Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Ζωή, την άλλη φορά

Κι όλο να γράφω ήθελα. Μονίμως κάτι από μέσα ήθελε να γίνει λέξεις. Έλα όμως που σπάνια έγραφα. Γιατί ποτέ δεν ήξερα για τι να γράψω. Και γι’αυτό όλο και διάβαζα εκείνα που άλλοι είχαν βγάλει από το δικό τους μέσα. Και όλο χανόμουνα στους κόσμους τους. Και άμα οι κόσμοι τους τύχαινε να είναι ωραίοι τότε δεν ήθελα να ξαναβγώ στον κόσμο των πραγματικών ανθρώπων. Και όλο και ξενύχταγα μέχρι να φτάσω στην άκρη του κόσμου τους. Και όλο τους ζήλευα εκείνους που μπορούσαν να μιλήσουν για το μέσα τους, γιατί εκείνοι είχαν βρει έναν τρόπο να μιλάν για το μέσα τους χωρίς να φαίνεται πως για το μέσα τους μιλούσαν. Γιατί όλο για άλλους μίλαγαν και κόσμους φανταστικούς δημιουργούσαν. Εγώ όμως ποτέ δεν μπόρεσα να δημιουργήσω κόσμους και μόνο για το δικό μου μέσα μπορούσα να γράφω. Αυτό όμως ήξερα πως δεν σε κάνει συγγραφέα. Ψυχολόγο μόνο σε κάνει της δικής σου ψυχής που και αυτό δεν είναι λίγο γιατί πολλοί δεν έχουν ακούσει ποτέ το μέσα τους και ποτέ δεν θα μπορούσαν να γράψουν για αυτό. Και πάλι όμως συγγραφέας δεν ήμουνα. Γι’αυτό όλο και συνέχιζα να επισκέπτομαι τους φανταστικούς κόσμους των άλλων. Και σε ένα βιβλίο συγκεκριμένο επέστρεφα ξανά και ξανά, λες και ήταν το σπίτι μου. Και σπίτι μου ίσως και να ήταν, γιατί αυτό το βιβλίο κάπως με συνέδεε με τη μάνα μου. Γιατί ο συγγραφέας είχε γεννηθεί στον ίδιο τόπο με τη μάνα μου και σαν για τα ίδια πράγματα να μιλούσε με αυτά που είχε ζήσει και εκείνη. Και πόσο μ’άρεσε πώς έγραφε αυτός ο συγγραφέας γιατί έτσι έγραφε όπως γράφω και εγώ τώρα. Σαν να‘ταν παιδί έγραφε που μόλις ανακάλυπτε τον κόσμο. Με μια αφέλεια έγραφε που όμως γεμάτη σοφία ήτανε. Και όλο για πράγματα βαθιά και σκοτεινά και γκρίζα έγραφε. Μου άρεσε όμως γιατί και εγώ τις περισσότερες φορές βαθιά και σκοτεινή και γκρίζα αισθανόμουν. Και σαν να τον καταλάβαινα αυτόν τον συγγραφέα. Και η μάνα μου, που και αυτήν τον είχε διαβάσει, σαν να τον καταλάβαινε και εκείνη, γιατί όλο κάτι υπογραμμισμένα με μολύβι συναντούσα στις σελίδες του βιβλίου του. Και κάτι κατσαρές κάθετες γραμμές στα περιθώρια. Και εγώ τότε ήξερα πως από εδώ είχε περάσει και η μάνα μου πριν από εμένα και κάτι της είχαν πει αυτά τα λόγια και όλο προσπαθούσα να φανταστώ τι της είχαν πει γιατί όλο κάτι από το παρελθόν ήταν υπογραμμισμένα και εγώ το παρελθόν της δεν το είχα ζήσει. Μια ζεστασιά ένιωθα πάντα μέσα στον κόσμο αυτού του συγγραφέα, παρά τα σκοτάδια, μια ζεστασιά σαν αγκαλιά. Και φαίνεται πως που και που ήθελα να γυρνάω σε αυτήν την αγκαλιά. Σαν για να παρηγορηθώ. Παρά τα σκοτάδια.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Childhood Regained

I can’t get enough. I keep going through the album over and over again, noticing the details - linking me back to a time in my life long forgotten. My childhood memories have been held hostage for almost thirty years and now they have been released. I would really like to find some noble motive behind their kidnapping, but I keep returning to that original explanation I had given when I was first told about the existence of this album: In absence of an actual family -a family that he had disregarded and therefore drove away- he had created an archive of snapshots that would offer him the illusion of a family. Moreover, he chose never to show or to share this archive with his family, even back in the days when I was still on speaking terms with him; he kept it to himself as if it was his trophy. I remember now I kept asking him to show me photos he had taken, but he always refused. My mom and I were given some photos at some point, but there are some gorgeous photos of me and her in here that I had never seen before. My beautiful mom – how in love she seems with this kid in her arms. I have always known she loved me, but seeing love recorded on photographic film for eternity is breathtaking. And this kid – I had forgotten about this kid. This kid with the thousand faces. It looks so happy. If photos of us as children are the only visual documents of are true selves, then what a revelation! I have been given the opportunity to meet myself – my true self.

