the nook

the nook - n. A small corner, alcove, or recess, especially one in a large room. A hidden or secluded spot.

This morning I had a thought - she's sleeping in the same bed as every man I have ever loved! Then I giggled. She was sound asleep and I got up to go to the toilet. Some toothpaste and a drop of eye-cream later I touched my face with my hands. I felt my eyes, my wrinkles and my eyebrows - there's that hair sticking out again. Then I closed my eyes to think. I thought of the nook. The nook is that small, comfortable place between a man's chest and his belly. The enclosed and secure cave of solitude and complete safety that's created by some chest hair and the warm breath of a man. I used to be in the nook. I used to be secure in the nook, breathing comfortably, taking in his scent - a mixture of summer nights' sweat and refreshing deodorant sprinkled with some skin smell. His own!

To put everything in order, I had to retrace my thoughts. Almost like tracing a criminal's steps. I seem to have grown some nose hair. I pluck them out and consider going back to bed to think strategically about my morning early thoughts. Instead the smell of the morning dew draws me to the balcony - it rained last night, everything glistens with droplets of hydrating pearls, the smell of mint travels up the nostrils and suggests a beautiful morning of thoughts. The spoon swirls around my coffee cup and I fall in a pensive state. Reminiscing the times when I used to curl up like a sparrow, the warm feathers of his companion would offer warmth and comfort, I sipped my coffee and allowed the hot liquid to burn my tongue. It was almost pleasurable, my mum shakes her head when I do that. Immediately I traveled to his arms. Any mans' arms. A difficult concept to grasp by most today, a body seeks comfort, it requires to be taken into the deep blue waters of the ocean and left to levitate in serenity. Once there was the professor - his arms were hairy, his breath warm, with a distinct smell of mint. Clear white teeth and an extremity of a smile. His nook was comfortable - warm, security was a standard. Sometimes our bellies would touch and he would tickle me - an after game with increased sensuality and improving care. Then there was the wine maker, more in touch with the earth - his hands roughened by the soil, the earth was his mother and I was the seed of this growing oak tree. A strong yet tender nook - more stable and far more secure than the previous one, it offered me endless evenings of happiness. The way I curled up - I shoved myself forcefully into the nook, safely tucked away into a nest of clouds. La vie en nook... I sought the end of the rainbow and found it in his arms. His chest was hairless, soft and smooth - like the rest of his body. I sensed aromas of cinammon, some aftershave and black vanilla from a well known department store. Those were the nooks...

My mum got up a little while later. I made some coffee for her - I love making her coffee as it springs a smile on her face thats worth a million dollars. I wish i could tell her about the nook - the security it offered me and the emotions that fly around in my head this morning. Her coffee isnt sweet enough - she complains. She always loved her coffee sweet. I always loved my nook warm and secure. What would it be like to tell her about the nook? Has she ever felt the warmth of the nook herself? Would she understand my need for the nook?

I seek the nook. I seek the chest that pumps heartbeats into mine. A pillow stuffed with feathers of a duck, perhaps a pillow of clouds that flow about like the scarf of a fairy. Its great to have your own nook - its almost like a house. I wish there was a bank thats handing out loans to get your own nook. Or perhaps if you had 100 McMeals you could get your own free McNook.

My mint has risen from the soil, its evolved from seeds to plant and it smells nice. Thats what love can do. Summertime in love. We agreed on making some pasta with pesto sauce today. I'll get the tablecloth.

