Παρά - Λέω

Meditation on Screen

2010-10-20T11:14:00.007+03:00

The blank paper is facing me and I am facing the blank paper; of course, as I keep typing the blank is replaced by words and phrases which mean nothing more than their usual meaning. If you twist them a bit some serious thoughts might arise. On the other hand, what this twist might reveal no one can ever imagine; or is there anyone who can? I haven’t been writing for a long time; I was either not in good mood, and it often got tiring, after so many hours lost in imperatives and silly questions by customers who might as well dwell on for days and which unfortunately I had to tolerate (e.g. why does the report print Page 1 of 1, I don’t want it there – for God’s sake man, get a life), or those stupid arrangements that consider no one or no reason, but when you find the time to sit in front of the laptop with attitude and unrestrained spirit to share thoughts and feelings, the mind refuses to corporate.

If you close your eyes and be silent for a moment, meditate in the sense of just listening to your own thoughts, there seems to be a lack of cohesion. It more or less goes like this: damn, I have those trainings twice a week for another month, how am I supposed to handle it; what was that girls name, she was stunning in that skintight trousers, I thought I was going to lose myself when she got closer, while her strawberry fragrance run through my nostrils pumping my eyeballs in an instant (at this point an image from a movie or a football match may pop up); I don’t have much time to complete my essay, when am I supposed to do it when I keep running from errands to socializing to studying and sleep… I want a beer; actually I want a whole case of beers, maybe some pot as well…that club the other day was scary, from another world, full of touch-me-not blondes and tanned muscular archetypes that need two chairs instead of one or even half the couch…they had better sit, otherwise the place would spill people out of every corner; and so on.

This is so common I believe, that the mind has its own pace and rhythm. It’s like a steamrolling machine with its own self-developing intellect, like a transformer. It starts with a click and accelerates minute after minute, it learns and adapts, blending stimuli from its surrounding environment, gets confused for a few days and then is restored back to normal with the exception of a few understandings that may or may not have a true or perhaps a substantial meaning. I sometimes feel that I cannot control this stream of thoughts and ideas; at other times they’re just pushing themselves out, causing embarrassing moments, false impressions, perhaps some illusions (I just saw a shadow passing by), or delusions, fixating beliefs that everything is alright when they’re not. However, at times those thoughts roll like rock and roll; they are inspiring, crystal clear, effective, and so creative. That’s the time when you can see your potentials, a time of realization that you and me are nothing more than insects compare to everything that exists in this world and therefore, whatever is to be done, it has to be done now. This is the positive side, when exiguity (I found this word in the dictionary) hell bents (this one too) towards success and stimulates willingness to make something out of this life.

Boring, who told you those things? Why don’t you retreat and take vacations, become a farmer or the milkman. Have you ever noticed how talented are younger people? It’s as if you are trying to compete when you already know your bad results; because they are really gifted, not smarter but they do carry in their genes the knowledge of a new generation and the sum of advantages that comprised our evolutionary past. Surely, Descartes would think not before Darwin’s origins of life but we not think because we already know it.

So let’s get down to the bottom of this. What shall I have for dinner tonight? Or is this not a good question?

Hi mum, what are you planning on cooking tonight? Shall I come to Buenos Aires for dinner? Hey dad, how’s that grilled fish variety going on, can I have some? No, sister…well, I better send her a message! How about get a pizza…I had one two nights ago…how about souvlaki…that was yesterday’s lunch…maybe a burger…last night…how about cook something instead (what’s the easiest thing to cook?)…pasta of course…pasta, pasta and pasta; sure, I could boil some beans, white beans, green beans, red beans, snap beans, string beans or any other beans I can find in the dictionary. Don’t laugh, this is a serious matter!

Where are you my love, I’ve been waiting for you… ever since I broke up with you! Unfortunately, you never knew how to cook. It would not be compatible with contemporary ideas about cooking anyway!

Anyway, I’ll just make a tuna salad!

Good day and Good night!

Confusion and Anxiety

2009-11-03T12:15:00.004+02:00

Lately, I’ve been working with Dickens ‘Great Expectations’; a famous 19th century novel about a young boy’s vain attempts to become an aristocrat with neither hard work nor source of income, based on self-delusions and false expectations. I’ve been thinking about Pip’s great expectations and ironically I was able to make parallelisms to other people’s lives. How many times have we seen, even in our most ridiculous plans a failure, because of either a simple and diversified stream of luck, emotions, opinions or situations.

The thing is that like in Pip’s case, in what is new that is about to unfold into our future has no real background or personal experience and we tend to stand up with an appropriate enthusiasm or an unnecessary negativity. What if it fails? It doesn’t matter because we will need to move on. We fail when we forget that we are subject to our environment; when we forget that reactions flow in a sort of butterfly effect. We succeed when we work towards our goals with persistence and clarity, irrespective of the difficulties; when we believe in ourselves and be clear with what we want to achieve. It’s important to understand that this journey is in search of what we consider to be of essence. We are born with notions of truth, desires and inner life plans that we need to decrypt.

How many ‘convicts’ have we come across and how many times have we blamed a single decision for the consequences? How many times have we had false impressions about people and situations and how many times have these false impressions been haunting us for years? It’s unavoidable without proper guidance to retain an ideal perspective for certain events. How many times have we idealized that someone as a friend, as a lover, as a parent or as a teacher before he/she turns out to be unworthy of attention? This process sub-consciously becomes a negative catalyst preventing us from actions and reactions that would otherwise be considered as the right ones.

A child almost drowned when he/she was five and have never been able to get over this fear of the water; another was attacked by a dog and he/she is still cautious and scared the shit out of them; another was beaten up so badly by his/her parents that lost confidence and trust to people. I guess I could number a huge list using examples such as the ones mentioned above.

These thoughts came up when I realized that circumstances have actually turned everything upside down. My disappointment is clearly temporary and for a few days, it mentally threw me to the bottom of an imaginary well, in which I struggled to succeed a way back to the top. I’m being subjective by the way; nothing of this is real. I do not have a famous story here, neither Dickens talent, but my inner most expectations seem to have been betrayed for a delusion of good faith. Because of its temporality I knew that life would change course. It’s only natural to experience moments in one way and then, somehow manage to retreat, step back and review from a different angle into a new perspective for clearance, and provision for incentives to carry on in a different path.

However, this is how it felt for a few days.

My thoughts became dark one night, lost in vagueness and melancholy I started wondering whether I’ve been doing something wrong and things get worked up this way. It’s all in my mind though. I get so obsessed some times that I’m even willing to underestimate my own value to justify my inconsistencies. Pathetic! You have to understand that this could be nothing more than illusion. I wondered whether I’m being prejudiced about contemporary way of life or is it just that my expectations collide with those of others.

No, I shouldn’t have dark moods. Life goes pretty well actually. I have a pretty good job, earn some good money, and have lots of friends, good friends; I can definitely say that I know my way in and out of situations. But, these thoughts and moods often run out of control. I feel that they’re choking me. They drain my energy and leave me with only a drop, and a weak breadth, enough to sustain my vital organs. I am trying to calm myself down in order to sort these thoughts and pictures out and get some basic logic out of them. The other night I was reading a text in my dreams and I wondered how could it be possible to remember such a text while I’m asleep, a text whose words had a meaning but the whole of it none.

This is a kind of repeated scenario. I am sitting on the couch; I close my eyes and find myself locked up in a room with a small window facing an empty grey landscape; the raindrops dash down like fire bullets crushing down the rocks, drilling the hardest grounds but the window seems to be bulletproof, impenetrable, and I feel the room’s weight on my chest. I sit in the corner across the window and watch the rain hit on the glass but there are no signs of drops on the window; they don’t make a sound on contact, no mist or drips rolling down as if a spell’s erasing them all.

There’s a girl walking out in the rain; I rush to the window, I wave my hands and shout. ‘Hey, in here’ but she never looks this way.

