Wednesday, December 21

ena fili apo mia fili

sthn athhna eimai kainourgia. niotho kainourgia. psari. 
i am not loving it or hating it.. i am just standing  there- staring at this weird city-creature breathing heavily around me . i am just watching it. 
watchinv the rude ppl- watching the girls with the too much make up- watching the hippy-foititokosmo. the old men flirting like they are teenagers. pou oullos o kosmos opoias dipote ilikias mila sta handfree esto tzai an den exoun na kratoun tipote tzai apla perpatoun mes to dromo- the complexarismenous antres pou nomizoun oti an en lion eygenikoi enna tous poume gay. tzai ton omorfo kosmo. eshi  polla omorfo eksoterika kosmo. esoterika en ksero, tous metanastes /tsigganous pou kikloforoun me ta karotsakia tou superparket tzai anakatefkoun ta skoupithkia gia pramata na poulisoun tzai siderika ktl. 

h sygkatoikish paei kala, emena irte mou polla naturally tzai en ediskoleftika katholou.

eimai noikokira. sazw to spiti tzai mairefko.prepei na to paradexto. alla its not as boring as it sounds. i wish i never had to work again andi could spend my time cooking cleaning and studying.
i am not studying anything though.

 my mind is blank most of the time and i am over analysing my self and my situation and i am stuck in the favlos kiklos . this of course hasnt started now.. its been going on for a while and i remeber expressing it to you and talking how feel like  " skeftoume mono to kolo mou ouli mera" remeber ? ok its abit less now but i still feel it. i might be becoming boring

i am still failing, most of the time, to see and interact with anything that doent directly touch my everyday life.. no not even that ..that doent touch/offend or μειωνει me.

i might need another book recomendation from you.

now YOU tell me more
 exw tzai alla na sou pw alla siga siga.. twra epias me se fasi ranting

Thursday, December 15


to have one's face turned towards God
and their heart raised on high
and their hands towards other people
is the only way for man to stand up strait. 

Friday, December 9

a third dedication

The Heart Can Change Several Times In One Moment

The heart can change several times in one moment:
to good or evil,
to faith or unbelief,
to simplicity or cunning,
to love or hatred,
to benevolence or envy,
to generosity or avarice.

O, what inconstancy
O, how many dangers
O, how sober and watchful we must be

 - Father John of Kronstad - 

a second dedication


Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
 but have not love,
 I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.

And though I have the gift of prophecy,
 and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, 
and though I have all faith, 
so that I could remove mountains, 
but have not love, 
I am nothing.

And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor,
and though I give my body to be burned,
 but have not love, 
it profits me nothing.

Love suffers long and is kind;
love does not envy;
love does not parade itself, is not puffed up;
does not behave rudely,
does not seek its own,
is not provoked,
thinks no evil;
does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;
bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails.
But whether there are prophecies, they will fail;
whether there are tongues, they will cease;
whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away.
For we know in part and we prophesy in part.

But when that which is perfect has come,
then that which is in part will be done away.
When I was a child, I spoke as a child,
I understood as a child, I thought as a child;
but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.
Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

- St. Paul - 

Thursday, December 8

I know a gypsy girl

I knew a gypsy girl,
when I was in Athens working at a restaurant.
I was young, and she was younger,
a child.
She would come to see me
She called me her friend.
She showed me the secrets of that city.
Behind little doors and under little tires,
where she played, and worked, and spent her days.
Treasures of glass that she held dear
The secret spaces, where the world was hers
Where the sun reached and flowers grew.

She gave me a gift once.
With pride and happiness, and the excitement of a child, she brought me a present.
I took it and gladly I said thank you.
After all, that girl truly was my friend.
Behind the doors of closed closets and under little tires, where purity grew and flowers blossomed,
she liked me and we were friends.

What she gave me was a skirt, a mini skirt,
of such ‘bad quality’ that it looked like something a street-walker might wear.
I knew I would never put it on,
but I smiled
and I said thank you
and I was glad for the gift.
But I have lost that gift. I probably gave it away, since I knew I would never put it on.
And how ashamed I am now!
And how I regret that now!
How my memory of her that is happy, is mixed with sadness, and it bring me tears.
How now, I would give my whole closet full to have that skirt again,
And I would wear it with pride.

