man, even if I do nothing great. If I weren’t, what I would earn is just a lot of boredom along with my freedom. Moreover, I would find zillions of causes to fight with my parents. Things are different now. Time passes away from the house in such a way that at the end of the day I feel really happy. Under better circumstances I would love my job so much, that I would not even want to come back home. There are people who can’t imagine themselves far away from their working space. I hope that will happen to me too. In fact, this is the easiest way to make easy money. In my opinion, easy money is not won on the basis of laziness or cheating but on the basis of hard work on what you love. When you love your work, each of its procedures seems to be as simple as a toy.
If I take the decisions I made during the holidays into consideration, then I can certainly hope for a more exciting future. And yet I will not say anything to anybody. I will be making my plans silently, until I finally have the expected results. I’m not precautionary or something; I have simply understood that the only thing which counts is being committed to oneself. Anybody else is able to express his or her opinion upon hearing our promise but is unable (and wouldn’t have to) to help us or deter us from making our wishes come true.
It might seem irrelevant to you but the atmosphere of the Olympic Games has deeply influenced the way I think of my obligations towards life in general. In a few words, it seems exciting to live like a champion. I think that I am already too old for sports, let alone championships. Nonetheless I can always be taught what it means to fight not for the medal or the flag but much more for self-reward and self-verification.
Well, I am at home now and read those postings again. The unclear things that come out from time to time in those postings are directly related to how many times the phone rings at the time I was posting. While I was writing the present text, I was quite lucky. It rang only 8 times. How can I not write crap if I am interrupted every two minutes? Show some understanding please.
AND DANCING GOES ON
Guys, I’m back and I’m going to work again tomorrow. I am sorry for the end of the Olympics. The flame was put out but, in my opinion, it should have been put out at the end of the Paralympics. Consequently, this closing ceremony should have taken place a month from now, when the Paralympics would be over as well. We’ll have to decide whether we talk of equal handling of things (and institutions) or admit that the world is divided in a thousand pieces.
This is all for now. I’m going to get some sleep. I will wake up early tomorrow morning. Somebody, please put me in a jar and let me sleep. Wake me up again in the year 2008.
I am sitting in my office again and it doesn’t seem to me strange at all that I have to be here. It’s as if I pressed a button of automatic adjustment to daily life. The difference is that now I feel much more proud of myself. Before the holidays, I thought that it was pointless to work at an office just picking up phonecalls or completing application forms. My duties haven’t changed and my work hasn’t become more exciting. What has changed is that I am less ashamed of myself. How can I put this? I don’t feel like the laziest guy on earth, precisely because I now know how it is to wake up at 12 and not at 7:30, how it is not to answer the phonecalls if you don’t want to, how it is to be able to work on your dissertation for your degree in the mornings, how it is to spread your papers all over the room, the one on the other, and how it is to write a few little stories while listening again and again to the ‘Stupid Dream’ of the ‘Porcupine Tree’.
There is no doubt. I am a working young man, even if I do nothing great. If I weren’t, what I would earn is just a lot of boredom along with my freedom. Moreover, I would find zillions of causes to fight with my parents. Things are different now. Time passes away from the house in such a way that at the end of the day I feel really happy. Under better circumstances I would love my job so much, that I would not even want to come back home. There are people who can’t imagine themselves far away from their working space. I hope that will happen to me too. In fact, this is the easiest way to make easy money. In my opinion, easy money is not won on the basis of laziness or cheating but on the basis of hard work on what you love. When you love your work, each of its procedures seems to be as simple as a toy.
If I take the decisions I made during the holidays into consideration, then I can certainly hope for a more exciting future. And yet I will not say anything to anybody. I will be making my plans silently, until I finally have the expected results. I’m not precautionary or something; I have simply understood that the only thing which counts is being committed to oneself. Anybody else is able to express his or her opinion upon hearing our promise but is unable (and wouldn’t have to) to help us or deter us from making our wishes come true.
It might seem irrelevant to you but the atmosphere of the Olympic Games has deeply influenced the way I think of my obligations towards life in general. In a few words, it seems exciting to live like a champion. I think that I am already too old for sports, let alone championships. Nonetheless I can always be taught what it means to fight not for the medal or the flag but much more for self-reward and self-verification.
Well, I am at home now and read those postings again. The unclear things that come out from time to time in those postings are directly related to how many times the phone rings at the time I was posting. While I was writing the present text, I was quite lucky. It rang only 8 times. How can I not write crap if I am interrupted every two minutes? Show some understanding please.
AND DANCING GOES ON
Guys, I’m back and I’m going to work again tomorrow. I am sorry for the end of the Olympics. The flame was put out but, in my opinion, it should have been put out at the end of the Paralympics. Consequently, this closing ceremony should have taken place a month from now, when the Paralympics would be over as well. We’ll have to decide whether we talk of equal handling of things (and institutions) or admit that the world is divided in a thousand pieces.
This is all for now. I’m going to get some sleep. I will wake up early tomorrow morning. Somebody, please put me in a jar and let me sleep. Wake me up again in the year 2008.
Monday, September 11, 2006
SLIGHT OVERTHROW
24.08.04
I called at work this morning with my tail between my legs (how do dogs that have their tails between their legs call, I wonder?), asking about the rest of my licence. Of course I should know when I come back but things got a little bit confused when they decided to fire some of us out of the blue. The enterprise had to remain closed or almost closed for a long time.
To my great surprise, I was told that I wouldn’t have to go to work on Thursday, as I thought, but on Monday. So I decided to sell my tickets for athletics and go meet my brother Makis, who owns a tourism enterprise (I don’t like that word but how can I say it otherwise?) in Skopelos and in Alonissos. I post the link for anyone who might be interested.
I will watch the Canoe/Kayak Games tomorrow and I will thus finish participating in the Olympic Games of 2004 as a spectator.
I called at work this morning with my tail between my legs (how do dogs that have their tails between their legs call, I wonder?), asking about the rest of my licence. Of course I should know when I come back but things got a little bit confused when they decided to fire some of us out of the blue. The enterprise had to remain closed or almost closed for a long time.
To my great surprise, I was told that I wouldn’t have to go to work on Thursday, as I thought, but on Monday. So I decided to sell my tickets for athletics and go meet my brother Makis, who owns a tourism enterprise (I don’t like that word but how can I say it otherwise?) in Skopelos and in Alonissos. I post the link for anyone who might be interested.
I will watch the Canoe/Kayak Games tomorrow and I will thus finish participating in the Olympic Games of 2004 as a spectator.
WE WANT THE WORLD AND WE WANT IT NOW. Summertime and the living makes my head ache.
08.08.04
I would like to clarify a few things regarding the history of the Native Australians, so as to make sure that I’m not writing nonsense. It is obvious that the fight about land and submission started in the previous centuries with the landing and attacks of the English people – and not only of them. The part of the exhibition that I visited dealt simply with the modern history of Native Australians and with fact that determined (and still do) their fortune until recently.
I came back from our country cottage (which is located at Daskaleio, outside Keratea), where I had a great time with friends. Christina (who had her birthday) did not have such a good time. She is probably going through some phase of inner conflict; but I’m not doing better either. Everything that happened last week, as I described it here, has turned me upside down regarding the way I think about my own self when I read again what I have posted. I don’t feel like regretting. I just wonder if I have really found the balance that I believed to have found. It’s like giving up with every single thing that I have accomplished. It’s as if all the pictures I used to describe faces and facts have been fading. I need new pictures in order to maintain again points of reference to who I am and to what I want to do.
Dada, your effort to understand me is enough reason to thank you. I don’t know if you are really trying to do this or if I’m the one who has that impression. Something tells me that you don’t forget what it is to be 25 years old and want to take just one sip and thus drink the whole world. (Damn, I’m crying again. I wish I could really cry. And yet my tears are stuck on the ends of my eyes and somehow refuse to come out.)
I want to believe that everything is all right. I want to close my eyes for a while and not allow the present to remind me who I am and where. I want to leave the keyboard, having put a final end to this whole monologue. I feel that you are tired and confused because of me. I want to be polite and yet I am abrupt.
