tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13522745974206814762024-02-19T10:09:10.091+00:00απλα επειδηJUST BECAUSEUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-17699244034379741812009-02-12T00:29:00.003+00:002009-02-12T00:37:25.713+00:00Acknowledgements<div style="mso-element:para-border-div;border:none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm"><p class="MsoTitle"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">Because life is short and full of surprises, I did write an acknowledgements section for my upgrade report. Because appearing to be the drama queen that I am to my examiners is not the wisest thing in the world, I’m not going to include it. But here it is.</span></p><p class="MsoTitle"><br /></p><p class="MsoTitle"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">Acknowledgements<o:p></o:p></span></p> </div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, in chronological order, I would like to thank:<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My Grandparents: I do apologize for remaining single and continuing to paint my nails red, but I am hoping that from where you are right now, you can see that I’m trying to do good otherwise. My Parents: For being my ongoing teacher transformation project. For your unconditional love, for your courage, your insecurities and your patience. My Brother: for loving me in the best-hidden ways and for the expensive gifts that I would never buy myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">All the numerous members of my big-fat-Greek-Cypriot family: you have kept me in your hearts and minds despite my years of absence, my radicalism and my moods. I will always feel like the youngest and the most favourite family member because of you. Thank you for bringing to my world lots of little guys and girls, thank you for letting me brainwash them into believing that I am the best aunt in the world. Thank you for the spoiling, thank you for being my home. Special thanks go to my cousin SP – for allowing me to feel as unique as in no-one else’s life. My friends in Cyprus – who I no longer distinguish from family members: MZ, AML, and MP: you have endured with me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">everything</i>, from the start. ZC: you are the sister I never had. ES: for the shopping therapies and your laughter and your understanding. IS: for loving the colour purple. SZ: for all your respect in our disagreements, for your patience; even for the sleepwalking scares! All of you: for making it so difficult to find the words to say thank you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">PD: for being my first supervisor, supporter, and model to follow. I have been honored to be your rising star student. The heavily tattooed Turkish-Cypriot owner of the fried chicken place across Goldsmiths College library: for being the first Other I had met in my life. It was November 2005. TR: for being the first to teach me that waxing is a form of oppression. For making that ride on a 171 bus, on 9<sup>th</sup> June 2006, the most unforgettable birthday of my life. FB: for the peanut butter and chocolate birthday cake you baked on that same birthday. For your pure love and friendship and unique beauty and the surprise packs from far-away that keep arriving. TD: for using words like no other. For your sweetness, your intelligence, your sarcasm. For Athens.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">HS: for your patience with my looooong sentences, my unedited papers, my freakouts, my lateness, my disagreements; for your stylistic corrections and your suggestions and the confidence building and the support and the opportunities; and, of course, for the parties at the Big Ben.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">NT: for believing in me from the first moment; for the opportunities and the encouragement. For reading my drafts and reminding me that life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">is</i> a draft. CM: for unconditionally giving me helpful feedback in all love, academic, and existential dilemmas in my life, for all our Sunday email exchanges and your humour.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">ALP: for baking bread in the middle of the night and for the birthday treasure hunts and the fairytale in my life. For spoiling the child in me. RSW: for sharing your life-theory of generosity in principle and in practice; for your wisdom, your dresses, your support. Both of them: for everything that went on in the house with the purple door.