Customs

Tradition has it that Greek television will feature at least 4 channels of public and private television dedicated to 'fun' for 3 days each Christmas.
This is as important as wrapping your presents, wearing socks and wishing 'Happy Christmas' to all of you not familiar with this.

Sitting round the table, roughly around 30 over-middle-aged local celebrities. Some identifiable as traditional singers or oldschool sitcom 'actors'. They have wine and heavy flowery decorations sat in front of them and the camera zooms from guest to guest.
Then, next to the stage a band. Slightly raised on a platform, semi-circular so you can see all of them. In front, two or three wooden chairs with some microphone stands. For the singers and their friends to perform. On the other side of the stage, a grand piano (always black and spotless) with the kitchest Christmassy flower arrangement on it, and a few thick ribbons, wrapping it up like a preset.
The host speaks and asks questions nobody cares about, regarding memories of the guests, sometimes theme-appropriate, sometimes totally irrelevant. And when you think you've heard it all and are happy to die from experiencing boredom to its full extent in life, you realise that no- the SINGING has not even started.

Old school songs from sad films, to well-respected pained poetry, war, poverty, happiness, famous 20s foreign songs (only half of it sung, and sped up doubly to prevent audience boredom and wrong lyric performance). The key is 'moving'. The camera zooms in the shiny wet eyes of various guests. The guests will each take it in turns to sing. Alone if confident, with the paid singer leading, if modest.

And finally the lip sync is announced. For the rest of the of the programme (lasts 4 hours) the orgy of fun will be all about the mouthing of words, looking moved, off camera out of the frame melancholy of the beloved childhood memories of your now deceased aunties pinching your cheeks. Coupled with sparkly black outfits around a table, traditional musical instruments and even more fake Christmas flowers, this is for any Greek person the traditional sign it is time to start arguing with your relatives, applying too much makeup on your unslept face and suppressing your funfunfunpartyparty yawns for fear that the few superstitious amongst your guests will start on the jinx and evil eye you've been a victim of and start mock-spitting on you to cure this.

Happy Christmas etc etc.

how dare I

be so deeply sad. For these incredibly selfish and adolescent reasons all to do with me.

How dare I impose my 'superior' expectations and in effect demand different living standards and arrangements for people other than my own self? And how dare I allow my self to break down in front of them, in such an unacceptable display of disapproval and shock and contempt?

Someone please take this right away from me. And also maybe slap me with a kipper.
I don't want this. Bring back suppessed disciplined respect. Just for another week, before i ruin everything, hurt them all and not-spontaneosly-at-all combust in a last attempt for ash-rebirth not realising I'm not a phoenix by any stretch of imagination.

Three gunshots outside my window. Only 2 hours left before dark. sleeping on a cold hard surface and failing at faking any sort of smile for the benefit of those i love the most and literally live for. Bummer..

darkened, The fly has a say

....sometimes i find myself telling me off. I buzz and buzz and then I stop.
it don't matter what and who and when and where, as such. this is the content of the superior speech:

the sun. can we use it all. fade it with our exploitative nature. use use and abuse. human nature is pathetic. Why not use until your belly's full and then rollover and sleep? how unacceptable to insist on your ridiculous binges and trophies.

no resources. no internal defences. lying helpless like a dried seaweed by the beach. but it's sadly on top of a rock or in a cave. eternally distant from the tide.

we are creatures of the earth. it's true! we even respond to the moon. respond to the coherent internal urge to consider our own existence. a never-ending round-about of self-indulgent self-importance and necessity to share to realise what's happened. humans are so flawed! I cannot believe they were the 'best' creation for a second. take that primary school religion!

but hey, stop for a minute. what is it you're hopelessly looking for? right now, all you are is who you are and what you want is all you have. aiming higher? are you sure you are not just changing the present with an ideal employed to give you some sort of advantage in life? you can live right now. as you are. but you cannot be happy. because of no prospect, of no security. But doesn't that excite you? you could be anything and anyone. Free floating, joke making, ultimate, utter, you. obviously a lazy oaf you, but one that can only verify it's own self. external assessors have never existed as far as your integrity is concerned. and other socio-psychological explanations of self and identity, dull and no-shit-sherlock.

