Category Archives: dreams

Mad girls love

I dreamt you up inside my head as Sylvia said and you bewitched me just the same, and

then the world dropped dead, and a bird fell from the sky.

I wanted to kiss you, but I found an urn, filled with the ashes of all our burned hope,

stricken by a terror & vitality greater than my ability to contain it,

I swore I’d hold it as a memorial to the love I would never know.

At 21 my therapist told me that real love for me would likely be impossible,

her words, like a curse haunted my existence.

Who gave her such right? To predict my heart’s abilities based on the fickle readings of a

mercurial mind, as elusive and hard to pin down as a butterfly..

That night I rode out to the prairies, surrounded by marshes and countless miles of isolated nature, where I drank as much alcohol as I could and turned on the carbon monoxide, hoping to forget love as it seemed an invention made solely for torturing the psyches of those whose hearts were wild and wide as the prairie sky, too much for any one body to hold, or any one mind to occupy.

It had to be annihilated.

It survived in spite of the poison. In spite of the toxins,

in spite of the way you withdrew from me that day.

I would find a way to outlive it I told you, I’d be inhuman if I had to, but I’d endure this life of lovelessness.

Then I woke up from a very bad dream, and I was in that place known as the afterlife. People think I still exist here. But I died in the café, where you asked me if I wanted you.

I became 3 years old again. My mom was holding my small hand, she took me on a bus ride, and I carried a small bag filled with all my worldly belongings, (everything that ever mattered in my three year old world,) but when we departed, to my horror, my bag was gone, I forgot it on the bus, and it was never to be found again.

When you asked if I might have you, I felt this way, so small and afraid, thinking I lost my world.

I learned to exist so long without it.

When you sat there in the café, with stars in your eyes, It’s like you were this simple, uncomplicated, child with pure virgin eyes, asking me if I wanted the world back again, only the way you asked it was so humble, and you put this strange accentuation at the end of your sentence, as if it were a question.

This antithetical statement “you will love, in spite of it.”

“You will live for the first time in your life, you will defy modern medicine. You will feel true elation, true joy as it was meant to be felt.”

In my bag there were books in which to colour, and girly things, that’s what I recall. And when you came you brought these to me again. You painted my eyes and gave me perfume, you surrounded me with beauty and endless sweetness.

I became 3 again, and the ladies on the bus who seemed so old to me then, remarked “what an adorable child, she has such deep, dark eyes,” and I hid shyly away from their gaze.

When you offered me a new life, in that simple yet amazing way, that is so you, I cried, and I covered my eyes with sunglasses, but you told me, I didn’t have to hide anymore, then you came home with me, where you “sung me moonstruck, and kissed me quite insane, “ and somehow in the most natural & effortless way, you rearranged the constellations.



Filed under Beauty, Bird, Butterfly, Confessional, dreams, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.


Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.


She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.


Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.


You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.


Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,


swaying under the stars.


Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing


You enter others dreams, a sexy slip screen. When I close my eyes at night, I can hear you scream. You have entered into others without intending to. She tells me her dreams of you. You hold her tight from behind and squeeze the life out of her body, not so hard to do considering how small she is. I’m in love with a masculine mind trapped in the confines of a feminine body, nothing is more alluring than she who being so fragile in physical form, has her true power taken for granted or underestimated, her entire being is a massive understatement, and yet the way she grips your thigh in the dark, as she enters hard and deep, the way her pupils magnify what sliver of moonlight bleeds across your body as you stare down at her thrusting eyes, you think a woman is akin to a wolf and none would imagine the way she is capable of swallowing you alive. Then in the afterglow as she slowly dissolves away into the distance, you feel the remnants of her lingering with you, as though she has marked your body with her scent, to accentuate her territory. She strays but not from others, she strays from her self. This is what it means to love a shadow, her lips are the velvet slowness of a tortured animus. When she kisses you it hurts. It hurts where life begins, it hurts where life ends, but it is the hurt you crave from being enslaved, it is the hurt you beg her in silence to settle. It’s that secret swell of never spoken words, whose expressions die exquisite deaths, relentless deaths, contracting, swelling exasperating deaths, where bite marks and claw marks outline the places you were initiated. She doesn’t ever say it in the light of day, only in dark whispers, and you watch her with this strange mix of terror and desire, as she goes about her daily life, washing dishes, mending clothes, planting seeds that will one day grow into something beautiful. They mistake her for something tame, but you know better, you know better and you know worse and as she talks about the mundane, your mind travels back to dark territory, nothing she says or does is ordinary. You wear a goofy grin, and only when reality slaps you cold and hard across the face, do you realize how stupid you must look, walking around with an invisible leash on your hips, a magnet in between your thighs that draws you to the silver of her. Your friends say you must be whipped. But who are these friends? They are humans. They are human only human, and you are part canine.