I saw a gypsy girl once
When I was in Athens working at a restaurant.
A young woman, a small little lady
With a bucket of roses resting on her hip
hugging it with her arm for some comfort some support.
With hair bleached the color of gold
A young girl growing up
A young fresh face

I was working, serving at the square
I saw her standing there, facing an older man
He sat across her with some others
He was very very nervous
He was very very insolent
He leaned back in his chair, he was very stiff
He played aggressively with his kompoloi to look calm
He looked very upset.

He said to her: ‘I don’t know you. I don’t know her. I have never seen you before’
His voice was loud
It wanted to affirm
It wanted to push her
It wanted everyone to believe with certainty.
He didn’t want that moment between them to seem at all intimate.

She teased him. She stayed there and playfully teased him
With a smiling face.
Wasn’t it because she was shocked?
Wasn’t it because she felt the frost?
And the frost coming over her stopped her?
She smiled but wasn’t she sad?  
In that moment, wasn’t she learning,
That a man’s lie can be so very hard?

I should have hugged her, I should have cried for her her tears
I left her there, in all the violence, with only her bucket to hold her
(And those tears I never cried drown my liver)

How can I forget that?
People, how can we forget her?
How can we forget that?
Do you think that any house you build, however high,
Any carpet you lay,
Any silly old thing you get,
Any success you have,
Do you think that might delete this MINUTE?

Do you think you can get far away,
Do you think you can wash that?

look up, and look at the sun. It still
You will be six feet under.
That is, with six feet of soil above you.
And you will hear the bacteria of the earth speaking.
They will say: ‘we saw this little girl, she roamed in the city and she collected treasures. In her memory she kept all the gifts, all of the treasures that God let her see!’
And you will say: ‘When!?, Where?!, I never saw that’
And you will say: ‘I had my own gold’
And they will say: ‘we had that for breakfast’

Wednesday, December 7

I am in an ocean of sin

I have been false myself
Fake, unreliable

I took men’s hearts, I ate them, then I got up and ran without paying
Like as Italians do when they come to the Greek islands
And they laugh as they run down the pebbled streets, and they feel proud of pulling off this cheat and being cleverer than the restaurant people. But actually it isn’t funny.

My falseness was vast, like an ocean
My fakeness runs deep, like the sea.

Whom can I judge and whom can I accuse when my own wound is so big that the whole place stinks?
I don’t judge you people, I warn you
I tell you, I have a noose around my neck
It is at the end of a chain
Every person I have yet hurt
Every time I was fake
Is a loop holding me down.
Every sin I have is like a rock in my stomach and I cannot digest it.
Every time I get too high, the hands of those I have cheated grasp at my clothes.
I cannot fly I am not free
Every one who has tasted my falseness is a voice in my ear.

You, and you, I see your face. Still. And always I will. You make me humble

Friend, if you can hear me, only the Good can set you free. Only rising to a standard beyond ones self can make man as he should be.
I am chained to the floor,
And as made of soil, I sink into the dust.
But look beyond that mountain,
There is a light!

to my fellow man

Man, pettiness has you by the balls
kick off that shit
loose that slave-driver

Look at the names of art.

This Space is mine and I need to use it. I need to write something down where I can see it. I need to reflect myself and make a fake friend for myself
Because I need to be seen and there is no one to see

Space on this sheet open wide
Open your wideness
Your whiteness
And fit the whole of me
Allow me to be on you, forgive me

White sheet, Act of Poetry
Love me
Let me be open with you.
Let me be myself with you.

People cannot love
People cannot see
People cannot know
They don’t look they don’t care
They care about themselves
Men do not love
They are trapped by their vices
They don’t love they are blind
They are hurtful

I will try again
I will try again and again
For people.
I am a person, I will look, I will see, I will love I will know another
Because I know that’s important I know it is needed
To love will be the only value of my life
Otherwise everything else is nothing

But sheet, white sheet, large paper space
Let me rest on you
Le me recover with you
Let me be on you
Care for me enough to let me just be here.

Paper paper, Act of Art,
You always serve me well.
Act of Art, The Molding of Matter, The Use of Stuff
You are a Blessing,
A Gift
A Space where I can be, where I can rest
Art, you always answer me, whenever I call.
You are a loyal friend, a perfect tool, a gift.

I respect your integrity Art.
You have saved me again and again.