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">PC: for your love, for Sarajevo, for the looooong lunches at the Italian sandwich place and the dinners at Masala Zone. BA: for the touch of spice in my life, for the lasagna dinners and for being my one and only older, academic, all-time-favourite brother. HG: for the endless days and nights in the Goodenough library. For never forgetting at which point of the conversation we were left and always reminding me what I was talking about 3 minutes ago. CC: for the comfort when I needed it and all the new realizations you brought into my life. AA: for the unexpected PhD penguin-hugs and all the support. DA: for breaking all my stereotypes around the notion of ‘the Cypriot male’. AM: for pointing out that I cook in a very ‘white’ way. Until that evening in the Goodenough kitchen in April 2008, I was not aware of what it feels like to be ‘racialized’. RC: for being so much more mature than your age, for keeping me grounded, and for the military-style tough love. EM: for the endless discussions on theories of ‘race', boys, nation and Greekness, and for the wine in the coolest plastic glasses.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To the unsuitable men in my path: for all the mistakes and the love. For being a reminder of how impossible intercultural relationships can be and that my plans to change the world have limits; but that they are, nevertheless, worth pursuing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To the suitable one: hurry up, I’m bored of waiting.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Be well, all. I’ll need you again. Next time, the acknowledgements are going to be included.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-70969509997352661952009-01-26T16:58:00.002+00:002009-01-26T17:04:26.554+00:00Sign of mental instability?I've noticed that as the weeks go by and I am still in strict curfew and denial of any social life (let alone love life), the frequency of the incidents where I catch myself talking to myself are increasing rapidly. There are specific instances when this occurs:<div>1. while sitting at my desk in my room when i am (a) continuing conversations that happened a few hours/minutes/months earlier with people or (b) having completely new conversations with people - where I speak loudly my part, not theirs (perhaps this is important, to exclude the possibility of schizophrenia)</div><div>2. while walking from the bathroom/toilet back to my room or the library - with the risk of being seen by people and be ridiculed completely</div><div>3. while in the shower</div><div>4. while dreaming</div><div>Perhaps mental and emotional assistance is more urgently needed than I thought. Especially as I have just pushed my deadline ANOTHER week further.</div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-58438231225530425712009-01-22T01:16:00.005+00:002009-01-22T01:25:27.898+00:00Personal OntologySo. My supervisor insists that my introductory chapter for my upgrade report needs to have a 'personal ontology' aspect in it, so my examiners know where I'm coming from and where I'm going. I have the answer to neither of those issues. But I am thinking of including the following:<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">PREFACE</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Reasons for which this upgrade report is in your hands:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The first Greek-Cypriot woman is arrested for chaining herself on the Presidential Mansion for Greenpeace in August 2000.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A Black man and a White woman walk down the street in Larnaca holding hands in July 2001.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A Greek-Cypriot, Christian-Orthodox, Greek-speaking six-year-old girl goes to school for the first time in September 2004.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">4.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A headmistress knocks on a classroom door on a March morning in 2005.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">5.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A funeral in April 2005 is followed by another in June.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">6.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">25 September 2005.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">7.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A heavily tattooed, bearded owner of a fried-chicken place opposite Goldsmiths library serves a hungry MA student in November 2005.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">8.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A random search for books related to Cyprus on amazon</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> in December 2005.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">9.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A rising star in January 2006.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Additional information is below:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I’ve always wanted to change the world. Somehow. Despite my parents’ concerns that I would never get a job as a teacher if I had a criminal record. At the time, I didn’t care. (For the record, I don’t – it was a misdemeanor). </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I watched this couple with my friends, sitting at a bar. Their comments led to a huge argument. I have still not spoken to some of them since.