Confessions of a diva-like lolita*

Down with the system?

2012-01-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

This endless tirade of job and university applications is getting dull, and it's really old news.

Should it be this hard for a young person to do something with his or her life?

I've got a theory. It goes like this:

We've been made to believe that doing all of our boss' donkey work during an unpaid internship will get us places. We've been made to genuinely think that we have to go through hours of filing and handling crates and staring blankly at a computer screen till our eyes hurt before we can actually put any real skills to work. We've been made to think that we HAVE to work unpaid overtime without complaining or asking not to (sometimes) in case we might get 'sacked' or told off.

So it's really fine, they tell us, if our jobs are boring as f***, tedious as hell, and use approximately 5% of our skill set, the 5% that was acquired way before our graduation from decent universities, round about the time we learnt to write an essay at primary school.

I've always been a hard worker. I don't mind hard work. I like it.
But this process just seems to be asking too much while often offering very little.
The applications are harder than the job itself.

And also, what stupid applications.

How on earth will you figure out whether I'm a suitable candidate for a job, if I tell you that 'I was president of the Pain-In-the-Ass society at university where I learnt how to manage a team and honed my leadership skills'? Or that 'I enjoy eating food, going to the cinema, and alpine skiing'. Everyone does, you idiot. Do these people want banality and uniformity? 'Cause I can't imagine how there could be an interesting answer to the question: 'Tell us of a time when you worked in a team'. Unless you're a fucking NASA astronaut, in which case you don't need their 'Analyst' job to excite you in the first place.

Note that words that indicate the slightest glimmer of passion on the applicant's behalf are disposed of - I often find myself censoring the word 'love' from applications even if it is an accurate reflection of my feelings about rope-skipping-in-my-underwear-at-4am-in-the-morning, which I FUCKING LOVE AND COULD AT LEAST HANDLE DOING ALL DAY BY THE WAY THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

'I was attracted to Capital-Markets-Analysts-Forever-Finance-Bank-LLP because of its longstanding reputation and its work ethic' basically translates to 'You're rich I want your money'. Isn't the former what everyone says, and the latter what everyone actually means? Unless you're applying for something mega-cool, like being an underwater photographer for National Geographic in Belize in which case your application is genuine PASSION.

Why aren't there more jobs like that or, to be more precise, why are people being PUT OFF from applying for something less conventional, more artsy or more adventurous? Is it because anything other than a City firm is deemed to be a failure? Is an entry-level journalist less successful than an entry-level accountant? And what is this obsession with big firms that will give your CV that extra umph that will make the next big firm hire you easily? Is that my sole option? Rationally thinking, I know it isn't. But it often seems to be the only choice!

Some may say that I'm part of that disgruntled group of people that moan because I haven't got a job and that if I had one I'd be perfectly content and actually doing what I have just said I hate doing. But I've tried answering the questions, I've tried saying 'why I want to be a lawyer', or 'why I want to be a consultant' and failed miserably at it. It's not an issue of incompetency. I've been deemed quite competent on a few occasions. The problem seems to lie within what it is that I am competent in, or what I am willing to become competent in. And I find myself inflexible when faced with options such as banking, legal services, audit, consultancy, marketing etc. I might not remain so for long - time and years of unemployment may break me at some point.

But for now I want to try and be what I want to be. What I really want to be, what I've always wanted to be. I might not have found what that is yet, but that is irrelevant. All I know is that there's a world of alternative possibilities out there that might seem 'risky' and 'stupid' and occasion comments such as 'what the hell is she doing she is wasting herself', but hey, somebody's got to do it.

If they didn't, we wouldn't have brilliant journalists to admire, or film stars to marvel at, or dancers to be fascinated with, or musicians to passionately listen to, or writers to be inspired by. And what kind of world would that be anyway?

Tragedy

2011-12-02T07:28:00.000-08:00

Very belated piece of writing, but I was working on it for a while...
Hope some think it's still relevant.

I spent my final year in Cambridge working on the so-called 'Tragedy' paper that included the study of tragedy from Ancient Greece to contemporary versions of the genre, but little did I know that I would return to a tragedy of our own as I arrived in Cyprus on the 11th July. Academics might criticize the way I use the word to describe a non-literary event, but the magnitude and effect of an event that has moved the entire island (hitherto deep in slumber) to tears and onto the streets has pushed me to reconsider the aptness of the word 'tragedy' in our daily, and very real, lives.

At university, we spent time juxtaposing the use of the word 'tragedy' in the media as opposed to its use in literary and academic environments, wherein some scholars (I'm thinking particularly of Ronan McDonald) reach the conclusion that in real life, as opposed to art, one labels as 'tragedy' certain unfortunate, devastating events (mostly of accidental nature) in order to imbue them with transcendence, to give them a certain sense of permanence; a grandeur that ensures their place in a culture's, a community's, a family's long-term memory. In short, to ensure permanence in posterity of an event that is part of a nature so fickle and transient that it constitutes an almost absurd effort against nihilism.

Yet one thing that non-literary and literary tragedies seem to have in common - despite many academics' attempts to polarize the two - is that they raise a storm of questions, an explosion (an apt term bearing in mind our situation) of question marks that remain bitterly unanswered. Why did Cyprus keep the containers? Was the President actually so keen to please Syria and Iran, that he neglected his fundamental duty of protecting the country he is supposed to rule? Why did officials decide to put the containers next to the largest power plant of the island?

What's more, the explosion at the naval base in Zygi on the 11th July has something else in common with our Greek ancestors' favorite cultural and educational pastime: maddened individuals who, possessed by some sort of illusion or delusion - the Greeks called it ate - overreach human boundaries and make choices that provoke divine judgment and insult the gods. To use a term closer to our modern sensibilities: they play with fire.

That's exactly what a shamefully large number of army and state officials did in Cyprus. Not once, or for a while. But for two whole years. Leaving 98 containers of explosives and other materials used to make bombs stacked up in an Aztec-like pyramid in an area right between the Evangelos Florakis naval base and the Vasilikos power plant, the island's main source of energy and biggest investment that, by the way, cost approximately 3 billion euro to build, and was only finished some months before the explosion with the addition of new equipment.

So in effect these high-minded low-lifes would convene meeting after meeting brushing aside the warnings of the naval base's director with an ease comparable to Oedipus' complacency - the man who solved the Sphynx's riddle, at least we had some proof of his capacity - when faced with warnings about his criminal fate.

This is typical Cyprus, some may say. Others will say that this was an accident - Oedipus, after all, was completely oblivious to the fact that he had killed his father, or, that it was his father that he had killed. He was also oblivious to the fact that he was sleeping with his mother, or, that it was his mother he had married and was sleeping with. Tiresias insists that this is no excuse. And so the man who thinks he knows it all plucks his own eyes out as an indication of his belated clairvoyance.

I cannot call an accident what happened in Cyprus on the 11th July. Nor can I accept the excuse that our dear president, the man who thinks he knows it all, did not know and was oblivious to the imminent danger that the 98 bulging containers posed not only to the naval base and sailors that were serving there, but to the entire Limassol community and the residents of the surrounding area. It was in fact his own deliberate political whim that insisted the containers remained in Cyprus - a country lacking the infrastructure of handling such a titanic amount of explosives - despite several pleas from EU countries such as France and Germany, as well as the United States, which explicitly offered to help remove the containers from Cypriot territory.

At a decision-making crossroads between favoring our EU allies or satiating the narcissism of Iran and Syria's megalomaniac regimes - to whom the containers originally belonged - our dear president chose the latter path. He also decided to appoint the aging and incompetent Mr. Papacostas as Minister of Defense, who notoriously made a reassuring statement back in 2009 when Cyprus first confiscated the containers that these were 'absolutely safe and could be stored in a residential area if they had to'. It was his decision as well to extend the contract of the Deputy Chief of the National Guard - Mr. Savvas Argyrou - indefinitely, despite the fact that the aforementioned never graduated, or even attended, the Hellenic Army Academy.

Even so, says the devil's advocate, what matters now is the way the president handles the situation that has been created. Let's look forwards, not back into the past.

Yet there is no plucking of eyes in the case of our communist leader. There is no remorse, there is no clairvoyance whatsoever. There seems to be, instead, an ever-fattening sheath of darkness, a result of the filth this man is steeped into, which isolates him from a substantial portion of the Cypriot community but perversely brings him closer to his sheepish loyalists.

After all, our man who thinks he knows it all appointed his own Tiresias, the esteemed Mr. Polys Polyviou, to ascertain whose fault it was, in a move that 'would guarantee transparency and would bring the causes of the event to light'. That was the spiel we became accustomed to hearing, up until the report was actually ready. Faithful to his ancient past, the president rejected the report which his own appointee delivered. Personal and political responsibility are not in the President's vocabulary, so surely, they mustn't be in anyone else's.

And now for the cherry, the icing, the frosting of the Banana Republic cake. Five months on, we've seem to forgotten it all. Perhaps it's because the Christofias administration is constantly surprising us with various other tragic developments, namely the economy and the lack of any substantial measures to save it. Or his pathetic image hopping out of a helicopter and onto Noble Energy's natural gas platform - another way to haze. Perhaps I shouldn't be this scathing. There is a less malignant explanation to all this. Mr. Christofias and his minions are deliberately failing to resuscitate our collapsing economy because they want to be the best in something, so they've decided to mishandle everything they get their hands on in order to get into the Worst Government Administration International Hall of Fame, and thus secure fame in posterity as the only so-called communist government that made a mess out of their country (!) Or are they doing it in order to secure those last votes standing from the unions, to the detriment of everyone else? Is this their way of punishing private sector employees, who are all, as we know, naturally right-wing, fascist, supporters of the 1974 coup d'etat?

All I have to say is don't worry misters, you've already made it. Please stop trying.

What chaos

2011-10-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

What chaos.

Harbinger of traffic

sliding red around the streets

stops and starts and then

Announces where we go

Where are you going

In the throngs and hoards of feet

In the throngs and hoards of faces

An embarrassment of fish.

Paris, 2.1

2011-09-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

From the concept store 'merci' on Boulevard Beaumarchais to

an Afro-Antillaise market off Rue de Bretagne to

the museum of hunting and nature (!) to

a star-studded Colette

This day was a full day. Amen.

Entrance at 'merci' - you can get a glimpse of the store's
large book collection and cafe

One of the many vintage pieces of furniture found at 'merci'

Afro-Antillais & cajun... Lovely colours
(Can't help thinking maybe the palette of the
chair above is Carribean-inspired)

An installation at the entrance of the
Museum of Hunting and Nature

The museum is characterized by a blend of interactive installations.
Old hunting guns and flasks lie in wait in art deco furniture drawers.
Modern sculptures are interspersed among the 17th Century artifacts.


This is a cardboard installation - one of the modern additions of the museum.

A while later and we were back at Rue St. Honore -

which was filled with fashion personas -

Anna dello Russo outside colette

Terry Richardson is showing his photo exhibition 'Mom&Dad' at Paris' hottest concept store.

the colette bus - see the Terry Richardson signature?

Paris, 2

2011-09-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

Ever wondered who on earth designed the following wigs/hair accessories/hair styles/hats worn by Lady Gaga?

His name is Charlie le Mindu and he is the 'haut coiffeur' behind the notorious 'lips' headpiece

and I was lucky enough to go to his Spring/Summer 2012 show, where he presented his newest collection called 'Burka Curfew'.

The first model was naked

besides a headpiece - what I interpreted as a phallic take on the Moroccan fez

Cobra head

back of cobra head

Headpiece and hair dress. Yes, real hair.

Paris, 1

2011-09-29T15:20:00.000-07:00

The day started off in disarray.

