Archive note: This text comes from the old archive of Nomika Epilekta and is preserved with care for historical and informational reading.

26.11.2009, afternoon.

My mood is sour grapes. I am in the office, my aquarium, as I like to call it affectionately. The files around me, loose roof tiles, follow the rhythm of the Cuban music I am listening to, which relaxes me. Time is unbearable and the moments are weights. The place is soaked in guilt and convictions. Yet what concerns me is my own conviction as a co-servant of nonexistent Justice, a conviction that has now become final.

I appear through counsel (1) and ask for an agreed adjournment so I can manage to rid myself of the clayey boredom that soils me and chokes me to suffocation. There is no wind at all; there is humidity. It is December and the rosebushes are blooming. Perhaps they are ashamed and blush because the seasons have been lost. In the end we live in a global deadly greenhouse, cooled only by economic recession. Recession and the falling phases of the economy, which limit uncontrolled combustion, necessary consequences of reckless growth and criminal capitalism.

I appear with counsel (2), or in person, and ask for time to escape the trap, the snare I myself carelessly set for me and thoughtlessly shut my own life inside. Thus I managed to live an entire life inside an old sarcophagus of a building which, as compensation for my mistake, must be demolished. I demand to flee and I let my imagination hold the reins. I seek to surrender myself, to do whatever I miss and desire. I ask to run like the white horse in the spring plain. I want all my desires and suppressed longings to run with me, beside me, in case they manage to cool down. I want to be absolutely free, released from every concern of daily life, so that...

I may run in the morning naked across the damp sand, with the sun behind me staging the scene incomparably.

I may run a long way, sweat, and then fall into the cold water, swim, go numb, recover, and shout: I AM SAVED.

I may be lucky and at noon, out of nowhere, a summer shower may break out. The earth may breathe and the sea may become drenched. And I, in the water, may not care one broken coin for the tricks and whims of the unstable sky. The wet man does not fear the rain. When the shower stops, I may come out of the sea together with the sun. I may fall on the small shining pebbles and search among them as deeply as I can, in case by chance I find the magic elixir of my lost youth. Lying down, I may surrender to the life-giving power of the sun, the radiant one. I may give myself to it with passion, without fear and protection, in case I manage to sleep in its warm embrace like a small child.

I may close my eyes and my thoughts, fluttering without pause, may become white pirate sails of a unique adventure. As soon as I recover, I may take two handfuls of pebbles and throw them hard far into the water, to break the glass of the transparent silence that surrounds and caresses me. Action and reaction.

I may leave the seductive siren sea so I do not lose my compass and become one of her countless victims.

At the hour when the stars lie down and the light turns rosy, I may find myself high at the haunt of Prophet Ilias. The prophet who copied Apollo and sits at the very top of the mysterious pyramid of the masculine mountain, Taygetos. From there I may see the half-awake Sun, looking like a huge red jar. A blazing jar, constantly changing shape, rolling slowly, indifferently and lazily, until it enters its eternal course and a new day is born.

I may glorify the saint and, before his chapel, in the open space, dance a long, powerful zeibekiko. I may end the dance with my hands stretched high, looking at the unknown infinite, where people are accustomed to building the palaces of their gods. Carried away by the height of 2,500 meters, I feel as if I am a space satellite lost without return and wandering in the unknown universe. The view is unique and the fear of heights so terrifying that it tears me apart. I feel like leaning in thought and nesting like a small bird in the shadows of the surge of fear, among the branches of the chimera. There, perhaps, fear softens because gravity is lost. There the human being bows and is humbled beneath the asymmetrical awe of height.

At noon, when at that altitude the sun becomes threatening like a hungry dog and bites, I may descend down low and go bargain for the shade and pride of the pines. Pines that, tall and proud as they are, dare to resist the flaming Sun, the ruler who sees all things. As I walk among centuries-old pines and firs, what would I not give to understand the endless stories they tell each other day and night, in the language taught to them by the traveling wind. In that language that produces rustling, like a Byzantine drone. That continuous soft rustling that calms souls and spirits. As I descend, I must not forget to pass through the May gardens and the lush orchards to cut two flowers for the bier of Good Friday and one more for the Resurrection.

The office may become a boat and, lying at anchor, I may find myself mid-sea. There where the sea and sky permanently and harmoniously meet, in an endless deep blue that reassures you. I may see up close and admire the wet blue foundations of the sky, remain speechless, and pray before their vastness. After prayer I may begin to sing, to charm the beautiful dolphins, the intelligent dancers, so that they keep rhythm for me with their graceful turns. I may call the seagulls to a protest flight for the endangered environment. I may bend and hang out of the boat to place my ear on the deep-blue water. I would like to try to listen to the sighs and whispers rising from the seabed, which seal tightly within themselves our unknown fate. I may sleep in the boat and let the wave take me on a far journey to Jamaica, as the song says.

I may reach land and follow the road with the gait of Uncle Kostas Varnalis, and as I descend the stairs eaten by time, enter the underground tavern where the grandfather used to gather with his fated companions. I may go down to Diporto. There I may meet some good fellow and order stewed potatoes, catfish, and half a kilo of selected golden retsina. I may become a plowman and lead the company along sure paths, where smoke and grilled aroma meet, retsina and sorrow, and close by yearning and folk song. I may bow and invite to the table the great bard Giorgis Zampetas to sing for us: The north wind is your love; you love me, I love you upon the black wave; with the north wind I seek you, with the south wind I lose you. And if fortune favors me and a clarinet enters the shop, then the tavern flares up and burns with notes and song that stir the senses and calm the soul. At once the faces brighten with smiles and the retsina goes down more easily, becoming sweet to drink. Then you pray for an earthquake so the doors will close and you may feast until the rescue crews find you. Diporto has long since come of age, since it has passed one hundred years of existence. Yet it remains unchanged. Same barrels, same tables, same chairs, same tastes. Members of parliament and Roma enter there. You sit wherever you find a place. Everyone is one company. The owner, the tavern keeper, stays near the pots and lives in his own world. Yet he is known even abroad. In a recent guide published by a serious afternoon newspaper, Diporto was recommended as a rare old tavern. Recently, Diporto hosted Coppola, the great director; as the owner served him black-eyed beans, he asked him: how are the shops doing in America? Coppola obviously pretended not to understand, and Mitsos was pleased because, in any case, he is a lover of art and cinema. In addition, he cooks bean soup or cuttlefish stew now and then.

I will close my imaginary escapes with a song I would like to hear when I die. The lyrics are by our great poet Tasos Leivaditis, the music by Mikis Theodorakis, and it is sung wonderfully by Stelios Kazantzidis and Marinella.

The neighborhoods smell of basil and limewash,
children play at love in secret by the walls,
beautiful Saturday evening, like Easter has risen,
and somewhere far away a song by Tsitsanis is heard.
This beautiful evening too is gone, gone.
From Monday back again to bitterness, to darkness,
if only our life were Saturday night,
and when Death came it would be a Sunday evening.
Men finish work and their heavy sorrow
go down to bury in the underground tavern.
And the moon seems to dress in its white bridal gown
the girls washing in the poor washhouse.
This beautiful evening too is gone, gone...

It is gone for me too; my beautiful imaginary wandering has ended. Heads back inside. I keep the imaginary memories and move steadily on, unfenced. Until the last Saturday night comes.

Fotis Andreou

(1) Appear through counsel means that the lawyer appears in court without the principal, the client, and represents him or her.
(2) Appear with counsel means that the lawyer appears in court together with the principal, the client.