eatartdaily

creative writing & photography

Mask of comedy

2017-05-10 13.55.45
When I grew up my father hardly spoke to me which is fine, because he gives everyone, not just me, a hard time. But in my formative years, I needed some affection from my father, which was withheld. Sad. So, instead, I came up with the idea of performance as a way to get love, but still, my father refused to even look at it.  Darlings, I drew, I wrote, I sang, I swayed. I don’t wish to look at this effete boy in my living room. Oh daddy. Why do you love your Famous Grouse more than anything? Through the years I never needed him anyway, I barely thought of him, or spoke of him, so much that in the few instances in which I spoke about my father when asked about it I was genuinely surprised to remember that I had and have a father. Now that I am away from my land at sea like Ulysses with nothing to come home to, I find myself in unusual situations where the universe appears to be asking for my forgiveness for imposing upon me such a cold papa. Yesterday for example, I was hosting for a living like, in a beautiful Victorian dining room, and I received a mature couple from Brisbane, Australia, who fell in love with me, and I with them, as we made lots of quirky, oblique jokes together, laughing and enjoying our acquaintance. I found myself speaking to the man with such a need for any affirmation I had to stop myself. I heard myself laughing as he said that he understood how difficult it was for me to be a brilliant comedian out of place and out of time. I could not believe he opened his mouth and said that. I wanted to hug the man.
After he and his wife left I felt like I had just stepped off a rollercoaster of healing. I apologise for employing a bromide so close to the ending of this true story, but it really felt like I had been served up a tiny apology on the margins, and on the one hand it did not make me feel self-righteous, and on the other hand it is a little of something, but it is too late, I am beyond bitter and jaded now, I am beyond anchor and bow at this turn of time, I am being whipped by great winds that are taking me no where I have ever imagined, nor I ever could. Startled, with rage and wonder, at each real or imagined image, with a respectful audacity which is the only way to come down on what is coming down, so predatorily, on you. Father or not.

Pomegranate

All I ever wanted
was a life of meaning
my life to mean something
in the past I did not feel
meaningful, and my life was
meaningless
maybe I just could not see it
 
I understood that my
senses was the only place to start
so I started to show them a good time
we listen to music
we look at birds
we speak witty sentences
we smell truffle oil, pomegranate, citrus
we taste this side, and elsewhere
 
life is so short
life is so long
it depends on who is living it
this is my life
so to deepen each experience,
to expand it like a child expands reality with a spinning top,
to philosophize it,
distill it,
then throw it all away
seems to be right now the right choice
 
no more cruel voices
no more cursing
no more distraction from the calamity of the self
 
what started with each of us, was creation
and so the only thing that seems sensible to be doing
is creating
I can tell by the ease and harmony of the narrator
always narrating
when I am creating.

My dinner with Kafka

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Desire
Franz Kafka was such a striking looking person. And a completely unique author. I cannot wait to work with him.

Agenda
I write a letter to Franz Kafka. I address it to hell, as a joke, although we both know that having done what he has done has shown us hell, as a path to heaven, and not the other way around. Franz Kafka agrees to work with me, but just for an hour. We can write something together, brief, but, he promises, it will be substantial.

Getting what you wish for
What on earth do I serve Franz Kafka?

Twisted menu
I decide to serve Franz Kafka, nothing German, nothing Jewish, no, I decide to serve him treats from my own country, Cyprus. This decision works. Franz Kafka is impressed with my copper jizve, on which I prepare Turkish coffee, he is pleased with the slices of halloumi I serve with toothpicks, with black olives, and slices of heritage tomatoes. He swoons in a reserved way, as I serve him bowls of home made tahini sauce, and taramasalata, and tzatziki, served with hot pitta bread, and he politely yet absolutely devours all the little bowls of butter beans, pork and lamb souvlaki, that I grilled, the salad with feta that I chopped up, not to mention the honey drizzled baklava, which causes him to shake his head in amusement. I smile, so proud of my own heritage, so in love with my own island, it does not matter that I do not live there anymore, it is in me, and I take it everywhere with me, this playfulness, this jostling, this borderline brusqueness, that is so well intended, it could not be anything but brusqueness, what it means, to me, Christos, to be a Greek-Cypriot, to have to explain to people where Cyprus is, on a daily basis, I don’t mind, geography was not one of my strongest points, anyway, my notion of time and space is governed by things that are not always visible. Thank you for coming, Franz Kafka. Thank you for enjoying all of my food. It means the world to me to have watched you eat, and later, when you are gone, I will clean up after you, and I will cry, I am not ashamed to say it, but I will cry, at the impenetrability of the truth that I will never get to see you again.

