The storyteller
Summer cadence
Seated on a chair with the phone in my hand, I was ready to send messages to unknown recipients found in the directory of the app. All the messages included the phrase 'rescue me from boredom' followed by a straightforward request, ornamented with several emojis. The water drops, punching fists, and tearful yellow faces did not correspond to my passionless facial expression, but they were relevant to the absurdity of my odd appeal to strangers. Hopefully, one of them could change the bleakness of my mood.
Τhe truth was that I had desired many times in the past to have a pause from the responsibilities of daily life. I had longed to discard with style every sense of duty while taking sips from my coffee after getting up from the bed one morning. Then I would enter another world where sweet indolence takes over the rest of the day and any other day by choice. But in reality, the sweet indolence quickly became bitter nothingness and absorbed many of my days in a row, and then entire weeks, and then the whole summer was gone, to realize that the free time I had in profusion was actually my dictator and torturer. I started experiencing this unexpected shortage of obligations as a punishment combined with an additional feeling of fatigue. In contrast to my body that was resting all day long, my mind was not peaceful at all. I was attacked continuously by thoughts, telling me that I don't deserve my free time even if I was practically unable to fill my routine with tasks. As the weeks passed, tired for no reason, and without energy, I ended up despising something I had wished for, and I wanted to get rid of it. I was like a thirsty person to whom liters of water had been suddenly injected through the mouth and now he was desperate to vomit.
Inaction knocked on my door in early July disguised as a gift for the summer, which later turned out to be a dangerous thing. I knew that not everyone was entitled to handle this kind of luxury, so I was foolish for not getting suspicious when it came to me so easily and without invitation. My body was tricked by the ease of sinking, day by day, in a state of sluggishness. The droning sound of the fan, patiently projecting air all over the room, became a constant companion after the increasing summer heat took over my house through the open windows. Engulfed by the buzz of the fan and the summer's heat, I was spending my days thinking about plans for the future. I had all the time in the world to contemplate important subjects such as the things that led me here and what could take me further. Some sort of action would be necessary soon. Thankfully, I had many free days to come up with new ideas. Countless scenarios were parading in front of me until I was falling asleep in the armchair next to my desk, stacked with papers full of notes. I enjoyed for a couple of weeks being slow-cooked inside the sweet warmth of idle pastime until one moment I woke up to find my body numb and my head boiling.
The summer heat had reached its peak, and I was sweating awfully to the point that every movement became bothersome. Every afternoon, I was hiding in the bedroom (where the air-conditioner was), surrendering myself to inactivity that had triumphed. Yet, my fiery thoughts didn't seem to cool down by the blows from the air-conditioner. I was jumping endlessly from one incomplete thought to another, and there were many of them. Thousands of things brought me here, and thousands of things could take me further. Everything was possible, or maybe nothing was possible at all. There were four summer flies over the table, while five mosquito bites were counted in one day only. Six mosquito bites were counted the next day, and the flies became seven after adding the three I had killed next to the bananas that were getting brown way too fast. The rotting bananas was a sad thing to happen, equally sad to the wildfires in the news that started concerning me between hunting the flies. I was concentrating on the flies, the bananas, and on everything simultaneously, which was the same as concentrating on absolutely nothing. No single thought could prevail among the others because there wasn't any serious prospect coming from them that worthed further attention. Dispersed among countless and incomplete ruminations, I realized that I needed a break from this, a sort of action to combat my condition. I had to seek help as soon as possible. I needed a strong, reliable hand to stir my stagnation and beat my fever—a punch, by the end of August.
A punch in the night
It took a few days to find the right person. I thought that many people would be willing to help me; however, I found a lot of reluctance when I was asking them to restrict their contribution to a simple gesture. I was sending private messages to unknown people, all hidden behind headless and blank profiles, under the condition that their body type was convincing for such an endeavor. "Hey, rescue me from boredom, can you give me a punch? Ha, Ha". In most of the cases, I didn't get any response, or my request was declined until somebody finally replied in the most direct way. "Ha, Ha, yes, I can do that, come over to my place...". He asked me to hurry up because he was planning to sleep soon after all. The time was 2:30 at night. He gave me a description of himself, and then he shared with me his GPS location, which was almost half an hour walking distance. His affirmative response animated me in a second. I grabbed my bag and my phone and headed to his place, determined to accomplish my task. I gained the confidence that something important was about to happen in a matter of hours. Something had pierced the swamped pool that contained my idle time and released a flow from within to something outside my usual territory. Things started to arrange in a timeline, starting from the events of this night that I can recall now in detail from my memory.
I remember that the streets were empty and the windows of the houses closed. Many people were out of the city because it was vacation season, and the few cars left on the street looked like they had been abandoned. I was holding my phone in front of me to check the right directions. My destination was located with precision on the screen, and I was devoted to finding my way through this desolate place scattered with dusty cars and silent houses. A magical light led me in the darkness revealing messages that confirmed the importance of my mission, like the one that popped up halfway. It was him asking me in which part of my body I would prefer to be punched. I replied that he can punch me wherever he wants. He wrote back that his apartment was on the third floor, and I should better send a text to him when I was at the door to pick me up from the street. I continued walking slightly faster, with a shudder in my body and some excitement that was growing fast.
When I arrived at his address, I found a big block of apartments with three floors. On each floor, several balconies were facing the street, and in one of them on the third floor, there was a male figure leaning with crossed arms on the balustrade. His face was protruding a bit forward, looking down. Because of the darkness, I couldn't figure out many details of him, but it was obvious though that he was staring at me. I believed that he was the man I was looking for, so I waved. The figure waved back eagerly and then he stood still.I waved for a second time and although he waved back to me again with the same enthusiasm he didn’t move from where he was. I decided to send a message making clear that I was down there, the one who came for the punch, and that he should come down to open the door for me. The person on the balcony did not seem to check a phone; neither he moved from his position. A few seconds later, the lights of the entrance turned on, and another man appeared coming down from the stairs. He stood behind the glass entrance for a moment and smiled at me. After he opened the door, he greeted me with a head nod and urged me with his hand gestures to come inside. A bit confused, I took a quick look at the figure on the balcony. I moved towards the entrance, following the second man who opened the door for me.
I walked up the stairs, keeping a short distance behind him with some doubts about whether I was following the right person. However, his looks were not far from what he had described in the messages. He was not more than 45 years old and around 185cm tall with greyish hair that looked fuzzy as if he had just gotten up from the bed. His body was definitely muscular and sturdy with broad shoulders, but he didn't seem to be exceptionally shredded underneath his casual blue shorts and the white t-shirt. It was remarkable though, from the first moment I met him, how excessively sweaty he looked even for such a warm night as this. He was covered with a glaze of sweat while his t-shirt was dampened by moisture, especially under his armpits. His whole bulky and greasy presence was positioned on top of a pair of thin plastic flip flops, pitifully squashed between his feet and the floor. While he was ahead of me on the stairs, the muscles of his calves drew my attention immediately. They looked robust but also a bit crude in combination with the flip flops. They were as greasy as the rest of him with an impressive reversed bottle shape. Their hairless and glossy skin had an extra shine at the curves below the knee pits as they were a bit more exposed to the light. Each time he was lifting one foot to climb the next step, the calf on the standing leg was getting more pumped and looked a bit glossier. Step by step, the soles of the flip flops were slapping his feet before landing back to the marble with a wet and squishy sound that gave the pace on the way to the third floor. I interrupted the rhythmical procession by questioning him about the reason for not taking the elevator. He stopped and twisted his upper body so he could see to the back, and then he turned his face to me, revealing his smile again. Instead of giving me an answer, he winked, which was unexpected, but I received it as an attempt by him to make me feel a bit more comfortable. We continued walking up the stairs, and after a while, before we reached the third floor where his apartment was, he turned back for a second time to wink again. I believed that the man was trying to build a connection with me, so out of courtesy, I gave him back an equally friendly wink.
On the third floor, we entered a long corridor adjacent to the stairway, which had apartment doors on one side and a blind wall on the other. The man tried to grab his keys, but the moment they jingled in his pocket, the lights in the corridor went out. I went to the side, closer to the wall, to have some orientation since I was not able to see much. With my fingers, I brushed against the wall to find any protuberance that could be the switch for the lights. Meanwhile, the sound from the jingling keys and the flip flops moved away from me. A few seconds later, a turning lock echoed in the distance, and the man reappeared at the end of the corridor illuminated by the light that came within his apartment. I walked quickly towards the light after seeing him disappearing through the open door. He waited in the small hallway behind the entrance of his apartment with one of his hands holding the door open and with the other pointing the way to the living room. I stepped in, and after a short round in the place, I chose to stand next to the couch. The man closed the door and immediately, with the keys in his hand, took out his t-shirt to wipe his sweaty forehead with it. He dropped the t-shirt down to the floor and walked towards me. He stood at a distance with the same smile on his face that didn't seem to change since I met him. After a few uncomfortable moments looking at each other from a distance, I noticed that his eyes started blinking again and then both of them twitched intensively three or four times in a row. I had just realized what the matter was. The man clearly couldn't control the contractions of his eyelids, and this meant that he was not winking intentionally in the stairs. Although I felt embarrassed for having winked back at him, I found his unintentional tic adorable. It gave to his eyes their own playful spirit, quite different from his stiff posture that implied a hesitation to proceed with our plan without my permission. I sat down comfortably on the couch with my arms and legs spread to give him a sign that I was ready.