But then, I find myself to a different scene; I’m in a fight; a guy’s holding my arms behind my back, another’s punching me in the face and then he rests for a while; another one’s taking his place. He is carving circles on my chest with the tip of his Swedish knife and I start crying; I don’t feel the pain though.

‘I just wanted to talk to you’, I say. My blood’s boiling within my swelled veins, my pulse fastening and even though this is just a false image in my head, my heart bleeds with an untraceable anxiety and anger. And I don’t seem able to control it but neither to express it. I don’t want to think about it, I want to make it stop and go away.

I see a figure behind those men. I think it’s her. She is watching while I’m being beaten up. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t laugh or cry; she’s just standing there. Why doesn’t she do something about it?

I shouldn’t expect that, I have to do it on my own.

I wish I could light a cigarette right now.

It’s that room again but now it’s furnished. I’m back on the couch; my back is hurting me; my hands are shaking. The laptop’s by my side. This is what I have to do. Write it down!

A Brief Evaluation

2009-09-10T12:19:00.016+03:00

Lately I had an interesting conversation with a friend. I was trying to let my thoughts and ambitions to come forth and debate upon them. A strange thing happened though; while summarizing my thoughts as always, a sudden twist in my perception, as if the strings were loosen and moved a bit further from the core, surfaced a kind of vanity in which I struggled to avoid.

Growing up to this day, and day by day for the last thirty years, and after so many efforts to get ahead in life I’ve come to realize that the average man lives for 75 years. The sum gives me a total of 45 years of remaining life; and so I asked myself, ‘What can I do in these remaining 45 years, how many things can I achieve, what do I want to achieve, there’s really not so much time’. The question seemed unexpectedly funny for some reason, even now when I think about it, I realize that I’ve never thought about anything that could last for such a long time period – although we all make plans for the future. I was 18 and people in their thirties seemed too old for me, now they don’t; and look how fast those twelve years have passed by and I am still looking for answers, locked in my tiny celled brain. It’s as if those moments never existed. The only clues of their existence are the emotions raised when I think of them but really, as I get older those emotions faint. So, what am I doing about it now?’ There are no particular reasons for having such thoughts, they just pop up when there’s a questioning of purpose and life path. In any case they’re disturbing and silly. It’s a part of a usual process called self-assertion. It happens at a point when one is able to view the world from afar, beneath their feet, below the mountains, as tiny figures wandering in the open fields as if they’re ants stocking for the winter.

The truth is that 45 years can be either too long or too short of a time. Too long when you lack of so called fundamentals, like dreams (people with no dreams don’t have much), ambitions and personal targets able to sustain youth’s high energy levels. As a result, the absence of the above turns one into passivity sucking us up in a world of standard procedures and repeated actions. Too short when you are balanced and able to enjoy what life has to offer. At this point time fly’s away and never affects the progress.

So, what are the main aspects one should acknowledge as important for further evaluation to re-approach and make something useful out of them?

Job for instance; we spend approximately 10 hours per day at our working environment, if one can’t enjoy those hours, there will be consequences; instead of being creative, energetic and generally a use the job as form of self-expression, we become inefficient, bored and slaves of own lives. Money, which is the main reason of getting a job, is able to soothe the consequences of not feeling fulfilled. It’s as if we accept paying the price physically and emotionally to compensate for our inability to do what we are ‘destined’ to do.

Why should we keep being accountable to others (employers) if there is no personal satisfaction?

It’s not so bad being accountable to others. After all, we can’t have and be everything but I would love to wake up one morning in a positive working mood and smiley for having to do so, and maintain those feelings until it’s time to go to bed; instead my morning reactions –especially on Mondays- are between bursting out in tears or giving in my resignation (which is absolutely not a bad idea).

I often feel that within the working environment humanity is lost and we think in numbers and charts, cursing against soulless objects, fighting with cranky people. There is no real communication, no contact, no understanding and no respect. I have no suggestions however. A lot of people I know have a good and enjoyable work to do, so I guess I must be doing something wrong. Nevertheless, each and everyone are working towards their own goals irrespective of the goal’s superficiality and flatness.

Friends; we can’t be socially isolated with no consequences to our health and prosperity; we need people to share moments. A familiar voice, a gentle touch, a warm smile and a feeling of affection will always be able to resist the negatives sides of life when they occur, and have the power to give strength and confidence to the individual. Well-connected people do live longer, happier lives.

Love; we seek love from the day we were born; love is warm and its warmth an incentive to help others, as the one thing able to provide a deep connection with the people around us. Unfortunately, not all of us can see this connection to others until some kind crisis suddenly appears, but when it does,’ this psychological crisis represents the breakthrough of a metaphysical realization, which is that you and that other are two aspects of the one life and our apparent separateness is but an effect of the way we experience forms under the condition of space and time’ (The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers, by Joseph Campbell). As such, our true reality is in our identity and unity with all life which is according to Schopenhauer the truth of our life; as such our unity with all life needs love at its foundations. The concept of love - your neighbor - is to put us in tune with the realization of this fact.

Additionally, love in its various forms acts as a major facilitator for interpersonal relationships and the basic ingredient of commitments such as marriage and children. Family is the greatest creation anyone can reach up to –it doesn’t require special knowledge or skills (it requires for other things but that’s beyond the current subject) but it does require this basic ingredient.

Regardless of the opportunities one may have had in his life, men have always struggled to learn, achieve or gain something of importance to oneself. Through this progress there’s a chance for us to realize that being calm in heart and spirit in an event sequence called life path and acknowledge our part and unity in the order of things, offers a feeling of security and sovereignty in the way we live and take decisions. Of course, I’m not writing something new here. Most have probably read about spirituality and transcended religions, positive thoughts and theories of mere existence and development. As a friend once said, when things go wrong we tend to believe that metaphysics and religion can give answers and solutions to problems that require only of our own intervention in a suitable manner. Difficult situations may sometimes appear to have simple solutions but we forget, we ignore their composing complexities and that’s because we are going through periods when the spirit is concentrated, the energies are focused, the mind is balanced and the wallet is full.

I’ve been told a few times I am a fool to believe that anything beyond proof can do any good in my life. I happen to disagree. All around me, I notice symbols; I see connections and references that mean something to me, random events that affect me in a positive or a negative way. One decision leads to another, one event to another and at some point everything unfolds like a chain reaction bringing into light what was once smothering under the moonlight.

I’ve been on a road trip with a dear friend a month or so ago and from the time we headed ourselves in the highway everything seemed to be in their rightful place and in perfect perspective. The surroundings, the woods and the blue skies, the sun shining and just accepting the fact that everything was where it was supposed to be was enough to soothe mind and soul. We were tuned all the way to our final stop (a lot of noise, cars, etc) which reminded me of the contemporary world we live in that is preoccupied with noise, expectations, hard work and unhealthy environments.

There is no recipe for achievement. We do what we wish within the limits of our imagination and the boundaries of common sense.

On my part, from my experience, I can only say that through time we find the necessary tools in our way and acquire a sense of duty-call able to provide the strength to proceed. There is a reason why most people enjoy beautiful sceneries in the woods or at the sea or a beautiful sunset, sundown at the beach or at an exotic island and others prefer the life of the busiest capital in the world.

So where do we start from? Which is the one aspect most dreadfully handled so far?
Which of the above (there are more) has room for development and what can we do about it?
Are we ready to sacrifice our luxurious life to tip the scales on our half?

Petraion Sculpture Park (18/07/2009)

2009-07-26T14:21:00.007+03:00

A construction’s builder; a bricklayer; a working man like no other as it seems, who has in the recent past associated his name and signature with the construction of churches and buildings; a man whose sensitivity towards folklore, byzantine, Persian and Cypriot music gave him the stimulus to evolve into a great artist. He has mastered his art and transformed the stone into sculpt with a higher purpose to commemorate and give shape to feelings (emotions), mythology, prehistoric life and people.

Tools called rasps, hammers, chisels, drilling machinery and with only the idea in his mind as a guideline, the artist has sketched on blocks of stone and developed the work along the way, enhancing their shape into its final form to depict among others, compunctions as a double face figure, philosopher’s profiles, the family’s burden and Petraios – also the name of the park -as the tallest statue in the park.