Here is from the optimist fly: you are your bad jokes and the good. you are a shadow of your everyday routine. and certainly of your midnight loo visits. You are the person that checks the plaque on your teeth, before coming back out of the bathroom to your one guest in the lounge. Spinachface is so cliche. You are the person that is too lazy for a tissue at night, the one who opens the fridge to look at other people's food to feel 'inspired' (jealous, and then contemplate takeaway which is a stupid idea), the person that walks on the road, pretending a miniature camera is following around. zooming in at what your eyes are meeting. even if that's just one of the many stopped cars with a parent in, around the local school. So you want more? Sure, but have you dealt with what you have already? Because, pet, it seems to me you wish to skip this step and progress to a level of comfort. you are mildly misled i feel.

Strip it all. focus on something other than you, like on your friend's success. Smile and express your happiness for them. Now wouldn't that be nice to give yourself? semi-patronising, american, self-congratulatory clap right now. because you are alive, you can go to the shop and overcome the fear of speaking to the guy behind you- his basket is eager, but he is just as absent-minded as you, not hitting on you sleazily. You can definitely type, read, click and play with your computer- discovering little secrets enclosed in the letters 'ctrl' and @. you are definitely alive, so presumably not starving. you own a notebook and a pen. write it all down.

since I was a child this is what I wanted to become:
a) a hairdresser, to crash the market with my unique triple plaited plait- C.
b) a dancer to wow the crowds with my body discipline
c) a singer. to move everyone. as i was. this featured borrowing friend's little brother's fisher price tape recorder, writing about 50 songs in a week and directing the bands of little slaves/younger kids and one my age (Viv) who has an exceptional voice and had the album of Jordy. Which was clearly stupid fun amongst attempts to play 'school' and make a surprise meal for the parents, so was well cool.
d) a coin archaeologist
e) a linguist
f) a ghost
g) a singer and poet and be interviewed by MTV and snub them and also be very honest and giggle, as practiced in the mirror
h) a person so cool and respected, their aura makes everyone get goosebumps of excitement and anticipation for contact and attention
i) a person living calmly, far away with mysterious income to sustain the massive material goods
j) a therapist. a witch. a guide. an advisor. an expert.
k) a responsible, respected professional.
m) a person feeling real, with people around who are also real. a person who knows their fabric detergents and can cook up a storm for a visiting relative of their partner.

but it turns out this is all incompatible with reality. aaaaaah weeeeelll...

SoberOctober

Listening to Causes 1(Track 04) on a bus.
"Melancholy" in the rain.
Wishing. Hissing under my breath.
Swearing and changing and I realise my thinking is a narrative in my Mother's voice.
What I plan & hope & hate & fear all in the distance,
are actually here. Right now.
My outdated future plans have caught up with my age.
How could I have ignored my head for so long?
I am proud and upset. I've succeeded in this betrayal.
Have made things mildly worse for the sobriety to sort out.
One thing I've actually done well in, however.
I've limited the shame. No pain- no fucking gain.

--

--

Magnetised. Drawn to the dark. moth and lightbulb.

Oddly comforting. Semi-closed eyes.

Such a physical experience
and yet such a nonexistent cause.
I'm set. Craving self-destruction.
Intensity that is related to blowing your head off with internally directed energy.
I describe,, and describe,,, and describe. My description the only skill I now truly possess. The rest of me, encaptured in the thoughts, is making love to itself, somewhere between Interpol, the realisation of wet socks, and planning the next deep, deadly drag of the scheduled cigarette.

Wish i could loop-in a cool way. Like in music videos. Like in my recollections of a dream. Half-constructed -half lied about. Wish I could flop my head over, the way I feel like doing -and it would look cool. The way I romantically see it.
I love the similarities (and hate them too) between real life & my head version.
I hate to be abnormal.
I hate I'm not a teenager.
I hate it when I don't understand.
I hate the twat above my shoulder on the bus. fuckoff.

Morning Rebellion versus morning self-pity

The strong obsession with ForeverFriends bears she suddenly remembered. The love for the soft fur and peach toes and palms of the toy. Strange, she thought. An obsession with something although she was never considered back one of the BFF's. Never part of it. Never a need to purchase such a sign of eternal friendship arose. Just some pocket-money saving and buying matching half-hearts, just in case. (what the fuck was wrong with her? what a miserable and moronically dramatic kid.)

Shame, the sunray whispered, as it touched her freckles trough the frosty bathroom window.
Shame, she sighed, as she selected her toothbrush, preparing it for the two wet drops to start the morning ritual.