He came closer to me and stood between my legs and then leaned forward to inspect me from above. Behind his turmoiled eyelids, I could see his eyeballs scanning my body while his head was moving in the direction of his gaze with a short lag. Interrupted occasionally by abrupt blinking, his eyes moved all over me, horizontally in the level of the neck and shoulders, then down to the chest and abdominal area, and upwards again until he fixed them on my face. On my behalf, my gaze studied his perspiration thoroughly. The grease all over his skin was decorated with wet traces from drops of sweat that were sliding from his hairline down on his forehead and from the armpits to his biceps. Every uncovered part of his body was giving a slippery impression as if somebody had wiped him with an oily rag. It would not be surprising if this was a measure of precaution for a wrestling battle. Even if this was not a part of our deal so far, his body would be extremely difficult to restrain in case this was necessary. I remembered the myth of the sea demon, Proteus, who was able to slip away untamed by transforming himself into different shapes after he emerged wet from the sea. He became a lion, a dragon, a boar, a tree, and one day, plain water that was impossible to catch and force it to speak. But the man in front of me was not water yet. At that moment, he resembled a standing slippery seal covered with lubricant. His bloated and wet volume would escape easily through my hands. It was not my intention though to disrupt the slow journey of the sporadic drops of sweat that flowed like long tears on his skin. Some of them had already traveled all the way down to his wrists. Just below, clenched like rocks, his fists were ready for action. He raised one of them to the height of his shoulder above my face. His eyes seemed to simmer down for the first time as the contractions of his eyelids were gone along with his frozen smile that faded away. An expansion of his nostrils made clear that he was ready and in full deployment to strike. Between his fingers, a metallic reflection sparkled. He was still holding the door keys inside his raised fist, and a part of them was sticking out from the slit between his index and middle finger. I covered my head with my arms to protect my face from the blow. I had looked for an adventure, a lion, a dragon, and I found an oiled wrestler, a fat seal, a wild pig, the punch, I got it.
My body sagged helplessly to the side in a fetal position. He had punched me in the chest just next to the breastbone, and it felt like I was struck by lightning. With my face squeezed against the couch's cushions, my limbs drawn up to the torso and a wide-open mouth howling silently, I was trying to get acquainted with the vehement pain in my thorax. I roosted on the couch until I regained my lost breath after some deep gasps. When I calmed down, I tried to stretch my body on the couch to come up with the fearful realization that the pain was there to stay. I turned my head to his direction to see him stepping clumsily backward with his index placed on his chest, indicating the spot where he gave me the punch as if I didn't know already. While keeping eye contact with him, I carefully patted my upper chest bones with my finger to feel an irregularity like a small hard bump behind my skin on the side of my sternum. Long-lasting twinges of pain were expanding from there to the middle of the chest and up to the right shoulder. There was definitely something wrong, probably a fractured rib. I looked at the man almost ready to cry for help, but then I noticed that he was getting upset. His whole demeanor seemed like he was in a hurry to send me away, probably because he was terrified to deal with the possible consequences of his actions. I got up with difficulty and moved my slightly bowed body towards the hallway, determined to leave.
Unable to see anything in this corridor after he closed the door of his apartment behind me, I was for one more time in total darkness. I had to look again for the hidden switch to get out of the building with the lights on and trouble-free. The pain in my chest was getting worse already, making my movements difficult, and the last thing I wanted was to bump here and there like a blindfolded person in a kind of an escape game. I started caressing the walls next to his door with my hands until I felt a plastic button sticking out, which I immediately pressed. To my surprise, instead of lights, I heard cicadas (plenty of them on invisible pine trees) with their humdrum noises in a recorded piece of summer cadence that buzzed for a few moments in the darkness. The man opened the door to give me a questioning look. I had rung his doorbell, which was actually not far from the switch for the lights. I apologized after he turned on the lights for me and walked away, listening to his door bumping for good this time. In front of the elevator I realized that I had to deal with another tricky protrusion on the wall. The call button was so old and bulky that you needed to press it with a great effort to be sure that it would actually trigger any movement. Although the green light on the tableau was lit, the elevator was dead, and no matter how many times I tried to push the button, it seemed to be unresponsive. The only thing that was triggered by the pressure was the pain on my rib that was getting more intense. I had no other choice than to take the long way from the stairs, very slowly though because sharp movements worsened the feeling of pain. On top of that, I had to worry about the lights going off soon, something that actually happened halfway before I reached the ground floor. I resorted to the only reliable source of light in my possession which led me effectively to this place and now would help me to escape. I turned on the torchlight app on my phone and illuminated with it the area around my feet.
My sneakers marched like a synchronized duo inside a round light that slid on the staircase. I was the light operator who was struggling to direct the spotlights on them in a dancing performance that came to a sad finale inside a puddle, on the side of the street. The person who was staring at me from the third floor upon my arrival was the cause of this disaster. When I got out of the glass door, I looked up to see him strolling on the balcony. Despite the pain, I lifted my hand to wave at him since we were already acquainted with each other in a way that made me feel obliged to bid farewell to him. While I was struggling to ignore the pain and keep my hand up, I moved backward with reversed steps on the pavement until my shoes splashed in the water. I instantly directed the torchlight of my phone to the ground to see my sneakers sunk in the puddle surrounded by ripples of water that reflected back to me the light in playful formations. I turned off the torchlight and immediately took the way back home with the unpleasant feeling of pain on my upper body, combined with my soaked shoes that made my walking even more difficult. For the next half an hour, I had to listen to my wet sneakers squishing on the street, similar to the flip flops of the man on the marble steps who had just punched me a few minutes ago.
With the sound of his feet on my own wet feet and a small protrusion on my chest bone, I had taken with me a few odd memoirs from this silent stranger who never opened his mouth to say a word to me. His calm smile and his twitching eyes remained an enigma until the moment they changed to a fearful expression after he realized the impact of his punch, but even that was not enough to make him speak. Everything happened in a state of muteness encompassed by the general silence of the surroundings that I had to walk through twice this night. The squishy sound from my shoes, the only audible disruption in this world, helped me to count the seconds, like a clock ticking at night, and when I stopped to get some rest, the time had to stop as well. I sat down on a bench and looked at the few street lamps on the pillars across the street arranged in a linear constellation. They were piercing the darkness with their radial electric lights as the only starry apparitions this night could offer. Under this manufactured universe, houses were standing on the sides of the streets with closed windows and shutters down. They looked like nobody had ever lived there, but even if somebody had ever lived there, it didn't matter anymore because these buildings did not exist at all. I had already closed my eyes, and they had vanished. The landscape was now completely empty and dark like a desert in the night where nothing happens apart from this pain that was springing from the small knob on my chest. I had a concentration of energy inside me that was enough to change the whole world because I was the only conscious being inside it. I was the universe, and pain created me. As universes usually expand, I stretched my legs in the air, and I clenched my toes inside my shoes to feel the moisture of my creation.
My phone buzzed, so I opened my eyes to see a message from him asking if everything was alright. I assured him that I was perfectly fine and got up to continue my journey home. My squishy sneakers kept counting the remaining time until I arrived at my apartment. I went to bed, able to lie down on my left side only because putting weight on my right side was making the pain unbearable. While lying on the bed, I recalled all the incidents of the night with every detail. Before I fell asleep, I squeezed my protrusion on my rib hard enough to feel the pain in all its glory. My adventure had reached a milestone, and I was feeling fulfilled. The fracture of my rib would become the point of reference for the upcoming days, and the pain was enough to nourish my existence from now on.
Poems from the mouth
Throughout September, I was strangely feeling less tired than before. It was much more comforting to have something exclusive to worry about instead of thinking of random things as it was the case before the punch. The restless thoughts that ravaged my mind like uncontrollable flames were over. They had created a desert but this would not be without a sublime landmark to rest my gaze. Something bigger had risen up above the nothingness, saving me from its monotonous appearance. Autumn had arrived with a purpose, and all the forces of my attention could aim in one direction. The swollen spot on my rib, this painful little thing that appeared on my upper chest, overshadowed every other concern of mine.
I feared and adored my tiny pyramid on my chest. I was examining it with my fingers to make sure that the pain was still there residing on the chest bone. I wanted to get familiar with it, to accept its demands and embrace its power. When I searched for possible remedies on the internet, I discovered that there is nothing I could do to fix a broken rib. I just had to wait. The pain would stay constant for a few weeks and then would disappear after the bone is healed.