Καληνυχτα Δον Κιχωτη

η πορτα εκλεισε πισω μου με θυμο. Εριξα ενα πουκαμισο στους ωμους και εβγαλα τη σιδερωστρα απο τη ντουλαπα. Πατησα play στο cd player και εβαλα το σιδερο στην πριζα. Στο πισω μερος του μυαλου μου ξερω οτι εχω αργησει, ο ηχος των γυαλινων ηχει στ'αυτια μου νοερα, σχεδον θαμπα. Παει καιρος απο τοτε που το καναμε μαζι, τελευταια φορα, δυο μερες πριν με χωρισεις. Εκει, στο ιδιο ξενοδοχειο, στον ιδιο προθαλαμο, σε παρομοιο χορο γυαλινων, λευκου κρασιου με στομφο και ερυθρο με πολυπλοκοτητα. Το σιδερο δεν θελει να κανει τη δουλεια του - το κοκκινο φωτακι κατω δεξια δεν αναβει. Ριχνω μια ζακετα πανω απο το λευκο πουκαμισο και καμουφλαρω την ατελεια του. Επιλεγω μια μαυρη γραβατα και μεταμφιεζομαι συνειδητα σε Ιταλο μαφιοζο.

"You talking to me...?"

Ταιριαζω με το ολο concept της βραδυας. Ιταλικα κρασια βιολογικης καλλιεργειας - πρωτη παρουσιαση στην Ελλαδα. Μπαινω στο λεωφορειο.

Στο λεωφορειο, κοσμος ποικιλος, κοσμος κουρασμενος. Ενας κομψος κυριος μου ριχνει μια φευγατη ματια και καθως το λεωφορειο ανηφοριζει οι πεζοι τρεχουν δεξια αριστερα. Η νυχτα σκορπιζει τα αστερια της και ο οδηγος βριζει τα νιατα με τις μηχανες τους. Αστους να ζησουν. Μια γιαγια, εχω προσεξει, κοιμαται με το κεφαλι στο τζαμι. Αποψε σε θυμαμαι. Για ολα και για τιποτα. Θα εισαι εκει. Θα σε δω?

Η αιθουσα, απαστραπτουσα. Λαμπυριζει το καθετις και ηχουν ποτηρια, συνομιλιες ευγενικες, καποιοι φελλοι πεταγονται και το αρωματικο λευκο ρεει αφθονο. Εχω αργησει και εσυ εχεις φυγει, εστω δεν εισαι εδω... Η Ε. με συνοδευει και μου προσφερει ενα ποτηρι. Στο τραπεζι πολλα ποτηρια, παραταγμενα σαν στρατιωτες εμφυλιου. Σταγονα σταγονα το κρασι ρεει, νωπο στις θυμησες και εντονο στο αρωμα. Του χθες, του προχθες. Της ημερας που ειπες σ'αγαπω. Η Μ. συνεχιζει ακαθεκτη, "...τωρα στη μυτη..." και δοκιμαζει καινουργια αρωματικα μονοπατια. Παντα αναρωτιομουν πως μυριζει καποιος ενα κρασι. Που βρισκει και πως ανιχνευει ολες αυτες τις γευσεις και αρωματα? Ξηρο δαμασκηνο και βατομουρο, ευγενικο συκο και ρωμαλεο σανδαλοξυλο. Αρωματικο γιασεμι και περηφανο μπαχαρι. Σχεδον ποιοτητες ανθρωπου. Πως διευκρινιζεις τον ανθρωπο? Απο τη μυρωδια? Απο τον ιδρωτα, τα μαλλια, το δερμα. Μπροστα μου ο κος Π. Κυριος, κομψος και συγκεκριμενος που αναλυει τις γευσεις του νεου ερυθρου απο την κεντρικη Ιταλια. Εσυ ακομη δεν εχεις επιστρεψει. Καπου καπνιζεις. Παντα καπνιζες πολυ. Στο ειχα πει, να προσεχεις.

