Ionia Ionia was lost forever in 1922 Ionia, a spring and a mother. Think of the silent deeds that stand by us when we become conscious of the great pain deeds of man and the mountains take form slowly in such a way grievance isn’t for Greece but for history. How often power hidden in the mystery of life turns its face away from the honest works of man before the decay that confronts and spreads like the frozen and parched gust of winter the longing of the Greek and the Turk’s arrogance fade away. Both alike the sun and the cloud that together sink and dissolve in the night in the great night. In Ionia one can meet us you and I and the black headscarf of the grandmother. One can see the made of oak wood boat of Odysseus the vendetta of stony Mani and Markos Mpotsaris’ Laka-Souli the voice that became Logos or the playful waves accentuated by star matter thickening the columns of the temple. In Ionia man tried to create the face of god and at last he created his own thoughtful face.
THE NIGHT led us sometimes to forgetfulness and other times into feverish roses like the love you give up and then what you want to say stands behind heavier than before and the defeated saw another shadow that walked next to him because such sorrow was too much for just one man. Until at dawn, the beggars, since the ancient days engaged to the corners of the streets, reclaimed their rights and we had to endure our everyday history like a different, wider sky.
Nothing can stop my ardour nor my joy, nor my festival. I want to carry as I started to run victorious to the end who can cut the golden thread of my ardour, my joy, my festival? Not the Turk nor any demon will stop me nor war, not even an earthquake, this the plain that fights for my ardour, joy, and festival. The horses dig the soil and chariots wane as if alive and my people await to crown my festival, my ardour and joy.
Aloof Behind the lectern, the accent develops in words spoken differently echoing funny, unheard before eyes roll around, sighs desperately float mid-air unsure of where to land the excessively long moustache covers facial metamorphosis of foreigner who recites a poem, imagery delightedly soft, caressing the buzz of birds in nearby foliage, autumnal lethargy of sun loitering in gusto as the man shivers in his effort to pronounce words in a way that people will understand a futile battle already lost, never to be won his strong accent annuls any brain he might have, been considered an idiot in most groups, a man with such a different way of talking can not be the one, one wants to listen to, period.
No — it’s nothing — I’m not hungry, you hear me? It’s just a little headache. I rather go lay down to put the chin close to the knees — to go to sleep listening to the wind that grinds its teeth outside. These faces look so strange the steps on the sidewalk so strange and the pepper trees of the street also strange — the children get frightened by them — and they pull their hairs without saying any words. They had tied the rope on the trees over there — five men stayed there for three nights and three days like riders of the galloping wind who never got away. The light of the lamp doesn’t recognize our hands — the glass is smoked up, you see; our hands on the table resemble dried up plane-tree leaves they can’t hold a harmonica, can’t say thank you or the day after tomorrow; only when they hold another hand they become hands again — and then the circle created by the light of the lamp resembles a dish with warm food from which two or three or more men can eat and feel content. Look, the evening star is rising. A purple dusk after the rain — the evening star is like the first I love you of a different spring. Look. Freshly washed fence walls — the letters are still visible. Stay by the window for a while yet. Here. We’ll look far away. Over there to the corner of the road where our old spring resembles a green kiosk with many colorful magazines hanging on cloths-pins fluttering in the breeze as if they clap joyously; a kiosk with many cigarette cartons that the workers stop and buy after work, a kiosk with small mirrors where the neighborhood girls stop and pretend that they don’t look into while absentmindedly look at the young worker who passes with his hands in his pockets and as the mirrors hang slanting in a way it gives them the impression that the young worker will fall on them — as they absentmindedly fix the curls of their hair that slides on their foreheads like the light slides on the upper crack of the door that leads to the next room where two lovers kiss. Look, then, the evening star has risen.
WHAT WE LOVE What we love Is not an apple orchard available for everyone, what we love cannot be taken and carried far away, what we love always stays at home.
