tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255290742024-03-23T20:22:34.637+02:00anastenazontasUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger311125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-15358807488131235002018-12-16T09:25:00.000+02:002018-12-16T09:25:30.635+02:00Στο μεταίχμιο.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Είναι περίεργο να φτάνεις τα τριάντα, να τα περνάς σα σίφουνας και να θυμάσαι ακόμα το χρώμα από το παιδικό δωμάτιό σου όπου έμενες όταν ήσουνα μωρό.<br />
Τι νέα; Πως είστε; Καιρό έχω να γράψω κάτι εδώ.<br />
Ή μάλλον ψεύδομαι. Γράφω και δεν ανεβάζω.<br />
Στο τραίνο προς μια άλλη χώρα, πέρα-δώθε, πέρα-δώθε.<br />
Είχα πει -ποτέ ξανά.<br />
Κι όμως, ξανά στα ξένα.<br />
Κατάπια κουβέντες και κράτησα πορεία.<br />
Η μετάνοια της μετάνοιας.<br />
Ω μετάνοια;<br />
<br />
Τα λάθη σα φαντάσματα ξεπροβάλλουν από το χιονισμένο τοπίο.<br />
Ο αγενής, θορυβώδης και δύσοσμος συνεπιβάτης κοιμήθηκε επιτέλους. Τα δυο ζευγάρια γυαλιά του αφημένα στο τραπέζι, το κινητό του επιτέλους ανέγγιχτο. Φτάνουμε Στρασβούργο.<br />
<br />
Ο δρόμος για το Gottingen καλά κρατεί.<br />
Αναρωτιέσαι για όλες τις φορές που υπέπεσες σε πράξεις που μοχθείς.<br />
Απάτησες. Τον εαυτό σου; Τους άλλους;<br />
Πόσες να ήτανε οι φορές;<br />
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Πολλές.<br />
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Πως να δικαιολογήσεις τς υψηλές σου απαιτήσεις;<br />
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Σαν τον ήρωα του One Punch Man έχεις φτάσει το απόγειο της δύναμής σου, τη θεωρητική πληρότητα, και όμως όσο γεμίζεις τόσο πιο άδειος νιώθεις.<br />
<br />
Διακόσια πράγματα αφημένα μισά.<br />
<br />
Παιδί μιας μεσαίας τάξης, γιατί πίστεψες ότι υπάρχει η μεσαία τάξη;<br />
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Το χιόνι έξω απάνθρωπα λευκό, κρύο και υγρό.<br />
Υψηλό αλμπέντο, και αργό πότισμα, ελπίδα φρούδα για ένα κλήμα φυσιολογικό.<br />
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Δε κοιμάμαι τα βράδια, αγναντεύοντας τον θάνατο.<br />
Δεν είμαι καλά, αλλά είμαι εδώ.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-33993894801169974782016-01-20T17:36:00.002+02:002016-01-20T17:36:12.679+02:00Rambling Realizations.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I keep realizing, again and again.<br />That we will die. This stresses me on many levels. <br />The conscience is but a tool of the body, and the body is but a tool to the genes of a sexual species.<br />Passing on your genes can be a path to immortality of the genes, but your conscience dies daily.<br />A work of art could perhaps outlive your offspring.<br />But entropy rules us all, and our offspring will die way before the universe does.<br />What is the point of art then, of sex, of sadness or merriment?<br /><br />I keep realizing, again and again.<br />That Gaussians exist because the laws of physics pull us all to the same places but we cannot occupy the same space time simultaneously.<br />That I am but a cell of a society, which is a macro organism, that has created its institutions, like banks, governments and customs which are its tools.<br />An amount of perplexing complexity.<br /><br />I want to rebel in this world, to make it fair.<br />I want to rebel in technology, to find a way to preserve my conscience.<br />I want to rebel in art, to make my mortality bearable.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-69993440673275586942015-10-09T03:11:00.000+03:002015-12-15T17:39:52.649+02:00Sweet release.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I long for the sweet release of endorphins in my blood stream.<br />
A reward from my genetics to the sentinence module of the body.<br />
Armlocked, the testes and brain stand.<br />
<br />
A consciousness stream, lost in time, in stress and existentialism.<br />
My words are useless thoughts recorded on a machine that would make generations of humans weep; weep, if even for a moment they chanced an access to it.<br />
It gives me luxuries, and endorphins.<br />
A false sense of worth, of importance.<br />
<br />
Hysterophimia, fame after you are dead.<br />
An ancient greek ideal at the grasp of our fingertips.<br />
Our words etched with magnets and lasers on rotating discs,<br />
copied over and over, queried by other readers.<br />
<br />
When shall it all fade to blackness?<br />
When you die, do you panic?<br />
Can you get tired from living, tired enough that letting go is easy?<br />
<br />
Paths unfold like flowers and all I can see is a future of wilting petals, of worms swimming in the stagnant water of a vase in which the stems are slowly decomposing.<br />
<br />
Do we pluck our dreams to decorate our imaginariums instead of letting them take root?<br />
I long to pierce the illusion, comprehend the magician's trick, yet an abyss is awaiting behind the smokes and mirrors and distractions of day to day life.<br />
<br />
I sporadically claw at life, trying to grip it, to thrust and engrave myself into moments of time.<br />
Pointlessly.<br />
Life moves and you end up breaking your nails, your finger-bones and tendons, holding on to memories of a human that you no longer are.<br />
<br />
Continuity is fake, and memory is false, but still I anguish.<br />
In a bad movie from my past a scene forms.<br />
<br />
Samuraï versus Ninja,<br />
In a train they fight.<br />
The Samuraï wins by disarming the ninja.<br />
Offers her to chose her death, suggesting a clean decapitation.<br />
"Kill me for as long as possible, as painfully as you can. For every painful breath will be a moment more where my body reminds me I am alive".<br />
<br />
Yet would I not prefer life to flee me without my consciousness?<br />
My death is a given that stresses me beyond reckoning.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-31105136803452368732015-05-18T01:00:00.003+03:002015-05-19T18:59:11.638+03:00Χόρτος (Μέρος πρώτο)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Θέλω να σου δείξω κάτι. Περίμενε. Πρέπει πρώτα να το θυμηθώ καλά.<br />
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Καλοκαίρι. Μεσημέρι. Ο αέρας τόσο ανύπαρκτος που η ανάσα, το βουητό των εντόμων, η σταγόνα ιδρώτα που κυλάει στη πλάτη σου πριν σμίξει με το μαγιό, κινήσεις ελάχιστες μοιάζουν απομονωμένες και ξέχωρες. Ίσως απλά να το έζησα έτσι.</div>
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Ο δρόμος που πάει από το χωριό στο μπαρ ανηφορίζει για λίγο. Περπατάς και η άσφαλτος ζεματάει. Αρκετά για να νιώθεις τις πλαστικές σόλες απ΄τις παντόφλες σου να μαλακώνουν και θέλουν να κολλήσουν στη πίσσα. Πιο πέρα ξέρεις ότι θα στρίψετε αριστερά, θα πάψει η άσφαλτος. Το χώμα θα καίει λίγο λιγότερο.</div>
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Οι ελιές, σαν να βγήκαν από άσπρες, ξεθωριασμένες φωτογραφίες, στέκονται ακίνητες από τις δυό πλευρές του μονοπατιού. Από τον κορμό μιας ακούγεται βραχνιασμένη και μουσική. Σαν προσπεράσετε το δέντρο βλέπεις το ηχείο, κρυμμένο σε μια κουφάλα της ελιάς. Περπατάς ανάμεσα στις αδύναμες σκιές και στις εκρηκτικές πιτσιλιές φωτός.</div>
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Η πετσέτα είναι τραχιά στη πλάτη σου. Ακολουθείς ή ηγείσαι το τσούρμο έφηβων προς την Κασαμπλάνκα - το μπαρ, το στέκι σας κοντά στη παραλία. Το ηχείο στην ελιά είναι του μπαρ. Όσο πλησιάζετε τόσο ξεβραχνιάζουν τα ηχεία. Ένας τραγουδιστής αναζητάει στα εγγλέζικα μια κοπέλα με πλυντήριο. Σου φαίνεται ποιητικότατο. Κι εσύ αναζητάς κοπέλα.</div>
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Στο τσούρμο είσαι τσιμπημένος με όλες και καμία. Αλλά κάνει τόση ζέστη που δεν έχει νόημα να σκέφτεσαι. Φτάνετε στο μπαρ. Ο κοινός εορτασμός του θριάμβου σας εξατμίζεται σαν το νερό που έχει ποτίσει η ιδιοκτήτρια στο πετροσπαρμένο τσιμέντο της αυλής. Παραδίνεστε στη ζέστη.</div>
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Η ιδιοκτήτρια είναι ξένη. Γαλλίδα. Πως βρέθηκε σε αυτό το ελληνικό χωριό, να έχει ένα μπαρ στολισμένο σαν να βγήκε από την επώνυμη ταινία, δε ξέρεις ή ίσως ξέρεις και εγώ πια δε θυμάμαι. Όλα αυτά γίναν κάποτε, εξάλλου.</div>
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Οι άλλοι παραγγέλνουν χυμούς και καφέδες. Μερικές τολμάνε το παγωτό. Αφήνεις την πετσέτα, κατεβαίνεις μέχρι την παραλία.</div>
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Άλλες χρονιές ήσασταν στην προκυμαία τα μεσημέρια. </div>
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<a href="http://www.google.fr/url?source=imglanding&ct=img&q=http://www.greekhotel.com/thessaly/pelion/horto/village/IMG_2001_c.jpg&sa=X&ei=yg5ZVdmaHarWywPPooGwBg&ved=0CAkQ8wc4FA&usg=AFQjCNF3cUupBDbLZ8_lN7GbXcGYNr-iuA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.google.fr/url?source=imglanding&ct=img&q=http://www.greekhotel.com/thessaly/pelion/horto/village/IMG_2001_c.jpg&sa=X&ei=yg5ZVdmaHarWywPPooGwBg&ved=0CAkQ8wc4FA&usg=AFQjCNF3cUupBDbLZ8_lN7GbXcGYNr-iuA" /></a></div>
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Αλλά ήσασταν παιδιά τότε. Ή ίσως εσύ ήσουν παιδί. Η αποβάθρα ήταν χτισμένη σε πυλώνες και ένα κομμάτι της ήταν περίεργα χτισμένο: από τη στεριά φαινόταν συμπαγής. Με μια βουτιά όμως περνούσες από κάτω και βρισκόσουν μέσα σε μια τεχνητή σπηλιά όπου είδες την Άρτεμις να φιλάει κάποιον που θα έφευγε την επόμενη μέρα. Ήσασταν παιδιά. Ή μάλλον ήσουν, περνώντας τις μέρες σου διαβάζοντας Dune του Frank Herbert, βουτώντας από την αποβάθρα, μετρώντας τα όνειρα και τις μέρες μέχρι να φιληθείς και εσύ.</div>
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Η χρονιά πέρασε σαν όνειρο αλλά χωρίς φιλιά και βρέθηκες στην παραλία.<br />
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Τα βότσαλα υπομένουν βαριεστημένα το ήλιο. Μερικοί παραθεριστές κάθονται κάτω από την ομπρέλα τους ή κάτω από τα λίγα παραθαλάσσια δέντρα. Οι παντόφλες που πριν κολλούσαν στην άσφαλτο τώρα αρνούνται πεισματικά να σταθούν εκεί που θες. Η φτέρνα σου ακουμπάει τις τσουχτερές αμβλείες πέτρες και σαν τρομοκρατημένος πίθηκος παρατάς τα πάντα, εκτινάσσεσαι, προτρέχεις και πέφτεις ηχηρά και άκομψα στο νερό.<br />
