Heart-drum

I am trying to deduce a question.

Find the solution to the conundrum

Who asked me what a conundrum was by the way?

I, sitting, chewing on a pen, 

drumming the conundrum 

in my head.

Undo what's done,

like the beat of a drum,

undone by the one that follows.

Da-dum. Da-dum. 

Lub Dub. Or,

The End of The Show.

That's all folks.

Travesty

What a ludicrous, ludicrous time. Words slip through my head, keys through my fingers and a fucking stone lies in my gut. 

Get over it already. I never learn. And the way they talk, I mean come the FUCK on.

It might be the customs of a foreign country. I thought the fact that we speak kind of the same language would make their language comprehensible but come on pussy cannot replace all the other possible words for women.

Anyway, that's not really my problem. 

Basic issue is trust, (but I HATE fucking cliches) or knowledge. More specifically, knowing.

I know what I see and what I see is good. But we all have skeletons tucked up neatly in our software so I don't blame him. It was a while ago anyway.

But what the hell am I doing, all over again, with practically a stranger.

I'm tired. I am so tired of this. And I want to look all cocky and confident I really do - and I really do. BUT I hate games. 

I can't even write this I've freaked out so much. In the proper sense though in a sense that I'm going all wacko crazy in the head and there's a thriller hand coming out of my brain wafting its fingers around. 

I don't wanna not be able to sleep again. I don't want my leg to keep moving back and fro with stress and potential anger. 

Why is the line so easy to cross and why should I not cross it?

Be proud. 

AH I AM but pride blocks communication.

i'm so weak.

Chewing on the goddamn filter plastic cylinder and wanting to puke.

ΈΛΕΟΣ ΠΛΕΟΝ

Είμαι απολύτως συντετριμμένη, απόλυτα και καθόλα αγανακτησμένη. Παίρνοντας το τηλεφώνημα απ'την Κύπρο (είμαι φοιτήτρια στο εξωτερικό) αμέσως μ'επνιξε ένας κόμπος στην κοιλιά, ένας όγκος αηδίας και μανιασμένης θλίψης. Ακούγοντας τα λόγια του μικρότερου μου αδερφού, ο οποίος μου περιέγραφε το επεισόδιο απαράμιλλης και πραγματικά σιχαμερής βίας που για ακόμη μια φορά διαδραματίστηκε στην Κύπρο, μια σκέψη κατάφερα να ξεχωρίσω απ'τις χιλιάδες που κατήλθαν στο μυαλό μου: ΝΤΡΟΠΗ. 

Είναι ντροπή μας όλους, ντροπή μας που σαν κοινωνία δεχόμαστε τέτοια περιστατικά. Ντροπή μας που σαν ανθρώποι δε νιώθουμε την ανάγκη να φωνάξουμε ΑΡΚΕΤΑ ΕΠΙΤΕΛΟΥΣ με αυτά τα ποδοσφαιρικά αίσχη, ΑΡΚΕΤΑ πλέον με τη βία, με το ξύλο, με τις πέτρες, με τα σωματεία, ΑΡΚΕΤΑ να συμπεριφερόμαστε σαν αγρίοι, ΑΡΚΕΤΑ.

Τί κρίμα που κομμάτι της νεολαίας μας βρίσκει διέξοδο στο να δέρνει, να λεηλατεί, να βάζει φωτιά, και να μισεί αντί να κτίζει, να ανέχεται και να δημιουργεί. Αλλά σε ένα περιβάλλον που τα πάντα είναι κομματοποιημένα, τα πάντα έχουν τη στάμπα του "κούμμουνου" ή του "φασίστα", τι περιμένετε; Αφού έχουμε όλοι μεγαλώσει ζώντας με αυτό το χάσμα, απ'τις αυλές των εξαίσιων Δημοτικών μας Σχολείων εώς τα τηλεφωνήματα που όλοι μας δεχόμαστε, μία απ'τη μεν φοιτητική παράταξη και μία απ'τη δε. ΑΡΚΕΤΑ. Δεν θέλω να ζώ σ'ένα τόπο που ενδιαφέρεται μόνο για το πώς θα κτίσει πάνω στα παλιά τείχη μίσους που είναι πλέον τόσο άσχετα με το σήμερα που το μόνο που εξυπηρετούν είναι να μας τραβάνε όλους απ'τα μαλλιά είκοσι χρόνια πίσω. ΔΕΝ ΘΕΛΩ. 

