the moment I lost when the clock skipped

Where did that moment go ?

The hands slide on the bars of the underground and I return with palms imprinted with a stranger's touch. Rinsed the blank ink appears and what was written goes down the drain.

The rising sign wakes up late in the evening against its usual clock-ward round and the scene appears. The "eyes" become codes of lines read but the interpretation becomes a literary controversy. One can, one could, one would, one should change the topic of conversation. The game of neurons begins: the caffeine beats them hyperactive today. Their networking is overflooding the grey matter: indifference.

Goodmorning. Stop thinking. That is your job: do the small talk. Only that shall take lead you to the BIG FISH.

"Θα περάσει αυτή η νύχτα θα περάσει που διαόλια με έχουν πιάσει"

.................................................................................

(The song stays the same, no matter what I do......... to alter its psychic memo. )

One night of white two people came together in a secret mission to whiten up eachother with the frostbite of fresh snow. And the grey road of Coventry became white and the door opened for the four legs to tremble-run outside. At the odd moment one snowball fell on one place and on another more expected look of eyes the cold was shared among the two.

Then their footsteps formed an unknown dance. They run towards the corner of the road forever. They looked further down. Their laughters with tears embraced the cold together echoing the silence of winter, of their own.

Last I heard from them two they never returned to the footsteps they left behind...

ex-orb-size

There is one picture every person returns to when they stand naked in front oneself. There is one person every person orbs towards fueled by thoughts the other vibrates and causes an action of vibration on a screen possibly.

This is because this person is your own person and without knowing he is, your past, your present, and your future. He is your present and you are his. This irregular and yet constant reminder comes with random attacks trigerred by no reason other than your need of survival. There is no life without these thoughts and for this reason these thoughts do come. And with the thoughts comes existence. And with existence comes action. And out of action emerges a pattern.

When the size of the pattern grows large the distance between the two people cannot stand itself and explodes the two away or entangles them in one. It is just that just as the simultaneous one after the other vibrations are reciprocated in the same manner the sudden epiphany of the pattern that has been woven has to be realized by both of these two persons.

This is called "to ex-orb-size": to learn to love methodically together.

This de-man-d does not exist.

Leniency in the matter was allowed by both sides I suppose. The woman pretends to asks who is calling, the man pretends he cannot hear from the other side of the line. He calls back once more. He gets to the point. There and then she puts a period on her voice. The lenience dies as she walks nervously down the aisles of the luxury store.

They hang up on the word "kisses".
Sits down. Rages silently.Escapes from the picture she has painted herself in.
There is no way out. There is no way in either.


Because this man does not exist.

Where is your head now?

The collage of pictures, despite being double-stuck on the wall with duck-tape, keeps falling sideways pushed by the the little wind-thieves breaking into the keyhole of the door. There she smiles, there is the black and white clown in Barcelona and the blonde girlie playing with a grey kitten. There are the notti del terrore, there is ending a happy new year, there is Cher and Baby Spice, there is Hiroshi Watanabe, there is a note with a human skull on it, there is a man hugging two heads of women, there are two pairs of shoes staring at eachother, there is "God Bless our God" inscribed on a gun, there is the bar with bottles crammed on it, there is many women with their hair entangled with each other, there is Hiroshi Watanabi, there is a sculpture of women embracing one another, there are the notti del terrore, and there is her mother's note four years ago: "Have a good day, a good month, a good year, and good and happy life forever for you".

And there is Louise Bourgeois whispering to the wind-thieves every minute they touch: "I have been to hell and back and let me tell you it was wonderful"!

to the left...

Dont you think you are irreplaceable... for one second. She thought to herself for himself in her mind.

Once you go down the stream of daze and drown in its ecstasy you acquire a special power. It is called Distancing yourself. You have two selves. One is enjoying being flipped in the air at the dancefloor by the hands of a man who seems to adore you. The adore examines and observes behavior and files in the back of your mind what should be taken care of. And there you go....

How absent can one character be when he or she changes through the influence of a substance? You must have an absent character if you tone it all down the next morning.
Whereas III have not changed, despite the intoxication, my views on how I behave.

The beautiful moment of orgasm arrives when you just know this is so not for me.
"Pull yourself together and get a life man..."addressed to the "un-dressed" man...
"The World is mine". Thanks for offering it to me but I have it already. Plus the expressions of Love and affections I have heard before I know the poem by HEART...


We regret that we will not be accepting any unsolicited mateterial at the present or in the foreseeable future.

Best wishes,


Kaberet's Prophecy

Who is who

This is not usually a political space. But polis is part of where we live, the city. The city of the world. A man is sentensed to hang because he killed 148 people. To stop him another man killed some thousands of the same nationality people. The first is said to be hanged and the other one is hanging over our heads as leader of a great nation.
Some people of this nation come up with such funny lines :Can we watch his head being popped off ?

ooOOOooo please dont cover his face, I want to see "his" fear knowing that he is going to die!



I guess this kinda kills his mood for the 40 virgins eh :)"

I feel shame for the human nation to know that such "humans" exist.

Blood is not retrieved with blood. Because blood cannot be retrieved.

If you want to be shocked go to http://boards.msn.com/MSNBCboards/thread.aspx?ThreadID=117565>1=8717

and read what some 'humans' have written about this.

Just because the freak show is happening far away from us does not mean we have to applaud...
I am appalled.