Filed under Bondage, Desire, dreams, Enslaved, Erotic, Fantasy, Poem, poetry, travel, writing


Can the lizard crawling out from the wall, refuged in coolness be a transformation of the stone, from which it emerges? Is it possible my heart surges with the voltage to ignite a storm, but not the velocity required to light up a city? With enough electricity it could black out the entirety of our world. Lightning crash of black over vision of future. Apocalypse of heart under glare of sun flare. Or is it merely stillness through a crack, where the perception of feeling jolts us back to the presence of this power, thunderclaps through scorched synapses, fusing where the heart clenches, heavy like the fist of Poseidon? Take the heart out of the equation and there is only the still and cool observation of things that emerge and return, seeking asylum from the vagaries of these moods, the inhale and exhale of cyclic energy repressed in the psyche. What does it mean to miss me? What transformation occurs between head and heart when I hear the succour of your voice in child-like tones, asking if I miss you? What does it mean to miss someone who has curled in the alcove of your most ardent organ? What of the restless reptilian that molted through the heart’s eruption and shapeshifted into the skin of a cold blooded amphibian crawling out from the wall on the balcony, overlooking Eden? Would you know to avoid the temptation, else would all the world turn black again? Would the obsidian shores of Santorini crystalize under the sun, whose bright rays lay buried beneath the blistered basalt of a solidified flow? We might never know more than what draws tide to shore, what causes spark to ignite, what kills the light of our universe, yet the mystery of that most vital organ, remains as arcane as the flint of our gaze through a crack in the wall of eternity.

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Filed under creative, Distance, dreams, Earth, Emotions, Greece, Greek, introspective, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, Self, writing


You tie your laces and pull two faces,
one for the stage, one for social graces.
Your black shirt stained by a silver star,
symbolic of the vertical scar on your wrist, flickering in tandem with your pulse, a passing ideation, a vulgar fascination with love, a holocaust, a permafrost of blood coagulating like strangulating sunflowers in a field of hate. You awake again at 4:48, the world disintegrates, nothing stays in place, it all unravels like knotted lace around your jugular, dangling at the end of fascination, the end of circulation. You see a silver star and follow it, it floods the stage, blinding the audience in awe, there’s a long pause followed by a loud applause. You exit with no memory of the tragedy. A beautiful amnesia drowns you in silence, waves of violence wash over your face. The mask falls and shatters, cutting the crowd from view. If looks could kill, there would be a holocaust in my heart for you.

For Sarah.

