Aphrodite II Aphrodite laughed at my wonder when I constructed my dwelling from the top down with a courtyard in the clouds and a roof in the soil’s breath opposite all other matters of nature: corporeal beasts lowered their heads in the watering trough merciless light reflected in their innocent eyes as in the upper level of a fence almost painted the color of guilt before the first absolution was invented heat from the hearth warmed my heart ceiling and basement left in midair air-conditioned floor the robin’s chirp just an illusion and here I was meant to discover justice and beg the sun for a shred of logic
AND PERHAPS what we never understood was the only thing left to us. Because who could ever win the night or the dream, and inside the house one with the other were simply heirlooms, and each of us will plainly die in the disturbed evening, unnaturally lit by the torches. We were always unprepared. And this was our harvest.
Sensual Delight Joy and myrrh of my life, the memory of hours when I found and lived sensual delight as I desired it. Joy and myrrh of my life, I, who resisted all enjoyment of routine erotic love.
fifteen You multiplied you overpowered all species with deceitful progress you applied the breaks what flies won’t learn of anything else and what crawls to stay as is only you, the almighty more than any other searched for the point of Superiority for allies and Creators you investigated the sun and the moon and all the constellations
indeed happened a few years later when the teacher with her epiphany passed into the sweet embrace of her Lord, only to leave behind the unhealed scars of ridicule inflicted upon these Indian girls; scars which they were meant to retain for the rest of their lives. Anton’s and Mary’s feelings strengthened as they days went by and as they had their occasional intimacy when the circumstances would allow it and when Mary’s psychological state of mind would cooperate; they felt strongly about their future which at times they discussed. “I want us to leave and go someplace far away,” she would say to Anton. “I want that too, and I’m certain time will come for it, yet for now we have a duty to do: what is best for these kids before we bail out and leave,” Anton would say to her and to which she never had any objecting word to say. It was enough for her that she’d have a future with the man she loved and when it would come together or in which part of the world they might decide to move she was wholeheartedly willing to give it a chance. Anton had devoted some of his time to fix his room. He took all old things out, donated them to the local charity, one’s leftovers are always someone else’s treasure, as the saying goes; he also got a couple of gallons of paint and gave his office a fresh look. He bought a new bed and beddings from the local Hudson’s Bay store which he transported with his truck to the School and put it together. He didn’t even ask Father Nicolas whether the School would cover the expense, he just bought it and with the new coat of paint the room it looked a lot better than before. Anton had also developed a very strong friendship with George the Cretan cook of the School and they often talked of Anton’s plans which always included Mary and also the fate …
Double Certainly, it wasn’t I who jogged along the suburban houses last night dominance, security of four walls, and ambience with my unbuttoned shirt like forgotten piety with my heart surrounded by the auspices of the thick darkness it wasn’t I running like a dream forgetful of its origin I wasn’t, but my double who hid in his bag old picture of two stars swimming in a crystal pond twin faces, glancing at one mirror as you were coaching me to hide in your arms and release my tiredness and I held the little master key tightly ready to place in the hole and open the world like a blooming rose
sexual gratification of a bunch of perverts. If this happened to your family, wouldn’t you want someone to care? Wouldn’t you want someone to raise a stink? Wouldn’t you want someone to help? That’s all I’m trying to do. Apparently, to my surprise, it seems this painting was the two by four needed to apply to the side of your head to get you to pay attention. My job is to announce to you what has gone on and what continues to go on. I’m robbing you of your innocence. I’m not going to give you the chance to say, ‘If only I had known’. Now you know. What are you going to do about it?” The mood of the public changed. People began calling to agree with him. Battle lines were drawn and half – or perhaps even the magic fiftyone percent – agreed with him. Ken spent an hour or more each day, at the Columbus Centre, talking to people who lined up to see the painting and talk to the artist. Thousands of people came – far more than had attended his opening night. Ken finished each of his stories with a plea for help. He urged people not to simply believe his stories, but to investigate and make up their own minds. And if they discovered that what he said was true, let the government know how they felt. This was what democracy was about – and he was appalled at how lightly most people took the democracy they lived in. “No one that is born here really takes it seriously,” he told them. “Do you know how many rivers of blood were spilled to have what we have here? How can we pretend to be this thing that we say we are when you can’t bother to inform yourselves about what goes on in your own country? How can you be a nation without knowing what goes on in your own backyard?” Ken received a phone call from Wayne Morrison, the executive director of the Friends of Canadian Broadcasting and the stepson of Northrop Frye. Could they meet, he asked? Ken invited him to the studio. Wayne was a dapper and polished gentleman who expressed fascination with the furor caused by the flag painting. The CBC was about to suffer large financial cuts, which would seriously endanger its existence, he said, and he wanted Ken’s help. He wanted to reproduce the flag painting in full page magazine advertisements with Ken standing beside it holding a paintbrush with the quote, “I haven’t been this mad in twenty years.” Below that would be the story of the CBC cutbacks. Ken said yes, but he was not prepared to use the painting. He would create another similar one instead. When Diane asked why, he said, “I’m going to give it to Canada and I don’t want it reproduced. It’s going to go to the country pure.” “You’re going to give it away? Good lord, we don’t have enough money to do what we’re doing and you’re going to give paintings away! Why are you going to give something to the government? They already take too much!”
