mentira

one night the moon rose and it was half black and half white: balance.
people still stood inside, watching something on their screens.
the moon kept hiding the light of the stars, for some to witness.
cops
ecology
economy
crisis
war
love
work
creativity

unite and separate
cut and tie together
be alone (truly) and be with others
always music
rare moments of silence
alcohol (will I get to be a bukovski?)

effort to observe; record; remember; know; understand-
love and faith. trustfloating; flowing outwards, inwards, around and back again
movement and stillness. same and different; again and again.
a circle, a spiral, yes, at its center crouches nothing, everything, our hollow selves, our ever-inspired souls, our loss, our salvation.

who are we? whose true children? where are those roots, we all sprouted from?

my hands reach the sky like willowy branches of a timeless tree, whose roots I cannot see, my siblings branches cannot touch but some, and have birds perching on me, singing our determined fate, the uncertainty of our existence, the flying joys and our swingeing sorrows

things aren't always what they seem

Once upon a time there was a big bad wolf. He was all big and bad, and black, pitch black like the night; the night without stars..but his teeth were shiny like the stars, all white and bright..and that wolf, he threaded pieces of meat with these teeth, his fearsome teeth..but at night when he went to his bed, he cried, he cried his eyes out..the big bad wolf was afraid of people..and he tried, he tried hard to stay away from them, and deny..deny his fate
this big bad wolf was alone, and black, pitch black like the night, and he didn't want to go outside, not at night..the other animals wouldn't see him, and he'd feel ashamed..

Once upon a time there was a big bad wolf; this big bad wolf had long gone left the forest and stayed in the city. he was feeding himself with leftovers, chances for game were scarce to none, and he had to lower himself to the life of his distant brothers, aka dogs.
so, he lived in the city, trying to stay alive, and decent. we must say he was doing much better at the first. some days, the really bad ones, he was thinking back in his time in the woods..some days were really hard to bare, impossible not to become reminiscent..so, one of these days, he thought back to his life in the forest..when he was young and strong and wild..and game was abundant..that old memory of self made him feel content. for a moment or so, he forgot his defeated body and soul, and felt again young and strong and wild..soon though he would escape from the old vision and would be struck again with the harshness of his reality, his discouraging surroundings..a sigh would leave his body puffed out..
he would then take the closest turn into a cold, dark, damp street and get lost in the less bright part of the city..when night fell, and the moon was playing with the clouds, he'd try to go up..the only nights he felt rooted again. from the top of a building he'd look up..he'd look up with his eyes open wide, his mouth firmly closed, his two front feet locked on the ground and he'd empty his mind..he was taking a long and steady look at the moon, without blinking, until his eyes became watery and his vision blurred, to the point where the only visible and perceived object was the moon and everything else took the shape that his mind gave it..he would see tall, old trees, where the skyscrapers stood; and all the lights red, and white, and yellow, were fires and eyes from night's predators..and all the vibration of the city was the vibration of the forest..even more the beat of the jungle, which he didn't know, but he felt it inside of him..he stood there, with his ears, attentively drawn on every little noise, making out the street's fuss a wind's blast through the branches..he would wait. he would wait. for the vision to end. and then he would do his ritual to the moon..he would take a long, deep breath; it would begin in a low voice coming from his belly, and then it would rise, the air slowly filling his lungs, until it would be released through a pursed mouth to a long, sighing howl, carrying a thousand pains. all the bad ghosts would flee his soul and he'd feel a little lighter..

A

Δώς μου λίγη απ' τη χρυσόσκονη σου. νιώθω τόσο μουντή.

haumea

rain, brain, chain, pain, vain, complain, remain, stain, villain, entertain,

pain pain a song in my brain,
forever remain, the same , the sane, the sage
afraid, afraid, afraid, ready to refrain, not to remain
true to myself
obtain obtain obtain
a fake i.d.
remain remain remain the same
don't be afraid of the growing pain
in vain in vain in vain
you sing your songs of staying sane..
the main the main the main problem
with your brain..
afraid afraid afraid..
of the chain..the chain..
what chain? remain remain..silent!
penetrate....-
concentrate-

old stuff

Το παρακάτω είναι παλιότερο χρονικά από την τελευταία ανάρτηση, αλλά για λόγους που δε μου αποκαλύφθηκαν, το βρήκα ξανά στο κλασικό ημερολόγιο μου μόλις σήμερα. Το παραθέτω, γιατί και για εδώ προοριζόταν.