At such moments I understand why Melina hated summers. At such moment I envy my dog who can live without expecting anything in return (just a plate of dog’s food and a little bit of water).
Did I persuade you that I had great fun in the weekend? I didn’t persuade myself. And yet I did have great fun, guys. Maybe my return home is to blame, right?
I would like to clarify a few things regarding the history of the Native Australians, so as to make sure that I’m not writing nonsense. It is obvious that the fight about land and submission started in the previous centuries with the landing and attacks of the English people – and not only of them. The part of the exhibition that I visited dealt simply with the modern history of Native Australians and with fact that determined (and still do) their fortune until recently.
I came back from our country cottage (which is located at Daskaleio, outside Keratea), where I had a great time with friends. Christina (who had her birthday) did not have such a good time. She is probably going through some phase of inner conflict; but I’m not doing better either. Everything that happened last week, as I described it here, has turned me upside down regarding the way I think about my own self when I read again what I have posted. I don’t feel like regretting. I just wonder if I have really found the balance that I believed to have found. It’s like giving up with every single thing that I have accomplished. It’s as if all the pictures I used to describe faces and facts have been fading. I need new pictures in order to maintain again points of reference to who I am and to what I want to do.
Dada, your effort to understand me is enough reason to thank you. I don’t know if you are really trying to do this or if I’m the one who has that impression. Something tells me that you don’t forget what it is to be 25 years old and want to take just one sip and thus drink the whole world. (Damn, I’m crying again. I wish I could really cry. And yet my tears are stuck on the ends of my eyes and somehow refuse to come out.)
I want to believe that everything is all right. I want to close my eyes for a while and not allow the present to remind me who I am and where. I want to leave the keyboard, having put a final end to this whole monologue. I feel that you are tired and confused because of me. I want to be polite and yet I am abrupt.
At such moments I understand why Melina hated summers. At such moment I envy my dog who can live without expecting anything in return (just a plate of dog’s food and a little bit of water).
Did I persuade you that I had great fun in the weekend? I didn’t persuade myself. And yet I did have great fun, guys. Maybe my return home is to blame, right?
PTYCHOSES-PSYCHOSES
07.08.04
I kept everything at a distance for many long hours, precisely because I don’t like being apologetic in the diary and because I’m sick of giving explanations for my behaviour. I would not like to continue with this same old song, which makes me analyze motives and causes to a disgusting degree. I don’t wait for anyone of you to understand me and I definitely don’t demand that. If you have a disability similar to mine or even different, this means absolutely nothing to me as regards our compatibility or difference, both mine from yours as well as yours from mine. I look at all of you as human beings and not as disabled creatures.
Moreover, I am telling you now that if something happens to the driver of that train, who I cursed, I don’t intend to celebrate it with a cake. I will eat it all by myself and you’ll never even know. (You couldn’t care less, I know. I’m just saying that so that you can appreciate a little bit more my willingness to share with you everything that happens to me and understand that it is much easier to appear as the cool and nice Nicholas than publicly admit my negative features. I often think that some of you forget that.).
Today my sister Jenny, our friend Dimosthenes and I visited an exhibition at the Benaki Museum, entitled ‘Ptychoses’. We had the chance to see a variety of dresses from the classical antiquity to this day. You might think that no ‘real’ man would have any reason to visit an exhibition like that. In that case, you couldn’t be more wrong. At an exhibition under this title (‘Ptychoses’), everybody can see how vibrant every single piece of cloth can be, as this is ‘revealed’ with the ingenuity of experienced designers and tailors. We are talking about the real thing here, no kidding.
On the second floor of the museum, we visited an exhibition about the Native Australians, against whom the whites fought about fifty years ago in order to make them desert their own cultural identity and thus become submissive to the whites’ superiority. I don’t know much about history. This is why I bought the relevant booklet (actually it was Dimosthenes who paid for it, since I only had 5 Euros in my pocket) from the museum’s store.
On the last floor we saw a photography exhibition from both Greek and foreign photographers; their subject was to depict Greece from antiquity (monuments etc.) to our times (photographs of the cities and their daily life). The visit to the museum was great as a whole. No misery, no patchwork. I forgot myself and thought that I was somewhere abroad.
For your information: I will not post anything this weekend. I’ll go celebrate Christina’s birthday at our country cottage. We’ll be together from Monday onwards.
I kept everything at a distance for many long hours, precisely because I don’t like being apologetic in the diary and because I’m sick of giving explanations for my behaviour. I would not like to continue with this same old song, which makes me analyze motives and causes to a disgusting degree. I don’t wait for anyone of you to understand me and I definitely don’t demand that. If you have a disability similar to mine or even different, this means absolutely nothing to me as regards our compatibility or difference, both mine from yours as well as yours from mine. I look at all of you as human beings and not as disabled creatures.
Moreover, I am telling you now that if something happens to the driver of that train, who I cursed, I don’t intend to celebrate it with a cake. I will eat it all by myself and you’ll never even know. (You couldn’t care less, I know. I’m just saying that so that you can appreciate a little bit more my willingness to share with you everything that happens to me and understand that it is much easier to appear as the cool and nice Nicholas than publicly admit my negative features. I often think that some of you forget that.).
Today my sister Jenny, our friend Dimosthenes and I visited an exhibition at the Benaki Museum, entitled ‘Ptychoses’. We had the chance to see a variety of dresses from the classical antiquity to this day. You might think that no ‘real’ man would have any reason to visit an exhibition like that. In that case, you couldn’t be more wrong. At an exhibition under this title (‘Ptychoses’), everybody can see how vibrant every single piece of cloth can be, as this is ‘revealed’ with the ingenuity of experienced designers and tailors. We are talking about the real thing here, no kidding.
On the second floor of the museum, we visited an exhibition about the Native Australians, against whom the whites fought about fifty years ago in order to make them desert their own cultural identity and thus become submissive to the whites’ superiority. I don’t know much about history. This is why I bought the relevant booklet (actually it was Dimosthenes who paid for it, since I only had 5 Euros in my pocket) from the museum’s store.
On the last floor we saw a photography exhibition from both Greek and foreign photographers; their subject was to depict Greece from antiquity (monuments etc.) to our times (photographs of the cities and their daily life). The visit to the museum was great as a whole. No misery, no patchwork. I forgot myself and thought that I was somewhere abroad.
For your information: I will not post anything this weekend. I’ll go celebrate Christina’s birthday at our country cottage. We’ll be together from Monday onwards.
I WILL MAKE IT, YOU PIGS, EVEN IF ONLY FOR YOUR STUBBORNNESS
04.08.04
Today my life was in danger again. I entered again the new subway carriages, which have no ramps by the way, and the driver literally stuck me between the sliding doors and was ready to head off twice, first when I was getting in and then when I was getting out. I went to talk to him and he pretended that he didn’t listen. He was looking elsewhere purposefully and then he vanished into thin air.
They aren’t interested in our lives, my friends. They really don’t give a damn about us. They couldn’t care less if we die accidentally on the rails of some ultra-modern train. So much the better for them. They think that we are something like dogs but they forget that dogs can also bite and land deadly blows if needed. I hate all those wankers (I had sworn that I wouldn’t have a foul mouth on the weblog but it’s impossible) and I wish them to die today, if possible.
I would like to say more on that but I’m afraid I will turn into some other kind of human being and I don’t want to. So I let you read some lyrics from the Katsimiha brothers; although I don’t like those two very much, I have to admit that the following lyrics are just great (is it possible that they didn’t write them?).
The following ‘song’ is wholeheartedly dedicated to those who insist on treating us like melons (poor melons, what are you to blame?)
Red moon, seas of tequila,
Leaves thrown on the corner here,
Red moon, red port,
What have you done to me, what have you done to me.
I saw many people who lived for fun,
I also saw others who took it seriously,
And they were in trouble, and they remain in serious trouble,
And they took the rap.
Dressed in black, friends smoke
Silently, and dream of going away in the night.
The friends who found nothing to love,
Who believe in nothing, nobody, nowhere in sight.
