Υπερπτήσεις

Stubborn is my language,
more vigorous than geography

Γιατί, εν όσω μακράν, ψιθυρίζει κι όταν κοντά πια (ήδη μεταξύ του εδώ και του εκεί), στρέφεται στο δικό της αντίλαλο και φτιάχνει την επικράτεια του προσωπικού. Δε χαρίζεται στην ευκολία του αυτονόητου και της επικοινωνίας. Όταν στην Αθήνα, επιμένει να κρατά έναν τόνο βορειοελλαδίτικο, όταν στη Θεσσαλονίκη, ακοθγεται ως πιο κλασσικός μέσος όρος κι από τις φωνές των εκφωνητών των κρατικών ραδιοφώνων, όταν στο Αμμάν, επιχειρεί ερμηνείες ελληνικών όρων και τρόπων της έκφρασης, όταν στην Ελλάδα, κάποτε στη σκέψη, προχωρώ ερμηνεύοντας με τα αγγλικά, επίπεδα και με το αναίσθητο σθένος του συλλογισμού. Εν ολίγοις, με τα τερτίπια της που πολλαπλασιάζονται συν τω χρόνω, φτιάχνει το νησί της νεοπαγές, με τα ευμετάβλητα ακρογιάλια του μάγματος καθώς στερεώνεται και ψύχεται. Μα στην υπερπτήση μου, υπάρχει ένας κρατήρας ζωντανός. Όταν ξεφεύγω από τις ευθείες παραλίες του Ισραήλ και της Παλαιστίνης, όταν φεύγω πια από την Αφροδίσια Κύπρο και μπαίνω στο Αιγαίο με του Ικάρου τα αβέβαια κατορθώματα, εντείνεται η αγωνία μου να δω από το παράθυρο καθώς εγκύπτω το σχήμα της Αμοργού, να το αναγνωρίσω. Συνήθως το σχήμα της Αστυπάλαιας με προειδοποιεί, ένα φιογκάκι χάρης. Και ψάχνω για τις μικρές λεπτομέρειες. Τώρα η Χοζοβιώτισσα, τώρα η Χώρα, τώρα τα Κατάπολα, κι έπειτα πια τίποτα, ξανασυγυρίζω το μυαλό μου στρέφόμενος στην ανοικτή σελίδα των Jordan Times που με ενημερώνει για τα τελευταία νέα από τα Ανάκτορα και τις συναντήσεις υπουργών με οικονομικούς και διπλωματικούς παράγοντες. Πάντα ο Ίκαρος έχει τα φτερά του κέρινα, λίγη ζέστη παραπάνω τον εκθέτει σε κινδύνους.

Museum

Το μουσείον (μούσα-Muse): the thing with the greek words that travel through secret ways (renaissance ways, classicism high-ways and romanticism avenues mostly) to/within other languages is that, while crossing the invisible borders of meaning and connotation, they slightly shift their content, losing part of their poetic imagery and fixing it so that they would reflect an object, a space or a function with no further moony effects. The name was first given to the sanctuary of the Muses (all 9 of them), the goddesses who protected the Arts and artistic or cognitive creativity. So, it was not a place of an official recollection of the Past, but a place to beg, pray and ask for creativity in Present. Ok, there is always a connection to the past in mythology: they were daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (Μνημοσύνη: remembrance). All my last few days, even the aspirin-cake days, have been spent at the inner garden of a museum, surrounded by the statues and the sarcofagi which cannot fit in the main halls, out of abundance. I listen to a strange collection of music (again a term of μούσα-muse origins):

• Mozart's Requiem,
• Preisner's Requiem for my friend,
• Arvo Part's Passio,
• Xydakis's To amartima tis mitros mou (My mother's sin)