Και σαν απάντηση γι'αυτούς που σχεδόν σίγουρα θα πούνε: "Προτιμάς να μένεις αδρανής; Δε θέλεις να βοηθήσεις τον τόπο σου;" εγώ λέω ΝΑΙ ΘΕΛΩ ΝΑ ΒΟΗΘΗΣΩ, και πως αυτό γίνεται και χωρίς να είσαι αρνάκι των παρατάξεων. Δηλαδή, αν εγώ δεν θέλω ούτε ν'ανεμίζω την ελληνική σημαία, ούτε να βάφομαι κόκκινος Τσε Γκεβάρα, ούτε να μιλώ με πάθος για την ΕΟΚΑ, ούτε να έχω θεό μου τον Χριστόφια, δεν μου αξίζει ν'ακουστώ; Αν εγώ θέλω μια Κύπρο ανανεωμένη, μια Κύπρο με νέο αίμα που να βλέπει μπροστά αντί πίσω είμαι παράλογη δηλαδή; Θέλω με όλη μου τη ψυχή να πιστεύω πως ΓΙΝΕΤΑΙ ν'αλλάξουμε. Αν κρατήσουμε όλοι ανοιχτό μυαλό και έχουμε προτεραιότητα την πρόοδο αντί την επάνδρωση πεπαλαιωμένων ιδεών, μπορούμε.  Ήρθε επιτέλους η ώρα να βοηθήσουμε την Κύπρο εντός καινούριων όρων, σπάζοντας τα παλιά κατεστημένα και τις γερασμένες αντιλήψεις, που σαν τους πολιτικούς που έχουμε μας δένουν εικοσάκιλα βαρίδια και μας ρίχνουν στον πάτο της θάλασσας, όπου και πνιγόμαστε μέρα παρά μέρα, ξανά και ξανά.

Τί κρίμα που δεν αλλάζουμε. 

Το τηλεφώνημα μου τάραξε τη ψυχή. 

Κλάμα. Πάντα κλάμα, άμα ακούω πως οι νέοι μας προσπαθούν ο ένας να σκοτώσει τον άλλο. Και γιατί; Για κάτι κωλοομάδες που κάνουν τη νεολαία να πιστεύει πως αντιπροσωπεύουν και καλά κάποια ιδανικά. Αυτά είναι τα ιδανικά σας κύριοι του ποδοσφαίρου; Για να χρησιμοποιήσω τη λατρεμένη Κυπριακή: Καλά που εν αντρέπεστε. 

Να κλείσουν τα δύο μεγάλα σωματεία. Να γίνει κάτι επιτέλους. 

Δε μ'ενδιαφέρει ούτε το Champions League, ούτε αν φέρνουν λεφτά στον ΚΟΑ ούτε αν "το ποδόσφαιρο είναι πάθος του Κυπριακού λαού." Αν ήταν πάθος δε θα θρηνούσαμε τόσα θύματα στο βωμό του χουλιγκανισμού. Είναι πλέον λυσσασμένη μανία, μια εξτρεμιστική ψύχωση που αντίθετα με το πώς παρουσιάζεται στα συνθήματα, είναι απαίσια, απολίτιστη και επικίνδυνη. 

Πάντα ήλπιζα. Ελπίζω για κάποια αλλαγή. Αλλά όχι απ΄αυτές τις "απ'την πρώτη Κυριακή" αλλαγές που είναι όλο κούφιες υποσχέσεις και ψευτοπατριωτισμούς και τα λοιπά. Αληθινή αλλαγή. 

Αλλά είναι κάτι τέτοιες στιγμές που απελπίζομαι. 