The Shall and the Should of Death This way, then, you retained many insignificant images in your eyes. Who will have time to get baptized in the Lake of memory? Eternity lasts so little yet, it’s possible that certain justice must exist somewhere that explains under which pretensions a man dies with so many shall and should which death whispers his whole life vanishes since, you know, only one second is enough for the change of course his wings can take and don’t listen to them, seconds are precious since the man who dies is penniless with the choked death rattle of a haunted man he needed minutes, thousands of seconds to buy what? Insignificant images, yet, how can he repay? What can he borrow now? How many images of his memory can he sell? Minutes give birth to a dynasty of aged images and the interest seems to be unbearable. Is there anyone, then, who can pay for it?
the shop poor Willy had replaced the pagan turmoil of Hrothgar’s Feast with the blissed-out cooing of George Harrison. Larry grimaced at the music, took a hit off the joint. As minutes passed he grew into an Easter Island statue, a pitted mask smitten with sinister benevolence, relishing cosmic absurdities . . . I wasn’t interested in more drugs. I was cultivating a new yearning—for comforting fetishes like Turkish rugs or French etchings, or at least quality post-war British stuff, the old Pye Black Box gramophones, Hornby Trains in the original blue boxes, I was fed up with bankrupt stock and garage-sale rejects. And I wanted something with class. Something safe, please. Nothing too radical. “It’s not weapons, is it, Larry?” He passed the joint and began prising open the tea chest with a bent fork. “Just weird shit. Specially for you.” The chest contained thick folio-sized notebooks, bulging box files, a crumpled set of plans or blueprints, and half a dozen books in uniform bindings, ex-lib, half-calf and purple clo, gilt lttr, top edge gilt, gilt device on sp, approx 200 pp, frnt brds sl warped and stained, torn frontis in Vol I, some neat inscr, otherwise v good, ideal for a proper bookseller with a catalogue, not my Surprise Book Bins. “They’ve been in storage for years . . .” Larry sniffed defensively. A yellowed newspaper cutting fell out. ‘Fears of Red Atom Bombs’. He told me he’d acquired this heap of forties memorabilia as payment for some dope. I asked him which clients usually paid in waste paper. Larry looked uneasy. He liked to keep the different strata of his life separate. “A photographer that my gorgeous creature did some work for. A young guy. But ugly, thank God. She says he snuffles while he’s setting up the poses. Like a great rat . . .” He sucked the joint and giggled. “He’s heavily into cuisine and wine. I guess he can’t perform vintage sex.” Despite the dope I was getting impatient. I might raise something on tomes with fancy bindings, but as for wartime diaries, old blueprints—I inquired as to where the stuff originated. “Some old attic, south of the river. Like Norwood, or Streatham Common. ForGod’s sake, Nick, I only went there once. One of those high old houses with stained glass in the porch window. A Victorian rose-window with cruciform panels . . .” He exhaled slowly,seemingly bemused by the sudden emergence of this elegant adjective. “I suppose there aren’t any pieces from the windows in that trunk?” I was seized with entrepreneurial glee at discovering yet another way of repackaging splinters of the past, little sunset glints of nostalgia for an already uneasy seventies. “Too late. His gaffer was tearing the place apart, converting it into a shop
Manolis Aligizakis 