Meanwhile, I had to live with the frequent reminders of its severity. I was reminded of it every time I was pushing the swollen spot with my finger, when I was lying to my right side, or when I was raising my arms to pick up something from the cupboard. I could not resist doing on purpose all of these things to experience for a moment the pain to the maximum degree. There was a peak, the highest point, which I had to climb at times to observe what is below. It helped me evaluate everything else as worthless compared to its acuteness. The pain was so specific and present that time gained a meaning which was to stay alert waiting for a cure, or if I have to be honest, to be suspicious of the prospect of healing. Three or four weeks later, my suspicion became a worry as the pain was being gradually reduced. I got afraid of rolling back to a desert barren of my beloved pyramid. And indeed, the pain became insignificant before the end of the month, throwing me to the flat ground. The swelling had almost disappeared, and only a small unevenness on my bone (it was probably fixed in the wrong position) remained as a relic of a monument that had just collapsed. There was still hope, though, because one more message from my phone could restore the lost glory of my pain. A month after my first encounter with the stranger and during another night that was still exceptionally warm, I visited him again despite the light rain that startled me on the way.
Walking through the rain, I arrived outside the glass door, where he was supposed to pick me up for a second time. I went closer to the glass to mirror myself on it. I shook my wet hair with my hands to dry them. I leaned even closer towards the glass to see my reflection better and wiped my face and arms with a handkerchief from my bag. It was through this door that he appeared on the other side, replacing with his figure my image on the glass. He was shirtless, with the same blue shorts and those flip-flops that I remembered very well. He greeted me with head nodding, a fixed smile, and some winkings from his twitching eyes showing at once all his mannerisms. He was not excessively sweaty this time apart from a few drops that glinted on his neck. I walked behind him, eager to pay attention to the new spectacle that was about to take place in front of me. It was not only the rhythmic movements of his legs and the flexing muscles of his calves that were imposing. Without his shirt, I could see an entirely new field of glossiness on his naked back unfolding from his shorts and upwards. His shoulders looked enormous, and his sturdy build of muscles was enhanced by a layer of fat that made him look very strong and soft and squeezable at the same time. His fatty flesh was wrapped in his lustrous skin as one entity that was moving like a giant pebble smoothed by the water under the sun. While going up the stairs, I observed that there was some refurbishing done in the building. All the walls in the corridors looked freshly painted. I tried to spot the switches for the lights and memorize their position. Passing by the elevator's door on the third floor, I noticed that the small tableau with the big button was missing while a couple of cables were sticking up from the hole.
We proceeded to his apartment, where he stood in the hallway, flaunting his broad chest and his puffy belly in front of me. I was dazzled for a moment by the smoothness of his torso. Two blurred lines were glowing on his chest as the fluorescent lamps of the room were reflected on him. The lights were hanging on the ceiling just above his head, and the contrasting shades under the pectoral muscles, the abdomen, and his facial features made him appear even more burly than before. He was an unreal creature bloated with a mysterious substance that was diffusing magnetic energy able to pull parts of me to his direction. Soon, both of my hands were drawn closer to rub his belly. I dared to touch him without asking because the charm of his skin had prevailed regardless of his own will. After all, he had punched me a month ago. This gave me a kind of entitlement on his body, which was incubating for weeks. It was time to break its shell by spreading the wings of dominance and the claws of a predator.
He jumped into the bathroom, leaving me behind to wonder if I should make myself comfortable in the living room. I could hear him looking for something in the cupboards until he came back with a bottle of body oil in his hands. He shook it towards me cheerfully, indicating a loosening attitude from his side. When he came close to me, he looked at the bottle and raised his brows. He moved his head up and down and puckered his lips, apparently approving his own decision to bring the lotion. After we were seated on the couch across from each other, he passed the bottle to me. When I squeezed some of it on my hand, his detached smile got enriched by the nuances of funny grimaces. Even the first rubs had an effect on his lips that got open and matched the movements of my hands with various curvatures. With long circular gestures around his belly, the shoulders, and through his chest, I covered the front part of his body with oil giving him his natural coating of glossiness. The pressure of my hands on his skin produced a constant sound that was interrupted only by the whistles of the bottle when it was squeezed to squirt more of its content. When he turned around, I applied the oil to his back with the same undiminished care. I rubbed him several times from the coccyx to the neck finishing with stroking his shoulders. Prompted by a desire to torture him a bit, I grabbed his muscles and squeezed them tightly, but I immediately lost my grip because his skin was already very slippery. I took out my shirt to protect it from the oil, and then I stood on my knees on the couch, ready to exercise some dominance. I squeezed his shoulders, putting weight on him with all my power, but again my hands slid to the sides. I lost my balance and ended up in an awkward position embracing him from the back to feel his body trembling inside my arms as he burst into laughter. I enfolded him even tighter to lock him in place. His lubricated mass revolved efficiently inside my embrace, and with a slithering movement, he escaped from underneath and rolled to the floor. He clambered back to the couch in a cheerful mood and gave me some quick winks. I jumped on him, and we wrestled foolishly. Every time I was about to restrain him, he was dodging me with ease.
After our battle, I got up and grabbed a couple of tissues from my bag to clean myself from the oil that was spread on me. He instantly snatched my wrist and held it firmly to prevent me from getting ready to go. I sat back on the couch, and then he pulled my hand close to his face adjusting his mouth around my fingers. He quickly puckered his lips several times almost like he was mumbling something secretly to my fingertips. I tried to reckon his intentions by looking at his eyes that free of the usual winkings they were bespeaking a kind of a growing expectation. We stayed motionless, looking at each other while my fingers were being sucked by his lips. It seemed that for a few seconds, none of us dared to move and spoil this composition of two bodies that had to freeze for a higher purpose apparently. For the sake of art rather than anything else, this pose should have taken place in front of an old fashioned camera. The photographic subjects had to remain still to prevent any motion blur in the picture before the explosive flash flared in the room like a firework. The penetrating hand signified a connection between the two subjects in this mysterious picture with the exuberant title: "The presumed portrait of the man of the desert and his sibling, the seal, whose gleaming coating of grease sparkled spectacularly in the light of the camera." Only if the subjects had looked directly and full of promise at the lens of the camera, the framing of this photograph would be a complete double portrait. However, by looking at each other, we rendered a picture somewhat incomplete because, even for the most naive observer, it was clear that something had yet to happen between us to bring the scene to a meaningful conclusion. I was the one in charge of any further action as I was controlling his mouth with my hand, which suddenly advanced to a tool for excavation. I made use of it promptly and pushed my fingers inside his mouth, digging as deep as I could down to his throat to instantly feel the first reflexes as he was breathing irregularly from the nose. He was defending himself with his persistent biting, but I kept forcing my fingers inside him. The contractions of his throat soon became intense spasms ascending from his stomach up to his mouth, followed by anguished monstrous voices and tears dripping from his reddish eyes. A viscous fluid started leaking onto my hand. After a couple of violent convulsions that shook his entire body, his monstrous voices became more precise. He was trying to say something. I removed my hand from his mouth to let him speak. He gasped and wheezed, he sponged off his mouth with my tissues, and he spat inside them; finally, he placed the tissues on the small table in front of the couch.
His battered lips seemed ready to speak up, but at the moment, they were stretched into a judgemental smirk after he looked at my fingers covered with fluids from his throat. I took some more tissues and wiped my hands from the slime before putting them dampened next to the ones that he had just used. I casually rearranged all the tissues on the table, and then I straightened all of them carefully, placing one on top of the other. I turned the first tissue to the left as if it was a page of a booklet and looked at him. He found this amusing while his eyes twitched as he was trying to repress his laughter. He stood in front of the couch with his pumped chest towards me. He grabbed the tissues with his left hand and held them in front of his eyes, then he raised his right hand to mimic the pose of a poet. He coughed to clear his throat and with a mocking voice, pretending that he was reading from the tissues, he recited a poem.
praise love
for love is hope
but fear of love
if there is so
for when you love me
I choke
He stopped and waited for my reaction. I applauded vigorously, and I asked him to continue. He moved his hand back and forth, full of drama, and recited willingly another poem even louder.
first came the pain
then came the water
to wash all the lies
the stains of slaughter
The things he told me
The night was long, and the man was all of a sudden in the mood to talk. We chatted about various things until the early hours of the morning. He was the type of talker able to stretch every little thing in the conversation into a small story. The few moments I had the chance to say some words, he was immediately reminded of something relevant and would interrupt me to start his monologues all over again. When I mentioned that he resembled a seal and that I had thought of the myth of Proteus the other night, his eyes flashed with excitement because mythology and history were his hobbies, and he was reading a lot about these subjects.I had no other choice than to let myself be navigated by his deep and raspy voice through the meandering passages of his thoughts. He was eager to tell me everything he knew in detail. He adjusted his position on the couch and looked straight into my eyes to tell the story of Proteus with a serious tone as if it was presented to the world for the first time ever.