Who is Who

A pink band wraps round your eyeballs fainting your vision.
So you stop and paint it black to make it more like a heart-attack,
Instead of admitting the wrong choice of colour to bind
The image translated in opposite segments of neurons
Has been constructed by the Holy Spirit and you, who is who
Does not accept the intervention of interrogation

A brain is a brain but when you color it with past interrogation
There will come no feeling thrown up like a heart-attack
When you search for the mysterious potion pinching his vision.
There comes a period of a second of a meeting of neurons
When they come to agree and tell attraction who is who.
He will find in the course between you, the table, that to bind

Means more than oysters pinched with shells to bind
The flesh of what comes in open mouth not in interrogation
Rather in reflection on your own flesh under a heart-attack.
You were drunk, you the white wine, away from your vision.
What is wrong with putting to sleep a couple of neurons
And letting the man opposite you tell you who is who

In the Belgian restaurant where you cannot tell who is who
Because who you have in front of you takes up all your vision.
Cocktails is his suggestion following like a heart-attack
Rendering his approach all the more damaging to the neurons
Of your objective perception therefore you want to bind
Him and you in one capsule avoiding the interrogation

Of any reality check-up on a first date interrogation.
Isn’t it that he is clearer now than then against your vision?
The erupted question tortured your neurons
Ever since his one after the other cancellation like a heart-attack
Unexpected, sudden all the symptoms which bind
Your little breath into a premonition a demon WHO

Whispers like the short-glassed cocktail Who
Is he, where did you hide your ace of interrogation?
What have you learnt about his own vision?
Did you expect to malfunction for long without your neurons?
Do you think that it is so easy to bind
A man who is too young for a heart-attack

To happen. Love is not the interrogation
of one’s neurons, he explains in the game of erotic vision
once you bind, knowing not the reason, the attack on your heart
will tell you I am the one accused of treason.

Cut the cord from left. terre. east. co

So the steps you shall follow are extremely simple. There is a cord on the desired object. You pull it it screams, you cut it it shut it shuts up. It is earth it is the left sign of life it is in the east and it is a brotherhood. My sisters know what I mean. Not every audience has to understand.

Today the desired object was in my mind during a crisis. The crisis included an underground confusion and I was transformed into a mouse-sardine of a tube world. He is always present in the big crowd only you cannot see him. But you must learn to recognize him. He will be your savior. However, he, unlike the elementary cases here in London does not have a cord. He is of Greek make. This make is an older model that cannot be stopped in any particular way. Therefore what can a woman do to save herself?

I leave the answer to him because the inhabitants of this country with Greek make have been turned into an abyss of non-decandence.Mad is not bad but cowards out there you have no hope.. charlie's angels are in the town. you little cords are think blue and white... not made from the old hard sailing rope...

beyond the silver moon in a wooden forest pool

I pretend not to wake up in my dream but in reality I wake up in a muffled breath. Someone was there asking : "Where are all of their belonginings?" A slide of fabric awoke me into a nightmare that was not real. Then, she falls into the sweet Morpheus' embrace and lands in a swimming pool in a bikini that keeps untying itself and a black-bearded man appears. She apologises for continuously tying the bikini laces she is shy. She knows this man from her past. He smiles his Marilyn Monroe teeth. She curves into a fetal position in the turquoise water. He asks her:" so have what have you found?" She informs him of her future possible plans but she does not feel she has enough time to explain. Wait. She thinks inside of her. Then he walks into disappearance.
She then walks up wooden bridges under streams of forests, the wood creaks. She is searching for him. But everywhere she goes she finds other friends of his but not him. She runs back to the main area where she met him and suddenly there appear many Italian- architecture windows of apartment buildings which seem to be lit by fog.
Then she goes the opposite way towards the deserted part of a forest. The others appear there too. But he is not there.
He went off somewhere.
She searches for a lighter as she walks with all of them in a line. She wakes up into disappearance.
He and She always communicate in the somewhere. We cannot know if he or she or both know that they do.

Lover of the Past

There is suddenly a blast ... ! The bubble once existed but now it just cannot last. The place of your origin has been forever lost and all you are left now is the nothing of the present the something of the future and the much of the past. Then you decide to chant chant to go against the little wave that breaks right at the edge of the pain-threshold but is it this chant produced by the very substance that you torments?
Is the very chant part of the success that is here and that makes you be here and hear the sounds that other passenger just can't? Is it your fault that passengers are idealized and rushed to the stage when their exams have not been passed or forwarded to them at least? The expectation for it to crumble and fall when it is great and majestic must be the haunting secret of your success. Has the demon taken over you and all you can think is how to muse them into your smile amuse them for a little while and then abuse the small signs on their face to make them not last against the enduring threat-thoughts of your past?
If the question mark dears to breathe then the exclamation drowns in the water like a fish born with lungs .. it is not made to breathe as such... and that is what my writing is made of... The great rises and falls of life.. Zoe as called in Greek...
Remember my reader there is always that phenomenon called TiDE.
But the miracle of the place where nothing comes and nothing goes must be something not to be desired for where is the fun or the hygiene... in that?

post scriptum

All is to be admired and loved in life... how commonplace and yet the lines from this song fit the occasion of today's post: "Flames to dust, lovers to friends, why do all good things come to an end?"