I had a dream on July 28/15. I was riding in a bus with a strange girl. She had a dog with her. She told me a story of how the dog once bit her. As she recalled her experience  I stared down at her exposed skin, her chest and arms were covered in scars and needle marks. She told me she just let the dog go on biting her because she didn’t have the strength to stop it. I recently read the complete plays of Sarah Kane, which are very horrific, intense and annihilating, but also poetically brilliant and beautiful. There is a play she wrote called 4:48 Psychosis in which the female character spirals into a psychosis that inevitably results in her suicide. Sarah Kane titled the play based upon a time in her life when she was undergoing immense psychological agony. She kept awaking every morning at 4:48 am. Eventually she lost her battle with depression and hung herself in the King’s College Hospital with her shoe laces.
On the night of the dream I was sleeping with her book above my head. Afterwards I awoke and stared at the neon numbers on the clock, 4:48 glowed eerily through the darkness of my room. I shivered with dread and went back to sleep again. My girlfriend in Greece attended the memorial of
Λευτερηs Βογιατζηs , a remarkably sensitive theatre director who adapted her work for the stage in Athens. His memorial was held in the theatre, his coffin was set up on a stage that had sunflowers rising up from it as was written in Kane’s plays. I watched the service via an online newscast. My girlfriend and her mother looked so morose in the crowd. She told me she had a surreal  dream in which she was in a theatre and she saw Sarah Kane. She went to kiss her and Sarah put her hands in front of her to stop her and said “there’s no point , I can’t give you anything, I’m dead!” It’s so haunting  how these coincidences happen. I don’t believe they are anything less than synchronistic fate, a streaming of the psyche into waking life. The title of the poem was inspired by this dream and also by Sarah Kane’s play called Clean, which was written with the concept of love being like a holocaust.




Filed under Cleansed, Crave, Depression, dreams, Poem, poetry, Suicide


Temporary transmutation, permeable, impermeable, opaque & translucent.
You paint my grey sky with dreams of colour! You alter my landscape irrevocably. It is deathless in it’s flight. Black bird of night and scorpions eyes. Everything changes, nothing dies. You are twilight tearing a hole through my cocoon, I feel I can bloom into white orchids, poison your throat with deep songs, right all the wrongs into music that stains silence like an elixir of the soul. I can be the antidote to make your laughter pure like sunsets over tragic world’s, where careless girls dangle their lifeless hands, mute to this orchestra in my blood. Touch me electric, steel blue currents break my pulse, trigger tears. Colour my lips purple with love that bruises inevitably. I want you in me, want to swim in endless oceans of you.


Filed under Beauty, Bleed, creative, Dedication, Desire, dreams, Emotions, Fantasy, Infatuation, Jealousy, Longing, Love, Poem, Soul, writing


My hands I call patience,
so still they could be mistaken
for statues of hands.

Does the bee get anxious for the flower?

Imprint them in cement on the sidewalk of a big city,
tell them I was here and I waited to touch you.

Encase a star in a golden plaque.

I waited.

I would wait
until they aged and
cracked with loneliness,
like the bee whose wings cease
at the discovery of a rose.

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Filed under Dedication, Desire, dreams, Longing, Love, Poem

Wake me when the world is over

No one to lay next to me, put your hand on my side and tell me do you think I’m going to die? It feels abnormal, where I hurt, but the ultrasound showed nothing, still I worry over the non-pliableness near my ribcage, that foreigner I love trying to break free from the civil unrest in my chest. Maybe the reason it showed nothing is because the bird perches at the threshold, muted; no soundwaves, nothing to hear anymore but the dark murmur of this  undetectable song.Tell me do you think I’ll live this way always, afraid of what’s inside of me,? The blackness that pours out at night when there’s no one there to hold, no one to affirm normalcy or improve my chance of survival. You can’t migrate anywhere when a tumor swell weighs you down. It’s just about how many vials they need to make sure they are doing the job right in killing you. When it’s all said and done, there will be a giant arch over earth; M for Monsanto; 8 billion served. They won’t go out of business until all the bees are dead and the aliens take over, a world that oozes green radioactivity. Then the bird will sing for all to listen, but it will be too late. A world without honey is uninhabitable to humans. I lay here in bed with this malady in my head, and no one to kiss it better, not one sweet soul on earth out of the billions of lonely travelers, At least there’s always dreamland, wake me when the world is over. I don’t want to die alone.

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Filed under Anorexia, Bird, Cancer, Chaos, creative, Death, Depression, dreams, Environment, Genocide, Global Warming is a warning, Harper, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Love, Malady, Monsanto, Mortality, Narrative, Poem, poetry, Swan Song, writing

Her eyes are a dark cave

Her eyes are a dark cave where I gaze deeply at a thousand stars, traveling in progression through the centuries, a written documentary of our souls. On stone walls I carve out these symbols of affection and she interprets my love for her with searching fingers in the night, tracing those arcane lines into light.

