Ανάγνωση αποσπασμάτων - (διήγημα "Η Γιγαντιαία Πτώση μιας Βλεφαρίδας")

Beckett, talking

www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0xwE5QNPd0 

GARBAGOLOGY

Tattered gods frozen with fear

forgotten statues

like dead trees

Death is not an atheist

The light has failed

once more

sweat blackened and smoky

Heaven on Earth

they used to say

wishing to change things

by changing themselves

The city’s embryonic devilish dance

reaches a temporary ending

Darkness drips 

Tar taints the last drooping leaves

Silence ironically sustains its glory

preparing itself for another garbage child’s birth

and an innocent other’s death

The rhododendron is ransacked

A new generation of garbage children arises

to revenge the death of a peer

by burning 

by tearing every fabricated hope apart

The matriarchal bin passively watches

recycles itself

and spits a plastic blanket

to cover its sins

but not its newly-born child – the pure product of its filth

Heaven on Earth

they used to dream

wishing to clean all wounds

by purging all souls

It’s almost midnight

The city sleeps – or so it seems

Thousands and thousands of kilometers away

or just around the corner

in dirt and dust

another garbage child is born

another god expires

another scapegoat’s shot

Ignored – not pitied                                                                     

Abandoned

exactly where it shouldn’t     

MI

published in At Large Volume 10 (ART ATTACK international poetry competition 2009, Zagreb, Croatia)

(photo by Yewenyi)                  

14th Biennale 2009 - the short story "The Gigantic Fall of An Eyelash"

www.bjcem.org/dettagli_artista.asp?id_artista=1356&edition=28 

Stefan Segmeister

γαστερόποδο πνευμονοφόρο μαλάκιο (πριν το τελικό editing)

Κάτι σαν το αίνιγμα της Σφίγγας. Τέσσερα τα πόδια, μετά δύο, μετά τρία, μετά...μετά...τίποτα. Μόνο που για εκείνον και για κάθε Κ. τα πράγματα ήταν λίγο διαφορετικά κι αν τον έβλεπε η Σφίγγα να σέρνεται θα χασκογελούσε, μπορεί και να τον λιθοβολούσε, ή όπως συνήθιζε να κάνει – να τον σκότωνε για τη βλασφημία του. Ακούς εκεί να σέρνεται! Πόδια δεν είχε; Τότε δηλαδή που του 'κοψαν τα πόδια και του 'καψαν το σπίτι γιατί έτρεχε; Μόνο 36 χρόνια πέρασαν από τότε. Τι στο καλό... Όλο το αίνιγμα πήγαινε κατά διαόλου! 'Ερπονταν οι άνθρωποι στα λυόμενα σπίτια τους, στους δρόμους με τις λακούβες, στα ανύπαρκτα μέσα μεταφοράς. Η αλήθεια είναι πως κι εκείνος είχε πολύ καιρό να δει κάποιον να πατά γερά στη γη, να ακούει να διαχωρίζονται οι ήχοι από τις πατημασιές του. Τις περισσότερες φορές άκουγε ένα γλύψιμο του πατώματος που θύμιζε στεγνή σφουγγαρίστρα. Οι παραχαιδεμένοι μαθητές κουβαλούσαν τόνους από μελανιασμένα βιβλία στις πλάτες τους, οι εργαζόμενοι τον ξένο όρο workaholism και τη ματαιοδοξία τους, οι γέροι- ετοιμοθάνατοι- τις αναμνήσεις ενός “ένδοξου” παρελθόντος, κι ο φόβος...το φόβο...και δώστου τα πόδια να τρίβονται στα πεζοδρόμια και τους σκληρούς γρανίτες. Καμπουριάζοντας μέρα με τη μέρα όλο και περισσότερο, οι σπονδυλικές στήλες από ανθρώπινες μετατρέπονταν σε κόκκαλα τετραπόδων. Λες και το πάτωμα, το χώμα, η γη τους τράβαγε σαν μαγνήτες προς τα κάτω, πιάνοντας τους από τη μύτη και βυθίζοντας τους στο κενό. Πόσες τσίχλες μετρούσε, πόσες βλέννες και ακαθαρσίες στο μπετόν, πόσα τακούνια κι απεριποίητα νύχια έβλεπε, μικροοργανισμούς, μυρμήγκια, μεγάλα, μικρά. Ουρανό σχεδόν ποτέ. Αυτός ήταν προς τα πάνω κι εκεί τα όντα πετούσαν, δεν καθάριζαν τα σκατά των αδεσπότων με τις σόλες και το δέρμα τους.