All of them, melancholic and whispering "farewell". Every time that I depart for my short winter breaks or the somehow longer summer vacations I know that this geographical relocation, even if temporary, will mark the turning of a page: it is a rule I confirmed through the method of repetitive observation. My gaze is captured by the crowded streets, the cars bearing Gulf countries' signs, which I will forunately skip, their crowd, their noise, their disorder. The market of Down-Town with the sharp angles of Escher. The favorite cafes. The haunted in late June University Campus. My neighborhood, with the young football players. The breeze of the summer night in Amman. Baby Yoosef who was born last summer the day I departed, and this year will have his first birthday while I will be spending my first day in Athens, hopefully. (They already informed me of a delay concerning the departure time.) Trying his first steps with the grace of a dancer, or an asian circus acrobat. My evenings with Ala'a in our conversations and our walks, with the tunes of Fayrouz, or the good-bye dinner with his always hospitable family. The Friday evening weekly narratives of Malik and myself. Last night I went to Abu Nsair to get some sweets for the friends and family in Greece (Boghazati, of the best in town suggests my stubborn taste- although I tried almost every reputable shop and other that they are not written in the golden index). And, on purpose, my generous and most feeling with me friend passed by the view to the Baqa'a camp low down, and stopped so that I could take a look. He knows how much I adore this contradictory view, the night that transform through its lights, even hardship into a spectacular frame, so that in the end it becomes a view to the power of night. All these practices are stable, but something changes always. Some correlation exists between the habits here and the events there and then the aura of life changes and the museum extends its rooms, the halls multiply themselves, the cartes postales get more on the stands. Like the cinemas of Thessaloniki, my dear cinemas, that in early June they were putting a sign marking the end of the screening season: "Rendez-vous in September". Sometimes we were coming back to find them transformed into supermarkets. A promise that was dropped meanwhile or, rather, the betrayal of a promise.

aspirin cake

it must be

one of the 10 days per year

that headache comes to join me

so, i can hardly keep my eyes open to the light...

as if the tortured senses become acute, precise and indicating what a pain the full sense of the world would be;

I recall my mother's sharp senses of hearing and smell and the troubles they cause her.

I wanted to talk about last night at renovated (?- I can't tell, it was the first time I visited the place) Negresco, at Jabal Webdeh,

(do not assume a hung-over: I only drink when in deep depression some cherry to mix its thick liquid sugar with the contadicting bitterness, and this does not happen to me frequently- no, yesterday it was just some bitter lemon with ginger).

But I have to postpone the post. Just the hand of Juliane on my shoulder meaning good-bye.

I also wanted to talk about the thoughts I had after I read the comment and, consequently, the last entry in Imaan's blog. A proximity in interpellation via Stockholm.

fillin' the blanks

(M.Proust's delirium of ecriture)
What is the nature of the empty pages of a diary, that may appear sporadically, few blank spaces per month, or- to the contrary- making the gross part of the notebook, creating islands of script in a sea of emptiness? This puzzlement comes up whenever I feel courageous enough to touch old diaries of mine or to go through the published diaries of people I value as my inner constant instructors (Seferis, for example, or the unbelievable traveller's diaries of Cavafy- full of boredom and inertia). And the same also applies to this new form of raving in writing: the genre of blogs. What is the nature of the days that they are not recorded in the daily account of our favorite bloggers? Many blogs are not of a very personal nature, they are not proper diaries (in the voyeuristic way we expect diaries to sound like) but still, even if they are frigid/ clever/ reserved/ objective/ impersonal commentaries, they give a tone for the day: what he/she picked up from the dust of the events, where the lens of the day set its focal point... Through the written part we receive signs concerning the mood, the general sentiment which surround the choice, the flags of the realm of unspoken. But silence? Blankness? What is their nature in diaries? Always, when we postpone to fix our notes, for another day, that circumstances will be more convenient and words more precise and appropriate, we simply trick ourselves, because the other day appears with a new range of remarks or events, and what was postponed, in reality it was shipped to the land of forgetfulness. I treasure the empty pages in something written, of something that has a backbone of narratives, because they draw the map for the land of assumptions. Was it an uneventful day? Was it, to the opposite, a brilliant nest for various events that did not leave a single minute for the archivist to play with the filing drawers? It happened to me more than once to get a misprint: a book with few blank pages, in critical instances of the plot or the argumentation. Knowing what preceded and what follows, I dare to suggest what is missing, or perhaps I suggest the possibility of a sudden new turn in the case, which could not survive and was silenced through empty spaces. Like the dots that mark omission [...] Perhaps it is there in the three dots path that the change occurs. That somebody grows different, older, rejuvenated, disillusioned or passionate. So watch the blanks, make hypotheses, listen to the voice from the giant loudspeakers that accompany the World Cup matches, or watch the crowd at the ice-cream shop, or the unfrequented Gardens Street of the late night hours. See the passing shadow of the diary-keeper, but do not try to fix him/her in certainties. Allow some space for magic, for surprise.

Διαπορών...