I hauled myself to three wrong bus stops before finally finding bus stop Y which took me to King's Cross.

Not really. It stopped at Euston to my dismay. I hauled myself to KX on foot.

I got to Paris. It was sunny. I stepped outside the Gare du Nord and couldn't stop smiling.

Got lost for a while. Reached Gare de l'Est.

Went summer shopping at H&M because the weather is freakishly great.

Then started my epic underground journey. Turns out, there actually was a direct line linking my place of origin with my desired destination. An hour later, having suffered a shameful fall in the Parisian metro and having changed direction four times, I finally got there.

It was all worth it.


Offerings of grumpy woman taxi driver (who thought we were Italian and refused to speak any other language besides Italian.)


View from Cafe de Flore at St. Germain de Pres

Projected arrow on the street...
Boulevard St Germain

...pointing to digital messages inside a building


Sonia Rykiel window (for the love of knits!)


Sonia Rykiel window (eerily reminiscent of Prada?)

Prada Spring/Summer 2011

That's all for now.

The face

2011-09-28T06:55:00.000-07:00

The face, the face

your face, their face

your nose, your eyes

your ears your highs

From an optician's window on Fleet Street


From an optician's window on Fleet Street (the Poirot face)

Kika Ioannidou handbag
Bloomsbury

Kika Ioannidou handbag 2
Bloomsbury

Hidden face
(veggie face)

Marilyn on Dolce and Gabanna
(divine face)

THE POLKA DOT DOT DOT

2011-08-31T07:47:00.000-07:00

First, there was Marc Jacobs

and Helena Bonham Carter

Then, there was Stella McCartney

and everyone else who wore Stella McCartney.

Including Kate Winslet.

Then, there was - and always is - the demonic Dr. Strangelove

and his polka-dot glasses

(hitherto always referred to as 'John Lennon' glasses)

And here is a summer take on the polka dot.

dot dot.

dot

The Action Painters feat. Frank O'Hara

2011-08-29T03:32:00.000-07:00

My thoughts on O'Hara, Pollock and the lot.

(First, to introduce the poems that inspired the essay.)

A Step Away from Them

The Day Lady Died

You can also check out this fun site based on Jackson Pollock's work.

An essay on movement. Take the city in and breathe it out.

Even[AN1] when one is static in the city, stands without moving in a particular spot, the city will still move around him. Commanding as a structure, literally concrete and in a wider sense ‘unmovable’, the city is nonetheless defined by an inherent duality of movement within stasis, transience within permanence: it is the embodiment of process. In Frank O’Hara’s ‘Lunch Poems’, the process of the city is taken in by a poet who is himself often in motion, meaning that visual impressions succeed each other even more rapidly, that they overlap even more densely, a quality shared by the reader in his poems that become processes themselves, instead of mere representations of the city: ‘It’s my lunch hour, so I go/for a walk among the hum-coloured/cabs.’ The first line of ‘A Step Away From Them’ immediately draws the reader in the poem, in the experience that O’Hara is about to embark on. The present tense transfers the reader to the moment the poem is about to be engendered, and the use of the personal pronoun ‘I’ can be read as a means to elide the reader with the poet, heightening the sense of immediate experience – we share O’Hara’s direct impressions. This in itself is a cinematographic technique as it aligns us with the poem’s persona in a similar way that films make us, through the pattern and mode of images shown, share the perspective of a particular character. The images we are about to be exposed to in O’Hara’s poem will succeed each other, overlap and overcross in our minds in the same way the city unravels around the poet while he takes a stroll during his lunch hour.

The fragmentary nature of the images in ‘A Step Away From Them’ can be read as a result of precisely this saturation of visual impressions and codes that define the city. The ‘dirty/glistening torsos’ and the ‘skirts…flipping/above heels’ are both products of the speed of city life as well as marks of the poet’s perception, which breaks the city’s seeming commanding structure into the sum of its less-than-clearly-defined-and-static parts. The poet does not want to describe what he sees to us, he wants us to see it, too. For this reason, the fragmentary bodies, both familiar in their metonymic association but also alien in their mutilating capacity seem to offer an antidote to metaphor, a poetic convention that O’Hara resists as it constitutes an unwanted mediation between his direct experience and the reader. This is the city we know; landmark place names such as ‘Times Square’ helps situate us in the geography of the city and the poem; but at the same time it is also particular to O’Hara, and it is this particularity, the idiosyncrasy of O’Hara’s way of seeing that renders the poems so vivid and alive, so new and so surprising.

The purposeful lack of mediation is something that O’Hara shares with the Action Painters or Abstract Expressionists, the New York school of painters who are as affected and inspired by the multi-referential quality of the city as O’Hara is. Jackson Pollock and his ‘drip’ paintings in particular share O’Hara’s desire for immediacy both in their rejection of figures and in their rejection of metaphor and representation. Pollock does not paint objects – he does not offer a second-degree rendition of a visual element existent in real life. As O’Hara writes in his book on Jackson Pollock for The Great American Artists Series, Pollock’s images ‘have no real visual equivalents. Upon this field the physical energies of the artist operate in actual detail, in full scale.’ So Pollock’s painting does not ‘make bigger’, ‘make smaller’, or ‘make different’ something that pre-exists it – the painting itself is the subject. The canvas becomes a field where he maps his action, his expression, his process of work without the use of symbol or distorting convention, in a similar way that O’Hara maps his walks through the city: ‘I hope the poem to be the subject, not just about it.’ If[AN2] in Pollock, ‘paint is paint, shells and wire are shells and wire, glass is glass and canvas is canvas’ then in O’Hara ‘a glass of papaya juice’, ‘And chocolate malted’ are precisely that – his poetry is the opposite of double entendre. While I agree that ‘paint is paint’ and ‘glass is glass’ for Pollock, I think that it is possible to take this statement further and say that the same paint and the same glass – while not signifying anything ‘deeper’, not ‘representing’ something else – can nonetheless function differently in each of Pollock’s works. Glass is glass when he uses bits of it to give texture to the paint, and glass is also glass when he uses a slab of it to paint on instead of a canvas – but the same object, the same visual sign, functions in completely different ways. While glass will roughen the texture of a painting when used in the paint and as part of the surface, glass as canvas gives the painting a fluid transparency conveying continuation and clarity – a smoothness of touch as well as sight; here, it is the opposite of obstacle. The same goes with the line, a prominent feature of Pollock’s work, that is at times softly lyrical and thin, and at others passionately aggressive and wider, bolder. The multiple ways Pollock uses these ‘same’ elements, their fluidity, reinforces the concept of ‘canvas as an arena in which to act’ and painting as an ‘event’ (Harold Rosenberg). The personal expression of the artist means that he is not pre-conditioned by set codes of what each sign ‘must mean’ – he is free to leave his marks on the canvas in any way that follows from his purpose, his expression, and his ‘spiritual life’ (O’Hara on Pollock) at the moment he acts on the canvas. This means that one kind of mark cannot be given a particular ‘meaning’ that can be applied across all of Pollock’s paintings. His spiritual life, his thought and process of each painting is different, and so what visually appears the same can be infused with a completely different function in the context of each painting and can be the product of a completely different purpose.

The unity of purpose and the visual, the ‘spiritual’ and ‘physical’ is evident in O’Hara as well, who uses images as thoughts, or, whose images are not only mappings of physical displacement but also of the movement of his thoughts. The paratactical arrangement of statements such as ‘I look/ at bargains in wristwatches. There/ are cats playing in sawdust’ highlight that we are looking at the city through his eyes and mind, as we jump from wristwatches to cats – just as the line urges us to ‘look’ from one line to another through enjambment – in an association we assume is incited by physical proximity but which can also be a mental one. For this a city filled with visual impressions but it is also a city filled with the poet’s subjective mental activities. In the poem ‘The Day lady Died’, the stream-of-consciousness mapping of O’Hara’s hurried (?) walk in the city – form reflects content without smothering it – punctuated by the aggressive capitals of store names and publications, culminates in an encounter with ‘a NEW YORK POST with her face on it’. Who ‘her’ is is never explicitly resolved in the poem, but the title gives us a clue that this is a poem about the day Billie Holiday died. ‘Her face on it’ hangs at the end of the line, the one single image, out of the many in the poem, that has a lasting, suspended effect on the poet, and the one single thought that makes the poet, and the poem stop, or at least slow down:

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of

leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT

while she whispered a song along the keyboard

to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

The last two lines of the stanza transform the entire poem. Its ambiguity and evasiveness, its refusal to ‘pin down’ identity is exemplified as the ‘I’ who is ‘leaning on the john door’ blends with the ‘she’ who whispers a song, and the name of ‘Mal Waldron’ is introduced which leads to a collective ‘everyone’ and then retracts back into the ‘I’ of the poet again. The blend of time and space in this stanza is remarkable. The poet’s persona could be read as blending with the ‘she’ of (the absent, and dead) Billie Holiday in the act of ‘leaning’, as I always imagine her having to lean towards Mal Waldron in order to ‘whisper the song’. The conjunction ‘while’ implies that the whispering happens in tandem with the poet’s ‘sweating’ and finding support ‘on the john door’, and this is true in that it happens in tandem in his head. Physical reality and mental association are blended here, and the sense of breathlessness described in the last line is both the sense of awe that overcomes ‘everyone and I’ at the jazz club when O’Hara presumably last saw Holiday performing, and his breathless state having found out about her death. These last four lines, by putting a halt to O’Hara’s (literal and figurative) ramblings, render the present of the previous lines a product of an ignorant past as they absorb, through the tension they create between past and present, memory and materiality, the reader’s full attention, making us, too, ‘stop breathing’, as we stop reading, or speaking the lines.

Back to ‘A Step Away From Them’, and the importance of its title in rendering the simultaneous closeness and distance of O’Hara from the city’s visual impressions. ‘Everything/ suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of/ a Thursday.’ O’Hara persists in the tension between particularity and generalization – the Action Painters’ ‘push’ and ‘pull’ technique materializes in his poems through this sort of vivifying contradiction – in order to render the surface of his poem alive like the surface of the city. We can fairly say that not everything actually ‘suddenly honks’ in an urban moment of communion and harmony, but between the specificity of the digital 12:40 and ‘Thursday’ and the abstractedness of ‘everything’ and ‘a’ (preceding Thursday), we realize that at that moment in time, all of the bits and pieces, the fragments that O’Hara has been perceiving come together in a sound effect that is almost comforting in the aural image of coherence it purports. Despite the poem’s resistance to figuration – its refusal to flesh out fully the images of the Negro and the chorus girl (O’Hara focuses instead on a toothpick and the blond’s click) – it succeeds in bringing these fragmented, re-engineered ‘signs’ of the city in a choral unison entirely representative of the city’s shifting landscape and its general atmosphere. This is what O’Hara terms ‘the aesthetic of culmination rather than examination’, where totality is as important as the individual parts, and where the individual parts modify and generate an over-arching vibe which often invites a reassessment of previous impressions. This can be compared to the effect of the vastness of some of Pollock’s paintings, which have the effect of confronting and engulfing the spectator, creating an emotional response generated by the individual detail of the painting in its final culmination. The emotional response generated by the whole will modify our opinion of the detail, and vice versa. Confronting a Pollock you are confronting a complex network of marks and events, the culmination of one single, and yet multivalent, purpose, a city very much present and possibly aggressive or intimidating, but lyrical and fresh, new, in its particularities.

[AN1]In ‘Personal Poem’ this complicity is stated by the emphatic ‘Now when I walk around at lunchtime’, which is strangely retrospective and immediate at the same time – we are invited to read the poem as ‘one of many’ times of walking around during lunchtime as well as one particular time.

