suspending

as in transit, i ve grown accustomed

and i am not bothered to utter the manner likewise again

and yet my tongue, audacious dares to entertain the notion again

and bored, and tired yet with hope

as if i 've never been here before, and yet, countless times i 've layed my eyes upon

such here

and i ve got the field, before me, with fruits ripe and sunbeams stretching along

but some obscure force, as ever, dragging me away, struggling to convince me that

down the depths of the paradigmatic there is bound to be some logical mistake

but logically, sliding down the depths of the paradigmatic, i returned exactly where i begun

on the verge of the field, before me, with fruits ripe and sunbeams stretching along

words with fewer letters, such as i, and, so, what, why, not, and air and signals that get through despite all the noise

you can call this the problem with these terms

but you have to remember that this is the problem

and you got be able to retell

plus there is all these commas, the fullstops, the dashes...all those punctuation marks that i have been using wrong.

i have but to marvel the consistency of the problem, and its ever imaginative way of it reasserting itself, until i am imaginative enough to call it something else, and it obeys me permanently. the more i write, the more it evades me. setting my course towards it, but it likewise.

so i am closing down. i am moving my voting rights to the centre of athens where i live, i will unsubscribe from the monocle, and honestly, i am not drinking another decaf

no, i m closing down, seriously

seriously

seeriously seriously

seriously y y y

new darwin inn

it is closing in.

it changes the colors of the walls.

it makes bones tilting inwards.

suddenly the dvd collection seems impossible burden.

the building structure the work of creatures of some superior order.

and then somebody says top chef will surge the ratings.

and not top physicist for instance or top philosopher even as comedy.

centauri proxima. yes. but till then its just europe.

timespace, and the f continuum. the f dimension

the f of aggression. the f the mother of traumas. the f of miracles.

زمان" זמן"

lost trajectories

now if i turn my head, sideways, looking away, will you cease to be ?

are you really there, when i m not looking ?

are you here, take a t, or give

will you was, were you will

is this the thing. this the pillow case. the purple duvet cover. the antique bedside table.

that dream, the breath, those steps

the trivial, the burning,

the bloodcells. the words. the story of some past, yet to happen that lies ahead. give an a,

(or take)

here lies. and truths. and all in between. and those bursting out from the cracks, and right in

beyond the measured and the named, yet right within it. meas...uring, nam...ing

is this a question that i care to answer

who is the murderer of cause. this a question. (which is a yes, or no, an one or a two, a right or a wrong,true and false)

the second law

iamthelordyourgodwhobroughtyououtofthelandofegyptoutofthehouseofslaveryyoushallhavenoothergodsbefore

meyoushallnotmakeforyourselfanidolwhetherintheformofanythingthatisinheavenaboveorthatisontheeart

hbeneathorthatisinthewaterundertheearthyoushallnotbowdowntothemorworshipthemforithelordyourgodamajealou

sgodpunishingchildrenfortheiniquityofparentstothethirdandfourthgenerationofthosewhorejectmebutshowingsteadfa

stlovetothethousandthgenerationofthosewholovemeandkeepmycommandmentsyoushallnotmakewrongfuluseofthename

ofthelordyourgodforthelordwillnotacquitanyonewhomisuseshisnameobservethesabbathdayandkeepitholyas

thelordyourgodcommandedyouforsixdaysyoushalllabouranddoallyourworkbuttheseventhdayisasabbathtothelordy

ourgodyoushallnotdoanyworkyouoryoursonoryourdaughteroryourmaleorfemaleslaveoryouroxoryourdonkeyoranyof

yourlivestockortheresidentalieninyourtownssothatyourmaleandfemaleslavemayrestaswellasyourememberthatyou

wereaslaveinthelandofegyptandthelordyourgodbroughtyououtfromtherewithamightyhandandanoutstretchedarmtherefore

thelordyourgodcommandedyoutokeepthesabbathdayhonoryourfatherandyourmothera

sthelordyourgodcommandedyousothatyourdaysmaybelongandthatitmaygowellwithyouinthelandthatthelo

rdyourgodisgivingyouyoushallnotmurderneithershallyoucommitadulteryneithershallyoustealeithershallyou

bearfalsewitnessagainstyourneighborneithershallyoucovetyourneighborswifeneithershallyoudesireyourneig

hborshouseorfieldormaleorfemaleslaveoroxordonkeyoranythingthatbelongstoyourneighbor