Το τηλεφωνο στο χερι, μαζι με το κολωνατο κρασοποτηρο. Αναρωτιεμαι, το κραταω καλα? Ολοι ρουφανε ευγενικα το αρωμα του πολυπλοκου ερυθρου και συζητανε εκλεπτυσμενα μεταξυ τους αφου φτυσουν στον κουβα. Εγω το λυπαμαι, δεν το φτυνω. Αυτη ειναι ζωη. Αφθονος οινος, να γαργαλαει το λαρυγγι. Σηκωνομαι ξαφνικα. Εκει που αρχισα να το απολαμβανω. Κτυπαει το τηλεφωνο και απαντας απο μακρια. Δεν εισαι εδω? Εισαι εξω στον κηπο. Με παρεα! Μηνυμα εληφθη. Παλι τα στρατιωτακια, αυτη τη φορα να σκαρφαλωνουν στους ωμους μου και να με κεντριζουν με τις ξυφολογχες τους. Ταξιδευω ξανα, στα παλια ονειρα μου. Ειναι εδω, εκεινος που σε πηρε μακρια μου. Ειναι στην αλλη ακρη της αιθουσας. Μαζι σου. Και εσυ δεν εισαι μαζι μου. Ειναι ο κοσμος ολος σε μια γωνια και με παρακολουθει. Με εχουν παρει χαμπαρι. Η μυρωδια του προδωμενου, του πληγωμενου, αυτου που εχει μαθει καλα να κραταει ζωντανη την καρδια του. Η πολυπλοκοτητα και το ρωμαλεο ερυθρο φαινεται να με ζαλιζουν. Η καμερα δεν εστιαζει καλα και ακουω ηχους, ακομα ελπιζω σε κατι. Ενα παραθυρο ανοικτο, καθαρο αερακι να πνεει ρωμαλεα και να συνεπερνει καθε μου αισθηση. Θυμαμαι οσα ειχες πει, τα ακουω στα ονειρα μου. Σηκωνομαι ξανα, αυτη τη φορα σαν απο ηλεκτρισμο. Απολογουμε στην Ε. και αποσυρομαι. Περπαταω εκεινο το μακρυ διαδρομο και μπαινω στο foyer. Μου'ρχεται να τα σπασω. Εχω θυμο και ανασφαλεια γραμμενα στο πουκαμισο μου. Ενα γκρουπ Ιαπωνες χαιρετανε ο ενας τον αλλο και σκυβουν ευγενικα. Ευγενης λαος. Μου θυμιζουν το "Lost in Translation". Ειμαι? Βγαινοντας εξω με προσπερναει μια κυρια με το συνοδο της. Φοραει ενα εξαιρετικα εντονο αρωμα το οποιο με χαστουκιζει καθως περναει απο διπλα μου. Scent of a woman. Η ενος ανδρα.

Τρεχω προς παραλια. Θελω να καπνισω.

Με περιμενουν τα παιδια. Καληνυχτα Δον Κιχωτη...

the art of compromising

In everyday life, when does the art of compromising become compromising?

As i sipped my gin & tonic last night, i realised that there's a variety of compromises. You compromise when your tasteless frapuccino smells and tastes like plastic thats been refined, you compromise with endless lines at a new restaurant downtown when all you want and need is to be "in the arms of an angel" back at home, you also compromise with your boss who's telling you off for something for which you have already warned him and sometimes you compromise with your partner about the trash, the side of bed and condoms. a few drinks and several cigarettes later i got up to go home, left all my change on the table and kissed the girls goodnight. the breeze was crisp and the private clinic right next door seemed like a hip club downtown - shame people have to compromise with their health insurance. a florist across the street was selling off, business wasnt doing so well - he had to compromise his store for a loan. i bought some flowers and walked my tired walk. i yawned - a girl passing by smiled at me as i must have looked very tired and empty. it confuses us when someone smiles at us on the streets - there's this one thing that i love the most - a broad smile, a bright, warm smile from the heart.

Life brings compromise and compromise brings life down.

I choose not to compromise - or at least I try. Yesterday I chose not to compromise with the rudeness of an elder. The sound of the music streaming through my ipod sends pulses of waves to my brain and clarifies the moment.