[AN2]His use of free verse and an ‘ordinary’ quality of speech that resists the kind of mysticism or imposed ‘significance’ usually associated with poetry led his critics to accuse him of ‘trivializing poetry’

Abstract Expressionism

2011-08-29T03:17:00.000-07:00

Painting meets textile - nothing new about that.

This dress by Kika Ioannidou reminds me of Jackson Pollock's action painting technique.

I love the way it hugs the figure while splashes of paint colorfully explode on the fabric (it comes in blue/petrol hues as well.)

Kika Ioannidou

Jackson Pollock's No 7, 1950.

Red lipstick/ tan - check

MAY is the best time of the year in cambridge - even though it's June.

2011-06-22T06:24:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone -

absence was long, I know.

BUT - now that exams are over and Cambridge is over I thought I'd share a bit of the Cambridge reward that comes every year after the terror of exams - May Week. May Week is actually a week in June. Mid-June. Some friends pointed out (many times) that here is a paradoxical name analogous to Oktoberfest (takes place in September) and the October revolution that actually took place in November? or something like that.

In any case -

Here we go.

This year I wore 2 dresses (for Trinity and Downing May Balls) by my mother - designer Kika Ioannidou - one was specially made and the other was taken from her pret-a-porter range but Oh My God is it gorgeous.

TRINITY MAY BALL 20th June 2011

Blue satin dress with matching cape by Kika Ioannidou.
I loved the color AND the details at the neckline and back.
From right: friends Andria, Rebecca, Alex, myself and Kyriakos.

Also notice my friend Rebecca's gorgeous dress with the bow detail at the bust.

I wore the dress with blue patent leather clog sandals from Kurt Geiger.

The infamous back detail of the dress. Craftsmanship!
From left: Evi, Andria, Alex, Kyriakos

Back detail of the dress.

Front detail of the neckline

Walking back home at 6am. This gives a glimpse of how the dress shows in motion.

This picture I love.

DOWNING MAY BALL JUNE 21st 2011


Dark blue chiffon strapless dress with bead detail at waist.

I chose to wear this dress with flats seeing as my feet were practically dead after Trinity. Hence my friend Rebecca is towering over me in this picture with her sexy, tropically coloured dress.

Detail of the bust and beads

Halfway through the night what was originally an elastic belt but was used as a hair scrunchy to keep my hair up became a hippie head band - the theme was Olympus so I thought I'd look the part.

I paired the dress with a midnight blue H&M blazer.

Posing.

Tribute

2011-02-09T17:36:00.000-08:00

When you talk about death before it comes, robbing you not only of a person but of a set perception of life, you feel above it. It glides above you, unable to reach down into the river of your daily life and hawk you up with it. It stalks behind you, no more than the shadow of the berry bush as you walk past it, thinking it won't harm you.

But when that shadow gallops up and sleepy hollows what you have (there, you had it, it was there - you spoke, and laughed and told your secrets) the rider trips you down. Stampedes you down, into the earth that shakes and chafes beneath the spade and splatters onto the widow's skirt. We are but dirt. Dust made of dust. But

No. It can't be that. I saw you going down into that hole but that's not where you are. You're still around, me and my dreams are still around, you and the dreams cinematic of your past and future. Spool. Round and round, yes, round and round - diurnal in your motion, passing through the mind and eye so silent. Freud says it's death. Silence is. Pick the third maiden, the third casket, the third door, and mum. Who picks it for you? The sickness in your blood, the God above? The random house of cards? I refuse. I still refuse.

I look at my hands in the shower and think: this is me. It's all I have. Sinews, bones, freckles on my knuckles, my nails, those veins. My body, and mind, and all I know - where does the knowledge go?

I dress in the mirror thinking that this body is my sole possession. You stop dreaming when you see that. Vulnerable, naked, susceptible to change but can it change? These are my genes, and they dictate the path, the fate, the fat, the sick, the firm, the height, the mind. And my consciousness? Who dictates that? Or, better put, can it be tamed? Into a tolerable drive of thoughts that helps me sleep, and wake up again?

To go to bed is the hardest thing of all. To sleep, perchance to dream, is to release into the darkness. The absurdity of your dreams proves the uncanny. That man in your dream you know very well, you've seen him before, you have the sense of his history. Yet come the morning and your eyes wide open fail to put the pieces together; a determination of intimacy remains within the pool of bafflement.

The moment I lay my head on the pillow, I am alone.

On Photography

2011-02-04T18:48:00.000-08:00

“Photography has the unappealing reputation of being the most realistic, therefore facile, of the mimetic arts.” Susan Sontag

The famous photo of Vietnamese children running
away from a napalm bomb explosion is one of the
most important photojournalistic images of the century

On a visit to the World Press Photo 2010 exhibition – featuring the winning photographs of the foundation’s annual press photography contest – I found myself walking past a collection of pictures with various themes, ranging from aerials of the Super Bowl match to very explicit shots of a man being stoned to death in Somalia. On the upper floor of the exhibition (that took place in Cyprus’ Electricity Authority headquarters, a modern building with high ceilings and glass that induces one to be silently in awe of the surroundings) the visitor could see the winners of the ‘News Story’ and ‘Nature’ categories, while those of ‘Arts and Entertainment’, ‘Sport’, ‘Daily Life’, ‘Portraits’ etc were displayed on the lower floor. The curator of this exhibition almost certainly wanted the viewer to move from strikingly disturbing subjects (corpses on the morgue floor of Madagascar’s capital, a close-up of a US soldier in her coffin, the head of a dead Palestinian girl found in the rubble of her home after the recent Gaza strip bombings by Israel) to images of relative relief (half-naked pictures of the exotic Senegalese wrestling team, images of modern flower-children in a festival in the States) as he/she descended the stairs connecting the two levels. Yet this in itself (leaving aside the News category photos) – the fact that samples of photojournalism were curated in a certain way, that I was encouraged to follow a certain order when looking at them – made me feel uncomfortable. I found the process irreverent because the museum-like context equated this sort of exhibition with those of other forms of artistic representation, where the artificiality, the non-realness of what is depicted is evident from either technique or material. Was the curator assuming that I was able to glide from images of death and horror to colorfully composed wildlife pictures?

The fact is that we tend to regard photography at once as an art form and yet as distinct from other kinds of artistic representation. Photojournalism is one of those strands of photography that makes this alleged distinction obvious (or so at least we think). This is reflected in the compound word’s terms, where ‘journal’ is defined as ‘a register’, ‘a record’ of daily life, a non-fictive, informative account, emphasizing photojournalism’s preoccupation with the real, the everyday as it happens; the validation of experience; what Barthes calls the undeniable ‘that-has-been’. We believe in the truth claims these photographs make because we think that, on the field, photojournalists have no time to stage a shot – what we see is the result of a spontaneous decision taken in the context of unpredictable circumstances. If this was the case, however, then why can we view these real events, these real deaths with such ease?

According to Susan Sontag, “photographic seeing has to constantly be renewed with new shocks, whether of subject matter or technique, so as to produce the impression of violating ordinary vision”. If, still at the World Press Photo exhibition, I find myself returning to the most horrifying photographs, such as the one of a dead girl covered in blood being dragged in the streets of Madagascar, with a compulsion to scrutinize the image further, does this mean that the image is not shocking enough? Barthes says that news photos have no punctum by which to ‘wound’ us, hence the lack of ‘adventure’ in photojournalism. However, for me there is a punctum in the picture described: first, there is the girl’s gaping mouth that makes it seem as though she is screaming (I don’t think you recognize that she is dead unless you read the captions), and second, she wears two colorful bracelets (or hair bands), one on either hand, that eerily resemble the ones I had as a child. The picture for me, therefore, is real, as it includes elements that I know for a fact, from experience, exist. Despite my ‘common reference’ to the picture, however, there is an issue with Barthes’ punctum as applied here: why am I not primarily drawn to the morally reprehensible fact that is this girl’s death? Why am I claiming as a punctum something that seems irrelevant to the manifestation of injustice photographed?

The argument that along with digitalization and the Internet comes the price of indifference towards such images definitely stands, but it also forms a paradox, since as technological developments allow more of us to take more real and more accurate pictures of objects and people, we simultaneously become less sensitive to this realness by means of our exposure to these selfsame advancements. This means that no matter how accurate or real-looking a photograph is (its resolution, its size, the shape and material we print it on), we continue to be fundamentally indifferent to it because it constitutes part of our daily visual intake. Images and footage from television, news websites online, video games, films and advertising contribute in raising the ‘shock’ bar steadily higher. Thus the image of an assassinated drug dealer whose blood trickles down the wall behind his head does not ‘violate ordinary vision’ - it is part of it.

The moral implication of this anesthesia is grave. To be “a tourist in other people’s reality” makes the photographer and viewer alike a witness of intense suffering, a voyeur. “Photography is an act of non-intervention”. Yet both of Sontag’s quotes seem tentative to describe in affirmative terms what exactly we are doing when taking or looking at news pictures. ‘Tourist’ is not a strong enough term, as it holds no moral value, nor is there a particular set of attributes given to tourists from which to derive such a value. ‘Non-intervention’, on the other hand, deliberately fails to positively assert an action. We are aware of the seriousness of the situations photographed. But in the context of an exhibition, in an art context, we seem to leave that to one side and focus more on observing for its own sake. By thinking about it in the way we would painting, for example, we shift the photograph into a realm of acknowledged artificiality and fiction.

It is a similar experience to that of reading Capote’s In Cold Blood. I, personally, was fascinated by the author’s formal choices and by the ‘plot’ - how ironic that a family’s misfortune got transformed into a ‘story’ I read before I went to bed. There were times when I stopped and thought about the implications of creative non-fiction, asking myself whether the pleasure I was deriving from the narrative of these people’s murders was a sign of perversion! Yet I always brushed those thoughts aside and passively continued reading the book. Passivity is also the main characteristic of our and the photographer’s state, as we can be seen to be “encouraging whatever is going on to keep on happening”. The continuousness of an action, however, is something indeterminate in a photograph, that captures a moment. In this way, the viewer can easily be swayed to perceive that single picture of one unique, static moment out of context.

The horror begins and ends there: we are shocked, but the shock doesn’t last for long. In our minds, the possibility for continuity shifts from the photograph’s subjects to ourselves, and we feel the continuing effect of the image as a flow of self-indulgent pity. We could say that the photographer taking the three pictures of a man stoned to death is no less than an accomplice in murder – or, alternatively, that he is so helpless in front of the spectacle that the only thing he can do is use his camera, and hope that by documenting this death he will help prevent others of the same type. But who is to say that he doesn’t feel even the slightest sense of self-satisfaction, knowing that the object he has created will be a cause for fascination, or even an opportunity for the furthering of his career?

The ease with which we see these photographs corresponds to the easiness with which we offer ourselves to be seen nowadays. “A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it – by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, a souvenir.” Never has this been more true than it is now. Facebook and its Photo Tools have turned every occasion into one big fecund opportunity for taking what might potentially be your next (photogenic) profile picture. What John Berger says about women in Ways of Seeing, therefore, that they look at themselves being looked at, can now be applied to a great number of Facebook users, no matter what their gender. The motives behind taking these pictures are an example of a strange projection of voyeurism unto oneself: we take the pictures so that other people see them, want to see them, see us, see what we were up to. We take pictures in order to put them on Facebook.

In this way, our reality is distorted by our own self; we untag pictures of ourselves that others have uploaded if we think we look ugly or unglamorous or casual in them; some people even photoshop their portraits before uploading them! We live in a time when a lot of people think that a photograph is something that is meant to “make you look good”; we acknowledge the ‘bad pictures’, but we delete them from our memory sticks and forget them altogether. This of course all depends on our experience with it, but photography in many cases can become a medium that sugar-coats the ‘real picture’ – and so a big part of our nonchalance when looking at certain images of photojournalism does not derive from us having become desensitized monsters, but rather from us now increasingly considering (subconsciously?) the medium of photography as a tool of artifice, of selection, and even fiction.