There are a thousand ways to go crazy,
There are as many ways as well to remain patient,
But it’s too late for me to go crazy,
And it’s even later to remain patient.
I’ll stay here and I’ll exist as I can,
And I’ll make it, you pigs, even if only for your stubbornness.
I’ll wait for other days.
I’ll wait for other days.
I’ll wait for other days.
Today my life was in danger again. I entered again the new subway carriages, which have no ramps by the way, and the driver literally stuck me between the sliding doors and was ready to head off twice, first when I was getting in and then when I was getting out. I went to talk to him and he pretended that he didn’t listen. He was looking elsewhere purposefully and then he vanished into thin air.
They aren’t interested in our lives, my friends. They really don’t give a damn about us. They couldn’t care less if we die accidentally on the rails of some ultra-modern train. So much the better for them. They think that we are something like dogs but they forget that dogs can also bite and land deadly blows if needed. I hate all those wankers (I had sworn that I wouldn’t have a foul mouth on the weblog but it’s impossible) and I wish them to die today, if possible.
I would like to say more on that but I’m afraid I will turn into some other kind of human being and I don’t want to. So I let you read some lyrics from the Katsimiha brothers; although I don’t like those two very much, I have to admit that the following lyrics are just great (is it possible that they didn’t write them?).
The following ‘song’ is wholeheartedly dedicated to those who insist on treating us like melons (poor melons, what are you to blame?)
Red moon, seas of tequila,
Leaves thrown on the corner here,
Red moon, red port,
What have you done to me, what have you done to me.
I saw many people who lived for fun,
I also saw others who took it seriously,
And they were in trouble, and they remain in serious trouble,
And they took the rap.
Dressed in black, friends smoke
Silently, and dream of going away in the night.
The friends who found nothing to love,
Who believe in nothing, nobody, nowhere in sight.
There are a thousand ways to go crazy,
There are as many ways as well to remain patient,
But it’s too late for me to go crazy,
And it’s even later to remain patient.
I’ll stay here and I’ll exist as I can,
And I’ll make it, you pigs, even if only for your stubbornness.
I’ll wait for other days.
I’ll wait for other days.
I’ll wait for other days.
WHAT AN EXPENSIVE HOBBY DISABILITY IS
03.08.04
My car is not officially lisenced for a disabled user. We have one like that but my parents drive it for the last 10 years – that is way before I learn how to drive. Consequently, it is neither automatic nor does it have accelerator and brakes at hand. We could declassify it and declare my car as, the one, officially lisenced for a disabled user but I didn’t want my first car to be a huge one. I wanted a small car so as to experiment until I could say that I am cool with driving. So would it seem smart to exercise the right of owning such a car and buy a Yaris? I don’t think so. Let’s just say that I will do this with my next car, which will be a polymorphous one like the Renault Scenic or the Renault Megane. Now here are the most important reasons: I will buy a car on the condition that my parents will drive it as well (they gave the previous one as a deposit to buy the new one). This means that any changes I will do in the car will have to serve me but not deter my parents from driving; so, even if I bought a polymorphous one (which is way more expensive than a Yaris but I would have to pay for it all by myself since there would be no money from mom and dad), I would not be able to take out the driver’s seat completely (assuming that I would enter the car from the back opening, let’s say, on the wheelchair, by use of some kind of board), because my parents would have to sit as well on the wheelchair in order to drive it (!!!!).
Furthermore, when I asked for the prices of electric and not manually operating boards, I was told that I would have to pay about 2940 Euros! (I asked at a lot of places and not just one).
Conclusion? Apart from virtue and daring, disability needs money. Money that you don’t have when you are about 24 years old. I have the daring. I can acquire the virtue. Nonetheless, I think that it’s absolutely normal to be frightened, since I was growing up under my parents’ guidance until ‘yesterday’.
My car is not officially lisenced for a disabled user. We have one like that but my parents drive it for the last 10 years – that is way before I learn how to drive. Consequently, it is neither automatic nor does it have accelerator and brakes at hand. We could declassify it and declare my car as, the one, officially lisenced for a disabled user but I didn’t want my first car to be a huge one. I wanted a small car so as to experiment until I could say that I am cool with driving. So would it seem smart to exercise the right of owning such a car and buy a Yaris? I don’t think so. Let’s just say that I will do this with my next car, which will be a polymorphous one like the Renault Scenic or the Renault Megane. Now here are the most important reasons: I will buy a car on the condition that my parents will drive it as well (they gave the previous one as a deposit to buy the new one). This means that any changes I will do in the car will have to serve me but not deter my parents from driving; so, even if I bought a polymorphous one (which is way more expensive than a Yaris but I would have to pay for it all by myself since there would be no money from mom and dad), I would not be able to take out the driver’s seat completely (assuming that I would enter the car from the back opening, let’s say, on the wheelchair, by use of some kind of board), because my parents would have to sit as well on the wheelchair in order to drive it (!!!!).
Furthermore, when I asked for the prices of electric and not manually operating boards, I was told that I would have to pay about 2940 Euros! (I asked at a lot of places and not just one).
Conclusion? Apart from virtue and daring, disability needs money. Money that you don’t have when you are about 24 years old. I have the daring. I can acquire the virtue. Nonetheless, I think that it’s absolutely normal to be frightened, since I was growing up under my parents’ guidance until ‘yesterday’.
WE LOVE YOU BUSTER
02.08.04
Yesterday Anna and I went to see the ‘General’ of Buster Keaton. What a great movie. It was like an apocalypse for me, since I haven’t seen many movies from the good oldies’. It’s pure joy to watch the idols of old times dance in front of you, reminding you that if it hadn’t been for them, some of the later actors would have never existed, like Benigni, to whom I referred recently. And something else: The old movies can really make you burst out laughing, even when they deal with dramatic situations, precisely because laughter isn’t something that derives from specific situations but it’s a spontaneous reaction even in unhappy moments, not only in happy ones. The people of the generations before mine knew well that a situation can be both funny and dramatic at the same time. This is why they did not constrain laughter; neither was it enough for them to have a cheap sense of humour. All right, all times have trash but, mutatis mutandis, the crap we swallow today is definitely much more.
Knowing that people who pass away never come back makes me always melancholic, especially every time that I watch great black-and-white films or listen to the songs of people who are not here any more and whose memoirs are preserved only by posters and badly printed stamps on T-shirts. These are not the idols that I cherish. These are the dreams and the times that I didn’t manage to experience. These are the smells that I’ve never sensed through my nostrils, the pictures that were never before my eyes. My only consolation is the joy I feel every time an old secret is indeed revealed right in front of my eyes. It’s the pleasure of the Peeping Tom who manages to ‘steal’ a few pics by looking through the tear of a cloth covered in dust. For some people it is just a useless cloth. For others it is a symbol – a flag.
Yesterday Anna and I went to see the ‘General’ of Buster Keaton. What a great movie. It was like an apocalypse for me, since I haven’t seen many movies from the good oldies’. It’s pure joy to watch the idols of old times dance in front of you, reminding you that if it hadn’t been for them, some of the later actors would have never existed, like Benigni, to whom I referred recently. And something else: The old movies can really make you burst out laughing, even when they deal with dramatic situations, precisely because laughter isn’t something that derives from specific situations but it’s a spontaneous reaction even in unhappy moments, not only in happy ones. The people of the generations before mine knew well that a situation can be both funny and dramatic at the same time. This is why they did not constrain laughter; neither was it enough for them to have a cheap sense of humour. All right, all times have trash but, mutatis mutandis, the crap we swallow today is definitely much more.
Knowing that people who pass away never come back makes me always melancholic, especially every time that I watch great black-and-white films or listen to the songs of people who are not here any more and whose memoirs are preserved only by posters and badly printed stamps on T-shirts. These are not the idols that I cherish. These are the dreams and the times that I didn’t manage to experience. These are the smells that I’ve never sensed through my nostrils, the pictures that were never before my eyes. My only consolation is the joy I feel every time an old secret is indeed revealed right in front of my eyes. It’s the pleasure of the Peeping Tom who manages to ‘steal’ a few pics by looking through the tear of a cloth covered in dust. For some people it is just a useless cloth. For others it is a symbol – a flag.