Έτσι για να εξηγούμαστε, εγώ δε συμφωνώ ούτε με τους μεν, ούτε και με τους δε. 

Αλλά όταν ένα παιδί 20 χρονών κείτεται στο χώμα αναίσθητος, με αίμα να τρέχει απ'τη μύτη και τ'αυτιά του, και κάποιοι εγκληματίες να συνεχίζουν βάναυσα, χωρίς έλεος (για να μή μιλήσω για σεβασμό, ΚΑΛΑ ΠΟΥ ΕΝ ΑΝΤΡΕΠΕΣΤΕ) να τον ξυλοκοπούν με ρόπαλα και μπαστούνια του χόκεϋ, φωνάζοντας: "Σπάστε του τα πόθκια του να μεν ξαναπερπατήσει", συγχωρέστε με αν νιώθω ΑΗΔΙΑ, ίσως και ΜΙΣΟΣ για τους φταίχτες, αλλά και για το πού καταντήσαμε. Συγχωρέστε με που θέλω απλά να βγώ στο δρόμο να ουρλιάξω, μια κραυγή αγανάκτησης και θρήνου, αλλά και να βρίσω όλους τους υπεύθυνους, αλλά και όλους που ΕΠΡΕΠΕ να'ταν υπεύθυνοι αλλά φαίνεται να μην τους καίγεται καρφί.

Πραγματικά διερωτάμαι πώς το κράτος, η αστυνομία και όλοι οι δήθεν μπορούν να παρουσιάζουν τα γελοία και διεφθαρμένα μούτρα τους, να μας πουλάνε αηδίες περί ιδεαλισμού και μαλακίες, και όποτε γίνει κάτι τέτοιο, να αδρανούν και να ξύνουν τα ---- τους. Γιατί κύριοι μου δεν κάνετε κάτι επιτέλους να σταματήσει αυτή η βία στα γήπεδα, η οποία έχει ξεχειλίσει και εκτός σταδίων τώρα, και μας επηρεάζει όλους, και κατά κύριο λόγο ΚΑΤΑΣΤΡΕΦΕΙ τη νεολάια μας; Γιατί κύριοι μου, δε τιμωρούνται αυτοί που τόσο απερίσκεπτα και αιμοβόρα θέλουν να σκοτώσουν; Να σας πώ εγώ. Επειδή ο κουμπάρος του συντρόφου εν παντρεμένος με την ανηψιά του εξάδερφου του Κωστή που εν ο σύγγαμπρος του πρόεδρου του σωματείου ρε. Επειδή αυτοί που είναι στην εξουσία, παρόλες τις υποσχέσεις τους για δίκαια κοινωνία, το ίδιο ρουσφέτι κάνουν και το ίδιο χάλι με τους άλλους είναι. Η εξουσία φίλε μου... 

Αγαπημένε 20χρονε νέε στην Εντατική Μονάδα του Γενικού Νοσοκομείου Λευκωσίας (που έχεις φίλους, γονείς, οικογένεια, συμμαθητές που σε αγαπάνε και δεν είσαι απλά ένας τίτλος στις ειδήσεις των 8:30, σε διαβεβαιώ), ΣΥΓΓΝΩΜΗ. 

Εκ μέρους όλων μας. 

limits

I want to write a short story about a girl that wants to write a short story about a girl that wants to write a short story.

Scrap that.

I want to write a short story about that witch I see walking down the long street of old stone and clocks. Her hat is black but not everywhere. It's like a spider spun a web - some places denser, some not. 

Intriguing face this lady has. It's tiny, pointed, slightly boggled mouth and I can never figure anything out about her eyes because they're small and squinty.

She once ate a pasty.

Or, she once was seen eating a pasty down the road that bears the writer's name.

In fact I wonder whether she lives in that moment, when Rebecca and the writer come back from lectures, in fact, after their lunch at Queen's. 

Time morphed today, as Rebecca pointed out.

Morph. 

Time to morph for us too I guess. Move. Change.