We are each in the other seeking an answer to our own being before the sea rises and washes away our poems, etching our memories like fossils on stones, translating our dreams into beautiful beams that pass from the ash of that dusty distance to our present existence.


Filed under Beauty, creative, dreams, Immortal, Journey, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Stars, Time, travel

Chaos Theory

A voice never to be heard. (things absurd.) The giving up of moments into memories, the sacrifice of self into nothingness, like the self was nothing to begin with, and it wasn’t, it is and it is not dependent on mood. But a mood can create & destroy. What was that they told us? First the thought, then the mood, then the action. But what if I was without thought or feeling? What if I was all id, seething along on impulse, impervious to the outcome, recklessly burning the night alive like a dying star? What if that’s all we are? These cellular beams of nothing, creating self from thought & illusion. The play of existence is transitory, so we can opt to live or die, or merge into another self at random, according to our own will, that gets governed by the heart and guided by the soul, which is immortal. Then this body is a choice and so is yours but are we really free or is that also illusory?  We carry our prisons like luggage or occupations, from one destination to the next, deep in our inner cores, where we fear to tread. Freedom is a state of mind they say, so I can be locked away and still fly, or I can roam forever and never feel alive. It doesn’t matter either way. I dreamt we had a long conversation. I dreamt I heard your voice. I dreamt you meant to tell me something. We had met for the first time in the flesh, and there was nothing to be said that couldn’t be expressed by our bodies, so you said hello with a long and fatal kiss and in that same breath I said goodbye to life and death, I was born in you, anew. Because real love makes us lose our vision and real love makes us see things as they are, in a way we were blind to before. All that pollutes us from the past transmutes into a white light of undying purity in which we create each other, rhythmically like planets, aligned to a divine order, that appears to us as chaos.

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Filed under Beauty, Chaos, creative, dreams, Eternity, Freedom, inspirational, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, poetry, Purity, Soul, Stars, Time, travel, writing

Lost in the memory of another

I never told you I spoke about you from the beginning to any new girl that listened. “She’s an inspiration. Read her. See her magnificence!” “But are you sure she’s only a friend?” They asked as they stood in the shadows on the precipice of what could have been but never was. And I laughed. “She’s a province away and miles out of my league,” and they stared at me perplexed as they crossed their legs and ran a brush through their long hair, combing out the dreams that never materialized, like tangled knots of unfulfilled promise. Until one day you vanished like a star, and I stopped speaking. Until the last girl told me she adopted a dog from your hometown and picked a book off a shelf that you recommended to me. Then I was struck dumb and I walked away and left her with no explanation. “She’s a friend from long ago and far away, ” I said, but my reaction was disproportionate with my words, so that all she heard was that I was a girl, lost in the memory of another.


Filed under dreams, Infatuation, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Nostalgia, Poem, writing

Fish out of Water

What cycle of the moon would bring us our doom; two fish washed ashore in a forest.

The tide pool offers us a view of birds, previously hidden, but for those moments we would jump above the surface of the water.

They build nests and create something numinous beyond all seeing.

If only we could grow wings.
If only we could find our way
free from this puddle before the sun rises and dries up our dreams.

“But where then shall we go and what will we behold?” Asked the one fish of the other.

When our sadness flows in streams we will drown in the river of our selves, sink deep into the roots of the trees and then branch out to the sky and swim among the stars.


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Filed under Beauty, Bird, Death, dreams, Drowning, Fairy Tales, Fish, Forest, Freedom, Moon, Poem, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy

Red Ochre

Her hair is stained by the 56th nucleon of an Orion constellation, surrounding a planet that rains pure silver.

Curled into long locks by the graceful fingers of a Jupiterian Queen.

Her eyes are green, like emeralds plucked from the Nile in Egypt.

Her body was formed on an ancient land under the sea, somewhere long ago and far away from me.


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Filed under creative, dreams, Infatuation, inspirational, Longing, Love, Mermaid, Moon, Poem, poetry, Soul, Stars


Can you catch death from an owl, or freedom from a butterfly?