Later on that night, I chose not to have that second serving of noodles at a restaurant downtown. It was divine and deliciously spicy but I had a choice. Instead I had a coconut milk soup. Yum. People chatted, about bars, waiters and their t-shirts, I opted to talk about wine. N. listened patiently, the guys were achieving flirtatious conversation with each other. I on the hand desired nothing more than a decent conversation, "no strings attached' - thats what its called nowadays. Ringtones were exchanged, the conversation heated up and the noodles stirred in the wok. It was then that i had a thought - back in the age of the rennaissance, a fine young gentleman was obliged by law and good manners to send a card to a fair dame in order to visit. Once, there were dancing cards and you'd ask for permision to dance. These days you grope your way around. A guy from Pakistan appeared from behind the mist in the kitchen. Isnt this a noodle bar? Perhaps they couldnt find a Japanese cook - compromise of the haute cuisine.

a chop, a skip and a bus ride later I got home. Keys turned in the door and I thought of the numerous occasions that you left the house early in the morning. The sound of the keys and then of the elevator. I made some tea and watered my basil plant. It's come back to life, after much care and good soil. I wont compromise. I shant allow others to dictate my lifestyle. I will drink whenever I want and i shall dance like no one's watching. I will sit alone in restaurants and I shall walk along the pier. I shall not compromise my promises.


"...και το ρυθμο της εχω βρει..."

there's nowt as queer as folk

I have been fairly blessed in life.

This is not an attempt to solicit for charity, nor am I embracing my solitude. Its a fact. I was given a free upgrade to first class once - I was travelling to London and fate smiled her Colgate smile at me. Furthermore, I have travelled to cities beyond imagination and have led a full life. A life of excitement, joy, surprises and endless opportunities for which I cannot accept credit. In my student years, there have been people around me, good people, who in their own way have sculpted my personality and have moulded me into the person I am today. Once, when in NYC, i sat fairly close to Heidi Klum in a restaurant and saw Jackson Pollock's art at the Guggenheim. Sometimes I would take long walks in the park and suffer the consequences of endless love and divine glory. In extreme moments of desire I would devour a sticky toffee pudding with some double cream perpetuating the glorious sensation of happy times. "summertime" is still scratching away clumsily on my cd. The breeze is eternally my friend and some other times - at night, when the solitude settles in, the moon envelopes me warmly. Nothing better than a bright full moon. There's nowt as folk to me as the moon.

The salted water on the skin of my toes. some salt from the fish at a forgotten tavern on a small deserted island while i lick my mouth with a thirsty tongue. Should I have a beer with that? Getting salt on my hands was always a treat - it produced childhood memories starring me and my mother. the way i dreamt of having all the fried chicken in the world. How i smiled at the police office every time i crossed the street to my school. Momentarily, I think of the soundtrack of my life: a requiem, perhaps a dollop of patricia kass, jingles of the moon river and sounds of the heart.

there's nowt as queer as folk.

does seeking more entitle you to a better chance in Life? Is every attempt justified and gratified or should one just ask for less so as to be grateful for the outcome, which ever that may be? I feel insane for exhibiting such rude lack of gratitude but I once read that he who dares achieves. people are strange though - unsatisfied creatures, vultures almost of the flesh. I long for more. "I need more sir..."

arms around my chest. there's a bus thats dropping people off on the main road. The number 30. A pair of wet eyes, staring deep into mine when I say "I love you". some flowers and cake on my birthday, perhaps a walk to the near by ice cream shop for some flavoured whipped air when I am low on sugar. a pillow of arms and a heart for a soundtrack. the scent of a man in the bathroom and the crease on his pillow in the morning. Thinking out loud and calling everybody by his name. You! Some aftershave is still lingering in my bathroom cabinet. there's photos of an island from the summer on my shelves. some friends' faces. I want you. I want to be there forever.

can i watch you sleep?

