Two years after a global pandemic – The new normal is anything but.
After taking an extended hiatus from my daily posts during this pandemic, I’ve slowly come back to establishing a forum for reflecting and discussing the issues, thoughts and ideas that have stuck with me for the past two years. I don’t think I’m alone in the creative conundrum that was born out of these times we are all living in. I’ve made small efforts to ignite thoughts that mattered, ideas that stuck, words that felt right. Now, it’s time. Of course the events that have unfolded since March 2020 are so life changing; they significantly impacted every single part of our lives. The world has been turned upside down and inside out, and I’m grateful to be alive at a time like this.
The past two years have been an immense opportunity for self reflection, global awareness, re-evaluation and re-calibration. In other ways a revelation in grasping a renewed sense of purpose. Dealing with the fear of the unknown, trusting our instincts, understanding what works and what doesn’t in our lives; is a lifelong experiment. The images, feelings and thoughts of the events that shaped those first two weeks of March 2020, felt like tectonic plates were shifting under our feet. My then daily posts felt trivial, and unnecessary in the grand scheme of the survival mode we were globally thrust into. My world became my Brooklyn neighborhood. The mental exhaustion of times we are all living through, had stigmatized any real creative juices from flowing. Growing, moving, changing cities (again), packing up my life in New York, and experimenting with a life that’s new, different and strangely familiar; are some of the things that I will be sharing with you all during the next 27 days.
now, the time has come.
There are too many things that have sparked my attention in the past two years that it seems ripe for the picking.
Join me, and welcome to my stories from the Edge (again)
Metal gods loomed over the skyline, reminding me to be free instead of locked in up in my head. I didn’t know any better. Letting the isolation sink in, it cut to the bone, sapping my very existence. I learned quickly. Pretence isn’t looked upon kindly here. Here you make it because you ate shit for breakfast and it really doesn’t matter what anybody thinks.
“What the FUCK are you looking at!”, she shouts as you quickly avert your gaze, as she hits you with daggers of anger and fear. Imagine how hard you have to become in order to survive this grind and still plant trees of love and understanding, but now they’re rebranding Gotham City into a Monopoly Game. Property moguls eating up land faster than pacman ever could.
You once stood tall, but now.
Game Over. Move over lady this isn’t for you any more. Dark alleyways, dimly lit, covered in the wheat paste dreams of momentary and permanent art gods. The grunting sounds of kitchens working to feed a city that never slept. But now silence. As you hear the footsteps in front of you disappear.
Kindness comes from places you hardly expect. Even though they say no one cares, you get the stare of recognition of common pain. She knows what you’re dealing with as you fight back tears on a Brooklyn bound F train. Get off a stop early to collect yourself and, put on your dark glasses so others don’t see you strain. Suck it up, pull it together. There will be good days and bad days but this place makes a Human out of you with a capital H.
You walk up second avenue, conjuring up images in your head about how you got here in the first place. Will you triumph over your fears, or cower in self defence? Condensed dreams in a flash, sweep by you, bringing you to an intense euphoria as you realize it’s all about to end.
Walk a block up.
Those moments of quaint rarity and clarity bubble up into the Manhattan Skyline. Right across the way, under the PepsiCo Sign, sublime afternoons overlooking the Hudson, moments of chaotic oneness, undone through the blaring sirens of cop cars. Bars overflowing with lonely boys trying to get your attention. “Hey pretty, wanna grab a drink with me?”
Nah I’m good.
I remember how I once stood, alone wondering how this would all turn out.
Fade to black.
Sirens, lure me onto ancient lands that are far more about fiction than fact. The dream is intact even though we are packed in like rats. 5 Million souls and counting, and everyone is in your damn business.
A village, A rock, An ancient ideal now lost in the cement crevices of the mind. We are strangers here. Nomads. Others. Coming and going and finding our way out of the darkness. Slowly trying to prove to every passerby to look up at the skies, instead we limit ourselves to what’s available, attainable and nothing more.
That isn’t my game.
