This solar storm fills me with disappointment
I feel lost
I don’t know which way to head, so I will stay here, even if it’s the end of me
It could also be the beginning…
I would like to survive, but all I have is my beak
If my beak fails me, then I shall surrender to the mighty solar wind
All we are is dust in the solar wind
One cannot rise above occasions all the time
Besides it’s difficult to maintain your sense of humour at such a time of geomagnetic turmoil
“Hello, Earth?… pigeon beak calling Earth”
nope, nothing.
Sometimes I forget that life is serious
Every moment is a choice, even though a certain attitude was chosen at childhood
Every moment has consequences and is subject to remorse
The love for every person cannot be substituted
Taking responsibility for this hollow loneliness is not maturity, it’s just depressing
Creating is maturity and I wonder if I will ever manage to mature
I wonder if it’s late to exploit the limits of time
or whether an eventually expiring rhythm is simply ingrained in me
Fear of loss causes a zombifying silence
Fear of authority causes a zombifying fear of loss
Sometimes I feel like K wondering around the castle and asking questions that cannot be answered in this dimension
Quite likely because I talk too much
Expiring patience taking life out of people everywhere I look
The search for an answer as an unidentified sort of work, one that does not assist the system and therefore is marginalised
Worst fears coming to life, worst fears becoming neutralised
Dreams coming to life, dreams turning into worst fears
I need sleep
I wonder whether the carefree solitary life I live in my sleep is more real than this
Sweet surrender
Everything will flow
Nothing will end
I’m sleeping now
There are two types of man… the ones who pee standing and those who pee sitting. The standing kind is obviously the most common and signifies a certain sense of pride often to the point of arrogance, for one’s most notable anatomic feature. The sitting type has in most cases been brought up by a politically correct mother with an affinity for maintaining a clean house and her respect to others, wishing for her son to be a more considerate man than his father. This is the type who deeply and truly considers men and women equal and would go out of his way to show it, even though he’s more quiet than the standing guy. He’s also sweet and well-liked by everyone, especially women, who he’s always surrounded by. Sadly he has a bizzarre attachment to his mother and dogs. Finally, there are those who do both like chameleons and those scare me, as they tear my ridiculous analysis on the pissing of men into pieces.
If you choose to be a woman you’ve got to know there’ll always be so much dirt to clean and so many things to rearrange, so many people to put to rest, so many dead to bury, so quietly sustaining the work, the pain and one’s self. I’ve cleaned and read books and articles about how to do it right… but what counts in the end of the day to everyone is how effortless you make it seem and how little you complain. In doing so, I have found it easier to forgive and forget, sacrificed my pride for the greater good and ideally, never tell a soul. I’ve gone through things that would have turned me into a fugitive, a thief and a murderer, but thankfully things didn’t quite turn out that rough for me, even though I could easily see how they could have in less developed, socially insecure environments. However, for some women things do turn quite rough and then I feel so much for them, that I forget altogether about men. Men interest me so little in comparison to women… it is probably because I believe their burden of life and survival is so straightforward and overstated in comparison.
It’s funny that females should be considered the pretty sex in humans… I think that men have clearly got that peacock posture more than women do. We make the hardest, most determined and most cooperative workers, because we always have dependants, children, elders and animals, people and things to maintain safe and we are prone as well as immune to them. It’s beautiful how we crack near the end, so vulnerable and yet so shrewd – the kind of gentle force life smells of.
A lot of people have slept in my bed. Sometimes a friend may come over for dinner and they may decide to have a nap in my bed. I often find it difficult to wake them up, even though I like their subconscious presence and the scent they leave. Mostly I sleep there with my son, but when his dad is here, they sleep there together. It’s a bed everyone finds comfortable… well except me, since it’s too soft for my taste and I much more prefare my son’s bed, where I may sometimes be found sleeping.
However, when I haven’t changed sheets in a while the scents of people disturb my sleep, as I may believe that they are still there. I think my bed is haunted, quite possibly even a portal for subcoscious communication.
