Thursday, December 30

little people, a short story in 3 chapters


Perhaps you don’t believe in little people, but they are beautiful like rain on a warm day. Like tears sweet from a love left behind. This one had a big nose, big eyes, a big chin and a big forehead. It made him look all the more serious. There was a shuffling sound with which he came out from somewhere on the left and with his hands in his pockets he caught up with her.

‘Is that a violin on your back and where do you go?’ she asked and ‘will you stay a moment and will you play me a tune?’

‘That I will’ he said ‘and will you feed me?’ He lifted his head and sniffing he pointed his bold nose in the direction of the pine nuts. Frossa pulled them out and gave them to him. He weighed them in his hand casually, ruffled his head of hair and made for a sunny patch of grass on their left. He sat there looking around and then looked up at Frossa intently, suggesting that he was wondering why she was still standing above him.

She would have pulled more against his attempt to will her into a position but there was, it seemed, a sadness in his eyes that went back a long way and, looking at him one wished with their heart to go that way too. She lowered herself on to her knees and sunk her bare feet into some soft mud between the grasses.

He started to play a melody as if he had pulled it down from the cloud above them to their right and swiftly wooshed it around them, encircling them before landing it in front of his feet. And the he sang this:

Don’t ask me if I love you
I am a bird and I fly
All the nests I have made my own before
Are now my wounds.

And if I love you
I am a traveling man and I go
And if I love you, I don’t forget it
I am a traveling man and I go.

Don’t strain your heart for me
I am a stranger to you
As much as you want to stay near me
Learn this and know: I am like a lie.

And if I love you
I am a traveling man and I go
And if I love you, don’t forget it
I am a traveling man and I go.

Violin and…

And if I love you
I am a bird and I fly
With a song always on my lips
That’s how my friends know me

And if I love you
I am a traveling man and I go
And if I love you I don’t forget it
I am a traveling man and I go.

And just like that, a wind blew and took his melody away, like as if it were ashes. And just like that, in the stillness you have only when there is a great forest near by, he began another song.


With snap movements KIRI AZIS broke his earlier calmness. ‘Look at that’ he said ‘it’s near time’, as he packed up his violin. He went over a bit, lifted a large stone and brought out a back sack which he had hid there earlier for safe keeping.

‘You carry that’ he said to Frossa and gave her the sack. And so, in a moderate but felt rush they left that place and headed in towards the valley. Frossa was carrying his sack and so, she thought, she’d go with him for a bit.

Once they were on their way KIRI AZIS relaxed again into an easiness and timelessness that turned out to be his normal way. It was only in between things when he was changing what he was doing, Frossa noted, that he hurried. Almost as if each time he had to push a new engine along to get it started.

Looking around him he addressed her.
‘You don’t talk much for a big person do you.’
‘Hm?’ she said, ‘actually I was thinking about your last song. Where you said “the one who leaves remains forever captive”’

And so talking they reached a small village; a few houses really that decorated the landscape, small houses growing near big trees.

KIRI AZIS casual as ever said ‘thank you very much’, took his back sack off her and walked into house shutting the door behind him, almost in Frossa’s face.

A little surprised, though really she hadn’t known what to expect, Frossa stepped away from his house, stopped and looked around her. The sun was coming down ahead of her, the air was cooling, the pools of shade were long, the colors everywhere were sweet like a roast cooked in a clay oven for very many hours. Birds were singing and the tree leaves were chatting, the bushes and the climbers were letting of a scent extremely satisfying; one that had the texture of deep forest silence. I mean it had a quality where even though its constant  you feel that it is accelerating, as if your hearing is opening more and more in astonishment as such silence.
Or you might say that their scent felt as pleasant as are a load of white sheets washed hanging outside in the yard to dry, and dripping, on a scorching hot summer afternoon.

Frossa was about to go sit down on a dirt hill to enjoy what was around her comfortably when she was called over by a woman. She turned to see an older woman sitting on a porch chair with a tin tray on her lap and a simple kitchen knife peeling a pomegranate. Two more whole pomegranates were on the floor next to her feet and in front of her sat a little girl on a little yellow chair, watching, with her back very strait, watching her grandmother and eating the bits of pomegranate she was given.