I came here to create change. No matter what. Lingering in the dimly lit passageways of my fatherland now lost in its ugliness and disrepair. People here stare at you as if trying to find the answer to their own insecurities and grief. Knee deep in regrets they never knew they had, they stand tall against the creeping fear mongering and laundering of hope.
I smile gently urging you to invite me to your ceremony. My tears shed in apotheosis of a dream long deferred, but no more. The allure of Athenian mysteries becomes clear, a litany of a city long demolished & rebuild on repeat.
I stand still for a moment to take it all in. The clouds of doubt have dispersed once again, to reveal the softness within.
I’ve decided the let go of New York. My time in the City that helped me grow as a person, a woman and a writer, has now come to a close. I’ve not let go of her yet, and even when I eventually physically leave the city, I will never leave her. She’s been my companion through truly hard times, and through beautifully joyous ones. The stories of the past nine years are coming back to me as I gather them, life morsels, savoured through every memory created in this vast metropolis.
The stories I will continue to tell, are built upon this city of metal, false hope, real struggle and immense courage. She continues to evolve, as I have. The observer and the observed once again merged. Now more strongly than ever before; I look at her slowly disappearing from my rear view mirror as I move decidedly and quietly to the next leg of this writing journey.
She will always be with me, I’ll take her wherever I go In the only way I can, through my writing, my poetry, my spoken word and my commitment. I’m devoted to her in ways I never thought possible and although leaving her may be a foolish errand, New York will push me no matter how tired I am, to build something worthwhile, and something that’s truly mine.
Leaving is never easy. She may not forgive me. I hope she will. My love for her is eternal. She knows me like few cities do. She’s seen me break down in tears in public like all New Yorkers have because let’s be honest it’s a right of passage. You cry yucky tears on the train home from work next to a complete stranger and no one will bother you; Not because they don’t care, but because crying in the subway at 6:00pm on a Tuesday beckons you to the reality that is this city. She’s a bitch but she cares.
I’ll cary her, as she carried me though these tough, enigmatic, wonderfully tragic years of transformation. I will return to her doorstep from time to time, for coffee, a bagel some good conversations and a slap in the face to remind me to stay true to my convictions.
Sometimes the things we planned for are the same things we had no plans for.
March 22, 2020
This past march marked my 3rd annual 27 day writing challenge. The month of March marks a personal turning point, a shift, a place of transition from what was before to what is after, a very introspective, somewhat lonely winter season. March has also become a reminder of a dark time, an anniversary that we never thought we would be reflecting on. Last March, we entered into a contract we thought we would quickly come out of. The authorities said three weeks tops; then a lockdown, a pause in New York, that brought the city to a halt. I spent my 42nd birthday quarantined with my flatmate in Brooklyn. 14 days into a global shut down New York was the most quiet it had EVER been. It was post apocalyptic how silence and New York just don’t mix. My world became the 4 block radius around my apartment. My anual 27 day writing and post challenge was for lack of a better word, challenged. My love of writing however never wavered, I made countless notes, wrote small poems, and elaborated on thoughts. Ideas cropped up in my writing journals, my pen however had better days. I am feeling the urge to share my viewpoint a year on, as I’m entering into my 43rd circle around the sun.
In those early days of the lockdown like pretty much everyone around me, I felt panic and fear that for the first time there was no plausible way out of. There was no explaining or theorizing a way out of it. Patience, writing, meditation, more patience, rinse and repeat. I’ve since blurred the memories from the seismic shifts, big or small and now post aftershocks upon aftershocks, there are times when I’m still in shock. I blink my eyes everyday in gratitude to be alive. March of 2021 seems like a decade and a split second has gone by. The collective and personal thunderstorms that uprooted our lives, have somewhat passed and now we collect what is dear to us and reconnect in ways that we may have never explored before this past year.
This year the challenge continues, beyond the constraints of the 27 days of March. Writing, commentary, poems, thoughts, and discussions are refreshed in a way that goes beyond the limits and constraints of a formula. The bar has risen, the lines have been blurred, and the content will explore the ever changing and shifting world that reveals itself to each and every one of us. I choose to write because it’s a way of making something unique out of something mundane. I choose to share because we’re not alone.