In this little place
In this tiny space
I put everything that I have
I shine my light
I rest my might

In this little room


I was sitting, somewhere safe, I let my structures fall, my thick skin was thin, I spread to fill it all. I didn’t need to gather.
I sit on the floor, under a window.
And a sound comes in, a voice comes in, ridding on the back of a melody. Riding, on the back of carpet of magic.
Another person, another person’s Art, travels in
It crosses space
It crosses time
It melts walls
It dissolves the thick blocks of fat
It burns through them with a fire gun
Another person, another person’s art, comes in through the window and it comes to me!
Another soul
Another being
Floats in
It lifts me!
I get up. What pleasure, how great.
My heart is lifted on high
My eyes rise up
This world is still alive
There were other people, they lived
There are other people, they live
There will be other people, they will live
I am one of those people
I will be one of those people
I will live.


Art, Art, you are my dear friend.

But if someone wants to hide in you, you swallow them up.
You keep them in your thick embrace
They hide their face behind their finger, you comfort them.

Don’t hide me art
Don’t keep me out
Don’t keep me away
Don’t let me not do my tasks or not know others
Just love me art, and let me be myself when no one else will.
Talk with me when no one else will

Strengthen me art, don’t indulge me in my weakness.
I won’t go too deep in to you Art
I want to be here where the sky meets the earth
Where God made man
And men meet each other.
Come here and by my friend art, where I am, for I don’t belong to you, I belong to Another. 


I have friends all over the world.
They make their art and I make mine.

Monday, December 5

why aren't you ready?

You asked God for something – a partner ala proper.
It came.
And your answer is ‘I am not ready’?
Why are you not ready?
Go and sort this with your heart.
What have you been doing with your time that was more worthwhile than preparing yourself to love others?
And where is your courage frightened and hurt child?
Go and sort,
and if this window opens again,
be ready.

Saturday, December 3

a short poem

I dropped a jug and I broke it
There was milk in it


I didn’t have sin, but I picked it up
And then I carried it with me and passed it on to others.
Anything you touch with dirty hands is dirtied.
Everything contaminated harms.
I need a good wash.
I need to burn up all sin with fire.
For who can go on hurting others and not become crazy?

What you said yesterday

I have been thinking about something you said yesterday. We were talking about how you would get angry, about how I felt trapped and shocked. You said I flirted with Hugo. I said that rather, I was happy to see him because I was in a horrible situation with no one to talk to and I needed air. I talked with him happily, I was glad when he was there, because you didn’t yell in front of him, and I felt safer when he was there.

I said I was traumatized and I didn’t know how to deal with you, how to treat you. And you said this: that everything would have been ok if I had approached you and relaxed you and made you feel better, that you would have felt more confident, we would have had some good sex and the problem would have dissolved. Your anger would have relaxed. You said you don’t blame me, because I was young, and yes, of course I didn’t know how to treat you. So it’s ok that I couldn’t do that then. You said that since then you have met kinder women who have shown you such gentleness.

This has been bothering me and I want to tell you how I feel. And you may disregard it if you like.

You were angry and would become jealous and would attack me emotionally, yell at me for hours. Most of the time I didn’t know why we were fighting, and I didn’t know what to do to stop it. So I would sit quietly and wait, but this made you more angry because I wasn’t engaging with you. The only times you would stop being aggressive and turn to being nice to me where the times I started crying. Somehow you liked that.

We have talked about this before. We agreed that we both had our problems then that we brought into the relationship, most of which didn’t have to do with Us (one-another), and that it got out of control. Neither of us knew how to deal with it. We agreed that it is wrong to place blame, because we both made mistakes and we didn’t know then how to handle it. I didn’t know how to handle you. I didn’t know how to manage you. I was shocked and scared of you exploding at any time without reason, and I was living in you room, in a city and a country where I didn’t know anyone. Where you accused me of flirting whenever I spoke to someone, so I was cut off from other people. In a room, where you told me not to meddle with your things. I left when I could and I never wanted to look back. And the thought of being with you smelt of death for years.

This much we have said already.

I want to tell you how I feel about what you said yesterday; that everything would have been ok if I had approached you and relaxed you and made you feel better, that you would have felt more confident, we would have had some good sex and the problem would have dissolved. Your anger would have relaxed. You said you don’t blame me, because I was young, and yes, of course I didn’t know how to treat you. So it’s ok that I couldn’t do that then. You said that since then you have met kinder women who have shown you such gentleness.