Wisdom & transcendence.

I have walked along the palace walls and witnessed the loneliness of the queen; the things she has seen and been above, and the absence of true love in all the stars we wish upon. Saw princes turn into demons and princesses hide away in dark places, praying to false saviours in the sky.

I have rode trains near ancient remains and felt the sorrow of the broken stone goddesses, who are a testament to the war we wage against all that is different.

I sat with you one winter night and you held my arm tight, trying to catch my pulse. It froze like a piece of glass and lodged into my heart.

Midnight arrives and I skate down the river, to the edge of the city. I stare up at the lights in the sky and wonder if it matters that there’s life on other planets if it’s all the same as this.

When I was twenty I drank a bottle of vodka and disappeared. The truth appeared to be nothing but a blur on the horizon. When I woke up I was sober and nearing forty. I found I had missed nothing. Being awake or asleep, life still carries on in the same way with or without us. We have gravity to blame.

I decided to become an astronaut and float above the world, alone. Out here in the dark no one sees me. I hear the desperate pleas of the lost ones back on earth, crying for something, anything to take it all away. Some pray for little  things; like jobs, children, and marriage. Some pray for bigger things; like freedom, truth and love. Not one of them sees how futile their efforts are. Not one of them cares for the things beyond.

In space you are weightless and mute. You can’t hear the sound of bombs going off in the name of love, because bombs don’t even matter and love is only a word. Nothing can touch you when you are free, not even gravity.


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Filed under Astronaut, creative, Death, Displacement, dreams, Earth, Eternity, Freedom, Gravity, inspirational, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Space, Stars, Time, Tragedy, travel


Tracing circles in a backward motion, creating spirals between the darkness and light. Erasing the lines that connect our hearts, those same lines that separate our bodies. I should have known in the first breath so that I would not need to stifle the last. Your plane is always bound for foreign places, tickets and stopovers, none of which include me in their destination. I was a slave to the clock and I would have worked until my heart stopped beating as long as it brought me to your door. I lay here with an open window on the night, wind blows into an empty room allowing enough air so that I can breathe a breath that belongs to me and me alone. I grieve a million stars. I swallow an entire continent and digest it slow, it comes up in my throat and lingers there, provoking earthquakes, body tremors. I think I’ll lay here swallowing clouds and oceans, I think my veins are the Great lakes that twist into the Atlantic far on the other side and my arms are the great divide between here and there, between this and nothing, I am bleeding currents, I am flooding cities, this is Venice, or the lost Atlantis we will never recover, this is the death of a lover. The meals we won’t share on the terrace overlooking the Acropolis, the amazing sun setting over the island that has forgotten our silhouettes under the tall palms. The ancient pulse of stone and the emergence of night blossoms will never welcome us together anymore. What I am remains on the tracks where the train carried us home, it never finds its way again, it never inhabits the same perfume of our two souls. One is a breeze passing through a station where the other does not exist to feel it. We are light posts on separate streets in different worlds. Sometimes the same girl wanders in our shadow as if she remembers something and then she keeps walking until she forgets to care whether it is dark or light or if the moon even shines anymore, because none of it matters, none of it ever mattered. I once dreamt I bought a ticket and boarded a plane and when I arrived the sign hanging over the city read “Vacant but for our dreams. Empty but for our memories. ” This is life, this is the welcome we all receive at the beginning and end of our journey and this is also what we carry inside us, everywhere we go and with everyone we meet. The same sad urgency of our departure and the unexpected joy of our arrival.

