kostisart
LITERATURE, MAGIC REALISM & SPACE ART
Τρίτη 31 Δεκεμβρίου 2013
Δευτέρα 23 Δεκεμβρίου 2013
GAS STATION
ANGEL
The
light rain that
fell made the
road slippery and
dangerous for the old, black
Buick. But this
wasn’t the reason
that it was
going so slowly.
There was no reason to rush. Everything
was finished.
The only thing was left to do, was
the final part of the ceremony. After all he deserved an honorary epilogue,
since he once used to be the most famous author, full of money, and awards.
He was now coming into the night’s
kingdom, where cold, solitude and darkness prevails.
Welcome.
Welcome.
Visibility was confined, behind and
all around the storeroom. Monstrous and
dumb was standing over imposing behind the old gas station, which now was empty
and deserted.
Silence.
The car pulled over along side the gas pumps. He turned the engine off, opened the glove
box and grabbed the torch and a pair of gloves out of it.
Behind the broken glass of the old
rusty pump, you could just make out the last words of the old sign that
read
“SUPER 12 GALLONS”
He put his gloves on and opened the
door.
With a big effort he pulled out a big
long parcel, wrapped up in plastic, and let it fall on the ground, making a
dull deep and dark sound.
Darkness.
Darkness.
The rain had stopped. Nevertheless it had enough time to turn the
ground into mud. That couldn’t stop him. He took the shovel out of the boot,
grabbed the parcel from one end, and started dragging it, across the pot holes
now full of rainwater, reflecting darkness.
Darkness full of rusty old car parts,
dismantled boxes, thrown out old tyres, with wires and pipes, chopped up
corpses, barrels, sheets of metal and a light.
Lightning.
In the glassy glare of the dead the
lightning was indelible, while they kept on glaring with no interest in participating, from the
stand of a forgotten wisdom.
He stopped asthmatically , breathing the thick septic breeze.
The parcel now tangled up with a
metal sheet.
He could hear his sweat dripping on
the plastic of the parcel, under a moon marking his footsteps, on the road, his
own road, that was nearing the end.
He freed the parcel, dragged it a few
more meters under the glance of the fierce storeroom, and started digging a
hole, big enough to fit all those trusted to him, accompanied with a prayer.
Amen
By the time he dragged the parcel at
the edge of the hole, the moon had long gone. He unzipped it, and emptied the
contents in the arms of the earthen oblivion.
When the first beam of light poured
through the ceiling of the fierce storeroom, he found himself staring into the
hole, now full of manuscripts, postscripts, notes, scattered words, corrections,
and a white page. The moral of a story
he never got around to write.
Emptiness
He grabbed the shovel, filled up the
hole with the earth, and turned around to leave. When he got to the car, the
morning dew was half smiling on the faces of the dead. He threw the gloves and shovel in the back of
the car and started.
The old gas station and the dumb storeroom
were now left far behind, to care for
their dead, while he was coming into the other road, in the opposite direction, where words never catch up with the reigns of
the eternal light.
Σάββατο 21 Δεκεμβρίου 2013
WINDOW AT THE EDGE OF TIME
And it is the wind. The wind that
blows furiously and makes the windows creaking and throbbing in a senseless
dialect.
And it is true that I tried. I tried
every possible way to write the truth. And it’s also true, that I failed once
more.
The ink started pouring. It was
pouring uncontrollably from the slashed veins of my page, into black creeks,
forming small pools on the floor, dark
enough to look inside them and see what the future held. But I don’t care. I
have always liked memories.
Indeed, I have memories I reminisce
at times, evidence that I once existed too. At least the photos can prove that,
although now faded like me.
Sitting back staring at them, every
single one has its own preserving little story. And then I give up on them.
I throw them around, just like I
threw away all the years.
And other times, I am sitting in
front of my creations just like a kid, a crazy inventor, and admire the
magnificence of the perfect failure.
Just like that, I loose myself inside
this crazy celebration of this irrevocable silence.