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was her first grade teacher. She was the only Black child at a school of 600. Her parents are from Congo.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">4.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The headmistress brought to my first grade class the two children of asylum seekers – no warning, no preparation, no clue, no common language. They were dark-skinned. After their initial shock, a child shouts ‘Miss, they’re just like Marianna!’ Marianna looks as happy as never before. She is no longer alone. And I thought that getting the rest to stop calling her ‘Black’ meant she finally belonged.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">5.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I lose both my grandfathers in less than three months. Both funerals are held in refugee churches. Both are buried away from their homeland, in refugee cemeteries. One cousin drove to the north and brought a bucket of soil from ‘our’ orange groves, with which to cover my mother’s father. The refugee tiny houses they had been living in for 31 years are now ‘returned’ to the government. Refugees seem to be destined to lose everything, including the opportunity to own anything again. My father’s father spoke Turkish and Greek so fluently you could not tell whether he’s Turkish- or Greek-Cypriot. Perhaps he was just Cypriot. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">6.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My friends call me mad: I quit my job as a primary school teacher (Cypriot teachers are the best paid in the EU), I leave an apartment, a cat, a car, and prospects for marriage, and I fly to London in the hope that I will be able to breathe, to be, and to become.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">7.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He reminded me of my mom’s cousin – I think it was his accent when he said ‘hi darling’ when I entered. I was right, he was from Cyprus. He told me he left during the war but still goes back to visit. We talked about how much we both hate British food, British weather and British buses. It took me more than fifteen minutes in a conversation with him to realize that he’s not </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Greek</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-Cypriot. That he is a </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Turkish</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-Cypriot. He was the first Other I met in my life. I was 25.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">8.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I come across Yiannis Papadakis’ book ‘Echoes from the Dead Zone: across the Cyprus Divide’. It changed my life. Did Greek-Cypriots </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">also</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> kill Turkish-Cypriots? The puzzle pieces start falling into place.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"><span style=""><span style="mso-list:Ignore"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">9.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My MA supervisor believes in me. He insists I apply to the IoE for a PhD. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thank you for your time. Your comments are invaluable.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-84480854524859659702009-01-19T14:53:00.005+00:002009-01-19T14:58:22.521+00:00Propaganda<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgzODwyKhy9YxnhwIlU0HPts7zu3e9ieaRoKe_QbecSK6RV9yWSuPPEmawbx9oWQW6Bc6u7a9DSCuB3wGxasIgy0EkaVar7AsxgXK3zY9bSynsqdRMNZrbOFEcEipvmy4M0GDIT_FazSG/s1600-h/keepcalmred.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgzODwyKhy9YxnhwIlU0HPts7zu3e9ieaRoKe_QbecSK6RV9yWSuPPEmawbx9oWQW6Bc6u7a9DSCuB3wGxasIgy0EkaVar7AsxgXK3zY9bSynsqdRMNZrbOFEcEipvmy4M0GDIT_FazSG/s400/keepcalmred.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293019312625540898" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXC1tbxEcReyVFoHV_cPQKwANQzIkPgoiRlJmAc6fnmNUFNuQLwMafXSPxQhpdxuQCDm5yHsAUl-wIjeJbhZuXgUO_7MqrLGB0cA2BkYrBjkPkm1juewn2kYTepv_veD3KrF4cFhtb9_N/s1600-h/courage+victory.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXC1tbxEcReyVFoHV_cPQKwANQzIkPgoiRlJmAc6fnmNUFNuQLwMafXSPxQhpdxuQCDm5yHsAUl-wIjeJbhZuXgUO_7MqrLGB0cA2BkYrBjkPkm1juewn2kYTepv_veD3KrF4cFhtb9_N/s400/courage+victory.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293018201485760690" /></a><br /><div><br /><div>Who would've thought that the propaganda posters that King George VI commissioned to be displayed in Britain during the WWII, would be so useful and inspiring to a contemporary PhD student, struggling to identify the specificities of the multiple racisms manifested in a corner of the Mediterranean, while, at the same time, searching for love?