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Η πρώτη σου αίσθηση δεν είναι αυτή του κρύου αλλά της πίεσης, της σύσσωμης αγκαλιάς με το υγρό στοιχείο. Κλάσματα δευτερολέπτου και εκφωνείς, καθώς to σώμα σου αντιδράει στην απότομη αλλαγή θερμοκρασίας.<br />
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Η όλη σου ηχηρή παρεμβολή διαρκεί δευτερόλεπτα και για λίγο τα έντομα σιωπούν. Κολυμπάς μέχρι το πλοίο που είναι δεμένο στα ανοιχτά. Πιάνεσαι από την άκρη του και κρέμεσαι στην ελαφριά σκιά που σου προσφέρει.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-87707572143895569972015-05-12T20:01:00.002+03:002015-05-18T21:29:30.193+03:00The Ugly side<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The façade, so solid, of my persona cracks. Is that a slight blemish? Is that a smudge?<br />
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How horrid you feel, how wretched and even worse unsurprised.<br />
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You have been rotting your brain away, aimlessly playing, aimlessly perusing things to escape, to flee.<br />
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You have been sitting in darkness, getting used to it, easing your way into the dimness, familiarizing your eyes to the shadows, acquiring a taste for silence.<br />
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And when, suddenly the spotlight shines upon the other, your friend, when he succeeds your eyes tear up.<br />
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You are not a good friend. Yes happiness for them, a fleeting thing.<br />
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But then you recall that it could be YOU. A potential version of you that did not loose hope, interest and motivation. That did not choose to live in compromise.<br />
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A version that was spotaneous.<br />
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What are your days made of? Nothing. Darkness perhaps.<br />
And the light shines, and the friend basks in it, and radiates.<br />
And all you can do is turn your head around, your darkness-accustomed eyes half-blinded by their glow and face the grit, the mould, the fester and the rot that line every corner of your persona.<br />
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You end up writing a post about it like a fucking teenager, then realise you are criticising teenagers and who you once were and then an elephant explodes in your ear-hole and the world is purple.<br />
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In conclusion:<br />
Sometimes you feel like shit because others don't.<br />
You are an egocentric apathetic person and a disgrace by own standards.<br />
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They then all went on to live a life and die.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-47540096056593938432014-09-05T18:16:00.001+03:002014-09-07T23:06:40.656+03:00Vendetta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">11th of July 2006</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Only days. It has only been four days since I last saw their smile. I know </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">they</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> are behind this. Our family ravaged, gone.</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Venetians held the Mani peninsula for centuries, this arid dry land.</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><b style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Arial, Tahoma, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17.91666603088379px;"><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My grandfather used to say: the only thing that grows here, is stones. They held this land just to prevent our ancestors from pirating their ships. And today Italians think they brough us the notion of Vendetta. Heh. As though we needed them to teach us to kill each other in a land so devoid of everything that removing a person meant one less mouth to feed. I caress my grandkid’s hair. He is the last Liakogkonas apart from me. He is named like me. Lefteris Liakogkonas. Like my grandfather before me, too. The vendetta with the Christeas family has run since before his time, but I do not know if the names of my kin were the same back then.</span></b></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A vendetta is not something you casually walk into. Rather, you are born into it. Your parents are farmers wetting the land with their sweat day in, day out. You hear tales of cousins and grandparents dead by the filthy Christeas family. Then, one day, your father does not come home, and you learn that on that day, the Christeas family chose to make your father wet the land with his own blood. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your mother swears revenge, and, armed with an antique “</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Carlo e figli” shotgun, kills four of the Christeas before she gets killed by their dogs. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="3.png" height="257px;" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/z_mysQ31n_3WS-TSD3JhXotyz9OJUgauSXQkRM1J9iT1HAFz0O2Sl3p9_YsIN-fZsPAJ8PcpJzYAyvKU2GslaV8ILxs2KE7WyECNsU7gLwzBW-Krcw9Tx0h_NK_q9WdJgA" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="257px;" /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You get spirited away by your grandmother, change your family name, grow up in even poorer conditions. You grow up, fall in love. You have kids, and are scared for them. You stop sleeping at night, jumping at random sounds, seeing hounds at every shadowy corner in your town. You make your fortifications, your plans, and life goes on.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You relax after some years. Your kid grows older, she has kids of her own. One of your grandkids goes to Athens, the capital, to study. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your wife, your daughter and your son-in-law go to Athens to see her on her graduation day. You stay back to take care of the house and Lefteris. You teach him how to shoot a hunting rifle, you tell him of your life and how the vendetta almost ruined everything. Then, that night you learn that your wife, your daughter, your son-in-law, your precious granddaughter, Martha, all of them are no more.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And you know. You know that you did not choose the Vendetta. You were born in it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="4.png" height="257px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/zOT_OGmBgDA_WQiH7vmrsL174A-YHJ-Z-p7Ffh0HqIvUfwzTe13m3IiGI-pR_TG49hmHmsG7ToT3tFcSv9BZZI15IpFgW1Z520LaXefllizD-OMmax_wn0WJcH14nPz6CQ" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="257px;" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Githio, Mani Peninsula, Peloponnese, Greece.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 6th of September 2006</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are, I know, few ways to end a vendetta. The price of blood has to be paid. In the end a family disappears. We were informed, my grandson and I, that a car accident was the cause of the death of everyone we ever loved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, the night already shrouding us, we have arrived at the house where lives Giannis Christeas. The last of the Christeas. He never got any kids, I learned. We have thrown some spiked meat in the garden to eliminate his german shepherd dogs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="5.png" height="257px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/eTO61l-WWKM6_oMO54SkAfz-oNuz8HEiV4Y0lizjiyVfsluRUqLW7KpDoTxgcbYtxkwvyHynUBMpU5U2DbKWYRZ_8Hkf9AN47gwFZbVKZj9w1NtF_1yTduufvCkdNXEaLA" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="257px;" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother’s scattered shot costed him his family and his fertility. I gave a weapon to my grandson, and told him to go through the back door. His hair is like my daughter’s. He is so young. For a moment I hesitate. The shadow of Christeas in the front room brings that to an end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man I see before me is probably younger than me in years, but he seems very tired. His front door is unlocked, and he is sitting at the table in an austere living room. On the table, next to a discarded meal, is a chess board. Only three pieces remain upon it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He looks up to me. He seems more tired than surprised. His voice is slightly higher than I expected it to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Welcome, Lefteri. I was deeply saddened to hear about your loss.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I see red.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Bastard! You did it. You did it!”. I have problems speaking. The weapon in my hands shakes, the confirmation of my almost certainty still filling me with wrath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He stays silent for a bit while I gather my hate. I want to kill him but that will not be enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why don’t you call your grandson in? he can keep an eye on me while you torture me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Shut up”, I bark.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moment’s later however, I follow his advice and call out to my grandson: “Lefteri, come inside. And you, Christea, don’t move or I will shoot your face off” I tell him as he went to move the pieces on the board.