Καθημερινά, σταθερά, αμετάπτωτα βρίσκομαι στην εξώθυρα του διαπορούντος. Δεν ξέρω πόσοι εγκαταβιούν σ'αυτό το μέγαρο με τις παλιές ξεφτισμένες γρίλιες στα παντζούρια του.
Τα ψίχουλα και τα τιποτένια από την εντύπωση των γεγονότων, όπως τα μεταποιεί η δημόσια αναπαράστασή τους στην τηλεόραση, στον Τύπο, στα μπλογκ με ωθούν να θέλω να μην πω το παραμικρό (φράση ισχυρότερη νομίζω από το: με ωθούν να μη θέλω να πω...). Κι εκείνο που μου υπαγορεύει την απόσταση ή τη σιωπή είναι το ίδιο ακριβώς που εν τέλει με πείθει να πω, να εξηγηθώ, να δώσω τη στιγμιαία φωτογραφία μου ενώ γυρίζω την πλάτη.

Imperial Salt

It becomes a banality in a text to repeat the brilliant remark of Karl Marx in his classic "The 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte" that History sometimes repeats itself, but if the first time was a tragedy, the second time leaves the taste of a farse. A comical farse, not because the second time is unimportart or minor, but because it is based on forgetfulness (of each one of us) and it is delivered through the pompous tools of rhetorics. I watched (shocked-it is the truth) yesterday the events on cuban soil, in the american prison-camp of Guantanamo, the contemporary version of a Nazi concentration camp, with the aesthetics of "Arbeit machts frei".
I do not want at this point to enter the discussion about terrorism, terrorists or about the one who defines the criteria of who is not and who undertakes the role of the Guard of morality and normality in our world, according to the righteous standards of the developped First World. My utter disgust for the blind attacks of militant groups or individuals in the name of religious or political excuses is obvious, I guess, in most of my posts. The thing is that yesterday the media announced that three people committed suicide, in that prison without a prior trial, despite the long time which elapsed since their arrest and provisional imprisonment. In most of historically recorded or actual cultures and according to the patterns of most religions, once someone is dead he/she is set aside, to rest in peace, and normally protected from criticism through euphemisms, such as "late", "deceased", ο μακαρίτης,المتوفي
Even if suicide is not accepted, and even if it is generally condemned by means of posthumous penalties imposed by the clergy, people keep this shame within the family, while they talk tenderly about the person that left without entrusting us with his/her new address- Hell? (Limbo?) Paradise? This is the way things go, and there is a classical greek standard expression: "Ο αποθανών δεδικαίωται" (the deceased is discharged). To the contrary, yesterday, and although the fierce diplomatic and public opinion reactions were clear from the beginning, the officials of the United States expressed very sharp criticism, accusing the dead. As if the trial just started after the victim had been punished. The representative of the Secretary of Foreign Affairs told the astonished journalist of BBC that it was an action of very successful public relations. The representative of the Pentagon talked about a hostile bellicose action against America (they commit suicide, therefore they start a war?) And the sly hypnotists played with words: "You see, they do not respect their own lives, how do you expect them to respct the lives of other people?" Paroles... Paroles...
The fact is that no trial has yet taken place. The prisoners are kept in a no man's land, so that no international committee can monitor their rights and no international law seems to be applicable in their case. But if you use as the slogan of your last sixty years (1945?? since the end of World War II and the beginning of the Cold War) that your historical destination is to spread the democratic and humanistic values around the globe, then it is better to start at home. Because if you have no Opera at any of your city, nobody will believe you, if you claim that you will strengthen melodrama worldwide. Has anyone recently heard of the expression "MORAL AUTHORITY" ? I mean that condition in which your actions make a positive example out of you, and in which your obvious good intentions bring shame to anyone who wants to undermine you. Sometimes, from the old times, they accuse democracy for its weakness that offers weapons even to its enemies, who conspire by using them, in order to overthrow it. But this is it, gentlemen and noble ladies: if you canceled these rights, these weak points, it would not be a democracy anymore. Should you protect it by changing its notion?