</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-10136774614249115872009-01-16T08:59:00.001+00:002009-01-16T09:01:11.876+00:00'A dark fog has enveloped us' by Paul Kaye<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; "><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">I had to hold my 17-year-old son down on the bed after he heard the news. His strength really shocked me. I was gripping his upper arms as tightly as I could to hold him flat on the bed, but he was spitting with rage, tears streaming down his face. I was shouting, "Stop! Please stop!" but he was pushing up at me hard, his face twisting like his body underneath me. He was fighting with everything he had in order to be able to get up, run down the stairs and get out of the house. All I knew at that moment was that I couldn't let him leave. We were in his bedroom in London and I had just given him the news that his grandmother had been blown to pieces by a rocket in Israel. Jordy had lost his other grandmother five months earlier to cancer. This time there was someone to blame.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">Our pain and his rage opened a window up for me on to what is happening in <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gaza" style="padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; color: rgb(0, 86, 137); text-decoration: none; ">Gaza</a>. There are thousands and thousands of young men who have experienced - or are experiencing - that rage in Gaza and the West Bank, and their fathers and grandfathers have no doubt experienced it too. When I heard in the days that followed Shuli's death that they handed out sweets in Gaza to celebrate the fact that the rocket had hit a target, I was appalled. Now with all I have seen over the last two weeks in Gaza, part of me feels: why wouldn't they celebrate?</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">Shuli, my wife's mother, lived on Kibbutz Gvar-am, which lies 5km to the north of Gaza and 10km to the south of Ashkelon. She had been the kibbutz nurse until she retired and lately had worked part-time in the kibbutz factory making envelopes for the Salvation Army and Asda. In May last year she had been expecting a visit from a cousin who was over from America. The cousin had phoned to say that she was too frightened to come to Shuli's kibbutz on account of a rocket landing in Ashkelon the previous day. "Don't worry," Shuli told her, "every missile has its own address. We'll come to you instead."</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">An hour later she arrived at the house where her cousin was staying. Her son, Yariv, rang the doorbell and while they waited for someone to answer, Shuli stepped away in order to get some shade next to a wall. The rocket came out of nowhere and she died instantly. None had landed in that area before. Only later did we find out that Shuli had rung her sister the night before her death and made her promise to look after her children if anything were to happen to her. It was beshert - meant to be.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">That was six months ago and now, sat at home in north London with the Israeli bombardment of Gaza well into its third week, and with news of fresh horrors arriving daily, our house is filled with a despair of a different kind. It has felt like a house in mourning again. A dark fog which I can't really describe has enveloped us. Maybe it's shame. I don't know. I know we all felt relief that Israel didn't retaliate after Shuli was killed. But it's happening now. I keep looking at Shuli's birth certificate which my wife now has. Shuli's mother had left Germany by boat for Palestine after Hitler came to power and she helped form a radical socialist community on land partitioned to the Jews by the British. Shuli's birth certificate states her nationality as Palestinian. Her death certificate said Israeli.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">My wife says she feels scared and lost and full of guilt. "It's my country and I see myself as Israeli not Jewish," she keeps shouting at me. Does that make you feel better or worse about what's going on, I ask? "That's worse!" she says, "because Israel is nothing to do with God." I digest this, but don't even know where to begin to start unravelling that statement.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">I'm trying to think back to Christmas when I was staying on the kibbutz. I'm struggling to remember what I felt as the Hamas rockets were flying in every day during the week before the Israeli F16s screamed over our heads and began pounding the Gaza Strip and those condemned to live within it. My five-year-old son, Geffen, was constantly asking me if he was going to die like his Grandma. People on the kibbutz rallied around as you would expect; it was no time for questions or politics. We didn't see the bigger picture. But on returning home, I saw it all too clearly, and it sent me into meltdown.