Out of the blue the land of arcadia

Out of the blue there appears a land... Inhabiting the ocean suddenly is put under doubt... and under a cloud you wake up. There is a vision, there is a wish and there is a material side to it witnessing the possiblity of reality. The abstract thoughts render themselves into the most wonderful moment of present. You care for words but preciseness of the product is not worth positively to be posited in some certain category. Because it is there where you want it and you do not want it to go away because it has done so in the past and the excitement and the whiteness of art deco floods the air and the cold is loved to be cold and the warm comfort is forgotten and slides by like a whole millisecond down the margin of four hours.
There appears a question mark but this time you shall consider it normal and proper to the way life bumps. Give it a timeline and when the breath of art-deco expires you shall know.
This time you are aware that eyes not seen are missed the most. But you are afraid not. You have been down this road before.

Something like VOODOO

The sweat is lavitating on your skin, fresh and cold at the same time. The step is quick and exhaustingly excited like the beat. It feels like you have just come out of the gym. The dose of endormorphin pumps inside your arteries as heartlessly as it cannot.
This feeling you cannot name but you can deny not. You tread through the rain and although sun is there to be seen it feels like some great miracle. You wonder what is happening with your tornado of your hair. When you return there is one stare of yours wet-stamped on a surprised mirror. And then you come to wonder where did the beauty come from? Did some evil wind call for it while you were dance-struggling through drops of water and frizzy traffic?
The more stabbs you receive on the fabric of your recently tanned body of a doll it seems the more you think it is everyday life to be moved by some out-of-country force. It is definately not of out of this planet. It is unaware of its power and yet it slides within you despite your layers of clothes.
Give me another stab because it feels so great to be hurt.My fabric of dress is not ordinary. And of course I am addressing myself.

unless you absolutely leave dont complain about the parasites when you return...

Parasites on a forgotten summer text remind one that nothing left by itself can grow when it does not have a heart. Travelling in symbols and islands rather twists one's view. Like one used to stretch to the edge of the world, then stopped and out of shape now the edge of the world becomes halfway of how far one can stretch. Conversely then, once you leave something for a while with a heart with its pathos it will grow. With no attention, it will not wither but rather speak silently. When you ask it will speak and tell you the story let us recapitulate. How far behind are you with the news update?
Life is worth lived sometimes for the sake of telling the story and I know that does not sound remotely everyday normal. I visualize the scenes I have played and I paint them with what I have gained. Fantastic. I would not have been able to imagine what I cannot tell you. But you could. Some ideas include the following:
Animal-printed sheets are owned by men too. Call a man "Animal" he will love you and nothing more. It is very easy to have physically what you want, just pick it up. It will not say no because no parliaci solo facciami... I think that is the right Italian for the phrase..
Greece will not win the Basketball World Championship I predict. Here is a prediction summer holidays tell you that despite the romantic tours in the beach-bar swimming pool they cannot take you further than the island yes your sole companion will be Hawaian Tropic ( advertisement not intended) .
Here he is my Hawaian tropic next to me awaiting to be used when the sun comes out again for me. :D
Before the train of thought changed its mind I was going to say:
You can never absolutely negate so keep on positing and posing positively just where the wave breaks...
ps: forget the past but keep good count of your unpaid bills...

before you take my heart reconsider

One of my favorite stages of life comes up again. Charlotte Street stands ignorant or annoyed at me doing its usual passers-by, businessmen and Italians sipping the best Fitztrovia cappuccino under my window and I secretly planning an escape. It might no longer be a secret.
Take the leap of faith and the safety net will appear. It was the first time I leaned outside my window yesterday with no fear of falling down despite what my company and I had been up to. And the non-existing stars in the Bt tower adorned London pink grey ( multi adjective ) sky were there for me to imagine. Even though the stars and the starts were out of view I could still see them.
So now I am depressed out of happiness I guess. The excess has rejoiced enough in the mess and now we are travelling back into the less of nostalgic bless. Rhymes have rhymed enough or not enough but since these are all signs I can re-shape them back into the right sound.
Get right... this summer...I move you move I pack you unpack ...

ps: what you want want, dont get, get, dont want, want.

The state of Happiness

It is when you listen to this one tune that your life has played on....
"she made her way back home, strolling strolling alone she hated some she needed some and she loved some... "

hit by the FISH

Yesterday night there were these little ghosts above my head swirling in a carouzel. They had all faces of men I had met, men I chose to lean on for one second of sunshine and was appalled for one second of rain. Not that many they were, otherwise they would not be able to form that carouzel above my head... But still they were swirling and their stories were drilling in my head simultaneously. The threads of the resolutions never reached to a knot because once one knot dared to be fondled the competing thread rushed in to remind me of another resolution. Insomnia... officially.. the ultimate state of awareness that tortures you to be aware that you want to fall asleep and you try to understand whether you are falling asleep but YOU ARE NOT. So I open my window I listen to the late car passing by its last chance before Sunday dawns on it and moi who is still awake despite my wise 1:30 am night 'curfew.'
I think it was sudden. I took this piece of cloth and wiped off the carouzel. Why are we going in rounds for? My road on Charlotte Street takes a turn but then it goes straight into Oxford Street and then down to the underworld heaven of Soho and if I choose to walk down Oxford there will be at its end the paradise expensive car Parkway Street... if I am not mistaken. I remember pictures not names.
Here comes the light and comes the sleep we remember the pictures not the names... my head rests on names rather than pillows ... and now it is the time to trust my pillow and fall into its abyss.
The abyss took me to places where I was cooking fish with pasta in a huge casserole and one of the men, shaved now, was telling me to stirr better.
I am too refreshed to stirr anymore... and so all of them can remain in their little casseroles stewing about what spice to add ... I choose to defer and wake up in the cold sunshine of Charlotte Street, hit by rain it is now clean and calm un-disturbed by cars on an alone Sunday. Time to slide and no more carouzel rounds of pink fish and black horses.
Goodmorning.