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He smiled that hateful smile of his, and I am seething with anger. My grandson comes in. I motion him closer to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="6.png" height="257px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/m-1fcyvAE6X8mf4D6ycKSFzBYCY2AwYTe0as_OM_WeoX9JnEsfww2RLHl0lrX-9Imrume91v21X4mLhcJtvUctZqKIWxjGUsvdnNrGINdMhh4DESLA33UQPqppUAH5k6bw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="257px;" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Take the handcuffs off my pocket and tie him to his chair, Lefteri”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His face is hard set and he obediently grabs the handcuffs.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Christeas extends his hands to him, for Lefteris to cuff him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You know, in chess, the situation I am in, is an untenable situation. You are going to move up, torture me and then kill me. I should have taken my own life, but I waited for you. From the day your family died, I feared you would come.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It happens too fast for me to understand, too fast to react. Had my judgement not been clouded by rage, I would not have let this happen, but my rage turns into bowels-churning, heart-aching stress when Christeas grabs my grandson, lifts him up and places him in front of himself, a shield between us, his hand around Lefteris’ neck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Or rather, Lefteri, I feared you would not come. See, life is not exactly a chess game. Winning and losing are a bit different here.” His grip on my grandson’s neck intensifies. I am stunned:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Don’t! Stop! You are choking him, don’t, please, mercy I…” I plead, lowering my gun, extending my open hand in front of me towards him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“See, I do not care about winning. I will let you win. You can kill me.” Lefteris’ eyes are bulging in their sockets, his face red, swollen. He thrashes. I drop the weapon and explode towards them, punch Christeas and hold my grandson in my hands, trying to help him. I already know.</span><span id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4"></span><br />
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-d44986d3-464c-ab4d-0844-56d43150f3d4" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His windpipe is crushed. I see him still panicking, his thrashing intensifying and then slowly, painfully subsiding while he is in my hands. His lifeless eyes stare at me and I wish my head would snap, that I would go crazy, that I would feel anger, wrath, anything.</span></b></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While I am in my state of muted shock, Christeas moves behind me and gathers the weapon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And now, you can rule on an empty chessboard” he sais, putting the barrel of the gun in his mouth and killing himself.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-67350457641453612842014-07-18T17:40:00.001+03:002014-09-05T19:16:24.082+03:00Η βασταχτή ελαφρόπετρα του είναι.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Οι πρώτες λέξεις που ξεπηδάνε από το πληκτρολόγιο στην οθόνη μου τείνουν να είναι οι ίδιες.<br />
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Επιθυμώ να αρχίσω το κείμενό μου με κάτι βαρύγδουπο και εντυπωσιακό.</div>
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Οι μέρες που περάσανε φεύγουν σαν φύλα στο ποτάμι της ανάμνησης.</div>
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Ή κάτι τέτοιο τέλος πάντων. Κάτι που να ακούγεται βαρύγδουπο αλλά να μην είναι παρά, όπως η λέξη βαρύγδουπο, ένας βαρύς γδούπος, μια ονοματοποιία.</div>
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Και τι είδους φύλα είναι αυτά που φεύγουν στο ποτάμι, τέλος πάντων; Συκής; Σικέ;</div>
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Ενδώτερα της χώρας της φαφλατολογίας βρίσκεται μια έρημος χαμένων σκέψεων και ποιητικών αλληγοριών.</div>
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Βράχοι άχριστης γνώσης τοποθετημένοι τυχαία στην άμμο, δεν είναι παρά κόκκοι που δε διαλείθηκαν ακόμα. Πηδώ από τον ένα στον άλλο.</div>
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Κάθε άλμα βυθίζει την πέτρα στην άμμο, με πάει πιο μακρυά, πιστεύω, αλλά ξανά και ξανά πέφτω σε αναμνήσεις και αναμασημένες ιδέες. Ελαφρόπετρες που αρνούνται πεισματικά να βυθιστούν.</div>
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Τα άλματά μας περιορισμένα από το σώμα μας, από τις αισθήσεις μας. Κάθε στιγμή ξοδεύουμε ενέργεια για να δεχτούμε πληροφορίες. Οπτικές, ηχητικές,αφής και βαρύτητας, αισθητήρια όργανα διεσπαρμένα στο δέρμα και το σώμα μας. Απέραντη πληροφορία που συνθλήβουμε σε κόκους άμμου, κρατόντας μόνο μερικές ελαφρόπτρες που αρνούνται πεισματικά να βυθιστούνε.</div>
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Κάθε στιγμή τα κύτταρά μας, σκλάβοι του εγκεφάλου, δουλεύουν ακατάπαυστα για να μειώσουν την πληροφορία σε ένα σταθερό επίπεδο.</div>
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Και αυτό το επίπεδο πληροφορίας ανά δευτερόλεπτο είναι που μας δείνει την αίσθηση του δευτερόλεπτου. Παραπάνω πληροφορία ανά δευτερόλεπτο και ο κόσμος μας φαίνεται να κυλάει πιο αργά. Λιγότερη και ο χρόνος παγώνει.</div>
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Και σε όλα αυτά νόημα κανένα.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-57551218192084829912014-06-11T01:05:00.000+03:002014-09-05T19:16:56.560+03:00Αστοχία<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Κάπου, μέσα σε όλα αυτά αστοχήσαμε. Χωρίς καν να γνωρίζουμε τον στόχο μας, αστοχήσαμε. Ήταν κάπου ανάμεσα στ΄αστέρια, στις παρυφές των ονείρων μάλλον. Ή ίσως με άλλη.<br />
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Καιρό είχα να νιώσω τόσο άδειος. Μήνες πάνε που το ιστολόγιο μένει χωρίς λέξεις.<br />
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Ακούω "το τραίνο φεύγει στις οχτώ" και άλλα ευχάριστα τραγούδια.<br />
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Μου είπες, όταν σε γνώρισα ήσουν ευάλωτος, γι΄αυτό είσαι μαζί μου. Έτσι μου φαίνεται και εμένα, σιγά σιγά. Σκιά μιας γυναίκας ανύπαρκτης και εσύ; Δε ξέρω. Ίσως.<br />
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Το τραίνο φεύγει στις οκτώ, ταξίδι για την Κατερίνη.<br />
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Με τον πατέρα μου τσακώθηκα, πάλι. Είμαι ευέξαπτος, και απορρίπτω τα ήθη και τα έθιμα, και την ταυτότητά μου την ίδια. "Θα αρνηθώ την ελληνική ιθαγένειά μου!" Σαν δεκαπεντάχρονο αντιδράω ακόμα. Τι δεκαπεντάχρονο, πεντάχρονο και πολλά λέω.<br />
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Την εποχή που μεγαλόφωνα δήλωνα: je vais pleurer dans ma chandre. και προκαλούσα το γέλιο των δικών μου.<br />
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Αστοχία. Για που πήγαινα; Πήγαινα αλήθεια για το Παρίσι; Για την πόλη του φωτός;<br />
Διδακτορικό, μεταδιδακτορικό, συγκατοίκηση, μαλακίες.<br />
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Δεν έχω καν στόχο. Αστοχία μεγέθους εχούσης.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-720387416076224202014-02-17T17:27:00.000+02:002014-09-05T19:17:24.024+03:00Μέρες του 14<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ένα όνομα γυρνάει ξανά και ξανά μες το νου μου, φάντασμα μιας παλιά θύμησης ξεθωριασμένης.<br />
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Το όνομα, ξανά και ξανά κι ας μη σημαίνει πλέον τίποτα.</div>
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Τις νύχτες κοιμάμαι με συντροφιά. Ένα χρόνο τώρα, όταν ο ύπνος με παρατάει -σπάνιο φαινόμενο πλέον- βρίσκομαι μέσα σε ένα σώμα το οποίο, εικάζω, πρέπει να είναι το δικό μου. Δίπλα στο σώμα μου κοιμάται, τυλιγμένη εν μέρη, ξεσκέπαστη εν μέρη, η Σαμπρίνα.</div>
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Την αποζητώ, την αγκαλιάζω και ξανακοιμάμαι. Το σώμα μου της πιέζει τα πνευμόνια και με μεταθέτει, μια σπρωξιά, μια στροφή της λεκάνης της, προς τη δική μου πλευρά. Θα ξαναξυπνίσω και θα επαναλάβουμε την όλη χορογραφία.</div>
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Οι μέρες κυλάνε. Στην δική μου Οδύσσεια δεν είμαι καν Οδυσσέας.</div>
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Λωτοί οι σύνδεσμοι στο διαδίκτυο και οι αναμνήσεις. Τους μασάω και χάνομαι.</div>
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Πηδάω στον χρόνο.</div>
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Θυμάμαι το κρεβάτι μου, στην Αθήνα, στο δωμάτιο όπου πέρασα τις περισσότερες ώρες της ζωής μου μέχρι τώρα. Ακουμπούσα στον τοίχο την πλάτη μου.</div>
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Τον χειμώνα το πάπλωμα με μόνωνε από το κρύο ντουβάρι. Το καλοκαίρι, με τον ιδρώτα να κυλάει από τους πόρους μου, για λίγο ο τοίχος με δρόσιζε. Αν ήμουν τυχερός προλάβαινα να αποκοιμηθώ.</div>
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Μα πάνω απ'όλα ο τοίχος έδινε μια ψευδαίσθηση ασφάλειας, αγκαλιάς ίσως.</div>
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Σε εκείνο το κρεβάτι, στο οποίο άφηνα μικρός, στο πίσω μέρος του προσκεφάλιου, τα κακάδια από την μύτη μου, και αργότερα το έφηβο σπέρμα της πρωινής και της βραδινής μαλακίας. Σε εκείνο το κρεβάτι όπου διάβαζα κάθε βράδυ με τις ώρες, απορροφημένος σε κόσμους από χαρτί και μελάνι, μάθαινα, λανθασμένα, ότι ο κόσμος διέπεται πρώτα απ'όλα από κανόνες αφηγηματικούς. Ότι υπάρχουν ήρωες και πεπρωμένα.</div>
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Σε εκείνο το κρεβάτι όπου μια βραδιά πριν κοιμηθώ σκέφτηκα ότι θα πέσω για ύπνο κάποια στιγμή και θα είμαι πιο ηλικιωμένος. Και αυτό θα συμβεί ξανά και ξανά, αυτή η σκέψη, και αυτός ο φόβος. Ανάμεσα σε δύο φορές που θα έχω αυτήν την σκέψη, θα έχουν περάσει μήνες, χρόνια, χαρές και λύπες και τίποτα απ'όλα αυτά δε θα έχει αποτρέψει την σκέψη μου από το να γυρνάει στην ιδέα αυτή: λίγο πριν κοιμηθώ, σε λίγα χρόνια, θα σκεφτώ τα ίδια πράγματα, θα αναρωτηθώ για τον θάνατο, ενώ σταδιακά το σώμα μου θα με αφήνει.</div>
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Οι άνθρωποι που ζούνε βαθιά αλλά και ικανοποιητικά γεράματα είναι αυτοί που εξερευνούν τα πάθη τους όλη τους την ζωή. Δε χάνουν την ώθηση να μάθουν νέα πράγματα, όχι από φόβο ενός εγκέφαλου που αποσυντίθεται αλλά απλά επειδή τους αρέσει.</div>