‘Yes lass come over here’ the woman said again once Frossa turned towards them. ‘Can we treat you to something? Sit we have tea ready sit’.

‘I am not staying’ Frossa said as she walked over to the empty chair but the woman was already on her way getting the tea.
‘Thank you’ said Frossa peering in through the door of the kitchen. ‘I am Frossa’.

‘Fine lassie’ answered the woman. ‘Sit. This is my granddaughter FOTINI. We are just eating pomegranates. She can eat them all day, even the premature ones’.

Frossa smiled. For one because that is like talking even if you don’t know what to say, but mostly she was smiling because she felt how happy and complete these two people were there this afternoon. The grandma was peeling the pomegranate skillfully and beautifully with love and the kid watching and eating and asking questions. Watching the colors, her grandmother’s skill, and the sound of the seeds dropping into the thin tin tray. Perhaps they sat like that many afternoons. They looked so complete and so happy that for one, they didn’t need to have Frossa over, but she didn’t bother them being thee at all. Complete like the colors of sunset, satisfying like communion.

What happened next was most amusing to an outsider like Frossa and yet it was performed with such a matter- of-factness that it almost carried the pretext of comfortable boredom.

A young woman with curly hair, pink cheeks and a farmer’s walk came over to the house, said her hellos to Mrs. KYRIA FOTINI, and acknowledged the unknown Frossa. She then tapped on the shut window shutters.

‘I am coming’ came a voice from far inside the house. The sound of walking, and then the window was opened and a beautiful young woman, with olive skin and black eyes, a round face and sturdy figure hung out of the window holding a hair brush and brushing her long thick wet black hair.

‘I wont be a minute’ she said before noticing the unknown Frossa. She said hello and introduced herself as KAITI, pulled back into the house and shut the shutters. The farmer girl stood waiting.  

She came out again, this time to the door. She was angry. Her air felt as if she was whacking you across the face with her hair, her voice was like a slap.
‘FOTINI, where is my blue clip, give it back to me.”
‘Go inside’ interfered the grandmother. ‘I put your clip in your top drawer’ she said. Her air came in pushing the young woman’s air back, like a rubber lining, like an eraser takes back a sentence.

‘She better stop taking them’ KAITI added on her way back to the room. No one responded.

‘Are you coming to SOTIRI’S wedding Mrs. KYRIA FOTINI?’ asked the farmer girl while she was waiting. The grandmother and her talked about that for a bit, meanwhile, FOTINI listened, wondering why the farmer girl never brings them any oranges since she has so many trees. She thought about how her gran told her not to be stealing any since it’s not right. What a ceremony of smells-and-more is walking through those orchards!

‘What eyes the little girl has!’ thought Frossa. ‘You think that she will probably see everything during her lifetime.’

‘And how is your family? Your brothers?’ asked the grandma.

‘Well, my brother came today. It is a great day because I love him, and it is a sad day. My parents relationship and the house they hold has no joy. It is both stressful and depressing. They have nothing good that they share between them. Not a thing.
Each exchange between them feels like you are eating your least favorite food after you are stuffed. I have to suppress my reactions all day long. When my dad is here with us I feel suppressed. Attempts to oppress me I have to dodge or dismantle. I feel disappointed emotionally.
I feel a thick lump in my chest, just here in my ribs where my ribs first come together. It makes breathing bothersome.
It is the frustration, the hurt and the truth that I suppress.

I cannot just come out and say the truth for what it is because both my parents are vulnerable.
My father is oppressive and vulnerable.
I hate that.
How sedated I have become that I no longer speak my mind with him. That is a disappointment.

I feel guilty or ashamed of phrasing the truth for what it is, because my dad walks a clumsy walk on some crystal lies.

He is oppressive because he is a liar.
But this isn’t about them anymore. For me, it is about my brother whom they affect.
I carry this weight
On my back and in my chest
And I don’t know how to deal with it.
Is it ok that I tell you about it?’