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July 12, 2014 · 7:17 pm

The ancient quest to capture time


When I first set foot on the landscape of Greece, something became more apparent to me than anything I had experienced prior to that time, that something was a profound inner awareness of myself in relation to time, in relation to the past, in particular, that ancient, elusive past of our ancestors. I felt this connection to a spirit of the past, in such a way that was akin to an out of body experience, but instead of being out of my body, in a metaphysical sense, I felt that I had entered my body for the first time. It is difficult to describe, except to say that my sense of awareness became lucid and more keen than I had ever experienced before.I was immediately whisked away to an ethereal world beyond the capaciousness of my mind’s view. I could not have anticipated this level of awareness, which was exceptionally expansive and all-encompassing to me. I had travelled for twenty hours across the world, lost in another realm of consciousness, more commonly known as jet-lag, when I arrived at the home of my Greek friend, immediately she embraced me, and I felt a warmth and loving magnitude, which flowed into me as a limitless stream of love and inspiration. She closed the bedroom door, to leave me in solitude, and I drifted off to sleep, then hours later, as night was descending on the city of Athens, she woke me and invited me to take a walk in the neighborhood of Galatsi. It was nearing the end of April, the air was fresh with the vigour and vitality of spring and a cool breeze blew over us as we walked down the narrow, cobble-stone sidewalk. The scent of jasmine flowers, whose petals open to the vibrations of the moon, and permeate the air with an ambience of melliferous and soft beauty, lay among our path. The lights of the city could be seen below us, a long, steep stretch of wonder, lit up the mountain side, and people were everywhere, promenading on the streets. “Everything here is covered by an imaginary aura, it has its own temperature, it lives in an endless dream, it is flooded by an imperceptible music…”I felt a sudden sense of infatuation, my pupils dilated, the pace of my heart quickened, all of my senses were deeply attuned to my surroundings. There were marble structures and a rustic, earthiness seemed to be etched into the landscape, covering everything with a dark veil of romanticism, but at certain points as the moon shone over us, the veil was lifted, and I saw the world in a way that was mystical, as though an arcane whisper from the past echoed through my soul.

“ it is the Country of the moon; I mean, lit by a dead sun.”wrote Virginia Woolf of Greece.

The Greeks haunted Woolf. Her essay “On Not Knowing Greek” stresses both their aloofness and unfamiliarity and our ignorance of how their minds worked, of how and why their literature was written: as a woman, she found them more primitive, puzzling, and alluring than their legitimate male heirs in Cambridge and Bloomsbury could imagine. Woolf’s essay also conveys a profound sense of intimacy and recognition. Greek worked its way into her imagination, elusive but persistent: “how Greek sticks, darts, eels in & out!” A solid “grounding” gave way to shifting and unbidden moments of insight: “A strange thing-when you come to think of it-this love of Greek, flourishing in such obscurity, distorted, discouraged, yet leaping out, all of a sudden.”


“Times change, years pass
the river of the world clouds over
but I go out on the balcony of a dream..”
~Nikos Gatsos

The Greek concept of time and space is unique.
material value is not afforded to time as much as it is here, it has it’s own essence.

“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.”

This statement by Virginia, on how our minds perceive time, how we process time, space, thought and emotion, is such an accurate depiction. I believe it is particularly true of those who have been through trauma; there is a contrast between one’s experience and one’s interpretation of the experience, a way in which our memory processes the information we receive from our environment and from the events which leap out before us. Take for example, a play; consider the varying aspects from which those involved in the play, conceive it. The director, the actors and the audience are each bound to have similar yet varying concepts of it. The director takes the plot and interprets her own understanding of it, which she conveys to the actors, imprinting her ideas on them. The actors then fit into the roles and embody the characters, while appealing to the audience’s own inference and reaction. There are multiple methods of portrayal and a skilled director knows how to draw on this, with the use of space, time, metaphor, props, stage design, etc. The director and the actors aspire to perfect their technique and talent, in order to capture and convey the pathos of the play in such a way that it becomes a catharsis, this varies depending on the style of direction. The playwright Sarah Kane once wrote that she was attracted to the stage because “theatre has no memory, which makes it the most existential of the arts…I keep coming back in the hope that someone in a darkened room somewhere will show me an image that burns itself into my mind.” The style likened to Kane was known as “in-yer-face” theatre, a method of shocking the audience into reacting, a way of “invading one’s personal space,” thereby delivering a visceral kick to the stomach. Victims of trauma and those with depression experience a numbing of emotions. They become disassociated and desensitized, and it is not unusual for them to seek what can be deemed as “peak” experiences in order to confirm their existence, because in essence life is about feeling and when one ceases feeling, it is as though a terrible shadow covers everything, a fragmented consciousness, a sort of “perpetual equinox,” where time stands still, days, weeks, months, even seasons, no longer retain their significance. Life becomes a series of flashes, a seeking after something which will “burn into our minds,” “theatre has no memory,” and this is a reprieve to one seeking an escape from their memories. When we view life with the sense that all is fleeting and ephemeral, and that our feelings are frozen in time, “the environing subsoil of our embodiment, the bedrock of our being-in-the-world,” gives way to a feeling of displacement (…)