She looked in the mirror. Winked once. What if I rebel? Put my socks inside out, apply my makeup wrongly, eat the burnt crumbs instead of toast, pour tea over the doormat, break my pass, hide my keys in the house before i leave, stand still for a little too long, without any excuse, or any reason. Be late. Be odd. Be free. She winked again. (God, winking without smiling looks like a brain malfunction.) Would that be freedom? A free world, but frankly there doesn't seem to be any way of doing all this without an excuse such as adjustment issues or a breakdown or extreme lactose sensitivity.

Fuck this, I'll just go commando. Attribute everything to sexual mischief. She put on her flowery rain hat and picked up her keys and went to work.

"No More Cliff Richard"

To that boy I met and told me this: I laughed and laughed at the time, but now i don't know what it is.
Hilarity has faded and a cliche stereotypical 'meh' has sat on top of my head.

Meh.

So, i wrote this once it was still hot:

Bursting bubbles
definitely the warmest experience
Metaphorically speaking,
it's disgustingly pleasurable
the puss.
The Ooze. The guilt.
the dirt. the excitement.
Unusual?
Am I doing it right?
Shut up and fight.
Touch.
Just that.
Erase. All upsetting discussions
will pause.
Just for a second.
'till you've done it;
realised it;
seen it;
said it; felt it. In there,
everything painted
in its shade.
And again you can totally move on.

I shall clearly be repeating this error not.

what's the point in avoiding?

here's to love. (that old chestnut)

strong. I'm rushing with a nervous energy. dizzy with bittersweetness. loved up so much I'm completely exposed to all the elements. having exceeded the anticipated wait for an attack. and now oddly confused it didn't happen. will it happen now? will it happen now, later than thought? or will it not. have I rightfully avoided badness or will it hit me when I'm not looking? so high on this i couldn't look back or care less. i want to go. keep going on. and let it be a surprise. it will be worth it. an abrupt ending is always deserving of love and affection. nurturing this placating fallacy. but end will be death. and death is so cliche. i know the concept, am bloody familiar with it, thank you very much. so- i can handle it, is all I'm saying. i give in whatever i have. there. you have it.

Hat Trick

A ceiling-
Feeling the brilliant gravity of
the floor beneath.
I shall not fall
nor trip over. Nor resort
to hiding my face, in shame.

Conquer All.
Spot on.
Right on the ball.
Balance and bounce my way
to the top.
Mountains will drop
before my eyes. Swallowed
by the floor.

But I'm safe.
Sat down. By the table.
All still and sophisticated.
Be like me?
Only if you follow my lead,
as per.

The Blue - of course

The blue, is going black, is going
green, is going back,
is going off up on a tangent,
is going grey, is going stringent,
is harsh to me, is flying over,
it is so dangerous to breathe,
and is completely taking over;
is so polite, is lacking insight,
its faceless stream, is freaking me out;
is so bizarre and ever so polite,
is tropical breeze, is getting
slightly too late.
The blue has no say. It's
forgotten and ignored.
It's shouting it's so bored.
But telling it to get lost
brings back even more.

..background noise

This story is not educational.

I refuse to educate anyone not consenting.

So, my month had been full of interesting activities. I visited carparks, two premature BBQ's, a museum and a phone booth filled with photographs of semi-naked women urging everybody to give them a call. We even had a feast after the 'easter' celebrations. This fascination with guilt-tripping your children after you gift them 8 chocolate eggs produced a feast of chucked out chocolate for my mate Barry and I (he is an imaginary friend, I've created to make this story less self-obsessed), anorexically seen as terrifying by so many poor souls. I blame the parents- not the government- for this choice to agree with their unscientifically backed 'suggestions'. 5-a-day, twenty litres-a-second, don't-chew-while-you-walk. Guidelines, advice, laws, legislation.


This month had been interesting, until I realised what newspapers are. I read a fair bit- they are everywhere, I had previously ignored them, as they taste of hands and bank notes. My month was ruined by the news. Elections and pain of the bottom variety. Since then, I became aware of everything I had been missing out on. Stress, worry, concern. My future. A volcano. My future family. The environment. World war. The word: peace. Eighteen youth deaths in the last year. Electric appliances attacking their owners.

I wept and cried and worried and expressed my concern. Barry got so bored of me, he decided to hang out at number 45's bin (fine by me, 47 are so much fitter, making me get more veg in my diet). And then suddenly I realised how I had wasted an entire month of my fly life on nothing. I am not entitled to vote. I'm a an f*in fly.

addition

complex ideas.
twenty million bubbles. all enclosed. small space.
physical warmth. exhilaration.
i could walk for hours. in an imaginary straight line taking me from here to forever.
or just sit. empty and full.
what is more rock and roll, fighting or fleeing?