Meanwhile, while the farmer girl spoke and KYRIA FOTINI listened to her, she had pulled a chair and sat near Frossa.
After that there was a pause during which no one spoke. And then came the sound of church bells ringing announcing the ending of that day. The bells rang sounding sweetly to the ears. It sounded as if all the sounds that were resting around that valley of houses were summoned together now to ring the church bells. They were gathered together will all the sounds that were chatting away with the land and the breeze, those standing around in the warmth of the evening. That whole family of sounds.

The birds heard the bells and chirped: ‘oh dear, is it time already? We had better go on our way, to the higher tree tops and prepare for the night.’

The breeze heard and it blew in collecting all the colors of the day and sweeping them onwards to their resting place.

KIRI AZIS heard the bells from within his house and put on the kettle. He brought in the washing he had just collected, and returned again to his doorstep to see if PAI TERIS and his other friends were already coming with their instruments to play with him. He didn’t see them in the horizon, but he went on and brought out his mugs and milk, and cushions for the chairs, because he knew they wouldn’t be long now.
He thought about PAI TERIS and of certain things that had happened between them. You might say that recently he has seen a side of his friend’s character that has disappointed him and in an important little way has made his heart recoil. Standing at his front door, he looked to the distant mountains and the cloud that was lowering on to them. He remembered something he had heard a man say in the market the other week, that ‘it is after you see the other persons limits that you can become genuine friends’.

Yes that’s true but no its not, he thought. He would see how the night went. If communication between the two would be good again, or if, in his shame regarding his feelings of withdrawal, KIRI AZIS would become polite.

KYRIA FOTINI and her company heard the bells and concluded their conversation as if that was the natural thing to do. KAITI came out to the verandah and the farmer girl stood up to join her. Both of them took a handful of peeled pomegranate seeds and concerned themselves with themselves. The sadness which had earlier lit up in the farmer girl’s eyes faded somewhat and left behind it only a slowness in her movements, though it was graceful slowness that suited her well.

Then came another sound, a happy one, one whose impact reached really only FOTINI. It was the sound of a small bell, ringing as a man pushed his cart down the road towards them. It was the ice-cream man. The excitement FOTINI felt was immediate. She began to look intensely concentrated and eager. ‘You’ve got time’ KYRIA FOTINI told her. ‘He is going to come down this way too. Go and get my purse, its on the table.’

And that is what happened. FOTINI met the ice-cream man, barefoot, ignoring her grandmother telling her to wear shoes. She brought back ice-cream, and one for Frossa who had said sure she would try one, and then sat alone at the other side of the house to eat it in peace, facing the fruit trees and playing with the dry earth with her feet. A fig tree stood with dignity near her, looking as if it loved her, and as if it felt satisfied and gratified to be present and offer fruit to the child.
Even the cement step FOTINI sat on and the marble of the upraised verandah she leaned her head against seemed as if they loved her and were fulfilling their nature by caring for her.

KYRIA FOTINI and Frossa were left alone. ‘Ok’, she said to Frossa, ‘look at what I am going to give you.’

‘You have come this way off to the left from the main path and that was good. It was nice having you and I have something to give you. But you ought not to continue any further towards the mountains. The forests are thick and many fantastical creatures live and work there. You don’t belong there and it is doubtful you would ever find your way out. Past that the mountains are steep and sharp and the fantastical creatures that live there can burn you with their breath, or crush your bones for the fun of seeing you spat. You don’t belong this way. You have a heart and a mind like no fantastical creature has, and if you plant them carefully, as humans should, a most beautiful flower will flower and its blossoms will be able to restore life to any dead person that eats them. The smell will be able to awaken any sleeping soul that passes by and smells it.’

‘But you must take care and work to raise what you can, what has been given to you. Otherwise it will be wasted and it will be a great shame. I know it will sadden the rocks both in your world of Men and in our world of the Fantastical. Go home and do your work. You don’t belong in these parts. It is as if you are trying to get to where you need to be, fast, but you choose to walk there backwards.’

‘Take this’. She took a kitchen cloth out of her large apron pocket. ‘When you lay it open on the table there will appear on it always something good and enough to eat. That way you can go home; even if there is a famine you will be ok. And if someone asks you for food you will have it to give them. Go home and don’t be afraid of hunger.’   