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Η μπαλάφρα παραμένει στο μέρος της καρδιάς, πολυπλέκει τον έρωτα.</div>
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Βρίσκομαι μια χρονιά τώρα αντιμέτωπος με το ιδεατό μου και την ευθύνη του ενήλικα.</div>
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Ο τελευταίος χρόνος μοιάζει με παύση, χωρίς αυτή να είναι πραγματική διακοπή.</div>
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Η ψυχανάλυση τελείωσε, έμεινα άνεργος, ξαναβρήκα δουλειά.</div>
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Οφείλω να επενδύσω δυνάμεις και χρόνο και παρουσία, σε τέλη, υποχρεώσεις και εργασία αν θέλω να συνεχίσω να έχω μια "καλή" ζωή.</div>
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Αρχίζω και κινούμαι απλά για να κινηθώ. Τα πάντα είναι μουδιασμένα. Προς τα που; Δε ξέρω.</div>
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Θέλω να θέλω να μάθω νέα γλώσσα.</div>
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Θέλω να θέλω να μάθω νέα επιστήμη.</div>
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Είμαι ερωτευμένος με την ιδέα του να είμαι ερωτευμένος.</div>
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Θα έπρεπε να καταφέρω να δω την ζωή μου με κάποια απόσταση και να αποφασίσω, μα ζω εντός και επί τ'αυτά.</div>
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Ο μετέφηβος μέσα μου μουρμουρίζει ξανά το όνομα.</div>
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Ο έφηβος αυνανίζεται.</div>
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Το παιδί κάνει αγκαλιές και αγάπες.</div>
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Και εγώ, όλα αυτά τα άτομα, λίγο πριν κοιμηθώ συλλογίζομαι ότι θα ξυπνήσω μια μέρα και πριν κοιμηθώ, θα είμαι κατίντα χρονών, θα θυμηθώ το συλλογισμό μου αυτό, και θα χαχανίσω. Σιγά, γιατί αλλιώς θα με πονέσουν τα αρθριτικά μου.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-57952832091027969152013-10-02T17:30:00.002+03:002013-10-02T17:31:23.638+03:00The secret to a succesful life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-40388113006976309962013-09-16T15:42:00.003+03:002014-10-13T17:32:04.706+03:00Dead horses don't talk.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dead horses don't talk, however much you beat them.</div>
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They take you downtown for a stroll, risen by necromantic powers.</div>
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Their eyes do rot, and liquefy and hang loosely from their sockets.</div>
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Their flanks are bared down to the bone and dogs jump up to tear them.</div>
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The flesh that hangs there limply is cold, yet they just keep on strolling.</div>
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Dead horses do not talk.</div>
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Around and round they do take you for a stroll, dead horses from their slumber risen.</div>
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Flailed to death they toil away, carrying memories; trinkets.<br />
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The horses pass through our deserted streets, not talking, not making a sound.</div>
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Who knows why and whither.</div>
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Dead horses do not talk, they walk away and wither.</div>
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<img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pXjp68Fiw2Y/T3EdP1PlFMI/AAAAAAAAAH4/J_twPQ0HtJQ/s400/Necrotic+Plague.jpg" /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-91530026556737611322013-08-07T15:07:00.002+03:002013-08-07T15:08:11.976+03:00More.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I angst and cry and rage against the time that goes by,<br />
people call me crazy, and take my lament for ungratefulness.<br />
<br />
When I paint a verbal portrait of the world through the colors of nostalgia,<br />
I am kindly, or harshly, reminded by all to stay in the present.<br />
The same goes for my dreams and anxiousness for things to come.<br />
<br />
But is there a greater sign of loving life?<br />
I rage because I want more.<br />
I angst because I want more.<br />
I am nostalgic because I enjoyed living it.<br />
I am projecting in the future because I want to live more.<br />
<br />
I am unsatisfied, unfulfilled but not ungrateful.<br />
I just want more because I enjoy it.<br />
Every single laugh, every single breath, every single tear.<br />
And the thought that I might progressively enjoy them less, that I am going to be less grateful for every moment, and that at some point there will be no more moments both stresses me and increases the value of the moments lived and the moments yet to be lived.<br />
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So I say, do not judge me harshly. I complain, I rage, I angst and elevate, all out of love.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-83548931242316944372013-06-19T17:47:00.000+03:002013-07-15T15:42:02.441+03:00The random fish.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There once was a fish, stranded on land, dying.<br />
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A cat went by, thinking to release the fish from its misery, and fill up her stomach with food;</div>
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A little boy went by, and stopped the cat from eating the fish, scarring it.</div>
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The fish was still dying, so the boy went away to search for his mother.</div>
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A little girl stumbled upon the fish.</div>
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"Oh you little creature, how did you end up in this land?"</div>
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The fish stood there gasping, its gills unable to process the oxygen out of the air.</div>
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Being brave, she took the fish in her arms and dropped it into a pond.</div>
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The fish stood there in the water, motionless at first, enjoying its freshness, then stating moving happily.</div>
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The boy and the mother came and saw the girl and were happy for the saved fish.</div>
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The cat caught a mouse and was also happy.</div>
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The mouse was happy because it had terminal cancer and wanted to end his life as soon as possible.</div>
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The only sad person in this story is me, for I now wonder how the fuck this fish came to be stranded on land and why it forced me to write this story.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-44460333411272490372013-06-13T17:48:00.002+03:002013-06-19T16:43:33.335+03:00Ναι, Ριτ.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Χαχαχαχαχαχαχα...<br />
<br />
Για δείτε εδώ: <a href="http://www.nerit.gr/">http://www.nerit.gr/</a><br />
<br />
EDIT:<br />
<br />
Για μερικές μέρες στο site αυτό εξέπεμπε η παλιά καλή ΕΡΤ!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-72374377952220273712013-06-12T19:41:00.001+03:002013-06-12T19:52:19.906+03:00Ελληνική Ραδιοτηλεώραση.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Πάει το ουράνιο τόξο. Περίεργη η πρώτη αντίδραση του εγκέφαλού μου. Στεναχωριέμαι για μια παιδική εκπομπή που δεν έβλεπα ποτέ...<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y6ysmI4Y-E0/UbinPDtObFI/AAAAAAAAE2E/jA6MKfwQKOg/s1600/oyranio-tokso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y6ysmI4Y-E0/UbinPDtObFI/AAAAAAAAE2E/jA6MKfwQKOg/s1600/oyranio-tokso.jpg" /></a></div>
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Σαν όνειρο μου φαίνεται. Μια περίεργη πραγματικότητα που απέχει από την Ελλάδα που ήξερα.<br />
Πέντε χρόνια λείπω. Δεν γνωρίζω τα δημοφιλή τραγούδια, δε γνωρίζω τους πολιτικούς, δε γνωρίζω τις νέες εκφράσεις.<br />
<br />
Έχω μείνει πριν τη κρίση. Κάθε φορά που μιλάω με φίλους και γνωστούς μου φαίνονται λόγια ασυνάρτητα σχεδόν. Πέρασε η αγανάκτηση των αγανακτισμένων, εγκαταστάθηκαν τα χρυσά αυγά σε κάθε γειτονιά, με γραφεία κόμματος (που τα βρήκαν τα λεφτά; ποιος τους πληρώνει και τους παρακινεί; τι συμφέρον έχει; γιατί άμα δε γουστάρουν τους μετανάστες δε τους πληρώνουν εισιτήρια για να φύγουν αντί να ανοίγουν γραφεία αριστερά δεξιά; Οι περισσότεροι νόμιμοι μετανάστες άλλο πράγμα δε θέλουν! Λεφτά τους λείπουν για να φύγουν. Καλά, μην απαντήσετε δεν έχει νόημα, παρεκτρέπομαι.) Περάσανε ένα σκασμό μέτρα άνευ νοήματος. Πανικόβλητη κυβέρνηση, με άτομα που ακόμα δεν έχουν καταλάβει πως το προηγούμενο παιχνίδι που παίζανε, την εποχή με τις παχιές δανεικές αγελάδες δε βαστάει ο τόπος να το συνεχίσουν, ή που το έχουν καταλάβει και αδιαφορούν πλήρως. Ας αρπάξουμε όσο προλαβαίνουμε ακόμα.<br />
<br />
Και μέσα σε όλα αυτά, τι μένει;<br />
Πραγματικά τίποτα. Τα ακούει ο κόσμος από τη τηλεόραση με μια τρομακτική μουσική υπόκρουση για να ξέρει και ο πιο ηλίθιος ότι τα νέα είναι δυσάρεστα, τα ξανακούει ξανά και ξανά. Δεν υπάρχει ελπίδα, δεχτείτε τα νέα μέτρα και τα συναφή.<br />
<br />
Και τώρα κλείνουν την ΕΡΤ. Σίγουρα η ΕΡΤ δεν ήταν προσοδοφόρα επιχείρηση τη ώρα που έκλεισε. Αλλά όταν κλείνεις την κρατική τηλεόραση, έτσι, με το καλησπέρα σας,<br />
<br />
κάτι ήθελα να γράψω. Κάπου ήθελα να καταληξω. Αλλά δυστυχώς δεν υπάρχει κάποιο συμπέρασμα που θέλω να βγάλω. Η κατάσταση είναι οικτρή, αλλά το κράτος είναι εργαλείο του έθνους και όχι το αντίθετο. Όταν ένα εργαλείο χαλάει είτε το επισκευάζεις, είτε, όταν δε παίρνει άλλες επισκευές, το αλλάζεις.<br />