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Filed under creative, dreams, Greek, inspirational, introspective, travel, writing

Woman of the Water

A woman appears on the island, along the shores of the quay, the fishermen see her there each day, disheveled, a scavenger. “They must think me some kind of a vulture. I traveled here ages ago over an incredible distance. I was never anyone of importance, why should it matter now how I wear my hair, how I’m dressed, whether I smile, or if the shimmer is gone from my gaze? The sea is my lover, and the crystal expanse of her liquid beauty embraces me. The silver sand of this land gives me all the treasure I need, she nourishes me on the pieces others refuse to keep. I am the captured, the loved and the discarded, but who would understand such aquatic affections as these?” She journeys by bus to Kini, exiting the ramp, she is greeted by a young boy, enfolded in the arms of a mermaid. Many who see this statue are inspired by its charm, but what they don’t see is the devastating loss, the boy is a phantom, the fantasy of a mother, who refused to let him go when he drifted too far into the depths. It was a wave that caught him and swallowed him under not a sirène of the sea, but the second version is more romantic, so beautiful and enchanting that we create statues to express the pleasure of our dreams. I recall the story of an artist, who spent his entire life sculpting the image of his true love, an altar to the religion of his heart. We want to immortalize that which we admire, in an attempt at possession, but in doing so, we sacrifice the ultimate journey of our freedom, instead we become anchored to the material world, as though the bird song gets plucked from our hearts. I tried to tell her how my gaze was not fixed on any one place, how sometimes in the course of domesticity I felt like a dove, pinned by the throat. It was nothing she could be faulted for, my freedom loving spirit. It was her daily quest for order that led me to a place of frozen chaos. I felt most alive when I made love to her, because then she would relinquish her control. Her body would contract and tighten hard enough to pull me deep inside, and then came the inevitable release. The release is what annihilated me, it left me in a state of ecstasy, it was as though a part of her wanted to show me how powerful she was, while the other left me dangling by her side, as she exhaled and surrendered. She held such immense power and I was at her mercy. I wonder how different is a woman’s uterus from the sea? She held the force of the tide, like she had a direct link to the moon, and her every movement cycled around the turning of the clock, the ticking of my heart, or the throbbing of my inexhaustible passion for her. I set out on a mission to capture her, only now she was my captor, and I was the captive of her heart, the hostage of her body, drowning in a watery cavern on the edge of paradise, that is how I felt each time I stared into the dilated darkness of her eyes.


PHOTO:  Kini Beach Syros: The beach of Kini is close to Kini village, about 9 km from Ermoupoulis town and can be reached by bus.
Kini is a nice beach with pebbled seashore and crystal waters. There are many accommodation options close to the beach as well as fish taverns. Kini is famous for its fresh sea food, which is caught in Kini harbour by the locals. However, Kini beach is mostly known for its sunset, which is considered as the best sunset on Syros island; the sky is painted in a pale orange color and the sun dives slowly into the sea.