Now let me go back to the first part of the pattern of repetition in history I have in mind. Rome had started becoming an empire, before the title of the hereditary Emperor appeared. Throughout the late republican period, a noisy Senate and vigorous Generals kept grasping all opportunities to expand the grip of Rome, in the Middle East, the Greek world and the Mediterranean decadent powers. The year that they entered and destroyed Corinthus in Peloponnese (146 B.C.) the new imperial power also occupied Carthago, the capital of their great enemy, the Carthagenians, which was located in nowadays Tunisia. Hannibal had threatened Rome and the time came now for those Phoenicians to pay back. The Punic world was defeated and they surrendered to the victorious legions unconditionally. The winner started gradually and with the sweet taste of revenge imposing terms: they should abandon their coastal land, they should evacuate their capital (a city of 700.000 people), they should pay tribute, they should give hostages as a guarantee for their obedience. Suddenly and in despair the Carthagenians revolted, it was going too far this humiliation of conditioning the unconditional surrendering. They were defeated once again, the city was destroyed, people died of starvation and the remaining 50.000 were sold as slaves. For 10-17 days the legions were digging out the foundations of the once glorious public buildings. In the end, (something which is an unauthenticated historical rumour, but shows the feelings of the moment) Roman soldiers mixed the soil with salt, around the city, so that no crop would grow there again. In our days, very few ruins remain from the Queen of North Africa, Carthago, compared to its magnitude. Only some columns, which are the chords of a harp playing a nasty tune for Rome.

Oh here is my dowry!...

"Ω! Να το προικιό μου! είπε."
(Oh here is my dowry! she said).

By this phrase, Papadiamantis concludes in reality his all-times-classic novel "He Fonissa" (The Murderess)-1903. The few lines which follow, after the last statement of the heroine,concerning the tragical end of Hadoula somewhere between human and divine justice/law, do not add anything to the plot and the feeling of the reader. They are just a necessary concession to the late 19th century rules of naturalistic prose.

Girls took pride in their trousseau, the embroidery, the cloths, the utensils, and- if lucky- the land property that their father and brothers would provide them with, in order to enter their married life respected by their in-laws.
Before yesterday, the last day with practical obligations at the campus,I felt such a pride blooming over the face of that young student, a covered girl whom i saw for the first time, and asked me about the value of her jewel: She asked me in shy and correct english, "Could you tell me anything about this coin?" It was a small roman golden coin, set in an old silver frame, now in her palm. She assumed it was greek, and some colleague told her that I am the specialist in such assumptions. At first i got confused with the abbreviations that the Romans use in their numismatic techniques, there was a standing god and something next to him. A bird... or a minor god with wings... But everything got clear when I turned it to its other side. I recognized him directly by his strong neck and the thick decisive features.
(yeah that was him)

Yeah, that was him, Constantinus I the Great, the founder of the Byzantine Empire in a way. So I found the name, clearly written around his head, and I knew that it was Zeus-Jupiter the god and the bird was his symbol, the eagle as it appears in the Iliad, fighting with the snake above the heads of Trojan and Greek.
The girl, when she saw me telling her names and mentioning latin titles (Imperator, Pater Patriae), got happy for not having wasted my time in something worthless. Her pendant may be valuable. And it is. Sometimes I wonder how many hands these ancient objects change, travelling from one generation to the other, once they are found at some field, among the stones and the left-overs of a regular year of some moderate crop. Some other times I imagine them (the coins) never lost and refound, but kept in use from the first time they left the matrix till now, that some young hand weighs them wondering about their value... She did not know the name of Constantine, she did not know about the period covered in our region by the byzantine era, so I made it easy for her: It is 300 years before the Prophet. Yeah, I was right, I checked on-line catalogues and it may be of 313 A.D. So, she asked me, is it "Turki"? No way, I replied, it is much more than that, it is "Bizantini". Ah! Byzantini, she whispered happily, while going down the stairs.