HOLY SMOKE
01.08.04
A friend of my father brought some small Cuban cigars at home. He brought them from the beloved America and handed them to us in the way that your uncle and aunt hand you a special Easter egg. For some strange reason, when I hear about cigars, my mouth is watering. You can say that I’m ‘wasted’ or ‘mister nowhere’ (mister nowhere, mister nowhere’s and so on) but I think that the cigar and all that stuff is not something you just smoke. It’s something you can have in your pocket for days. Untouched and carefully preserved. Like a rocket that will explode at the right time.
So I was waiting for the right time and told mom: ‘I’ll try one’. She thought I was joking and when I finally told her that I was serious she crossed her fingers, as if I told her that I have been shooting up with heroin for the last two years. Both my parents are smokers. My father smokes like a chimney. Nonetheless, when it has to do with me, smoking equals murder, robbery, and thus punishment. Is there any bigger punishment than listen to mom crying and trying to talk you out of smoking? When my friends come, they even offer them an ashtray. It doesn’t matter that they are 25 years old. I’m still a baby to my parents’ eyes. I’m asking: till when?
I KNOW THE ANSWER. THE REASON? DEPENDENCE
All right, yes, I knew the answer. They’ll never stop seeing me as a baby but I have to do something as well if I want to change things a bit. All right, some times I ask them to do things for me while I’m not supposed to do so and this encourages them to see me the way they do. This is another reason why I want to go far away from them, even if this simply means to move in the next block (I’ll be neither the one nor the only!). Dependence is mutual. So do you understand why I long so much for living in countries far away? Very far away, where the lunchbox will reach me only by post and if I don’t want it, I won’t even go pick it up. (I know that I will definitely want it no matter what I’m saying right now but that’s a whole other story.)Somebody has to help me break the chain that has bound my parents and me for Somebody has to help me break the chain that has bound my parents and me for good. Nobody will. I will do this on my own.
A friend of my father brought some small Cuban cigars at home. He brought them from the beloved America and handed them to us in the way that your uncle and aunt hand you a special Easter egg. For some strange reason, when I hear about cigars, my mouth is watering. You can say that I’m ‘wasted’ or ‘mister nowhere’ (mister nowhere, mister nowhere’s and so on) but I think that the cigar and all that stuff is not something you just smoke. It’s something you can have in your pocket for days. Untouched and carefully preserved. Like a rocket that will explode at the right time.
So I was waiting for the right time and told mom: ‘I’ll try one’. She thought I was joking and when I finally told her that I was serious she crossed her fingers, as if I told her that I have been shooting up with heroin for the last two years. Both my parents are smokers. My father smokes like a chimney. Nonetheless, when it has to do with me, smoking equals murder, robbery, and thus punishment. Is there any bigger punishment than listen to mom crying and trying to talk you out of smoking? When my friends come, they even offer them an ashtray. It doesn’t matter that they are 25 years old. I’m still a baby to my parents’ eyes. I’m asking: till when?
I KNOW THE ANSWER. THE REASON? DEPENDENCE
All right, yes, I knew the answer. They’ll never stop seeing me as a baby but I have to do something as well if I want to change things a bit. All right, some times I ask them to do things for me while I’m not supposed to do so and this encourages them to see me the way they do. This is another reason why I want to go far away from them, even if this simply means to move in the next block (I’ll be neither the one nor the only!). Dependence is mutual. So do you understand why I long so much for living in countries far away? Very far away, where the lunchbox will reach me only by post and if I don’t want it, I won’t even go pick it up. (I know that I will definitely want it no matter what I’m saying right now but that’s a whole other story.)Somebody has to help me break the chain that has bound my parents and me for Somebody has to help me break the chain that has bound my parents and me for good. Nobody will. I will do this on my own.
I PARK; SO I EXIST!
31.07.04
I visited IKEA with my parents in the morning. We had wanted to look through the various things and prices in that temple of shopping and of course have the chance to see the changes on the landscape within the framework of the Olympics. Athens changes. There’s no doubt about that. We have a lot to win from that story and not just lose. This whole area around the airport reminded me of every contemporary European metropolis, which is precisely what Athens should be for a long time now. Nonetheless, there is something that will never change, in my opinion. This is the mentality of the Greek indifferent superman, who persistently refuses to adjust his behavioural style to know environments.
We were looking for hours to park the car somewhere, since all the places for people with a disability in the parking lot were caught from fake disabled people. When I finally saw a chick come out of a place like that without having the slightest (visible, at least) disability, I decided to make her have regrets for good. I just told her that she was not allowed to park in a place like that and she answered that she had a reason to do that. I did not see that reason. I saw the girl escape without even apologizing. Do you want me to tell you what I understand every time I come up against such situations? That it’s not the absence of infrastructure and of services that creates the problem. This comprises only 30 per cent of the problem. The rest 70 per cent is due to people’s indifference. One can say: ‘Who am I to be interested in the disabled people?’. ‘As if they even go shopping.’. But if we got out of our houses more often, even the least educated among us would take our participation in daily life for granted and they would therefore not ignore our needs. This is why I am telling you: Get out of your houses and signal your presence, as everybody can.
I visited IKEA with my parents in the morning. We had wanted to look through the various things and prices in that temple of shopping and of course have the chance to see the changes on the landscape within the framework of the Olympics. Athens changes. There’s no doubt about that. We have a lot to win from that story and not just lose. This whole area around the airport reminded me of every contemporary European metropolis, which is precisely what Athens should be for a long time now. Nonetheless, there is something that will never change, in my opinion. This is the mentality of the Greek indifferent superman, who persistently refuses to adjust his behavioural style to know environments.
We were looking for hours to park the car somewhere, since all the places for people with a disability in the parking lot were caught from fake disabled people. When I finally saw a chick come out of a place like that without having the slightest (visible, at least) disability, I decided to make her have regrets for good. I just told her that she was not allowed to park in a place like that and she answered that she had a reason to do that. I did not see that reason. I saw the girl escape without even apologizing. Do you want me to tell you what I understand every time I come up against such situations? That it’s not the absence of infrastructure and of services that creates the problem. This comprises only 30 per cent of the problem. The rest 70 per cent is due to people’s indifference. One can say: ‘Who am I to be interested in the disabled people?’. ‘As if they even go shopping.’. But if we got out of our houses more often, even the least educated among us would take our participation in daily life for granted and they would therefore not ignore our needs. This is why I am telling you: Get out of your houses and signal your presence, as everybody can.
WHO ARE WE (?)
28.07.04
I am sick of writing it but I will. Oh, Dada, of course I can’t get rid of my disability, man. We’ve said that, I’ve resigned myself to that fact. Indeed, it’s an integral part of myself but this constitutes another reason why I should not bother with that issue all the time.
Can you imagine me talking incessantly about my eyes, my hair or my whole body? These are parts of myself as well but I don’t need to make a big deal out of them. Of course, there is something else that I always have in mind and I will remind you to the point of boredom: ‘FIRST WE ARE HUMANS AND THEN EVERYTHING ELSE’. Consequently, when I meet someone, I don’t introduce myself as the ‘disabled Nicholas’. I say: ‘Hi, I’m Nicholas’. What the hell, my disability is out-and-out obvious. Do I really have to say it? Only some blind bloke wouldn’t see it but in that case he is also ‘one of us’ and we would therefore have more interesting things to say than figuring out each other’s disability.
Some people used to tell me: ‘Nicholas, you have to find a girl who will have a similar problem with yours so as to understand and love you.’. I replied: ‘All right, but I have to like this girl as a whole. Being in a similar position is not enough. I have to enjoy my time with her, whatever that may mean.’. Conclusion: In my opinion, disability is an attribute of us but not the main one. if some people don’t manage to make even one step forward, it’s because they think and act first as disabled guys and then as free and creative human beings.