11/03/09
Εδώ και 4 ημέρες ήμουν άρρωστη. Ήθελα να γράψω στο blog, αλλά η έλλειψη σύνδεσης δε μου το επιτρέπει.
Μετά από 4 ημέρες σωματικής ανημπόριας, κατά διαστήματα πυρετού, υπερέκθεσης σε trash τηλεοπτικά προγράμματα, νιώθω ότι έχω ανάγκη από μουσική, καινούρια μουσική. Ό,τι έχω μες στο laptop μου, το άκουγα σε άλλες φάσεις, άλλες διαθέσεις, εξυπηρετούσε άλλες ανάγκες. Τώρα, που νιώθω ότι πέρασα ένα "σκάμμα" και βγήκα στην άλλη πλευρά έχοντας αφήσει κάτι πίσω και φέρνοντας μαζί κάτι νέο, θέλω κάτι καινούργιο να νανουρίζει το μυαλό μου, να μουδιάζει τις αισθήσεις μου. Γιατί να θέλω όμως κάτι να μουδιάζει τις αισθήσεις μου? Μήπως είναι τόσο οξυμένες που με πονάνε; όχι, όχι κάθε άλλο. Είναι ήδη μουδιασμένες, είναι ήδη από καιρό νωθρές. Λες να έφταιξε αυτό που έφτασα σ' αυτό το σημείο, σ'αυτή τη χώρα της αμνησίας, της αν-αισθησίας; Γιατί όταν δε μπορώ να μοιράζομαι τα αισθήματα μου, τ'αφήνω να μαραίνονται λες και δεν έχουν καμιά αξία μόνα τους; Μήπως εγώ η ίδια σαμποτάρω τις προσπάθειες μου να γίνω καλύτερος άνθρωπος; Κι αυτό το "καλύτερος άνθρωπος".....τι σημαίνει; Τι σημαίνουν όλες μας οι προσπάθειες; και για τα απλά και για τα σύνθετα...Πότε ήταν η τελευταί φορά που ένιωσα...θεϊκη χαρά; Ευδαιμονία; ίσα με τη ζωή; Που είδα κάτι εκστατική; Σαν παιδί αθώα; Γιατί χρειάζομαι τους άλλους; Κι οι άλλοι, (γιατί) με χρειάζονται λιγότερο απ' ότι εγώ;
Γεμίζω σελίδες μ' ανόητες επαναλαμβανόμενες ερωτήσεις και μόλις λίγος καιρός περάσει, ξαναγυρνάω να τις διαβάσω, μπας και ανακαλύψω κάποιο απόσταγμα σοφίας. Οι λέξεις άραγε είναι όπως τα σταφύλια; Ζυμώνονται όσο τις αφήνεις κάπου; Αλλάζουν; Μετασχηματίζονται; Μεταμορφώνονται; Λένε πια κάτι διαφορετικό απ' αυτό που είχαν πει στην αρχή; Ή έχουν αυτήν τη δύναμη/δυνατότητα μόνο πριν μπουν στο χαρτί, μόνο πριν καταγραφούν;
Το τσιγάρο μου καίει το λαιμό. Πρέπει, πραγματικά είναι ανάγκη, σε λίγο καιρό από τώρα (το πολύ 2 χρόνια) να κανω κάτι, επαγγελματικά, με ελεύθερο ωράριο. Να πρέπει να δίνω αναφορά, να μην μπορώ να ησυχάσω ούτε μες στην αρρώστια μου..απαράδεκτο.

7 ώρες δουλειάς
7-8 ώρες ύπνου
14-15 ώρες που υπάρχεις και "κάνεις" κάτι στο οποίο δε συμμετέχεις 100%. Μ' ένα μυαλό είτε προγραμματισμένο να δουλεύει έτσι είτε μισοκοισμένο. Κι οι υπόλοιπες 9-10 ώρες δανείζονται αυτόν τον υπνωτισμένο, χαζό εγκέφαλο για να εξυπηρετήσουν εσένα και το δημιουργικό εαυτό σου. Πόσο δημιουργικός μπορείς όμως να είσαι μ' αυτό το μυαλό που έχει καεί απ'το να "τρέχει" τέτοια προγράμματα;
Κάποτε η φαντασία μου κάλπαζε ολη τη μέρα και έφτανε στη νύχτα ακούραστη. Τα όνειρα μου ήταν τόσο ζωντανά.