And
I get lost from this internal
monologue that keeps being reproduced out of control, inside the guts of this place that grows
constantly in a suffocating way all around me.
Until such time, I walk away from everything and approach the
window, which in turn starts telling me its own little story.
In the beginning it starts talking
about the city which spreads all around, the big roads,
the public buildings, the colourful flags that are waving proud in the
balconies, its big imposing monuments, and how over there, at the edge of
town, there is a lake, silent with its stunning azure
colour.
It talks about the tinny old boats
and the fishermen, the shabby old timber huts at the banks of the lake, the
cane that bows in the wind, and the kids running barefoot on the piers.
And then how the plains start rolling
down the valley, with the farmers in the fields, the sheep and further away the
cows.
In the background the tree stands
tall and haughty, with the flowers beneath it.
Along side of it, a little girl with her hollow hands overflowing a sea,
where the milky moon hanging in the afternoon sky, is floating out in the open, and while the wind
blows over to the shore, it washes it out,
and then takes it all back into the open sea.
And it’s true that I tried. I tried every possible way to write the
truth. And once more I failed.
Παρασκευή 22 Νοεμβρίου 2013
White Pages
W H I T E P A G E S
I can imagine it.
I can imagine me.
There, as I am lying dead, myself with my only desire to come back and erase all my traces. Everything I have created everything I have written, or painted. And even everything I said or meant, while things continue on their long journey, as though they haven’t even been experienced by me.
Now I am here, and writing.
I am writing, because I am dead.
At this beach, with the white sand, and piles of sticks, with scattered driftwood, of all sizes laying on it. Further away the sea is pushing carelessly its little waves. In the background the sun, Dazzled, and looking sick. Sunken into cloudy oceans, where they are waving obscured mountain-lines.
The wind is blowing, and every now and again, a narrow strip of light escapes the sky’s dark face and reaches up to here.
The wind is blowing and the sand is whipping my face, but I have stopped listening.
I am simply writing.
The shore is getting quieter by the minute. The light has now gone, and the darkness is slowly coming down from the mountain.
The trees are waving their tallest fine branches, and bidding farewell to daylight, with the old conscience delaying silently, the second last moment, that refuses to face the end of it.
And I am just sitting here, with my back turned against the sea, and a bunch of odd creatures, that have escaped history’s broken door, that has nothing to describe for itself, parading right in front of my own eyes, until they get lost into the white pages I hold in my hands.
And I hold them
And I keep on holding them.
And they are getting more…. And even more.
WHITE PAGES
ΕΝΑΣΤΡΟΣ ΛΟΓΟΣ 2010
Έναστρος Λόγος ( 2010 )ΓΕΡΑΣΜΕΝΗ ΜΙΚΡΗ ΜΟΥ ΙΣΤΟΡΙΑΗ ιστορία μου γέρασε πιά.Είναι γριά παράλυτη.Σε μόνιμη καταστολή εμπνέεταιμε μηχανική υποστήριξησυνδεδεμένη με ορόπου στάζει αντιβιοτικούς στίχους.Μιλάει για την ελπίδα σε συκευασία δώρου,την ομορφιά, τη νιότη, την παντοτινή αγάπηκαι την αλχημική μετατροπή τους σε μόλυβδομ' ένα ρίνισμα λογικής.Η ιστορία μου δεν είναι γριά.Ποτέ δεν ήταν νέα για να γεράσει.Δεν είναι παράλυτη ούτε σε καταστολή.Ποτέ της δεν μιλάει.Δεν την αφορά η ελπίδα, η νιότη, ούτε ηπαντοτινή αγάπη.Κάθεται μόνο και κοιτάζει.Κάθεται πλάι στο μεγάλο μακρόστενο παράθυροαπ' όπου μπορεί να δει το μπλε.Το μπλε που ξεχειλίζει από τις χούφτες τ΄ ουρανού.Το πράσινο που τραγουδάει ξαπλωμένο στο χορτάρι.Το κίτρινο που χορεύει ανάμεσα στα στάχυα.Το κόκκινο που ανθίζει σκαρφαλωμένο στο περβάζι.Και το άσπροΤο άσπρο που περνάει επάνω σ' ενα σύννεφο,δίχως να λογαριάζει.MY OLD LITTLE STORYMy story has now grown old, like a disabled old lady, in a permanentsuppression, inspired, by technical support, hooked up on a drip, drippingverses of antibiotics.It talks about hope, in a package, wrapped up as a present.It talks about the beauty, the youth, the eternal love, and the alchemictransformation, into lead, with a speck of logic.But no my story is not like an old lady. She was never young to get old now.She is not disabled, and neither suppressed. She never speaks, and she isnot concern about hope, youth, or even eternal love.Just sitting there and observes, sitting next to the big long window whereyou can see the blue…The blue that overflows from the sky's hollow hands,The green that sings lying on the grass.The yellow that dances out in the field of wheatThe red that flowers up on the window perchAnd the white…. yes the white, hanging off the clouds with no concerns at all...