You can see all the aforementioned pictures at http://www.worldpressphoto.org/index.php?option=com_photogallery&task=blogsection&id=20&Itemid=257&bandwidth=high

11 February 2008, 00:16

2011-01-23T17:52:00.001-08:00

Elevator, part I

Secretly, there was a craving for

Marriage.

Not the kind of marriage that drags your

Hearse; the soul-finding kind.

She loved the idea – although it lingered

Solitary in the depths of her cerebral membranes

Unable, and unutterable.

You see, she had too much to expect.

First there was that elevator, of

Moods, or was it reality?

Then there was a cupid’s heart, a

Drawing,

Suspect to creation by fingers wonderful,

Divine almost in their strange nature.

With every breath, the mirror’s painting came to

Life, more profound than ever.

As her breathing turned into anxious, unscrupulous

Exhalations of air, the heart seemed so

Solid – invincible through infinity.

And the silver box kept moving

Upwards, she thought she’d

Hit the sky with a blow in the

Head so severe it would stay

Forever – in a sweet, painful way.

The lift stopped. His floor. The painting of

Panting anxieties faded into the miserable

Image of herself.

She stepped out. Door’s open, he said. Again,

Lying on that couch of dispirited dreams,

Watching.

I’m sorry.

Unhappy, some…times.

Me?! Sometimes. Shock… Paradox?

No. Perhaps inevitable. Don’t

Cry. Hug. Tear. Mascara.

Love.

You.

Elevator, part II

History repeats itself, I’ve heard them say.

Now I can verify it’s true –

It’s not just Bush, Bush Jr., Bush Jr. Jr.,

That gets to fuck up twice. Thrice.

So that elevator. Yes, much frequented.

Up and down, up and down, up and down.

I know what you’re thinking. That’s not it.

At least it wasn’t supposed to be it.

Okay, yes. Maybe.

He panted a heart on the glass – three years ago.

Now I was standing against the door

With his hair in my face

And my ass in his hands

And some whiskey breath slipping down my throat –

It became disconcertingly familiar, over the years. Homely.

It was hot while it lasted, so hot the mirror steamed up again.

Déjà vu.

The lift stopped. His floor.

He carried me to bed but –

4 April 2006, 21:11

2011-01-23T17:34:00.000-08:00

Drown me

In your deep blue sea, there

Where I first saw my reflection on the

Clear water of your turbid ocean.

Walk with me

Through your blond, ripe fields, there

Where I first felt the softness of futility in

Each grain of golden wheat.

Taste for me

The sweetness of your apple, the one

That turns to bitter cider as soon

As the sharp wind enters its core.

Feel on me

The shiver of your winter, the shiver

That burrows under my skin every time your

Soft snow covers me.

Dance with me

On the lace clouds of your sky, there

Where I weaved the whistle of my first melody

With the silver threads of your song.

2010-11-12T16:25:00.000-08:00

When I want to cross the road
To get to where I live

I cross the road in black
I wonder can they
see me

in my coat
black on the tar

Are we all squirrels
Like the cat I nearly hit that day

they all just seem to run

across

whenever your headlights come
too close.

bizarre

i don't mean to make a scene

2010-11-08T14:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a certain cloud that came my way and opened my eyes to this song.

sketch of oz

2010-10-18T16:34:00.000-07:00

the irony.

the intellectuelle

bare aerobics

'take me for a ride'

'sucking on knowledge.'

oops - i forgot to take the pill again.

quasi-chemical reaction

2010-09-15T01:35:00.000-07:00

Bilingual by Jose Nunez.

Taking the concept of love as a chemical reaction to a higher level.

"The only aphrodisiac I need is your voice."

(aka)

Your voice triggers the secretion of endorphins

and other chemicals that make me

wanna jump you.

Lolita night

2010-09-11T04:00:00.000-07:00

The much-anticipated screening of Lolita to my honour (by my own self) finally happened last night, and attracted the entire family much to my surprise.

Lolita's red, heart-shaped, ostentatious glasses that feature in my blog's image were absent, to my great disappointment, as the film was in black and white. Which I don't mind it's just I love those sunglasses.

So, the film vs. the book.

I kept feeling the need of filling people in about what Humbert Humbert had confessed to me through Nabokov's magnificent penmanship in the novel, stuff that couldn't be included in a film version. Either because they were too explicit, or because a film, as a study of an individual's psychology, is bound to be less in-depth than a document written by the character itself - or a novel using the premise that it is a type of journal of the central character.

James Mason however carried across the shifting thoughts and moods of Humbert excellently. Kubrick's direction made the shifts even more obvious - as in, traceable - but still subtle enough to show the interiority of his mind's processes. The 'Englishness' and vanity of Humbert Humbert were excellently portrayed, although I thought that some major scenes that shift the 'blame' of the affair towards Humbert (and are so poignant in the book, those voltas through which you escape H.H's perspective and realize that Lolita is actually tormented by their relationship) were left out. I know that Kubrick was aware of the affect censorship had on the film - he once mentioned that had he known how much of it had to be cut he would never had done it (Stanley Kubrick, A Life in Pictures) - but the part where he rocks Lolita on his knees and gets aroused or hints that show that Lolita cries every night when travelling with him I thought were essential to show the dynamic between the two characters.

As it was, Lolita, played by the gorgeous Sue Lyon, was the temptress... The scene that is supposed to show the audience how their physical relationship began went somewhat like this:

Lo: Do you wanna play a game?

HH: What game?

Lo: One that I played in camp.

HH: What do you mean?

Lo: Guess.

HH: (typically) I'm not good at guessing.

Lo: You know what game I'm talking about.

HH: (pause, terrified)

and then Lo whispers something we presume is profane in his ear - if not profane something sexual - she initiates it, it seems.

But I don't think that's what the book wanted the reader to see. Yes, the child is a manipulative brat - but she is nonetheless a child. Lyon's physical appearance of course raised the impression of Lolita's age to around 15 or 16, making the whole affair less of a shock and more of a "she was asking for it" thing.

The end, I believe, hit a perfect balance. When HH visits Lolita's home and she is pregnant, Kubrick and his cast succeed in capturing what I felt the book captured in those final scenes. She is above him, and although only 17 she controls him and is more in control than him. Humbert Humbert breaks down in tears - the grand male in his grand, old world coat with his big fat cheque - while Lolita asks him not to. A reversal of an earlier scene when Lolita is bawling after finding out her mother was dead and Humbert nurses her in his arms, half-father half-lover, and asks her to "Try to stop crying"?

Peter Sellers' role as Clare Quilty was good - a dark side of Sellers - but too much. Clare Quilty is a big part of the novel but not THAT big. I didn't feel like a one-man-show by Sellers was needed. His speeches dragged on a bit. And although the first scene of the film (and last basic scene of the novel) was excellent, with Peter Sellers showing Quilty's decadent, even perverse side, it established an underlying theme of Humbert vs. Quilty that took on a greater dimension than I expected. The novel is not about Humbert's manhood vs. Quilty's - its more about what goes on in HUmbert's head and between him and Lolita - and so I thought that that interpretation compromised the subtlety of the film and shifted attention from the central locus of the novel.

tropical topical

2010-09-07T01:20:00.000-07:00

The light woke me up, at 9am. I can't stand the light when I dream, it washes out all the pictures and the prolonged oblivion we call sleep.

Three hours before this unpleasant wake up call I had been juggling my aces, kings and queens, but what combination could change the final outcome?

Which I didn't expect to be waking up at 9am. In any case, there we were, lying in sweat and on green sheets, with bronchitis passing to and fro between us. Apparently we made each other ill.

...

Ill with love, baby

I knew you'd come for me, Frank. Even if it was in the shape of bacteria.

American crime novels have gotten into our heads.

Rapprochement

2010-06-28T02:19:00.001-07:00

So I came back from the UK on Sunday - last Sunday - and began work at a newspaper - The Cyprus Mail - on Monday. A bit crazy when you think of it (will there be no lazy pause after the examination period from hell?) but a good choice nonetheless.

One of my first assignments was to cover a talk about education and its importance for rapprochement in Cyprus. Mrs. Androulla Vassiliou (the European Union Commissioner for Education, Culture, Multilingualism and Youth) was guest of honour and the talk also featured representatives by OELMEK (the Greek-Cypriot high school teachers union), POED (the Greek-Cypriot primary school teachers union) and the two Turkish Cypriot teachers' trade unions.

All I heard was the same old recording replayed, European Union-style. Witty word play such as "Education needs peace and peace needs education" and "We must turn the wrongs of yesterday into the rights of today, and not the rights of yesterday into the wrongs of today" covered up the lack of actual substance of the discussion.

In the presence of the EU Commissioner, no Cypriot teacher, Turkish or Greek speaking, would admit to the fact that we've reached a stalemate when it comes to the Cyprus problem, and to the ability of education to stir the sinking ship that is the Cypriot society of today. As pointed out by the Polish Ambassador who was among the audience, we should have had this discussion 15 years ago.

But we probably did, one way or another. We probably have had this discussion 20 years ago, 15 years ago, 10 years ago, 5 years ago, 4, 3, 2, 1 year ago. What were the results? And I don't mean the intellectual, momentary glimpses of ideas that occur to the small number of people attending such events, like myself, that vanish in the thick, humid summer air in Nicosia. I'm talking about results that are tangible and have contributed to some sort of change on the island.

Of course the teachers told us all about the bi-communal events that public schools undertake in Cyprus. The OELMEK person told us about the Ayios Antonios school in Limassol that has both Turkish and Greek Cypriots in the same classes doing the same subjects. I must admit this was encouraging. But what is one school in so many? And how are we to believe that state schools will become like that, when even the English School, a private school with a longstanding bi-communal history, is so often abused by the islnd's nationalists that won't just let it be?

Am I to believe, Mr. OELMEK, that the utopian model that Ayios Antonios represents will become the blueprint for all public schools in Cyprus? You almost got me fooled there. This is a typical maneuver. We want to seem as if we're trying, we want to appear like we want a solution and so we get these conservative teacher representatives at such events that try so hard to seem liberal, willing to help in education reform, when in fact they probably go to bed at night wishing all Turkish Cypriots would vanish from the face of the earth.

Sadly, their performance is weak. The OELMEK guy, an anachronism from the eighties, with gray-tinted glasses and long, sparse hair, ungroomed, recited his little 'education for peace' poem with as much conviction as my baby brother's when he claims to be sorry for eating an entire pot of Nutella. We do not believe you, Mr. OELMEK, when you modify every single 'positive' statement with qualification such as:

"BUT it is a difficult task to bring the two communities together since the new generations of our island have lived apart for 36 years now." What you really want to say is that you don't want to see them living together ever again.

"BUT educational reform will only be achieved if such bicommunal events are carried out by both sides without, of course, each side losing its identity." What you really want to say is that 1. Greek Cypriots organize many many bicomm events whereas Turkish Cypriots don't, hence we're the good guys they're the bad guys and 2. we must remain schizophrenically loyal to the illusion that CYPRUS IS GREECE, and you want our children to continue living with the identity issues that we suffer from, foster prejudice against Turkish Cypriots and subsequently never be able to resolve the Cyprus problem.

Let's be honest. Enough with the shams, already. For the civil servants who don't want to see their ridiculously high salary decrease, and their insanely minimal working hours increase, taking the hypocrite road is the best option, but I think they should just stand up and speak the truth.