All this fucking crap in my room.

I'm moving.

"At least I won't have to use my ear plugs anymore"

Shit.

fairy lights

I like it when you switch off the lights. 

There's something about your body that reminds

Me. Dark. Touch.

I like it when your muscles form

The hips on hips and lips and torn

Undulation. Blond. Scar.

From where I lie I see your eyes

Flutter up and down, they butterfly my

Neck. Touch. Lights.

i-pod

Have you ever wondered what all these people on the street with their i-pods in their ears are listening to?

I find it so fucking fascinating that we can all walk around, seemingly in the same world, but each and every one of us is in a musical frenzy of his own. 

For example, I cycle down Trinity Lane listening to Gaga. Typical. I mouth the words, I shake my head, I do the occasional robot arm gesture, undulate a bit, people think I'm weird, and the person that just passed by me with the khaki raincoat is listening to Bach. Schubert. Beatles. Metallica. 

I wonder what can happen if suddenly there's a collision:

Bump.

Fuck/oh!

Crap/Oops!

Humph./ Really sorry!

Shrug. Grimace of desperation.

Both continue. 

Clearly I'm in a better mood than the person listening to Radiohead!

Come as you are

Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be, only don't forget - no strings attached - no rooms attached, just de-tach. 

I can do that. In Angel the day seems like night, and the round kitchen table smells of lime; tequila sunrise. And the frost covered my bed which was comfortable. 

I hate this stage, when everyone acts like they don't care but don't tell me you're not longing because that's just not fair, to my intellect, that is, I've seen the likes of you before - handsome. 

It's an act, a play, and I'm good at this but I'm sick of being good I think I don't even know who I am I've piled so many layers of drama onto my skin it's like grossly applied concealer when it hardens and peels off and you look like shit. 

How can a love that lasted for so long be loveless, where has the 'luf-lace' that ties people together gone? Sir Gawain was a knight I am a damsel in distress but I face the Green Gome and I like it. A bit. Until he strikes the blow, and then there'll be crying. Or even worse, no crying. Silence.

I don't want to admit because I am not sure.

Man up, already. 

Tattoo. 

Genos

Oh I love my brother.
I love him more than anyone in the world.

Isn't it the best, the best of everything, to have a brother, sister, someone, who is literally made from the same mix as you are, but is still so fucking different?
And even if we're different we're so much the same.
Because so many of our waves move in the same frequency and he just gets me and he knows he knows it all he knows the boys the beds the hurt the voice the soul the crazy the sane the bitch the lovely the coward.
And he loves it all.

And I love all of him. He's big, my brother.
He's a giant soul with the heart of the softest gold.
He's paranoid, as I am. He's a painting. Made in a day, but looks like it's the work of a lifetime. That's who my brother is. The talent; for talk, song, society, fun, philosophy.

And I hate it when they look down on him. All the cunts that talk to me as if he's some sort of 'other'; peer pressure and abuse and too-much-for-his-age; I'm sure if you have a brother you will know, there's some things that one can't control; and that's not necessarily a bad thing.

He calls me. From everywhere. He loves me. He has no signal, doesn't call mum; she's furious about him not signing up for one of his exams on time... she's furious, he is for a bit too, he calls me, we laugh, he spies, he reports to me, we laugh... We think about it. Then we cry, sometimes, or contemplate on it at least. Or think that this is not a laughing matter.

And that's how I know. I know he's there. He's not 'lost' like some people arrogantly 'observe' to me. He's not 'elsewhere'. He is here. He is there; more than any of you. He has grasped it; you have not. He wants a way out, a route beyond the claustrophobic Cypriot night and the scary curly girly shoes and clothes and cars and labels.

I wanted a way out too.
And I thought I'd found it abroad; and abroad is good, it's different, it's big. But in some ways it's just the same.

What's different, now, is home. That's my escape.

I love you, T.

xxx

Sh

                    (silence)

Silence...

Silence!

Fireworks

I sit in a dark room shaded by a lamp and dampened by my drooping eyes.