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">I feel guilty about abandoning my friends on the kibbutz - not physically but mentally. A good friend of mine over there called Mirav, whom I've known for 25 years, has a 12-year- old daughter, Omer, who just stays in her room and cries. She's been doing it for three months now and this all began after the fourth Kasam rocket hit her school. I try to think about her, but shockingly she doesn't seem to matter so much any more. Not at the moment anyway. Not from here in England with what we're seeing on television every day. Everything is dwarfed by the horrors in Gaza.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">I'd seen the ground troops massing up the road from the kibbutz towards the border with Gaza in the days before I left Israel, but I never believed for one second that they would go in. They did. In the last few days, I've stopped watching television and buying newspapers. For the first time in my adult life I don't want to know what is going on outside my own front door.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">Most Israelis I know think Hamas wants to annihilate Israel. A lot of Jews over here think that too. I don't know if that's what Hamas wants: it depends what you read. I was over there when they blew up buses on Dissenghof Street in Tel Aviv in 1996. That act seemed to turn Israel right wing just at the moment the country was mourning the death of Rabin and was, I believe, genuinely committed to peace. But Hamas is now part of the political process whether Israel, Britain and America likes it or not and dialogue is the only way forward. Would hatred for Israel stop if it were to return to its 1967 borders? Of course not, but Israel has to do it anyway. It has to do the right thing, to help build a strong Palestinian state where people can live normal lives, work, feed their kids, be happy, safe, have dignity. That's what most people want in life isn't it?</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">At Shuli's funeral last May, her son Jonathon, my brother-in-law, gave a speech. "Where are the doves?" he asked. "What is this land worth without someone with a vision? Nothing. Without doves it wasn't worth the struggle." Jonny is 34. He's an army reservist who is studying to be a neurologist and has a two-year-old son called Boaz. He didn't scream for blood at his mother's graveside, he screamed for peace.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">In our house we have our own thinking to do. My eldest son, Jordy, has Israeli citizenship and in two years he will have to choose either to relinquish that citizenship or to fight in the Israeli army. It can be only his choice. But, unlike the Palestinians in Gaza, at least he has one.</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">Published today on <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jan/16/gaza-first-person-israel">http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jan/16/gaza-first-person-israel</a>#</p><p style="padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-collapse: collapse; background-repeat: no-repeat; margin-bottom: 13px; padding-right: 0px; ">(I have no words of my own for what is going on.)</p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-4884521743358296102009-01-07T17:21:00.002+00:002009-01-07T17:24:46.364+00:00Christian the lionI've been away for a long time, I know. Now I'm running off to the gym, but I couldn't help but share this - suggested by one of my bestest friends in the world for whenever I feel low <a href="http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=adYbFQFXG0U">http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=adYbFQFXG0U</a> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-92043798360184824992008-11-26T23:31:00.007+00:002008-11-26T23:48:17.251+00:00Once again?I have just packed my suitcase. <div>Got my passport, booked my taxi for the return late at night from Gatwick, printed out my ticket, separated my make up tools that I want to take with me from the rest but kept them out of the suitcase so I can use them tomorrow, put up a note for the cleaner, stood around in my room for almost two hours trying to decide what to take, compared the temperatures between London and Athens a million times on various websites trying to 'imagine' what a difference of 10 degrees might feel like, contemplated heavily on whether I should take high heels and my black dress to take the opportunity to dress up as well as go on holiday but my holiday self won again so I'm not, I sent out an email to the ones that might wonder where I've gone (my programme leader and my administrator) telling them I'm not going to be on email till Monday night, I put out on the chair the clothes that I'm going to wear tomorrow - chosen on the sole criterion of comfortable-ness - no accessories and soft fabrics, threw the remaining ham and mozzarella in the bin and took the trash out, wondered briefly if I know what happiness is and if I can find it where I'm going this time - or is it only defined as happiness when I'm away from it, when it's part of the past or part of the future?