The park is close to the sea, surrounded by golden landscapes and the view of mountains in the background having an utmost contribution to its theme. A small church has been built next to the garden of statues, supported by greens, decorative construction designs and a nearby kiosk to rest and refresh oneself under the shade of the trees.

The artist, with the help of his family, which appears to be deeply rooted into creative arts, has managed to ‘stone’ a park of inspirational attraction for its vision, imagination, creativeness and beauty. The park’s charm and gentleness is capable of soothing the senses in order to reveal a hidden romantic side of us that leaps out like a whale breaching the surface for oxygen.

For as long as I can remember, certain professions have been put aside because of their heavy lifting, unhealthy conditions, lack of expectations and educational prospects. This would therefore rank or form separate classes in social hierarchy diminishing any possibilities for developing skills in other disciplines. The park should serve, beside its obvious beauty and creativity, as a reminder of our unlimited potentials to create through anything we touch, anything we’ve learned and everything we keep dearly in our hearts. It’s not enough to be born with an artistic talent or be taught by great teachers. An artist is also created by its own resources and shaped through knowledge, sensitivities and life experiences, and my impression is that this park can certainly reflect the artist's life.

After the blessings for the park, an orchestra of five consisting of woodwind, string, and percussion instruments, performed the son's compositions of folklore music, - clearly inspired by his father’s stimulus and now his own - byzantine, Persian, Turkish and Cypriot sounds, accompanied by the voice of a herald, presented the most seductive pieces as an acknowledgement of the artist's offer to the community, art and his family; an act of love and recognition in the face of the artist as a father, a husband, a working man and an artist, in return of his wholeness as a human being.
Poetry, speeches and discussions followed and everyone joined in to congratulate the protagonists.

With a beer in one hand and our senses already blown away by the wind’s soft caress and the afternoon sun’s warmness in our faces, we sat by ‘Petraios’ statue stone board and through light discussion we fare welled the sun for the day.

To conclude, it is definitely worth a visit on a Sunday afternoon. Petraion Sculpture Park can be found in Mazotos; following the road to Kiti and on your way to Mazotos, after passing by the camel park on your left hand side of the road and driving for a few more kilometers, you will see a sign of the park on your left and a short, narrow earthen street that leads to its doorstep.

Pray

2009-06-27T14:20:00.008+03:00

Love has been a theme of discussion and debate by many people in academic, social or other communities and circles, repeatedly over the past hundred of years - i guess. The word can refer to a variety of feelings, attitudes, emotions and experiences. The complexity of the feelings involved makes it difficult to define a particular meaning but I think we can all agree on the power those emotions emit and their imposing transformation on one’s character and personality. I would rather avoid further explanations, as there is no simple definition for its meaning; love feelings are impossible to be counted and referred to, and I am no expert on the subject, so I’ll leave this attempt to someone else.

Love has been found and love has been lost, for some people. Love has been found and love has been preserved in the core of our existence. Who can forget what the mind fails to understand and control? We have not yet realized we are subconsciously driven by our senses. We have more than one you know.

When we discuss about it we sometimes agree – if we share similar experiences – and other times we disagree; however, it can be said that according to the individual, gender, kind of relationship, intensity of emotions, character and other parameters, each one of us will have a unique set of emotions which forms several patterns of behavior such as acting on impulse, being harsh or cruel, gentle or affectionate, obsessed etc, thus restricting or expanding our knowledge and perception concerning love.

When I first experienced love, consciously, I realized I should start believing in God. It was like a tropical cyclone that feeds on heat and produces strong winds and heavy thorn rains and my heart helplessly pounding in the center as the pupil of its characteristic eye.
Whenever I was near to those people my tension released an urge to protect and serve. I could never even protect myself though; so much for anyone else, thus the act of praying came into my mind; to pray to Those with power to carry out what our weak human nature seems unable to perform. Because we are part of a greater plan and as the pawns of the Unknown we can only hold and be led by a tiny string of fate.

I pray they have a good fortune and health, and to live long and happy, and to enjoy this short journey we call life.

I pray we meet again and love each other as we once did and in the same way, at a time when the memories of this life have been forgotten, wore out, got lost and by then will belong to a grandeur of a past and in someone else’s mind and narrations.

I pray the flames of our affection keep burning and serve as an archetype of love that will guide and heal those lost in their hearts.

I pray their life be harmonious, balanced and spiritual, and that Nature provides them with a comfortable life.

I pray they can enjoy the moments as happiness is measured and found in those moments (as a dear friend said few days ago).

Thank you for being my friends and may God be with you!

How to make a salad!

2009-05-29T14:35:00.005+03:00

Mum tied up her lemon-coloured hair in an elastic band and poured water on the verandas to sweep off the dust; Dad was sitting in the hall drinking his coffee and reading the morning newspapers while Rudy was still in bed, sleeping late as Saturday’s holiday permitted. The morning was bright; the sun looked like a huge fireball, radiant and blinding in a transparent blue and cloudless sky. Dad looked at his watch – they had shopping to do and delaying it any longer would mean to endure the midday sun’s burning rays on their skin. He lay the newspapers aside and went to Rudy’s room.

‘Son, it’s time to wake up’ Dad said, touching Rudy’s shaggy blonde hair.

‘Noo…’

‘How about the week’s drive to laiki agora? Are you going to spend it in bed?’

‘Nooo!’ Rudy said. He pushed the sheets away and jumped off the bed as if pins had just spurt off the mattress. He ran to the bathroom, washed his juicy red face and brushed his teeth. By the time he went back to his bedroom Dad had unfolded a set of clothes on the bed. Rudy wore his army-green shorts and a white shirt featuring a bubblegum champion, put on his trainers and a promotional hat of a beer brand and sat in the hall waiting for Dad.

Rudy sat in the back seat of the car, by the open window, gazing at vehicles stuck in traffic. People were flooding the streets as if a public demonstration was taking place. Half the world seemed to be in shops and malls, racing against time to complete the week’s unfinished chores and errands, while coffee shops served the other half - the lucky ones who had the opportunity to enjoy the sunny holiday.

Dad parked his car at the municipality’s parking lot. The strong fortress walls extending at both sides of the lot marked and surrounded the old town. They were built by the Venetians in the 16th century and appeared gigantic to Rudy’s eyes who kept staring at their length until they were lost on a curve.

Rudy held Dad’s hand and leaned his puffy cheek over, as they crossed the street. They wended their way through Laiki Geitonia, an old section of the town carefully restored to its traditional character. Rudy hesitated as a current of noisy people emerged from the narrow whitewashed alleys; he huddled on Dad’s bony leg and stared at the locals and tourists interacting with each other.

‘Don’t worry son. Stay close to me.’

Despite the confusion the pace and mood was pretty relaxing.
Shop owners displayed souvenirs, oil paintings and textiles on the pedestrian zone inviting customers with offers and discounts and engaging in the customary bargaining process. The shops resembled long corridors, maintaining the charm of the past. Local artists displayed their wares of traditional art along the cobblestone lanes. Workshop windows were decorated with craft-work exciting the passersby’s interest. Craftsmen practiced their unchanged for centuries trades and Rudy pulled Dad in every direction to watch their mastery, stitching leather on boots, repairing woodcrafts and shaping clay into pots.

‘Look dad, what are they doing?’ A number of people stood by a workshop’s doorway, pushing each other to get in.

‘It’s a jewelry shop, son! People stand in queue to buy Lolas, Dad said pausing to make sure that Rudy understood.

‘Lolas…?’ Rudy said and his eyes stretched egg-shaped.

‘Lolas are handmade tiny figures. Their main body is a white thimble painted with flowers and symbols and signed by the artist. They have colourful pearl heads and brass wings, arms and legs. They are said to bring good luck and many hang them on their doors and windows at home.’
‘Ahh! Can I have one?’ Rudy said with his mouth wide open and his index finger hooked behind his lips.