Thanks to all who’ve supported, read, commented so far.
On November 27th 2012, after two grueling years into the Greek financial crisis that showed no end in sight, I made the decision many of my closest friends made and left Athens, for the second time. This time I was part of a new diaspora; the latest chapter of Greeks leaving for something better, but under very different circumstances than the immigrants before us. This exodus was full of already talented, often highly educated people leaving a collapsing economy after what seemed like a lifetime of stability and security that was literally torn from under our feet. There was no external war to escape or massive poverty to quell, yet ultimately Athens was being systematically broken. Her spirit was broken and so was mine, or so I thought. Life in the early 2000’s was really good in Athens and I loved living there. In her heyday during the height of the 2004 Olympic Games, Athens was a really cool place to be. This gamble with our lives and our money, ultimately put a massive financial burden on my generation. The early noughts were some of the best years of my life, until December 2008.
In order to truly know a place, you have to live it
The tsunami of the financial/housing crisis having left the shores of America, came crashing down on Athens in early 2010 and what was America’s problem quickly became ours. People were losing livelihoods, markets were crashing, banks were foreclosing and people were in massive debt. What I had built over 13 years; my home, my career & my relatively comfortable life, was coming to a slow and painful stop. I came to the realization that If I didn’t leave, I would become stuck, and the one place I knew would get me unstuck, was New York. I recall now confiding in an old friend about the feeling of urgency I felt to leave. Being a lover of all things that grow, The roots that once were our anchor to our motherland, now rotting in a place that was being suffocated by bad financial management, crooked politicians, xenophobia, racism and massive uncertainty. Packed along with my books and clothing were many doubts, fears and anger. I wasn’t ready for her then. New York knew more about me than I knew about myself. She kicked my ass and slapped me around, she exposed me, and left me there to fend for myself, and for that I am now grateful to her. It was the beginning of a very arduous and difficult journey. I still had a lot to learn about myself as a person, a woman, a Greek, an American and ultimately a citizen of the world. In New York my project- Aμerikana was born. She came through for me just like The city did.
In the months and years that came and went, I made it my mission to understand this city and it’s rhythms in ways I couldn’t have done at a distance. In order to truly know a place, you have to live it, and the first place that grabbed my heart was the Lower East Side and all the surrounds it. I’m a nostalgia junky. New stuff doesn’t do it for me. I prefer and look for the old over new any day. For me the Lower part of Manhattan is that fix of nostalgia that has kept me here all these years. I love walking through history soaked neighborhoods finding people who’ve lived there all their lives; generations of New Yorkers showing me their city. I longed to speak to those who’ve seen the trends come and go, and still remain true to the streets, the parks, and the blocks that raised them. I love hearing stories of shops now long closed, art scenes now only spoken of as legends of a glorious punk rock past, and smelling the history in the buildings that still stand in the streets that have vanished over time. New York is unique in her demand of loyalty and devotion by it’s residents. She’s not easy to love, but when you do she loves you back in secret ways no tourist or visitor could ever fathom. This year, although one of the hardest and most daunting emotionally and mentally, I’m celebrating my 8th winter, and the start of the 9th year in New York.
Don’t misinterpret my love for naïveté. My relationship with this city has been far from smooth.
She is relentless, resourceful and demanding. She’s a broad, a hustler and a 5 dollar hooker, all in one. She’s a sophisticated woman who can hail a cab with a trucker’s whistle, she’s a skank and a princess at the same time. She’s a handful and she’s not easy to be with, but deep down she’s all heart and all art. I found myself, here. I found out about what I’m really made of here. I found my deepest sorrows and greatest joys here. I found my love for Greece, and Athens grew here. New York is erratic and resourceful. She’s a hustler and in order to truly “make it” here you have to be as well. It’s not romantic. She’s dirty and ugly and will tell you the fucking truth to your face. Here I found my greatest teachers and most influential mentors. There have been many moments I regretted my decision to come here, I though it was a mistake, I thought I was a fool to let go of all that was easy and familiar to come to a place where, nothing of what I had accomplished in Athens meant anything. Yet here I was and quitting wasn’t an option.