Το σακί που κουβαλούσε τα τελευταία χρόνια το είχε αγοράσει από το IKEA για έναν και μοναδικό λόγο - “Χωράει όλη σας τη ζωή!”, ήταν το σλόγκαν της διαφημιστικής καμπάνιας. Εκείνο το διάστημα δεν ένιωθε ιδιαίτερα ζωντανός οπότε το αγόρασε χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη. Ήταν πράγματι ανθεκτικό, καλό για όλες τις χρήσεις, κυκλικό, αδιάβροχο, ατσαλάκωτο, ελαστικό, ελαφρύ, φιλικό προς το περιβάλλον, σε διάφορα χρώματα, μοδάτο. Μπορούσε να μετατραπεί από ένα απλό σακί για ρούχα και αντικείμενα, σε ένα μεγάλο αντίσκηνο για εξορμήσεις στην εξοχή και κατασκηνώσεις, οπότε κουβαλώντας το στον ώμο συχνά ένιωθε πως είχε και ένα σπίτι για ώρα ανάγκης. Ωραίο θα ήταν να μοίραζαν τέτοια 36 χρόνια πριν, σκέφτηκε. Άλλοι τα παράγγελναν από το ίντερνετ αδειάζοντας τις κάρτες τους, άλλοι τα έφερναν από ένα ταξίδι στο εξωτερικό κι ας μην το μαρτυρούσαν σε κανέναν. Τα παραγέμιζαν, τα φούσκωναν κι αυτά μεγενθύνονταν, αποκτούσαν βάρος, λύγιζαν τα σώματα και πρόσταζαν τις πατούσες να γλύφουν ακόμη περισσότερο. Η Σφίγγα, λόγω τεράστιου χάσματος γενεών, δε μπορούσε να το κατανοήσει. Άλλοι έριχναν μέσα φαγητά της μαμάς σε τάπερ, άλλοι υπολογιστές και ακριβά i-pod, άλλοι όλα τα πιο πάνω κι ακόμη περισσότερα. Υπήρχαν κι αυτοί που έκρυβαν μέσα τα πτυσσόμενα στρώματα τους ή και καμιά κρεμάλα για στιγμές απελπισίας. Άλλοι πάλι όπλο για να σκοτώσουν – τόσο χαμηλά είχαν πέσει οι Κ. Επιταγές, συχνά ακάλυπτες, ράβδοι χρυσού, μετοχές εκεί μέσα, φόβ...τρόμος μπας και χαθούν τα πολύτιμα υπάρχοντα, μπας και χαθεί κι η περηφάνια μαζί, η ασφάλεια, το μεγάλο τίποτα. Ο τρόμος παραγέμιζε το σακί κι αυτό βάραινε ρίχνοντας τους στη γη, μετατρέποντας τους και πάλι σε βρέφη, μπουσουλώντας και σαλιαρίζοντας στα πεζοδρόμια. Τόσο, που άφηναν πίσω τους διάφανα, ασημίζοντα ίχνη κι έτσι οι δρόμοι γέμιζαν με ευθείες, λοξές, καμπυλωτές γραμμές, χαράσσοντας ένα χάος.

Κοιτάζοντας τον εαυτό του να αντικατοπτρίζεται στην καλογυαλισμένη βιτρίνα κάποιου καταστήματος είδε το νέο είδος Κ. να εξελίσσεται, το γαστερόποδο πνευμονοφόρο μαλάκιο, σαλιγκάρι ανθρωπόμορφο, να σέρνεται, αφήνοντας γλοιώδη ίχνη, κουβαλώντας όλη του τη ζωή στην πλάτη, τα ψέματα τόσων χρόνων, ένα πιθανό σπίτι σε περίπτωση θεομηνίας, οικογενειακής ή οικονομικής κρίσης.