ΛΕΥΚΕΣ ΣΕΛΙΔΕΣ 2005
ΣΤΑΘΜΟΣ ΚΕΝΤΡΙΚΟΣ
ΗΜΕΡΑ ΒΡΟΧΕΡΗ
Πυκνά σύννεφα είχαν σκεπάσει τον ουρανό. Έρχονταν βροχή. Οι περισσότεροι άνθρωποι είχαν ταχύνει το βήμα τους. Άλλοι δεν νοιάζονταν.
Ο μικροπωλητής έσπρωξε το καρότσι με τις εφημερίδες και τα περιοδικά κάτω από ένα υπόστεγο. Δίπλα στη βαριά σιδερένια πόρτα του σταθμού. Κι ήταν αυτός ο πιό μεγάλος, ο πιό λαμπρός σε ολόκληρη τη xώρα. Γραμμές πολλές έφευγαν και κατεφεύγαν σ΄ αυτόν. Κόσμος χιλιάδες περνούσε από ΄δω. Κι ένα φως. Φως σκυθρωπό έπνεε από τη γυάλινη σκεπή. Και κατέρεε και σηκώνονταν σα ζαλισμένη σιωπή. Σαν αχλή χλομή που μέσα της έπλεαν βουβές σκιές σέρνοντας πίσω τους δυσκίνητες αποσκευές. Κάποιο τρένο ήρθε και σταμάτησε. Γραμμή τρία. Το ρολόι χτύπησε έξι φορές. Οι πόρτες άνοιξαν και οι πρώτες σταγόνες έπεσαν από τον ουρανό. Κόσμος κατέβηκε πολύς. Κάποιους τους περιμένε μια αγκαλιά. Άλλοι φόραγαν στολές. Είχε ξεσπάσει πόλεμος. Δεν μπορούσε κανείς να μάθει και πολλά. Αυτοί που ήξεραν έλεγαν πως δεν ήταν μακριά. Πως δεν θα αργούσε, θα 'φτανε όπου νάναι μέχρι εδώ. "Ο Θεός δεν θ' αφήσει να συμβεί τέτοιο κακό", είπε η κυρία που κρατούσε ένα αγοράκι από το χέρι κι έκανε το σταυρό της. Κάποιο τρένο ξεκίνησε να φύγει. Γραμμή δώδεκα. Μαμά θα πάρουνε και το μπαμπά? Ο κόσμος χαιρετούσε αυτούς που έμεναν πίσω. Χαμόγελα και συμβουλές, ευχές και προσευχές κι οι στρατιώτες έστεκαν χαμένοι.
Γραμμή εννιά, τέσσερα, δεκαεπτά. Τα μεγάφωνα έβγαζαν ανακοινώσεις, οι εφημερίδες παραρτήματα κι ο μικροπωλητής το ψωμί του. Είχε αρχίσει να βρέχει και δεν ήταν πιά νέος. Οι κινήσεις του ήταν αργές. Ξεχώρισε και τακτοποίησε τα χρήματα στις τσέπες του. Κέρματα δεξιά. Χαρτονομίσματα αριστερά. Ξεπούλησε νωρίς. Δυό τρεις εφημερίδες είχαν μείνει μόνο να κρέμονται. Σκέπασε τα περιοδικά, έκλεισε μέχρι επάνω το μπουφάν κι έπιασε να σπρώχνει το καρότσι. Βγήκε στο δρόμο και προχώρησε μες τη βροχή. Κι έσβηνε πίσω του ο θόρυβος από το σταθμό.
