Detach

Attach a name of preference,
A beautiful smile upon his face
Attach a personality,
Lyrical words, for recitation, on his lips
Attach a depth into his eyes – green
Warmth in his arms for that one hour before dawn
But first
Detach that blond chick from his side

Love is

Yesterday I met up with a friend, a very good friend, yet not my closest friend; a friend that I don’t see very often and, yet, if I were to ask myself which friend I love most dearly it would probably be her; it wouldn’t be my oldest friends or my closest friends, but her. So I started thinking about it. How can it be?

What is it that makes us love another?

First of all it’s a prerequisite that you know yourself well enough; you need to have heard yourself (1000 times at least). Otherwise, when you find yourself in a friendship (or any relationship for that matter), you spend too much time trying to define yourself, so you don’t really allow space for the other to just be and be heard. Only once you allow the others to be themselves you can truly open up to the possibility of loving them. And if you find that you do love them, then, surprise surprise, what you actually come to love is the them that you are not. That’s it! That’s true love. We don’t love others because they are like us. We love them because they have elements that we would like to have; because they are the us that we are not and we would like to be. We love them because we look up to them and admire them. That’s why I really love this friend. Because she has elements in her personality that I envy and I wish I had; elements that my other friends don’t have. Of course I love my other friends as well, so obviously they too have elements that I admire. It’s just that this friend of mine is more close to the me I would like to be.

And then, quite appropriately, that line comes to mind from Hal Hartley’s Trust: “respect, admiration, trust equal love.” So I start running a list in my head of all the friends or boyfriends I ever had…can it be? Yes it can! Love has nothing to do with romance – there’s nothing magical or electric or chemical about true love. True love is pretty straight forward, pretty cerebral, pretty down to earth. When you love, you know why. It’s all crystal clear. Of course we all want magic in our lives, that’s why we fall in love again and again. But I wonder, when it comes to getting serious, living together, having families…is romance enough? If it were, all these people getting married would be living happily ever after. Yet so many marriages fall apart. Why is that? I have come to the conclusion that it’s because people marry out of romance, and not out of love, or because they confuse one with the other. I mean, this is an instance in which one ought to be realistic. Romance dies eventually; no matter how much you might try to resuscitate it, it has an expiry date. So if there’s no true love beneath it, then what the hell is there left? In the best scenario, two broken hearts. In the worst, a beautiful divorce and children who have to forever live with the mistakes of others…but does anyone think of children that are not yet there when they are in love?

If

IF I had not volunteered for CVG, I would have never become a leader at an international camp and I would have never gotten the wish to go and volunteer abroad, so I would have never found that program in CPH, I would have never met M. and we would have never become friends, I would have never worked at that TV station and I would have never met J. who introduced me to the EFC, so I would have never applied and I would have never been accepted, I would have never come back and I would have never told D., who was the ex of F. who was the best friend of M. whom I had met in CPH, that the EFC was the place to be and D. would have never gone there herself, so she would have never met S., who comes from the other side of Europe, and she would have never fallen in love with him, she would have never gone to live with him up there and they would not be now getting married...

How strange and magical can life sometimes be!

Internet Café Revisited

It's been six years since I sat at this very same internet café and had my future pop up on the screen before me. I had to rush back home and call that man with the strange name: “Hallo, Mr Kirkeby? (erroneously pronouncing it Κίρκεμπαϊ) I am calling about that volunteer position. Is it still available?” How could it not be? The position had just been announced and I was probably the first to see it. After one month of daily unsuccessful search...one very insignificant morning...at last my ticket out of here! I could not believe it! Months later, Mr Kirkeby (correctly pronounced Κίεκεμπι – the r silent, the last i with pursed lips) would tell me that when I had called he was at the airport in Rome and he was shocked that someone had already found out about the position and was interested. Was that karma or what! I remember when I got the email of acceptance, two weeks after that call, I started jumping up and down…literally. I was finally free. I was out of here. The there, however, was still a mystery to me; Copenhagen was just a name of a city somewhere in the North; its exact location of no prior significance to me. It’s funny. Now, Copenhagen is another word for ‘home’ and I find that I have to visit it at least once a year in order to refuel and be able to survive one more year in a city that I do not particularly like. It’s a strange thing with cities; you can fall in love with them like you do with people. It’s just unfortunate when you are in love with a city other than your own because, well, like with all long-distance relationships, the absence of the beloved is…excruciating!