up six more cents, leaving a good sixty thousand share purchase order on the low end. Eteo turned to Logan with a grin, “They obviously like the stock all of a sudden. Let them buy as much as they like, but keep an eye out for when they look like they are going out in case they plan to do that soon.” Logan just nodded and walked back to his desk. Eteo’s phone continued ringing all day long because of Platinum Properties. Even Mario called again, almost at the end of the trading session, to say how pleased he was that Eteo decided to stay with Platinum for the long run. Eteo asked him to pass by for a minute or two after the market closed and Mario agreed and said he would bring the Nostra Ventures subscription forms with him. Half an hour later, Mario Messini was sitting in Eteo’s office, his face gleaming with satisfaction. He waved the forms at Eteo. “How many copies did you say you needed? I only brought one of each.” “No worries, I’ll make some,” Eteo assured him. “Let me see,” he mused as he studied the forms and thought about who to involve in this. “Two for Robert and three for me, five altogether.” “I have to admit, Eteo, that I liked your aggressive buying at the end of the day,” Mario said. “It up-ticked the stock at once and left it looking very good for tomorrow’s opening.” “What can I say,” replied Eteo, smiling. “I like the company, and I certainly like its trading pattern over the last two weeks. I’ve talked to my people, and most of them will stay. Some even bought some extra stock today, but I should also let you know something. Just between us two. I have your word, right?” Mario nodded yes. “The boss is buying most of it.” “Connors? Hell no! Are you sure?” Eteo told him about his meeting with Bradley Connors while Mario shook his head. “I don’t know whether to take that as good or not,” he finally replied. “I know what you mean, but look at it this way. Even if the boss has a short fuse, as everyone says, at least for the next few days…
The house was filled with friends who suddenly came; they seemed to be joyous seen from over the railings. They were a big bunch. We even brought the kitchen chairs with the holes in their middle that we could all fit together in the balcony. I took an old stool. They were so many friends we all got mixed together, we laughed, joked. None of us had any money. Suddenly the conversation turned serious — the tiles were still warm in the sunshine. Then, suddenly, I felt that we could separate we could go away to the four corners of the globe. And I saw that even if I delayed that moment it could soon arrive.
what she had been through since four o’clock that afternoon the condition of the interior of the house had afforded the most welcome relief she could imagine. Ben did not look up so she spoke above the voice on the radio. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I retire early, Ben, but I’m extremely weary.” He nodded. “Be turning in myself soon.” “Very well. Good night.” He looked up then and smiled briefly. “G’night.” In the bedroom she closed the door firmly behind her. There was no key in the lock. After a moment’s hesitation she carried the chair from beside the bed and shoved the high back under the door handle. She took a cotton nightgown and a hair brush from her overnight bag, removed the dress she had worn for three days on the train and hung it, along with her underwear, on a two-inch spike in the bedroom door. When she had pulled the nightgown over her head she went to the window, pushed the lacy white curtains aside and raised the sash. If the flies wanted to come in, so be it, because she could not stay in that room without fresh air. Twilight lingered, streaking the western sky red. There were no outbuildings on this side of the house. The wind of the daylight hours had diminished to a light breeze in which a field of wheat waved gently. The faint sweet scent of goldenrod wafted in through the window. On a fence post a robin sat to warble its evensong. To the right of the house stood a clump of poplar trees surrounded by scrub brush. Through them, Sarah discerned the outline of a small rooftop. Realizing it must be an outhouse she experienced a moment of panic when she suddenly felt the call of nature. Why had she not thought to go out before she readied herself for bed? She didn’t feel inclined to dress again but she certainly had no intention of embarrassing herself by running into him as she passed through the kitchen in her robe and slippers. Besides, who knew what wild animals or species of snake may lurk in the bushes in the fading light? Only one hope remained. Sarah quickly got down on her knees and lifted a corner of the counterpane to peer under the bed. Yes, there it was – a white chamber pot. She sat back on her haunches…
verses the sun will go pop pop. But that’s in the multiplicity of sacred time.We live in a single vulgar time, time for the butcher boy apprentices to come into their own, swaggering out into the garden to escort me inside for tea. Soon they will be shouting for Fuckbeard the Freaker. I can’t complain about the name. I probably uttered it myself in one of my ecstasies . . . These damned drugs have erased so much, so many cut-outs, cut-ups, my golden memory chart is all such a tat album design, my head full of flowers and stars and triangles and spheres and tits and bums and fiery swastikas. Later I will carry on secreting all my secrets. Like a scared insect, I mean a sacred insect . . . And Lucas may make his annual visitation. Minded by PP, scowling in the middle distance. I only want a flying visit, Icarus descending for a brief lesson with Dedalus, nothing histrionic. Just a chat under the shelter of the Brain Tree. To talk living eternities. I need help to implement the salvation, transformation of the world. Why, Pol Pot, you bitch, you talking cactus in a pot, why have you washed out my son’s brain, flooded it with your serums of untruth? Why, why won’t he come? I woke up this morning Mr Blues all around my bed Mr Blues he’s mean and evil He done messed up my happy head Rocking Rod was sprawled on a pile of cushions in the dayroom, strumming his boogie on an old acoustic guitar, singing de blooze in a thin weaselly voice with a Cockney Delta accent. I knew that voice. It had roots, long and tangled as his hair, as his ratty moustache. When he saw me, he leapt up, switched to a Stones riff, and began a duck-walk around the ward. At the end of the room, a cluster of huge cardboard boxes had been upended in a semicircle. The cartons displayed the logos of great multinational drug companies—Wellcome, Bayer, Glaxo, Sandoz—as if they were sponsoring this world tour. He stopped in front of the biggest box, and made a jabbing bayonet thrust with his guitar. He whirled an arm to hit an inaudible power chord and froze the pose. “Get a load of that back line! Four five-hundred watt Marshalls. Fanfuckingtastic, man! You can’t beat the old valve amps when it comes to raunch, right?”
Manolis Aligizakis 