Outside there's a blast. In the beginning I always think it's a tyre exploding or a shot fired.

Fortunately, I'm always pleasantly surprised.

Fireworks.

My God how I used to love them.

Sometimes I still do, providing I feel light enough. And not nearly enough cynical.

Anyway, this time it's different.

I hear the breaking, the cracking, the cackling of these artificial stars but I cannot see them.

Framed in glass, six squares of panes and not one view of them.

How strange.

I found myself trying, straining, pulling my neck, turning my head, desperately trying to locate the fiery journey but to no avail.

Then I find I'm just bored.

So what if I don't get to see the fireworks.

I've seen them many times before. 

But there's something awkward with not seeing them, or not being interested in seeing them at least. It's not what should happen - I should be running outside trying to get a glimpse (just like when it snowed and everyone at Trinity went barging out and had really very forced snow fights just to say they had a snow fight and put the pictures online) not sitting in here waiting for Plato to become interesting.

The sound crescendoes. Ah. Ah. It's almost annoying.

I want my childhood back. 

Blackbird

My blackbird is a truck.

It is employed by Sainsbury's.

Its singing is composed by brakes and buzz

And a whooshing sound that I cannot (as yet) define.

It does not sing in the dead of night

If it were so I'd probably be too dead to notice

It prefers the early hours of the morning

The no-man's-land of dawn,

Make it a couple of minutes before that.

Complicated

There is something about this evening that is uncanny.

I learnt that word in a Prac Crit class - see what Cambridge does to you!

Uncanny. Freudian. Homely - not. Definitely not.

I've smoked a cigarette, with coffee. Attempting to be and enact the stereotype that everyone loves but it's not that great, really. 

And now I cannot work. There's a burden in my chest and it makes me thing of home.

Unheimlich. 

Freud's thesis: unheimlich, the uncanny = revelation of what is private and concealed, of what is hidden.

I do not feel a revelation coming on. I feel degradation. Asphyxiation. 

And what is up with all these theories that are named bizarrely opposite to what they want to convey. 

Why can't we all write simple essays, have simple ideas, that are nonetheless intelligent?

Why should it always be that words that sound complicated are given so much gravitas and that plain, straight forward theses are rejected?

Obsession with the complex. That's my complex. 

the frustration

As far as I'm concerned, there is only one issue here. The fact that I'm being intrinsically extremely passionate.

And there is nothing wrong with that, to be frank.

God forbid I were a cynic, like some. But I can't help raising the cynic-front in matters as such.

It is a natural defense system. And to be honest it works pretty well. Just act all uninterested and look hot something like that I think that's how it works but I don't want it to work not with me and not with this. 

Ah all the fucking mistakes I've made and all the idiots I've given a part of me to.

It's just seems so fucking unimportant when my room smells so wonderfully pink and ethereal. I walk through the door and it strikes me again and again and it seems so bizarre that there's such an aroma and its origin is temporarily unknown to my juvenile brain until it's there - flourishing and pretty before me. 

And when it blends with the smoke of a cigarette, one particular cigarette, it's even better.

Makes me happy. 

Greek mythology mix up

There is a problem. In fact, there are many problems.

I just keep on relapsing into them.

I guess it's what the Greeks referred to as a 'tragic flaw.'

Despite my flaw, I have failed to become tragic.

In fact, to the contrary, my life is more like a play by Aristophanes.

Full of dirty jokes.

And phallic symbols. From literature, of course.

Damn the person/power/man/woman/God/being/nothing that programmed our brains.

There's a short circuit somewhere, some neurons are getting fried up as I get really worked up for no reason at all. 

Yes yes yes. I like him. Yes. I know it. Yes.

Breathe heavily and sigh occasionally.

Is that all there is?

Zut alors!

Just let me be simple. Let me even be thick. 

Maybe for a day idleness isn't such a bad thing. 

"Ate*", the Greeks said, and not in any way egging you on just a mere reference to the goddess that blinds you turns you into an ignorant rubber chicken and then lets you fry, preferably pulling your eyes out.

