He didn’t touch anything for three long days, not even water. Doctors spoke of general denial. Lying on his bed, white already like dead, with crossed arms, speechless, with clenched teeth. On the fourth day, he got up, like a ghost, with large eyes, fixated on a point, not scared eyes, rather brotherly and impenetrable; he drank a whole glass of water, wiped his lips and talked to us with a very distant voice yet in a manner clearly informative and impersonal. From time to time, he made an imperceptible gesture as if he was straightening a fine fabric on his knee, a woman’s handkerchief. This movement of his had a strange tenderness, totally different from the tone of his voice.
The atmosphere on the airplane was like the aftermath of a party gone wrong—at which the host had done something embarrassing or insulted esteemed guests. He or she is mortified but defiant, and secretly the other guests have enjoyed the spectacle while publicly shaking their heads and frowning. As the victim of a wrong, Professor Chopyk refused to meet Jennifer’s gaze as she and Volodya shuffled down the aisle to their seats, a few rows removed from the others. It was just as well because she could barely contain her sense of relief at the moment. She was as mortified as the embarrassed host for having drawn so many people into this conspiracy, but she couldn’t help feeling jubilant that it had turned out so well. Just Canada Customs left to hurdle—and that would be far easier. Lona arrived next and settled by the window with a magazine on her lap, looking smug and ignoring them. David was grinning from ear to ear, visibly relieved. Ted appeared nervous and uncomfortable. Hank winked. The twins were oblivious as usual. Maria, just one row over in an aisle seat, gave Jennifer and Volodya the thumbs up. No matter, they had done it—left the Soviet Union. Volodya would be free. She pictured him in Canada listening to live gospel music for the first time—an expression of awe and gratitude on his face. In Vancouver, she would take him to the Hot Jazz Club, an after-hours dive off Broadway, or they would dance together on the sprung floor of the Commodore on a Saturday night. Somehow they would find work—she didn’t expect to be given much gainful employment in the Russian Department after this escapade was over. Maybe she would work in a nightclub—or write a novel and forget about Russia.
When the goddess Habit protects you it makes you bless each small lethargic vegetable since it makes your walk possible on a path without a goal without a starting point since to commence on a path you need to have a goal. The goddess Habit creates the dangerous balance over the everyday void and colors the empty sunsets purple as if by an amateur painter; it does everything with automatic movements that make the days easy and without any secret message. The goddess Habit even orders the breath in and out of the lungs when everything seems normal and only joy is missing. I got used to it, I say and I mean I forget in order to survive I forget the body that is wrapped in ideas and dreams. And behold, the dawn comes to crown my face, ravaged by time, with the miracle of life that the poor tongue can’t name with any other word but light. Yes, goddess Habit I believe in you and I serve you. You too, stay loyal to me until I get tired of you.
I stood at attention and smiled at the cloud’s serene passing over the firmament, and I delved in the meaningful depth of the eternal return, while the soul of man settled on the good and benevolent world and in the meaning of existence hidden in each phase of animate and inanimate life I smiled, and I meditated on my purpose on this Earth, and only one word appeared in front of my eyes, a diaphanous word that warmed my viscera and consciousness: arts the meaning of this word, and its transcendence, was the purposes of my life to excel, to overcome the mediocrity of daily affairs on my climb toward my destined Ithaca
New Day A long time has passed and no one asked me why the paths of loneliness lead everywhere when the dreams gain weight and becomes descending mass of neutrinos we are absent and grope on the presence to change into something deep and unapproachable like the light in the flash of a lightning bolt everything will take place a finger will turn the page behind many coiled realities hides the invisible history of the constant end rivers that flow into other rivers oceans, stoas of other oceans primeval souls climb from pages of books flashing onto the blossom of meanings the vibrating manifestation of the past and the insinuation of the present perhaps are the future’s interchanging plan so, we can reach here oaring in a bubble many inexperienced listening to silence.
That man, who stuttered, wanted to say something but I was in a hurry; he stuttered something up to my door. That man wanted to talk to me and I was in a hurry.
Maybe they were still asleep. Opening the door, she walked cautiously down the hall but picked up her pace when she heard muted voices from the kitchen. Moe and Ken sat at the table, fully dressed and with mugs of coffee in front of them. They turned towards her. “Good morning, kiddo. You had a good long sleep.” Moe jumped to her feet. “Okay, first a cup of fresh coffee, then I’ll make your breakfast.” Tyne glanced from one to the other, trying to read their expressions. But Moe, in spite of dark patches under her eyes, exhibited her old cheerful demeanor. Ken was smiling. “Morning, Tyne,” he said as he got up and pulled a chair out from the table. Tyne hesitated. Did they have something to tell her? Were they acting normal to lessen the shock? Before she allowed herself to sit down and accept the coffee Moe handed her, she had to know. “Have you heard anything?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. Both of them shook their heads, and Ken said, “It’s a little soon. I’m sure they’ll be in touch with us today.” Tyne’s sigh was louder than she expected. “I know, I’m being overanxious.” She sat down across from Ken and stirred cream into her coffee. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I told Bobby and Ronald I’d be back to the see them this morning, at least for a few minutes.” “You’re too late, kiddo,” Moe said as she broke eggs into a bowl. “Aunt Millie left over an hour ago for the hospital. The boys are well looked after. Right now you’re going to have breakfast.” “Thanks Moe, but I’m not really hungry.” Tyne took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think I can eat.” “Nevertheless,” Moe said as she whisked the eggs, “you’re going to try. And I’m going to stand over you until you do.” Tyne had to smile. “Do you realize you’re beginning to sound more and more like Aunt Millie?” In spite of her assertion that she was not hungry, Tyne ate most of the scrambled eggs and toast Moe placed before her…
Newspaper He opened the newspaper under the light of the kitchen he seek to brighten the news of last night’s muggings, break ins, murders. After he took a deep breath knowing he contributed in beautifying the world of this ugly modern city he put the coffee pot on as if he had to go to war again and needed his morning fix
five Twentieth century after zero intellect is rounded dangerously here comes death of every existing artistic style the reign of emotions battles the classic the modern battles the classic furiously the natural observes the deconstruction that has been planted in the newborn-subconscious the classic resists the postmodern Dali embraces Lorca timidly
Five Painters If you were ignorant, you could think they were civil servants. Colorless, at the corner of the restaurant they chit-chat about current affairs. Nothing of their movements or words reveal anything about art. Nothing, other than the smile, I think, and the glance of the oldest one. He just finished, tonight, three hours ago, his most important composition. He senses that it could be the crown achievement of his work now that time is pressing on him. He stays quiet, he only listens. He contemplates the opening night the comments of his peers the people’s simpleminded words. The thorny crown of the critics and later the dissertations, monographs, writings and further down the road a very honorary spot on the museum wall. He contemplates, happy with what he has left behind, that some might imagine his unlimited delight during that night, when he placed his last brushstroke on the canvas. He could explain, with such euphoric euphoria, his intentions and achievements to his friends who would be listening with awe. Intentions and success of the Art, not colorless gossip and banal words that the ignorant always like to repeat.
Manolis Aligizakis 