You will never know...

The moments you gave me you will never know they are worth a life. The first breath of my dream you heard but it was left unnoticed. Unwritten, unspoken of then. What unites us is not words, what unites us is the 'not.' A negation is ever so stronger than affirmation, than you can know, than you can learn. Because negation breeds the existence of the state it negates too. For how can negation exist if it owns nothing to negate? It is like the stars you take notice of sometimes on the sky. They are there but you know they are only there because time has separated their past death from you. And so they look like present. But they are not future.
Negation you see, is strong. Not future but future will come and when it comes future it will be not.
What is present in me you cannot see or cannot enter because once you do, it negates itself from the vastness of its being. If you can take notice of me distinctly then it cannot be me but a mere piece that forms your thoughts on the wider of the "me."
So don't. I would rather you will not know.
It is only then that you will know... because negation is strong..
it will keep you searching for what there is not...And it is that 'not' that our hearts desire
whether you know it or ... not

You get OVER it

When you get OVer IT. You put some veil Over it. Do not misunderstand the words because they, in turn, will misunderstand you. They will stand under you when you least expect it.
Because when you Get Over It you have surgically removed all that was It. Almost everything that is, some mementos are left to remind you the good because you respect what you had.
Across my window the familiar faces are not sitting in their offices and it is 10:37 am. Where is he? That businessman who always looks outside the window when he is on the phone. But I know, he will be there soon. He is probably not in view or in a meeting. He is there anyhow, it is his daily duty to be there whether I take notice of him or not.
Today is one of the days I am taking notice of such small and big things. I am exceptionally awake for the mornings that my brain is still unthoughtful and unreasoned. But maybe I am very much unreasoned in my thoughts today or rather in my feelings. It must be the sad dried and yet fresh clothes that await to be picked up by my hands and put into their place.

What you remove was there once, and there will be a memory of it. What, the dried clothes?
Charlotte Street is cunningly quiet for the time of the day, only some leather-jacket motorbikes disturb the internal peace of my window-glasses. The temperature is changing
the glass is unmoved and yet in its atoms: contraction/ lub/diastole/duv and the cycle keeps on being repeated...
what makes you think we are so different that once we are caught on diastole we contract on it and contraction never pushes inwards again?
One comes to call the other ad infinitum and so there must be hope...

the Idea that permeates through Substance

becomes Substance.Have you ever considered that "separation from" can initiate a process of slow induction into the very matter that one separates from oneself. So with me it happened. It starts like a joke. In fact it is a joke. I will use "we" so that we can all participate into the subtle penetration of the idea into the substance. We play with fire, a match, it is a joke. We fondle it with our fingers, we try to make its fire fade a bit, we try to blow it through our fist, we try many things. Some we achieve, some burn us. But it is small burns after all, in front of the challenge of tricking a match.
After the little burns we continue. The challenge grows all the more... it is exhilarating. Do we understand that we are caught in the challenge itself, it is the challenge that moves our fingers, that burns our fist, that makes our eyes focus in a mania to fulfill the trick. As the challenge grows the match burns on... Does it occur to us that the match will eventually burn out? No. In the back of our head maybe yes. But let us talk consciously as much as we could.

So the match burns out. And our fingers are empty, the little burns remain, the fist desires the challenge of the fire through once more, and twice more.. and many more times.. but the match is burnt.

Now you must find this absurd. Who would invest emotion in a match trick?
But then again, the more you pretend to ignore the match the more it is a parasite within you and then slowly from a host the desire of the match is the match itself within you. See how we have become you? It is all about the "you," the separation. We participate but the "you" separates.

When it is burnt and the match stands like an idea, the "you" cannot escape the "match" or the desire for it, one and the same thing, by way of life-conditioning, and the "we" bangs inside the "you",,, the "you" is within "me" and the two people of a we are one within the "me" and the idea permeates through substance and by way of separation you have managed to call inside to make part of your DNA the "me."
The Ego slips in and the "you" and the "we" are invoked...

Where am I getting at?
If you suddenly realized at one irrelevant moment that something is still inside you, it makes you cry or it makes you laugh, you can call it "love"
you cannot erase it and you cannot forget it because we are not just material... but substance and it is part of your substance in material terms it has slid under your skin and it burns the deposits of your memory in a way that no "material" match can...
And you can guess right : the "match" does not actually ever burn out.. but in..
in the "we"

Pure shores...

I am having a dream these days. I am writing a text this morning and as I type in the words I feel water overwhelming my eyes. No this is not the text. It is the text where I say thank you for giving life to me and for making me Zoe.

This life to live on pure shores, ignorance of the pain of the cut of the ambilical cord... I gnorance of too many Ofs and Ifs..

And for this I thank Eufrosyni... :)
who gave birth to me, who plants unconditionality into Zoe...