I am sick of writing it but I will. Oh, Dada, of course I can’t get rid of my disability, man. We’ve said that, I’ve resigned myself to that fact. Indeed, it’s an integral part of myself but this constitutes another reason why I should not bother with that issue all the time.
Can you imagine me talking incessantly about my eyes, my hair or my whole body? These are parts of myself as well but I don’t need to make a big deal out of them. Of course, there is something else that I always have in mind and I will remind you to the point of boredom: ‘FIRST WE ARE HUMANS AND THEN EVERYTHING ELSE’. Consequently, when I meet someone, I don’t introduce myself as the ‘disabled Nicholas’. I say: ‘Hi, I’m Nicholas’. What the hell, my disability is out-and-out obvious. Do I really have to say it? Only some blind bloke wouldn’t see it but in that case he is also ‘one of us’ and we would therefore have more interesting things to say than figuring out each other’s disability.
Some people used to tell me: ‘Nicholas, you have to find a girl who will have a similar problem with yours so as to understand and love you.’. I replied: ‘All right, but I have to like this girl as a whole. Being in a similar position is not enough. I have to enjoy my time with her, whatever that may mean.’. Conclusion: In my opinion, disability is an attribute of us but not the main one. if some people don’t manage to make even one step forward, it’s because they think and act first as disabled guys and then as free and creative human beings.
ATHENS 2004
28.07.04
Did I tell you? I got tickets for weightlifting and athletics. I don’t remember for which days, though, because we got them at the very last minute. Do you know that I will have to sit on the seats there, since my wheelchair is considered by the security guards as a way to pass arms for a possible terrorist attack within the Olympic facilities? Do you want me to tell you the real truth? I am flattered by the fact that someone regards me as a potentially dangerous person. Until now, I thought that I couldn’t do any harm to anyone, even if I wanted to.
Nonetheless, if you ask me, despite all rumours I think that we’ll organize great Olympics. They better do so. We pay for this celebration and we’ll be paying for years and years. We’re dead if something goes wrong.
All right, the British creeps revealed our secrets regarding the opening ceremony. How harmful can that be? It’s one thing to watch it and a completely other thing to have expectations about what you’ll watch. They said that Bjork will sing at the ceremony. Someone had spread the rumour a long time ago. I still don’t get it why that specific artist was chosen but this doesn’t bother me, to say the truth. Of course I like her songs but I can’t understand how she ‘fits’ in the whole thing.
WE’LL SEE, WHAT WILL WE SEE?
I could really work on disability studies but I don’t like sticking that much to the issue of disability. What I do with my weblog is already TOO MUCH to me. As soon as I feel that I have nothing else to say, I will start posting a lot of other things. I will stop talking about myself and everything that happens to me.
I have already started worrying about how the weblog influences (it took me 15 years to learn that this verb is spelled with two –ff- and not just one) my way of thinking regarding who I am.
On the other hand, if we don’t work on disability, who will? What am I to say? We’ll see.
YOU CAN SMOKE A MOUNT OF CIGARETTES IF YOU WANT TO. I’LL GO ON HOLIDAYS WITH A BIG GUITAR IN MY HANDS.
I saw yesterday ‘Once upon a time in Mexico’, Robert Rodriguez’s movie that followed ‘Desperado’. Both movies seem to be really stupid and I would have absolutely no reason to see them if I didn’t long for a bit of Mexico and good Spanish guitar. Moreover, if I was a woman, I suppose I would go crazy over Antonio Banderas or Johnny Depp. Personally, I had some other reason to watch it.
I remembered again my holidays in Serifos with Alexandros, Antonis, Christina and Betty. We, the little boys, sat at evenings on the beach and took a look at the deep end of the ocean. We were dead drunk and sang everything that came to our mind. Antonis remembered that song of Mariachi-desperado, who sung proudly ‘Me gusta tocar a quitara’ (= I like playing the guitar). And yet we were far too drunk to think of what he was singing.
What we heard was ‘caraquitara’. So we started singing a bunch of lines related to this great new instrument that nobody had discovered. But I discovered one of my secret talents that night. When someone asks me if I know how to play music, I answer: ‘Yes, of course. You’ll be stunned if I play some pieces with my caraquitara.’
TO HELL WITH LITTLE PAINS! LET’S BECOME LITTLE AMERICANS
Today I woke up with terrible pains on my knee (various doctors and physiotherapists have told me that I have to live with that pain whether I like it or not). Every time it’s about to rain I can feel it almost from the day before because of those little pains of mine. Don’t wait for a storm. The times when I’m out in my reckoning are not few.
I think my pains are over, just because I started thinking seriously of a possible future trip to the USA. All right! I wouldn’t go there without being organized first. All right, I can be a real guy-good-for-nothing from time to time but I actually always want to find a reason why I do everything I do. Right, I wouldn’t mind at all if my only ambition would be to go to the next concert of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals. In my opinion, they are the coolest band on earth.
Did I tell you? I got tickets for weightlifting and athletics. I don’t remember for which days, though, because we got them at the very last minute. Do you know that I will have to sit on the seats there, since my wheelchair is considered by the security guards as a way to pass arms for a possible terrorist attack within the Olympic facilities? Do you want me to tell you the real truth? I am flattered by the fact that someone regards me as a potentially dangerous person. Until now, I thought that I couldn’t do any harm to anyone, even if I wanted to.
Nonetheless, if you ask me, despite all rumours I think that we’ll organize great Olympics. They better do so. We pay for this celebration and we’ll be paying for years and years. We’re dead if something goes wrong.
All right, the British creeps revealed our secrets regarding the opening ceremony. How harmful can that be? It’s one thing to watch it and a completely other thing to have expectations about what you’ll watch. They said that Bjork will sing at the ceremony. Someone had spread the rumour a long time ago. I still don’t get it why that specific artist was chosen but this doesn’t bother me, to say the truth. Of course I like her songs but I can’t understand how she ‘fits’ in the whole thing.
WE’LL SEE, WHAT WILL WE SEE?
I could really work on disability studies but I don’t like sticking that much to the issue of disability. What I do with my weblog is already TOO MUCH to me. As soon as I feel that I have nothing else to say, I will start posting a lot of other things. I will stop talking about myself and everything that happens to me.
I have already started worrying about how the weblog influences (it took me 15 years to learn that this verb is spelled with two –ff- and not just one) my way of thinking regarding who I am.
On the other hand, if we don’t work on disability, who will? What am I to say? We’ll see.
YOU CAN SMOKE A MOUNT OF CIGARETTES IF YOU WANT TO. I’LL GO ON HOLIDAYS WITH A BIG GUITAR IN MY HANDS.
I saw yesterday ‘Once upon a time in Mexico’, Robert Rodriguez’s movie that followed ‘Desperado’. Both movies seem to be really stupid and I would have absolutely no reason to see them if I didn’t long for a bit of Mexico and good Spanish guitar. Moreover, if I was a woman, I suppose I would go crazy over Antonio Banderas or Johnny Depp. Personally, I had some other reason to watch it.
I remembered again my holidays in Serifos with Alexandros, Antonis, Christina and Betty. We, the little boys, sat at evenings on the beach and took a look at the deep end of the ocean. We were dead drunk and sang everything that came to our mind. Antonis remembered that song of Mariachi-desperado, who sung proudly ‘Me gusta tocar a quitara’ (= I like playing the guitar). And yet we were far too drunk to think of what he was singing.
What we heard was ‘caraquitara’. So we started singing a bunch of lines related to this great new instrument that nobody had discovered. But I discovered one of my secret talents that night. When someone asks me if I know how to play music, I answer: ‘Yes, of course. You’ll be stunned if I play some pieces with my caraquitara.’
TO HELL WITH LITTLE PAINS! LET’S BECOME LITTLE AMERICANS
Today I woke up with terrible pains on my knee (various doctors and physiotherapists have told me that I have to live with that pain whether I like it or not). Every time it’s about to rain I can feel it almost from the day before because of those little pains of mine. Don’t wait for a storm. The times when I’m out in my reckoning are not few.