Enough with the 'teachers must be the most progressive people' chant, when we know it refers to one of the traditionally most conservative groups of people on the island.

Can we for once say what we think? Or if we MUST continue listening to the lies that civil servants, trade unions and politicians serve us with regards to their supposed willingness to solve the Cyprus problem, let's hope that they will at least experience what Plato considered one of the worst qualities of 'imitation' (the assumption of various roles by actors; mimicking; being something you are not): that they'll gradually lose their nationalistic attributes and that some qualities of the seemingly progressive roles they assume will rub onto them and become true habits.

Edit me

2010-05-08T18:30:00.001-07:00

What a tragedy, the shape I'm in

Can you read between the lines? What do you see?

Artists in a London setting

2010-05-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

The way he strokes my back, as if he's measuring, by eye; being sensitized; experimenting, discovering and exploring - that's the word - exploring. The body as an unknown territory - a part of the New World - was Donne's little fetish. Sometimes so pretentious, to read these valedictions, thinking you'd be embarrassed if you thought in the same way. But it's genius. And like the wonder of a voyage itself, cannot be fully grasped - not even partly - if not experienced, completely. So here is this man, this used-to-be-boy, with his stubble and his quintessentially male figure, and I feel that he is discovering me. Unfolding every little bit of my flesh and soul like a curious child. The body which is so neglected - a primary miracle, primal, now taken for granted, is apotheosized in those eyes. Penetrating, darting eyes. Dark slits holding two globes of wonder; long eyelashes that could catch fire.

Caledonian

2010-04-26T01:52:00.000-07:00

His room was cold so I got under the covers

In a cold shirt; he said it doesn't matter

What if he's right?

Children's book

2010-04-25T07:27:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a little duckling, who went to school for the first time carrying a red backpack. She was scared, and so her mummy prepared a delicious lunchbox for her to share with her new friends during break time.

Walking in the classroom, she felt strange, all her classmates looked so afraid too. She sat at the back - although she always preferred the front of the class - as she was late. She settled down, talking out her new pink pencil case with all the colour pens and pencils her mummy treated her with. She organized everything neatly on the desk and waited in silence for the teacher to come in.

She looked around. The classroom was the colour green and all the other ducklings were chattering away, all the same in their school uniform, excited. Then her eyes rested on the little duckling sitting in front of her. She paused.

'That's a strange duckling!' she thought.

It was green and had no feathers. She was curious. She'd never seen a duckling like that before. As she was thinking that, the duckling turned round - he must've felt her staring. He had a big, green nose and his skin was glossy and smooth. She liked the different duckling. He was colourful! She smiled. To her surprise the strange little duckling smiled back, showing his straight white teeth. Our duckling then looked down. She was blushing.

During break time, as she was walking towards a group of ducklings to share her lunch with, she heard some of her classmates talking about a freak. She hadn't heard that word before. She asked them what it meant.

'Haven't you seen it?' Haven't you seen the crocodile?'

The crocodile? She thought for a moment. Of course! The duckling in front of her wasn't a duckling at all - he was a crocodile!

'What a freak!' they said. She thought he was special.

It wasn't long before they became friends, the crocodile and our little ducking. He had liked her red backpack, and they talked. They walked around together during breaks. She enjoyed staring in his deep blue eyes and he liked her beak. He said it was funny, and stroked it. They used to meet in the neighborhood - for they discovered they were also neighbours! - and used to play on the swings at the park. The crocodile was funny, and kind. He liked making the duckling laugh. He thought she made the cutest little quacking sound he'd ever heard.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The years passed by, and the duckling was turning into a graceful duck. Her crocodile was growing, too. He was now taller than her and the most handsome boy in their year, she thought. He was very good in sports. The crocodile liked football very much - it was his dream, to be a footballer - and so the duckling liked to watch him play. She'd see him run behind the ball and felt a flutter in her wings whenever he'd turn towards her.

One day, after a very special match, the crocodile ran to our duckling and gave her the biggest hug, lifting her off her feet and up in the air. She smiled and giggled.

'I love you,' he said when he put her down.

But her legs felt weak. As if up in the air, still.

'I love you too,' she said, and pecked him on the cheek.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The years went by again, and full grown - almost - the crocodile and duckling had a fight in the park. She shouted, and cried. He was right. You see, there were other ducklings in their lives right now and it had become confusing. They left the swings earlier than usual that night, and walked in different directions. They were heartbroken.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eight years after the day they first met, the duck and crocodile met again. At a bar, this time. They had some drinks. She was tipsy, he was open. Opposite her, telling her everything he hadn't said for so many years. She spoke, shared her news and they felt it again. It was painful and warm and uncomfortable, the feeling that had come back. She heard him talk about his work and all the girls that liked him and she talked about the new country she'd moved to and her new home. At the end of the night, he kissed her goodnight. She cried because it felt like he'd said 'GOODBYE'.

'I love you,' said the crocodile to the duck.

'Me too,' she quacked.

But it was impossible. Physically impossible. He smiled, and she looked at his teeth. They'd grown chiselled, and sharp.

self-preservation

2010-03-23T07:01:00.000-07:00

Lie with me

2010-03-21T10:11:00.000-07:00

So, like, they were about to have sex, right?

And... she hadn't seen him in a month, right?

And so they're kissing and groping on the bed and suddenly he stops.

'Um...'

'What?"

'You're sure it's okay to have sex?' he mumbled.

'Why wouldn't it be?'

'You haven't done anything while you were away right, anything that would make this unsafe?' Or something along those lines basically he was asking her whether she'd been sleeping around.

'Erm. NO! What the hell are you talking about. Why are you even asking this, NOW?' she protested, and all her appetite for loving was gone. Erased. She froze. It wasn't hot anymore.

'Okay'; nonchalantly continuing to kiss her, as if he hadn't just insulted her two second ago.

'Well...Should I be asking the same question I mean do you want me to ask the same question is this why you've asked I don't -'

'It's fine, it's fine, it's all good,' he said but his eyes flickered upwards away from her face.

When he was done, she couldn't remember any of it. And this was supposed to be one of the good times, like, they'd just seen each other after a month of craving. All she could think about was that flicker, that physical evasion that although minute and short-lived was so telling.

She tried to reassure herself that it was only a sign of nervousness for having asked what he did.

But then, a week later, when he decided she didn't fit in his wonderful life of being permanently stoned and playing online poker, she asked again.

'Did anything happen in -?' coming forward; maybe leaning backwards; yes, I believe she said she leaned back in the chair to counteract the sentiment of aggression.

'No.' and the flicker again. Forwards, feeble, and away from her.

Why didn't she think to ask anything more? Why did she not demand elaboration? Possibly because she knew even then that he'd lie in her face. And she couldn't stand another flicker. Another sign of that male cowardice - the worst kind of cowardice. He was so pathetic when he lied.

Disclaimer.

2010-03-19T11:59:00.000-07:00

I have had various comments regarding this blog, from various people. I am grateful and thankful to everyone that read it and give me feedback; it's extremely interesting perceiving how someone besides yourself understands what you've written down in a moment of weakness/passion/happiness/doubt etc.

There is one thing that I feel I need to clarify when it comes to the style and tone of the blog entries. You must have realized by now that the blog is fairly personal, as I always chose to write about things that have happened to me, affecting me positively or negatively or neutrally, even. I have had comments that I sometimes sound bitter, or that I might appear more serious than I intend to. For people who know me, as a very good friend pointed out, it is easy to recognize from my writing when I'm in a particular mood. I urge those who don't to take a lot of the sentimentality (we can even call it hyperbole) that I superimpose on events with a pinch of salt. It's not as if I'm exactly adopting a persona when I write; it's more that the blog has been, from the very beginning, a space where I could experiment and exercise and fuck up and perfect and try out new stuff, meaning that it is not a diary, a journal or the reflections of the abyss of my soul. On the contrary, it is very self-aware and everything that goes on here yes, might be impulsive, sentimental, bitchy etc but it is always considered by me as an artistic endeavor and not a case of psychological venting, a venue where I can disclose my innermost secrets and desires.

To be absolutely honest, I hate that sentimental bullshit. I have no 'innermost secrets and desires'. I am such an outspoken person, that I cannot remember the last time when I wanted something (or someone) and didn't make it quite clear. I am not a romance-stricken damsel, nor an air-head who is blown away by that enchanting effect that literature and writing has on people: they make them think they are more important than they actually are. Or, in other words, people consider that because someone 'writes something', it means they do so with the aim of being in touch with their sentimental side, in order to express their emotions and communicate their thoughts in a generous, pathetic, self-indulgent way. I admit there is a degree of self-indulgence in writing, of course, but what I am trying to say is that writing isn't a necessarily a mushy activity. I will give an example that hopefully will clarify my as-yet-failed attempt to articulate what I mean.

I got a call from my mum (who, by the way, has no idea what a blog is and how it works etc) saying that a friend of hers called her, saying that she had read my blog, and asking her in quite a sly - I found - condescending and even sarcastic manner: 'Does mummy know about this or have I made a mistake in telling you?' My mum of course wanted to know what the hell all this is about. I explained in due course and she liked the idea, I'm planning on guiding her through the internet jungle once I get home. My mum is one of those people that are torn between a very modern, progressive and liberal attitude and the parent-imposed frame of mind of a war-and-poverty stricken Cyprus of the 1970s. She clearly thought that I must have something ludicrously provocative on the blog. And in turn, her friend must have thought that I actually am what I write: she must perceive writing in its most simplest, crudest form. I think the thought process must go like this:

1. I am feeling something (which I, only, consider poignant and significant)

2. I have to write it down in the most sentimental terms, the cliches of bygone modes of regurgitated language

3. Most of the times it's a pile of crap that I produce, but I think it's the best shit in the world

4. I sit and chat about it with friends, as we exchange and analyze each other's poetry.

This, is bullshit.

I write because I love language, and I enjoy manipulating my own feelings and stretching them into words. It's fun. It's a game. It's a serious - but unserious in so many ways - puzzle. It's genuine, but in un-genuine terms. While you're reading an entry that makes you think I'm heartbroken and makes you pity me, guess what, I'm probably out clubbing, dancing and having the time of my life. It is the writer's conceit. The feeling is true, the vehicle can be whatever I want it to be. That's the magic, that's the exciting part of it. If I sat down and wrote all the sentimental crap that I detest the moment it comes into my head, well, then I'd be sorry for everyone that reads my blog and I'd want to apologize for the sewage I'd served them. But I flex, I twist, I adapt and play with expectations. So next time someone wants to hint at my mum about what they perceive to be 'secrets' please know that, if I put this stuff on the WORLD WIDE WEB, then the likelihood is that my mum knows about everything I mention already.

Back to the initial issue. I am not insincere in my writing. I am just dedicated to the sense I want to convey each time, not IN the literal terms I use but VIA them, in a way. Words become avatars (to use a popular culture reference), bodies which I hopefully successfully mold in such a way so that they can carry the unexplained, evasive quality that is what is great about Language and Literature. It is me who is typing the words, my fingers hitting the keys of the laptop. But who is speaking? Don't take it at face-value. Gerard Genette mentions the unfounded trust we have for a narrator and makes an excellent point (think about it): 'the role of the narrator is itself fictive'. I am an actress, and as all my friends and family have borne testament too, a drama queen. So it's only natural that I hem things up a bit.

Your English is excellent.

2010-03-17T19:12:00.000-07:00

I had a smile on my face because that's the instant effect he has on me. Then I remembered, grappling forks and knives, rather a fork and a knife - possibly a spoon for pudding, what had happened and how he completely ignored something that took a lot of courage for me to say and my face dropped into a grimace of disapproval. I mumbled something insignificant. His face changed, too.