<div>Do wish me a good trip. I need one. I'll have a kebab in your honour. Or a greek salad facing the Acropolis. </div><div>Friday evening, I am going to experience <a href="http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=C-w3_LR72bI&eurl=http://video.google.co.uk/videosearch?rlz=1C1GGLS_en-GBGB302&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8&q=dimitris+papaioannou">this</a></div><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-54946931748207170072008-11-24T21:03:00.002+00:002008-11-24T21:04:38.858+00:00Σύντομα. Πολύ σύντομα.Αθήνα έρχομαι. <div>Έρχομαι Αθήνα.</div><div>Σας είπα ότι θα πάω Αθήνα?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-85593355313863607702008-11-20T10:23:00.002+00:002008-11-20T10:26:43.867+00:00SleepI am craving for sleep. Real sleep. Nothing that the magic of Athens can't fix. One does not <em>need</em> sleep there. Έρχομαι.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-78238534104329389772008-11-17T00:14:00.005+00:002008-11-17T00:53:40.448+00:00For a changeToday was a good day. Just in case you actually believed I’m only going to be using this blog to bitch, you are wrong (only 1% of the times wrong, but still).<br /><br />Today was a good day.<br /><br />I’m exhausted, my brain is fried, my body hurts from beating myself at the gym every day during the weekends to make up for the weekdays that are too busy to allow me to go, I’m uncertain about my concluding sentence in the paper I am about to submit to the editor (long past the deadline), I desperately need a dog for the zillions of tons of affection inside of me looking for a way to get out.<br /><br />But today was a good day.<br /><br />The concluding sentence might be crap, but I did finish a paper that’s (almost) publishable. Pilates was great this morning and my body is starting to know and show it. I’m listening to Κατσιμίχες because I got jealous from a friend listening to their song and it makes me happy. My nail polish matches my shoes. The pain of the realization that my support system, my all time favourite people are either gone or going away in a few months, carries with it the sweetness that they’re all faces that will stay in my life forever (WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT, YOU HEAR?). There's a dozen white roses in my fishbowl and my golden frame is ordering me to keep calm and carry on.<br /><br />Most importantly, today was a good day.<br /><br />‘And tomorrow is another day’, the elephant, still in the room, says. And I refuse to look at it in the eyes. And Superman will continue to attack the phd monster and its ugly followers with candy and brownies and hugs. And the monster will not be defeated, but it will be tamed and learn how to love.<br /><br />And hopefully, I’ll soon get a dog.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-67960617320644997662008-11-15T19:09:00.004+00:002008-11-15T19:18:40.859+00:00Tonight<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglC0vEMJ4wkoPImP22uLUA8WUGQXkgm8B_G7Upvl8Zt8987n-1wBXht4fPSQgnbDppdvFgWFVEdYpsgmNnCuoIgt5kaExd0LCGuFU-uEwg1lItzBvqtWhvV33rl6puUbfvBj7I_l-UX8n/s1600-h/grouchy.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268964831630184194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 105px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 139px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglC0vEMJ4wkoPImP22uLUA8WUGQXkgm8B_G7Upvl8Zt8987n-1wBXht4fPSQgnbDppdvFgWFVEdYpsgmNnCuoIgt5kaExd0LCGuFU-uEwg1lItzBvqtWhvV33rl6puUbfvBj7I_l-UX8n/s320/grouchy.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>In case it wasn't clear enough last weekend, here it is again. In English this time, to avoid any possible misunderstandings:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It's official. I hate Saturday nights. I hate them, I hate them.</div><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-76555298081087127022008-11-10T21:24:00.003+00:002008-11-10T21:35:05.682+00:00The glass is emptyBitching time:<br /><br />1. I'm tired of sitting on this library chair for almost 12 hours now (maybe 10, taking out the loo and food breaks).<br /><br />2. I'm tired of regretting for the promises I make to various people for various commitments by opening my big mouth and then regretting doing so when it's time to deliver - when, for example, the editors are breathing down my neck to receive the edited version of a paper that the reviewer tore apart, which I now hate and which I almost completely re-wrote, which means that it's probably going to be published without being properly reviewed. Urgh.<br /><br />3. I am disappointed to realize that my moment of enlightenment from this morning, the realization that I actually figured out my theoretical framework, is something that not only matters s**t to the rest of the world, but something I cannot even EXPLAIN to normal people. Perhaps because it makes no sense really. But, either way, they wouldn't care.<br /><br />4. I'm tired of everything that's fighting for space in my brain - even when I'm sleeping.<br /><br />5. I'm still not tired of this blog - my only solution to bitching uncontrollably and without remorse.