‘Not today son, we have shopping to do, remember?’ Dad said, smiling. ‘Come, let’s go.’

Rudy kept his eyes peeled in front of the purple and gold bougainvilleas covering the balconies of taverns and restaurants. He twitched his nose as it took in the fruity flavors of narghile, the aroma of roast lamb and Greek coffee that seemed to beckon customers closer. He dragged Dad to the cafes’ shady, flower-filled interior courtyards every time a tall man in black trousers and a white shirt invited them in for a coffee. There, the locals enjoyed company while drinking zivania and nipping off from a number of Cypriot meze plates, homemade marmalade and preserves.

Traditional renovated houses with green, red and yellow doors and windows were lined up with the shops. Crimson flowers seemed to overflow from window pots while the ornate balconies with their richly wrought iron railings were jut from the weather-beaten sandstone walls.

The sweet smell of jasmine would mix with the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the open doorways, tickling Rudy’s nostrils causing him to sniff all the way to laiki agora like following a siren’s call.

The winding streets paved with stone led at the end of the pedestrian zone across Faneromeni’s Church, a 19th century marble temple. They passed through the church’s courtyard towards the army’s check points and along the ‘Green Line’ to a large parking area by the old town hall where laiki agora took place.

Farm workers were still unloading boxes and cases from the trucks replacing what had already been sold.

Before sunrise farmers and laborers would situate themselves at their spot of preference. From the roof of the surrounding buildings, laiki agora looked like a labyrinth. Pallets in lines and squares, loaded with slatted wooden boxes and plastic crates one on top of the other, full of colourful fruits in different shapes and sizes; scattered potatoes and onions spread on thick nylons and blankets that lay on the ground; nuts and beans in long and wide sand bags; olives in plastic pots; masses of fresh vegetables lined on the benches; typical carton labels that read “juicy”, “spicy” or “fresh”; sheets and tents tied up from beam to beam; umbrellas shading the goods from the burning sun; old barn wicker chairs, butterfly chairs and wooden stools or boxes in the shadow; platform scales and empty bags ready to be filled for sale; everything separated in three to four feet spaces so that the crowd could move between the multicoloured corridors.

The crowded scene served as a reminder that part of the dead past still existed in the very alive present. Children were following parents; parents were carrying children and bags. People were picking and choosing through each fruit and vegetable bin.

Morning was the time to be there; the earlier you could arrive at the market, the better quality you would get. The bargains varied, but everything was cheap compared to any local supermarket or grocery store. Following Dad’s steps, Rudy was stunned at the commotion surrounding him.

‘It can’t get any cheaper people! If it does, they’ll put us behind bars’ hawkers called out, ‘Get them first, one pound bag of tomatoes, one pound bag of nectarines, fifty cents bag of mandarins.’

‘Why are fruits already in the bags dad? Can’t we choose them ourselves?’

‘Of course we can son, but those bags are cheaper because they’re selling out’ Dad said with a gaping smile.

‘They’re going crazy, they’re giving it for free’ merchants hollered.

‘We picked and chose ourselves….one by one’ a woman cried out loud, holding and waving a Red Delicious apple in her hands.

Rudy pulled Dad’s trousers with a worried look on his face.
‘Dad, are they fighting?’

‘Haaa…noo they’re just calling out their prices.’

‘But they seem to be!’

‘They’re just bargaining for a better price son.’

‘You can’t find better than this…it tastes like Turkish delights’ a man said through a loudspeaker. ‘You can sample, it won’t bite’, he said, rubbing a velvet peach on his shirt and taking a bite.

‘Dad, can I try one?’

‘You will son; you’ll have the opportunity in a while!’

‘It’s not a rattler nor a shark… it’s Andrikkos selling his products’ another man said, pointing his thumb on his chest.

‘Sweet and juicy canaries’ a man shouted, referring to a variety of melons, ‘they can also sing!’ he said laughing.

Rudy was digging in piles of fruits and vegetables, picking up randomly, smelling and caressing their skin and leaves. He frowned and raised his eyebrows; he strained his lips and made low and continuous sounds of approval, trying to imitate his Dad, handing the few selected over for Dad’s feedback.

‘See son? Cauliflower and broccoli must be well-shaped, closely packed and firm’ Dad said, pointing out with his forefinger. ‘Cabbage should be well-trimmed with a solid head and heavy for size,’ Dad continued while choosing one from the bin and examining it in front of Rudy’s eyes.

‘I know these greens. We use them in the salad!’ Rudy said striding up and down with joy.

‘Greens, like lettuce or celery should not be wilted or bruised, rough-looking or puffy-feeling to the stalk,’ Dad said scanning within a pile of greens lying on the bench. ‘Fresh ones will have a moist and stimulating odour. Think of the smell of wet grass in our backyard. What if it had the distinctive aroma of lettuce or celery or cucumber?’ He cut the butt of a cucumber and pressed it on Rudy’s forehead until it glued. ‘Here, this will keep your head cool.’

‘Fresh goat cheese, people; no chewing; a free slide into your stomach!’ a woman yelled at the top of her lungs like a town crier. She was short with bent shoulders and brown skin. She was wearing a brown garment with an apron tied at her waist and held a large pan of fresh goat cheese.

‘Cheese..!’ Rudy said in a loud voice.

‘Ok, you can go,’ Dad said.

Rudy ran to the other side of the market between the narrow lanes, taking shortcuts through the smaller passageways to get closer. He snaked his way through the crowd and found himself at the front row.

‘Hey boy, would you like to try some?’ she said and gave him a piece of goat cheese wrapped up in a napkin. ‘Now…don’t eat it all at once, do you hear?’

Rudy nodded, took the napkin in both hands, wormed out from the crowd and stood at a traffic-less spot. The cheese was warm, steaming with a salty aroma and looked like solid foam. He touched the cheese with the tip of his finger and it was split in three pieces. He put the smallest piece in his mouth. It spread like melting ice and slid down his throat leaving a tangy flavour of warm goat milk.

The rest of the cheese went down in one go and Rudy ran back to Dad.

They stopped by a lorry, its platform framed in parallel boxed rails, loaded with watermelons dressed in their crocodile skin and a label slinging by the beams proclaiming ‘No seeds inside.’
Rudy stepped on the iron thick stairs attached to the ladder-framed platform and walked to the middle of the truck.

‘Remember’ Dad said, ‘Look for an average size watermelon. Thumb it; if it sounds hollow, it’s a first indication of being ripe. Then, with your fingertips gently squeeze at both ends of the watermelon; if it gives a little then it’s ripe; thumb and squeeze.’
Rudy touched, and thumbed and squeezed with his fingertips.

‘This one, dad!’ Rudy said, his eyes and teeth reflecting the sun.

‘Ok, now check the tendril. Is it half-dead or not? We don’t want it dead because it might be overripe.’

‘Half-dead.’

‘What about the bottom colour?’

‘Creamy.’

‘Good, we take that one. What else do we need?’

Rudy pointed to the tall and heavy-built tanned man standing next to the carrier. He extended his arms and Dad caught him by the armpits and landed him on the ground.

‘Do you have halloumi?’, Rudy asked.

‘Haaa…’ the man roared like a bear and caressed the tips of his long grey moustache. He lifted up his twilled cotton trousers and kneeled on the coal road; he rolled up his sleeves and pulled from behind the truck’s tire a plastic pot. He removed the cap and grabbed a halloumi rapt in its own brine and natural juices. He sliced a piece off the halloumi’s forked layer with his Swiss knife. ‘Here, the best you can find, try some’ he said in a firm voice.

Rudy ate it in one bite. The salty and dry taste made his eyes wrinkle and his shoulders shrink until the saltwater filled his mouth and drifted down his throat.

‘What do you think?’ the man said and handed the pot to Dad.