traumagic experience

banners_4_the_paradox

Let's start with risk... we are all conscripts in one sense or another...for all of us, it is hard to break ranks, to incur the disapproval, the censure, the violence of an offended majority with a different idea of loyalty. We shelter under banner words like justice, peace and reconciliation that enroll us in new, if much smaller and relatively powerless, communities of the like-minded...to fall out of step with one's tribe; to step beyond one's tribe into a world that is larger mentally but smaller numerically--if alienation or dissidence is not your habitual or gratifying posture, this is a complex, difficult process. It is hard to defy the wisdom of the tribe, the wisdom that values the lives of members of the tribe above all others. It will always be unpopular--it will always be deemed unpatriotic--to say that the lives of the members of the other tribe are as valuable as one's own. It is easier to give one's allegiance to those we know, to those we see, to those with whom we are embedded, to those with whom we share--as we may--a community of fear...let’s not underestimate the retaliation that may be visited on those who dare to dissent from the brutalities and repressions thought justified by the fears of the majority...we are flesh. we can be punctured by a bayonet, torn apart by a suicide bomber...fear binds people together...and fear disperses them...courage inspires communities: the courage of an example for courage is as contagious as fear.... but courage, certain kinds of courage, can also isolate the brave. The perennial destiny of principles: While everyone professes to have them, they are likely to be sacrificed when they become inconveniencing. Generally a moral principle is something that puts one at variance with accepted practice. And that variance has consequences, sometimes unpleasant consequences, as the community takes its revenge on those who challenge its contradictions--who want a society actually to uphold the principles it professes to defend. The standard that a society should actually embody its own professed principles is a utopian one, in the sense that moral principles contradict the way things really are--and always will be. How things really are--and always will be--is neither all evil nor all good but deficient, inconsistent, inferior. Principles invite us to do something about the morass of contradictions in which we function morally. Principles invite us to clean up our act, to become intolerant of moral laxity and compromise and cowardice and the turning away from what is up-setting: that secret gnawing of the heart that tells us that what we are doing is not right, and so counsels us that we'd be better off just not thinking about it. Again: There is nothing inherently superior about resistance. All our claims for the righteousness of resistance rest on the rightness of the claim that the resisters are acting in the name of justice. And the justice of the cause does not depend on, and is not enhanced by, the virtue of those who make the assertion. It depends first and last on the truth of a description of a state of affairs that is, truly, unjust and unnecessary.

breakfast with friends

mell, parelth, and par

mirror amechania

The film as a mirror and, as a further consequence, the phenomenon of identification primarily inherent in feature films, condense to a type of essence of film’s potential. This film reports on cinema and the processes within it. In doing so, it doesn’t reveal any secrets, but instead, attempts to transfer – in the sense of seeing what we see – what we do in the cinema and what also can be relevant outside of film into a visually stimulating and captivating event.

looking idly on the ceiling

don't you tell me now, you don't know the feeling

portals

From where he was standing on the balcony, he could see them both. They couldn’t see each other. He could speak with the neighbour that had locked herself out on her own balcony, and was looking for a way to enter her house. He was talking to her, with sweet soothing words, as she was already getting scared. She was scared of heights, she was scared of the cold, she was scared of raindrops, she was scared she would have to stay out there until her husband returned. The reason she was locked outside? She thought she saw rat turds and she went out to investigate. He was telling her to remain calm, not to look downstairs and that he would call her husband or her mother. Meanwhile, something else was happening inside the room. The other one, standing on the bed, was lifting her blouse slowly, revealing her tummy button initially and then her breasts. Her eyes were inviting him girlishly, her body womanly. As the neighbour was continuing her agonizing exploratory dialogue, his replies began to falter, his responses becoming more general, as he clumsily tried to recapture her words. “We are going to be late for the concert…”she told him, stressing the -cert bit particularly, playfully hinting she was not at the least interested in the concert.

He placed the unused concert tickets inside the plastic box and then sealed it, leaving it on top of that last short side-table, left behind by the removal people.

He walked towards the balcony door, stepping on the wooden floor, leaving his echoing footprints on the dust that had previously been covered and had not been mopped since the bed first went into the room. His eyes turned to the wall on his right.

There was a blue paint mark at the height of a piece of furniture that used to be there from previous tenants. Konstantinos, the landlord, pointed that out the day he first showed the house to him. He didn’t mind it he said, he would paint the wall anyhow. Later he decided not to paint it, because he decided he liked its patina. Then he brought a poster to cover the mark. But he wanted to frame it first and then he decided that he would finally paint the wall. He had to abandon this plan as well, since he had already started planning his exit from the country and had decided he would leave this house.