If somehow I had found a way, with a bit of humor, to put your aggression towards me aside. If I had had the skill to reach out and touch you from across this black crack that grew between us. If I had somehow taken down your emotional fist and had come closer, and had made you feel that I liked you, that I was happy to be near you, that I enjoyed you and admired you. That I was pleased with your presence. If only I had known how to manage you, and relax you, to release your tension, to pause everything and have a satisfying sexual experience with you, I would have successfully brought out your sweetness towards me. Like beauty and the beast, who found a prince inside the monster. Like the frog who is only a frog until a girl gives his slimy face true loves kiss.

I feel that this is a colonialist’s, a patriarch’s point of view. It is the view of a Man, who is the 1st sex, who has a woman by him, below him. I feel that it is hurtful, and undermining. I feel that you are telling me to be your poutana (in the wider sense of the word.) let me explain. I hope I can explain it well. This is colonialism, and patriarchy. It is poutanio, the new order of the day for women.

Poutanio: the new sexism.

This is what women keep telling me. They all say this: men are all the same in the following: Their ego is very important to them. You need to feed it, even just that little. It is the key to men. You need to manipulate them a little. That is what they want. They want you to caress their ego a little and then ask them for what you want. Get it from them, but all the while make them feel that they thought of it themselves. That they brought it out from the goodness of their heart. That that is how men work.

That’s what all women say. They say this because it is the ‘collective’ wisdom about how to get along better with our men. And all sorts of women tell to me as advice, to help me in my relationships. And I say no. I can’t accept this. I can’t treat a man like that, because I wouldn’t want to be manipulated. Because I think that it is disgusting, because if that worked then I wouldn’t respect them as people. Anyway, I say, I don’t believe that all men are like that. I don’t want such a man. I want someone who doesn’t want that for himself. I want an equal, who will treat me as an equal. I want a relationship between two adults, a man and a woman who are healthy and want to share with each other, and love one another as people. And women say: well, I don’t think so. All men are like that.

And men tell me the same thing with their action over and over again. They show it in their choices of partner, they show it in their exclamations, like you did in yours.

I was 18 and I wanted these things. If I had been like that, really, it would have been sad. I would have had to have been raised in poutanio. I have always struggled to be who I am. I have made choices, often alienating ones, so as to evolve the way I have, to be honest to my growth. But the world rejects it. Am I insensitive, or cold? I don’t think so. In fact, I believe that the kindest thing I can do for people, for men, is to give them what I think will really allow them to grow and mature healthily. I avoid manipulation.

What you ask of me is perhaps what your mom should have done. Not because she is a woman who is there to make you feel good. Because she was the adult and you were the child and she should have taught you that love is selfless. It should have cost her nothing to put her own issues behind her and treat you with love.

I am these things. I have these 3 things to offer and men keep telling me to be a slave. Does anyone want me to be free? Can they love me so? Is freedom selling your self cheaply to many and getting nothing real from no one. I don’t want that. If men want me to die for them, I am saddened.

I am who I am with my faults. But I treated you as an equal and you are so sure that I haven’t. Like a beast that never sleeps you cynically tore everything about me apart to show up my inadequacy and my dirty heart. And then when people seek to manipulate you and use you you like it and respect them.

What should I feel? What should I expect from the world? How can I be happy about growing, when you, whose intelligence I respect, who cares about the world and cares about justice tells me these things. And its not just you. But from you I want more. What can I expect from the world as a woman? My dad says that a woman’s value is until about 30 (while she still looks good) then she is bothersome and petty. He is dating some girl, some dumb slut (for lets call things by their name) who looks 15. What does that tell me?

You say in your song that you want to burn the kapare, and hit the kaparetzides over the head. Have you ever loved a woman enough to wish to see her grow out of this sexually subjugated world? Have you ever loved me?

Would I do it now that I am older?

It is more women teach other women how to be oppressed – more so than men. My grandmother taught me how to be subordinate. Why is that? Because she cared about me I know. Because she wanted to keep me out of harms way, out of the highway of violence. She taught me everything she knew so that I could get by. I am ever so grateful. But don’t you wish she had taught me obedience rather than subservience? Or maybe she did, and I didn’t understand.

I talk about love. But what is it?

What is oppression? It is when you don’t let the other person express and share their good skills, their human capabilities? Because everyone needs to realize themselves and be happy.