I didn't want it to be like that (I go on peculiar guilt trips with him) so I approached, tray in hand, and casually asked:

'So you're staying for the holidays, then?' A look. Not as gripping as I remember.

The answer was affirmative, I responded that I was too, to finish my dissertation. He asked was I alone? - I said yes - and would I like to sit with him? I fumbled with some words in my mouth like 'maybe', 'should I', 'I don't know', 'yes' and next thing I know I'm facing him and his plate of curry turkey mixed with rice. Scooped up rice which he overturns onto the chunks of curry turkey as we're talking.

He looks tired. I ask all the questions I ought to ask and questions that interest me, because frankly I have been a bit worried and concerned and wanting to know what he's doing next year and how this year was going etc etc. I want to help him, weirdly, there's an instinctive tendency to want to care for him. I even thought I could help with the 3000 word essay. What on earth am I thinking? I try to be normal, I laugh and flail my hands all the while choking down everything I really want to ask which are of no purpose, whatsoever, anymore, I guess. But I don't want him to fuck up and leave this place. I want him to do what he has to do to stick around. And I've transcended the point where I want that for me. I'm over what has happened. I just want him to have his plans go as planned, whatever he planned.

Apparently I've left a black hoodie at his place. Do I own a black hoodie? He assures me multiple times that it's mine. Whose else could it be? It's mine, surely. It could be no one else's. This is relieving in a way although his words aren't the most reliable vehicles of truth.

I look at his bitten fingernails. Stumpy fingers. Watch. Palms as I remember. Everything the same.

'I didn't know you...' (the continuation of the sentence was lost somewhere between me feeling tense and me wanting to scream at him and me wanting to be just fine with him).

I said well of course you didn't know, I haven't spoken to you in two months, almost.

'You're right, yes...' he says incomprehensibly.

I don't know how to act in these cases. I want to be nice because I feel all these nice things about him but then my cerebral alarm rings and informs me of all the remembrance, it re-members the pieces of the puzzle which I've glossed over in my mind with his pretty blond hair instead of with the ugliness he spurted out one evening.

I can't eat my food. The chicken is fine, the rice is great (safest thing you can get in hall) and I am a big fan of sweet corn. But nothing will go down. I cannot eat. It's as if my stomach has forgotten it was grumbling of hunger only ten minutes ago. Am I so full of thoughts of him that I have no space for actual nourishment? It's a tingle, almost, from the pit of my stomach up my oesophagus, an emotional block of my physical functions. Not paralysis, but stasis, at least. I need to get moving. So I pick up my tray, after putting my coat on and replying affirmatively, almost authoritatively, to an awkward question whether we're going now.

I want him to be walking towards the same direction as me. He's not. Well, if he's not I better not look him in the eye then. Better turn round casually.

'I'm going to the supermarket,' he says, simply.

Turn around turn around sunglasses on head say something like: 'I'm off to the library see you, bye'. And walk away. Open the door, the short wooden door, walk down the stone steps, face the Wren, feel confused, go over your expressions in your head, trot on cobbles, get to library, open Walter Benjamin, read that and forget about it. Forget about him. He's in another place, altogether.

Damn it. I shouldn't have let my face drop.

Sundays

2010-03-15T20:00:00.000-07:00

'I hate Sundays. They make me horrified of my own mortality.'

'Let me remind you,' he giggled, 'what you looked like last Sunday.'

lazy london

2010-03-15T19:42:00.001-07:00

Spent Saturday/Sunday/Monday gallivanting around London and sleeping snugly in my friend Emilia's double (miracle) bed. It was soft and warm and comfortable and it made me never want to return to my single Cambridge bed ever again. Unfortunately for me, I am writing from my desk in Burrell's.

London was pretty amazing. For those who know me, you might've heard me moan about the city and how I hate it and it's chaotic and it turns you into a beast that basically bashes into people on the street/ in the tube/ in stores and doesn't give a fuck (that was me in the summer when at RADA) but this weekend the weather was so perfect that the entire city transformed in front of my own eyes. Not to mention the diagonal pedestrian crossing at Oxford Circus. I have to say I felt like a naked person on display while running across the massive junction but it also got you places quicker. It was about time.

At one point, Thalia, Emilia and I lost my aunt and Afxentis who were hovering some meters in front of us while we were loitering on Wigmore Street. We spent a minimum of half an hour absent-mindedly walking circles around the same block without realizing it, or possibly without wanting to regain purposeful direction in our route of travel. I think we all secretly wanted to have the sun continue to kiss our faces for a bit longer, a bit longer please, before we dived into yet another hotel lobby. I was carrying a Selfridges bag, including my only purchase of the day (non-edible at least, we basically raped Lola's cupcakes store): LOVE magazine. Biannual 'Fashion and Fame' (as it says on the cover) publication which I enjoy very very much. They do multiple covers for every issue (or at least they did two for their 2nd issue and eight for this one out now) and the Spring/Summer 2010 cover features some lovely naked ladies, from Kate Moss to Naomi Campbell and Daria Werbowy all looking like the goddesses on earth they truly are. Damn it I left the magazine on Emilia's kitchen table.

London was also fun as I got to see a person I always have a great time with, which was out of my life for the past couple of years due to some unfortunate glitch in our strange relationship but it's purely miraculous. the way a person's face instantly makes you smile. The amount of times I accused him of being stupidly funny could not have been taken seriously when I had a massive grin on my face that lapsed into my usual cackle whenever I tried to gobble up all the laughter he induced. Funny, sweet boy. He says I used to not like the word 'sweet', which is true, I did not like the word sweet but now I find there's a weird homeliness to it, a coziness attached to it. He is definitely handsome, he always was maybe that's what I'm trying to say. It's more than that though he's goofy in the sweetest (fuck I can't help it!) way charming in his own way and smiles sideways. Wears fingerless gloves, vagabond style. Might be found reading Bulgakov or 'Candide'. Capable of some very intellectual conversation which feels light and refreshing. Not like the imposing bastards of Cambridge. And makes goofy grammar jokes which I adore. We definitely linger around the same frequencies as sentences have been completed an abnormal number of times.

Sunny London made it even better. Sitting at a cafe with a cigarette and coffee, the sun shining and the roaring traffic's boom temporarily shut out, I faced him and felt I could be in this mode forever. In cafes everywhere. Around the world. Happy and clever, perceptive. In my red coat and his vagabond gloves, double espressos with lots of sugar, please. That way, I'm not bitter.

2010-03-14T17:27:00.001-07:00

How did this all start, I don't know.

First there was a Greek-Cypriot-Persian party at Cambridge. Interesting is all I can say.
Then there was a drunken Skype conversation that basically put an end to all conversations in my head because you can't have a conversation on your own now can you? No. That makes you a psychopath.

Then, there was a train ride to Nottingham. I don't know what my cousin Thalia complains about all the time, I loved the place. The romantically named 'Lacemarket' had me from the beginning. The tram - yes, TRAM! - was clean...easy and swift I got off in front of Tesco's and lingered in what is one of the many havens of consumerism in England; admittedly I love supermarkets. There's friggin' Easter eggs EVERYWHERE.

Funny story, my lovely brother, who visited and wanted to be independent so trailed off to Manchester in a really cool Virgin train (as opposed to the shit East Midlands train that I borded in disappoinment) used to get so hyped during Easter time when he was young. The highlight of this excitement was that he thought that whenever he wished 'Happy Easter!' to someone, that automatically entitled him to an easter egg. Let's just say he was as devastated as when he found out that Santa Claus is a fiction of our imagination. I'm sure he still dreams about that.

Anyway, Nottingham. Amazing. I hadn't been around that many Cypriots in a long time and it brought to my attention a couple of things 1. I am secluded like a hermit in Cambridge 2. Yes, Cyprus does have some decent people to show. I had a great time we stayed up till 6am in true Cyprus fashion (as opposed to the lame-ass parties that have been ending by maximum 2am anyway) let's just say it made me miss home.

Had the awkwardest most weird conversation with an ex who decided to call me 12 hours before leaving the country to notify me that he was, in fact, in the country and I should go to London. Well. Can't really do that at midnight and even if I could, I don't see why I was the last person to know that he had spent an entire week in England.

Drunken wake-up in Thalia's bed with the sunlight bursting in and being a pain in the ass and eyes. I think I remember her waking up in the middle of the night and claiming she wet the bed but to my relief I quickly realised it was just water from the bottle I strategically - or not - placed in the middle of us just in case. We ran to catch the 1:28 train to London. Tiredness!

hm.....
I love my family.

xxx

mise-en-abyme

2010-03-09T06:42:00.000-08:00

Photography by Ch Christopoulos

Who would've known the weekend would turn out like this.

This is so good

2010-03-09T03:35:00.000-08:00

Very very happy song.

I wish I had written it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlfgBMuZc-E

Jasmine

2010-03-07T18:36:00.000-08:00

It's the struggle to know you're there.

That's what it is.

A marathon, long-haul flight across these stupid precipices

of ambition and frustration

hanging

Like a boat from a rope

then a noose; you become one.

The reality of sentiments evades me

I keep on dangling

spine by spine, disk by disk snapping

tut/crack/tut

bending over I look at my feet

last sight of myself

lost sight of myself

Are they shod?

Are they pink?

Toenails

Lost sight of the big picture

Too many years. The me has shifted to a she

but he more strongly is a you

and your trick your prick your dictation

of the situation

dominates tramples on a carpet

objectified. and DISenchanted.

It'll make you fly. I promise.

Aladdin.

πηλιούκης

2010-03-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

How do you feel the moment you feel there's someone out there that depends on you? Someone that actually looks up to you not for any particular reason but simply because you are. And for them you are a big part of the 'world'. You are a guardian, you safeguard, you vouchsafe, you protect, you uphold, you are important. I never want to disappoint you. I will always feel you are that little baby that lay yellow in the incubator, and the day you were born I was wearing a Daisy duck t-shirt and denim shorts. In a way, I've never taken them off.

Pow wow

2010-03-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

Ra ta ta. Ratata, ta, ta.

Parap. Pap. Pap. Phoo.

Bab ab ababab.

Kalangalangajingjing bala Bam BOOM.

BOOM. BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Yes.

chatroom roulette

2010-03-07T06:25:00.000-08:00

He said: 'Come, I'll draw you.'

She had never been the subject of a drawing before.

'Look at me,' he demanded. 'Take your clothes off.'

A quiet acquiescence; inexplicable and sweet.

What has this world come to?

Digital, cartoonish, electronic.

Chatroom roulette.

'Come, I'll take a picture of you.'

'I'll make you famous.'

I had never been the object of desire before.

That boy's a monster

2010-03-05T14:35:00.001-08:00

Varsity fashion for real

2010-03-05T10:55:00.001-08:00

Myself looking like shit but

C Wu looking amazing in an amazingly detailed

top from Top Shop

Zing who basically encapsulates everything

that is cool about Cambridge. and life in general.

I love the hat; and her tights, shown only a bit here,

were tricolor.

My lovely Paul Smith.

Yes his name is like the designer's.

And his dress sense/sense of style is

even better.

hot off the press (or whatever the expression is, it's based on a false premise anyway.)

2010-03-04T18:47:00.000-08:00

A midnight field trip sounded like quite the exciting addition to my week, a pleasant escapade amidst portfolio deadlines and general chaoticness of the end of term.

So yea, of course I tagged along when the Varsity team went to see our last issue of Lent printed.

VARSITY: coming to you LIVE from Milton (apparently a place outside Cambridge which is technically still in Cambridge).

Joe and Charlotte admiring the artistic smudges of a failed batch of Varsities.

Lovely illustrations made lovelier, apparently, by impromptu colors

imposed by printing machine.