Sunday, December 26

a letter from a missing soldier


there is love in my heart
there is peace and joy
how can I leave that behind and join the world?

But how can I lock myself in myself and leave the world behind
And reality with it?
Is there love in that?

I cannot.
I need to keep the seeds in my heart alive
I need to keep it open so that the sun’s light can shine on them
And the summer rain relieve the soil.

And I must walk through this world and keep looking
Until I find a place
Until I reach a place
When the joy and the peace in my heart will be like unto the life, and the joy and the peace that sings outside, all around me
Until my soul finds its home
And my heart finds her brother and lover
And my mind finds friends

In that land that I don’t know how to find

Brothers, are you looking for me as I am looking for you?
I am here. I am still alive. Look for me. Don’t forget me.

Friday, December 24


how painfully beautiful, how varied, colorful, disturbing, and beautiful has my life been? 
So much so that it is painful.

What would my life have been if I hadn’t love these men and they hadn’t loved me? 
 But how can life go on after I’ve loved these men and we’ve shared so plentifully? 
How can life go on and leave them in the past, further into the past? 
How can I bear to leave each source-of-running-water-on-which-the-sun-lights-and-the-birds-by-sing? Each open wound? 
How can I leave it as something finished.

When will I see Karldon again? 
And when I see him will the world go-do-something and leave me near him, to touch his face, smell him and hug him.
Can I show him my heart and his room where he lives and matters?
Or will the world be so that I am not me and he he?
Will he be Married With Two Children and I With Boyfriend or What-have?’

Friday, December 17

The herdsmen

This is a story about some of the experiences that Frossa had had near the High-Caves, that is, before the river Clyde. It was a most interesting but dangerous time because the muddy patches were deep and your clothes and shoes grew heavy. Frossa had to find ways to be cleansed time and time again so as to avoid her clothes and hair from hardening and becoming useless.

The landscape repeated itself and it became increasingly difficult to navigate. Frossa had to rely on her own sense to direct her onwards whilst the landscape appeared to contradict her intentionally and to want to lead her back into the heart of the land.

All and all it is a frightening, confusing place and you do well to cross it as swiftly as possible. I suppose the most disturbing thing about it is that it is full with masses of people who stopped there to listen to the whispers of the trees, who indulged in one or another of the concerns they heard, and who have not since made efforts to come out of there.

The land is barren and many people have resorted to eating their own limbs at times of great hunger. As Frossa passed they called out to her to try this delicacy of theirs but fortunately she kept her hood over her head, her eyes lowered and her pace steady.

This is a story about crossing that place.

Cypriot Herdsmen
So much potential defused. So little possibility. 
They weave a roof of smoke and they keep smoking incase it dissolves. Keep up the fight.

A hierarchy of ‘ultra men’ with no real relationship to women. Maybe they talk about sex all day and they think they are the Ones but there is no such address. There is no maturity and no growth. They think they are liberated individuals and at the same time they take no responsibility. 

Sometimes they think they are insignificant individuals and they do not look to the sky to see that there is no such race. They are not all like that but the ones she cares about are.

Such de-capacitating lies about Manhood, about women. It is sad to see the guts of your men rot from the toxic fuse and their minds melt a green and oozy yellow. It is sad.

I have not seen a clear night in a long time. I see dust on people’s faces. I breathe it in through my nose and my lungs are made heavy. I want to be rinsed inside and out. I want to breath the fresh air and dress in clean and comfortable clothing. Where will my heart rest and plant scentfull flowers?


Who has my fate in their hand
and runs with it? Is it an angel running
through fire, or is it a blind man on his

Thursday, December 16

being in love

i think the feeling of being in love is the feeling of excitement about Sharing with the other person.

sharing your future
your home
your life
your dreams about the future
the happiness you imagine you will have when you have kids

sharing your thoughts
your feelings
your ideas

your heart
your body
your mind

what do you think being in love is?