Proteus was emerging, every once in a while, from the elusive and ever-changing sea waters to dive and reappear again playfully in different locations. Through the big rivers that were also under his deity, everything that was to be known was drifted away to meld into the ocean, and for that reason, Proteus possessed all the knowledge of the world. Despite his knowledge and his capacity to give prophecies and answers to all questions, he would refuse to say anything if he was asked to do so. He would change to different shapes to defend his silence, like the shapes of wild animals ready to attack, or birds that would fly and escape, or stubborn voiceless trees, and plain water that was absorbed by the soil to flow back to the ocean. The demon agreed to speak only to the ones who managed to capture him by overcoming the traps of his tricky transformations. He would sit then defeated on the seaside to reveal all his secrets to them. After wandering in the water, he enjoyed getting some rest with his flock of seals in his favorite seashore, which could not be in any other place than the island of Pharos at the mouth of the longest of the rivers, the Nile. His beloved beach, where he used to reside, was also the place where he was becoming vulnerable to those who lurked behind the rocks seeking for his revelations. And by mentioning Pharos, the man changed the course of his thoughts towards the great Lighthouse that was built on the island. The residence of Proteus, this place of eternal movement above the vastness of the sea that blends and collides and swirls with what the river spews, was chosen for the construction of a sublime tower with a resplendent light on top. The sailors on the vessels gliding on the surface of the water towards Alexandria stood in awe as they were looking at the tall tower erecting slowly on the horizon. Compared to its enormous structure, which was made from solid stone, the wooden ships looked precarious and minuscule when they were close to this robust construction that protruded massively from the ground. The Ptolemies wanted a landmark that would stand above everything else to represent the established hierarchy. The man said this emphatically by raising his fist in front of me. Everything entering their kingdom through the sea had to be subordinated by the height of the Lighthouse, and this way, order and dominance were symbolically reenacted. During the night, though, the impression of the Lighthouse was totally different because its structure was not visible from the sea. When approaching the delta by sailing through the immense darknesses of the gloomy sea and the black sky, the ships would come across an otherworldly flaming star suspended in the middle of nothingness and duplicated by its reflection on the water. Enchanted by the double apparition, they were guided safely to the port of Alexandria. Light is an insidious thing, he said, and his eyes twitched again. Artificial phenomena and reflections are diffused through hard matter to create the deception of immanent magic or to persuade for the presence of intangible powers. On the other hand, assemblages of heavy stones, massive masonry, and gigantic monuments were necessary to manifest the durability of the systems that constructed them. The Lighthouse encompassed both the magic of light and the hardness of stone, expressed in the form of a big grandiose phallus. Its radiating tip was ejaculating plenty of reflections on the water during the night. However, he said, it was not the only great monument that sprouted from the grounds of Egypt. Long before the construction of the Lighthouse, another massive geometrical bulge had been erected there to represent the eternal rigidity of the kingdom of Egypt. But in fact, he continued, Egypt was not as rigid as the stones of the great pyramid because several times declined to rise again. For a moment in history, it was even at risk to be wiped out, as it almost happened during the reign of Ramses when the existence of Egypt was threatened to extinction. Ramses had heard the horrifying news about the northern lands being destroyed by the hordes of the unknown invaders, the sea peoples. Cyprus, the Hittites, and Canaan had collapsed and now was the turn of Egypt to be attacked by the thousands of the foreign ships that created havoc across the Mediterranean. The sea peoples were erratic and unpredictable because their ships were not sailing orderly under the direction of a supreme light of a lighthouse. They were moving independently and according to the rule of chaos, changing patterns like the shapes of Proteus. The man moved his fingers quickly in the air to show me the unpredictable movements of their fleets approaching Egypt. Ramses was determined to annihilate them despite their reputation as invincible, and he succeeded with it spectacularly. He made their breath to halt and their nostrils to stop function. He scattered their boats and their weapons along with their bodies that were thrown into the water. Their souls flew away as he was taking their hearts apart. Those who dared to reach the boundaries of Egypt and enter the channels of the Nile’s delta had to feel the dread and terror of Ramses upon them before their seed, heart, and soul were finished forever and ever. Ramses was merciless because the boundaries of Egypt were the boundaries of his own epidermis, the mouth of Nile was his own mouth and Nile itself his esophagus. The war tactic of Ramses was to open his lips and let the sea peoples enter the cavity of his mouth. When their ships tried to slide deeper to his throat, he released the arrows from his guts dampened with his poisonous bile and pushed the sea peoples back to the mouth. There, as the sea peoples tried to flee Egypt, Ramses trapped them by closing his mouth to encircle them with his powerful teeth, the Egyptian warships. He chewed the sea peoples fiercely reveling in the sensation of their crunching wooden fleets and bones and succulent flesh. After he turned them into sludge inside his mouth, he played triumphantly with it on his tongue and spat it back to the open sea. But Ramses probably ejected some of the power of his kingdom by spitting with such a great force. After the battle of the delta, Egypt started to decline from the inside even if the invaders had been defeated and all the external threats were eliminated. In the end, everything goes to the sea, said the man while scratching his jaw and he paused his long monologue for a second. Then he remembered the ditches that he was digging in the sand with his mates during the summer. He was the organizer of summer retreats in the islands, and he was going there with various people who were joining the group voluntarily. They would camp on isolated beaches for long weekends taking breaks from their busy lives with exercises and meditation. The rule was that they shouldn’t refer to each other with their names, and also any clothing or accessory on them that could be a reminder of their background should be removed. Part of their ritual was to wake up early in the morning to eat rice porridge and honey for breakfast. Before meditation, they needed to cleanse themselves on the beach, where they had to dig a long ditch in the sand towards the sea. They would kneel above the ditch, and by pushing their fingers inside their mouths, they evoked vomiting. After the first discharge, which was the thick gooey porridge, they had to drink water before starting to puke all over again, repeating the process as long as it was necessary. With each repetition, they would see their vomit getting gradually thinner and more transparent until their stomachs were completely purged. When their mouths started gushing cascades of clean water merging inside the ditch into a torrent strong enough to drift the gooey porridge away to the sea, the cleansing would be complete. After that, they could meditate, and finally, during noon, they were allowed to get some rest under the shade of the pine trees. Naked and empty, they would fall asleep soothed by the repetitive sound of the small waves on the shore and the monotonous song of the cicadas that were dwelling on the branches above them. Water is essential, he said, and then he laid back on the couch, spreading his legs forward. He explained how he managed to stay hydrated inside and out by regularly applying ointments on his skin and by drinking liters every day. It is also necessary for transpiration, especially during summer that is so hot, so always remember, he told me and concluded his speech, water, water, and again water.
Return
His eyes that were so tortured by the compulsive winkings were finally shut as he fell asleep on the couch. It was time for me to flee from the depths of his rambling tales, so I decided to shed my scales and step out to the concrete floor. I put my shirt on, and I jumped over his legs. He had spread them loosely on the floor around his flip flops with his feet pointing in opposite directions. Some constant wheezing from his nose following his long inhales and exhales escorted me to the exit. I closed the door of his apartment, being careful not to wake him up, but when I was out in the dark corridor, I couldn't resist the temptation of ringing his doorbell again. I heard the cicadas buzzing in his apartment, and then I ran downstairs like a thief with the torchlight of my phone on. I went down shedding light here and there, on parts of the building, on the broken elevator, on the doors of the apartments, the walls, my shoes, and the stairs ahead of me. When I arrived at the ground floor, I pointed the torchlight towards the glass door, which reflected back the light to me. It was a bright, radiant star with long rays hovering on the glass. After I turned the torchlight off, the star died to allow the sliding drops on the glass to appear as the rain was still mizzling outside. I got out on the street and looked up at the balconies on the third floor to see if someone was there, but all the balconies were empty. On the way home, the rain stopped completely. The streets didn't look abandoned as the previous time. The summer was gone, and the neighborhood was back to normal. Many windows of the houses were open while the sides of the roads were stuffed with parked cars while other cars drove by occasionally. I arrived home just before dawn, and the first thing I did was to wipe myself carefully with a towel.
October came, and the days were dry. The second date with the stranger did not bring back the pain in my chest; neither I was feeling that I needed it anymore. Yet, the slight, almost impalpable distortion that was left on my rib would remind me of him, whom I never tried to message again after our last meeting. One day, his location on the app appeared to be quite far, so I suspected he was organizing another retreat somewhere on an island, probably the last one before the arrival of the winter. I imagined him and his friends above the ditch on the sand, ejecting their porridge. As he had told me, the porridge is only the start because the purging has to be thorough, and for that reason, they have to push their fingers deeper inside them. The deeper the fingers go in the throat, the stronger the convulsions of their bodies get, and more things come out. He and his mates are determined to go on and on until they get rid of their stomach, their lungs, and all the muscles. Their bones come out next, smashed and mixed with the shipwrecks of the sea peoples, the arrows of Ramses, and his poisonous bile. Later, they will drag their empty bodies to the pine trees to take naps peacefully. Discharged by all their contents, they deflate slowly during their sleep as the air hiss through their noses. When they are completely flat, they will be carried away by the wind to end up floating in the sea like jellyfishes or plastic bags. Only the skin of the man, on the way to the sea, is going to be hooked in one of the branches of the trees, fluttering for a while above the ground until the wind is calm. Through his mouth, that now is gawking half-open, the cicadas from the trees will find refuge inside him from the forthcoming winter. They will enter massively, to stuff his legs first and then the sack of his wrinkled belly until he is fully filled up to the head. His body is going to hover for months on the tree next to the sea, bloated all over again by the insects. The quietness of the beach will be interrupted from time to time when the cicadas buzz inside him with their tymbals.