The old me peeled away to reveal someone stronger, more aware, more connected and braver than before. An old astrologer friend said something about coming here to go “back to first grade” and learn the lessons about myself, and life I had not absorbed the first go around. The teachers were many, the lessons I was forced to learn at times stifling. The mounting anger and frustration at not understanding what I needed to learn, left me with a chocking feeling. I would have to fight harder for that gulp of air to keep going. There she was, New York, my biggest teacher of all, she knew I would get it eventually.
After what felt like a lifetime, It became clear just like the light shining through the clouds. It all became clear. We are here to understand each other by making a better effort at understanding ourselves. The more I learned about myself the more I was able to understand the “otherness” about me.
Cheers NYC you tough broad. You will survive this as you have survived before. I hope those that truly love you will lift you up like you have them
The little things matter. Saturdays are about the small morsels and the unique little corners of New York. Life here is rushed, frenetic and fast paced. The quiet moments are few, but it you take to notice; this city is just as much about the grand story as the snapshots and little secrets of our lives. Today is all about Saturday.
The crisp air of an early spring has finally arrived in New York. The usual characters are out in my neighborhood in their usual style. The light in the morning sky is just little softer, just a little kinder, yet it’s still too cold to walk out without a heavy coat. I walk to my neighborhood coffee shop, and grab my usual before heading to a client in the East Village. Today seems like the self isolation of the winter is starting to slightly loosen its grip. Kids are dragging their parents to diners in the city and young boys are racing each other down the street. Amidst the insanity of the political, social, and world health turmoils; sits a quiet life that doesn’t stop for anything.
Saturdays have a special ease for me. I let the day unfold, unrushed, and unscripted. Every other day has an early start, a schedule, a task, a job, a time line. Saturdays are open, lazy, and as the springtime comes; perfect for long walks. Taking strolls in New York are the best way to see the city, it’s a city of neighborhoods, and the people who represent them. Morning in my neighborhood is like no other in the city, and afternoon in the East Village, especially on the first sunny warm days of the season are defined by two things; Day drinking and loud conversations.
Walking through the East village is quite possibly one of my favorite things to do in New York. I love this part of the city, it’s rawness, it’s unapologetic New Yorkness, and the more I get to know it, the more I notice the little things, the secrets that this neighborhood slowly reveals. I walked into Tompkins Square Park off of 10th street just as the sun was at it’s peak warmth before giving in to the crisp early evening. The locals, the ones that have always been in the east village, before it became cool for everyone to be there have gathered in the entrance of the park, to share stories, smoke a joint and play chess. Hard faces, with a slight sadness in their eyes, share stories and lingered glances, as spanish is the official language of the square. It’s an unspoken rule, that the old guard owns the park. It’s their place of gathering, their living room, and I would not dream of interrupting them. I sat on a bench, closed my eyes and allowed the sounds to fill the air. Kids running near by, a small food market closing it’s stalls after a long day and the influx of loud young voices of the people leaving the bars near by. I steal a few more moments to listen in on the lively conversations, before I move on to Canal street Market for a quick chinese pancake. The delicate spell is quickly broken after I walk away from the park, I notice the noisiness of the city start to rise in preparation for Saturday Night. I take a few more moments in the cold sun before disappearing into the next subway towards home.
Saturdays are my date with the city days. Daily life, can get in the way of the intimacy needed to sit and savor the moments the little things, the little details that only reveal themselves when the city is allowed to exist without expectations. New York is still stretching out her wings, perched up on a rooftop somewhere observing the landscape before everyone else steals her quiet moment. There is nothing casual about New York life, except on an early saturday morning, after the previous night’s escapades have been cleaned up with the shop owners and the street sweepers prepare her for the tourists and the visitors and the ones who won’t ever see her little hidden gems. Saturday is the day when the city is just for us “locals” to enjoy.