Paper-based Excuses

Shame. Anticipation of dissipation of mine and yours and precious' time. Expecting the disappointment with unreached ambitions, set on an unrealistically positive bus journey home.

Feline friend, you shall become part of my collection of loved ones, in the future. That's one example of a short-term goal. The future-related one, not a sporting goal.

I have recently exploited my capacity for self-analysis via word associations, and am now entering a phase of love for the abstract and of spot-on simplicity. Mere references, philosophy, the metro, my brain, the shop on the way to morissons that has positioned the most beautiful of flowers out on the disgusting streets of southwark. It's a shame. A complete waste.

Enamored with the darker. Finally a return. Hurray.

Ground-up seashells, vanilla and parsley.

Smells are so intense it's irritating.

What's the deal with pineapples, anyway? so bizarre. Odd, strange, joke plants.

Henna conditioner fumes are posing as a distraction to my enjoyment of a one-girl-tv-marathon, accompanied by a third of a tub of lower fat piggy ice-cream, three jumpers for added oomph, cigarette cravings and a half browsed-through magazine by the side.

Solving riddle-like, selfish comment puzzles entertains me so much, i wish there were other people producing similarities for me to attempt. Superior to any other form of entertainment. Or at least to the majority.

How many times are you allowed to repeat your day? It makes life seem shorter. Horrible. I coexist with a constant fear of wasting precious minutes on nothingess. Live live as quickly as possible. Live it all.

Pegasus

This repetition is formed to enhance all aesthesis.
The real deal lies somewhere in the dark.
I've fallen for a rebellious prophylactic superstition
to save, destroy,
start the drawing again.

Minimalism, however
was never my strong point.
Excessive, protective, safe; safe and covered.
An extensive family of
the familiar. Just for me.

And then we can leave.

lonely balcony

'We' (in the loosest sense- more appropriately: 'they', with my consent and support- I'm not  known for my interest in urban gardening) considered passion flowers.
Following Munir's recommendation, 'we' went out and got some. Anxiously, tied some squiggly examples of the climber to the green balcony bars. Hey Presto! Instant miracle- from prison cool to tropical paradise in a split second, we dreamt. How delusional.

Soon enough, the snow attacked our plants, killing them all but the purple lettuce in the yellow wellies pot. We never had the chance to measure the passion.
Sitting down and looking out the window I spot the bare, anticlimb, green bars, dodgy drug dealers, the man who refuses to clean up after his german shepherd and the joyous shit-machine bouncing next to him. I'm sad I will never get to find out if the passionflowers would indeed fuck all our other plants, generating a brand new, sexually gratified, inappropriately successful type of balcony garden.

my winter coat (forgetting the fly persona for a day)

a- the shiny single threads found everywhere. they used to be red, but as I adopted the 'good girl' identity I also adopted the 'listen to your mother' when it comes to chemical treatment of the head hair moto- hence it is now a boring Mediterranean brown. it does have some streaks of sunkissedness depending on its mood, how can this be ignored? (not so)secretly (at all) I love it. it helps my face make sense.

one thread I can spot on my plate. resting quietly amongst crumbs and two pieces of crust. (desperation has lead me to eat those in the past, to no avail. I am mature enough to understand and accept that it will never develop any curl to it. so can now be free to leave them and occasionally feed them to willing and hungry nearby people -or ducks)
another two are waving at me from the drying laundry on the radiator. they are stuck on some socks I don't recognise as mine. They are dull and unshiny. Fabrically softened perhaps.

b- irritating wool blobs need to be attacked with scissors. My coat is full of them, between the bottom of my sleeves and the underarm down to waist parts. My old lady look is destroyed by such details. So I invested in a new bright fuchsia coat, instead. not as warm, but as tulipy and as out of fashion as possible. Am I betraying my good old friend opting for this happier, younger model? Is this a change I will later recognise as signifying my development stages?

c- pretence of innocence. speaking my mind. and then shutting up. and conveniently forgetting anything was said. music on loop, pots of coffee, refreshing and clicking away. Since I lost my umbrella, winter has become much more challenging. I've upped my game and now need to become an adult. There's no escape, even my adult parents wish me to be adult. No more poetic avoidance and dancing my way out of horrid obligations.