Οι πόλεις και οι νεκροί

Τις προάλλες τον είδα πάλι. Ήταν ο ζητιάνος χωρίς πόδια, καθισμένος σε ένα χαλάκι, πάντα στη μέση του πεζοδρομίου, ποτέ με την πλάτη στον τοίχο, πάντα στη μέση, σαν ένας μικρός βούδας, μικροσκοπικός, οι περαστικοί θεόρατοι καθώς περνούσανε γύρω του - ο μοναδικός ζητιάνος στον οποίο δίνω χρήματα. Όταν πήγαινα σχολείο, ήταν ο ζητιάνος με το ένα πόδι που έγερνε σε μια πατερίτσα και ζητιάνευε πάντα στα φανάρια – κάποτε του είχα δώσει όλο μου το χαρτζιλίκι. Άλλοτε, ήταν ο τροχονόμος στη συμβολή της Αγ. Βαρβάρας με την Κηφισίας, ο υπάλληλος που έβαζε βενζίνη, κάποιος ηλικιωμένος που έμπαινε στο λεωφορείο. Πάντα η ίδια έκφραση. Και εγώ πάντα να προσπαθώ να καταπιώ εκείνον τον κόμπο που σχηματιζόταν στο λαιμό μου.

Ώσπου κάποια μέρα, χρόνια μετά, διαβάζω αυτήv την παράγραφο και όλοι οι κόμποι γίνονται δάκρυα και τα δάκρυα ένας ασταμάτητος χείμαρρος.

«Φτάνεις σε κάποια στιγμή της ζωής σου όπου, ανάμεσα στον κόσμο που έχεις γνωρίσει, οι νεκροί είναι περισσότεροι απ’ τους ζωντανούς. Και το μυαλό αρνιέται να δεχτεί άλλες φυσιογνωμίες, άλλες εκφράσεις: σ’ όλα τα καινούργια πρόσωπα που συναντάς, αποτυπώνει τις παλιές μορφές, βρίσκει για το καθένα τη μάσκα που του ταιριάζει περισσότερο».

(από το «Οι Αόρατες Πόλεις» του Ίταλο Καλβίνο)

If only for this

I once met a young boy, already so disappointed and fed up with life, that wanted to let go. But so incomprehensible was his death wish to me, that I made it my mission to prove to him that life was worth living. So I held him in my arms and I lulled him with my words and I did manage to hold him back for a little while. But then one day the boy decided it was time to leave. And so he tried. The next words I heard from him where from inside a psychiatric clinic. The boy had failed. Maybe deep inside he wanted to fail. Maybe he was just crying out for help. So help he got, and he managed to survive, and he’s still among us and probably happy. But lately I have been thinking a lot about that death wish of his, for I’m not so certain anymore if life is always worth living.

I don’t believe in suicide and I don’t believe in letting go. Rather, I believe in doing your best with what you’ve got, and since life is what you’ve got, you might as well do something with it. Besides, I’m too much of a dreamer to simply quit. Dreams are like “floating spars to men that rise and sink and rise and sink again.” Still, these last few months that I’ve seen my mom come so close to death, I’ve often thought that maybe it would have been better if death had flirted with me instead of her. For there come times when death to me does not seem so scary.

Obviously when you are healthy it’s impossible to empathize with someone who’s ill. Yet I really tried to put myself in her place to see how it felt. And in my attempt it was not fear I felt, but rather resignation. I felt that if it had been me, it wouldn’t have really mattered - to me - so I would have just accepted my fate. It might have mattered to others (my mom for sure), but not to me – for there is nothing of significance holding me back in this life. Besides, most of the times it feels as if I’m living someone else’s life and, well, death cannot be that scary when it’s approaching a life that is not your own. But then again, you cannot really feel how it feels when death is near, until death is actually there…

Then I got me thinking that even if my life was significant to me, it still would not be of significance to anyone else (except to my mom, for it must be tragic losing a child). My mom’s life, on the contrary, is significant to so many people. She is a doctor and has patients who need her. She is a mother, a sister, a daughter, so she has a family that needs her. She is a good friend, so she has friends who need her. But who the hell really needs me? Apart from that, my mom has worked hard for so long and has created a life for herself. What have I created so far that really matters to me, let alone to other people? The thing is, if I were to leave, my death wouldn’t affect people to the same extent my mom’s death would. And that is the truth…

…and then, when you least expect them, come those bits and pieces of existence that make you so happy that you want to hold on to life as tight as you can. They aren’t those big, life-altering bits, like falling in love or succeeding in your career, but rather those tiny, insignificant bits, like attending a great concert, or having a laugh with a friend, or enjoying a starry night, that make you think “if only for this…life is worth living!”

