The animals

We’re born alone but comforted by our parents and first caregivers. We grow up being taken care of by someone, but we all realise as early on as we develop a consciousness of ourselves that in our head we are alone and there are things we cannot explain to others. We develop ways of expressing ourselves and develop meaningful friendships in our childhood, but we still experience times of loneliness and times we really want to be only with ourselves.

It’s nice to come in terms with being alone and enjoy the company of other creatures that surround you, because there are so many, even in the city. You hear their footsteps and feel their breaths, but you do not need to explain anything to them. It’s reassuring to not give a shit about how you look and how you may come across socially.

Life may go on without us, but it’s also nice and all the self-assurance we need, to remember that it goes on within us.

The balanced manifesto of counter-sexist civility

dedicated to my bitch Evagelia

All the men I ever met tried to discipline me

I, in turn, tried to show them that this was not a good idea

I identify no man as my discipliner

I will bite and scratch any patronising asshole even considering it

“Be patient, fine, balanced, kind”

I could just eat anyone uttering those words alive

Because this is a sexist model ingrained in relationships, work, art etc.

and it goes a bit like this:
Girl likes boy

Boy tells girl to be  patient, fine, balanced, kind

Girl becomes that

Girl looses her self-awareness, commitment to her feemale peer creative bullshit-talk,  creativity and becomes an anticipating zombie that goes around being balanced, sexy or whatever have you…

I could just vomit!

If you love something you should let it free

Even though an intuitive understanding of natural forces may be intimidating and easily mistaken for hysteria

and even though one may be simply projecting their need to discipline their own urges and desires on the object of such desire.

I know my little manifesto will not save anyone,

but I also know girls will always giggle and share secrets and fart and say really dirty intimate stuff to each other about dicks

whilst men can hang around being patient, fine, balanced or whatever other bullshit it was.

 

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Fear of airports

I have been taking planes ever since I remember myself. I used to love going on a plane as a child, but as I grew older and the flights were populating my life more and more densely, I became weary and tired of security checks, check-ins, overweight luggage, fastening seatbelts, connecting flights, eastern European airports and meals, insects on my salad, broken suitcases and prams, customer service, ear-eache, Russian bitches, glass cages for smokers, allergy to ventilation systems and the list goes on…

I finally came to the conclusion that flying is such an unnatural means of travel. You might be shifted to an all new dimension in a matter of hours. People may look and behave differently in the new dimension and even speak a new language. Suddenly you have to adjust to a new transport system, a new climate and new means of maintaining your cool. However, anyone having overdosed on flying has a certain grasp of the know-how involved, which is a freaky fact.

I may switch languages, mentalities and mannerism in an instant with such ease, I almost find it disturbing. It is almost like one, of a certain middle-class upbringing, has been trained all their lives to roam around Earth, or well Europe mostly, freely with a certain arrogance towards intermediate stop-overs. It is a kind of necessary arrogance towards a culture and a place there is absolutely no time to consider and thus leaves you with an ungrateful critical bitter taste of hostility.

There have been times in my life when I really didn’t know where home was… it simply did not exist, there was little need for it anyway and that’s a hell lot of fun, which like all fun, leaves you with a witty charm and an inner numbness. And then came a time when the need to take it all in became prominent, there always comes a time… when you have to decide to keep going or to decide to take the risk of stopping to think, uncertain about whether you can ever get back into the international airport-hopping scene. And I never did go back.

But every now and again a flight crops-up out of nowhere and an overwhelming sense of terror and awe takes over. And it is not so much the flight itself I worry about, but the airport and the person I become in there… A ruthless, arrogant, homeless, English-speaking, international bitch with a rucksack and a Burrows paperback who knows exactly where she has to be and when… One who in her normal life is pretty much a likable nervous wreck with an expression of eternal awe for life and the stars.

It’s crazy what airports do to you with their quiet discipline and urge. But I wish that one day I may take the time to stop and think inside an airport, not about the purpose of my flight, relocation or whatever may have led me there, but rather the flow of life and culture within this very strict but vibrant little place, leaving maybe a small scar on a chair near a boarding gate, symbolic that this airport didn’t scar me, I was the one who scarred it.

Walking life

In between people, thoughts seem to drift
the life is slow and easy
the future is dim and uncertain
the burden is steadily sustained

In between trains and cars there’s only the radio
mobiles ring and we talk
everyone’s waiting
no one’s going anywhere here

Childhood is irrelevant
but we hold on to it like oversized babies
I only feel adult when I walk on my own
and all I think about is the weather and the buildings

When memories become songs

Sometimes memories are songs marking a past era and new songs remind you of old songs. This is probably why one cannot get into new music after a certain age. This is probably also why one cannot give way to the new unless they are rid of the old.