Joe & ear plugs. In rugby gear.

Fashion, of course, looked fantastic even when fucked up.

My favorite darling, C. Wu with Lara and matching fur coats.

Where C. Wu might've ended in.

Rolls and rolls of paper.

Fascinating - apparently - machinery that changes gigantic rolls of paper.

(video will feature soon)

Lovely little detail in the printing press floor.

Laurie and Charlotte

Happy fashion editors caught between the sheets.

Of paper. NEWSpaper.

Notice the fashion page directly above us.

A proud Laurie invites the praise of his clan.

Notice that he is framed by Varsity Fashion x2.

(yes it's that green sheet you IDIOT!)

Printing newspapers is quite a trippy process to witness

Do not try this at home; do not witness while high.

Newspaper rollercoaster 1.

Newspaper Rollercoaster 2.

You know, the kind where your feet dangle.

Just go to Thorpe Park and you'll get what I mean.

varsit-ay

2010-03-04T18:40:00.001-08:00

Welcome to Varsity. Cambridge University's best student newspaper in the world.

Home to the Derringer, a man who literally knows EVERYTHING about ANYTHING that has to do with newspapers, photoshop, taking pictures, editing operas from multiple camera angles, and many other fantastic and fantastical stuff.

Now, you can imagine what a state the Varsity Office is in: just picture my room on an average day, sans the shoes but with tons of garbage being spewed from the bin and moulding tea in at least a dozen of tea cups lying around. We do work really intensely, guys, that's why.

Occasionally, however, the Derringer sends emails around threatening to LOCK THE KITCHEN FOR A WEEK if someone doesn't get their ass at the office RIGHT NOW AND CLEAN THE MUGS AND CLEAR THE BIN AND MAKE THE MUGS SPOTLESSLY SPARKLY!

C. Wu and I obeyed immediately last Sunday. Washed all the mugs. HURRAH!

When you're an intellectual journalist,

you need this stuff in print to comprehend it.

Editors will resort to violence. Unashamedly.

beautiful, dirty, rich

2010-03-04T09:17:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine makes booty calls.

I thought those only existed in Destiny's Child's songs, not in real life.

So what does a booty call entail? Well, if it's after 11 and you text someone saying: hey what are you doing, you are apparently engaging in the sort of discourse that might result in you fornicating some time in the near future, i.e. as long as it takes for either of you to get to wherever you're gonna get it on.

WOW. Man, all my Cypriot conservatism is kicking in and I can tell you I ain't conservative.

Cool, I guess, to be fair, I've had the experience of booty calls but it's always been with an ex which might make it worse or better. Worse because you get caught up in the entire: oh I love him all over again trip, which is bad as you realize on the way back home that that relationship was SOO 2008. Better because he knows everything about you you know everything about him you can get on with it climx guaranteed he's hot he thinks you are too what else do you need?

The disturbing thing, though, is that, even when writing this, I don't feel excited. I told my friends I've lost my mojo. No one believes me though (my past might have something to do with it) but it's true guys COME ON I CAN'T THINK OF SEX ANYMORE.

What the fuck is wrong with me, even my mother said 'she was worried'. MY OWN MOTHER who always lived by the mantra: 'Just be on your own for a while' 'take a break from boyfriends' she now is suddenly worried that I will remain a bitter bitter bitter singleton.

She might be onto something.

And then, when I had lost ALL hope, when I thought the mojo was nowhere to be found...

I went to Soultree. On a Monday. With friends. For a friend's birthday.

And my GOD I didn't even recognize myself the way I went ballistic dancing like a manic stripper in the club (minus the stripping). That made me think that I might have a bit of bottled up energy that needs an outlet.

I think some people call it sexual frustration? This is the reason I'm hyper all the time, even when I'm ill and tired.

How to cure it. A skype conversation ended in the following conclusion: it's called SEX kori.

I said: well man, I can't see anyone at the moment that would 'do' it for me; in the sense that I want someone that mega turns me on. Am I not right in demanding this of life? I mean come on, just because I've got a bit of an itch doesn't mean I'ma go to bed with a complete idiot or a complete fuckup. And the waiting is good. I kinda enjoy it - not being involved in anything just taking a break. I have stated that the doors to this haven will be shut until the summer, or until further notice (aka prince charming) because I'm done with toying around and being toyed around with.

Sex with no strings attached is a great concept, but it's never that great.

So I'm just gonna resort to crazy sexy bitch dancing for the moment. tah.

the library clan

2010-03-04T06:10:00.000-08:00

So there really are people that live in the library.

Surely some people think I do too.

It's a strange and interesting dynamic, the library. Everyone has their standard place; I mean, I know I get a bit aggressive when someone else sits at MY place and then I have to gallivant around to find a NEW, TEMPORARY chair and desk to work out my lovely brain.

We've got the scientists and mathmos to start with, they're kinda scattered, occasionally swearing for not being able to prove the Aldiudsrghsekhweeeroii theorem with the Nagayakawaganapa formula. In fact, my friend Rebecca dared to sit in the science realm yesterday and sent me a panicked text (I was in the library too, just some meters away from her): there's this girl that keeps saying fuck. come and see for yourself. I say: what does she look like? she says: a sight for sorry eyes. Well CLEARLY my interest was roused. So I proceeded to the single desk Rebecca and her stuff had occupied. And LO AND BEHOLD A MATHMO! girl/boy it DOESN'T REALLY MATTER now does it scribbling away weird greek letters that represent something like a=b2'΄΄μ χ σξκργησξγη and who got quite ticked off when I whispered to Rebecca. She snapped her head round and looked at as with predatory mathmo eyes. Okay dude chill the fuck out. I'm outta here anyway. D. H. Lawrence is way cooler than your shit.

Walking back to my space (in the centre - kinda - of the reading room of our library) I notice the classicists; the classic couple of Etonians working on their lap-rah-top-rahs with loads of shakespeare and aeschylus around them to elevate their st-rah-tus.

Next in line, the standard PhD table with my lovely musician/history of art/ and other subject friends that I am sure spend most of their time checking facebook or 'sending emails' or looking out for concerts and holiday deals. Just now one of them started dancing, as much as one can dance while seated in the library.

Then it's me. Turning my head round to check out who comes and goes. It's the worse. There's usually no one interesting although I have to admit that camping out in the library this year has been great with meeting people and checking out what sort of studious hotties Trinity has. It's not all that bad, to be honest. The shit thing is that you can't really speak/flirt in the library now can you? Thus, there is a need for a library lingo that will help people that are striving for knowledge communicate their intentions in a silent manner.

Cardinal virtue

2010-03-04T03:15:00.000-08:00

I'm never one for drastic personality changes. But I've realized the past couple of years that change can be inflicted upon you even in your ignorance. BAM! You wake up, and you're a stressful maniac or BAM! You break up and suddenly there's no crying or talking you just keep it to yourself. WHOAH slow down - who the HELL is this person? I can't recognize me sometimes.

Patient...(I have developed that in quite an array of circumstances my mum should be fucking proud most of our arguments focus - or used to focus - around the fact that I 'do not tolerate anyone and that is bad')

Unsentimental (occasionally) - I love this this is my favorite everyone freaks out esp. my friends; I actually subconsciously wrote freaks so I might just call them that - esp. my freaks in London who think I'm turning into this monster that doesn't feel but only laughs. at her own jokes. well come on they're funnier than yours aren't they?

Sarcastic (I swear words just come flying out of my mouth) - I even got labelled as 'so sweet' (ironically of course) by a supervisor. wow.

Stress freak... This i HATE. Like, it takes approx. 5 episodes of brothers&sisters (which by the WAY is friggin' amazing so watch it even if you detest callista flokhart like I do) to get me to sleep and then I purposefully wake up early in the morning to 'get things done' and I never do because I never get enough sleep because I'm a stress freak.

Cynical...Ehh come on. We need a bit of this to survive. Maybe I've taken it to the next level. I look at people and I feel that everything I say should be a smart retort that won't expose me to any sort of situation which is a potentially hurtful one. So no matter HOW HOT that guy is I will not let him know that's for sure because COME ON he probably gets it all the time the arrogant motherfucker and I'm not one to boost already boosted egos plus I don't want any girl's leftovers as a matter of fact I do not feel like being a left over at the moment so can you PLEASE let me say all the cynical bullshit that gives me momentary pleasure? Thank you! Buy me a chai latte if you want to calm me down and don't FLIRT just TALK when you do and then I'll stop being sarcastic and start being me (or whatever's left of me) for a change. (pun: get it? mouahaha)

Well. That's the life low down of Week 8. I can't believe it - this term has gone by so quickly and so slowly. Like, I expected it to be a COMPLETELY different term that what it turned out to be. I couldn't focus for the most part of it, my mind still wanders, but I've done lots of stuff which is cool and I cannot wait to just chill in my room and go jogging in the morning and fix my dissertation by attempting to read the masses of stuff Eric Griffiths suggested. He was great by the way it's true that he's a genius not that I have to say so for it to be true I just want to put it out there. Anyhoot. I have to finish my first Cambridge coursework piece which is freaking me out - the 'I could've done so much better' feeling has started to emerge and I hate it - so toodles and love x

p.s. I'm also going to go see how a newspaper gets printed tonight. How EXciting. meh. x

what do you feel like?

2010-03-04T03:14:00.001-08:00

What do I do, when I feel like someone like you?

I feel like that's the only thing I like

Someone you, like, would be like.

I like you. Someone like you.

That's what I feel like.

(You.)

speechless 2

2010-02-24T17:10:00.000-08:00

speechless

2010-02-24T17:03:00.001-08:00

And after all the drinks and the bars that we've been to

Would you give it all up - could you give it all up for you?

And after all the boys and the girls that we've been through...

Would you give it all, could you give it all up if i promised boy, to you...

Μέτωπο

2010-02-21T04:41:00.000-08:00

Που πόθεν εξεφυτρώσαν τούτοι τζιαι κάμνουν abuse το φεϊσμπουκ μου κάθε τρείς τζιαι λλίο με τα πιο απαίσια 'posters' που είδα ποττέ μου τζιαι τα πιο ηλίθια κόμμεντς που κάτω που τα posters που δείχνουν τον πιο απίστευτο φανατισμό (σσειρότεροι που τους ΕΔΟΝίτες στες συναυλιές του Βασίλη) τζιαι στην τελική δείχνουν τον νού τους τον πολλίν;

Καλάν κοπέλλια. Νάμπου θέλετε άμαν ΔΕΝ θέλετε διζωνική δικοινωτική ομοσπονδοία; Νάμπου θέλετε άμαν εν χιέλετε με τον Αναστασιάδη με τον Χριστόφκια; Χιέλετε τον Συλλούρη; Γιατί αν ναι πάω να φκάλω τάντερα μου πρώτα τζιαι μετά ξαναμιλούμε.

Άμαν ΕΝ θέλετε διζωνική δικοινοτική, πέτε μου χιέλετε να πιάμε ούλλην την Κύπρο μας πίσω όπως ήταν πριν το 74? Τζιαι πλις πέτε μου ΙΝΤΑΛΩΣ;;; Έννα πάτε εσείς τα κοπελλουρούθκια να πείσετε την Τουρκίαν, την Αμερική, την Αγγλία κτλ κτλ κτλ να θκιώξουν ούλλους τζίνους που έν θέλετε τζιαι να μείνουμεν μόνοι μας, εμείς οι ΕΛΛΗΝΕΣ - ideally να κάμουμεν τζιαι ένωση με την Ελλάδα; Καλάν, μα ΠΟΥ ΖΙΕΙΤΕ;

Κάποια πράματα εν τετελεσμένα γεγονότα. Πολλοί τζιαι διάφοροι εκάμαν ΠΟΛΛΕΣ τζιαι διάφορες μαλακίες τζιαι τωρά είμαστεν εμείς δαμέ τζιαι πρέπει να συνάξουμεν τα κομμάθκια. Το να μας λαλείτε ναμπου ΕΝ θέλετε τζιαι να μεν έσσιετε κάτι στερεό για εναλλακτική έν μας βοηθά κοπέλλια. Τζιαι εσσιέστηκα αν η 'εννατη θέση εν μπλέ' η ουατέβερ εν το σύνθημα σας επειδή μακάρι να μεν ήταν ποττέ.

mummy and daddy

2010-02-19T12:13:00.000-08:00

...have a TV channel named after them!?!?!

