Let the Christmas spirit ring.

It's Christmas Time - Status Quo

"Ο Γυάλινος κόσμος" - "The Glass Menagerie"

   Υπάρχει λόγος που το θεατρικό έργο "Ο Γυάλινος κόσμος' με αγγίζει. Το "γυάλινο θηριοτροφείο", όπως το ονομάζουν στο έργο, οι συζητήσεις... μου είναι όλα γνώριμα. Σαν μνήμες από μια προηγούμενη ζωή. Μια προηγούμενη ζωή που ήμουνα μικρό παιδί και η γιαγιά μου -πριν αρρωστήσει- διατηρούσε μια συλλογή από κρυστάλλινα ζωάκια. Λες και βλέπω ξεθωριασμένη ταινία θυμάμαι την γυάλινη προθήκη με όλων των ειδών σχήματα και χρώματα κρύσταλλα. Το αγαπημένο της ήταν ένα δίχρωμο πάντα.
   Ο αδερφός μου και εγώ συνηθίζαμε να παίζουμε με αυτά τα απογεύματα. Καθόμασταν στο μεγάλο τραπέζι -αυτό της τραπεζαρίας- και η γιαγιά μου, έπειτα από παρακάλια, έβγαζε σιγά σιγά, έναν έναν τους πολύτιμους θησαυρούς της. "Προσέξτε, μη σπάσετε τίποτα" θα έλεγε κάθε φορά -κυρίως σε μένα γιατί στον αδερφό μου έδειχνε τόση εμπιστοσύνη όση και η αδυναμία που του είχε. Και κάθε φορά έπειτα από πολλά ξεφωνητά και παρεμβάσεις της γιαγιάς μου, χωρίζαμε τις κρυστάλλινες μορφές σε δύο στρατούς : του αδερφού μου και τον δικό μου.
   Μια φορά όμως -θες γιατί δεν δίναμε πια τόση σημασία, θες γιατί ήμασταν μικρά παιδιά- ο αδερφός μου έριξε κάτω μια αλεπού. Αυτή η αλεπού είχε μια φουντωτή κρυστάλλινη ουρίτσα που γυρνούσε προς τα μπρός και αγκάλιαζε τα πίσω της πόδια. Πριν καλά καλά η αλεπού ακουμπίσει το πάτωμα, έπεσε στο δωμάτιο σιγή. Σε αυτό το σημείο η μνήμη μου θολώνει. Είναι συνήθεια μου να διαγράφω τις φωνές και τις γκρίνιες και να θυμάμαι μόνο τα ευχάριστα. Η γιαγιά μου φυσικά θύμωσε, φώναξε αλλά στη συνέχεια μαλάκωσε και ησύχασε. Άλλωστε, φταίχτης ήτανε ο αγαπημένος της εγγονός, και πόσο πια να του θυμώσει;
   Η καημένη η αλεπού όμως είχε μείνει στο εντωμεταξύ δίχως ουρά. Τότε θυμάμαι είχα γελάσει σιγάνα καθώς είχα θυμηθεί τον μύθο του Αισώπου με την κολοβή αλεπού. Η γιαγιά μου όμως, αμέσως πήρε το σωληνάριο με τη δυνατή κόλλα και κόλλησε στην κρυστάλλινη αλεπού την ουρά της. Αυτό όμως που δεν είχε προβλέψει η γιαγιά μου ήταν πως η κόλλα μόλις στέγνωνε θα κιτρίνιζε κιόλας. Έτσι, η μέχρι πρότεινος αψεγάδιαστη αλεπού έμεινε με ένα κίτρινο σημάδι να μας θυμίζει ότι αν δεν προσέχουμε, όλα τα όμορφα μπορούν να χαλάσουν, να σπάσουν.
   Με τον καιρό μεγαλώσαμε και σταματήσαμε να ασχολούμαστε με τη συλλογή της γιαγιάς. Είχε αρρωστήσει και εκείνη και μας φαινόταν περίεργο, ξένο, να ανοίγουμε μόνοι μας τη γυάλινη προθήκη χωρίς το άγρυπνο βλέμμα της πάνω μας. Αφότου πέθανε, κανείς δεν την ξανάγγιξε. Με τον αδερφό μου αποφεύγαμε να την ακουμπάμε και έτσι έμεινε με τον καιρό σκονισμένη, κρεμασμένη στον τοίχο της τραπεζαρίας...

Montreux

A streetcar named Desire

“(Blanche)”He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery—love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadow, that’s how it struck the world for me. But I was unlucky. Deluded. There was somethign different about the boy, a nervousness, a softness and tenderness which wasn’t like a man’s, although he wasn’t the least bit effeminate looking—still—that thing was there…He came to me for help. I didn’t know that. I didn’t find out anything till after our marriage when we’d run away and come back and all I knew was I’d failed in him in some mysterious way adn wans’t able to give the help he needed but couldn’t speak of! He was in the quicksands and clutching at me—but I wasn’t holding him out, I was slipping in with him! I didn’t know that. I didn’t know anything except I loved him unendurably but without being ablle to help him or myself. Then I found out. In the worst of all possible ways. By coming suddenly into a room that I though was empty—which wans’t empty, but had two people in it…the boy I had married and an older man who had been his friend for years…”

“Good artists copy. Great artists steal.”