Οι εφημερίδες που είχαν απομείνει κρεμασμένες είχαν μουλιάσει από το νερό και οι πρώτες σελίδες άρχισαν να πέφτουν. Σελίδες λαμπρές. Ένδοξες στιγμές. Αυτή ήταν η ιστορία. Έτσι έλεγαν τα νέα. Σκούπισε το πρόσωπό του και συνέχισε διασχίζοντας έναν από τους κεντρικούς δρόμους της πόλης. Αργά και σταθερά. Συνέχιζε έτσι να προχωράει αφήνοντας πίσω του σελίδες. Σελίδες που συνέχιζαν να πέφτουν παρασέρνοντας μαζί τους τα χρυσά γράμματα της ιστορίας. Μιάς αρχικά μετέωρης και αμήχανης ιστορίας, μέχρι ν' αρχίσει να ταλαντεύεται ολοένα πιο γρήγορα στο ρυθμό ενός αιώνιου εκκρεμούς, ώσπου να παρασυρθεί και τελικά βουλιάξει στο χείμαρο των ορμητικών δακρύων. Κάποιοι διαβάτες έτρεχαν να κρυφτούν κάτω από κάποιο υπόστεγο. Άλλοι δεν νοιάζονταν.
CENTRAL STATION
RAINY DAY
Thick clouds had covered the sky. The rain was approaching.
While most people increased their pace, others didn't care.
The vendor pushed his stroller with his newspapers and magazines under a small tent, next to the heavy iron door of the station. And it was this. The greatest and the most splendid station in the whole country. Many lines started and ended there. Thousands of people would come and go. And a light, a gloomy light hung in the wind from the glass roof. And it faded and then grew bright like a hazy silence. Like a pale mist which within stood mute shadows carrying unwieldy luggage.
A train arrived. Line three. The big clock rang six times. The doors flung open and the first rain drops fell from the sky. Many people rushed out of the train. Some were greeted by hugs. Others wore uniforms. War had broken out. None could find out much about war. The true reasons and the consequences. Those who knew said it wasn't far away. It wouldn't be late. It would be here, soon. "God wouldn't allow such a thing to happen", exclaimed a young lady as she held her child by the hand. Someone made the sign of the cross while something unclear was murmured. A train departed. Line twelve. "Mommy, are they going to take daddy?"
Many people waved their last farewell. Smiles and advise.
Blessings and prayers were shouted. Soldiers stood and watched as the promises dissolved and disappeared into thin air.
Line nine; line four, fourteen and seventeen. Τhe loudspeakers made announcements, the newspapers constantly published new headlines and the vendor earned the bread and milk for his children. He wasn't young anymore. His movements were slow. He separated and then arranged the money in his pockets. Coins on the right . Paper bills on the left. He sold his merchandise early. Two or three newspapers
were left hanging on the rope. He covered the magazines. Buckled his jacket, and began to push his stroller. He walked through the rain. The newspapers that had been left hanging from the rope had been soaked and the front pages had begun to fall off. Illustrious pages. Glorious moments. That was the story. That was the news. Glorious. He wiped his face. And went on crossing one of the city's central roads. A
bright road where victorious marches had taken place long ago.
And then wiped his face again. Αnd went on slowly and steadily. He went on pushing his stroller as the pages fell behind. With the fallen pages drifted the golden letters of history. An impetuous history at first. Then a hovering and puzzled one. And then a wavering history grasped from the iron hand of the eternal pendulum, which drifted and finally sank from the torrent of the unstoppable tears. Some people
had increased their pace, as they looked for a shed to stay under. Others didn't care.
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