Recurrence
There were many black dots in the sky. They appeared simultaneously as we started reading the book. We noticed the dots hovering above our heads, just after the first word was spoken out loud. I raised my hand and pushed my index inside one of the spots. That was my own spot. I ripped the sky a bit by moving my finger down slowly. Soon, everybody placed their fingers inside their spots and did the same. Now the sky was decorated with black scars. We created a constellation of scars.
That day, we gathered together with a copy of the book in our hands. We were supposed to return it as intact as possible. The idea was that we would eventually memorize an excerpt from the book by reading it out loud several times. The book did not belong to us but we would have the chance to memorize one of its paragraphs. That was a gift to be appreciated. We said that there was no property worth having other than knowledge. We repeated that there was no property worth having other than knowledge.
The book was the complete collection of Aesop’s fables. It was still unknown which story of the many we were supposed to read until we were given instructions on how to choose a page randomly. The rule of the game was that one of us had to pick up a number from the page numbering of the book. One of us said the number seven and this meant that we had to open the book on page seven and read loud from there. On this page, we found the fable with the title “The man and the serpent” which begins with a bitting from a snake. We started reciting the story in a clumsy manner. The black dots started hovering above our heads.
"A Countryman’s son by accident trod upon a Serpent’s tail, which turned and bit him so that he died."
Since our beginning was not great, we decided to start over and pay more attention to each other voices. This time, we seemed to tune our reading quickly before the end of the first sentence. We manage to synchronize our voices like running waters. We sprung jerkily from different sources and merged quickly in one stream towards the same direction. Similar to the first obstacle that is drifted noisily by the impulse of the stream, a small accentuation with a slightly higher pitch occurred at the conclusion of the sentence.
"A Countryman’s son by accident trod upon a Serpent’s tail, which turned and bit him so that he died!"
A sunken thud was heard in the distance followed by a soft clattering as if suddenly some rocks rolled over. We also felt an unexpected gust of wind which seemed to become constant. It created a kind of musical accompaniment to the occasion by forcing the pages of our books into a continuous fluttering. With one hand, we made sure not to miss the right page in the book and with the other hand, we tried to rich the black spots above us. It was surely inappropriate to distract ourselves during the reading session but nobody could resist the temptation. We pushed our fingers inside the spots and we ripped the sky slowly. We created a constellation of scars while we were being asked to concentrate on the text. Finally, we held the book firmly, with both of our hands, and proceeded with reciting the story. Our loud matching voices would be fluent from now on.
"The father in a rage got his ax, and pursuing the Serpent, cut off part of its tail. So the Serpent in revenge began stinging several of the Farmer’s cattle and caused him severe loss. Well, the Farmer thought it best to make it up with the Serpent, and brought food and honey to the mouth of its lair, and said to it: ‘Let’s forget and forgive; perhaps you were right to punish my son, and take vengeance on my cattle, but surely I was right in trying to revenge him; now that we are both satisfied why should not we be friends again?’ ‘No, no,’ said the Serpent; ‘take away your gifts; you can never forget the death of your son, nor I the loss of my tail.’ "
"Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten"
"Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten", we said again with some excitement.
We had agreed to stay in place until the story was memorized by heart. This would be possible only through endless repetition. We were instructed several times to read the text all over again and we obeyed patiently. In certain times, we would be asked to recite the story with the books closed. If we managed to do so, the session would be over otherwise, we had to repeat reading. I thought that it would not be difficult to memorize the text and synchronize my voice with the others but sometimes confidence gives easily its place to disappointment. During the first trial of reciting the story by heart, I skipped some words in the middle and missed the pace of the team.
"A Countryman’s son by accident trod upon a Serpent’s tail, which turned and bit him so that he died. The father in a rage got his axe, and pursuing the Serpent, cut off part of its tail. So the Serpent in revenge began stinging several of the Farmer’s cattle and caused him severe loss."
Well, the farmer… brought food and honey to the mouth of its lair… I rushed to say falsely while the others said correctly … Well. the farmer thought it best to make it up with the Serpent, and brought food and honey to the mouth of its lair…
Our first try to say the story by heart was spoiled. The brief cacophony of the overlapping sentences pointed out my mistake. I had said too soon “… brought food and honey to the mouth of its lair…” and as a result, my words preceded these of the others. After the strange echoing of voices, we were forced to stop reciting with the book closed. According to the rules, ignoring such a mistake would be unfair. We all had to open the books one more time and read again from there. The fact that everybody else was flawless put me in a kind of despair. I looked down with shame because this was a mistake I could not bare. I stared the primroses, besides my feet, blown by the wind restlessly.
While I was flipping the pages of my book in order to find the story for the next reading session, I was surprised to discover another piece of loose paper placed inside. It seemed ripped and taken from a different book. Some sentences on the loose page were underlined with a marker. I could not guess any valid reason for finding this page inside my book. I wondered whether surprises like this were to be found inside the books of the others as well. While the team had started reading aloud the story of the farmer and the serpent for one more time, I stayed silent and concentrated on the underlined text of the hidden page.
"In short, black is the color of the soul only to the extent that it has been revealed to us by some unforeseen event. White is merely the phantom of ignorance. All knowledge is knowledge of black, which happens by surprise." (1)
I was not sure if I should perceive my discovery as a sign. The secret text did not bring any dramatic change whatsoever. The voices of my companions were still flowing like running water. The grass and vegetation were blown gently by the current of the wind. They danced gracefully to the loud voices accompanied by the monotonous sound of the fluttering pages. Only the primrose clusters still seemed to move a bit differently. Something unknown should be hiding among them. I had to think of the crawling snake bearing its lethal dose. The snake was probably sneaking towards me, pushing with its tail the stems of the primrose. Soon, the crystal voices and the soft wind would be contaminated by the sound of its glottis. I was waiting with tension the luring hiss to hear. This was a perfect moment to shed a tear. Everything was in the stage of complete anthesis. Powerful were the voices of my companions, exaggeration and pretension, the sad types of inflorescence that blossomed, the cymose and racemose, bombastic prose and lachrymose. The serpent came near.
I bent over and touched my ankles with my fingers to feel if there would be any bites. I did that for a while but my skin was completely smooth. I looked at the sky for a moment and then decided to join the reading session once again. I waited until the reciting arrived at the point I had been stopped previously and then I stepped in. Altogether, we carried on reading with our loud voices. We would soon try one more time to recite the story by heart. I put great effort to memorize the rest of the story, word after word.
"…Well, the Farmer thought it best to make it up with the Serpent, and brought food and honey to the mouth of its lair, and said to it: ‘Let’s forget and forgive; perhaps you were right to punish my son, and take vengeance on my cattle, but surely I was right in trying to revenge him; now that we are both satisfied why should not we be friends again?’ ‘No, no,’ said the Serpent; ‘take away your gifts; you can never forget the death of your son, nor I the loss of my tail.’ "
"Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten"
"Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten" (2)
1. Black: the brilliance of noncolor, Alain Badiou, Wiley, 2016
2. Aesop's fables, The man and the serpent, Online publication, Guttenberg project
Lethe
I stand firmly on my feet on the harsh concrete floor, yet I feel the soles of my shoes slightly sinking. I step to the side to see if there is any footprint left, but I see nothing. Strangely, in every step I take this feeling of additional heaviness remains. I often think of an invisible burden on top od every person, an accumulation of intangible things that make our steps a bit heavier and turn every new direction into a cautious decision. Life is a challenging wandering after all. It is a continuous effort in the form of a duty. The cumulative loads of the past and the complications of the present should be carried around constantly while we always owe to take them into consideration.
The myth of the lotus eaters teaches us to endure the struggle. Odysseus forced his mariners, who had consumed the bewildering fruit of Lotus and were drifted into oblivion, to resume their dreadful trip to Ithaca. Despite their weeping and immense desire to be left in the land of forgetfulness, their consciousness had to be restored in order to continue their dangerous and exhausting wandering. The clarity of this resolution is artfully blurred in the poem “The Lotos Eaters” by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Although some hints are given about the fallaciousness of the land of lotus, the reader finds himself in moral confusion. The description of the idyllic land of lotus “in which it seemed always afternoon” is seductive. After consuming the tasteful fruit, the men start singing about their desire to remain there and to discontinue their voyage. Despite the narcotic effect of the fruit, they can recount in detail what they are leaving behind. By eating the fruit of lotus, perhaps as a reverse bite of the forbidden apple that generated all the suffering of mankind, they escape from the futile labor and constant toil in which every man is doomed to live. Their desire to withdraw seems to be a request for relief and, therefore, can be pardonable:
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.*
Sadly enough, the lotus fruit offers nothing more than deathly indifference. However, an absolute detachment from what we already know could also mean the return to a state of purity. Everything would seem unadulterated after discharging the weights.