Τύψεις, σήψεις στα σωθικά.

Στο βάθος της βιτρίνας η εικόνα κάποιου Αγίου να τον κοιτάζει κατάματα. 55 ευρώ. Παραδίπλα ένας δονητής με λέιζερ. Απέναντι, ένα παλιό σύνθημα σε τοίχο.

Λίγα εκατοστά πιο δεξιά, στο πεζοδρόμιο, ένα αληθινό σαλιγκάρι διαλυμένο σε κομμάτια, πιθανότατα από κάποιου την πατούσα ή γόνατο.

Το κέλυφος του θρυμματισμένο. Κανένα ίχνος από αυτό. Λιώμα.

Μόνο κάποια διακριτικά, ασημένια ίχνη να σταματούν στο σημείο...

ΜΙ, February 2010

(untitled)

The moment I sipped my coffee

the sky changed colour

creating unfamiliar shapes

The fish with a man’s face visited me again

In the cup

In the sky

In my head

It said nothing but switched

into a man with the face of a fish

that rushed into the river

I called vein,

soaking in my fluids and sucking

my breasts

Was this the end of it?

I wanted it to end

The man - the fish -the cup

stuck on my stomach,

draining, drilling

life

He

Not it

He

He

Stood before me,

flaming my liver and bones, and said:

“Drink your coffee! And don't wait up for me!”

MI, 2010

PADDLING - music&text experimentation

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3PDs3NxXEY

participation in AVATON Contemporary Music Festival - Ethal Theatre - December 2009

Audio-Visual 'Texts'

PLATFORMS play extracts presented at "Rolling Frame" audio-visual exhibition at Stoa Aeschylus / AM I DEAD? experimental script and short film presented in the 5th Cypriot Short Film Festival

Le petit Chandelier (version 1)

The little chandelier was tired of listening to all those horrible secrets and watching all those naked bodies switching places and corners. It felt as if its pose just wasn’t right. It felt upside down. Not straight. It should’ve been straight. Thus, it would’ve looked like a bird with shiny feathers, not an old and withered bat hanging with its feet stuck on the ceiling.  It would swing from time to time, complaining about its uncomfortable position but nobody would care really. It was just one more lifeless object in the boat’s cabin. Or so they thought. The luxurious chandelier with its beads and precious stones was truly unhappy no matter how decorated and expensive it looked. It often dreamt about being an umbrella with silver dots, flying in the air and looking at things from a different perspective. As if an invisible hand would hold it still but free at the same time. A tiny insect would rest on one of its beads from time to time, enchanted by its dazzling rays of light and transparency. It would keep the little chandelier company and then it would simply disappear as if it never existed. At nights, the moans and noises would spice up the experience. Yet, the lighting would repeatedly burn the poor chandelier’s skin and no matter how hard it would try to heal its wounds, its scars and scratches would stay. Forever. And in the morning, the little chandelier would soothe its pain from the bruises and burnings and it would fall asleep, while thinking about that place they all called heaven, where everything was white and people spoke Spanish. Or so it thought. The night it all happened, the little chandelier was even more tired than usual. It noticed a strange crack on the ceiling and a loosened edge of its structure. The shadows coming from the silhouettes beneath it seemed to reveal a scenario the little chandelier had never thought before. An escape that now looked closer than any other time. The moment was right. There. Somewhere among the sexual positions and the true lies, the chandelier got the chance to take the big plunge and fall. It twisted in the air three times till it looked more like a pigeon than a bat. After electrocuting itself, it softly landed on a naked woman’s frizzy hair. They all thought both the poor chandelier and the young lady were dead. But they weren’t. When they both regained consciousness, the boat had already reached a place where everything was white and everyone spoke Spanish. Just a coincidence or a real game of fate? Leaving all false promises and animalistic instincts behind, the young lady threw her old life in a deserted lifeboat and decided to move on, thanking the rusty but honest chandelier for that. The little chandelier saw the sunlight for the first time, reflecting it on its glassy shapes and spreading it all around in a prismatic way. It seemed as if the light that bounced from bead to bead formed a halo around the young lady’s head, turning her into a maternal, holy figure. The young lady kept the little chandelier and the little chandelier, after some thought, eventually decided to keep the young lady, while they both looked for a different perspective of things in a new, faraway land…