Till tomorrow, by the skin of my teeth and on the eve of a bright Sunday morning. Goodnight and Good luck.
How to explain a complex culture to those who only want to see its post card version.
One of the things I could never quite grasp is the degree of separation between living, growing up and being an Athenian Greek, and the idea of what Greeks are to the majority of the American public. Most will only get to see Greece in the summer, on a all catered vacation or on a cruise, but for me and for most of my fellow countrymen and women, we are inexplicably burdened with the idea others have of us and the deep everyday sadness of being a Greek. To most we are a tourist destination, broken down into easy to digest pieces, for those not really interested in getting the see the full picture of what it means to live in, love, leave, long to return to, and navigate this crazy wonderful and deeply infuriating land. One thing is for certain, we’re far more than just a destination wedding, all expenses paid vacation spot. We are not just Greek Yogurt and Feta and breaking plates and sunsets off a glitzy resort hotel. We don’t use Windex and we don’t all live next to our families. These are stereotypes I’ve often had to fight against and have had some pretty crazy discussions over. Seeing a caricature version of our culture for entertainment; being the only thing most Americans can think to ask me about when I speak to them about Greece really drives me bonkers. I loath My Big Fat Greek Wedding (there I said it)
Being born and raised in Greece, and having grown up in the United States for most of my teenage years; I have been given a unique perspective, and license to sit on the outside looking in. When I was in my 20’s I returned to Athens, determined to reclaim my “Greekness”, because one thing Greeks have always been touchy about is how Greek you really are. I never wanted to feel like an outsider even thought in retrospect I’ve always been one. Instead of being stigmatized by it, I chose to use this outsider status to my advantage, because being on the outside looking in, gave me a competitive advantage to speak about my country through the eyes of a Greek who loves America and an American who will always and forever be in love with every morsel of Greece.
The burden we carry can never be understood by anyone other than a fellow Greek, or in the case of many expat Americans I grew up with (first and foremost my mother) a philhellene. Moving to Greece as a foreigner takes commitment, and a touch of crazy. Who the hell would want to leave their highly organized public service, guaranteed pensions, proper public transport, and clean roads to come life in Athens? Most of the foreign born Greeks I know would never tolerate such a madhouse, but the Americans, Germans, British, Egyptians, Nigerians, Turks, Albanians, French, Italians, Iranians, Lebanese, Israelis I know gave their whole heart to Greece, and quite simply fell in love forever. We know, they know, we don’t have to explain. This deeply routed pain of separation that we feel and the inexplicable frustration with the politics, the ingrained “backwardness”, the disorganization, the instability; that will never change, and quite frankly is something we can’t do without. We are bipolar. Anarchists and anti establishment, at heart with a longing for everything to work just like it does in Europe or the States, and all those countries where Greeks immigrated to from the beginning of time till now. We are also deeply proud, deeply wounded by our identity because it is the same thing that pushes us away and the exact same feeling, like a magnetic force calls us back, no matter how many years we’ve been away.
We crave discord and passion and messiness because life is messy and disorganized. Nothing can be too perfect, because perfect is simply not real. The mainframe of every Greek comes with a fatal flaw, an Achilles heal if you will. Every Greek is equal parts ashamed and equal parts fanatical about our heritage and our nationality. I for one hate the idea of Greek transplants recreating a life outside of Greece that can in no way be as authentic or real, and at the same time dream of the smell of the sea shore near the Saronic Golf and the view from the Temple of Poseidon on a moonlit night. But those things are not in your every day guidebooks and travel blogs because tourists aren’t interested in them. My secret Athens, Mykonos, Santorini, Thessaloniki, Crete, Naxos, Paros, Folegandros, Astypalaia, Chios, Mytilene, Serres, Konitsa, Meteora, Gavdos, Rodos, Chania, Rethymno, Hydra, Spetses, Patmos and the list goes on is in the everyday and uneventful but most importantly in the feeling that when you stop and listen, those places have something to tell you, a unique and heartbreaking story.
She stands tall. Gotham dreams of a place unknown and known. A legacy thrown into turmoil, she breathes.