Oedipal. He lies on her breasts. 

And he smells so sweet, it's a shade of blue, you can't really put your finger on it, he claims it's clear but what do men know about definitions, she thought. 

Search: glib or smug but etymology was never the point whereas memory, recollection, that's spot on.

I want your loving and I want your revenge she sings. Isn't it strange that Eros is always accompanied by Nemesis? 

She is the royal eagle, he the baby sparrow flying around with a toy arrow. 

You've been pricked! 

*Greek goddess or spirit of blind folly and delusion

OR An exclamation in Greek which means "Come on!"

Monologue

What! Just think of it. Just – think about it! [Flails her hands around in an expressive, Mediterranean manner]

There we all are, we’re dancing and strobing and flashing and laughing and a circle, jumping up and down.

Smiles. He – she – everywhere – they, I mean even I, smile, too. They’re grinding.

I’m not. I’m thinking. They are physical. I am mental. And I mean really, really out-of-my-brains kind of mental.

I’m thinking: these are the days, the best days, the days which I’ll talk about in twenty years time, always prologue-ing my antic monologue with the same, dusty opening line: “When I was young…” etcetera, etcetera. Always, of course, tactfully omitting the really fun stuff. I mean - I’m sure my mum smoked up at some point in her life.

And I look at us, in this moment, when we in fact are young; and before it’s even over I feel nostalgic.

Nostalgia. A hot mass in my stomach. A poem by Duffy. Pain for home. I feel it even though I haven’t departed.

[Lapses into frantic mode again] What sort of a fucked up, existentialist freak am I? I don’t want to do this to myself. Hell, I don’t want to do this to the people around me who just look at me with their eyes and mouths wide open whenever I try to articulate even the most truncated version of my thoughts.

“You think too much for your age,” they say.

Well, yeah I do. And I like it.

Ten steps ahead, that’s me. Always rushing, always eager to be able to rewind. The reflection of today from some mirror river of tomorrow. That’s my craft.

[Pauses; she slows down]

And today? On this dance floor? Now?

What of it.

It’s not significant. We’ll all be left with souvenirs of it anyway. I just make mine on the spot. 

Amazing Fashion mum

I never cease to be impressed by what my mum creates.

Twenty years plus in the industry and she's still going strong with collections that only get better every year.

It's a shame that talent such as hers gets lost in a country like Cyprus. To be fair, it doesn't 'get lost' per se but the mediocrity and averageness of a small island like Cyprus is painfully limiting.

My mum has taught me to appreciate creativity, to be fascinated by texture and colors, to be drawn by the magic of art and, without particularly wanting to, she has cultivated inside of me a tremendous passion for fashion.

I use the cliche because it has become so banal to be a 'lover of fashion' nowadays. Back at home I see all the sixteen year old girls attempting to copy the looks in Vogue and Harper's Bazaar and to some extent it is sad because they actually can - their parents' affluence enables them to actually have that Chanel bag or those Balenciaga boots - but I don't see how they can fully appreciate the skill and art and craft behind magazines and clothes when all they can link it with is Gossip Girl and The Hills.

Don't get me wrong I am one of the biggest fans of Gossip Girl but what it's imposed on us, especially in a country like Cyprus where nouveau-riche is the new chic, is a bunch of airheads that fail to see beyond clothes and handbags and accessories. It's imposed a lifestyle of minimum responsibility, and it's created the expectation that everyone MUST have all the designer goods in order to be happy. Not to mention the tremendous pressure put on parents to provide and therefore purchase this merchandise for their sweet, 'innocent' girls.
Innocent is a deceptive word.

I was shocked when I found out that two girls had been talking about one of their 'friends' in a very derogatory manner, and the only conversation they could muster against her was: We should buy her that Balenciaga bag already! Not everyone can afford ten types of Louis Vuitton, but that doesn't mean they can't afford to love what they see. 

Too much power has been given to the monstrous moguls that snatch the Birkins from their mothers' closets.