—	Pablo Picasso

Πραγματικά θα μ’ άρεσε να γίνω συγγραφέας.  Δεν λέω θέλω -γιατί θέλω πολλά πράγματα. Ούτε λέω μπορώ -γιατί δεν ξέρω αν μπορώ. Απλά θα μ’ άρεσε να δω κάποια μέρα ένα βιβλίο που θα ξέρω ότι είναι αληθινό και ότι το έχω γράψει εγώ. Θα είναι το δικό μου μυστικό. Και μια μέρα θα το μοιραστώ και με τον υπόλοιπο κόσμο.

"I prefer the mystic clouds of nostalgia to the real thing, to be honest."

I hadn’t realised how much I had missed summer. And not just any summer but summer in Greece. It’s as if all things look different under the strong summer sun. And the way the sea shines in the morning, like a lost diamond waiting to be found. It’s as if something is calling you to touch the crystal clear waters and slowly dive in.

“She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad. And that’s important.”

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”
—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

 She realised there were parts of her she didn’t even know they existed. Skills she didn’t even know she had. And that thought made her happy.

“THERE WAS MUSIC FROM MY NEIGHBOUR’S HOUSE THROUGH THE SUMMER NIGHTS. IN HIS BLUE GARDENS MEN AND GIRLS CAME AND WENT LIKE MONTHS AMONG THE WHISPERINGS AND THE CHAMPAGNE AND THE STARS."

—	F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

“It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them. ” 
― Agatha Christie

"Listen to the blues they're playing, listen to what the blues are saying. "

  Once upon a night, she woke up laughing. She had such a happy, sweet, sweet dream! Everything was right, everything was how it should be… And she was so relaxed and carefree! And she laughed, she laughed so hard tears started streaming down her face. Happy tears. And then the sound of her laughter woke her up and she opened her eyes laughing loudly for a reason she couldn’t even remember…

Είσαι με τους φίλους σου και σήμερα διασκέδασες. Είδες μουσεία και μια ξένη πόλη, γνώρισες κόσμο από διαφορετικές χώρες, γέλασες και χόρεψες. Και τώρα είσαι στο μετρό με τους φίλους σου και γυρνάς πίσω. Είναι το πρώτο πρωινό μετρό το οποίο φτάνει μέχρι την φοιτητική εστία που μένετε. Μέσα είναι γεμάτο από νέα παιδια -φοιτητές. Κλείνεις τα μάτια και ακούς ένα σωρό διαφορετικές γλώσσες γύρω σου. Ιταλικά, γερμανικά, ισπανικά, ρωσικά, γαλλικα.. Τα ξανανοίγεις μόνο και μόνο για να συνειδητοποιήσεις πόσο κουρασμένη είσαι. Κλείνεις ξανα μήπως κοιμηθείς τα υπόλοιπα 20 λεπτα που απομένουν. Όμως καθώς τα κλείνεις, όλο αυτό το σκοτάδι αρχίζει και γυρίζει γύρω σου, το πάνω γίνεται κάτω και το αριστερά δεξιά… Τα ξανανοίγεις και είσαι καλά. Αλλά δεν μπορείς να κρατήσεις ανοιχτά τα μάτια σου! Δίπλα, η παρέα σου γελάει δυνατά. Τους κοιτάς, κοιτάς τον άλλο κόσμο γύρω σου, ακούς τους διαφορετικούς κόσμους που υπάρχουν και χαμογελάς.

"I was born with music inside me. Music was one of my parts. Like my ribs, my kidneys, my liver, my heart. Like my blood. It was a force already within me when I arrived on the scene. It was a necessity for me-like food or water."

   Music has always been on my side. When I was on first grade and the only child listening to Mozart in my classroom. When I grew up and I was all about punk. When I discovered Rock ‘n’ Roll. When I needed to calm down. When I just wanted to dance. When I just wanted to sing terribly loud and out of tune with my friends. When I was feeling alone. When I was crying and needed to fall asleep. When I wanted an excuse for not making small talk. When I was angry. When I was laughing my heart out. Always. And thats why I’ll always be on her side too.

I love the mixed feeling you have when returning from holidays. You come home and sit down, unpack your bags while in your head you replay those last few days. What you enjoyed most, what could have happened but didn’t, what made you upset (because there’s always something).  And in the end you say : “Yes, it was a marvelous week, I had a great time and I will always remember it.”