αρχιζω να σε βλεπω αλλιως

ο καφες μου πικρος. εχω κοψει τη ζαχαρη - θελω να χασω κανα κιλο. το αφρογαλα ανασαινει στη γλωσσα μου και απαλυνει τη διψα. το πρωι εφαγα ενα κομματι ψωμι με μπολικο βουτυρο και μαρμελαδα. το σουσαμι ειναι ακομα στο πιατο και λαμπυριζει στον ηλιο. τα παιδια γυρω μου γελανε, με πειραζουν. κο κο κο.... εχουν ολοι απο κατι να πουν αλλα δεν το λενε. σκεφτομαι μηπως ειναι φοβος? ο ανεμος παιρνει καθε μου σκεψη και την σκορπιζει στο απειρο. αναμεικτα το σουσαμι με τις σκεψεις μου. Η κρεμ μπρουλε του Ν και το φραπε του Δ. ενα συνοθυλευμα ανησυχιας και εμπειριας - βλεπω στην πλατεια τα περιστερια που ξεπουπουλιαζονται με μανια. ειμαι ενας συλλεκτης αναμνησεων. μα μονο αυτο μου αξιζει? ειναι λιγο? βαλε μουσικη, χορευοντας να φυγω.

Η Σ με κοιταει και μου ραγιζει την καρδια. Μονο η ματια της ειναι αρκετη για να με καταλαβει και να την καταλαβω. με ξερει? Η φιγουρα της μου ειναι σχεδον μητρικη. ο τροπος που κραταει το πηρουνι. πως μου χαμογελαει.... με κρατουσε αγκαλια της προαλλες και ενιωσα ομρφα. παλι θελω αγκαλια. θελω να νιωσω ομορφα - απο εκεινον. θελω να του μιλησω, να αγγιξω το χερι του και να περιεργαστω τις φλεβες του χεριου του μαζι με καθε κυτταρο που εγκυμονει ποθο και παθος. το δειλινο μας βρηκε και ειναι υπεροχο. το γκαρσονι φερνει γλυκο. θελω να δοκιμασω αλλα εχω σταματησει τη ζαχαρη. το ακριβο μεταξωτο μου προσωπειο βγαινει on stage.

αλλος ενας καφες. με περιμενει δυσκολο βραδυ. μοναχικο. αν με ηξερες λιγο. δεν θα ρωτουσες ποτε το γιατι. δεν θα χανοσουν. καθομαστε διπλα διπλα. θελω να αγγιξουν τα ποδια μας σε μια απεγνωσμενη προσπαθεια να ερθουμε πιο κοντα. ποσο πιο κοντα? ειμαστε διπλα διπλα σαν βιβλια σε ξυλινο ραφακι αλλωστε. υπαρχει χημεια και επικοινωνια αλλα δεν μιλαμε. ισως να ειναι ενταξει ετσι. αυτη η σιωπη ειναι ενταξει γιατι ολα οσα εχω πει ειναι αρκετα. γιατι δεν μπορουν δυο καρδιες να ερθουν πιο κοντα. το παγακι στον καφε γλυστραει. πεφτει στον πατο και σιγοφλερταρει με τους μικρους κοκκους καφε που εχουν εναποθεσει το κορμακι τους για ησυχια στον πατο. το παγακι πλακωνει. η επιθεση του παγου.

κοιταω βαθια μεσα στα ματια του και αναρωτιεμαι πως μυριζουν τα μαλλια του. μου λεει να με παει σπιτι. κανει κρυο και δεν κανει να περπατησω λεει. με προσεχει? θα ηθελα μια αγκαλια. να με κρατησεις λιγο μονο να νιωσω την καρδια σου. στο αυτοκινητο θελω να σου μιλησω αλλα ενας κομπος με σκοτωνει. μονο η μουσικη μου κανει αληθεια. θελω να σου πιασω το χερι και να σου ζητησω να παμε μια βολτα. μονοι. οι δυο μας. θελω να σου σφιξω το χερι. τι με εχει πιασει? ειναι αμηχανια. εδω το'χω να μιλησω. τι ειναι αυτος ο ηχος απο βιολια? θορυβος απο σκουπιδιαρικο - πιθανοτατα η μονη πολη στην ευρωπη με σκουπιδιαρικα στους δρομους το απογευμα. με συνεφερνει λιγο. δεν θελω τωρα πια. φοβος? ή αληθεια? λεω να ανεβεις αλλα θα πας σε μια φιλη. ισως μετα λες και μ'αφηνεις να σε κοιταζω. δεν ξερεις και αυτο που δεν ξερεις δεν μπορει να σε βλαψει. παρε με μαζι σου. σε φιλω.