He looked down. The poster was there next to the heater, wrapped in a nylon roll. He took it out with ceremonial tenderness and stretched it. It was an A3 poster, cream, full of words and doodles. When he bought it, he thought it was Peter Brook’s notes for his book, The Shifting Point, since the quote “Hold on tightly, let go lightly” was prominently written somewhere on it but it turned out they were simply the notes of some advertiser graphics designer in New York. He bought it as a gift to his son who was studying theatre studies who he was going to meet later that day.

He delayed arriving at the meeting point. The sky was all dull red. Desert dust had emigrated from Africa flooding the sky. He felt his eyes smart and dry and thought of them the same colour as the sky. A stench from a cat carcass or something, made an entrance to his nostrils. He looked alternately the soles of his shoes, and then the open litter bin before he entered the café, hoping to discover the dead animal and solve the mystery of the origin of the smell. His palms were equally red and swollen. He had an allergy to dust and his own sweat and he hadn’t relaxed for a single moment his grips of his motorcycle steering wheel driving there. All that was distracting him from his sincere decision to enter a dialogue as an active listener, to really hear his son out, to not reply hastily and unreflectively, to not reply at all if necessary. It was their first encounter after a long time. It felt such a success to convince him to see him. He had decided not to disappoint him again. How crucial a meeting that was? Crucial indeed. His son was already there, standing in a remote table at the back of the main hall. He could see him. A young waiter with a full body apron passed by in front of him jostling him annoyingly.

He raised his eyes again towards the blue mark, wrapped the poster up without looking at it and placed it at the corner of the empty room, touching on the floor leaning against the wall.

mot juste

brocca della verita (0,1)

unfinished_misplaced_misguided_unnamed

Chapter one out of three (or four) went on looking at the back garden through those thick, pointed leaves a rain forest of ten metres by four a plastic shovel, a broken yellow toy track all her tools a proper excavation for her boyish short hair but she haven’t really got a proper map and her compass is a bit messed up and her ‘dinates, kind of less than half but something’s telling her, it can’t be that hard you are determined not to leave before you give earth her second skin and marvel ‘neath the surface the buried treasure ship with the nackles, and the fleeces and all the golden blood and the rude and vile one eyed men, with the strong arms the days ‘re passing, and they are getting shorter too and across the street other girls are laughing with their pretty unicorns and their clean summer shoes and that annoying and cheeky cousin of yours, with the cryptic clues there is still so much earth to remove logic says it is n ‘t there, never was, it cannot be and your shovel is half broken and same goes for your wrist watch it tells you ten by four Your father calls you, and pats you at the back he calls you naïve, and wears a charming smile oh sister please tell me, when did you give up the try oh please sister tell me when did you die Chapter two the wall has five sides at the bed where he lies impromptu dramas, a calculated martyrdom a campaign of change, in the straight line of time caught inside a fishnet of tough love and other feelings that have the wrong names a cemetery for broken chairs that one you love to hate lying next to you a motherly luring scent, urging you to caress her hair the dessert that you mistook for a field between your palms and her dreams filled with strong willed turtles on broken wheels

(story)

bday

i have always been dumbstruck before wishes

what is to wish ?

you could close your eyes. think. blow.

chaos is the piece of cake.

and that is true most times in sleep. but also sometimes awake

listening, speaking, listening, speaking

throwing arrows of words

for someone's sake

well, ego gives they say and... you know what's next

first aid certainly comes handy.

breath. slow. breath.

feel. step back. do you see ?

empirical evidence suggests there are more than one here

i turned my guts

inside out. skin likewise.

quick.find. it's certainly been written somewhere again

tired.

i got a fluoroscent liver

i got a binary spleen

a chocolate cake

with monograph candy

speak

CHAPTER NEXT_PROMISE

L

http://www.gutenberg.org/wiki/Main_Page
http://www.intute.ac.uk/
www.doaj.org
scholar.google.co.uk

aporia

Where now? Who now? When now? Unquestioning. I, say I. Unbelieving. Questions, hypotheses, call them that. Keep going, going on, call that going, call that on. Can it be that one day, off it goes on, that one day I simply stayed in, in where, instead of going out, in the old way, out to spend day and night as far away as possible, it wasn't far. Perhaps that is how it began. You think you are simply resting, the better to act when the time comes, or for no reason, and you soon find yourself powerless ever to do anything again. No matter how it happened. It, say it, not knowing what. Perhaps I simply assented at last to an old thing. But I did nothing. I seem to speak, it is not I, about me, it is not about me. These few general remarks to begin with. What am I to do, what shall I do, what should I do, in my situation, how proceed? By aporia pure and simple? Or by affirmations and negations invalidated as uttered, or sooner or later? Generally speaking. There must be other shifts. Otherwise it would be quite hopeless. But it is quite hopeless. I should mention before going any further, any further on, that I say aporia without knowing what it means.