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Τα κτήρια είναι εκεί. Κατάληψη από τους εργαζόμενους, χρήση ως έχει και βλέπουμε. Αυτό θα ήθελα. Άμα η αστυνομία πάει κόντρα θα είναι ένα νέο πολυτεχνείο. "Εδώ ΕΡΤ εδώ ΕΡΤ ο σταθμός που εκπέμπει για τους πολίτες, τα τανκς μπουκάρουν από στιγμή σε στιγμή στο προαύλιο."<br />
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Καλό μας κουράγιο.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xFPIFmrmjEk/Ubimz1B_NXI/AAAAAAAAE18/UJvq1A5Huxg/s1600/ert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xFPIFmrmjEk/Ubimz1B_NXI/AAAAAAAAE18/UJvq1A5Huxg/s1600/ert.jpg" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-30362106442809088352013-05-30T18:53:00.001+03:002013-06-19T16:43:48.914+03:00Όταν κι εάν.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Όταν δε μένει τίποτα μα τίποτα πλέον το δικό μας,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Και χαμένοι περιδιαβαίνουμε σε πόλεις μακρινές,</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Οι αναμνήσεις, απόφλουδα, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> θ' αποσυντήθονται στο στον ήλιο.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Ως να χαθεί η θύμηση της θρέψης,</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> ως να βρεθούμε άξαφνα ν' ανοίκουμε σε άλλους.<br /><br />Τότε, ρημαγμένοι έως το είναι μας, θα είναι πλέον αργά,<br /> να ζήσουμε το τέλος της Οδύσσειας.<br /><br />Τότε, ξεχασμένοι από όλους και από εμάς,<br />Τότε, φρούδες ελπίδες η τροφή μας και λήθη,<br />Τότε, μια καινή επανάσταση στο κενό.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-80108250333639619722013-03-21T18:21:00.000+02:002014-07-10T17:18:53.574+03:00The steam-sprung revolution: Introduction.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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An average human being generally does not change the course of humanity. An average human's mark on history, our very own mark on history, fades away within a few generations.</div>
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However there are some brilliant people whose pioneering ideas become integral to the furtherment of human society. Sir <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isaac_Newton">Isaac Newton</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Einstein">Albert Einstein</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonardo_da_Vinci">Leonardo da Vinci</a> are examples of such visionaries.</div>
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Standing_on_the_shoulders_of_giants"><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4a/Library_of_Congress%2C_Rosenwald_4%2C_Bl._5r.jpg/220px-Library_of_Congress%2C_Rosenwald_4%2C_Bl._5r.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">nanos gigantum humeris insidentes</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">Orion carrying his servant.</i></div>
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And an even bigger number of such visionaries have lived in ancient times, and their ideas still echo and influence us today. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aristotle">Aristotle</a>, amongst other things thought, for example, of classifying senses in five groups, and although we know of senses <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sense">escaping this classification</a>, we still defer to his teachings.</div>
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Of these Giants,<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hero_of_Alexandria"> Heron of Alexandria</a>, while of lesser fame, is the one that could have changed human history the most. He is considered the greatest experimenter of antiquity and his work is representative of the Hellenistic scientific tradition. His inventions include hydraulic pressure doors, the first vending machines of the world and the first wind-operated jukebox. He dabbled in many fields, from optics, to mathematics, to something akin to robotics. However his most important invention was the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heron%27s_engine">Aeolipile</a>.</div>
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<img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b8/Aeolipile_illustration.png/100px-Aeolipile_illustration.png" /></div>
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It was the first steam engine, more than a thousand years before our industrial revolution. His invention remained as an exhibit in a temple, its power never truly harnessed.<br />
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It took humanity over a millennium to reproduce Heron's technological advances.<br />
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This leads us to wonder: what if in a reality similar to ours, a scientist, a genius equivalent to Heron, thought of connecting his Aeolipile with a wheel, and went on to create the first trains, cars and factories. He, like Heron, would have had the skills in robotics to fully industrialize the ancient world.</div>
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Welcome to the world of Steam-sprung, set in a world where the industrial revolution happened at 100 A.D.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-22622108835459071992013-02-21T02:01:00.003+02:002013-03-25T15:49:56.406+02:00Post-doctoral cramps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This must be what marathon winners must feel like.<br />
You run and you run and you run some more. Things stop making sense, yet you persevere, knowing you will reach the end. You ignore the pain, you ignore the losses, you ignore your body.<br />
For, somewhere beyond the horizon, somewhere beyond the pain, is a terminus, an end, a reception.<br />
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Your friends will be there, there will be food and joy and fun.<br />
Your family will be there, to mark your achievement.<br />
<br />
You will cross the barrier. A barrier that awaits those who thought they might one day try it, who believe that if they want they can do it, no problem. You feel pride, and you are being arrogant. Yet these thoughts are in the background, getting drown and lost in the moments of pain and work that remain.<br />
<br />
And suddenly, when it has been hours and days and eternities since you thought "feh, I will never make it", yet you still carry on, the finish line is there at the horizon. Not behind it anymore, but at the horizon. You can see it.<br />
<br />
You run, you stumble and gather the remaining forces you do not really have, to finish in beauty.<br />
Last hurdle.<br />
The last of the last hurdles.<br />
<br />
You get there, and you are greeted by the people that you thought were just watching you run.<br />
<br />
You realize they were not leisurely watching you, but actually they were running their own marathons. But still.<br />
<br />
The elation is there. It is an ending. You celebrate. Your body is full of endorphins to dull the pain. So you celebrate.<br />
<br />
And the next day, the pain starts.<br />
And worse than the pain, the realization.<br />
<br />
There is no more finish line beyond the horizon. You are free.<br />
There is no more finish line anywhere. You are lost.<br />
<br />
Your body knows only how to run. So you keep running blindly towards goals that people haphazardly suggest.<br />
<br />
Time to find a new finish line and a new one after that and so on and so forth...<br />
<br />
Yet even as you think these thoughts that spring from your ever forwards-propelling momentum;<br />
even as you try to keep the meaninglessness of it all at bay by trying to find a new activity to obfuscate your worries;<br />
even then, your mind wanders and wonders and dances with craziness:<br />
<br />
Risking and losing yourself in love, in a simpler life, in a different path or sport or occupation, in different values and dreams.<br />
<br />
But the end of the running period is always linked to those dreams.<br />
The running soon resumes and propels you back to the land of the waking.<br />
I am still unsure whether to be grateful or not for this.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-34492661588726942622012-12-04T16:04:00.002+02:002012-12-21T17:31:02.967+02:00Ελεφαντάκια<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Κάποια μέρα βρέθηκαν στην κατοχή μου δυο ελεφαντάκια πήλινα. Ήταν όμορφα: ζωγραφισμένα με απλότητα, ένα πιστό ζευγάρι βιβλιοστάτες. Αρέσανε και στην τότε κοπέλα μου.<br />
<br />
Μένανε στη βιβλιοθήκη κρατώντας τα βιβλία μου. Και πέρασε ο καιρός.<br />
<br />
Με δεχθήκανε για σπουδές στο εξωτερικό. Ένας χρόνος.<br />
Της έδωσα το ένα ελεφαντάκι, και πήρα το άλλο μαζί μου.<br />
Η σχέση μας θα ήταν σαν αυτά τα ελεφαντάκια.<br />
<br />
Περίεργο πράγμα η απόσταση και η ενηλικίωση...<br />
Στην αρχή τα πράγματα πηγαίνανε καλά.<br />
Δύσκολα, αλλά καλά. Έχω αναφερθεί πολλές φορές σε όλα αυτά, τα τελευταία χρόνια.<br />
Όποτε βρισκόμασταν τα ελεφαντάκια σμίγανε κι αυτά συνάμα.<br />
<br />
Και από την κάμερα, στο skype, τα βάζαμε να βλέπονται και κάναμε χαζομάρες.<br />
<br />
Κάποια στιγμή έφτασα στη Τουλούζη όπου δε γνώριζα κανέναν.<br />
Ήπια αρκετά εκείνες τις μέρες, έκλαψα, έρεψα στη μαλακία.<br />
Και μια μέρα το ελεφαντάκι μου έπεσε.<br />
<br />
Η προβοσκίδα του αποχωρίστηκε από το σώμα του.<br />
Για κάποιο λόγο νομίζω πως εκεί έσπασα μέσα μου κι εγώ,<br />
τόση ήταν η ταύτισή μου με το ελεφαντάκι.<br />
<br />
Πήρα στεναχωρημένος και μεθυσμένος την πρώην μου να εκφράσω τη θλίψη μου.<br />
Προφανώς, ζώντας διαφορετικές στιγμές, και όντας νηφάλια δεν αντιλήφθηκε πόσο στεναχωρήθηκα.<br />
<br />
Κάποια στιγμή ξανακόλλησα την προβοσκίδα και το ελεφαντάκι μου ήταν πάλι αρτιμελές.<br />
Αυτή τη φορά όμως η πρώην μου ήταν αυτή που έφευγε για το εξωτερικό. Σουηδία...<br />
<br />
Δε προλάβανε τα ελεφαντάκια να ειδωθούν και φεύγανε πάλι.<br />
Γιατί και εγώ τελικά ξαναέφευγα για Γαλλία. Τρία χρόνια έκαστος. Πάνε τρία χρόνια τώρα.<br />
<br />
Όπως είπα πριν σμίγανε και χανόντουσαν...<br />
Και όπως είπα πριν, περίεργο πράγμα η απόσταση και η ενηλικίωση...<br />