I think my pains are over, just because I started thinking seriously of a possible future trip to the USA. All right! I wouldn’t go there without being organized first. All right, I can be a real guy-good-for-nothing from time to time but I actually always want to find a reason why I do everything I do. Right, I wouldn’t mind at all if my only ambition would be to go to the next concert of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals. In my opinion, they are the coolest band on earth.
I WILL BE HAVING A NICE TIME AND I WILL BE GETTING HIGHER AND HIGHER
26.07.04
To be honest, since I would not want to be considered naïve, I am not one of those who would not change a thing in their lives. I always want the best, even if I am being really neurotic some times. As for grandiloquent words like ‘I love my disability and I can’t live without it’, I never understood them. What do you happen to love, man? A thing that smothers you and makes you depend on others?
On the other hand, when I see some guys who have it all crying over spilt milk, I say: ‘You should be deprived of a few things in order to appreciate what you’ve got’. ‘You should get out of bed and go to work, stop shooting up, move in your own home and desist from expecting everything from your parents.’. ‘When you go to clubs and concerts, jump up and dance like crazy, as if it’s the last day you are having fun.’.
There are a few types of people who take everything for granted and this is why they are indifferent towards everything that has to do with disability. As if they’ve signed some kind of contract that will protect them from every impediment. As if they were born as the lucky ones of the human species. There are some other types of people as well; those are the ones who think they star in the world’s most tragic drama. When they experience moments of happiness, they insist on destroying them, watching the world through their own distorting glasses. They find everything horrendous and they think that everyone is to blame. They envy those who are happy with their lives, and they especially loathe their wealth, whether material or mental. They are fed up with the idea that there people who make money by doing what they dig. They are not thinking of how they will attach greater importance to the value of their personality so as to have what they want. On the contrary, they like underestimating the achievements of those who they envy. The worst part is that they do all this without understanding it, unconsciously that is, pretending that they are indifferent to the best result. Well, I don’t. I am not indifferent to the best result and I would certainly be happy to become an able-bodied person or the richest guy on earth or even ‘the star of stars’. Nonetheless, since things like that don’t happen from one day to the other or since they might never happen at all, I try to have fun with myself as I am now and not as I would like to be in the future. Furthermore, I say it again: nobody asks me whether I would like to be ‘this’ or ‘that’. I try, no matter what.
To be honest, since I would not want to be considered naïve, I am not one of those who would not change a thing in their lives. I always want the best, even if I am being really neurotic some times. As for grandiloquent words like ‘I love my disability and I can’t live without it’, I never understood them. What do you happen to love, man? A thing that smothers you and makes you depend on others?
On the other hand, when I see some guys who have it all crying over spilt milk, I say: ‘You should be deprived of a few things in order to appreciate what you’ve got’. ‘You should get out of bed and go to work, stop shooting up, move in your own home and desist from expecting everything from your parents.’. ‘When you go to clubs and concerts, jump up and dance like crazy, as if it’s the last day you are having fun.’.
There are a few types of people who take everything for granted and this is why they are indifferent towards everything that has to do with disability. As if they’ve signed some kind of contract that will protect them from every impediment. As if they were born as the lucky ones of the human species. There are some other types of people as well; those are the ones who think they star in the world’s most tragic drama. When they experience moments of happiness, they insist on destroying them, watching the world through their own distorting glasses. They find everything horrendous and they think that everyone is to blame. They envy those who are happy with their lives, and they especially loathe their wealth, whether material or mental. They are fed up with the idea that there people who make money by doing what they dig. They are not thinking of how they will attach greater importance to the value of their personality so as to have what they want. On the contrary, they like underestimating the achievements of those who they envy. The worst part is that they do all this without understanding it, unconsciously that is, pretending that they are indifferent to the best result. Well, I don’t. I am not indifferent to the best result and I would certainly be happy to become an able-bodied person or the richest guy on earth or even ‘the star of stars’. Nonetheless, since things like that don’t happen from one day to the other or since they might never happen at all, I try to have fun with myself as I am now and not as I would like to be in the future. Furthermore, I say it again: nobody asks me whether I would like to be ‘this’ or ‘that’. I try, no matter what.
ON OPINIONS AND ATTITUDES
26.07.04
All right, so we are not the only ones who are in a ‘bad’ mood because of the summer and the heat. My dog is stuck on the pavement and is hanging out his tongue as if he could lick the ground till the front door. Of course I have him right beside me now that I’m writing to you and if he could, he would write as well and he would say how boring his life as a dog is.
I woke up in the morning, watching a part of the concert that took place the day before yesterday. I listened to the complaints of a man who had been waiting for something better. All right, everybody has a personal point of view but when you are a journalist you have to be objective in the way you pass the news, whether they are dealing with the coverage of the 7th March elections or with a commentary on a cultural event. Am I asking too much? No, I am not asking too much when –in this case- I am trying to persuade people that there are thousands of reasons to be happy with their lives.
I’ve been nagging all my life. For what? You are going to say: ‘Look who’s talking’, Nicholas, the guy who judges everything. Yes, I am in such a mood, it’s true, but I am very pleased with my life in general and with the moments I experience. Of course I would like to enjoy a much more exciting life. What am I to do? It’s in my genes to ask for the strange and the diffucult stuff: not to become wiser; when you become wiser, nobody asks you if you really need the wisdom you acquire. What I want is to know that I have lived, I have seized every opportunity and, most important, I have freely expressed my feelings without keeping any bitterness and inhibitions inside.
Some times I think that I can show people how to be happy. What a big mistake. And who am I to know what pleases everyone? Even if I knew, why should I spend my years in order to show some people what they refuse to see, namely that life is indeed beautiful? A few of us knew that way before Benigni told us. No matter how strange it may sound, some times I think that I would not fully appreciate my own existence if I did not have this disability to teach me how to fight and win things that were given to others freely. Of course, I believe in those ideas only in the good days. In the bad days, I swear all the time.
All right, so we are not the only ones who are in a ‘bad’ mood because of the summer and the heat. My dog is stuck on the pavement and is hanging out his tongue as if he could lick the ground till the front door. Of course I have him right beside me now that I’m writing to you and if he could, he would write as well and he would say how boring his life as a dog is.
I woke up in the morning, watching a part of the concert that took place the day before yesterday. I listened to the complaints of a man who had been waiting for something better. All right, everybody has a personal point of view but when you are a journalist you have to be objective in the way you pass the news, whether they are dealing with the coverage of the 7th March elections or with a commentary on a cultural event. Am I asking too much? No, I am not asking too much when –in this case- I am trying to persuade people that there are thousands of reasons to be happy with their lives.
I’ve been nagging all my life. For what? You are going to say: ‘Look who’s talking’, Nicholas, the guy who judges everything. Yes, I am in such a mood, it’s true, but I am very pleased with my life in general and with the moments I experience. Of course I would like to enjoy a much more exciting life. What am I to do? It’s in my genes to ask for the strange and the diffucult stuff: not to become wiser; when you become wiser, nobody asks you if you really need the wisdom you acquire. What I want is to know that I have lived, I have seized every opportunity and, most important, I have freely expressed my feelings without keeping any bitterness and inhibitions inside.
Some times I think that I can show people how to be happy. What a big mistake. And who am I to know what pleases everyone? Even if I knew, why should I spend my years in order to show some people what they refuse to see, namely that life is indeed beautiful? A few of us knew that way before Benigni told us. No matter how strange it may sound, some times I think that I would not fully appreciate my own existence if I did not have this disability to teach me how to fight and win things that were given to others freely. Of course, I believe in those ideas only in the good days. In the bad days, I swear all the time.
STEPS
23.07.04
Regarding what I said yesterday: Do you know how many times I happen to be lying in bed and think that if I get up I will be walking normally without any kind of help? I’ll tell you something else too. Every time I feel like that I am never disappointed, because, in spite of the fact that the circumstances prove me wrong, what I feel is so strong that it really looks like it is happening.
I used to make up to eight steps on my own, wearing casts. After that, I had problems with my kneecaps, which came out of place at every movement and I should ‘push’ them again inside with my hand. I have never felt such pain before. The first time I suffered like that was when I was bumping alone into my basket’s rim, listening to ‘The Doors’. I have told you that before. It had been a year since I had my first operations and everything was going pretty well, until I had the problem with my knees.