There are photos of him in here as well, of him holding me in his arms or carrying me on his back. I am sure these must have had special significance to him through the years. But to me they don’t trigger the same emotion that the pictures with my mom trigger. The way I see it is that to him I was just a living doll that he sometimes chose to play with, being a little kid himself. He could not discuss philosophy with this doll, but he could use her to satisfy his need for expression or something. I am looking at the photos in his apartment. I seem so happy posing and making all these faces, but I remember distinctively now that I never liked posing. He would make me pose. I remember his voice “come on Mary, strike a pose for daddy, smile for daddy, pretend you are drawing for daddy” (pretend you love daddy). Yet I don’t ever remember being shown the photographs of my numberless forced poses. And he never gave any to my mom. As if once on film I was immediately his possession. I –who he chose not to bother with, and therefore was not his- could be his on film paper forever.

A while ago, my mom, thinking that I was now old enough, confided in me that she once caught my father taking nude photographs of me and she was infuriated. She said he accused her of not understanding art… I think that’s exactly what I was for him – art. I was not his live daughter that he had to protect and take care of, but a piece of art he could work with, but once finished could let go of. I remember he would make me sing to a microphone while he accompanied me on the piano and he would record it on tape. I am saying “make me” because this was not a children’s game you play with your dad. This was not an expression of love. This was not a parent wanting to have his kid’s voice on record. This was an artist demanding absolute perfection. Whenever I would make a mistake he would stop the recording, scold me and start over again until he thought he had the perfect recording. The perfect artistic photos, the perfect voice recordings…so much perfection…yet how imperfect he was as a parent, how unable to show true emotion. He always needed to put something between his emotion and me: a camera, a tape recorder, a type-written letter, an entire life. My dad wanted to have as little to do with me as possible, because, after all, a grown up is bound to get tired of playing with dolls. And even though an artist might never get tired of making art, sometimes a piece of art might assume a life of its own and decide to abandon the artist…

Still, I am grateful that this archive exists and is now in my hands – if not the original, at least a digitised version of it; it feels as if it’s re-linking me to my mom but also to myself. It’s as if my childhood memories with her were held captive, but now, after having been returned to their rightful owners, they have come back to life. It’s as if I was forced to partial amnesia and I have now started regaining my memory. I am remembering our first apartment; every single corner of it. I am remembering its mosaic and the pirouettes I would attempt on it with my ballet shoes. I am remembering my bedroom. Not all of it; just the sunlight that was coming through the window while my mom was getting me dressed on that morning of the day that I for the first time travelled unaccompanied by plane. I am remembering the clothes my mom used to dress me with. I am remembering their textures and the way they felt against my skin. I cannot recall any of the excursions, but the clothes; I can recognise them. The one thing I cannot recognise is me. Who is that kid? She is so beautiful and so expressive. Why didn’t anybody encourage her to act? I think there was an actress trapped inside that kid. I feel there is so little left of that kid in me now, but these last few days I feel as if it has awoken inside of me. I look at myself in the mirror and I can see that kid inside my face. The chubby cheeks are gone now but the eyes are the same. I can recognise her eyes. And I am striving to make contact, but that kid is mute. I have muted that kid. I have made her feel un-beautiful and she’s sad. So she will only stare at me with those eyes; not with anger but with resignation. So I look away, and I ignore her until I find the courage to look at her again and see her for who she really is – someone beautiful.

Monday, January 05, 2009

Witness

I was watching "Shall We Dance" on TV the other day. Silly film, but what an inspiring quote from the character of Susan Sarandon: "People get married (or have relationships, I may add) because they need a witness – a witness to their lives. When you enter a relationship you’re saying 'I’ll be a witness to your life, to the good and the bad. I won’t let your life go un-witnessed.'" 

We need witnesses if we are to live, otherwise we might as well be dead. We can only exist through others. We can only exist if we are “witnessed” – like the proverbial tree in the forest: if no one sees it falling, then has it really fallen? If no one sees us, witnesses us, do we really exist?

Ν'αγαπάς Όρθιος

Οίδα λοιπόν. Και κατάλαβα, έστω για δευτερόλεπτα, τι θα πει «ν’ αγαπάς όρθιος»: κρατώντας το δικό σου δέντρο σταθερά στο δικό του χώμα πλάι πλάι με το αυτόνομο δέντρο που στέκεται δίπλα σου. Υπάρχουν δέντρα που δεν αναπτύσσονται καλά μαζί, κι άλλα που ταιριάζουν. Όμως όλα τα δέντρα είναι όμορφα... Μεταφυτευμένος καθένας μας σ’ άλλο χώμα θα ευδοκιμήσει καλύτερα.