Ή απλά πως σε βαριέται κάποιος ξαφνικά και σταδιακά, από εκεί που σου χάριζε χειρόγραφα βιβλία και φωτίζονταν το πρόσωπό του με την απλή παρουσία σου.<br />
<br />
Χωρίσαμε. Από τα πιο οδυνηρά πράγματα που έχω ζήσει.<br />
Πριν χωρίσουμε, της έδωσα το ελεφαντάκι μου, να το πάει στο άλλο.<br />
Άμα εμείς δε ζήσαμε κάτι παντοτινό, δεν υπήρχε λόγος να το στερήσουμε από εκείνα.<br />
<br />
Αναρωτιέμαι άμα τα έχει ακόμα, ή τα πέταξε, ή τα έκρυψε κάπου.<br />
<br />
Ανά περιόδους την θυμάμαι, γιατί σαν ελέφαντας θυμάμαι πολλά κι εγώ.<br />
Και αναρωτιέμαι πως να είναι το ελεφαντάκι μου.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-83530105498390427852012-11-25T20:02:00.000+02:002012-11-25T20:02:57.106+02:00Κάθε μέρα.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Κάθε μέρα, ξανά και ξανά, ο εγκέφαλος μου γυρνάει σε εσένα.<br />
Ηλιοτρόπιο που μαράζει στον χειμώνα της απουσίας σου.<br />
Σπόροι του πέφτουν τα δάκρυα, προσμονόντας να φυτρώσει κάτι νέο,<br />
Αποδομόντας ότι έμεινε, μα η ουσία παραμένει γραμμένη μέσα τους.<br />
<br />
Νόμιζα πως ήξερα τι είναι να χάνεις, νόμιζα πως ήξερα τι είναι να κερδίζεις.<br />
Μακάριος μέσα στην άγνοια, πλήρης μεσ΄την ατέλεια.<br />
Πλέον συνειδητά μισός.<br />
<br />
Οι μέρες κυλάνε, σταλιά με τη σταλιά μα η μνήμη παραμένει εδώ.<br />
Προσπαθώ να τρέξω να ξεφύγω. Πλάνη.<br />
Μούσα των άηχων κραυγών και φθόγκων που με πνήγουν,<br />
σε απεύχομαι μα σε αποζητώ, φαφλατολογόντας.<br />
<br />
Και σαν γράψω τις λέξεις, ξανά θα φύγεις.<br />
Θεοί τι μαλακίες γράφω ώρες ώρες.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-83173857455720172662012-11-16T21:57:00.002+02:002012-11-16T21:59:00.853+02:00The mists of Khelsai.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
The mists were permanent on th planet Khelsai. Xerxis, the local overlord had seen to that, since it was vital in lowering the endorphins in the human cattle. Their blood would then be much more valuable to the selected clientèle to which he catered. The masters of the inner sanctum could not afford to be hooked up to a narcotic such as endorhin; that had lead to the destruction of many a solar systems when a master in bloodlust would soak up all energy in the system. The upside is that they usually died out after that, being deprived of any more blood. Climbing the social ladder is difficult when you are immortal.<br />
<br />
A delegation of masters were arriving on the planet. He felt the energy coming out of them as they descended from the galactic spaceship. He had to fight his urge to bow. They were his superiors in every way, but by tradition he was the master of the planet, and would bow to no one.<br />
<br />
The five hooded elders approached him. In the traditional way, they each bit their arms and let a drop of their pristine red blood fall to the floor. Xerxes, unvoluntarily focused on these drops. The amount of energy and power in each one of those felt dizzying to him. He took some soil from inside his robes, and threw a bit over each bloodstain.<br />
<br />
Keila, the bloodqueen, lowered her hood. "The formalities are now over Xerxes, are they not?"<br />
<br />
He could feel a strange undertone to what she just had said. Had there been a revolt? Had the status changed inside the council?<br />
<br />
"As you say, my lady. Please feel at home."<br />
<br />
The council swept pas him towards the cars awaiting them. He hasted after them. "What news of the council? Can I be of any assistance?" Things were not going properly. They should not have just passed him like an errand boy. They should have quibbled with him for a while, talking prices, favors and politics, before they followed <i>him</i> to the cars to go test the blood.<br />
<br />
After a small hesitation, Duran, the albino elder, turned to him.<br />
<br />
"As a matter of fact, yes, you can do something for us."<br />
<br />
The others paused, yet did not deign to turn their gazes upon him.<br />
<br />
"All through the galaxy, blood is being spilled as we speak. We are making a gamble, to open up a portal to another universe. Please kill yourself, and all your cattle to provide the energy."<br />
<br />
Xerxes starred at him in horror.<br />
<br />
His begging of chuckle was silenced by Durans gaze.<br />
<br />
Xerxes could not understand. "What did you just say? Why?"<br />
<br />
Iessous, another elder, turned to him.<br />
<br />
"That is a good question, boy. How old are you? By the look of you, you must be around two or three thousand standard years old. Blood must still have an interesting taste at that age. You must have formulated your own theory of why the world exists and have a good justification for your own continued lifespan. Why you even refrained from killing yourself for this long."<br />
<br />
Xerxes, just stared at them, trembling. They all had turned and were facing him again.<br />
<br />
"We are just bored boy. Something new and refreshing might be out there, and we shall try once more to open a portal. Now; die. We need your energy to punch that hole."<br />
<br />
Those were the last words he heard, as all his blood seemed to explode out of him.<br />
<br />
Iessous, blood-soaked turned to the others.<br />
<br />
"We should proceed with the cattle."<br />
<br />
Two hours latter the blood of billions had been spilt, on planets allowver in the galaxy. On every planet, tiny holes began to appear in blood-smeared floors, like perforations on a piece of paper. They enlarged and that universe started to unravel.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-18938684081490244782012-10-30T12:55:00.001+02:002012-10-30T12:55:15.638+02:00The disappeared ones. Chapter One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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CHAPTER ONE: THE PLEDGE</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">These elaborate, belle-epoque calligraphic-style letters in pastel tones seemed out of place in the fairground. H</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">owever, t</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">he proclamations written upon the steam-punk, Jules Verne-inspired stand, made us stop in front of it, perplexed. It was a thing out of a Terry Giliam film, with a mural showing two metal cages with lightning arcs flaring between them, and a man disappearing from one to appear in the other. Jenny giggled nervously and her grip on my arm increased slightly. She looked up to me as if to say: do you dare?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On my own, I would never have done this. Never. A waste of money and a risk to my personal safety. I imagined they put you in a "vanishing cabinet" and tell you: "you are going to be teleported", then send a strong dose of chloroform mists your way, and make you faint. They open a trapdoor in the floor of the box you are in, and move you to the other "appearing cabinet" where you are supposed to be teleported to. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They then make you breath fainting salts or something to wake you up, with a slight headache they will afterwards justify by saying it was due to the transmateralization or something just as improbable and sciency-sounding. The person that came with you is shocked to see you teleported, and you do not remember anything that happened to you. And if you went in there alone, well, I hope you knew exactly how much money you had on you when you went in. And how many kidneys.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But Jenny and her green eyes were daring me, and when you are on your second date, you do whatever it takes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This "teleportation" fairground stand was an ill-lit, wooden caravan parked between a loud and bright rubber-duck shooting stand, and a dazzlingly lit and fanfarous hoops-throwing stand. Its lack of sounds was a welcome change in this dizzying maze that assaulted our every sense while we were randomly strolling through it. On top of the caravan was a big metal cage like the one depicted on the mural. On the front of the caravan, there was a tainted window from which we could see the unstable light, and an imposing Gothic wooden door to which you got access after climbing three thick, worn-out steps. You had to admire the craftsmanship in making this caravan look so out of place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I flashed Jenny a smile and with a "Well. Shall we?", which I hoped came out more optimistic than resigned, we climbed the steps. Before we could knock, the door pulled back, noiselessly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A long and dangly sort of fellow, in a lab coat that was yellowing from age and crass, was anxiously holding the door open for us, half bowed, motioning us in. "For the tel.. teleportation I... I assume? Milady? Sir? this way, please, this way!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The act was good. He had sparse blond hair (probably a wig), thick glasses and was ill-shaven. Jenny seemed to appreciate the effort and enthusiastically went in first. I followed, a bit less optimistic about the coming experience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The room was a bit dusty. Just when you entered there was a large wooden desk behind which a female dwarf was sitting on a high stool, her back on the wall of the caravan, her legs resting on the table's top, reading a book entitled "The Aether theory's redemption through 7th dimensional perception". She looked like a miniature Frida Kahlo in a frilly red dress. The desk might have seemed large to me due to the dwarf sitting behind it, but upon reflection I believe it must not have been that big.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A bookcase full of leather-bound books separated this space from what seemed to be the parlour trick space. "So," I enquired, "how do we do this? How much?