Falafel Hunters and A Shield of Verses

Falafel: a well known culinary treasure of the Middle East. I tried it for the first time at the lebanese snack-bar (what a name)"Fat Boy" in Athens, not far from the Omonoia Square- the limbo of immigrants.But you know how these things (recipes) go abroad, they are modified to suit the assumed local habits and taste. I have been trying for several years the original taste in Jordan, and I always appreciate their simple, and yet, surprisingly seductive taste: chick peas in reality, with spices, lots of oil (deep-fried they are), full of proteins and cholesterol I guess, but despite all odds, I adore them, especially if combined with well prepared homos and fol (two other vegetarian temptations, made again with chick-peas and broad beans, respectively). This kind of food is cheap and affordable for less priveleged families and it makes many times the menu of a full-family outing. It is nice the scene on Friday noon, that children bring to the shop an empty dish, to be filled with homos as the necessary appetizer for the big Friday lunch gathering.
Now, the comment comes from the careful gaze of The Black Iris of Jordan, in his posting- yesterday.In his text, Nas informs his readers that in nearby Iraq, Islamist militants informed the falafel vendors to either search for a new profession or expect the worst (execution)in two-weeks time. The reason is that falafel was not included in the diet of the Arabs during the times of the Prophet, therefore their consumption is a sin. I cannot be very sure what are the reasons or the credibility of these statements, but I am suspicious concerning the potentials of human cruelty and stupidity: they are spreading, contagious, and expansionist.
I think sometimes our readings manage to prove precise, and this period I am reading again Nafisi's memoir, Reading Lolita in Tehran, and I watch page after page how restrictions were imposed gradually till they took the form of a destructive snowball. One starts with national pride, continues with moral values, jumps to religious integrity and ends up by controlling falafel and the length of eyelashes. It is a well tested and successful pattern of shifting reality. I read the text last night and directly I connected the issue of control with the brilliant poem of Constantine Cavafy,"In a Large Greek Colony, 200 BC"(1928)which I copy here, in both languages (Greek-English) since I have few minor objections concerning the translation :

In a Large Greek Colony, 200 B.C.

That things in the Colony aren't what they should be
no one can doubt any longer,
and though in spite of everything we do move forward,
maybe -as more than a few believe-
the time has cometo bring in a Political Reformer.

But here's the problem, here's the rub:
they make a tremendous fuss
about everything, these Reformers.
(What a relief it would be
if they were never needed.)They probe everywhere,
question the smallest detail,
and right away think up radical changes
that demand immediate execution.

Also, they have a liking for sacrifice:
Get rid of that property;
your owning it is risky:
properties like those are what ruin colonies.
Get rid of that income,
and the other connected with it,
and this third, as a natural consequence:
they are substantial, but it can't be helped
-the responsibility they create is damaging.

And as they proceed with their investigation,
they find an endless number of useless things to eliminate-
things that are, however, difficult to get rid of.

And when, all being well, they finish the job,
every detail now diagnosed and sliced away,
and they retire (also taking the wages due to them),
it's a wonder anything's left at all
after such surgical efficiency.

Maybe the moment hasn't arrived yet.
Let's not be too hasty: haste is a dangerous thing.
Untimely measures bring repentance.
Certainly, and unhappily, many things in the Colony are absurd.
But is there anything human without some fault?
And after all, you see, we do move forward.

Εν μεγάλη Ελληνική αποικία, 200 π.Χ.

Ότι τα πράγματα δεν βαίνουν κατ' ευχήν στην Αποικία
δεν μέν' η ελαχίστη αμφιβολία,
και μ' όλο που οπωσούν τραβούμ' εμπρός,
ίσως, καθώς νομίζουν ουκ ολίγοι, να έφθασε ο καιρός
να φέρουμε Πολιτικό Αναμορφωτή.

Όμως το πρόσκομμα κ' η δυσκολία
είναι που κάμνουνε μια ιστορία
μεγάλη κάθε πράγμα οι Αναμορφωταί
αυτοί. (Ευτύχημα θα ήταν αν ποτέδεν τους χρειάζονταν κανείς). Για κάθε τι,
για το παραμικρό ρωτούνε κ' εξετάζουν,
κ' ευθύς στον νου τους ριζικές μεταρρυθμίσεις βάζουν,
με την απαίτησι να εκτελεσθούν άνευ αναβολής.

Έχουνε και μια κλίσι στες θυσίες.
Παραιτηθείτε από την κτήσιν σας εκείνη·
η κατοχή σας είν' επισφαλής:
η τέτοιες κτήσεις ακριβώς βλάπτουν τες Αποικίες.
Παραιτηθείτε από την πρόσοδον αυτή,
κι από την άλληνα την συναφή,
κι από την τρίτη τούτην: ως συνέπεια φυσική·
είναι μεν ουσιώδεις, αλλά τι να γίνει;
σας δημιουργούν μια επιβλαβή ευθύνη.

Κι όσο στον έλεγχό τους προχωρούνε,
βρίσκουν και βρίσκουν περιττά, και να παυθούν ζητούνε·
πράγματα που όμως δύσκολα τα καταργεί κανείς.

Κι όταν, με το καλό, τελειώσουνε την εργασία,
κι ορίσαντες και περικόψαντες το παν λεπτομερώς,
απέλθουν, παίρνοντας και την δικαία μισθοδοσία,
να δούμε τι απομένει πια, μετά
τόση δεινότητα χειρουργική.