One of my favorite son

And So The Story Goes by Maria Montell album:

She's on the dusty road alone Travelling, travelling, travelling alone She loves to laugh, she loves to live, and she loves to love She left her home and family To find the thing she couldn't see From the window in her house in the countryside Bridge: This small town girl needs to fly To reach her dream in the sky Ai yai yai Chorus: And so the story goes Di da di di da di da di da di da di da di And so the story goes Di da di di da di da di da di da di da di She came to town and went to stay And found a reason there to stay She saw the row of folks vanishing in the welfare lines And then she made her way back home Strolling, strolling, strolling alone She hated some, she needed some, and she loved some Chorus Bridge Chorus Di da di di da di da di da di da di da di

gs to keep us going through this tough period of transcendence:

PROTEST

I hereby submitt a protest to whomever cares or does not care. To all the radio stations, to all the singers, to all the people , to everybody to make this completely inclusive. STOP playing the song "Goodbye my lover." Yes , if there ever was a way to flinch me out of my written dream-world it is the playing of this song EVERYWHERE. I am tired of mourning. I do not want to mourn. I have no reason to mourn, nobody is dead. I am actually quite scared of writing such things, that nobody is dead because who knows by the invocatory power of language someone might actually die. What have I gotten myself into?
Well, you can see where this "Goodbye my lover" song takes a person. Takes a person? Where does it take the person. It takes away the person? See? All leads to DEATH...
Enough with Goodbye my lovers and tears and lalalalla oh the romance that died. Come on.. Come on to another woman, another man whatever you want... so many people out there ... Oh but the romantic lover will say " but there is only one"
WHO in the world told you or anybody there is only one? Do you watch too many Hollywood movies?
I am tired. Goodbye my lover. How about a song " Hello my lover...." hehehe
What is this love of depression? It goes against the whole spirit of having a lover anyway. The reason for a lover is to be loved .... whatever that means for every person. But I am sure that a lover must make you happy not sad ( ok exception if he or she dies which is out of your control[ except if you cause which is in your control]).
So, say goodbye to your "LOVER" when he or she dares to put a tear on your face. Once the first tear falls you know he or she is fallen too. He is no longer a lover.

I am very harsh you will say. So is the lover... with his or her acts and the songs that are produced because of HIM> or her....

Enough with goodbyes.... ... get yourself A good buy next time;)

pleasure : a replenishment simply

I am listening to an old Greek song pou na brw ena filaraki .. where can I find a pal to put my shoulder on.. It is amazing how translation can lose the feeling of the memories and non-memories I have of this song. Every time I hear it it acquires a new meaning. I cannot find any solution and tell me what to do and time laughs at me like a baby. Where can I lean my body when I come back from bars and staying out late times. I am here. I am smiling, the translation of the song has stopped now. Only one last line to translate : since you, too, have disappeared...
Such a pleasure it is to listen to the melody of a song that connects to a not so happy childhood because I am here and because I was there. So what I am replenishing ? This pleasure is enriching the picture which has more than three dimensions on it. It has days, seconds, laughters and tears and zebra-crossings and glances and thoughtless existence. What is a thoughtless existence? There is no thoughtless, it is just that we tend to forget that we are alive through the small things that make up our life. And this song reminded me I am alive. You can laugh if you want after reading this. I will be happy to have offered you non-sense ( according to you) but hey you still laugh... are you still laughing... are you thinking ... Is this a thoughtless moment of your existence? Are you forgetting something or reminding yourself of something else?

The replenishment tonight comes when I know very well that all involves change: metaboli as we say in Greek which is an "after-hit" freely translated but this time the meaning is successful. The next hit is harder but the receiver is already hardened.

Whether you care if we are dead or alive, we are here and we forget and remember in seconds, in dreams, in coffees, in dinners, in hours, in days and years.... in a bottle of wine or a shot of zibania... in a song

This song of Life I dedicate to a dear friend... tonight and for the rest of her life...

my ajar door

The door is a jar. Can you imagine something flat containing the volume of a jar of marmelade? You just did. If you can imagine it, it must oh it does exist. And where you expect the happy ending of all of your imaginings you realize. You realize what has not been realized. Or do you?
Everything is fluid. And the abstractness is not something new. When there is distance eyes will be forgotten they say. Ha
Who are they to say?
The word "forget" is tricky like the thing that caused it to exist. You get the "for," the reason for which you wanted to get what cannot get now or you are getting to. And the abstractness continues. I am distracted today. Circles on me need ticking but I cannot do much but look for some other way to live in another country.
Love resides in me and in another country where it drinks late night cups of non-existence. Because if you cannot see it it does not existe. But if you can visualize it maybe it will or it does. Only time for the time being does not agree with it being synchronized according to my desire.
If you got what I mean for... then you cannot be what I should forget.
The door is ajar. The windows open on one side of it and on its other side have caused a draft and the explanation of ajar is as simple as that....

spring of death-birth

Have you looked at the ending of the words "death" and "birth"? Maybe this does not hold for all languages, but this arbitrary similarity of "th" may imply these two states have much in common: life: start and end. And "d" is the opposite sign of "b" and "ea" and "i" have the same pronounciation in the word: almost.
Where am I getting at? I am looking at the green tree across my window.. I left it two weeks ago with no leaves and back now charlotte street is green. The little leaves are only the beginning of a flourishing that is felth through the "Frou-frou" breeze entering through my window on the keys of my laptop.

It is the top of a lap I am ebracing tonight , the melancholy of death and the melancholy of life. A song which plays on and never dies and never lives :hope. Hope to hop to the summer, the heat and a true night of eternity.

How do you identify with all that? I know you do. You and I do not know why but we do . And the reason why we do, which we do not know, makes it worth breathing tonight and the rest of nights and days to come.
Nothing is unrequited and nothing is forever lost. We are all in the same company of misery and of lovelihood.