Her. guts scream.
Her power unseen.
She grapples with the visitors and the takers of her streets.
A queen, taken from her throne and thrown about like a beggar in her own neighborhood.
She stood tall, and she will again. The threading of her story is still in the making. Patterns left unfinished and long forgotten, will rise like a falcon over a clear sky. Triumphant, confronting, scrutinizing our every move.
This lady is still about liberty underneath the layers of depravity. She’s my sanctuary.
Nothing is more iconic and telling of New York life than during the holiday season. Rockefeller center and Macy’s light display, the skating rink in Bryant Park. Landmarks, and points of interest. Many more tourists come during Christmas and New Year’s eve than any other time of year. What I’ve always been drawn to and notice is the other side of the spectrum. Noticing the loneliness, the isolation and the art of the Christmas hustle. What makes this city especially harsh during the holidays; is that they are treated as a commodity, and everyone who does work during them is part of that mechanism.
This year I chose to ( was forced ) spend the holidays in the city. Work kept me here so I used the opportunity to take this unavoidable staycation and treat myself to a little bit of a tourist viewpoint.
New York has two ( at least) worlds; one of opulence and tourist attractions and one of familiar locality. Small local joints, people who know each other and greet you on the street, and an absence of frivolity and pretense.
Real New Yorkers however they might be depicted in movies and television; are a caring, loving people and the heartbeat of this city, and when you get to know them, some of the kindest people you will ever meet. Staying here during the holidays in what seemed an almost empty metropolis, gave me a chance to meet and actually talk to many more people I otherwise would have overlooked. Stay open to possibilities in the year to come, you never know where they will take you.
Πρέπει να χτίσουμε μια υγιή απόσταση από τις αναμνήσεις μας.
Όταν χανόμαστε στην ιστορία του παρελθόντος μας, χάνουμε το νόημα του παρόντος. Ομολογώ πως έχω υπάρξει πολλές φορές θύμα της νοσταλγίας μου. Είτε γιατί αρνούμαι να παραδεχτώ ότι έχω αλλάξει, είτε γιατί αρνούμαι να πιστέψω πως έχουν αλλάξει τα πράγματα γύρω μου. Σε κάθε περίπτωση τρώγοντας μια σφαλιάρα πραγματικότητας επανέρχομαι στο παρόν είτε εύκολα και ανώδυνα είτε με πολύ κόπο και πόνο. ( το δεύτερο για κάποιο λόγο το προτιμώ για λόγους που δε θα αναλύσω τώρα)
Το φετινό μου ταξίδι στην Αθήνα αποδείχθηκε ένα από τα πιο ζόρικα στα 7 χρόνια που μένω στη Νέα Υόρκη. Φέτος έτσι οπως ήρθαν τα πράγματα, δεν έκανα καμία παύση από τις καθημερινες υποχρεώσεις μου ούτε στην Ελλάδα ούτε στην Αμερική. Όσοι με ξέρουν προσωπικά και όσοι άγνωστοι με διαβάζουν εδώ (δεν είναι όχλος αλλά για μένα είναι μια ουσιαστική επαφή) γνωρίζουν ότι επιπλέω μεταξύ Ελλάδας και Αμερικής από τα 13, όταν αποφάσισαν οι γονείς μου να φύγουμε οικογενειακώς από την Αθήνα και να εγκατασταθούμε στα χωριά της Δυτικής Μασαχουσέτης.
Έκτοτε ζω μεταξύ Αθήνας και Νέας Υόρκης με μια ανεξήγητη ευκολία αλλά και την αναμενόμενη δυσφορία που παρουσιάζεται στους Έλληνες που διαλέγουν να ζουν σε δυο εντελως αντίθετες χώρες με αντίθετες νοοτροπίες.
Απο τα 13 έχω κρατήσει και διατηρήσει επαφές με φίλους, συμμαθητές, συνεργάτες, παλιούς εραστές, και οικογένεια με την επιμονή και ευλάβεια που λίγοι θα είχαν την αυτοκυριαρχία να συντηρήσουν. Επιμένω σε αυτό γιατί εμμένω στην ιδέα ότι το παρελθόν μας είναι η κλωστή της ιστορίας μας.