-Ίσως δεν έφθασεν ακόμη ο καιρός.
Να μη βιαζόμεθα· είν' επικίνδυνον πράγμα η βία.
Τα πρόωρα μέτρα φέρνουν μεταμέλεια.
Έχει άτοπα πολλά, βεβαίως και δυστυχώς, η Αποικία.
Όμως υπάρχει τι το ανθρώπινον χωρίς ατέλεια;
Και τέλος πάντων, να, τραβούμ' εμπρός.

CowParade and the other Arts

(CowParade, Athens, May 2006, A red Cow in front of Syntagma)
"The average rate of damage, in Athens, is similar to the rate of other cities where the CowParade has taken place... We expected reactions to be stronger during the first month, while the cows are still alien in the city, but the demonstrations caused additional problems. It is immature, nevertheless, to attack the sculptures which offer smiles to children and adults while the revenues from their sales will be used for charities." - said the coordinator of the CowParade in Athens Iris Kritikou to the newspaper "Ta Nea" (The News). The idea of the CowParade is a Swiss idea, probably inspired by the violet wrapping of Milka chocolates, which always surprises me with its inventive variations of Cow fetishism at the chocolate section of the Duty Free shops in various airports. Unfortunately, the Parade coincided with numerous demonstrations in Athens, related to the economic policy and the immigration rights. Many of the sculptures were attacked with spray graffities, which, in a way should be celebrated by the organizers, because it may add value to these strange cult cows, now bearing the signs of history.
I found out that among the owners of such cows, after charity auctions, are included : Oprah, Nelson Mandela, the Queen of Jordan, Elton John, the Prince and Princess of Monaco, etc. I hope I will get some photo-shots soon during my Athenian expedition. I hope the temperature will allow that.
I guess that the reactions in India for example would be different: they would either consider the event as a disrespectful sacrilege or, possible as well, they would decorate them with flowers and celebrate them with incense. Visiting Gods, Epiphany.
Χτες αργά το βράδυ, από τη δορυφορική εκπομπή της ΕΡΤ, έβλεπα το αφιέρωμα του Λευτέρη Παπαδόπουλου στο Σταύρο Κουγιουμτζή. Βασική συνομιλήτρια, πέρα από τα αποσπάσματα αρχείου, ήταν η γυναίκα του Αιμιλία. Τον παρουσίασε ως ένα ιδιότροπο αθώο παιδί, που δεν μπορούσε καν να ψωνίσει ρούχα. Του έφερνε από το κατάστημα δύο σακάκια για να διαλέξει ποιό θέλει. Στα αποσπάσματα πράγματι φαινόταν ένας ντροπαλός άνθρωπος, που κρυβόταν πίσω από τα σκούρα γυαλιά του. Κι εκείνα προδοτικά έδειχναν συνεχώς βουρκωμένα μάτια. Για μένα το πιο ενδιαφέρον σημείο ήταν η Θεσσαλονίκη του: Όταν μετακόμισε στην Αθήνα, ένιωσε ξένος και όλο λογάριαζε να επιστρέψει, δεν έκαμε φίλους εκτός από τις σχέσεις που υπαγόρευαν οι επαγγαλματικές συνεργασίες. Έπειτα ήρθαν οι σεισμοί στην πόλη, κι αποφάσισε να μείνει λίγο περισσότερο στην πρωτεύουσα. Αποτέλεσμα; Μια δεκαετία. Σαν γύρισε στη Θεσσαλονίκη και βρήκε τη γωνιά του στην Καλαμαριά, "η απουσία τον είχε κιόλας πειράξει" και κατάλαβε πως άλλαξαν οι εποχές κι ότι αν ξεκινούσε τότε τη μουσική του καριέρα ως συνθέτης, ούτε ένα τραγούδι του δε θα είχε κάνει επιτυχία. Τον έδειξαν κάμποσο νεότερο, να παίζει ασπρόμαυρος στο πιάνο του και με την απροστάτευτη φωνή που έχουν συχνά οι Έλληνες μεγαλοι συνθέτες όταν τραγουδούν: Σωστή, τρεμουλιαστή, αδύναμη.

