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..."