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-11052316572189504042008-11-08T20:38:00.003+00:002008-11-08T20:59:08.452+00:00Απόψε<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-t5HIzb3O_FGpyNIJLHV2ox5AXQR2BGxdFYjo8pc9D9Vt0Bh4C214fr1sOVBTRPM8gT7-FsveVoHMFs2iY_RngBEN-cCt5FW6PNKBVIURUpg0N-cCIJIsMPuOUCRseZ0AJ9xDUffWxh9T/s1600-h/grouchy.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266394122626203266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 105px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 139px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-t5HIzb3O_FGpyNIJLHV2ox5AXQR2BGxdFYjo8pc9D9Vt0Bh4C214fr1sOVBTRPM8gT7-FsveVoHMFs2iY_RngBEN-cCt5FW6PNKBVIURUpg0N-cCIJIsMPuOUCRseZ0AJ9xDUffWxh9T/s320/grouchy.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Είναι official. Μου τη δίνουν τα σαββατόβραδα. Τα μισώ, τα μισώ.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-59579039410521256502008-11-05T23:07:00.002+00:002008-11-05T23:09:56.671+00:00The BubbleΤο Λονδίνο είναι μια φούσκα όπου αιωρείται κανείς, μέχρι να τη σπάσει και να επιστρέψει στην πραγματική του ζωή.<br /><br />True?<br /><br />True.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-33823814341223569082008-11-03T21:01:00.005+00:002008-11-03T21:12:01.425+00:00MaltaA couple of you said you liked the picture on this blog and asked me where it's from. Last May I went to Malta for a conference for 5 days - it was a lifetime experience/an ethnographic rich point/a life-changing visit/call it whatever you want. I wrote a long letter on my first (horrible) night there - the lines below are extracted from it:<br /><br /><br /><br />It scares me so much that ill spend more and more nights and days in mediocre hotels all over the world, stressing over unfinished PowerPoint presentations and trying desperately to make myself feel better even though all that really matters is that – again – I'm still a supergirl carrying my suitcase around the world, on my own.. With an extra empty bed.<br /><br /><br /><br />It was not a good trip. But the picture reminds me that I walked there and I walked back and I'm still walking.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-83912411967660794752008-11-03T01:06:00.001+00:002008-11-03T01:07:34.220+00:00Making this a habitSo I have a blog. For two WHOLE days now. Did anything change? Let’s see.<br />My profile apparently has 21 views right now. Only when it hit 18 views did I realize that all 18 were mine – I’m still not sure how to navigate the Blogger (yes, as easy as it might be) so I kept going to my profile to see what else there is to play around. When I first saw 18 views of my profile in less than 24 hours I was thrilled –did I already attract so much interest in the cyberspace? But then, because I’m smart, I tested my hypothesis and I was wrong: I got out and revisited it and everytime I did so, the number (surprise, surprise!) increased. So yea, all 21 views were mine.<br />Now, there isn’t much really – blogs are about writing, so I thought I’d write something. Whatever. Anything. So, to relate to my only other post so far, it’s worth (is it?) making the following points:<br />1. I’m writing in English because I did not (of course, who was I trying to fool?) manage to stay anonymous. Not only did I not stay anonymous, but I’ve pretty much emailed ALL of my friends to tell them about it. Even the ones who don’t read Greek – along with a promise that I’ll also be writing in English. So, this one’s for you my darling non-Greeks and non-Greek Cypriots. However, I will ask you to please not disclose my identity (my multiple identities, to be consistent with my theoretical framework and avoid essentialist thought) in the slightest chance that someone who really, really doesn’t know me gets to read this. That will at least give me the illusion of that other-life that I want to experience, thinking that it might solve all of my problems. I still don’t understand why I don’t just follow the advice by White Stripes to find them where they’re hiding, in the curls of my hair, rip them apart and carry them in a shopping cart…<br />2. My blog has made further impact. Being in the library yesterday, ‘looking’ at my blog (wondering if I really have to be posting stuff for this to work some kind of magic and hoping that maybe I don’t really have to contribute to it, but it will somehow make all my problems disappear - I think I should finally look elsewhere for a solution on those), a non-Greek-reader friend approached me and even though I was very aware that he is NOT able to read my first and only post, I very proudly shared my new life in this other dimension with him. It was a bit tricky trying to explain what ‘oxinia’ means, in Greek, in Cypriot, literally, and metaphorically. Not sure I managed to pass on the meaning. What is meaning after all? I’m not even gonna go there – it’s late and I have an early alarm set already.