*(Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Lotos eaters)
Bile
I wish I could experience a miracle similar to those that are happening in front of the desperate pilgrims who are able to see real tears and blood dripping from the fading representations on the icons. I would open the door of my studio, raise my stained hands and shout out loud that the wall is bleeding. I constructed a long arrow out of steel and I let it lie on the table for that reason. The story would be that one day I found the arrow mysteriously nailed on the wall. A substance, which I tried to collect with a towel, run out of the corrupted surface miraculously. It was ready to spurt exactly at the height that my gallbladder would be if I was unlucky enough to stand there when the arrow pierced the wall.
Foundation
Words, words, and words
“The foundation of all civilization is loitering” (Jean Renoir). This statement because diminishes the base of our civilization to an unflattering human characteristic. The first men and women on earth were too lazy to strive for survival so they started inventing tools and mechanisms to make their lives easier. The use of tools and machines saved plenty of time for hanging around, observing the world and theorizing. The invention of writing made possible the documentation of thoughts and the accumulation of knowledge. The most important things were said by simply arranging words in various ways. We have learned to look back to antiquity as a starting point because classical essays shaped the fundamentals of contemporary thought and therefore they provide a better understanding of today. Fewer people know that in the classical world, spells and curses were also very popular. The function of spells is not based on understanding but rather on the fear of an invisible power that is hidden beneath the sound of words and is able to determine the decisions of people.
“Την Τρίτη 12 Ιουλίου 2016 στα ηπειρωτικά και την Κρήτη αναμένονται λίγες νεφώσεις που το μεσημέρι και απόγευμα θα είναι τοπικά αυξημένες και υπάρχει πιθανότητα για τοπικές βροχές ή μικρής διάρκειας καταιγίδες κυρίως στα ορεινά. Στις υπόλοιπες νησιωτικές περιοχές αναμένεται γενικά αίθριος καιρός με λίγες τοπικές νεφώσεις τις θερμές ώρες της ημέρας. Η θερμοκρασία στη βόρεια Ελλάδα θα κυμανθεί από 17 έως 33 βαθμούς, στην κεντρική και νότια από 18 έως 34, στα νησιά του Ιονίου από 22 έως 33, στα νησιά του Αιγαίου από 20 έως 35 και στην Κρήτη από 19 έως 30. Στη νότια Κρήτη η μέγιστη θερμοκρασία θα είναι 2 έως 3 βαθμούς υψηλότερη.”
“On Tuesday 12th of July 2016, clouds are expected above the mainland and the island of Crete. During the afternoon, there is a possibility for local storms and rains, especially above the terrains of highlands. Weather is expected to be fair in the islands, with a few local clouds during the warm hours of the day. The temperature in northern Greece will range from 17 to 33 degrees, in central and southern parts of the country from 18 to 34, in the islands of the Ionian sea from 22 to 33, in the islands of the Aegean Sea from 20 to 35 and in Crete from 19 to 30. South of Crete, the maximum temperature will be 2 to 3 degrees higher”
Like setting up a fire, starting to fill pages with words and sentences is not an easy task. A solution is to begin with automatic writing because at least automatic writing brings some results, especially in terms of quantity. The number of words is very important despite the fact that laconism is highly acclaimed as a sign of wisdom. It creates a protective shield for these moments that otherwise would have surrendered themselves to the power of silence. I have no other choice than to praise words and be thankful because words are bigger than me so I can step under them. Perhaps this is the main reason that words were invented, to confirm our position in the world by giving certain durability to our articulation.
”Sponges ensure smoother application and can be used to dab away excess foundation. The idea is to get even coverage that appears as natural as possible, which means, trying to get your makeup to mesh with your skin! Start with a thin layer of foundation, then build if you want more coverage. A very thick layer of makeup is more prone to slide off your face throughout the day because it just cannot adhere as well to skin. When it comes to concealer, application is fairly straightforward. With your fingers, a brush, or a wand applicator, gently dot concealer on the areas you want to cover. Pat the concealer in place, making sure not to drag it over skin. As with foundation, start out with a light amount, then build to get the coverage you want. Pat the concealer in one direction, repeating this step until it sets. Don’t use a back-and-forth or rubbing motion, as this basically just wipes concealer away as soon as you apply it, leaving you with spotty to no coverage.”
On an average, it is estimated that a native English speaker uses about 20.000 to 35.000 words when the vocabulary of a non-native English speaker is limited between 4.000 to 10.000 words. At the same time a kid at the age of 4, who speaks English as a first language, knows already 4000 words and a kid of 8 years old up to 10.000 words. These statistics are here to remind me that, as a non-native English speaker, I miss at least 10000 words compared to the average vocabulary of a native speaker. When I read a text and I stumble upon an unknown word, I feel that the sound of this word in my mind does not represent meaning but it is rather the sound of a cracking cell from where meaning starts leaking.
I pay a lot of attention to words, however sometimes I lose my confidence and I am becoming suspicious. I have this terrifying imagination that words are like the bedsheet on a ghost. They are there to confirm the presence and the form of the concentrated nothingness of a ghost which would be impossible to be noticed otherwise. Words are the final coating that seems to rest on top of everything and everything exists because it can be described by meanings of language. Words are good for camouflaging but they cannot be camouflaged because what can we put on top of words other than other words? Words, words, and words…
(Only swords can break the words but these swords are made of words)
On depth
Amusing.. but I have been a victim of my fantasies for several times. One of these times is definitely when I am confronted with the flatness of water reservoirs, artificial lakes, and canals. I think they have a kind of enigmatic appearance. As I observe their flatness from above, especially when the waters are dark and murky, the uncertainty of what is hidden beneath the flat fluid surface is daunting. The dark water appears as an almost shallow and reflective image while in fact, it may be very deep. I like to speculate on the depth of the water and usually, I am prone to estimate unrealistic and impossible sizes. The depths of the lakes have to be vast, canals should carry enormous amounts of water. Reality may be much less exciting, but I tend to get overwhelmed by expectations.
As I often used to walk near an artificial canal next to the motorway south of the town, it was my daily game to make crazy assumptions about things that may hide under the surface of the water. By a side path of this canal, you could climb down the stairs of the dike and go onto the bank. I liked the setting and I was often going there to find moments of isolation. This was one of the few spots where stairs lead down to the level of the water. A bit further on, a big overpass crossed the canal and the parallel highway. The canal was always dark brown and muddy and the flow too slow to be noticeable. I enjoyed walking along the canal observing the reflections of light onto the water. I had convinced myself that the canal should be many meters deep. The idea of a vast volume of water in front of me was fascinating. However, nothing was visible under the surface of the water as its dark brown color had destroyed any transparency. I was trying to guess what it would feel like to dive in there. What could somebody discover in this brown abyss under the surface? Perhaps, a big vehicle had fallen down from the overpass and was now completely lost in the water. In this opaque water, there might be a big truck with all the goods trapped in the trailer or even better many trucks might have fallen from the overpass. The story would be that the trucks fell one by one from above, in a series of tragic events that have marked this place as the Titanic of the truck drivers. Although the drivers were the casualties of their own destructive and suicidal nature, they confronted death with stoicism as they kept listening to music from the loudspeakers of their radio devices while they were driving their trucks directly into the water… There are some rumors that some old tunes are still echoing from the depths of the canal if you try to listen carefully when the rest of the town has fallen asleep during the night.
However, the chance to discover the actual depth of the canal was given to me unexpectedly one afternoon and it was not very spectacular. Usually, this place was empty of people but this time I noticed three figures sitting near the water when I was walking down the stairs of the dike. Two men were sitting very close to each other while a third man, with the legs of his pants rolled up to his knees, was holding a big fake sword in his hands. I sat at a safe distance and waited for them to go, longing to be in this place alone without any distraction. Soon, the man with the sword stepped into the water. I was surprised because I had never seen anyone before daring to walk into this muddy canal. He stepped further and he seemed to be determined to go on. As he was walking towards the other side, the water got up to his knees and it did not seem to get higher. The water was actually only a few centimeters deep. He was moving his sword back and forth as he was trying to harm the surface of the water. That was a complete disappointment. This man proved that the actual depth of the water was totally unexciting. How could this depthless canal be the graveyard of the trucks of suicidal truck drivers who faced death with stoicism as they were listening to music while they were driving their trucks directly into the depths of the water? In these shallow waters, only the small plastic toy trucks from the local toy store would fit. Perhaps… a water pistol, pencils, and a dozen markers as well? But, do I need to know this? I will never come back to this place again.
The man’s waist remained above the surface of the water while he was walking towards the middle of the canal. He stood there and looked at me with a faint smile. He raised his sword and pointed it to my direction, pretending that he was threatening to stab me. Apparently, I had to get wounded by his sword as the surface of the water of this pitiful canal was. The two other men were sitting quietly on the side of the water doing nothing but looking carefully at the swordsman. I decided to go. The man had already reached the other side of the canal when I stopped a bit below the top of the dike to look back. The three men waved at me. I waved back and I went on my way home.