What actually happened
Franz Kafka and I met at a mid-point between where he is and where I am. This occurs when a reader reads a book by an author, as I was reading The Burrow, a collection of short stories, by Franz Kafka, on the bus home tonight. An unquantifiable, unclassifiable talent, a genius beyond genius, in a room of his own.

Read more
Let’s visit him, and others, more often.

Never play six notes when three can get your meaning across, or it will be lost

2017-05-24 13.09.17Truth
is often

hidden

under layers
and layers

of milfeulle,
and even there

it is semi-concealed,
so in our hearts,

in our art,

we could be truer
by representing

our art

in the same way,
hidden

under layers and layers
of milfeulle,

and there,
semi-concealed.

Works of art of the invisible

2017-05-16 13.50.27
You love me
more like this,
crystal clear,
clean shaven,
transparent,
unclouded,
surfacing.
You like to see
your marks
lucently,
the shapes
are so realistic,
even when there
are no shapes.

Cherry on top

2017-05-20 13.21.15
Put cherries
in my mind.

It is late,
my ex-boyfriend

is on
another date,

and my one roommate,
isn’t shouting to his phone.

Put cherries
in my mind,

I have kept myself
away from pollutions,

as much as possible,
as a way to ready myself,

for the part I can understand,
the decorative bit.

When a great big hand
reaches down from the sky

and puts cherries
in my mind, as I say,

Put cherries
in my mind.

The cherries
are joy.

The cherries
are poem.

The cherries
are the sands of time

turned to confetti!

 

Taking into consideration a variety of simultaneously experienced coordinates

2017-05-23 15.00.45Stack on the
facts, like plates

on a waiter.
Even the ones with
cracks, especially those
you thought you’d

save for later.
We were

sincere, therefore
we got through another winter.
Daffodils, narcissi, but now the
roses of May, vivid, vibrant, vital.

Red reaches us
in flights across gardens and rooftops.

Every remaining colour and feather returned back to its
origin.
Birds on a wing, or a song gods sing, for the
eyes?

It
comes as no surprise, to realise, what was between the lines.

Had
it not been revealed,
without the pretense
of extracting its central enigma?

Brace
myself, for the correct question.

How beautiful you look tonight,
have I failed again to mention?

I had to say something, anything,
to break the tension.

You are reaching me,
but you seem to be in another dimension.

This can’t be seen, but exists,
and is apprehended beyond my comprehension.

To not comprehend, but to lose myself in it,
will be the only course for my reinvention.

#ManchesterAttacks

To all those clearly unable to deal with the horror in their hearts, and who find it necessary to admonish themselves through the burnings of the lives of the innocent, you will not be successful, you will not win forever, and you will never be forgiven.

Blame

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So interesting, quite
humorous. We could
be fast friends. But I like
the scent of it more.

A friendship, a puddle, a man in heat.
What was needed?
It was replaced.
Where are refunds

available? I’d like the
forty years of my life

back, I’d like to start
over, go back, back in time,

to where it all started
and address the universe

with my
sole concern:

why the same final scene
of me in a room with nothing,
why are the ones I love bleeding
through my fingers,

what do I do when everything
has been done? Laundry
cooking
flowers.

I don’t want to look back,
but you keep turning my head.
I want to go forward,
but I keep tripping.

I can only be half
to blame.
The prunes will
grow on the trees.

Let’s be there
to catch them.
2017-05-14 15.55.25

What’s in a name?

2017-05-20 13.18.54Some girls
you take home to your mother. Other
girls you keep them away from your mother,
since they seem like they can turn her

into a lesbian lady. Cassandra, a friend of mine,
has short blonde hair,
and somewhere,
some guy is missing her.

Maybe three.
She has an androgynous charm.
That works on men who keep at arm
‘s length. What they really felt.

That day in their early adolescence.
She can go anywhere she wants.
But she stays perfectly still.
And calls the world to wait for her.

Not the opposite.
She had travelled, on foot, for long,
to come to this conclusion,
that she must understand that she must remain close

to the source of love’s profusion,
rather than totally try to run away
not only because there is no where to run to
but because legs get tired

and there is not always someone around
to massage your feet. It is of
much mystique, and a little bit too random,
how Cassandra, so young, survives in an exorbitant

like London, without ever asking
her family for cash.
It is because she is more than just a girl.
She is also a cigarette.

That a god keeps in his hidden stash.
Don’t you worry about Cassandra.
Her name ends in αντρα,
The Greek word for man.