Dream Sequence

Before the tragedy occurs, you freeze the frame

I was on the run - or, well, this character was, that at times was me and at others I watched as if it wasn’t me. She, I, was on the run for having committed a big crime; so it felt. Otherwise, why would she need to run so fast? There was a scene where the character, still on the run, meets up with her lover. He takes her in an office, to hide and make love, presumably. A very tender scene of close-ups of hands follows. This one I can totally feel, so I guess then I become the character. Then I am on the run again, policemen after me. I find refuge in an old woman’s house. I don’t know her, yet it seems as if she was expecting me. She lets me go in. I enter a dark living room. I feel secure, so maybe there’s no way that they will ever look for me in that house. I feel secure, so the dream can now end. The character is looking out the window to a friend, who is I, and knows that she will never see her friend again. She will have to stay in that house forever, but at least she will be safe. The dream needs to end, so from the friend’s POV now, there is this closing sequence in slow motion, de-saturated colors, the character looking out the window of the dark living room. You can almost hear some exit music, you can almost see credits rolling. And the dream ends, and I wake up…

Μικρή Ιστορία του Μετρό

ΕΣΩΤΕΡΙΚΟ. ΜΕΤΡΟ - ΗΜΕΡΑ

Ψηλός, μελαμψός άντρας εισέρχεται στο συρμό του Μετρό προς Μοναστηράκι. Κρατάει μια μαύρη Delsey τσάντα με τα δυο του χέρια, όπως θα κρατούσε ένα δίσκο. Κάθεται διαγώνια απέναντί μου. Γιατί ο ψηλός, μελαμψός άντρας, που όμως είναι Έλληνας, κρατάει μια μαύρη Delsey τσάντα κατά αυτόν τον τρόπο; Κοιτάω να δω σε τι κατάσταση βρίσκεται το χερούλι της. Είναι στραμμένο προς το μέρος του οπότε δεν καταφέρνω να δω τίποτα. Βάζω το βιονικό μου αυτί σε λειτουργία μπας και ακούσω το χαρακτηριστικό ήχο τικ τακ. Τίποτα. Τον περιεργάζομαι με την άκρη του ματιού μου. Και αν χρειαστεί να τον περιγράψω στην αστυνομία; Ασπρομάλλης άντρας απευθύνει το λόγο στον ψηλό μελαμψό και κάθεται απένταντί του. Ο συνεργός. Του λέει κάτι ασυνάρτητο. Ύποπτο, σκέφτομαι. Το σενάριο αρχίζει να παίρνει σάρκα και οστά. Όπου να ‘ναι πλησιάζουμε στη στάση Αμπελόκηποι. Ο μελαμψός άντρας θα εναποθέσει διακριτικά την τσάντα στο διπλανό κάθισμα, δευτερόλεπτα πριν αυτός και ο συνεργός του πεταχτούν απο το συρμό και οι πόρτες κλείσουν πίσω τους. Επειδή υποτίθεται ότι έχω καλά αντανακλαστικά θα προλάβω να πεταχτώ έξω και εγώ. Ο συρμός θα απομακρυνθεί, και τότε για πρώτη φορά στη ζωή της Σαββατογεννημένης και σε δίσεκτο έτος το όνειρο θα βγει προφητικό: δυο τρένα συγκρούονται μέσα σε τούνελ - στο όνειρο λόγω καθυστέρησης ενός από τους συρμούς. Η σύγκρουση είναι τόσο σφοδρή που προκαλείται σεισμός πολλών ρίχτερ. Ολόκληρη η πόλη σείεται και εγώ μόλις έχω βγει από το συρμό. Είμαι ζωντανή. Γιατί όμως νιώθω σαν να είμαι ακόμα μέσα στο τρένο; Βιώνω τη σύγκρουση όπως υποθέτω θα τη βίωναν οι επιβάτες. Η αίσθηση που μου μένει είναι αυτή που έπεται μιας ολοκληρωτικής καταστροφής. Τίποτα δεν θα είναι πάλι το ίδιο. Πώς μπορείς να συνεχίσεις να ζεις με την γνώση πως τόσοι άνθρωποι πέθαναν άδικα, ενώ εσύ...
Ο μελαμψός άντρας μαζί με το συνεργό εξέρχονται από το συρμό. Η τσάντα στα χέρια του – ευτυχώς. Για άλλη μια φορά ο Sigmund είχε δίκιο - τα όνειρα δεν είναι προφητικά. Απλά εκφράζουν φόβους μας και επιθυμίες. Μπορώ τώρα να επανέλθω στον κόσμο των πραγματικών ανθρώπων.