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. "

I want to learn the world. I want to do things, to plan things all day long. I don’t want to miss a thing. I feel as if I have lots to do. Lots to learn. And there isn’t enough time. I want to do things that are worthwhile to remember. I want to have a full life. No wasted time. Time is the most precious and unappreciated gift. One ought to treasure it.

"The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page. "

A week full of wonders,
Just like a secret tale.
Things to remember,
when you are far away.

The Place, the people, the feelings.
Smiling was easier
than walking and  thinking.

I believe journeys are the best way to find out more about yourself. Who you are. What do you want. Who do you want.
Being alone, it forces you to become independent and in time, sure of yourself. Being alone forces you to learn about your self and come in terms with who you really are. You’re free.

Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.

“Everything will be okay” she said in a low voice. “Everything will be okay. In a while I’ll find my friend and we’ll say hello and laugh.” she thought. Okay, she had a little trouble getting there, but in the end everything went according to plan. She asked a few passerby’s for directions. They were all so helpful and nice. She enjoyed asking them for information in the same way they liked helping her find her train. She is more relaxed now -even though its dark outside. All turned out well. In 5 minutes the train will arrive at its last stop -her stop. And she’ll meet her friend and they’ll have fun. Lots of fun. And then, a week later, she’ll return home a lot wiser and with lots of funny stories to tell..

"Life is like a rainbow. You need both the sun and the rain to make its colors appear. "

If you bother looking around you most things seem gray. If you look closer you’ll discover that grey is a mix of white and black together. 

Its no wonder all colors mixed together make white. And that black is the absence of color.

"Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few are to be chewed and digested. "

I like books. I’ve always did. I like the way they smell -new or old, i like the sound they make when you turn the page. I like the fact that they let you in their magical little worlds. I like the feeling of home I have when I open an all-time-favorite book. I like the yellow pages of the books my mother gave me. I love the mixed feeling of pure happiness and sadness when you have reached the last page, the last word. I love my bookcase which is organized in a way that only I find coordinated

I've grown accustomed to its cover.

 I’m currently reading the script of “My Fair Lady”. Again. It’s one of those books I’ve read over a hundred times. Because it makes smile. Because I love the language and the characters. And I’m in love with Henry Higgin’s sense of humor. And basically, because just seeing it’s old, worn out cover makes me happy.

Unfinished.

When I was five years old I couldn’t understand why the sky was blue and the clouds white. Yet I was happy, because blue and white looked nice together. I wanted to paint my own world. “Maybe this rose could be white. I like white roses. And this tree’s leaves dark red.” In my childish mind there was just one thing that mattered : Imagination or in greek Φαντασία(fantasia). I would often express this belief to my surprised mother. I didn’t like playing with dolls. I liked imagining stories about dolls. At some point I realised I was late at my appointment with reality. And it’s not polite to be late.

Today I’m still imagining stories, but about people instead of dolls.

Walking.

He was old and dirty. Ηe was curled up in a dirty corner of a crowded street. His few clothes and body were covered by an old blanket which real colour you couldn’t really tell because of the years it had not been washed. His sad eyes were focused on the sidewalk. He was surrounded by hundreds of people but still he was alone. The plastic plate beside him was almost empty. I was looking at him, trying to decide wether or not I should drop a coin. There where many like him in the same street, who needed the money most? And then it happened. He was about thirty, maybe thirty-five years old and he was walking slowly towards the old man. He stood infront of him and after dropping a few coins into the plate, he continued walking. What shocked me was that he seemed to need the money even more than the old man. He’s light clothes were full of holes and even though it was a cold winter day he wasn’t wearing a jacket. His face was tired and unhealthy thin. His dark hair were combed and dirty. His only accessory was an old guitar that hanged on his back. His skinny legs seamed to be about to break in every step. He could use the money to buy something to eat. Why did he do that? Did he think the old guy needed the money more? And I’m sitting here, fully embarassed, because I have a house to sleep and dinner waiting me at home and still, I had second thoughts about giving the poor guy a few coins.

Late.

Lots to do and so little time. Its funny how I can never understand how “time” works. Sometimes it runs too fast, others too slow… I wish I never have to look at my watch again and exclaim in surprise “Already?”! Oh, how much I do! I wish.. i wish I had enough time to see my best friends every day. Enough time to finish a book every day. Enough time to watch the stars in silence. Enough time to sleep and finish my dreams and enough time to have a decent breakfast. Enough time to smile at the sun on a winter day saying “I’ve missed you”. But then, time would’t be so special, would it? I guess not.

Disappointed.

I am an awful liar. Truth to be said. Everyone -even people who don’t know me- know when I lie. Or perhaps i should say when I try to lie. Because when I lie, I start speaking with a funny voice. And I exaggerate if I have to make a story up. And my lies are extremely stupid. I have come to believe that it’s something in my DNA. There’s no other explanation. I must have the gene of not-being-able-to-lie-because-you-are-having-a-panic-attack-every-time-you-try. And I’ve still haven’t decided : is this a good or a bad thing?