By midday the parking lot was covered with onion leaves, orange blotches and apple or tomato skins stepped over and melted, boiling under the sun. They gathered their shopping bags, Dad giving the lighter to Rudy and leaving the heavy ones for him. The alleys leading back to Laiki Geitonia were quiet and empty, shops were closed and the people had already retrieved to their privacy.

At home, Rudy helped his father unload the shopping from the car to the kitchen. The plates were on the table and the food was already warming up in the oven. He sat on the kitchen bench as Mum was preparing the salad.

‘We cut everything in little pieces so that we can chew them better,’ Mum said in a calm and warm voice. ‘First goes the cucumber, then the onions and green peppers. Sprinkle a hint of salt and black pepper on top, a few drops of olive oil and then put the tomatoes in; stir them up with your fingers and palms like kneading so that the salad gets a hold of your scent and touch. The hands of each chef will give a different taste and today we’re going to taste yours’ Mum said, tickling Rudy’s belly and causing him to twitch. ‘Here, put your hands in the bowl and massage the vegetables.’

Rudy did so; his eyes widened, his lips tightened and puckered like a tightly stitched cloth. The tomatoes’ juice and the grains of salt and pepper slipped through his fingers; the onions squeezed out a strong, eye-burning vapour and the green peppers released their spicy taste. Juices admixed with olive oil, evoking an earthy and savory aroma that made him smile in delight.

‘Now, plenty of lettuce; two soft-boiled eggs; plenty of crushed green olives in marinate; squeeze a lemon; olive oil, salt and pepper and re-stir the salad with your hands. Here…’

Again Rudy grabbed and dropped repeatedly. The scents got stronger and warmer, sweet and spicy, juicy and herbal and everything in the bowl went soft and oily.

‘Each of the ingredients should have the flavour of the other. Lick your fingers and roll the juice in your mouth, exposing it to your taste buds’ Mum said and tipped some of the salad’s juice in her mouth. She closed her silvery eyes and sighed ‘Let it touch the palate, your gums, and your tongue and beneath it…The scents should travel from your mouth through your nose channels. Can you feel it?’

‘Aha.’

‘What do you think…is something missing?’

‘It needs more lemon!?’ Rudy said in an uncertain tone.

‘Ok, how about another half …Now, try it again.’

‘Yes!’, he said licking his fingers one by one.

‘Good, ready then, food on the table!’

Mum placed the pan on the table –rolled roast cooked with potatoes, onions and tomatoes, olive oil and garlic. The strong and hypnotic smells took Rudy’s mind through the day’s colours and smells and in his afternoon nap’s dreams he was the chef making the salad.

On Michael the Archangel’s Day

2009-04-23T19:22:00.002+03:00

I woke up early this morning from a most disturbing dream to face a man lying in his bed a few feet from mine. He was gasping with his eyes closed as if he were having a nightmare. His hand lay on his stomach while a catheter was draining urine from his bladder. I discerned a tang of mildew in the air, mixed with bitter-sour musk of sweat that made me realise where I was, stretching my senses – an instant call that tightened my guts into a Gordian knot.

I was in between white sheets, leaning my weight to the left, serum running through the rubber leader into the veins of my right arm. My right ear was stuffed with cotton and gauze to block the flow of blood caused by a fracture and concussion from the accident. The mixture of blood and sweat in my ear vaporised like steam producing tiny humid drips rolling from the outer to the inner ear and down the tube causing me an annoying and continuous tickle. By midday the drips were getting drier and solid leaving crunchy sounds and echoes in their trail. I wanted to scratch my ear so hard but that would only make it worse. I tried to turn to a right angle position but my cracked ribs felt like thorns in my side. A current of pain sped up to my head as if my brain had collided with my skull. Even the striped sunlight passing through the window shutters felt like needles behind my eyes. The rest of the bruises scattered across my body felt so unimportant at this instant.

Last night I wished I could hold on until today. Today my wish came true but I had to put up with all the nagging from my parents and relatives.

‘We told you so; you should have been wearing a helmet; you shouldn’t ride a motorcycle because it’s like having the devil by your side.’ Tears started pricking behind my eyes at the sound of their words; I felt like an ant running away to avoid being stepped over by humans.

Most of all I was afraid of what my father would say. He’s capable of finding irregularities even if there aren’t any, dismissing the small print on a contract or using it in his favour; he is unpredictable in his own actions and manners. You never know if he’s going to advise you or strike you.

He walked in hastily, threw a bag of clothes on the chair and searched for the doctors. Although they assured him of my injuries’ stability and soonest recovery he seemed unconvinced. He repeatedly walked back and forth in front of my bed and in a sharp voice he said ‘Don’t ever think about leaving the house when you come home. And forget about riding a bike again.’

I shivered and grew pale. The sweat running down my spine became colder and my breath heavier as I looked at him with my mouth shut. His round eyes popped out like golf-balls, his irises and pupils half-lost, half-hidden behind his eyelids. He was waving his small hands with tension, pointing his index finger at me warningly.

‘I am seventeen, for God’s sake,’ I thought, but didn’t have the strength to debate with him. I knew I was going to be punished for this, whether it was my fault or not. I had better forget about living the life I had until that moment.

Grandma sat on a distant chair looking at me, her round green eyes piercing through mine though it seemed like her thoughts and stare were inconsistent with one another. It took her a while but she eventually waved her bony hand and said, ‘You have an angel by your side boy and he is protecting you day and night. You are lucky and you should never forget this day.’

‘Don’t worry granny, how could I,’ I thought.

In the afternoon my sister came by. She told me that after the accident had happened, Grandma rushed to make an offering to Archangel Michael for his name day and prayed I would soon recover my good health. I would expect nothing less, as much as I’ve scolded her religious beliefs in the past. But her faith is surely greater than mine so I hope her prayers were heard.

Nevertheless, Grandma kept staring at me critically in her silence, moving her head slightly up and down making her unspoken words ‘I told you so’ be heard. She made a few more comments later on but no one paid any attention, beside my father whose comments are obviously misled by Grandma’s.

A girl sneaked in the hospital from a back door late last night. It must have been about twelve o’clock. She followed the signs on the walls, tip-toed to my room and sat by my bed while the other patients were asleep. Apparently, no one noticed her, but I was glad to see a familiar face when tests, x-rays and doctors consumed most of my time.

I couldn’t believe she was here. I’d met her at school a few months ago before her graduation and hadn’t seen her since.

She held my hand and asked how I felt and how it happened. I couldn’t say much so she explained how the rumours about the accident reached her so soon and how she ran to the hospital to confirm. It seems that all of my friends had heard about it too and were waiting in the lobby for a long time. I was kind of happy to hear that; I had doubts lately, felt isolated and insecure but it appears you never know who cares about you, how your actions affect theirs until something bad happens and you are lucky enough to witness their concerns.

It didn’t take long before the nurse saw her and asked her to leave.

I tried to sleep afterwards but I couldn’t sleep much. The silence struggled with images popping up and rushing through my mind, flashes of cars, houses, trees, the road…blood.

They don’t mean to go away.

It’s becoming clearer with every blink of my eyes that this experience will have to serve a greater purpose in my life. I feel tired, old... shocked.

I used to believe I was free of conventions; nothing could get to me when I was riding my bike, smoking my cigarettes, having long hair, wearing earrings, following the flow and doing what my heart desired.

What do I know about being free, or unrestrained? These are concepts pretty much misunderstood. I am bound to the variability of my immediate and external environment more than I ever thought and experienced. This could have been worse than it is.

I have to be more careful.

I turn into a one way road, driving towards the right direction. The moist wind wrestles with my hair and flies off the dust from the ground and they mix, giving a sense of wet soil, signifying the coming rain. The trees bow low, their leaves shrivel and fall. Masses of grey clouds gather in the sky ready to burst with rage as they become greyer and purple. A Beetle - yellow or orange must be its colour- standing out in the late afternoon’s dim light, is passing by forcing me to move sideward. Upon my return to the centre of the street the bike’s left foot peg hits against the inside corner of a car door at the same time that the woman in the drivers seat pushes the door wide open to get out of her car.