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Plaster on the wall- where someone botched their attempt at perfection, that was all I could see, some crooked agency trying to cut corners, but in truth, the further I contemplated it, the more it began to make sense. The lady who was the caretaker of this building was Greek, a woman from Greece, whose family came here in search of a better life when she was just a girl, long before she lost her spirit. In ancient times her ancestors were masters of such creation, their strong but graceful Hellenic hands, carved many a masterpiece from simple white stone, into works of marvellous beauty, but somewhere along the way, hope gets drowned. It took a day like today for me to be able to have seen through her eyes, and to realize the mistake was not a mistake at all. In her frenzy to repair the spot on the wall, and to ready the apartment for new tenants, she had not consciously known what she was creating, for how could she? I have recently returned from my first trip to Greece. I spent two months in her homeland, and she would have loved to have heard all about it. She would have loved to try the many treats I brought back, and to have seen the souvenirs- a rare rock shaped like a tiny temple, found on an island, off the Aegean sea, and honey coloured like amber, with golden remnants of the sun sinking in it; but nature swallowed her under, because somewhere along the way, we all drown, and lately I have been contemplating such a fate. These days had passed with me trying to resurface. I had eaten only the most simple remnants of what could be found in this empty place, and I had not had a cigarette in days, and when I am without a cigarette, my nerves are like wires that get singed from lack of power, lack of fire, lack of vitality. I stared at the spot on the wall in a state of despondency and weakness. It’s interesting how our own suffering can put us in touch with that of the world. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people who never lack anything, but especially those who always have somewhere peaceful to sleep, and something to fill the void inside of them. I have always known lack, but it had been some time since we were acquainted. As I stared at this blotchy mess of plaster, this spot on the wall; an image stood out, an image of a frail woman, holding out her hands, the woman has her head down and her hands out, in a humble gesture, perhaps she is walking in alignment with the spirit, as opposed to the multitude of others here on earth, who are so deeply disconnected. What strikes me most is that she reminds me of a woman I love, a woman I traveled so many miles across the world to be with, and who I am now so distant from, she is frail like her, and her profile is strikingly similar, and isn’t it strange that such beauty can arise out of such a mess, as a careless spot on the wall, and that most people would view it as a mistake, and never see the real beauty in it? It takes suffering to elicit empathy and a keen vision of the world, but it also takes suffering to wake us up to the true depths of beauty, which we are all drowning in.


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Bring me to where my blood moves
Limpid treacherous swimmer
This is the fluid in which we meet each other 
In visions of the dark night
In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone 
In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still.

Wanda Coleman
Stéphane Mallarmé
Sylvia Plath
Edgar Allen Poe
Anne Sexton
Pablo Neruda
Charles Baudelaire

This is my first attempt at a poetic collage, and I’m moved by how these words convey the emotions that were swelling in me when I pieced them together. I like the interplay between movement and stillness. The word limpid in the context of this poem is best defined as; “completely calm; without distress or worry: a limpid, emotionless existence.” At times one’s emotions may reach a peak of ecstasy or joy, only to be followed by a crash, akin to the “wave-strike,” on an otherwise calm shore, then one’s thoughts can be compared to the “unquiet stones,” that get disrupted by the flood of sorrow, these profoundly fragmented breaks in our hearts, likened to chasms. It is during these moments; when the blood rushes deep and overwhelms us, that we most long for stillness. I am also reminded of the writing of Virginia Woolf, when she speaks of these “chasms in the continuity of our ways.” It’s as though we are going through the mundane motion of our prosaic days when something tears us from our perennial roots, (like a reed on the bed of the sea, that can no longer grasp the earth,) and flings us skyward, leaving us to die or adapt. We are like emotional shape-shifters, who travel from the depths to the heights, from the calm to the storm, and all that empty space in between is the limpidity in the grey interim of our existence. It’s like a parasite that gets in our minds and gnaws away at our complacent attachment to life, until part of us detaches from that particular mode of consciousness, and is abruptly awakened to another, unexpected one. Not being able to make this adaptation is tragic. We can be so inculcated by these static roles of existence, that we are like stubborn reeds that refuse to let go; the harder we cling, the more volatile is the force against us. Softness and acceptance, a fluidity, and a willingness to surrender to the shifting seasons, are what give us the most potential to grow. Emotions are like waves, and waves are an accumulation of transitory energy that flows through our thriving souls. “This is the fluid in which we meet eachother,” in the currents of life, that uproot us, this is where we are born anew, in the intermingling of two souls on a journey of the heart, fresh with feeling and hope.

*”Bring me to where my blood moves,” or take me to the heart of my emotions.



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