Tuesday, December 14


How grand a goddess
How strong a knight
How clean you make the heart
What a good sense of style you have,
Oh! How well you arrange the furniture in my soul

Kindness, you make love possible
For people whom I couldn’t reach without you no matter how I stretched

Kindness, you make happiness possible
How you let me share the space with people whom I could not accept by myself because I am dry, and hurt.

Oh kindness, how when one dares to reach for you
You pull them up
And let them cry tears of joy.
That rain that washes out our hearts.

Oh kindness! You know that I want to love him but that I don’t know how to
And I want to save him from lovelessness
I want to stamp on the crawlies that crawl up his legs
And you let me.
You show me how

You take my message across the space
That I cannot take there without you.

Dear Brian, 2009

I know you know

To write a good book you have to spit blood. I mean you have to be real honest. I’ve been trying to write as ‘silently’ as possible, to get it all out (all my feelings) but say as little as possible. Because I don’t want to hurt anyone by thinking anything I judge as inappropriate. I, the great judge.

Brian, when you read a good book and finish it, and you feel that moment of satisfaction, do you know what struggles and pain the writer went through to write that? Writing is like wrestling with yourself, where you never have the strength to win the fight.

I wonder (as you might) why do I bother writing when I have such trouble with it? I just always have, ever since I became literate really, I start writing books and then I stop and dismiss them as nonsense.   

Another thing to wonder, is why am I telling you this? I think it’s because if I don’t tell you I wont tell anyone. I’ll hold these thoughts face down into my organic swimming pool until they stop kicking.

I sweat when I write. I give myself abuse, I criticize everything. The only reason I got this far and wrote so much is because I was pretending I wasn’t listening. When I express myself clearly in writing I feel shocked and embarrassed, as if I’d walked in and turned on the lights to find my dad kissing the pool man.

I feel like I am a shadow of the person that I should be. I think that this has come to be because I don’t express myself well. I am afraid of making myself understood and I am ashamed. So therefore my whole system does not work as it should anymore. Things don’t come in as they should, get processed as they should or come out. Think of it as your metabolism. Imagine you hadn’t shat in years.

Dear Brian, I am going to sleep now before dawn breaks. But I promise us now that (come morning) I am going to take this horseshit I have written and open it up for you to read.

Right now it is written like a dead person holds on to a biscuit in their post-mortem stiff fist. But I am going to take each section and un-seal its meaning if it’s the last thing I do. God! It is going to be the most gruesome exercise. My stomach will quinch and my mind will twitch. In fact I feel the sourness of fear already!

How great!

I am repulsed to express how I feel and I am genuinely afraid to express what I think. But rather than live clogged up I am going to take this risk.   

Sunday, December 12

Then and now (or, an ode to the art muse)

Take some points and make a form.
Make a form and give it a name
Blow life into it
Let it recognize you
Let it be independent and free and living, intelligent, and beautiful
So its recognition of you will matter.

Make a lover.
Have a person see you and love you.

or, rather than make him,
Find him out there looking.

Then, and now.
There is a spirit out there bigger than my heart
Of different nature from my heart,
I can’t contain it
It feels like it will explode me
All I can do is look at its shadow after it has passed,
Imagine it before it comes
And still
My heartbeat swells in my ribs, and it might break

What can I do?
I can close my eyes
And let the music carry me.
Let the art around me carry me
On its back
Relish my two tears
Feel in touch with this great love that I haven’t seen or touched
The love behind the shadows that my eyes see
Behind the illusions my hands touch

Memories from the years before come to me traveling in the mist of this Unknown love. I feel I need to communicate, to create,
To speak, or to touch
Though never is there anyone here
or anything here to be touched
or to hear my memory
nor can I create for I have no art.
If I had a guitar and I could make music I would spill everything I have into the music flow

I am outside, I am not on the inside.
The music does not contain me
I cannot make it
I am an outsider
A beggar
At the feet of this Unknown feeling of great happiness that comes sometimes
With memories from the past
And oppresses my heart
That lets me feel so useless and incapable of participating
Of touching
Of speaking it
Or making the art
Of stepping outside of time and space

incapable of walking over to where the love is,
going and touching it.