Smile at the man or woman or baby-girl or baby-boy that looks at you through the window of a bus. They smile back.

Happy Easter ..... Lucky Spring!

We are doing this for our children

An advice: sometimes it is better to ask for the moon and the stars. Look above and the shine will never let you look down, bedazzled entagled into the hair of the night the demons of a balcony inside of which you sleep into a hill of a forehead...
Sometimes it is better to ask for the moon and the stars because there is no because. Poison is beat with poison. Drink up before it is finished and then all you have left is milk,mildness and a mania you never indulged into.

But remember in this Easter, which tomorrow dies to give us our new birth again, put your mask on smile and do not think what happens when he, Eros or Thanatos, enters the door...

Without you realizing he will appear on the Right. He will greet you : Hello, countess, do you not greet me anymore?

pleasure, immortality of the soul and the phrygian slave..

And these are my contemplations...I chose to fly tomorrow who knows what landing awaits me... Every time it is different. It is abit like falling in love. You choose to go to another destination, hopefully one where you will enjoy yourself, then on the plane the food could be great or disgusting and you might not even care if it is either, you only care for that landing. You might have to pay extra because your ticket got lost in the post. And they will not re-issue you one. But you pay beccause you want to fly, you promised yourself you would. The extra luggage could be another problem. You might be charged or the extra weight you carry may be ignored, or you could be travelling lightly yet there is still that anxiety if if if.... You are also worried that you might miss the flight, you check the departure scree, you check if the taxi will be on time, if the train will too, if the the alarm will ring for you to wake up and get ready before that precious plane flies without you.. Additionally, there is the concern of who will be sitting next to you: someone who smells maybe, someone who is too arrogant, someone who chats you up and you do not want to be chatted up or someone who you want to chat you up but will not.
All of this then and more you worry about when you fly...to land
I have flown many times but I have fallen only once...
Once you fall you are so scared you might fall again and you are so scared you might not fall ever again...
It is all because flying is the safest means of trasport...
The pleasure is in that moment where you look at the alps or when you are lost too in the clouds and you begin to realize how high you are from earth... isnt this fun?
The immortality of the soul comes in and comes out as soon as you are between sky and earth and you wonder where is the limit...
The phrygian slave is your alter ego : you want your travel to be care-free...
I will take the leap of faith that this morning that I will be flying again towards my desired destination.
I am in love with Thessaloniki...

The remains signify the remains

Warning: the following text may contain words, feelings of concepts the reader might find offensive.


Listening to songs romantic: nobody does it better... than you reminding me of the unfullfilled romance... whatever the self I saw of myself those days a self I did not expect to ever reveal myself... You look at the external and you see nothing that would have attracted you then, you try look for the internal and you find it there but in a vaccum of nowhere... What do I mean by these abstractions? Abstract is you. It is the abstract that I fell for and then the abstract because of its nature could not hold me to breathe... So here we are back into the concrete I am sitting on the love-chair from IKEA ( advertisement not intended) into a red-brick London apartment building on a street where Businessmen smile at me so much I almost fall off the road and sometimes, like this morning I did! And the remains remain of a sketch but hey it was only a sketch and now let me get back to the drawing... the full body of this man that I now possess and I am not in love... because labels are just bullshit... and no I am not in a relationship but yes I am not single but I am with and I am without and I am double ... and it is all real because I never believed in it without seeing it first with my own eyes become true..
The advice of the day: no more suspension of disbelief into bullshit... just watch Basic instinct..

neck pain

So I was excited with my progress. My progress of understanding the different distances between the levels of a building. My comprehension levels reached ecstasy the last two days with rhetorics of costume "analogynaicozing" gender politics. You know what... psychosomatic is a dangerous word... that is what I am I think... I have overextended my antennas these two days and now all I am left is unbelievable neck pain, no speech and I am in no position to speak what I think... no combination no juxtaposition... and two dreams while Im struglling to swallow in my sleep:
Dream one: I cannot speak, there is no voice coming out of my mouth and I have to enter the other person's body in order to speak to them so I actually become them.
Dream two: I am speaking online with an old close enemy and love and I write LOL and he reads Love and asks me : Does the the rate decrease love?

He is invoked when I am in pain: what a pain in the neck he is...
I am happy i have reduced him just to that:)

a wall has two sides

Really? What a revelation you will think. A wall has two sides? Oh yes. And my ceiling has me under it and my neighbours above who after midnight decide to kick things which sound like small balls and draw the drawers and bang them back and I am not going to dignify the OTHER SOUNDS too... I either decide to decipher the sounds, or mute them with my thoughts. In my renting case I would not be able to break that wall down or I would not want to anyway... And maybe this wall that I have between me and another person I need to bring down but may be I really do not... There would be no sound muffling, the sounds would acquire shape and touch and my nightmare would aggravate. I woke up to the dream that I was being kissed by an ice-man: he was a man but covered with ice. I was trying to get away from him and then he decided to melt and tell me his experiences from the ocean. He had kissed many fishes he told me: even prawns.
So when the ice-man approaches you, do you ignore him or do you try to melt him? Honesty should always be your guide, I have been raised to believe. But really can you tell him "you are an ice-man and I would be too cold with you touching my lips?" Is this not discrimination? Surely, there must be a match for him like everyone has one in this world.
I would rather there was no wall and I would rather I was not the ice-woman.
The man in question in answer in reality tells me he hopes he was not the ice-man.. in my dream..