The clouds are denser, whiter and closer now but only for a second or two. I hear a deep clunk inside my head and turn somersault to stand up. I run to straighten my bike that lies on the street. I hope there are no scratches on its new deep enamel blue colour. I struggle to lift it off the ground. Blood starts dripping out of my right ear to the ground forming dots and splashes. There’s an annoying buzz that keeps coming up. I can’t keep the bike up straight and it falls back on the street again but it doesn’t matter, it’s becoming too heavy to hold on to.

Is the wind still blowing? The struggle to breathe is terrible. My heartbeats run out of control. Have I been here before? Thick and thin dark lines extend from the trees’, houses’ and street’s edges towards me. They’re floating; curling in mid air, drawing uneven shapes and figures and I roll around until inside I feel torn and twisted as if I’m spinning on a Ferris-wheel. I shut my eyes but it doesn’t make a difference. Black and white dots quiver around me. I can barely walk towards the pavement so I fall on the cold coal tar road feeling its bitter dusty taste in my mouth and rock oil scent in my nostrils. And then I wake up.

They told me earlier today that a young girl witnessed the accident and called the neighbours for help. They called for an ambulance and the last thing I remember are faint images of red light flashing like a night club’s sign. I woke up in the hospital among strange figures that kept talking, walking, asking and moving me around from one room to another.

I wish I could forget last night but if I could it would mean nothing, as if it never happened. I already miss being out there.

I wonder if I’ve been given another chance…

Diary - Thursday, 26 February

2009-03-07T14:22:00.004+02:00

Every time there’s a decision to make, we analyse the steps, the estimated outcome and consequences, and if we’re not sure about it we timidly go ahead hoping that everything will turn out fine. We worry our ego will get hurt, hope we won’t need to spend time regretting one decision or another, wonder whether we do want what we’ve chosen or if we were really meant for it, afraid our actions will wound us or others fatally.
Some issues ought to be weighed carefully, twice or even more. Others just come out spontaneously without second thoughts or restraints.
However, it’s each and everyone’s duty to reason logic in the way they are used to, learned through years of experience or teachings.

I’ve been thinking lately; lots of worries are storming inside. What kind of things I should leave behind, how those things would affect me psychologically and what would be my next move. A cycle is coming to an end and like all good and bad things in life we need to make room for others. If you have lived the cycle in good spirit, with an open heart and an honest effort, I assume there is nothing to be afraid of. Everything’s linked like a chain; one action leads to another, there are no huge gaps in between. I choose to believe that most of us are good people and faith to one’s self is the strongest weapon one can have.

Yes, bad things happen as well; ugly things translated into misery, with no choice of turning back; foolish mistakes that may cost lives or one’s future; walls, dead ends and one way roads. It’s not easy to comfort one whose life was turned upside down because of a single mistake, misunderstanding, misconception or mis-anything. Neither is to one whose fault was none and still struggling to survive or move on. Yet the strength comes from within whether it’s called love, faith, trust, compassion, beauty or friendship and it’s the kind of remedy we’re looking for.
To some, these paths of discovery may seem extraordinary or weird because their search reaches beyond what’s known to be conventional but there is no question about it, it’s still enviable..

While I was driving on the highway today I was looking at the wet scenery unfolding beside the road and for a moment I was intrigued by the beauty of those surroundings which I -admittedly- often ignore as plain, ordinary, not worthy of noticing. I parked on the side of the road and walked out of my car.

The grey, purple and pale white clouds filled up the sky, signs of an earlier burst of rain. No blue sky, no light and no sun. The fields were full of lively greens and yellows; browns and darker greens from the trees spread here and there along the plain and hillocks. In the background lay a line of creamy white mountaintops forming a crown, shading a gloomy city of fast and messy rhythms full of expedience and competiveness. Even the dark grey dusty road seemed to be special. I asked myself ‘why haven’t you noticed these before’.

When there is too much light, then light prevails. It doesn’t really illuminate - it’s blinding, forcing us to wear sunglasses to protect our eyes. But this lack of light emits light through the colours of nature.
‘I am sure that everything will turn out fine’ I thought. There hasn’t been a time in my life when I had nothing to question or think hard about and to be honest I’m still asking the same cruel ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ and ‘what’s’ and ‘if’s’ and so many other questions hanging in mid air, in emptiness and oblivion.
Maybe I should respond to my feelings even if they seem wrong or painful. I should bury my insecurities and hesitations. My decisions will always lead to a better place even if it’s hard to deal with a new beginning or an early end.

Sometimes the head is spinning, the mind is lost in thoughts, stuck and forgotten, trapped in a spider web, incapable to perform even the easiest summation and in the blink of an eye there’s a wireless super fast download that generates electricity. These moments of clarity are heavenly and every time I experience one I’m super amazed.
Yet, I’m afraid to sleep tonight. I’m afraid that if I close my eyes this stream of consciousness will be lost. Will I have this clarity tomorrow or will worries return as if no real answer exists? Will I keep wondering and torture myself?

There is no point to all this, I just wanted to share. You can also park on the highway and share the same thoughts; and if something’s troubling you, let it breathe oxygen by taking a break when everything desperately requires an action.

I still have decisions to make, but I know this was a beautiful break.

When I grow up - Part I

2009-02-25T22:47:00.002+02:00

I would love to have some of this…and some of that…maybe some of something else; they look so fresh and tasty.

These things are not allowed in our house. When I visit my best friend he often treats me to some and when he does, I swallow with no second thoughts. No mum and no dad around to nag or scold me and I can enjoy the sweet muddy taste melting on my gums and tongue, tingling my throat like nothing I have ever tasted.

But there’s a rumor that these things are bad for my teeth. Mum says I will lose them one by one if I keep eating that stuff. Other boys will call me names like ‘gummy boy’ and I won’t be able to answer back because they will have a point. I won’t be able to speak clearly (not that I do now) or even eat.
I wouldn’t want that to happen to me, I like talking and I like eating sometimes - even those broad beans they force down my throat. Besides, my teeth have just started to pop out and I can’t risk being toothless in the near future.

Those things will not help me grow up because they lack the necessary vitamins. My dad says that my belly will blow up and I’ll become like a pig. When I say I don’t care (I can’t resist their crunchy salty taste), dad says I will probably stay short as well. I wouldn’t want that to happen to me, I don’t want to be the shortest boy in my class. Besides, I can’t even see behind the fence, and I’m telling you, there’s a lot of noise behind it at night - like cats crying and calling each other names.

The one thing I’m mostly afraid of though is that thing that keeps your dick small. I wouldn’t want that to happen to me. They say it’s needed to make a family. I can’t imagine how though. It’s squashy and thin, smaller than my little finger and can’t even move. It spits like a maniac sometimes, especially when I drink lots of water –which unfortunately, they make me do all the time. I guess I should wait and see, as dad says.
I thought that children are made by storks but it seems that family is made by us and it needs a big dick. It seems that dicks grow like trees. I asked a friend about it once but she didn’t know what I was talking about. Anyway, I heard some boys talking about it and I got the impression that theirs have started to make sudden moves on their own. They talk about it all the time and it seems that it’s something to be proud. I guess I should be proud of it as well.

Well, I should go now. It’s time for bed and mum’s looking for me in the attic. But I fooled her this time; shhh....I’m under the bed...with you!

That night

2009-02-14T17:53:00.006+02:00

The candle’s reflection flickered in her grey blue eyes.

‘Such a beautiful song’, she said. ‘Apparently, it’s the most common ironic soundtrack to destructions and wars in movies and documentaries’ she continued, while the piano was playing ‘What a wonderful world’.

Fires passed through my mind, yet the only fires around were the candles and the sparkles in our eyes (and the one in the kitchen cooking our food).

The wine was strong and plenty. We were drinking with ease like an experienced wine tester couple. The food was excellent, tasty; a medium to well done carefully cooked steak with fresh cream, mushrooms, a hint of black pepper and rice in my plate.Salmon with mashed potatoes mixed with spinach and a crust of herbs in her plate. The rocket salad with mushrooms, croutons and fertility’s pomegranate in olive oil and balsamic vinegar lay in the middle. The night gave in to our pace while the wine’s level was dropping dangerously.