I am a prisoner of time and reality.
I am chained at the hands and feet.
I am in a long chain and we are dragged on and we are made to keep moving
And I walk past the landscape
And in the land and in the sky I see beautiful beings
And times
So beautiful
And loveable
And my heart breaks
And the Shadow of this Uknown immense joy suppresses my heart.
I want to break free from my chains
From the chains of time and space and reality!
I want to stop this procession
And break free.
I want my hands free
And my legs free
To walk over to that beautiful
Beautiful being from my memory
And caress him
And speak to him face to face, one person to another
I want to hold him and be honest

I am a prisoner, bound hands and feet in this chain of time and space we call reality. I am dragged along
I can look around me at the landscape and it breaks my heart

I don’t know what breaks my heart more
Is it the happy things I see? The loveable, the beautiful things I see?
Or is it the dry dead filthy things.

I walk on past and I cant touch any of them. I cannot stop to talk with any of them.
And my fellow prisoners
Are just that
Fellow prisoners

You taunt me Uknown beauty
You come to me only as a memory
You come to me as a dream and a beauty out of my reach
You touch my heart but you wont let me touch you

My hands and feet are chained in time and space
And you let me feel like the past is real
Like all that beauty is there in the field before me
Only I cant go there.

I see you beautiful past
I see you, o souls of all those beautiful people
All of you souls who tried
And made something beautiful
All of you who made music
And art
And beauty of your lives
I see you
And I love you
And I live my life to honor you
And when ever I see you as I pass by the road chained
Restrained like a prisoner
I cry with gladness and I am overwhelmed

But I cannot touch you
I cannot come over and speak to you.
Face to face,
Like to persons
Like only the children of Gods can ever do.

I can bear the weight of your beauty
And I can persevere
And I can work with my head down
And maybe you will come to me
And talk to me

There is a chance
That peace will come in my life
There is a chance
That my song will come out to you
That we will meet one day
One day
We might meet
There, in the center of the world
In that sunny valley

I do not know how, 
I don’t know how I could come to be there in the valley
I cannot imagine it
How I will stand one day
Free from the chains of time and space!
and all of the beautiful beings will be there around me
And I can go over and speak with them
And we wont be restrained
And we wont belong to anyone
And all the possibilities of good things will be realized
All of them
And nothing will be wasted
And nothing will be a shame.
Unknown Lover, you taunt me and you oppress my heart with your beauty
But what can I do but bear it quietly?
What can I do but walk through the snow and strive?
What can I do but wait?
And hope.

I don’t know who you are
I don’t know what you want from me
Do you want my soul o Art?
What can I do but wait?

You sit on my chest
And you have my mind sitting like an imbecile sucking on its lolly.
What do you want from me overwhelming feeling of lost untouched beauties?
You taunt me
And you oppress my heart
With the shadow of beauty
I can only bow down to, and beg like a beggar
I can only look on the feast of the could-have-been-but-can-never-be
And walk on
Like the chained prisoner that I am
In the chain of time
And space.

02. December 2010

Friday, December 10

folk music sings about sparrows

Madam, why do you sing a love song to a sparrow and not to a man?
Why do you say he asked you to prepare the nest
Rather than to open your heart and your door because he is coming?

I sing to a sparrow because everyone here knows him
Because I want to describe him as beautiful as I see him,
but I cannot say his name here.
I want to speak of our love
But I may not say a thing.

When a lover leaves

None of the things you think when a lover leaves you are true

None of those truths you feel so surely are true


it’s not a crying out shame that he left

it’s not to his obvious detriment that he didn’t love you

it’s not because he is deluded now, but the truth of your Love will come back one day and strike him

hammer him on the head,

stab him in the heart

make his other lovers pale into Indifferent


the only thing that I know was true is the pain

the very real pain that I felt

the needles in my heart that made me cry a river

the heavy metal door that slammed shut

that shut out all of my previous life

everything I had known and earned before I knew him

all of my comforts


the door that shut for ever and left me standing exposed alone in the cold windy Scottish rain.


How glad I am now

How grown I am now

How liberated I am now

How free

How happy

Now that I have lost everything and made it again with nothing.


How warm the heat of the fire

How colorful the smell of the wood

How filling my soup