lit terature

Πίσω από τη λέπτή σκιά μιας λεμονιάς

κάθησε σταυροπόδι ένα τζιτζίκι

είχε κάπως ζαλιστεί απο τη μυρωδία μιας τηγανιάς από πατάτες

που αναδύοταν απο γειτονικό

καφεταβερνείο

Θες να κάνουμε πόλεμο; με ρώτησες

εγώ κοιτούσα έξω από το παράθυρο

ένα κύριο με αδιάβροχα πέδιλα, που μου θύμιζαν

κάποια που είχα αγοράσει κάποτε εγώ,

να περνάει το ζέμπρα κρόσσινγκ

πέθανε ο μάλκομ μακλάρεν

μου είπες κοιτάζωντας με στα μάτια

καθώς ο αντώνης με κούρευε, λίγο

πριν κουρέψει και εσένα

αν η πάνκ είχε πατέρα

τον σκότωσε κάποια στιγμή;

είχε και μητέρα;

τί είναι ένας πίνακας χωρίς την κορνίζα του;

desire, choice,

consistency (a point of)

conscience (a matter of)

consciousness (the variable)

balthazar

no actors. (no directing of actors.) no parts. (no learning of parts.) no staging. but the use of working models, taken from life. being (models) instead of seeming (actors)

nature: what the dramatic art suppresses in favor of a naturalness that is learned and maintained by exercisesThe false when it is homogeous can yield truth

unbalance so as to re-balance

hide the ideas, but so that people find them. the most important will be the most hidden

actors. the nearer they appear (on the screen) with their expressiveness, the further away they get. houses, trees come nearer; the actors go away

fragmentation 'this is indispensible if one does not want to fall into representation. see beings and things in their separate parts. render them independent in order to give them a new dependence

things too much in disorder, or too much in order, become equal, one no longer distinguishes them. They produce indifference and boredom

don't show all sides of things. a margin of indefiniteness

the actor is double. the alternate presence of him and of the other is what the public has been schooled to cherish

what our eyes and ears require is not the realistic persona but the real person

algorithm

a--. observe phenomenon

a-. set criteria, set objective

a. assign meaning

b. assign value to occurrence frequency

c. reevaluate a-

d. reevaluate a--

e. repeat a. adjust if necessary

f. go to a--

scary it is. all that freedom

dialogue with you without you

spend my night, and my day
talking to you. answering. allegedly silent words
vocalised in the form of a car radio v/o
reverbing in vice city cortexia

huge signs, pointing yourside
stuck in a synaptical traffic jam
two vehicles ahead some emotional 3-axis lorry
gets unexpected flat tyre
tolls collectors inexplicably happy

enormous videowalls, alternating your form, one or another
taking turns, alien to familiar, advertising salvation
be it packed or simply serviced and then
come the trailers of imaginary prose,
my character, yours, a psychodrama then a
sports underdog story

temptress, broken favourite pieces, i4, gottlob, haircut, alone
creative, we must, broadband, vespa, ahead, bios
and various other words parade
a flickering red led display indicator,
some sort of unintelligible (ha) value system
is clearly in place

and then they are spotted. two imposing enormous cranes, and a peculiar
helicopter shouting encoded instructions over the loudspeakers
numerous handlers, forklift drivers and lay labourers
running about commited to the task
a whole partition of the road is at this very momment being relocated,
connecting a high bridge, with a previously inaccesible pasture

over and above the err...sea

no need to talk i guess, about no thing. we already speak.
no need to talk

materia

"There exists" Proffesor Flugel observes, " a very general association on the one hand between the notion of mind, spirit or soul and the idea of the father or of masculinity and on the other hand between the notion of the body or of matter (materia - that which belongs to the mother) and the idea of the mother or of the feminine principle. The repression of the emotions and feelings relating to the mother[in our Judeo-Christian monotheism] has, in virtue of this association, produced a tendency to adopt an attitude of distrust, contempt, disgust or hostility towards the human body, the Earth and the whole material Universe with a corresponding tendency to exalt and overemphasize the spiritual elements, whether in man or in the general scheme of things. It seems very probable that a good many of the more pronouncedly idealistic tendencies in philosophy may own much of their attractiveness in many minds to a sublimination of this reaction against the mother, while the more dogmatic and narrow forms of materialism may perhaps in their turn represent a return of the more repressed feelings originally connected with the mother"