A statement of fact.

2010-02-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

Ma enjen na spasei to plasma.

V-day

2010-02-11T16:29:00.000-08:00

more like VOMIT day.

'coz Valentine's as shit as my illustration.

E - specialists

2010-02-03T11:59:00.000-08:00

Irony. I love the way it hits you at the most random moments.

In the morning, say, walking outside Cambridge University Library.

"Erection Specialists"

(Erection of scaffolding, of course.)

honey

2010-02-01T17:24:00.000-08:00

How annoying it is that I can't put a spoon of honey in my tea without thinking about what you said.

2010-02-01T08:54:00.001-08:00

"Leave me alone! my mirth would make you weep

I only smile at all that you hold dear;

I only laugh at that which most you fear;

I see the shallows where you sound the deep.

Leave me alone! my mirth would make you weep." Mary E. Coleridge

Brilliant.

Leave me alone, you know not what thoughts are buzzing through my head it's true for all. I can be more malevolent and caustic than you think. If I can laugh with that which you most fear, standing here, in front of me,your fear of confrontation I mock because it seems so sweet yet it is not. I smile at the things you seem to cherish so; pointlessly, if I may say so - pointless smile or? In fact just leave my solitude it's much more full without you.

Cigarettes and Vomit

2010-02-01T06:31:00.000-08:00

To be frank I thought it would be a miserable weekend. I mean, come on, with almost all my friends gone, I only had long hours of rehearsals and Dickensian openings to anticipate.

But how wrong was I proven, cheri!

Thursday evening. Finished essay. Cooked (joke) and watched brothers and sisters. Realizing it was still 930pm, I thought fuck it I'll act like I'm all cool and call up Artin.

Profile: Artin

My Albanian friend. He is clearly of the Mediterranean temperament. We hover around the same frequencies.

"Artin let's go for a drink" Okay, I was ready in five minutes Artin comes in my room sees the half-full bottle of vodka says we ought to stay in I say yea sure (seeing as the weather outside is crap and I cannot be bothered to wear anything else besides my pyjama bottoms and hoodie)

Down goes the vodka, masterfully blended with MANGO PAPAYA AND ORANGE juice, and up go the spirits as well as the energy. I'm jumping up and down to Kings of Leon and Artin's smoking like mad as usual. I will admit that I did have a smoke that night as my left (usually swollen) tonsil was sedated by the alcohol.

Vodka over, I decide to make the statement that I had champagne. Hooray! A glamorous addition to our evening. Artin and I are a kind of sorry pair in discussion lately, but the champagne (generously poured by Artin in my massive, PLASTIC, wine glasses) helped to make our banter stupid and light hearted.

Then 7 ensued; of course I almost fell asleep while a corpse came to life. Or something like that.

Friday evening. Gosh I don't even remember. Had a crisis. Seriously, called my mum and went ballistic but then walked to Sainsbury's and bought 10 pounds worth of chocolate. If you see me in a couple of weeks and I look infinitely fatter, well, that's why. And if I am fatter, then you better not mention it, idiot!

Saturday evening was just hilarious. Armagedapocalypse 2: The explosioning was fantastic and very explosive. My eyes hurt by the end of it and my respiratory tract was definitely permanently damaged but who cares I laughed so hard at Dr. Apocalypse and his "LAAAAAng" noise that no amount of pyrotechnics would make me hate that show. Then I make my way to St. Edmund's college where my cousin lives and he was having a house party which I hadn't realized was a house party until I got there. Clearly, people in mature colleges have way more fun. Damn you Trinity! The taxi driver was a bit of a weirdo, I mean okay he parked the car, got down, opened the door for me and held out his hand. I gave him money. He said no and gestured emphatically that he wanted my hand. MY HAND??? What the heck I asked for a cab driver not a fucking chauffer anyway it was all a bit creepy but then I rushed to Afxentis' house almost fell on my back because of the stupidly little amounts of snow/ice that Cambridge is so talented in gracing us with. Pleasant surprise the party. Artin joined us with two of his friends who swiftly departed unfortunately. In between beer pong and some very sly compliments, I succeeded in having 5 vodka cranberry drinks in the least chic way ever: little plastic white cups. Yay. We're back in nursery school. But I shouldn't be mocking because a. Afxentis' kitchen is always so grit I never want to touch any of his crockery anyway b. I got so drunk that I could barely see in front of me as Artin and I were leaving. Artin was drunk too. Perfect combination. Let's just say that our return to Burrell's can be described in one word: AGAPI! AGAPI how drunk I am AGAPI! AGAPI we had a good time AGAPI! AGAPI I want to pee really badly AGAPI! etc etc.

Thank God I got home safely. It was what happened apres that was the worst part. Miscalculating the effect it would have on me, I thought it was clever for me to have a KIT KAT! in my extremely drunken state. I also attempted to watch an episode of Friends. What on earth was I thinking. The next hour found me desperately sprawling on my bathroom floor trying to be sick. Ah, the glam. Not really. I fell asleep on my side, half-propped up by the mound of pillows on my bed, with the curtains open. Goodmorning sunshine. Bleh.

change

2010-01-31T15:46:00.001-08:00

There's a row of pictures with the lilies in the background.
Completely to the left, pink tincture of flower I can smell them now.
The face changes, the lilies stay.
All flowers wilt.
Sleeping the other way round hasn't helped either.

20/11/2009

2010-01-31T14:42:00.000-08:00

It's the rampage of thoughts

dripping down

the liner

mascara

wet and damp

and trickling

down

And the nakedness

the exposure

the robe covers what

seems to be so

sexual
it can be fragile

not always what

we seem to be we are

all human after

all the same

to an extent

and the pain

the pain

the howl

the shriek the sound of glass smashing on the wall and the pain of voice and the lullaby of sleep

they creep in the head in the throat in the nose they staccato on my forehead and bounce off the

cries the cries i hate it don't speak don't talk keep it in the pain take a picture make it sexy take a picture but it's sad

Zut la femme

2010-01-31T14:21:00.000-08:00

I sit here reading "Marriage", a poem by a female Victorian writer, Coleridge's great-grandniece or something like that, that's how she's defined they share the last name so clearly there must be made some sort of clarification - wow she's of Coleridge's bloodline let's have a look at that.

I don't know what I believe about women writing about women. Looking back now, with the consciousness and burden of feminism weighing above our fashionably styled heads I really want to be sick with how pretentious it all sounds. Marriage results in "a matron walking sedately" as opposed to a maiden "Wantonly free." Okay okay we know what you feminists think let's all take our bras off Germaine Greer-style and grow a moustache (believe me it's feasible) and maybe some armpit hair. Problem is, I love my bras. I ain't givin' them up.

But then I think again. I think pre-60s, pre-suffragettes, before women like me took every possibility in the world for granted; and I think about what a typical day in the life of a pre-Victorian or Victorian woman was like. Wake up, take hours to get dressed appropriately, sit around all day, write loads of letters, maybe read?, have tea, wait for husband/guests/kids, have an atrociously long and formal dinner, retire to the drawing room etc. Again. and AGAIN.

So when Ms. Mary E. Coleridge imagines the return of her married sister describing her as 'walking sedately', I can now see why this is such a great statement to make. The wildness of the female spirit, everything instinctive is actively suppressed. Is it sex that does it? Is the fact that the girl is no longer a 'maiden', that she has been defiled that sedates her? Is it a slow process or an overnight thing? Is she sedated like a patient, in order to control some sort of mania? And why is a single woman, an 'untouched' woman, such a threat? When she is "Flashing with laughter" is she a danger? Is her radiance in fact too hard to handle? Are her hopeful expectations intolerable and in need to be thwarted?

I hate myself for raising such issues, issues that have been branded the now horrifying term "feminist", that's been conflated with other irrelevant stuff like hatred for men, lesbian love etc etc. This is just a reminder that it wasn't always like that, and that it actually took some balls for Ms. Coleridge to write what she did.

Marriage

BY MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE

No more alone sleeping, no more alone waking,

Thy dreams divided, thy prayers in twain;

Thy merry sisters tonight forsaking,

Never shall we see, maiden, again.

Never shall we see thee, thine eyes glancing.

Flashing with laughter and wild in glee,

Under the mistletoe kissing and dancing,

Wantonly free.

There shall come a matron walking sedately,

Low-voiced, gentle, wise in reply.

Tell me, O tell me, can I love her greatly?

All for her sake must the maiden die!

I wish I had...

2010-01-31T14:05:00.000-08:00

these Marc Jacobs boots.

And the legs to go with.

2010-01-26T15:40:00.000-08:00

2010-01-26T15:39:00.000-08:00

I remember walking in Great Court last year thinking how lucky I was

2010-01-24T17:03:00.000-08:00

Evita.

With the pyjama bottoms and tops occasionally and the loveliness the black long hair and thick eyebrows shaped now in an arch, an inverted smile reflected on her mouth.

objection

2010-01-24T16:54:00.000-08:00

gosh you looked so handsome even from that seat behind you when you were fixing your collar not propping it up like expected but tucking it in and your bitten fingers funny and familiar now estranged smell of blue musk.

gosh you looked so handsome without even seeing your face because i don't need to to know what you look like when you're fidgety when you're shy

maybe i don't know you that well i didn't have the chance really but gosh you look so handsome in my brain it's hard to contain the feeling but it's my pride.

eh i was cruel but you deserved it.

now vicariously i want you

i miss you with my eyes

but i won't give in

no texts

no call

stop

no more

i miss you

2010-01-21T09:43:00.000-08:00

Two of my favorite people in the world.

Thalia and baby Nearchos.

I remember the morning we christened him.

I was so hyped - the excitement of being a godmother and three coffees in a row just because a certain someone decided to wake me up at 4am the night before.

I had the best time.

Babies are possibly the saddest thing on earth, for us, when looking at them I mean, every possibility of what we could've been crawls before us, while pushing a toy-car along the floor. And drooling laughingly.

obsession

2010-01-21T09:41:00.000-08:00

I find it in the constant sitcom laughter

the 'next' button of a next comfort

purposeless as it is to settle

the real thing, the actual one.

It's fine that he's so close

It's worse that he is near

Obsess obsess obsess

Oh dear.

Come

Enough.

Now.

Stop.

2010-01-21T09:27:00.000-08:00

I have decided that it is time this blog included some visual material. I love faces and portraits, so I'll aim to put up as many interesting photographs of weird/cool/pretty/lovely/distressed/joyful anything faces...

This was taken by my friend Rebecca last night while I was trying NOT to obsess over a recent incident. It's such a shame x

Heart-drum

2009-11-17T18:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-17T17:53:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-16T12:30:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-12T18:02:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-12T16:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-11T04:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-04T16:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-04T11:53:00.000-08:00

(silence)

Silence...

Silence!

Fireworks

2009-11-04T11:43:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-03T07:08:00.001-08:00

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

2009-10-31T11:31:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-29T17:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-27T08:20:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-27T08:04:00.000-07:00

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.