‘I don’t date’ she said, deep down smiling, knowing that the comment had no grounds.

‘I do’ I said ‘but I prefer when things start spontaneously’. It didn’t matter, we were dating and things did start spontaneously one night.

The stars –us- met at a place facing the glowing city lights, invisible actually from the place we were sitting. Again it didn’t matter. The bar was rocky, naked from people -even the barman left for some time; low subtle lights, Latin Jazz played by Athens’ ‘Kosmos’ radio and yes… we were drunk with wine and with each other.

Midnight Thoughts III - What the hell...?

2009-01-31T13:03:00.007+02:00

L: The music was jazz: piano, saxophone, beat bawling and synchronising with the beats of the heart.
‘Roxan’ the song said, whose Roxan anyway? It doesn’t matter actually, she’s someone and she seems to be important for him. How much more can you ask from an almost empty bar. Swing, wave, move and dance to the rhythmic romantic sounds of melancholic form.
It’s a nice feeling actually. Fear the consequences and lust for its sudden apparition. It can drive you into the deepest shitholes of consciousness.
You want to scream but you can’t, you want to sing but you hate the sound of your voice, you want to drink but you know you’re going to end up looking at the bottom of your toilet. Maybe you want to have sex and wondering whether you’re able or not… you are questioning yourself.

And the raindrops keep falling indirectly towards the slope outside, sometimes softly others with rage, sounding like oblong folk drum, steaming off the ground, becoming one with the fog. The ball like rice paper covering the lights reflects on the glass door like a running dream, and I find myself in ideally setup stages and movies, but really, this is a similar night.

We define our environment most of the times. We believe that unattainable conditions/situations are ideal. What actually exists is that same ideal environment before our eyes.
We just can’t recognise. Maybe we need to step back for a moment and think about it twice, whether it really exists or matches our desires.

Yes, this is what I love about night. Mystery, unusual feelings, like an internal inspiration, so straighten out you can’t face it. Can we believe that this is happening to us? Do we deserve it?

***********

B: You fuck, what the hell are you saying?

That asshole spilt his drink on me.

He tried to clean it up with a tissue he found lying next to him but the stain needed more than that. He couldn’t care less.
He placed a glass of wine on me. I thought I could handle it as I always do; no need to worry about it. Then he placed another and another and another.
Finally, he got tensed over a conversation about astrology and his hands went out of control. He waved right and left, up and down while friends and ‘un-friends’ were listening with their utmost interest of this unfamiliar to them ‘science’. He jazzed back and forth -never shutting his mouth up- shooting down his throat a number of wines.

I was starting to get nervous. How long was he planning to keep up with this?
A sudden swing of his arm pushed a half-full glass of wine leaving marks of his thoughts and a huge red stain on my back.

He kept on talking to a friend like nothing happened. He said he wanted to lay back and think freely or dream. There were things to be done, but didn’t want to force himself into them because his desires were opposed to each other and this would only make it worse.

How much worse could it get? He had already spilt a drink on me.

I was trying to get away; but you see, I can’t really move. So, I just stayed there listening to his bubbling mambo jumbo talks of, ‘What if the mind gets used to dreaming and becomes some kind of addiction. No control, out of senses, like a brain having a brain of its own, a will beyond his powers.’

Why don’t you do something about it asshole? Try something, get over theory and get into practice, I thought, but didn’t say it to him; you see I can’t talk either. I am caged in this rock forced to put up with all types of characters like this guy.

But this is what I think of him:
- He has eyes but limited vision, anything beyond that range of miles is plain vague figures and shapes.
- He has ears but a limited hearing, anything else beyond that range it just doesn’t exist.
- He can taste and smell but only those things he ever knew because everything else is just like something else, hence familiar but really unfamiliar.
- He can touch but only those things he is allowed to touch.

And the beat kept a beat after beat, after beat. He screamed like a maniac. People stared at him; they were sure he was out of his mind. He wanted to do something extreme and faint away in a one way abyss!
‘Will you float with me in this trip of no return?’ he said.
No one paid any attention.
‘You will meet digestion! Do I sound like a devil? Maybe I am, you’d better go home!’ and laughed like Batman’s Joker.
‘So, what’s this feeling I get, more like an urge…strong, rushed heartbeats, tachycardia and excitement -it can only be animal instincts.’

Yea right, you’re drunk as always....

‘So, who’s your next victim?
Haaa, you are, you are always my next victim and the one good thing about it, I can repeat it every time!’ he said, questioning and answering on his own.

You said it, you’re the victim. Damn, why don’t you go home man!

Signing: Skali Bar!
Now let’s go get a greasy yellow submarine! (This is his line again, not mine)

Midnight Thoughts II - Who are You?

2009-01-17T15:17:00.005+02:00

L: Hey you…yes, I’m talking to you. What are you doing in my bathroom?

R: ……

L: Don’t turn away when I’m talking to you. How did you get in here?

R: …….

L: Who do you think you are…coming in here like you own the place? Dressed like that? Those are my clothes you are wearing…take them off now.

R: If I take them off you would have to do the same thing, wouldn’t you?

L: What do you mean? Get the hell out of here before I call the police.

R: You can do whatever you want, I don’t care.

L: I’ll give you one more chance, I’ll turn the other way and hopefully you’ll get to your senses and gently disappear, or evaporate, whatever’s easier for you.

R: ……

L: Still here? Say something damn it, why don’t you speak?
You bloody fool!

R: Haa, you really think you can throw me out like that? What do you expect me to say? I’m busted; you caught me in here doing nothing. It seems to me, you don’t want to admit it. Come, look at me, does it ring any bells?

L: ……

R: Well? Does it?

L: Have we met before?

R: What do you think, have we?

L: Hmm…we're wearing the same clothes… you have a beard as well… I can see the same scars on your face … hmm, do we have the same eyes? Come closer.
Yes…we do, dark and brown, lost in abyss, have you been drinking?

R: Have you?

L: Only a beer or two…I know this look, you’re lost aren’t you?
I hate your nose, its too big, you remind me of the Queen witch, Snowhite’s stepmother… your eyes have that grey blue outline with brown beehives within, and a black dot in the middle, like a perfectly matched stain. Ohh, by the way, you are loosing your hair, did you know that?

R: Haa, yes I do, you're loosing them too. You're scared, aren’t you?
Well, don’t! Can’t you see your true self in me?

L: My true what? Why do you keep repeating me, doing all those weird questions, you’re getting annoying. Anyway, who made you the smart one around here?

R: Well, I can’t go anywhere unless you do,
I can’t appear smarter than you,
Because you are looking in your eyes,
in a dark whirlpool full of lies.
Why wonder who might be,
the one who looks so much like me?

Can’t you recognise yourself?
These hours, where needs are so much felt,
Come and hypnotise my self
And see the troubles in your head
I don’t care if you could know
That this reflection is your own

L: Haa, can you sing as well?

R: Can you?

L: You’re keeping the same tempo, aren’t you? I have a feeling that if I turn off the lights you’ll be gone in a minute. Do you want me to do that?

R: It will only be temporary. I can never leave this place. I wish I could, but I can’t. Unless you do! And my nickname’s ‘the bathroom fairy’, you can’t avoid me.

L: Pointless conversation, pointless words, I am going to bed…and think of a better subject next time!

Midnight Thoughts I - It's just the way it is

2009-01-05T02:00:00.014+02:00

So, what is this shit? I have been wandering around lately. I had a really good time, met people, had fun, lots of wine, tobacco, drugs and yet I feel empty. It’s so empty, I sometimes confuse emptiness with fullness.

The truth is, I have a serious problem. I can’t really see the difference between love and friendship, or is it the same? Is there something in between? Can you really separate affection from affection (both have affection, don't they?) Doesn't your heart beat to both, or does it beat stronger for some and weaker for others, and if it does, who said that the stronger beat connotes love and not friendship?