After this incident, I confined my fantasies only to waters that I could control. In my backyard, there is a small deposit full of water beside a small garden. It is only one meter to seventy centimeters large. I am not aware of its function but I assume that the previous tenant used this small pool for keeping goldfishes or other water animals. I had never replenished the water in this deposit and now it has ended up completely dirty and blurry. You cannot really see how deep the deposit is but I am sure it is not that deep. Once, a friend asked me to tell him how deep this pool is. I remember remaining silent for a few moments trying to figure out what to answer. Finally, I told him, in a serious voice, that it was deep enough to swallow both of us until the water covered our heads completely. He did not believe me and laughed. He said that we needed to search for a long pole to put in the pool and find out. I knew there was nothing suitable in the yard for measuring the depth of the deposit. He came back empty-handed after a small round in the house and looked at the pool. We both remained silent and stared at the water for a while. My friend said it was a pity that there was not any pole long enough to reach the bottom of my pool.
Although I was happy because the mystery of the pool remained unsolved to my friend, I admit that the idea of him inserting a long pole inside the water was quite unsettling. The explorative character of his request was hiding underlying violence which made his persistence partly exciting and partly sinister. Not so sinister, though, as the persistence of Sextus Tarquinius, who forced Lucretia, a noble Roman woman, to sexual intercourse with him by threatening her with his sword. No question that this was a cruel rape. Sextus Tarquinius was the son of the Roman king. He sneaked silently into the bedroom of Lucretia while her husband was missing by stepping carefully between her slaves who were sleeping already. Tarquinius did not want to kill her but he definitely desired to use her for his sexual pleasure, a desire that was driven by the challenge of exploring in depth and finally corrupting the virtues that were related to her status and the integrity of her character. Lucretia’s notable moral resistance was instantly extinguished the moment she was penetrated by Tarquinius. Her demystified body became approachable and subjective to the advances of a stranger, similar to this of a common whore. The next day in an almost symbolic duplication of Tarquinius destructive penetration, she killed herself in front of her family by impaling a sword into her heart and leading her twice excavated body to physical extinction. Lucretia’s life leaked from the wound at her chest with the same easiness that her morality leaked out of her ravaged genitalia. The empty perforated vessel, that used to be her, collapsed at the stone floor of her father’s mansion. The harshness of the floor would be for some moments the only strong support to hold her lifeless body since her internal coherence had vanished.
At least, the dissatisfaction that followed the atrocious act of Tarquinius brought some justice for Lucretia. Her rape and unfair death caused a revolution against the royal regime of Rome and Sextus Tarquinius would never be able to inherit the precious pole of his father which was the royal scepter of the kingdom of Rome. The king was dethroned and the legendary death of Lucretia became the symbol of the newborn Roman republic. (However, nobody can prove that Lucretia was actually raped. There is no historical evidence. What if the supporters of the republic actually staged her suicide by killing her and then accusing Tarquinius, who by coincidence was lodging at her house that night, for raping her? By doing this, they could trigger public uproar against the royal regime and gain power. The father and husband of Lucretia were leading figures in Rome’s new political establishment. What if the symbol of the birth of the republic was pure propaganda?)
Layers
(Exploring depth is not always easy, as it was the case with Tarquinius and the unfortunate Lucretia.) It is not always easy to find historical evidence. Sometimes, a more systematic process is needed, in order to uncover one by one the multiple layers that overlap each other. Stratigraphy is a basic concept in archaeology which determines that the findings of an excavation should be classified according to the geological sedimentation of the area or other types of stratigraphic sequences. In that way, archaeologists can derive useful information for each finding by the type of stratification in which the finding was discovered. An archaeological excavation is a very precise and careful procedure as it is based entirely on the scientific method and knowledge. Although the discoveries of excavations might be astonishing, archaeology’s goal is to avoid arbitrary assumptions by making conclusions based on artifacts. In some way, the first layer that archaeology tries to remove is the layer of mystery. On the contrary, the branches of pseudoarchaeology and pyramidology ignore science and base their existence on unsolved mysteries like the myth of lost Atlantis, curses of the Pharaoh and extraterrestrial interventions. The more obscure and opaque is the mystery, the better for pseudo-archaeologists to claim acknowledgment.
One of the mysteries that archaeology tries to solve is this of chronological classification. Usually, the findings that are discovered in the lower stratigraphic layers correspond to an earlier chronological period. For instance, a vertical excavation of a settlement works often as a time journey to the origins of human activity in this particular region. In the same way, family trees and lineages are tracing back sequences of generations in order to define the roots of people. The same need to define origin made Luke and Matthew to write a genealogy of Christ in their gospels. Although the version of genealogy by Luke differs significantly to this of Matthew, both of them wanted to prove that Christ had also a human nature besides the divine. His human descent would allow him to die as an ordinary man and sink into what is called the formidabilis abyssis, a situation of absolute abandonment impossible to describe, where there is no logos and neither pathos. It is an abyss of the ultimate death, the death of God, a point of departure and a horrific destination.
A similar legend traces the genealogy of a noble medieval family. The story is about a young man, who had the wish to learn about his ancestry. In this adaptation of the legend, (a genealogical tree of a real English family will be the source of the characters’ names.) the main hero will be called Edward. The story begins with Edward confronting his father before his 20th birthday. He complains that all the noblemen in the kingdom are proud of their descent. He is the only one who cannot praise his ancestors because he does not know where his generation is coming from. He does not even know who his grandfather is. After his father refusing to reveal the origins of their family, Edward appoints secretly his uncle. His uncle is the brother and a sworn enemy of Edward’s father. While Edward and his uncle are sitting across to each other, his uncle places a black box in front of him and starts narrating the story of the family.
“You are Edward the son of James who is my brother. Your grandfather was called Frederick and he is the father of me and James. Your father James is very rich but his money is not from a decent work. He stole the golden teeth of your grandfather Frederick, who was a miser and he was keeping his wealth inside his mouth. James killed our father Frederick and he kept all the golden teeth for himself.
Your grandfather Frederick was not a good man either. He was the son of Margaret and Robert. Frederick killed Margaret and Robert, and stole their wealth. He made golden teeth out of their wealth and kept it in his mouth.
Robert, the father of Frederick, was a common thief who was gathering wealth by lurking in the forests to steal money from passengers. One day, he attacked and killed with his knife a passenger who happened to be his own father Andrew.
Andrew was the son of John who had a second wife Susannah. Susannah did not love Andrew and sent him away when he was a child. Andrew returned back and killed both John and Susannah.
John had a brother Peter. John and Peter were farmers and the children of William. They often had fights with each other and in one of these fights, John killed his brother Peter.
Their father William had the fame of a pure devil and he raped Rebecca, who became his wife and after, the rape the villagers called her a black slime ……
William and Rebecca gave birth to John and Peter.
William cursed his children because he was a devil.
Then, John killed his brother Peter.
John was the father of Andrew but Andrew killed John.
Andrew was the father of Robert but Robert killed Andrew.
Robert was the father of Frederick but Frederick killed Robert.
Frederick was the father of James but James killed Frederick.
James is the father of you and you are Edward, James’s only child and the heir of all the crime…
When he finished quoting the ancestors of the family he opened the black box, took out a small sword and gave it to Edward.
“Your father is afraid of the curse and he is plotting to kill you, to save his own life,
I give you this small sword to save yourself and take your father’s life”.
While facing the horrific dilemma of killing his father or letting his father kill him, Edward takes the sword and as another Lucretia impales it into his heart. With this sacrifice, the family would finally get rid of the curse. According to the legend, what Edward did not know is that the whole story of the family and the curse was a lie. It was a machination of his uncle, who wanted, by fooling Edward, to get rid of his brother.
Foundation
Edward gave so much trust to the words of his uncle. He listened carefully to his dark story that was supposed to reveal the roots of their family. The story was a construction but it appeared for a while to be a valid reason for Edward’s sacrifice, a solid foundation on which his body would lay on with dignity in the same way that the broken body of Lucretia fell for the glory of the Roman republic. They had sacrificed themselves for a legitimate reason that strangely was there to indicate that behind the open wounds of their skin something unspeakable was lurking. Behind the small cracks and fissures of the surface, after abolishing all the layers, what is to be found is the opposite of appearance. A formidable abyss which is sublime and unbearable not because of its infernal vastness and depth but rather because of the lack of all of these. It is the unclothing of an invisible ghost, the eventual extinction of any logos or pathos. However, this extinction is perhaps the only remaining and dreadful “other” that cannot be conquered and therefore it is the last valid reason for mythologizing the unknown.