περασα ενα ομορφο σαββατοκυριακο. αλλη μια κυριακη επεστρεψα στο σπιτι μονος με εφημεριδες. ειχαν τα νεα της ημερας. τα ναυαγια, τις καιρικες αλλαγες, τα νεα του χρηματιστηριου. χλωμο το μελλον. διαδικαστικα και παραμελημενα. οι λεξεις μικρα σουσαμια, σκορπισμενα.

perfect strangers

the weekend was to be spent with 6 other people. a variety, a multi layered group of unconventional 30-somethings. the house was by the beach, yawning lazily under the sun. the garden was beautiful in its colourful splendour and i touched the petunias thankfully. the touch yearning for more than flowers. the porch big, almost spreading into the seafront, welcoming the hungry souls. more butter pecan cookies, some lamb, shavings of parmesan and connaiseurs of trouble. the rites of passage. the inconvinient growing up to be different. coffee was to be taken outdoors. the sun, still blazing even higher, some scents unfamiliar and extreme eagerness to change out of these clothes. A was toying with N. G was mindful of the house chores and S along with M were taking a walk.

the sounds of summer were already touching base with us.

later on that night the unveiling began. having fun with people is excellent. having fun with people who are so different yet so similar is an exciting prosect. there was teasing. some moments of awkwardness and stiffness. we were just beginning to familiarise ourselves with each other. how does M take her coffee? how does G sleep at night and does D snore? the answer is yes by the way.... the windows were thrown open. the coffee was resting in our mugs and some delicious fruit surfaced. ice tea would be a treat right now. i thought of those afternoons in new york. it was never the same, it didnt quite taste the same since. basil with lemon. vanilla and trimmings of jasmin. the night was to be glorious. stars and stars aligned themselves with my hope for a resurrection. the brighter ones overshadowing the little ones. some were fooling around and fell off the sky. i made a wish.

the church was lit up like a birthday cake candle. some were chatting, others were listening to the priest's desperate endeavour with the holy. the old woman in the corner is praying and as i look up at the bells my neck cracks. some unexpected sounds from the altar. a fire starts next to us, judas is to be burnt. scapegoats were always in fashion. these days especially since the mighty blame the poor and vice versa. kids are buzzing around the fire, the priest is furthering his anxiety and some youngsters are flirting. kids today. i sigh.

later on that night dinner was delicious. lamb was served in extreme portions, the red painted eggs were rolling around in the baskets and the wine tickled our tongues. i am sitting across from D. i tell them about my egg. it was in second grade and i bet they wont forget it. when little, you seek for friendship. when older you seek and hope to find companionship. when does one know? when does one stop to pursue this? does it ever come to an end or is this danielle steel novel without an ending? i smoke too much. its not good - i'm nervous. why?

later on that evening we decide to play. play with words. with each other. i learn from this and i enjoy learning. some therapy sessions later and having S conduct and mildly orchestrate the conversation i hit my head on a wall. its like the chinese wall. long and restrictive. there's an attarction. he might not even know. then there's acknowledgement.

"you are creating some memories this weekend...."

what is it about perfect strangers? is anonymity sacred and should therefore be the basis of a common understanding between two souls seeking companionship? I admire his aura, his hands as they wave about. he speaks mildly and gently and then rises to a crescendo like a flower looking towards the sun. he can be loud too. whats loud though is his voice in my head. the sound of his laughter. he teases me and i enjoy that. i smoke too much. i have a sip of my drink. i really shouldnt have had that extra serving of champignons. butterflies or champignons? questions and answers. we play truth or dare. the sound of a chair awakens me. G gets up to go to the toilet. he really has worked hard today. preparing a meal and everything.

all these memories. i feel like a jar of honey. there's a sweet sensation inside. i think it might be showing on the outside. is this me? or is it him? hoping it could be us.

here's to hope
here's to the unexpected