The stupid surgeon had stretched some muscles more than he should have done, thus resulting in pulling out my kneecaps upwards and detaching them from the mould of the cartilage.
Four new operations followed. Again in Boston but why am I telling you all this? What I mean is that ever since I had the problem with my knees I could never walk alone again. Some times (like yesterday) I feel again capable of being on a roll and starting to walk.
STORIES FOR SEA HORSES
Yesterday I happened to watch some TV ads with Phoivos and Athena. I never accepted those ‘bumps’ (if not something else), guys. I know that they are somehow symbols or antiquity but who cares. I don’t like them, am I to lie? Proteas is definitely more fun but he is a little cartoon for kids. And may I ask why should a sea horse represent us? Did you ever wonder? All right, I am grumpy. I know. Oh my, I don’t like at all a sea horse in baby style, no matter how cute it may be. There was no creature like that even on my baby bib, if it ever had a stamp like that. And if they wanted to demonstrate the difference with able-bodied athletes, they could have at least symbolized it in the shape of a mermaid with huge tits (sorry to say): an unrivalled symbol for every gender. Sophocles, who wonders, must know something about it.
SO WHAT IF I AM A SUPERMAN AND A SUPERSTAR, THEY ARE THE BEAUTIES AND I AM THE UGLY MAN
I have been looking for hours to provide you with a link regarding the athlete who reached our country with his manually operated sports wheelchair. If I am not mistaken, he rode it around the Balkans. I can’t find anything about him on the web. At first, I would like to learn his name. If you find something, please give me the appropriate URL.
Maybe I locate some information about him on http://www.disabled.gr/.
You know something? I got really mad at my parents, who, when they saw him (without legs), they said: ‘Poor fellow!’. Some times I think that they forget they have a son with mobility problems; consequently, if they feel sorry for anybody in a position like mine, it’s like feeling sorry for me as well. All right, the guy doesn’t have legs but mine, even though they are in place, are of no use either. Useless and expensive! That’s why I say that I’m no Superman. Someone else is.
Regarding what I said yesterday: Do you know how many times I happen to be lying in bed and think that if I get up I will be walking normally without any kind of help? I’ll tell you something else too. Every time I feel like that I am never disappointed, because, in spite of the fact that the circumstances prove me wrong, what I feel is so strong that it really looks like it is happening.
I used to make up to eight steps on my own, wearing casts. After that, I had problems with my kneecaps, which came out of place at every movement and I should ‘push’ them again inside with my hand. I have never felt such pain before. The first time I suffered like that was when I was bumping alone into my basket’s rim, listening to ‘The Doors’. I have told you that before. It had been a year since I had my first operations and everything was going pretty well, until I had the problem with my knees.
The stupid surgeon had stretched some muscles more than he should have done, thus resulting in pulling out my kneecaps upwards and detaching them from the mould of the cartilage.
Four new operations followed. Again in Boston but why am I telling you all this? What I mean is that ever since I had the problem with my knees I could never walk alone again. Some times (like yesterday) I feel again capable of being on a roll and starting to walk.
STORIES FOR SEA HORSES
Yesterday I happened to watch some TV ads with Phoivos and Athena. I never accepted those ‘bumps’ (if not something else), guys. I know that they are somehow symbols or antiquity but who cares. I don’t like them, am I to lie? Proteas is definitely more fun but he is a little cartoon for kids. And may I ask why should a sea horse represent us? Did you ever wonder? All right, I am grumpy. I know. Oh my, I don’t like at all a sea horse in baby style, no matter how cute it may be. There was no creature like that even on my baby bib, if it ever had a stamp like that. And if they wanted to demonstrate the difference with able-bodied athletes, they could have at least symbolized it in the shape of a mermaid with huge tits (sorry to say): an unrivalled symbol for every gender. Sophocles, who wonders, must know something about it.
SO WHAT IF I AM A SUPERMAN AND A SUPERSTAR, THEY ARE THE BEAUTIES AND I AM THE UGLY MAN
I have been looking for hours to provide you with a link regarding the athlete who reached our country with his manually operated sports wheelchair. If I am not mistaken, he rode it around the Balkans. I can’t find anything about him on the web. At first, I would like to learn his name. If you find something, please give me the appropriate URL.
Maybe I locate some information about him on http://www.disabled.gr/.
You know something? I got really mad at my parents, who, when they saw him (without legs), they said: ‘Poor fellow!’. Some times I think that they forget they have a son with mobility problems; consequently, if they feel sorry for anybody in a position like mine, it’s like feeling sorry for me as well. All right, the guy doesn’t have legs but mine, even though they are in place, are of no use either. Useless and expensive! That’s why I say that I’m no Superman. Someone else is.
Friday, September 08, 2006
THE CRASH
19.07.04
I would like to confess my inability to find my bearings. One and a half year ago I had a really bad car crash precisely because I was lost. I was heading to Penteli and found myself in Gerakas, among old ladies, Albanians and Rottweilers. I didn’t know where I was and there was nobody out there to say a word. I was panic-stricken, because, apart from other things, it was getting dark and my parents had no idea of my intention to go far (I was actually scared of mom. She can make me regret even for my breath. If she reads this, she will laugh. She thinks I don’t give a damn about her because I dare to retaliate against her.).
Anyway, I was so panic-stricken, as I said, that I went back without actually looking back and that’s how I crashed the front of some other old car. (The guy who owned the car appeared in nanoseconds. I’m not exaggerating.)
He says: ‘Get out of the car’.
I am like: ‘No I don’t’.
Get out/No I don’t, Get out/No I don’t, Get out/No I don’t, And may I know why?/Because I am disabled./Oh, all right then, where is your licence and the rest? In the little drawer. I did what I had to do. Try to find them yourself (my nails had turned blue out of my fear). Instead of swearing at me, this guy started giving me consolation. So I took up the courage and asked: ‘Do you happen to know where the area of Vrilissia is?’.
In the end, my mother reacted normally. She told me: ‘If every time you lose yourself you crash someone’s car in order to find your way here, we’re dead!’. I relate this inability of mine to my poor spelling. I keep forgetting places and words I’ve seen a thousand times. Sophocles says that this happens to everybody who has cerebral palsy. I don’t know what to believe. I’m not used to blaming the ‘problem’ for everything. (Isn’t it somewhat ingenuous to name your disability a ‘problem’? Consequently, you are not defined as a person with a disability but as a person who is problematic, since you admit that you carry a problem, right?).
LABELS-LABELS (Leave the labels and get the girlies)
Good morning,
Oh Dada you make it hard for me so early in the morning. It doesn’t matter. I am really glad that you referred to the issue of the label and thus revealed that even me, a person who detests every sort of discrimination, can talk nonsense about people who I like (like you). Can I tell you what labels are? In my opinion, labels are inventions of those who comprise the majority or are beyond others or think that they do comprise the majority and also are beyond those who (allegedly) are the few and the weak or those whose part as regards the evolution of things is smaller anyway.
In fact, labels are ‘placed’ to remind some people that they are far from the main pattern of existing and behaving and therefore they have to feel subordinate to those who fulfil the standards of fully representing the human tribe (But what am I writing at the crack of dawn? Hopefully some people will desist from accusing me of my literary writing. I can write about almost anything.). On the other hand, when there are people who don’t care about labels, nothing from everything mentioned above is valid (is the spelling correct here? I am really poor at spelling and I’m not using a dictionary right now). But, since some of the people who hate labels might label others without really thinking about it (like I did in Dada’s case), everything is possible and expected to a certain degree.
I would like to confess my inability to find my bearings. One and a half year ago I had a really bad car crash precisely because I was lost. I was heading to Penteli and found myself in Gerakas, among old ladies, Albanians and Rottweilers. I didn’t know where I was and there was nobody out there to say a word. I was panic-stricken, because, apart from other things, it was getting dark and my parents had no idea of my intention to go far (I was actually scared of mom. She can make me regret even for my breath. If she reads this, she will laugh. She thinks I don’t give a damn about her because I dare to retaliate against her.).