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The gauntly one smiled excitedly: "Oh it is q... q... quite simple sir. You see, we attach this bonnet..t ..t" he held up what looked like an old aviator's cap fitted with small diodes, cables, coils and electrodes,"...bonnet, with the electrodes upon the volunt...t...t..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"The client." interjected the dwarf. "Client, Albot, we put the electro-coil brain-cap upon the client."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Sorry Minerva, yes, c... client. We put the cap on, you get inside the left transportator, concentrate, seriously concentrate, sir, lady, seriously, oh please do so seriously, do concentrate se"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Concentrate on the other transportator." again interjected Minerva. "Do forgive Albot, he tends to go overboard. He thinks a bit of drama adds to the experience, but I can tell that you do not agree. I think that being teleported is already amazing enough. It is perfectly safe, a unique experience, 15 pounds a go, and you have to really concentrate on the other transportator. Think of its form, the little metal heart on its door, go smell the vanilla scent we put there. Memorize it as much as possible. Then we fit you with the electro-coil brain-cap. Keep your eyes on it and you will be teleported to the other side."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Seriously? we are going to be teleported?" said Jenny in an excited voice. This date seemed to be going well for her, while I was thinking I was probably going to score her then "teleport" away on the morrow. Don't judge me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And by the way, I did not introduce myself. Might as well, I could use some sympathy. Should I put a smiley here? Smilies make people like you more. Waiters that put a smiley on the check tend to get 8% more tips. Here it goes then: :) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So. Hello, my name is Jonathan Jonathan Black. I am a tall and lean male, currently in my early 30es, but in my late 20es when all this happened. I am going bald a bit early (20% earlier than I should), so I cut my brown hair very short. I have green eyes, and wear a pair of these nerdy, trendy glasses. If you did not already guess, I am a statistician. My father died when I was 6, my older brother Nathan started working very early to help my mom raise us. By us I mean my remaining two siblings, Noel and Gaby. I like Monty Python, physics, chess, and swimming. I am a good cook, and a fiercely loyal Arsenal fan. I am a bit manipulative but that is due to a childhood where I tried to get out of violent tight spots by using my vocabulary. Nice to meet you. :)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But let me go back to my story now. I don't have too much time, and there is still a lot to be said. Where was I? Ah, yes. In the "teleportation" stand. Things got weird here. I payed, and Jenny got fitted with the swimming bonnet with cables attached to it by the twitchy and overacting Albot. She then proceeded to examine the cage into which she was going to be teleported, while I was looking around trying to figure the con out. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When Jenny seemed satisfied with the cage, having smelled the vanilla incense, touched the cage, looked at it as instructed, acting like a teacher's pet, she asked whether I could film her while this was happening. Minerva did not see any inconvenience, and even offered to take a picture of both of us, afterwards, but asked Jenny to stay focused on the target cage and to enter the other one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She then got in the first cage. The turbines in the corner of the room started turning, I was made to sit in a comfortable chair, in a ribboned off area. Albot brought me a glass of water, which I held but did not drink. I remained cautious of the possibility of being drugged. Minerva went to what seemed a control board, with a picture of Nicolas Tesla hung on top of it. I have to admit I was, by now, extremely curious as to how they would pull the heist. The cage was not a closed space, so I would see if they drugged her. I could see no projectors to create a 3-D image or something like that, not to mention that I seriously doubted that for 15 pounds, they would have such equipment.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> By that point I was actually stressed. I remembered from a movie the three parts of a magic trick: The Pledge, The Turn and The Prestige. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Pledge is when the magician presents you something ordinary. Usually a deck or cards or a bird or something. Here it was the two cages. They are empty, and you can see through them. He usually asks you to inspect them to see they are real, normal, not tampered with. But obviously, they are quite tampered with. Jenny went into the cage, the cables on her cap got connected to some other cables protruding from the top of the cage. Things felt tense. It is fair to say that the Pledge here was amazingly well done. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Minerva asked Jenny if she was ready. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jenny stayed with her eyes focused on the other cage, and just nodded. Taking a deep breath, Minerva threw a series of switches, and static electricity filled the room. Arcs of lightning zapped between the bars of the first cage. Jenny was half obscured, or rather concealed behind the arcs, for they were so bright there was no obscurity in the room. Then the light got extremely intense and just as suddenly dimmed. The cage was empty, both cages were empty. Where Jenny had been hung limply the bonnet they had put on her head. A pale hovering ball of light, what I remembered to have read about as ball lightning was slowly travelling between the two cages. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This was the second stage of the act: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"The Turn". </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Where the magician takes the ordinary something, which in our case are the cages and electric coils and makes it do something extraordinary such as vanish Jenny. Now you're looking for the secret... I know I was. But you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking, and neither was I. We don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">My brain could not understand what was happening, and all I could do was repeat, like a mantra in my head, "this is the turn of the trick, this is the turn of the trick".</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">If this was a magic trick, it would not be the moment to clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part called "The Prestige". I was waiting, sure enough, for the ball lightning to reach the other cage. When it did, a roaring sound shook the room, and all the lights went dark. And there she was, Jenny, smiling like crazy.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Did you see it? Did you film it? I was a ball of energy! Waaah!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I was shocked beyond words. I looked at the 3G phone in my hand, and it was off. I had been filming but it seemed to have shut down. I heard Albot snivelling, crouched in a corner. I turned back towards Jenny, who oblivious to my shock went on babbling:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Jonathan? Hey! This was amazing."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Yes, I guess it was;" cut her Minerva in a very stern voice. "Here you go young lady.", she opened the door for her. "You must go now."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Still numb from what I had seen, I did not protest, and we were politely, yet firmly ushered to the exit.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The rest of the night is of no real importance. Not concentrated on manipulating Jenny, I was very relaxed and ended having some nice, unfocused memories of a pleasant rest of the date with her. I even slept with her, and did not leave like a thief. But that was no longer important to me. I was locked on finding the secret of the parlour trick. It made no sense. I questioned Jenny, not too insistingly about what happened, what she remembered, and she insisted that she had been locked on the other cage, thinking only about that, then suddenly she felt very very energetic, somehow sipping out from herself and floating towards the other cage. She insisted she did not feel any pain. I did not push the matter any more, yet kept seeing her. I had to somehow remain close to what had happened, but I did not dare go back to the fairground.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The cellphone had not recorded anything. (Jenny was a bit disappointed about that)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">There was no mention of any such thing anywhere on the Internet, and I trust I know how to perform quite extensive internet searches.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I could not talk about it to anyone. I would be taken for a loony.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I searched the book Minerva had been reading, and it had no ISBN.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">For a bit I tried to pretend nothing had happened, focused on my work, but I could not forget it. It was as though the world had a before and an after that date. I told Jenny this very thought, and I think she misinterpreted it. She told me she felt I was taking it too seriously, and that she was not ready for something that serious in her life. For the first time in my life I got dumped without it being the culmination of a series of well placed remarks and psychological prodding on my part. It was a shock.