WRITERS' CHAIN PROJECT by Cypriot and International Writers

Published in ARTERI Creative Arts magazine, 2009



Confessions of an Urban Canary

“She wasn’t like that. She really wasn’t. It’s that staring door’s fault. One starless night it chirped as usual. She sliced it open with expressionless joy. It felt no pain. Fake birds feel nothing. The boy’s father appeared with an undernourished shadow behind him. His silhouette struggled to run away from him but couldn’t. For a brief moment, I thought his shadow was actually dragging him and not vice versa. Yet, I’m just worth fifteen euros and a gum-plastic cage, don’t listen to me. He (along with his weaker self) hesitantly whispered something in her right ear. She paused for months. I counted an accidental car crash, the arrest of a pickpocket, sixteen French kisses and two half-shot pigeons, by the time she actually moved. The melted candle on the ash-grey stand seemed more human and animated than her. The night it all happened, she knelt on the floor, tearing her feathers apart, pulling her frizzy hair, biting herself like a wounded vulture. Her eyes released translucent drops like acid rain. The last one nearly crashed on my auburn beak. Its acidity almost burnt a feather’s yielding edge.

I sensed it (and don’t you dare think I have no feelings). Something had been irrevocably lost. I knew what that was like. I had experienced loss before, in ways you could never imagine. I had to adjust my needs to a less impressive bird’s eye view, a minuscule sense of space and a rare form of depression (that of urban flying subjects, objects or whatever one would call a bird like me). The flame of the candle refused to let go, just to keep her company. She forcefully extinguished its glow, shutting it up. I wanted to sing but subjects or objects like me perform in the light, not in the tar-black night. I did pity the ashtray. Dozens of cigarettes scalded each corner of its body. At that very moment of cigarette piling and acid rain flooding, the little boy continued playing with his matchbox collection, arranging each box in line, imitating voiceless train sounds and driving that long passenger train for hours, transported, like her. Wooden sticks moved on and off the wagons, strangers started to sneak in and out of his mother’s house like thieves.

That hatched boy chirps too but in a weird way. Every now and then, his desperate mother spreads her torn wings quite extraordinarily to talk to him, creating shapes like forest trees. The enclosed matchsticks move from one side of the box to the other, drifted sailors, lost in the tropical immensities of an inexistent map. Reminds me of the music leaves make, when the wind caresses their textures and makes them kiss each other like fugitives. The fatherless boy shakes them from time to time, imagining their sound, inviting them to listen to one another. Sometimes, I think I can sob like her. Every single feather of my body becomes a steel needle, invading the pores of my head, making me lose my mind like those tiny cars down there. I envy them from time to time, you know (those two, not the cars). The way they look through and not at each other. It’s as if a primitive form of affection comes to the surface and a coloured aura evaporates in the room, entering my cage and making me feel free again and light, extremely light.

I remember hearing jungle-like screams from the steamy bathroom and noticing some unusually shaped wine-red stains on the fitted carpet. It’s that wooden bird’s fault, letting them in and out all the time, causing damage and producing more and more howling sounds. I never sing when one of those new-fangled men comes in. The marks on the carpet change colour. The volcanic bruises on her body too. Yet, the boy is serene, untouched, lighting up his matches and about to set the drooping curtain on fire but never does, never does. He just continues playing with his matchboxes, mentally pushing himself away from the narrow boundaries of this damp room and taking me further away with him. It took me some time to realize that the boy is different. It took me some time to understand that the boy can neither hear nor speak, possibly the victim of his mother’s dilapidated life. Thank God the boy can’t hear. It’s already midnight. The fake bird will chirp again and a hawk-like man will enter, punctual, as always…”

STAINS, artist's book

A 'microscopic' poetry collection presented at ARTSPACE - "A Book for a Lifetime Exhibition", Nicosia, 2008