I take something and place it somewhere else. I don’t know why perhaps I don’t like something; seconds later the cloth; then the paper which screams a whisper when its position is changed. Does this imperceptible sound perhaps expresses discomfort or relief for this new relation of the soulless to infinity? or perhaps the subject longs for its old place? A small imperceptible movement a glance, a spark of light and look, the internal-self springs out and moves freely in the abstract now. Then something as an erotic murmur is heard or a little whining of an unfed dog. matter will act as such, I say before my own silence takes control of me.
and people had already found their shelter and the forgetful ones or late sauntering souls were drenched in a matter of minutes when exposed to the elements. Rain fell in wide bands occasionally very strong as if wanting to cleanse all sins from the souls of sinful men or as if to purify all guilt some people carried in their hearts such was the duty of rain this November evening. While the tempest raged outside the walls of the mausoleum, the children had had their evening meals; George the Cretan cook had prepared bean soup for them merely enough to fill their small stomachs. Marcus as always made sure he was put on kitchen duty, his teachers hadn’t yet smelled his scheme, and soon after all other children left for their sleeping quarters Marcus went to the kitchen where his evening boss, George, allotted to him tonight’s duty: to scape clean two big cauldrons which were used for the soup. The youth, having a perpetual smile on his face, one would say he had planned this kitchen duty, stood by the sink and leaning over the huge vessel he started to scrape and clean which he did bit by bit and stroke after stroke while George supervised making sure the vessel would be spotless for next day’s use. And it came to be, spotless as the supervisor would want it and as Marcus the Indian youth who had a good sense of commitment knew which resulted in him being worthy of his reward: an extra bowlful of bean soup, a slice of bread and a small piece of apple pie. The youth was sitting at his regular kitchen table meant for the cooks and their helpers and relished his reward up to the last morsel; George was observing the youth who was enjoying his pie. Yet he sensed the heaviness weighing on his heart and reflecting in his eyes. “What is it, Marcus? What’s bothering you?”
IV Logos is residing far from the headmaster’s reasoning. The untouched Kore smiles at the breeze when the corn stalk stands firm and blushes while the poet throws his diaphanous love to the four corners of the earth identifying his brightest future. Ecclesia’s leader dresses his thoughts with heavenly perfumes and incenses myriad names and terms for the immovable turned into a commodity. Ape’s mind is always up to a new task and with appropriate fanfare with all required zeal replaces the ancient priestess with a new male code of conduct and the free-spirited became the slave of a malicious system using methods always decreed by the modern shaman.
“Do you like it there?” “No. It’s not where my heart wants to be but it is where I have to be.” “I was in Toronto once. I married Hilu’s father and he was from Ottawa, so I’ve been to Ottawa too.” “What happened?” “I don’t know how you people can live in a place like that. It’s soulless. It’s like people living in caves up in the air. It’s just not human. How is it that someone who isn’t born here, who doesn’t live here, and only spent a few years here, can love this place and these people so much?” “I don’t know,” Ken said. “I don’t know how that happened. We can have a lot of ideas and we can say a lot of things, but the reality is that we don’t know these things. We don’t know the first thing about love – we haven’t a clue. We have all sorts of feelings and all sorts of passions. We call it love and hate, but that’s just a lazy way of expressing something we know nothing about. I think love is something that is lived. It doesn’t have very much to do with the other person although we focus the idea on one person. I think it’s a life lived in a particular way. It encompasses all the things that are in that life and it depends on how that life is lived, whether the invitation to love will be heard and accepted. I don’t think there is any language, including Inuktitut, that truly expresses what that’s all about. The only conclusion I can come to is the one I’ve given you.” Joan let a long silence hang between them. Ken finally asked her again, how she knew this was the place where he had witnessed so much death. “It’s not just you knowing,” he said. “There’s something more concrete to it. This is a specific place where a specific thing happened.” “I know this is the place because my mother knew these people and knows their story and she knows about you,” Joan said. “This was the time of my grandmother, and my grandmother knew you. My grandmother found you very interesting. They called you the quiet Kabluna – the mysterious white man who had the capacity of silence. That’s how I know about you.” “Would it be possible to visit them in Baker Lake?” Ken asked. “Yes.” “Could we visit now?” “They’re away.” “Away?” “Visiting.” “Family and friends?” “Yes – very far away.” “So we can’t go and see them?” “No.”
The Illness of Kleitos Kleitos, a likeable young man, about twenty-three years old with excellent upbringing, with rare Greek knowledge is very sick. The fever found him that has decimated Alexandria this year. The fever found him when he was morally exhausted by sorrow because his lover, a young actor, had stopped loving him or wanting him. He is very sick, and his parents tremble. And an old servant who raised him also trembles for the life of Kleitos. In her terrible worry, she recalls an idol, an idol she worshipped when she was young, before she became a servant in this house, in the house of distinguished Christians and became a Christian. She secretly takes some pancakes, wine and honey. She places them in front of the idol. Whatever part of the prayer she remembers, she chants; ends and middles. The fool does not understand that the Devil won’t care whether or not a Christian heals.
Doubt The young man you expected won’t come tonight. What would you had told him? Why? Let futility vanish sever the unfortunate sprout. Don’t let the endless cunning desire fool your heart a secret sadness flows over this spring evening. Yet you don’t listen to advice enchantment has strong hold on you he’ll never come tonight and tomorrow will turn even more painful. Absence will shine light into his darkened eyes; with reserved ardor a secret grief will kiss his awkward hands that I shall see spread timid in victory sweet as if they can caressing waves to pull me like a pebble into the depth
Campfire Urgent for you to breath enjoy past feats this morning trickling river bed sings with fragmented frames: choice to act or not is twister sucking flat and sharp shapes standing or reclined hypotenuse of route and goal or river bridged by fallen tree horizontal stanza crossed by vertical song momentum swirling plans as campfire smoke ascends to the sky
Toward the End The night guard said he didn’t know. Cars were lined along the shore with their headlights on. The river, lit in some places, flowed fast. The soldier was holding the woman by her hair; the woman was naked. The frogs sang in the night perforated by yellow dots. One by one, we hid behind the trees. We had our watches and waited for our end while we kept a piece of cotton between our teeth. Then, the handsome trumpeter appeared high up in the lit window of the tower next to the escapee with the big flag. Then, nothing was left but a general, iconic friendship, the wiping of the knife on the coat, the planting of the lemon tree in the garden.
Balance Capture of a blue piece from the vastness of the sky to compliment the miracle of a man, or a woman, your task and the word failure doesn’t exist. This balance between the ethereal images, and the grossness of the flesh becomes the link which embarks from the top of your spirit to the tip of your brush, and is displayed on your adoring canvas. The link which ties the depths of your soul to the zenith of your marvels this equilibrium, and your Cretan sun always there, gifting with his rays passion in movement the song of the nightingales endlessness of your glance to the far side of the galaxy. Here the ephemeral becomes infinite. Here the end becomes a starting point. Here the gross turns into abstract. Here the stop point becomes perpetual. Here the ever small becomes Gigantic. Here man becomes Titan. Here your passion becomes medium. Here your flesh turns into spirit. Here your spirit melts into the Godly.
Manolis Aligizakis 