There are so few of us left in this city. Most people who could, have already left months or even years ago for some research project somewhere in central or northern Europe. Everyone who’s still here has a firm reason for being here, sometimes even a goal and sometimes even some kind of separation phobia. Naturally I’m referring to middle class 25-40 year old art-scene drifters who all hold a key to one or another exit. There’s little money in our pockets, but we all eventually find our way in and no one’s expecting too much anyway.
Gig/gallery-hopping, HnM shopping, walking around town in camper shoes, facebook chatting about the thing to do this week and recycling friends, flirts and lovers… It’s pretty cosy, I must say… we’ve reached a point when even if we’ve never met, we’re pretty clear about names, crew, exs and facebook attendances and no one is even hiding it anymore. I’ll go out to a gig and chat to people I’ve never been introduced to, casually, expecting them to know who I am, as well as I know them.
Meanwhile, immigrants are roaming the dark dirty streets, desperately looking for a livelyhood. Some of them who sell flowers in bars, we know by name. Hardly anyone buys any, but we’re all happy to see each other. It’s them and us the people who own the night and everyone knows that those who own the night, own the city.
Let the fascists fucken go nuts, if they must, historically they’ve always been present and socially they are just the lowest and least intriguing of psychos. Athens is turning into something new, people are coming together, not falling apart anymore and the good news is the new creature is injected with brand new exciting cultural traits from Bangladesh, Syria, China, Nigeria and god knows where else.
…You know I’ve been thinking it could work out in the end, it might just be some people, who simply didn’t have it in them, just had to make space for the new and you know the new is already starting to take form. But then again everything takes form in the end, one way or another and if it’s gonna be a pretty one is actually everyone’s responsibility. I say… lets stay and make it work.
Sunday lunch with the family. Happy to be together in a disappointing universe. We always have a central conversation subject and everything manages to fit in between words, nothing specific, nothing confessional, just encoded words.
Today’s subject was sexual queerness. Everyone had a story to tell… for example everyone pretended to be gay at one or another point in their lives as it turned out. I guess sexual identity is queer. However, straight men seemed to feel frustrated by this. I wonder if they honestly know what it is they like, or if they just don’t find it easy to imagine themselves in the queer kind of situations they have mixed feelings about. If I look back at my memories I could answer that they really have a painfully consolidated sexual identity in comparison to women. That’s probably why women find it easier to laugh at them.
By dessert, we just couldn’t conclude where queerness comes from, is it genetic, is it a result of early-life events, is it in all of us? As a family, we all recognised it was there, but we just couldn’t face up to it. Maybe because it all really came from the way we felt about each other.
I have always felt like a male gay trapped in this woman’s body. It’s been a wonderful year for gay and transgender rights, here in Athens, kicking off with the Paola Revenioti’s post art exhibition frenzy. But I feel there is absolutely no sympathy in Greek society or any other society for that matter for women feeling they are in fact gay men.
I always had problems fitting in with the girly girl crew, as they used to mock, bully and manipulate me. Until the third grade that is, when I met my best friend, Nicolas, who moved in next door. We became inseperable and he was the reason I slowly infiltrated the boy crew. I remeber wearing flowery dresses and pink sandals, while all the boys treated me like one of them, throwing around skateboards, jumping over fences, listening to Metallica, Paradise Lost, Megadeth and Dream Theatre and playing computer games. I finally felt accepted for what I was, although until this day there is virtually no literature on the matter.
We used to stay in Nicolas’ room with the gang until early morning hours talking about music, our family problems and other gangs, who bullied us, plotting to fill up our water guns with cat pee and tomato sauce. I used to giggle when the GI JO action figure box emerged, as I was pretty clear about how this was so wrong, a girl of my age surely should have been playing with barbie dolls, so I always chose Lady J, a chick with short hair and a casual army outfit, no one else wanted anyways.
It wasn’t until we got to around 12 years of age, when porn made it’s incredible mark on our time spent together, that I felt something was just not right. Everyone still treated me like a boy, even though I wore skirts and talked like a girl and even fancied a couple of them. They even offered to bring me along to a brothel they sometimes visited, but I never ended up going, as we were all a bit concerned it would just look really weird.