Parallel worlds and distant realities

Each morning brings a chance to recover the signs of dreams, to taste coffee anew and imagine how things may develop in this pool of possibilities that each day digs. At he same time, it brings the first news of the previous day, since I do not follow up the TV news very regularly. These days I prepare and correct the papers of the final exams, always starting the ceremony by taking photos with my students. It relaxes them and sets the evaluation part in its real dimensions, I mean, as one out of many but not as the major or decisive part in a process of learning and interacting. This semester in particular, I feel I will dearly miss the students of the second level: they have been such nice people and we proceeded faster and deeper than with other similar groups in the past.
The counter reality, the sign of a close, parallel world comes through the web-edition of the Jordan Times: "...Gunmen in Iraq dragged 24 people, mostly teenage students, from vehicles and shot them dead, police said, as violence raged in the country on Sunday.
Iraqi leaders appeared deadlocked on naming new interior and defence ministers seen as critical to restoring stability in a country bloodied by relentless insurgent and sectarian killings.
Police said gunmen manning a makeshift checkpoint near Udhaim stopped cars approaching the small town 120km north of Baghdad and killed passengers.
The victims included youths of around 15-16 years who were on their way to the bigger regional town of Baqouba to write end of term exams, but also elderly men, they said.
"[The attackers] dragged them one by one from their cars and executed them," said a police official..."
While coming out, happy or anxious for the results, after having finished their term exams...

A bit of season-ing

Σιγά-σιγά το καλοκαίρι ετοιμάζει τα Θαύματά του δίκοπα.
Χτες, δύο αποχαιρετισμοί και μια συζήτηση ημιτελής:
1. Πρώτα από τον Ν. Δήμου στο μόνο ελληνικό μπλογκ που παρακολουθώ συστηματικά τελευταία. Με μια φωτογραφία από το Ιόνιο κι ένα παλαιότερο κείμενο για τον κρίσιμο αγώνα φωτός και σκότους. Στο τέλος, μάλλον για δικούς του λόγους περιφρούρησης της αποφασής του να κάνει διάλειμμα δεν είχε τη συνήθη δυνατότητα αποστολής μηνυμάτων και σχολίων. Κλειδωμένη παύση/σιωπή. Αυτό ήρθε σε συνέχεια κάτι στενόχωρων και στενοχωρημένων κειμένων του για την έννοια της μοίρας και της συμφοράς που ενσκήπτει άξαφνα. Ένα που ακολούθησε σχετικά με το μικρό Βούδα ακουγόταν ως παρηγοριά στον άρρωστο.
2. Στο σχολείο μητρικής γλώσσας του Αμμάν, η λήξη της σχολικής χρονιάς με την επίδοση των βεβαιώσεων παρακολούθησης των μαθημάτων. Ο Μίλτος αποχαιρέτησε τρεις μαθητές του, έναν που φεύγει στο εξωτερικό για τις σπουδές του και άλλους δύο που μετακομίζουν στη Συρία, λόγω της δουλειάς της μητέρας τους. Βούρκωσε και δάκρυσε, η φωνή του αλλοιώθηκε για κάμποσην ώρα. Μόνον ένας εκπαιδευτικός φαντάζομαι μπορεί να καταλάβει το παράξενο αυτό συναίσθημα που δεν είναι λύπη, αλλά μια παράξενη μελαγχολία γεμάτη ελπίδα και ευχές για τα παιδιά που κρατούν κομμάτι από την ψυχή, τη φωνή και το χρόνο μας. Αρχίζω κι εγώ τις εξετάσεις και, πριν ξεκινήσουμε τη δοκιμασία στο διευθετημένο χρόνο, βγάζω φωτογραφίες, να κρατήσω μια στιγμή αυτόν το συνδυασμό που δε θα ξαναϋπάρξει με τα ίδια πρόσωπα, υπό τις ίδιες περιστάσεις, στην ίδια αίθουσα, με το ίδιο φως της ημέρας.
3. In the end, a discussion last night, through a metaphor, about the relationship between two people: the image was one of personification. The relationship becomes a third person in flesh and bones, with the attitudes and the needs of a real subject. So that when the relationship comes to an end, because of circumstances, of decision-making or whatsoever, the two participants feel the agony of observing this dear person dying. They want to stick to it, to enjoy the last hours of its presence in life or they escape in an attempt to avoid the trauma of a definite farewell. The image was so strong that kicked me into silence. Needless to say that with three occasions like that, I had a difficulty in bringing to my dreams any joyful ray of light.