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I did not really care about Jenny, herself, to be honest. My need was of a higher level. It was a need of understanding. Devoid of my link to that event, I roamed from bar to bar, getting inebriated. Alcohol brings you courage I thought, and indeed, I helped me in my decision to return to the fairground.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I arrived well after midnight., when the stands were almost all closed. I stumbled through the alleys, in search of the caravan, but I could not find it. I was getting desperate, so I started asking around. I was confronted to many a blank stares and to mute disdain, even hostile reactions, which is only normal since I must have stunk alcohol from a mile away and was pestering people about a teleportation stand.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Next day I woke up in a police station, stinking drunk.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">And now we are today. A month gone, and I have no more clues as to what happened than I had when all this happened. I am doubting my sanity.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">This is my tale. I had to get it out there. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">If anyone knows anything about this, you can contact me at:</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">JonathBl (aT) gmail {DoT} com</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Thank you for reading,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Jonathan Black</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-22062220844131410582012-10-10T16:37:00.000+03:002012-10-10T16:37:13.053+03:00Two simple changes.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
They certainly would not alter the world completely, but I would love to see them tested:<br />
<br />
a) everyone who wants to study at the university level, has to take a major in something he/she is interested in but is obliged to also pick a minor in a secondary more practical field from a set selection of studies in whch he/she will, for the next 15 years devote at least a fifth of his total working time (1 day per week). Say you want to study History of Art, you are then also given the choise of agricultural studies, management studies, civic engineering, car mechanics, maritime studies and electrician studies. Then for the next 15 years you have to devote a fifth of your time to said field.<br />
<br />
b) everyone has to participate a given number of hours per week in community service, whatever their social standing. Traffic wardens, street cleaning, garbage sorting, recycling and repairing facilities, children-care, administrative chores, elderly care. These would change over time for each person and be quasi-random.<br /><br />These two measures would:<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>prevent people from choosing studies that do not fill the needs of society, while simultaneously allowing them the freedom to study something they like.</li>
<li>create social cohesion, by forcing people of different working areas to come work, at least once a week with other people of different working areas/ statuses, without exceptions. You might be the owner of a multinational bank, you are still obliged to, once per week do your due to society as a plumber which you chose as your secondary studies. Also once per week you have to do your assigned civic duty, meeting people from still different paths of life.</li>
<li>prevent social snobism of menial labor.</li>
<li>promote a more universal education.</li>
<li>allow social problems to be better felt by the majority of the population and subsequently eliminated.</li>
</ul>
<div>
I know that these are not the solution to the problems that are currently plaguing humanity, but I believe that they could shift mentalities to a direction where cohabitation of this planet would be much more pleasant.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Also, John Lennon:</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-58999476859007424482012-10-04T15:37:00.002+03:002012-10-04T15:40:41.178+03:00Somebody save me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is a scream you dare not scream, a tear you hold inside,<br />
you are unattached and oh-so free,<br />
yet with other people all so often you collide<br />
and you flail your arms to catch them,<br />
grains of sand that slip through your emotions and through time.<br />
Your loneliness both the sentence and the crime.<br />
<br />
Somebody save me, I am sick and tired of saving myself.<br />
Give me 5 minutes of recess and of calm,<br />
hug me; let your murmurs be a balm,<br />
for I need somebody to save me,<br />
I can bare no longer having to keep saving myself.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25529074.post-6240911210273013602012-09-25T16:29:00.001+03:002012-09-25T16:31:47.575+03:00Pastitsio, FSM, fb and the greek penal system.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.venganza.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/FSM_and_Raptor_Jesus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://www.venganza.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/FSM_and_Raptor_Jesus.jpg" style="cursor: move;" title="http://firell.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d553knx" width="470" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Τι κάνει ένας διδακτορικός στο Παρίσι όταν βαριέται; Διαβάζει νέα για το Γιουνανιστάν.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;" />
<span style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Το αρχικό θέμα της συζήτησης αυτής ήταν μια πολύ απλή παρουσίασή μου στο facebook, του γκρουπ του γέροντα παστίτσιου, στο facebook. Το χιούμορ του με τον καιρό χόντραινε μεν, παρέμενε όμως σατυρικό δε, χωρίς να περάσει στην κατηγορία υβριστικού κειμένου. Τα σχόλια από τους φανατικούς "χριστιανούς" στην σελίδα αυτή δεν ήταν διόλου χριστιανικά και αυτά κατά κύριο λόγο απέκρουε με αρκετά μεγάλη βια. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;" />
<span style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Κοίταξα τα σχόλια που υπάρχουν στην σελίδα αυτή: </span><a class="bbc_url" href="http://news247.gr/eidiseis/koinonia/se_edwlio_o_27xronos_gia_ton_geronta_pastitsio.1942890.html" rel="nofollow external" style="background-color: #fafbfc; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;" title="External link">http://news247.gr/ei...io.1942890.html</a><span style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> και έχω φρίξει λιγάκι, ξανά με όλα τα τεκταινόμενα. Στεναχωριέμαι που συνεχίζουμε να επιμένουμε να κατακρίνουμε τα άτομα που κάνουν σάτιρα. Στεναχωριέμαι που το να είσαι άθεος και να εκφράζεις την άποψή σου εκλαμβάνεται σε τέτοιο βαθμό προσβλητικό για την κοινωνία. Παρμένο από ένα σχόλιο εντός της εκεί συζήτησης επί του θέματος.</span><br />
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<div class="citation" style="background-color: #d3e9dc; background-image: url(http://www.artofwise.gr/forum/public/style_images/master/citation_bg.png); background-position: 100% 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-color: rgb(111, 169, 135); border-style: solid; border-width: 1px 1px 0px 3px; color: #2b3730; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 0.9em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px; padding: 5px 8px;">
Quote</div>
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ΠΟΙΝΙΚΟΣ ΚΩΔΙΚΑΣ/ΒΙΒΛΙΟ ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟ/ΕΒΔΟΜΟ ΚΕΦΑΛΑΙΟ<br />
ΕΠΙΒΟΛΗ ΤΗΣ ΘΡΗΣΚΕΥΤΙΚΗΣ ΕΙΡΗΝΗΣ<br />
Άρθρο 198<br />
Κακόβουλη βλασφημία<br />
1. Με φυλάκιση μέχρι δύο ετών τιμωρείται όποιος δημόσια και κακόβουλα βρίζει με οποιονδήποτε τρόπο το Θεό.<br />
2. Όποιος, εκτός από τη περίπτωση της παρ.1, εκδηλώνει με βλασφημία έλλειψη σεβασμού προς τα θεία, τιμωρείται με φυλάκιση μέχρι τριών μηνών.<br />
Άρθρο 199<br />
Καθύβριση θρησκευμάτων<br />
Όποιος δημόσια και κακόβουλα καθυβρίζει με οποιονδήποτε τρόπο την Ανατολική Ορθόδοξη Εκκλησία του Χριστού ή άλλη θρησκεία ανεκτή στην Ελλάδα τιμωρείται με φυλάκιση μέχρι δύο ετών.<br />
<br />
Aυτο για όποιον νομίζει οτι μπορει να λεεί και να κάνει οτι γουσταρει σχετικά με την πίστη κάθε ανθρώπου.Δικαιωμα του καθενός ακόμη να είναι αθεος ,δικαίωμα του να μην θεωρει τον Παισιο σεβάσμιο, δεκτο.Αλλα το να εξεφτελίζει κανείς ένα νεκρο που δεν πειραξε κανένα και εχει την εκτίμηση του κόσμου ουτε μαγκιά ουτε σάτυρα είναι.Οσοι τον υπερασπίζεστε οτι τάχα σατιρίζει την εκμετάλευση της Εκκλησιας προφανώς δεν προσέξατε οτι σε αυτη την καταπτιστη σελιδα εχει σαν φόντο την παραμορφωμένη εικόνα της Παναγίας να κραταεί εναν Ιησου με κεφάλι τράγου.Αστειάκι και αυτο ε;Στη φυλακή θα έχει αρκετό χρόνο να μάθει τα ορια της σατυρας και του χλευασμου.</div>
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<br style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;" />
<span style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Τι να πω. Προφανώς δε γνώριζε το </span><a class="bbc_url" href="http://el.wikipedia.org/wiki/FSM" rel="nofollow external" style="background-color: #fafbfc; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;" title="External link">FSM</a><span style="background-color: #fafbfc; color: #1c2837; font-family: arial, verdana, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> ο συγκεκριμένος σχολιαστής, αλλά ακόμα και εάν το γνώριζε, δε πιστεύω πως θα άλλαζε την άποψη του. Μάλλον είχα ξεχάσει πόσο η ανθρώπινη φύση και η κεκτημένη κουλτούρα βίας μπορούνε να στερήσουν την ελευθερία έκφρασης ακόμα και σε χώρο όπου δεν είσαι υποχρεωμένος να υποστείς τις εκφραζόμενες ιδεολογίες (στο facebook κανένας δε με αναγκάζει να διαβάζω τα κείμενα του Αρχιμανδρίτη Καστανουπόλεως και πάσης Φτιοκίδας ™, όπως και κανένας δεν τους ανάγκαζε να διαβάσουν την σελίδα του Παστίτσιου) Θα είμαι λίγο υπερβολικός σε αυτό το σημείο και θα θυμηθώ την δίκη του Σωκράτη στην αρχαία Αθηναϊκή δημοκρατία, για ασέβεια προς τους θεούς και για διαφθορά των νέων, και θα διαπιστώσω πως τελικά δεν προχωρήσαμε και πολύ από τότε. </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1