I love you, but you are my friend (your what...?). I love you (and…?). I love you in a different way (different…?). I love the way you look (how do I look...?). I love you but not exactly the way you think (what do I think...?).

Haa, I love you all!

You are my best friend (they say)!
You are such a good guy (again they say)!
You are a clever guy (I love this line)!
You are balanced (who are you talking about?)
You are funny and spontaneous (for once again, they say)!

Haa, for once more, I love you all!

COME ON! Give me a break! You love a gentle soul, someone to talk to, be straight, not afraid to confront you, provide security, what? ; isn’t that what you whisper around? Or is it just a prince charming from fairy tales. Now - Give me a BREAK!

There was once a beautiful girl who fell in love with a prince charming. He kissed her in moonishly passion and she had a vision. She saw their life together; a revelation, something she’s been waiting for her whole life. And they lived happily ever after.

When are people going to see that the hardest achievement in life is RELATIONSHIPS?

When there’s nothing more you can do to set your mind free you better think about becoming a philosopher (no offence to philosophers, I cherish their love for the subject, and yes I know you seek the truth but so am I). It's probably the only way to give rise to questions you have never dared think about in the past.

Or, you can just join the army (I dont care who's offended by this).

Meet me tonight, to kiss goodbye (where were you lately?).

Join me for a dance tonight (translation: watch me dance, btw I love the way you dance).

Ohh dear, it’s been so long, I missed you so much (they still keep your number behind the spider web).

Oh my God, I know you; you are that guy we hosted repeatedly for some years in a row (haa, they do remember!).

Join me, entertain me, while I f*** with everyone else (how lovely, I really can’t wait).

I can’t be expecting much more from anyone, I probably do the same; I am no better; at all (really, I am not, I am just feeling a bit frustrated right now)!
But I need to write them down.

I don’t believe any of the above are deliberate on anyone's part; it’s just the way it is. You can either live with it or without.

Come on people, throw that wall down!

My Favourite Chair

2009-01-03T13:17:00.004+02:00

The oak-square legs sit on rubber footholds with fainted brown foot-rails fixed within holes from leg to leg, two on each side and one to the backside. The loosened joints lean on sitter’s lead creaking like a door in a haunted house, yet sustaining weight favourably, like a great book with a boring chapter one.

The seat is made of thick strings of tanbarks, stretched, bound and tight together, from each side to the centre, reversing underneath and back to the sides, like a straw case, creating a small dent in the middle. Rubbing the seat gently feels like sandpaper; a sudden friction though, will gash naked skin like a razor. It is not really offered for relaxation of any kind, rather for restive times of excitement or disappointment where action prevails and a need calls for unsettledness. Between this chair and any other, one would probably choose ‘any other’, but I wouldn’t mind ‘this’.

The name I scribbled with a key when I was eight, on the back posts and top-rails, have been crossed off by nicks and scratches from being tossed around the lumber-room. So many years in exile, never broke its wooden spirit, and now, rules like an archetype among contemporary living rooms. Still, the smell, reminds me of sawdust and adobe, even after the carpenter’s scumble, like the carpenter himself and his small workshop within the old town walls. A scent that tastes like a farmhouse loaf that lost its freshness.

A ten year old girl could lift the chair up with her weak hand and move around the house, thus it is not used as a decoration object. It’s more like a joker with an adjustable attitude that works out everything and fits in everywhere with a wide smile on his face.
The chair’s name is ‘The Granny’. It belonged to my late grandmother who kept it in her backyard by a wooden table where grandfather used to enjoy summer Sunday afternoons over a game of backgammon with friends.

‘Coffee and pear conserves and then a glass of cold lemonade. He never missed a Sunday’, my grandmother used to say.
I heard it so many times, her voice still echoes in my ears. I visualized it so many times that my eyes swell with tears and I even miss their ghosts. ‘The Granny’ is a monument in respect of her and her memories.
‘The Granny’ has already earned a place in history and its value lies within the linkage of generations.

Back to where I started!

2009-01-03T12:56:00.003+02:00

How do thoughts complete one another?

I was just sitting there most of the day reading and attempting to write, struggling actually, since I have mostly been imagining scenarios, disappointing myself for once again, still keeping my hopes up though and calmly striving to come up with the best work I could.

I became so absorbed that I even forgot to attend a dinner with colleagues. Yet, I have this feeling every passing moment that something will happen to shift my thoughts into a realm of flowing dimensions. I imagine myself walking out in the dark, gazing at the skies and stars for some meaning but with no meaning coming back to me. I actually attempt to get into conversation with nothingness. I search for answers up there but I am hundreds of millions of miles away. Yet, their light is the driving force of my existence. Their cycle is humane. They grow up, they change. Every cycle they complete makes them stronger, more solid and complete. Their completion will probably end up in a Big Bang because perfectionism can only be dysfunctional. They are just out there, shinning their light, overflowing their energies to us and affecting our every thought and action and driving us to lunacy, as we are trying to figure out what the hell we are supposed to do.

Who has ever been considered a perfect being? We are flawed in every sense of our existence.
Could that mean I waste my time fantasising a non-existent world?
It’s non-existent all right because we can’t see it yet. We are blind because we have eyes and eyes limit the truth.
Do I lack realism? Am I dreamer of truth? What if fantasy is the first step towards realism?

I have this notion sometimes that when I go to bed, I will have a prophetic or a symbolic dream signalling what I am supposed to do and I don’t mean this in a general sense. I would love to get answers on how to create my work, expand progress and end up with concrete and essential results. Even when dream appears, I can never give an interpretation to it. I know…I am probably being fooled…taken in by faith and beliefs. All we need to do is work more, try harder. But this is a struggle isn’t it? It’s a war of mind, mental direction and focus; an endless fight to achieve things, anything, to end up with something being rightfully yours. If its acknowledgement that we seek, we first need to acknowledge ourselves but then again what if our own acceptance runs through the eyes of others? I see their stares, I feel their criticism…I turn the other way but eyes are still drilling inside of me, and there is no escape from the world while we are still alive.

I often find my mind stuck, blurred and dark, lost in nothingness. I sit staring at the ceiling, the walls, my PC but nothing comes out. It’s like a constant stubbing in the head. And still nothing happens. It’s like the world exists without me. My analytical mind has nothing to analyse. I can talk for hours but I can only write for two minutes. And I have seen and felt it in the ways of communication. There is the passion, the movement of my hands and body, the stretch of my eyes, piercing others thoughts and feelings and with a sudden flare download ideas, advices and words from heavens. But after that, I don’t remember any of these to document.

What do I expect? Some miracle? Someone to hand me the answers on a silver plate? Ok, some are born with intuitive senses, others with extraordinary talents, with psychic abilities, creative orientation and talent, and others with nothing obvious to take advantage of. We all have the capability to unravel hidden mysteries that entangles power and creativity. Who is going to be the one to help us get it out? Search, study, put effort; manage a life that, who could possibly know where it stands. Decide but being unsure of whether you took the right choice or not. It doesn’t have to be right though, but do we have to experience failure as well? How many attempts do we have in this fucking life and how many years does it take for one to see the results of a choice.

Am I looking for a vertex? Actually I am. It’s a potential, an alternating force, a driving change that could give a meaning or maybe not. Life is meaningful enough on its own. I accept the fact that we are here to learn, to mature as souls and help others to do the same, in any way. To be spiritual in a sense that spirituality is found everywhere. I don’t have to be a monk or a priest to be considered as one. Spirituality lies within the way we perceive things, the way we acknowledge truth, the way we see our true identity in connection with all human beings. I could decide to be a farmer and be the happiest person on earth. But it is not within my nature. So, my point is, finding your bliss. But where, how can it be found? By trying?

And yet, I am complaining about things that really have no answers and if there are, one needs to find them on their own. And still, I can’t understand how my thinking works. It’s circling over and over and never stops at a single spot. And here it goes again; I am back where I started.