Fridays in Private Dreams

In Amman, Fridays in my neighborhood start with the sound of unlocking the door to pick up the newspapers which are distributed for free at our doorstep, by descreet and quiet part-timers. Two major ones: Al Waseet (The Middleman), Al Momtaz (Wonderful), and a new but ambitious one under the title Amlak (Properties). Later, on Saturday a minor one is added, called Al Madinah (The City). All of them elaborate on the same inner tune of dreaming about property. So, our Fridays (the exact equivalent of a Sunday in the West) set up with many private dreams and photos, and -thanks to the progress in designing technology- the details get more and more realistic. I leave aside the clothes, the discounts of the big chains of supermarkets, the trips to Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, and Cyprus and I go directly to the pages with ads concerning houses and emerging suburbs.
One imagines a life there, and dreaming adds value to the already raised prices. The "Jardin des Delices" is of course located in the really expensive properties, in the really posh areas, that may exceed sometimes 1 million JD (approx. 1,45 millions USD). Prices in property have grown higher in Amman by 50% according to moderate estimations during the last 3-4 years. At the same time, salaries have not adjusted accordingly. They did not even follow up the rate of rise in the cost of living index, for the simple but adamant daily expences. Therefore, the more the two basic economic parameters fall apart, the more the realm of daydreaming gets reinforced. Photographs become the location of another parallel world where one wishes to house the possibilities of happiness.
Inspired by my two recent trips to Aqaba, and the huge posters almost everywhere in Amman, asking for redefining the notion of Vacations in Jordan, I visit the sites of the grand entrepreneurs of this "New Jordan" and I find them generous in visual material. Sometimes, the promises are revealing: Residents' only beach and marina. 24hours a day security. What also impressed me this time was the remark that at the area of the already existing 5stars hotels (which are nothing compared to the new ambitious construction plans) no locals appeared except the people working there, as policemen and security/services personnel. It sounds that the new projects will be heavily exclusive paradises. Which is not strange after all, if a small one bedroom villa costs approximately 340.000 $, almost the cost of a studio in Manhattan.
Of course, if a middle class family decided to realize their dream of having a villa in Aqaba, and to redifine the notion of vacations, they would need (let us assume an ascetic diet and savings of 800 $ per month) approximately 35 years and enormous amounts of good luck. But the prospect is long, and optimism is not the most widespread stance among the citizens. Therefore, one could find another, less costly way to make dreams come somehow true. There are talented web-developers, designers, animators in this country: so they could create a series of realistic computer games and environments, with real locations and, perhaps, interactive. So the family could be spending a virtual evening in an "Abdoon Mansion", the weekend in "Ayla- Exclusive Residential Area", and on occasions to our "Grand Villa" in Saraya-Aqaba. Why not? The conditons of reality get more and more virtual anyway...

with caffeine

(behind my college, in Thessaloniki, was the palace of my addiction)

A permanent source of inspiration...
A constant addiction...
A hidden regulator of the day...
An easy pretext in hand, whenever meeting with friends needs a pretext...
This, among other detailed things, is princess Caffeine for me.
One of my recent favorite bloggers referred to the environment of her favorite coffee-shop in amman dreaming of making it her home, coz home is where the heart is. I have to admit that I did not even know about the particular shop, although I know exactly the sense of belonging. Many of my photos are taken actually in coffee-shops, my favorite photos with friends, therefore I seem a heavier smoker than I really am. (Since the princess has a special attachment to another princess too: nicotine- cruel artistic creatures like Turandot).

Tonight, in this machine of counter-geography, in this cubicle of international assimilation, I mean Starbucks of Abdoun, I was looking at the young crowd, talking, working on their lap-tops, and I was listening to the light discussions of my group, about songs and interviews, and I was thinking that a palace of caffeine is one of the last resorts for the illusion of eternity.
Κι όταν βρεθώ σε καινούργιο μέρος, η πρώτη αγωνία είναι να ανακαλύψω το καφενείο, καφέ, ή κυλικείο που θα με κάνει θαμώνα του, μέσα στη δική του ιδιαίτερη βοή. Κι εγώ που δεν αντέχω το θόρυβο από τη σταγόνα της βρύσης, εκεί (μέσα στις κουβέντες και την κάπνα των άλλων) συγκεντρώνομαι μια χαρά και σιγά-σιγά αρχίζω να κουβαλάω τόμους και ημερολόγια. Η δεύτερη αγωνία είναι να ανακαλύψω ένα ζαχαροπλαστείο του γούστου μου.