the nights of wind on Charlotte Street

Sometimes the wind blows. Funny how something that you cannot see moves you and others around you. I mean it moves birthday cards to fall down, to begin with, moves the fan on the windows of my apartment, trying to enter with great effort and somewhere in the cracks he manages. And when I am holding the umbrella outside and my hair becomes a tornado somehow I feel frustrated because of this unmoved mover. That is the name (unmoved mover) Aristotle used for God. Then is it God that is blowing thoughts or memories in my head? Is it God who is thrusting all the objects of my apartment down and I run behind clothes and posters to keep everything in place? But it must be myself who is causing the wind to crack in, it must be the cracks that I myself forgot to seal or the cracks somebody else did not care to seal before he left? Was that God? Or is it somebody else? A some body who is not even aware that this somebody is in my thoughts or memories. But if thoughts and memories are electric stimulations then positive and negative energy charges or loads must affect that some body else's electric stimulations. Even if the stimulus is too far away for the some body to know, tonight he feels the wind on Charlotte Street and he is wondering what is causing this electrical stimulation. Is it an unmoved mover? No, it is definately me and because he does not know it is me, he thinks of me as unmoved by wind or him.

Handle your Dead line

I drink some water. Love will not save you.

I am directing a special day ritual tonight.

Let’s begin with the heart.

Fall out with vitamins. Do not re-charge.

Now tear it out.

Hold on. For a second. Hold on to what?

You have just torn your only handle.

You have made the wrong start again.

It is not the heart that one starts. With

Right. Have some water. Ready? Pull them out.

The eyes. Round lubricated hazel eyes.

Does the world sound blinder or blacker tonight?

This is the funniest walk ever! All is bloody red.

Bloody Red and a Cuba Libre for me please.

Please. What is there to please? A lingering

Of –f hands. French man-i-cure nails.

Forget man-i-cure. Cut off hands. That will,

that will save you off the money spent.

Smile you are so alone.

Smile you won’t be smiling for long.

Remove your mouth.

Hush: Now Heart, blender it all up.

Cleopatra and Anthony

The sun shines today. London is cold but sunny. Charlotte Street breezes awaiting the summer... And I await the summer too. I do not think I have met anyone ever who hates summer. My favorite season is the summer. The best things have hapenned to me during summers. My summers always seem to last too. Summertime feels like finishing an essay and handing it in and then sitting down loose and uncontrolled and unrestrained and releasing all the knowledge and the memories of the winter and spring that pained you to grow. But now you can let it all burn... In the summer... Why let it grow anyway? What survives in the summer, survives the winter for what survives heat can keep its supply for the winter.... but now its spring... so let us have the April showers, and the Gemini of May and then give me the summer that I long for so much... An8os of my 8elisis niki... Do not cry for the soil but await the flower of the summer is my advice...

What in the world am I talking about? But of course... about the summer... you know the season? seasoning?

Did the compressor compress me or did I compress myself?

Where is the link? My ears hear the noise. The disturbance of this noise where can you locate it? Is it because it is an unnatural noise coming from a machine? Was not this unnatural noise made from a natural human being?The machine is drawing-drilling a line on a digged up hole on the road and I cannot wait for it to be over. The noise is interrupting other noises that I am used to.. the sound of cars, of whatnot, of the wind slithering through the plastic fans of the windows in the apartment... and everything ouf of habit is missed and when it is there it is not even noticed.And I am wondering where is this awareness that makes us enjoy what we have and feel not melancholy for the past that we miss? Has it been lost with the first taste of pleasure? From that first bite of apple ? Pleasure was acquired and our awareness to love it and have it and live it then out of habit after has grown, grown up...

synexeia enos australezikou oneirou ...

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
its officially published
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
in my blog
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
check it out
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ok!
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ax den mou bgainei
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
enw leei oti einai published
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ena lepto na to elekso
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
bgike
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
emena mou kanei boicotage to pc
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
afou den eisai boskos
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
den eisaimeros tou lcub
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
club
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
mono oi boskoi
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pane sto steam room
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
eseis oi tragoudopoioi den exete to privilige
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
class discrimination to leme ayto?
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
epeidi dilada emeis oi tragoudopoioi kolovarame oli mera simenei pos den mporoume na kanoume kati xrisimo?
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
den kserw how you call it
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
emeis sto ostralia
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
we call it nature's law
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ma ti lew
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
eseis i tragoudopoiei den kserete apo nomous
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
kai tetoia
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ego omos ipostirizo positive law kai leo dikaioume!
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
eiste anomoi
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
anr8wpoi
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
anomoi, anoitoi ki anerastoi...
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
leo ayti ti sizitisi na tin valo ego sto diko mou blog
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
em kai anerastoi koriiiiiii
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
na tin ebaleis wre
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
anerastoi
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
akou ekei
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ti einai touto pali
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
how do u know?
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
how do I know
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
egw kserw mono
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
oti ta kalytera poimenika
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
skylia
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
poimenika
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
tragoudakia
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
bgikan
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
apo anerastous erastes
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pou briskontan
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pisw apo to 8amnaki
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
dipla to probato
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
kai twra prepei na me kaneis xrated
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
kai belazan
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ki ego ksero pos ta kalitera poimenika tragoudia apo tous tragoudopoious dimiourgithikan
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
stin melwdia tis kataprasinis fysis
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
kai apo pou nomizeis
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
piran tin ebneysi tous oi tragoudopoioi
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
apo to mati pou pernan apo emas
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
tou ftwxous australezous boskous
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pou bgazame to pswmi mas kai to gala kai to tyri mas
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ka8ws
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
xynotan
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ahem
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
o idrwtas
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
mas
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
sto xwma mia gis
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pou 8a oneireyomoun to 2006

Discussions meta apo ek8eseis...