<br />3. This relates to point 2. So, my non-Greek-non-Greek-Cypriot friend insisted that he wanted to have my blog address. I proudly (but not understanding why) email it to him. A few minutes later, I get an email with my first ever post, translated by Google in English! I found it very interesting to read to be honest, as if I wasn’t the one who wrote it. I still need to get the ‘translator’s’ comments on it. When I forwarded it to another non-Greek-non-Greek-Cypriot friend of mine I even got good feedback on my style. She suggested I write an ‘academic Bridget Jone’s diary’ and she offered to be my editor. Well, it seems that this blog is making much more difference than I would ever expect. And is this just the beginning?<br />4. Now, to make a serious point. I’m thrilled to be flying to Athens at the end of the month. Just thrilled! Right now it’s all I can think about – haven’t been to the city in more than 4 years, since the craziest summer of my life, when I volunteered for the Olympics and spent a month partying non stop. I’m almost still expecting to find the Brazilian fans at Monastiraki and Psirri packed with international crowds and celebrities. Even knowing that I won’t, I can’t WAIT to go.<br />5. I cannot believe that I stayed away from the gym for over 3 years – I’m proud to announce that I’ve been back for a few weeks now and it feels great.<br />6. (MENTAL NOTE: ensure that next posts have some sort of structure, some meaning, some purpose)<br />7. But aren’t blogs just e-diaries? With non-existent readers?<br />8. I’ve used a lot of parentheses in this post – I think that’s a bit tiring.<br />9. I wonder, how strong will the ‘race’ factor be after all this coming Tuesday? Will it allow for the revolution – as described by a BBC’s correspondent (<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/7701877.stm">http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/7701877.stm</a>)? Inshallah.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1352274597420681476.post-4721341943448298692008-10-31T23:57:00.002+00:002008-11-01T00:51:45.785+00:00ΣήμεραΕίπα να δοκιμάσω και το μπλόγκιγκ. Απλά επειδή. Από περιέργεια, λόγω μιας δόσης εγωισμού, επειδή έχω παρατήσει το Φέισμπουκ εδώ και μήνες, αλλά και λόγω μιας επιθυμίας να έχω την εμπειρία ενός τύπου σχιζοφρένειας – πώς είναι άραγε η ζωή ενός μπλόγκερ? Θα καταφέρω να μείνω ανώνυμη ή θα το πω σ’όλους και θα μεταφέρουμε τα θέματα του μπλογκ στο τραπέζι του καφέ και του δείπνου? Ή μήπως εδώ θα κάνω ακριβώς το αντίστροφο? Θα γράψω άραγε για περισσότερες από μερικές μόνο φορές? Θα διαβάσει κανείς οτιδήποτε γράψω? Θα μου αλλάξει τη ζωή (ειρωνικά, ρώτησε χαμογελώντας)? Ξεκινάω αυτό το μπλογκ γιατί έχω κουραστεί. Έχω κουραστεί και έχω ξινίσει και θέλω να το βγάλω προς τα έξω, αλλά όχι πια σ’ αυτούς που με νοιάζονται και μ’ ακουν υπομονετικά χωρίς να παραπονιούνται (τουλάχιστον τις περισσότερες φορές). Ίσως η ψευδαίσθηση του ότι οτιδήποτε μπορεί να νιώθω ή να σκέφτομαι βρίσκεται σε μια διάσταση άλλη, σε μια μορφή, σε ένα άλλο κενό να σηκώσει και να εξανεμίσει έστω και λίγη από την υπερβολική σημασία που δίνω σε πράγματα που μια σύγκριση με τα περισσότερα που συμβαίνουν σε αυτή τη Γη, τα βρίσκει πολύ πολύ πιο ασήμαντα.<br />Είμαι μια κακομαθημένη πριγκίπισσα. Τα έχω όλα. Σημαντικά και τιποτένια, υλικά και συναισθηματικά, κοινωνικά και προσωπικά, προκλητικά, υπαρξιακά και επιφανειακά και όμορφα και γνωστά και ανύπαρκτα και όλα. Και όμως ενοχλούμαι. Και έχω κουραστεί. Με κούρασαν και με κουράζουν, οι μονοτονίες, οι ακαδημίες, οι γενοκτονίες, οι ανίες, οι απορίες και οι αγωνίες. Το να δίνω ή να παίρνω χωρίς να είναι ποτέ η μαθηματική πρόταση εξ<em>ίσωση</em>. Τα φρούτα που αγοράζω σε πλαστικά κουτιά με γεύση υπό το μηδέν. Η μουσική μου. Οι γκόμενοι που βάζουν τη θρησκεία πάνω από τον έρωτα. Το μισοάδειο μου ποτήρι που δε λέει να γεμίσει και ο τρόμος μου ότι θα περάσω τα χρόνια μου παρακολουθώντας το να αδειάζει. Η ανάγκη μου να σε δω ευτυχισμένο και η αδυναμία μου να σε βοηθήσω. Το περπάτημα στα πεζοδρόμια του Λονδίνου με την απουσία της επαφής. Το σιάφλ στο άι-ποντ που σπάνια παίζει από μόνο του αυτό που χρειάζομαι ν’ ακούσω. Η περιοδεία των στρουμφ για τα πενηντάχρονά τους που δεν έκανε σταθμό εδώ. Τα καλώδια που δε συμμαζεύονται. Ο ρατσισμός που διαποτίζει τα πάντα και η αδυναμία μου να τον αγνοήσω. Τα χρήματα. Το ερώτημα αν όντως τελικά ψάχνω, δημιουργώ και βρίσκω δικαιολογίες για να κρατήσω τον εαυτό μου στο υπό και να αποφύγω να κάνω αυτό που πρέπει – ακρασία το είπε κάποιος, που τώρα έχει μεταμορφωθεί σε έναν ελέφαντα τον οποίο αρνούμαι να κοιτάξω στο δωμάτιο. Τα δάκρυα, ακόμα και με μια διαφήμιση του Ομπάμα. Οι ηλικίες. Η αναμονή στα αεροδρόμια. Το ότι συχνά με αναστατώνουν εξίσου οι ανυποχώρητες καταστροφές στην Αφρική και η αγένεια του πωλητή εισιτηρίων στο μετρό. Ίσως γιατί και τα δυο έχουν ως βάση τους την απουσία σεβασμού στον Άλλον. Το ότι ξεκίνησα ένα διδακτορικό με σκοπό να διορθώσω τον κόσμο, αλλά το οποίο επιβεβαιώνει το φόβο ότι το ποτήρι μόνο αδειάζει, έστω κι αν κάποτε είμαστε σε άρνηση.<br />Το μπλογκ αυτό είναι μια προσπάθεια να επικεντρωθώ στο νερό που υπάρχει ακόμα μέσα στο ποτήρι. Δεν ξέρω πώς.<br />Χμ. Νιώθω ήδη καλύτερα. Για να δούμε λοιπόν, υπάρχει κανείς εκεί έξω?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1