At around 14, I started feeling pressure, like I had to get something out of my chest and redefine myself. I had spent half of my life with guys, being one of them, enjoying the brotherhood and innocence of a boy-gang, but the frustration of realising they had never noticed I wore skirts, or had boobs became greater and greater. It’s probably then, when it happened… I just didn’t feel like a girl, it almost felt like I was a cross-dressing boy, fancying other boys. So I just had a huge go at them on the exploitation of women in mainstream porn and my dissent for the objectification of female prostitutes, especially immigrants, by ignorant young boys who didn’t understand anything about where they came from and why they had sex for money and fled the crew. I did however, still hang out with them every once in a while, but had made it quite clear, I simply would not tolerate any more tasteless mainstream porn.
Growing up, I always felt pretty jealous of gay men. They seemed to belong to these cliques and would always talk like glitter sparkled on their darkness. They were always so pretty and sexy and clever and sweet, while later on they seemed to get the best jobs and establish the most meaningful and loving relationships I had ever encountered. However, even though I had a couple of good gay friends, I was never their favourite, as they probably always detected there was something weird about the sexuality I subtly put forward. I felt politely rejected by them, but simultaneously incredibly related to them.
It still hurts a bit, to be rejected by your own kind. That is why I would like to raise awarenes on the minority of female male-gays. Please spend a minute to consider those who have no identity or rights and next time you come across one, go on and be considerate.
He always could somehow read my mind. There were emotionally loaded times that we simply walked alongside each other quietly. I tried to keep as quiet as possible, so that he wouldn’t be able to tell what was going through my head and suddenly a small voice broke the wall of silence expressing in an abstract sentence everything there was. I may had been amazed the first time he did it, maybe even the second, but after that I knew there was little near the core I could hide and what is more, he often used his ability to read my mind in order to exploit and manipulate me.
Naturally, we loved each other and cared a great deal for each other. We also took great joy in being bound together… it’s the kind of commitment life is made of. It was tiring at times and then at other times it was just a dadaistic outburst of creativity and synchronised action, the kind only people painfully committed to each other can perform.
And then there were the dark times… We both hated having to wait, we were both too restless, but somehow disciplined enough to endure it. Anticipation was our torture and when it was time for it, we just seemed to enclose ourselves in the small niches of our rooms, repeating daily chores and occasionally screaming at each other and clumsily bumping against each other. I guess by now we both knew how it went, so we didn’t worry about it, but we did go close to driving each other mad.
What is crazy about all this is that he had a person in his life with who he shared the exact same relationship. The whole relationship was the same, only set in the Finnish countryside. How crazy is that?… and in a way how lucky for him to have two people committed to him, with who the same exploitation and manipulation technique works equally well.
I talked to him last night and he said to me casually “look, I love you and all, but you should really loose some weight, if anyone is ever going to like you… plus I’m fed up with Greece, I’ve decided I want to live in Finland and go to school here. Greece is a shity country, full of assholes, I’d really like to move as soon as possible. You can stay there or you can come too… I don’t care”.
Well well… what is one to say… other than stereotypical connotations, such as “I despair”, “we’ve created a monster”, “are we really a bunch of Southpark characters?” and “what does an 8year-old really know?”. Gladly, what I do say will be the final word on the matter, though sadly I feel I cannot disregard his needs and desires anymore and then I suddenly feel like someone would be dumping me, like I would like to keep him still and have so much to give, but he only wants to move on. And my heart fills with sweet surrender and I cannot go onwards or backwards, just stuck in that reoccurring place where you seem destined to arrive to. We all have a place and it’s dark and lonely and we always seem to arrive there no matter what the relationship is. It’s funny… isn’t it? It’s always what scares you the most and with the years you realise it’s never really the same place so much, as the same mental state of the creeping return of one’s greatest childhood fear.
whatevahwhatevah 