Anyway, I was so panic-stricken, as I said, that I went back without actually looking back and that’s how I crashed the front of some other old car. (The guy who owned the car appeared in nanoseconds. I’m not exaggerating.)
He says: ‘Get out of the car’.
I am like: ‘No I don’t’.
Get out/No I don’t, Get out/No I don’t, Get out/No I don’t, And may I know why?/Because I am disabled./Oh, all right then, where is your licence and the rest? In the little drawer. I did what I had to do. Try to find them yourself (my nails had turned blue out of my fear). Instead of swearing at me, this guy started giving me consolation. So I took up the courage and asked: ‘Do you happen to know where the area of Vrilissia is?’.
In the end, my mother reacted normally. She told me: ‘If every time you lose yourself you crash someone’s car in order to find your way here, we’re dead!’. I relate this inability of mine to my poor spelling. I keep forgetting places and words I’ve seen a thousand times. Sophocles says that this happens to everybody who has cerebral palsy. I don’t know what to believe. I’m not used to blaming the ‘problem’ for everything. (Isn’t it somewhat ingenuous to name your disability a ‘problem’? Consequently, you are not defined as a person with a disability but as a person who is problematic, since you admit that you carry a problem, right?).
LABELS-LABELS (Leave the labels and get the girlies)
Good morning,
Oh Dada you make it hard for me so early in the morning. It doesn’t matter. I am really glad that you referred to the issue of the label and thus revealed that even me, a person who detests every sort of discrimination, can talk nonsense about people who I like (like you). Can I tell you what labels are? In my opinion, labels are inventions of those who comprise the majority or are beyond others or think that they do comprise the majority and also are beyond those who (allegedly) are the few and the weak or those whose part as regards the evolution of things is smaller anyway.
In fact, labels are ‘placed’ to remind some people that they are far from the main pattern of existing and behaving and therefore they have to feel subordinate to those who fulfil the standards of fully representing the human tribe (But what am I writing at the crack of dawn? Hopefully some people will desist from accusing me of my literary writing. I can write about almost anything.). On the other hand, when there are people who don’t care about labels, nothing from everything mentioned above is valid (is the spelling correct here? I am really poor at spelling and I’m not using a dictionary right now). But, since some of the people who hate labels might label others without really thinking about it (like I did in Dada’s case), everything is possible and expected to a certain degree.
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF OUR LOVE?
18.07.04
I didn’t talk to you about the most exciting part. Last night, a man and a woman were sitting next to our table. Young people, don’t think that they were old creeps (sorry, Dada, I forgot that you are not 25). So when they left –much earlier than we did-, Kostas revealed me that the girl was constantly looking at his side every time that she lifted her glass.
In general, it seemed very cool to me that my friend had ‘grabbed the look’ of a very nice young girl and I laughed out loud thinking that if we starred in an American romantic movie, the whole thing could have been completely different. The girl would leave with Kostas and I would eat burritos with her (ex) companion.
I turned back time and imagined when a few years ago I was invited to a party along with lots of couples. I let my friends make out and grab each other right in front of me and I was just sitting there looking at the ceiling or at the ashtray full of cigarette stubs or at the dress of another girl who would certainly be making out with the guy next to her soon. I was ‘pathetic’, however you want to interpret this. One day I became suddenly aware of the situation and decided to take measures. My friends told me: ‘Will you come with the two of us?’ and I replied ‘No guys. There is something wrong with the gooseberry today and I won’t be able to play it for you’. Since then, I got rid of the role of the Peeping Tom for good.
IN THE HOUSE OF INDEPENDENCE
I have been arguing a lot with my mother lately. I believe that this is the result of the fact that we have been spending lots of hours together, since she takes me to work every morning. I can’t take it with mom’s lectures any more. She doesn’t like a thing, including the way I drive, the way I express myself, the way I object to things she says and so on. All right. All moms act like this but that doesn’t bother me. I really want to be independent and I know that this is not going to happen as long as I am in Greece; not because I am actually accustomed to the comfort of the house but because wherever I move, if it’s going to be in the same city, my mom is going to call me 15 times a day to see if I’m all right or she’ll be running behind me with a small lunchbox, in case I lose a calorie or something.
I am mad at myself: I keep saying that I’ll be independent and I do nothing about it. (Where are you, Penelope, who told me all those things?) I know, Papillon, you’ll say again that the responsibility is entirely my own and you will be right. I’ve organized a programme: As soon as I pay for the car, I will rent a studio somewhere near here and I will be having fun with myself. I will face my parents’ insecurities whether wanting it or not. I think that, if I make the first steps towards my independence, they will start figuring out themselves that I will definitely not die without them (biologically, at least).
I wish I had LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY and could build a luxurious center of independent living for people with a disability in Greece. Anybody who would want to go there, obtaining education on independent living would be offered for as long as it would be wanted, on the basis of reasonable fees of course (and not on extravagant prices). People would therefore spend their days in a communal space, being thus able to meet lots of people (this would not be obligatory) and live independently. Of course, this ‘house’ would be open to every visitor (not necessarily a guest). Otherwise, it would end up being a ghetto.
What do you think of the whole idea here? What are our chances of achieving something like that? Do you think it would be worth it?
I didn’t talk to you about the most exciting part. Last night, a man and a woman were sitting next to our table. Young people, don’t think that they were old creeps (sorry, Dada, I forgot that you are not 25). So when they left –much earlier than we did-, Kostas revealed me that the girl was constantly looking at his side every time that she lifted her glass.
In general, it seemed very cool to me that my friend had ‘grabbed the look’ of a very nice young girl and I laughed out loud thinking that if we starred in an American romantic movie, the whole thing could have been completely different. The girl would leave with Kostas and I would eat burritos with her (ex) companion.
I turned back time and imagined when a few years ago I was invited to a party along with lots of couples. I let my friends make out and grab each other right in front of me and I was just sitting there looking at the ceiling or at the ashtray full of cigarette stubs or at the dress of another girl who would certainly be making out with the guy next to her soon. I was ‘pathetic’, however you want to interpret this. One day I became suddenly aware of the situation and decided to take measures. My friends told me: ‘Will you come with the two of us?’ and I replied ‘No guys. There is something wrong with the gooseberry today and I won’t be able to play it for you’. Since then, I got rid of the role of the Peeping Tom for good.
IN THE HOUSE OF INDEPENDENCE
I have been arguing a lot with my mother lately. I believe that this is the result of the fact that we have been spending lots of hours together, since she takes me to work every morning. I can’t take it with mom’s lectures any more. She doesn’t like a thing, including the way I drive, the way I express myself, the way I object to things she says and so on. All right. All moms act like this but that doesn’t bother me. I really want to be independent and I know that this is not going to happen as long as I am in Greece; not because I am actually accustomed to the comfort of the house but because wherever I move, if it’s going to be in the same city, my mom is going to call me 15 times a day to see if I’m all right or she’ll be running behind me with a small lunchbox, in case I lose a calorie or something.
I am mad at myself: I keep saying that I’ll be independent and I do nothing about it. (Where are you, Penelope, who told me all those things?) I know, Papillon, you’ll say again that the responsibility is entirely my own and you will be right. I’ve organized a programme: As soon as I pay for the car, I will rent a studio somewhere near here and I will be having fun with myself. I will face my parents’ insecurities whether wanting it or not. I think that, if I make the first steps towards my independence, they will start figuring out themselves that I will definitely not die without them (biologically, at least).
I wish I had LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY and could build a luxurious center of independent living for people with a disability in Greece. Anybody who would want to go there, obtaining education on independent living would be offered for as long as it would be wanted, on the basis of reasonable fees of course (and not on extravagant prices). People would therefore spend their days in a communal space, being thus able to meet lots of people (this would not be obligatory) and live independently. Of course, this ‘house’ would be open to every visitor (not necessarily a guest). Otherwise, it would end up being a ghetto.
What do you think of the whole idea here? What are our chances of achieving something like that? Do you think it would be worth it?
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