Αφιερώνω χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη χρόνο και ενέργεια στην επικοινωνία εξ αποστάσεως κατά κύριο λόγο γιατί δε θέλω να χάσω την επαφή με το παρελθόν μου. Τα τελευταία χρόνια ομως ( λόγο ηλικίας, ή λόγο εσωτερικης αλλαγής) Η προσαρμογή στα άκρα και η δυσκολία του να κρατήσω μια ισορροπία μεταξύ των αναμνήσεων και της παρούσας κατάστασης εξασθενεί. Άθελα μου και αναγκαστικά, έχω αρχίσει να αφήνω πίσω μου ανθρώπους που δεν ταιριάζουν στην τωρινή μου εικονα.
Κρατούσα επαφές, και φιλίες για χρόνια με ανθρώπους που είχαν ως μόνο κριτήριο για μένα μια παλιά τάξη πραγμάτων χωρίς να λογαριάζουν τις αλλαγές που όλοι μας δεχόμαστε για να μπορέσουμε να εξελιχθούμε και να πάμε μπροστά αντί να αναμασάμε και να ανακυκλώνουμε παλιές ιδέες και καταστάσεις.
Επιστέφοντας στη τωρινή μου βάση στη Νέα Υόρκη, κατάλαβα μετά από μια επίπονη διαδικασία ότι πολλοί ρομαντικοί σαν εμένα αναλώνουν πολύτιμη ενέργεια στη προσπάθεια διατήρησης επικοινωνίας με το παρελθόν τους, με αποτέλεσμα να χάνουν ουσιαστική επαφή με το παρόν. Ο Έκχαρτ Τόλλε τα λέει πολύ καλύτερα από μένα στο βιβλίο του The Power Of Now, για τα παιχνίδια που παίζει ο νους με το παρελθόν μας και τη προσκόλληση μας σε αυτό.
Το παρελθόν σου δίνει μια ταυτότητα και το μέλλον περιέχει μια υπόσχεση σωτηρίας. Και τα δυο είναι ψευδαισθήσεις-
Αυτες οι σκεψεις με περιτριγυρίζουν ενώ κάθομαι στο σαλόνι του πρώτου Νεοϋρκέζικου σπιτιού που ένιωσα για πρώτη φορά (στα 7 χρόνια που μένω σε αυτή τη τρελή πόλη) σα το σπίτι μου.
Ζήστε το τώρα… όλα τα υπόλοιπα είναι χαμένη υπόθεση. Καλό φθινόπωρο σε όλους.
Somber mornings, built in longings, and the sea awaits. Crossings, passages, journeys of time, sublime aromas of a land that is my sacred place. Intoxicating smells of the past coming back to me at last. Long lost destiny starts with just one step, but I’ve been walking for miles and miles and I’m growing tired.
What do you do for yourself they ask. I have a task, herculean at best. There is no rest for my body tonight.
Frightful faces look at me as I smile, they must not have seen joy in a while. Staring in disbelief that someone can break the spell of misery, it’s not a mystery. Listen to my liturgy. Amen
Strange men pause their eyes one me.
Breaking the sanctity of my solidarity.
What the fuck are you looking at…My tongue gets caught in a reaction but I bite it hard.
I close my joy in a box to share with those who give it back.
It’s a rarity in these strange times. To find the sublime in the ordinary and mundane.
The rain keeps falling on the streets of familiarity, my old haunts. They fault me, chase me away.
Yet I return changed.
Memories streaming like the rivers formed by the first fall rain.
Athena is washed clean after a summer of debauchery and tourist delights.
They will soon go as they always do, to leave our land for us to clean up.
Fast forward to a quiet space. Against the race of time. It’s all mine now, this moment. Atonement for my sins. Quietly knocking down my resignation to this abomination this greed. I plant the seed to a new life, walking away from the past like a lion roaming the earth in search for a place to call home.