The miracle of St.Denis
Why is the sky blue, day after day? I was wondering, while I was looking through the window, seeing the sun setting. But who could I ask? I knew nobody on this train. Only three unknown men in disguise had boarded my compartment so far. Two of them were wearing Roman tunics and the third one was dressed like a warrior carrying a big Celtic sword. In a few days, the carnival parade would take place in Eindhoven. The preparations had already been finished and there were colorful banners in the halls of the railway station. I got off the train and started walking towards the big square in Eindhoven, where the main shopping center is. The Romans and the warrior were already rushing ahead, apparently going in the same direction as I. The entrance of the shopping center is monumental. A big glass roof leans on huge red metal pillars. When I arrived there, I noticed that the three men who traveled with me on the train had joined a small crowd under the glass roof. A tall man who had a white and almost unreal face was standing on a small wooden pedestal in the middle. He was also wearing a Roman tunic similar to those of the two Roman men. The name “Saint Denis” was written on a small sign in front of the pedestal. One of such circus performances as usually take place in the streets was about to start. I decided to step closer and to sneak into the crowd. The figure of the man in the middle was stunning. His eyes were slightly directed upwards giving the impression that he failed to notice the surrounding crowd. His arms hung loosely from his sides and his palms were facing the sky. The saint was standing there motionless while other people were still gathering around. After a couple of minutes, the two Roman men and the warrior stepped a bit closer to the impressive figure in the center. The show was about to start. Who are you..? the warrior shouted. The saint kept standing still and speechless. Silence prevailed in the crowd as everybody anticipated him to speak. Saint Denis seemed to be completely detached from this world. “Who are you?” shouted the warrior again, louder this time. The motionless man totally ignored the warrior and remained absorbed in his initial position. You could feel the tension as time was passing by and no words were coming from the saint’s mouth. The two Romans, who were constantly staring at the saint with reverence, finally gave an answer on behalf of him. They looked at the crowd and they said simultaneously in one singing voice:
I am the shine of the gold without the gold,
the warmth of the fire without the fire…
A few seconds later, the warrior raised his big sword and held it up for a few seconds. The saint and the Romans remained frozen ( in their positions. Suddenly, with an abrupt, ruthless move, the warrior did the impossible. He cut off the head of the Saint. Instant panic followed as the head fell off and the body collapsed to the ground. Everybody screamed with fear and moved clumsily backward. Even if there was not even one single drop of blood dripping from the decapitated body, the atrocious incident we had witnessed was totally terrifying. However, the saint did not stay on the ground for long. With slow moves, the headless corpse stood on his knees and collected the head in his hands. Soon the body got upright again and took a standing position holding his own head in his lap. Screams turned into laughter and finally into enthusiastic applause. “That was a good one!” a woman said next to me. Very convincing… I thought. After the initial shock, the crowd could not be anything but cheerful. Yet, the two Romans waved to the people to continue paying attention. With their index finger covering their mouth as a request for silence, they positioned themselves on both sides of the beheaded body.
Slowly, they bent down to the height of the saint’s lap turning one of their ears to the head’s mouth. What is the head saying?… some of the people asked. Their expression was full of interest as if the head was talking to them, while nobody else was able to hear anything. The Romans stood up and they said together once again:
I am the shine of the gold without the gold
the warmth of the fire without the fire…
After a while, the saint moved slowly forward. The two Romans and the warrior positioned themselves behind him. They all started walking in the open square. The Romans invited people to follow them with their gestures and indeed, some of us joined the odd company. I was the first one to run and stand next to the warrior just behind Saint Denis, who was walking with the two assistants on his side. Altogether, we headed south following the saint. The absurd procession of a headless corpse carrying his own head, two Roman men, a warrior, and some dozen curious strangers instantly became the local attraction. Everybody stood for a few moments to see our small pilgrimage while some people stepped out of the local shops with cheers and applause. The spirit of the day definitely justified this burlesque spectacle. We were marching with steady steps, imitating the pace of the saint, who continued to remain speechless all the way. I was strongly attracted to his appearance. I could not take my eyes off the emptiness above his neck, exactly where his head should be. It was an emptiness that accompanied his body different from any other emptiness around. I felt that the world in front of me was visible only through the vacuum that replaced his head. At the crossroad, he turned to the left and we finally ended up at the Market square which was strangely empty. I realized that nobody from the pilgrimage was still with us. I was so concentrated on the headless saint and I had not noticed until that time that I was left there alone. The body with the head, the two Romans and the warrior were standing together in the empty marketplace in front of me. The four figures became silent and motionless again. I decided to move away from them. It was already dark. I turned my back and quickly walked in the opposite direction, towards the main pedestrian street. While I was running away, the two Romans spoke again loudly:
I appear to vanish
like a movement from nothing to nothing,
like a light that obscures and a darkness
that enlightens…
I stopped and looked back at them. Saint Denis was there as usual between the two Romans, holding his head. The warrior was now standing a few meters further away. I tried to look at them more carefully. I discovered that something was different about the saint, though. Above his neck a strange, dull light was appearing. Something like a worn out halo was glowing languidly over him. The Romans repeated:
I appear to vanish
like a movement from nothing to nothing
like a light that obscures and a darkness
that enlightens…
That was completely bizarre. I had to find out who this man was. With quick steps, I walked back to him. As I was approaching the saint, I raised my hand, determined to touch his neck. I wanted to discover the source of this light and reveal what was behind this costume. Suddenly, before I even got to touching him and without any obvious reason, the headless man collapsed again in front of my eyes. The head rolled over a few times on the ground away from the body. I did not dare to touch it. I looking at the corpse for some moments. The two Romans said nothing. I decided to run away again. In a few minutes, I found myself mixing with the crowds in the main square near the railway station. I looked up at the sky and I asked myself… why is the sky dark, after all? Then, I tried to imagine how the Romans would reply to this question in their simultaneously singing voice…
I don’t know
I don’t know
On theatricality and indifference
Michael Fried encourages a war between theater and art in order to save modernist sensibility and the arts from death. The borders of the legitimate disciplines should not be transgressed by what Fried defined as theater lying between the different arts. The theatrical condition, that according to him was a cause of degeneration, had to be defeated. The rejection of theater, an entire category with a long history and tradition similar to painting, is striking. When Fried writes “Art and Objecthood”, he is directly referring to Robert Morris. New art brought industrial objects, reproductions, political artworks and other new ideas that were unrelated to his vision of art. These practices seemed to be a rupture with the past and the linear development of art history. He insisted that the most exalted works of art of his generation trace their origin back to the questions on painting in the late 18th and early 19th centuries.
Fried was an advocate of abstract expressionism which was already fading at this time. However, a war between the old and the new is not sufficient to explain the rejection of theater. The establishment of minimalism and the primacy of the new forms of art partially justify his text. Why do the forces that threaten the arts have a theatrical aspect according to Fried? What was he really trying to defend?
George Bataille in his ‘Theory of religion’ says that animals perceive their existence as “water in the water”. There is no distinction of things, no order, only this innermost feeling that cannot be articulated in any other way than poetically. Civilization emerged out of the same situation. Gradually, we started to define things and to give names. The primordial tendency to dissolve into the depths of this obscure water survived for a long time but it was restricted to rituals. Ritualistic practices were meant to reveal again or recall an enigmatic world full of enchantment, shapeless and fluid. Rituals were also the very beginning of theater. As the world was being transformed to an arrangement of tools and products, sacredness moved to a higher level. The divine eventually was found beyond the subjected world. Rituals evolved into religion and works of art were used as a medium of transcendence towards the divine. For centuries, works of art suggested something more than themselves. They appeared to represent something of a higher order. The connection of art to sacredness was never eradicated completely and remained present in various formations. We can find it also in modernism and it can be described as the exaltation of art to its own exclusive realm. This is what Walter Benjamin called the theology of art.
Although, Clement Greenberg and Michael Fried defended a timeless, personal and almost religious experience of art, the definition of painting by Greenberg is primarily materialistic. He defines painting precisely by the restrictions of the medium. Fried was a great supporter of this idea. Art should derive a certain value and quality from the clarity of definitions, medium specificity and immunity of the specific disciplines. However, while advocating modernist sensibility, he prepared the ground where his greatest enemies flourished. Modernism confronted transcendence, illusion, and transparency of the material in order to unveil the medium. The divine was not embraced anymore but modernistic painting still tried to avoid the real world as it was pointing back to its own self. This can be seen as a paradox. Despite the fact that the dualistic separation between arts and the world denotes a theological condition, confinement to the material makes art relational to the subjected world and to literal interpretations, If there is no path towards any higher order then there is art and our world. Purity of modern art was like an abandoned cathedral penetrated by curious hordes of tourists exploring the structure, the shape, and the history. While Fried was defending the timeless presence of true art, minimalism already explored the relation of art to real time and real space. Eventually, this relation became more important than the material itself. Land art, the happenings of Allan Kaprow, and pop-art followed.
The powers that make art dissolve into the world had been released. Anything has a potential relation to everything if borders are unclear. The inability to name things with clarity, to define and separate territories, was the greatest concern of Fried. Order was about to collapse and timelessness to be replaced by the volatile ephemeral and the processes of entropy. After the first cracks, the force of fragmentation would inevitably accelerate to homogenize everything. The distinction between high and low art would not exist anymore. A leveling down to the shapeless porridge, a return to the obscureness of an undifferentiated world, would be the aftermath of theater. In the desert, the sand dunes are constantly changing shape but one dune never gets more rigid than the others. Dunes look like changing but nothing triumphs permanently. The beauty of a landscape in the desert is conceived only on its surface. Baudrillard describes the apocalypse as the prevalence of the neutral, of forms of the neutral and of indifference. Everything has the same importance which means that nothing is important. Nihilism has prevailed again but not in the form of destructive aggression. It prevails in the form of apathy and denial. This resilient fluidity can be also interpreted as the epitome of absolute freedom; the freedom of altering like water in the water and collecting air out of air.