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ti arxisame pali
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
denmporw na arni8w tin australeziki katagwgi mou omws
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
simfona me stereotypes tho, u also need a family background
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
eimai enas sheppard
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ego ti imouna?
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
esy isoun tragoudopoios nomizw
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
gi ayto s ayti tin zoi eimai parafoni? its all about balance!
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
http://www.awfulplasticsurgery.com/
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
thimase to website?
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pigaine se auto
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
giauto se autin tin zwi den mporw na
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
kratisw probata
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
kateba na deis tin diafora me tin ka8rin zeta jones an piges sto website pou sou esteila
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
na se do na voskeis provata kai na apaggeleis ta poiimata sou kai tha pethano sto gelio
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
nai, aytin vlepo tora
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:

Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ena lepto
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ha
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
teleio auto pou eipes
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
na belazei ena probato i na min belazei
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
na byzaskei ena probataki i na min byzaskei apo tin probatina
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
na faei to xortaraki i na masoulisei nostalgika
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
poios shakespear tora! na voskeis i na min voskeis einai i erotisi!
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
in todays anorexic society it is
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
eides poso contemporary
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
einai i australeza
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
boskopoet fili sou
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:

Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
exo trellathei sto gelio!
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
a re Zoelin, exeis empneyseis apopse!
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
bosko poet
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
pou me potizei
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
brousko
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
krasi
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
o antras mou
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:

Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
apo to xwriou tou bolou
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
ayto prepei na to grasoume!
Cleopatra here, Mata Hari in Bristol... says:
ekei na wras glentoboskimata pou kanoume
Mata Hari here, Cleopatra in London says:
giati den to vazeis sto blog sou?

The Compressor of London

The streets empty on Saturdays and Sundays on Charlotte Street. Today I woke up, around 8 it must have been, a Saturday not predicting the sun which would wake up a bit later, with the beautiful noise of the city: some road-work under my window. My street, you see, is ever so busy during weekdays it cannot afford any beauty work to be done during its zebra-crossing schedule orange lights flashing passers by running, morning coffee travelling on the polluted supposedly air.. but the air does not smell here... The air smells of nothing.. smells of what you make of it... and why I am still here ? Why is my mood so accepting to the morning annoyance which ruined my beauty sleep, the sleep I look forward to so much during the week?
Can I call London a garden? Will all these people who do not like it let me do so? Do I need a permission? We are all here who live here growing under the wing of the London wind, Fitzrovia sun cracks through corners of streets of motorbikers with the leather jackets smiling at you making your day, businessmen in their black suits buying their lunch and staring at the flowers by the cash tills... Oh and the underground.. that some people find claustrophobic... I consider it a ten to fifteen minute group therapy.. all of us there sitting together, enclosed with no escape from each other's glances,,, working up our imagination to discover what stop that black girl rapping will get off and where this bold black-glassed man will fly to reading his book about Barcelona.... London
you might call it impersonal... you could easily... but you know why? because we are all each other's person... we do not know... we might not speak to each other .... but we are all together.... moi from Greece.... another is from France... another is English another is my flatmate from Bahrain... we are all growing here.. flourishing in the climate of England isnt that miraculous?
Have you seen a more exotic garden?
I am watered and water it every day...

Rights of Passage

Its another morning on Charlotte Street when the blue door of the red-brick building bangs closed and I am out cold on the pavement dropping the tesco bag garbage and walking to the zebra-crossing while observing the next door neighbours-workers taking the first smoke of the day. They too observe and know me and do not know me. I check both sides of the road at the zebra crossing and walk the fragile passage of the road where vehicles of all types: taxis, bt tracks, motor-bikes etc stop only for me. Sometimes they smile at you too, depends whether you are in a good mood or not.
Do we really have vision of the zebra-crossing? Or do we cross and not know the cars are running over us?

return of time

I laughed it was the day I cried
I thought.

The “I” took over my throat
The white pages had written
That day was the day I got Lost.

Post-traumatic of an “x” persistence
I had not, I thought.

The day last year you (comes in) and
The day you came out

Of a virgin
which had previously
Broken not.

Hymen-wise still intact, silent
Weaving by the fire of her private spot

The threads unraveled but the machine had not broke.
The pneuma took its break while silence on the line

Of your mouth was about to slant
And speak of something I thought existed not

The pneuma took its break thought and thought
Ruptured into the wood of the machine

Which had stopped.
Weave weave silent and by night if you do not
Unweave he will help you out.

You, shred the blanket I covered myself with
The one I weaved with so much thought
I had not spoke

You I made: you, shred with your consent
And I am just
Cold.

For you: non-sense.

Now I hear the screams of the drunken people leaving Jamie's bar across my apartment. They are complaining about something that they could not afford during the day in their tight-ironed suits at the office: their complaints are mute, they make no sense, do not articulate mumbled by this substance called alcohol. The more you push it down the more non-sensical it will emerge. Out of non-sense comes the sense I hear a young couple now fighting. One is on one pavement side of the road, the other on the other: "Please dont leave me in the shadow of this street" he screams. She answers: "Everything I did was for you. Everything you did was for you. "
And this is my first post on this blog. Have you ever been to a steam room?