Alter ego help me get a job please.

taster

Between posts addition. a hiccup of boredom, if you like.*

When I was younger I accidentally broke a mercury thermometer on my desk. The liquid baubles of deadly awesomeness spread everywhere. The best way to describe this to a protected, mercury-safe population is it looked like 20 silverfish sliding around my desk, towards every possible horizontal direction, looking for a hiding place when someone switches the lights on. It was decided that I better had clean it up, and wash my hands a minimum of twenty million times, to be safe. And so I did - I did not wish to die in such a stupid accident, so insignificant and so uncool. For about a year I kept finding bits inside my notebooks, in CD cases and even in my blue SONY Walkman (aptly painted over with black nail varnish). This has resulted to a perpetual (and by now, probably permanent) fear of CD cases, excessive hand-washing after handling books, and avoiding placing pens in mouth, when they have touched my working area. But don't feel sorry for me, the adrenaline buzz makes me concentrate better.



*I typed "hiccup" and not "hiccough", to be more street. I personally prefer the unnecessary complication of the latter.

Bedtime Explorations

So overwhelming.
A world of smells. I'm buzzing. I'm buzzing.

From here- onto the opposite wall. Go to the vertical lines. sit. still.
i can smell the fleece beneath me, a dive to the warmer and wetter of the space. I know. I know. the urges override my recognition processes. I can smell the yellowing paper on this old paper clipping on my left. I can smell the decayed selotape adorning it's corners in an angle. I can smell the ugly faces on it. I can smell meaningless meat storing instructions. The lady relied on rubbish. How could she call herself an expert? But no, I'm digressing. Smelling is believing. (wha-? What happened to my cousin?)

I- KNOW- the location of everything. i can KNOW. I smell the water and the curtain and the mood these creatures are in, right now. I can smell the coldness of the lightbulb. I can smell the heat the TV set is emitting.
I'm buzzing. I'm buzzing. Zoom in to the fleece. I gave in to my craving. Warm body breathing underneath it. i can smell it. Longish fur, lots of saliva, recently befriended some mud. Delight! The smells of my childhood. This local mud scent always makes me smile. I remember the first realisation of my size in relation to what I found myself in love with-- at the time it was a quarter of a galia melon skin. Mmmm i'm licking my lips. I'm ready for a nibble of memory.

Shit! the bitch just wagged me flat on the window accross her. |licking it is nowhere near a relief as needed, but it'll do for now|

Revolution of Resolutions

The following consists of recent experiences, made into a list. They are the things I have spent the first night of the year thinking about. They are somehow neutral and do not involve people's actions as much as how they are related to me. I prefer to divert my introspective assessment of life, through my lens, to physical and witnessed. Judgements and criticism as to actions and views of other people do not interest me. I'd rather bitch about that in a rubbish, stereotypical 'bitching' session.

A List of my favorite things, present in the last chunk of 2009 and first few steps into the next bracketed period of a 'year'

cat paws (still attached to cats).
sun when it's freezing cold, enjoyed via clean and slightly steamed window, whilst holding a perfect temperature mint tea.
'eye' as a greek way of describing a kitchen hob.
having hair.
the shins.
crisp ironed sheets.
looking into someone's eyes when they genuinely smile.
foil chocolate/sweet wrappers folded in unique ways indicating individual creativity.
my sister's xmas presents.
parentals and their unlimited tolerance of my grump.
lil' wayne panna cotta with toasted theremin and coconut crunch.
the hidden track after 'waiting for the beat to kick in' by dan le sac vs scroobius pip.
dancing alone.
dancing in public, as if dancing alone.





Hate List

earphones too big for my ears.
earphones on a plane.
a plane.
screaming childrens.
being tired and anyone mentioning how tired they are as if it's a problem pending, to be solved by me, when i'm also as tired.
self-criticism that makes me antisocial and apologetic.
everlasting dry lipline that insist on being dry despite two pots of 'extra moisturising' lipbalm having been dedicated to them.
kettle failure.
nail breakage.
outrageous and 'cool persona' small talk at an airport, when u think you'll never see that person again, only to find you're queueing with them at 4 more queues on your way home.
being unable to help, when desperately wanting to.
feeling inappropriate in situations I considered as owned (by me).
unmixed, full length dubstep tracks.

I have no NY resolutions. Why would I? Sufficient introspective skill exhibited, surely... I could not get more perfect.. maybe I should just be more selective over what i consume, i guess... household rubbish bins are not appropriate for a bourgeois fly.