There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

Jane Eyre

δεν θάβρεις άλλες θάλασσες

“The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart, dried up and scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood—my being longed for renewal—my soul thirsted for a pure draught.  I saw hope revive—and felt regeneration possible.  From a flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea—bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opened thus:—

“‘Go,’ said Hope, (...)

< jane eyre >

Η πόλις

Είπες· «Θα πάγω σ' άλλη γη, θα πάγω σ' άλλη θάλασσα.
Μια πόλις άλλη θα βρεθεί καλλίτερη απ' αυτή.
Κάθε προσπάθεια μου μια καταδίκη είναι γραφτή·
κ' είν' η καρδιά μου -σαν νεκρός- θαμένη.
Ο νους μου ως πότε μες στον μαρασμόν αυτόν θα μένει.
Οπου το μάτι μου γυρίσω, όπου κι αν δω
ερείπια μαύρα της ζωής μου βλέπω εδώ,
που τόσα χρόνια πέρασα και ρήμαξα και χάλασα.»
Καινούργιους τόπους δεν θα βρεις, δεν θάβρεις άλλες θάλασσες.
Η πόλις θα σε ακολουθεί. Στους δρόμους θα γυρνάς
τους ίδιους. Και στες γειτονιές τες ίδιες θα γερνάς·
και μες στα ίδια σπίτια αυτά θ' ασπρίζεις.
Πάντα στην πόλι αυτή θα φθάνεις. Για τα αλλού -μη ελπίζεις-
δεν έχει πλοίο για σε, δεν έχει οδό.
Ετσι που τη ζωή σου ρήμαξες εδώ
στην κώχη τούτη την μικρή, σ' όλην την γη την χάλασες.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης

such a long way this crazy ocean and all skies belonging to the above of it, full of darkness, full of clouds and little heavens slower than usual legging behind. i have got no time to eternity in there, considering the many distractions playing on and off on ears and eyes: i want to know everything and enjoy the exact abscence, in all the flushing back and forwards, of time, on your own. sit belted to the shaking of a windy sort of night. sort of things. spots of plenty of life in electricity, what did you teach them all? talking-thing? it is just the hormons, they say ravingly when dealing with their son, quite about to be a teenager,  in their sores. the son yells back how unfair and does not understand how come they have been blaming him for something like that, that's only a "me", me and i, we get scared. strange development. feelings transformed into fonts transporting the idea which never traveled this far but the flood, of liquids in my vains irrigating all my body, corrosive downpour from the electronic age. comunicators comunicating past between among and through one another. sweep away very fine. then i turn the tv on to distract myself on quiet nights after long days like these. the languages on the telly playing differently from the others i heard and danced a way, sometimes even quietly to the reflection on those mirrors at the shop which i keep on calling a sort of another new me reivented through a period of time, short long hours vanished under the unusual heat of a certain summer, late august, in about three weeks when sailor was gone, finally. sketchbooks acquired to empty out frenzied thoughts pouring out shapes of inventiveness occasionating vision.  An image put on canvas. Not only me but the whole world, dear darling, has been wondering what will be, by your return, and every resulted event and everything else from then on.

xerox in an afterglow.

all these love letters, my weather outside, my katharina and an i, heaven and autumn turning into winter and dark, pinhole days i read somewhere, endlessly, guitars and bars, this conversation with someone who knows me before i even said hi, coffee talks, my toys my little treasures filling up my life with memories, memories changed, remodeled, hatred and anger ignored coming in waves to blur my mind. it is early morning and i have been awake for awhile, i proposed let's conversate and give it a try but now i, emptied, haven't got much to discuss. therapy in foreign language isn't clearing much my doubts. my looking-mirror and this few square meters room locking up all these love letters i write, my weather inside, my godess with her godess and heaven and autumn turning into summer and parks, pinhole ways i copied from somewhere, endlessly, chords and choirs, my voice in this conversation with someone who believes to know me before i drank up and finished to wave goodbye.

what i am supposed to wear? i wonder instead of answering when asked on the verge of this one day, a recollection of these 27 years upon the beginning of a certain cosmic return, 28, they say you are allowed to wear something really crazy, saturn, but i feel the distinguished tendency to hide behind something more discret, descent, the whole sum gathered represented by an amount of tiny parts - an all in all - which they call: me.  i thought i might want it really special, like every year, and evaluate quietly the rarity of this one. perhaps right now it will occur, when i forcedly, without my favourite distractions, must stand up and suffer finally into this wicked confrontation. my head all nerves messaging in false alarm attention-panic through the boredom of normal fairly good kind of life. what is wrong, mr. universe, all boys and girls who built up the city so nicely, why did they forget to leave room for me to watch all your never ending bright stars? your clouds come so near i can never see, when turbulently looking out for maybe a spaceship, the high heights all covered up, thick air assorted into layers, i mean to restructure, systematic atmosphere, retreating projects, small talks and unfortunate attempts of boys trying to get me out on one of these and those for a beer.   

i do love to dance away, sweat away, away sway need away all in me, breathless breathlessly on and on in motion, trance away in ways out ways way: array. hey. boy away. i danced a way so sexy to win my attention, to electrify my impulse, to incite my own magic and pollute my own vision and distract my mind, to put it off of any other good-looking native swinging right in front, of me, my love. need away.

Light painting by Ana Paula F. :) 

light painting :)

octobered vanilla skies lingering high up there for a whole ending afternoon. what a miracle of a day afterglowing still from my saturday night reverie: daydream me into the fairness of our eternal youth, bits and pieces of sixteen, seventeen and all the hurry assaulting my heart under now known needless pressure. the sky was pink when i, strolling with the children, turned my eyes to see whether red or green lights, came upon an immensity of clouds seriously playing buttermilk in tones of pastel at an everlasting level all around. my thoughts electrified sent down to my lips an adequate smile disoriented by the rapidness of time contrasting excessively against the stillness of that cosmic canvas fully suspended wallpapering, above my head, the whole background: as if a sort of universe god had handed me out a magic life-long-gift, my body under my coat, my head spinning dizzy so much dye... my children ignoring the scene, my heart sunk in an autumn bloom: october raining softly to hit hard yellow leaves: the sky was pink the other moment when i was out showering under dawn casually forgetting, our love, an electronic rave, absorbed into familiar pieces, lengthening the vowel,  of stony wishes and tender nitey-nites.