Friday, April 29, 2016

"Vida Matrimonial" - A short story by Alejandro Bentivoglio

"Married Life"

"On the train I met a blonde girl who told me I was the man of her dreams. At first I believed her, but then I saw the ticket inspector approaching and I realized she didn't have a train ticket. As any other gentleman would have done, I paid for it without a second thought. During the rest of the journey we didn’t exchange one word. As soon as we got off the train, at the end of the line, I asked her for a divorce."

Taken from Alejandro Bentivoglio's book "Dakota/Memorias de una Muñeca Inflable" Translated by Douglas 

Thursday, April 28, 2016

"Zaepert" - Luxembourg artists claim another building before demolition

Following from the success of their previous intervention, 'Quartier 3', in Esch Sur Alzette (see post 2015 Ephemeral-art-before-demolition) the Luxembourg artist collective created by Daisy Wagner, Jeff Keiser, Sergio Sardelli and Théid Johanns, hosts a new intervention/exhibition with no less than 40 artists participating.

This time it's the former slaughterhouse in the 'Zaepert' district, rue Joseph Kieffer in Esch/Alzette. Before the building is demolished, the artists have occupied, shared and transformed  the 'Zaepert' space of 640 m2 into a free art gallery. The exhibition will end on the 08/05/2016 when the former slaughterhouse will be demolished. Here is what you can expect, but only for a little time:

Saturday, April 23, 2016

"A Man Is An Island" - Από τον John Donne, στο Γιώργο Θεοτοκά, στον Paul Simon

Τα περίφημα λόγια του John Donne δεν γράφτηκαν ποτέ σαν ποίημα. Ήταν απόσπασμα ενός κειμένου γραμμένου το 1624 με τίτλο Meditation 17, από το έργο του Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions. Με τα αγγλικά και την ανάλογη ορθογραφία της εποχής, το κείμενο έλεγε:

'No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee....'
John Donne
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

Στο βιβλίο του "Ώρες Αργίας" του 1931, ο Γιώργος Θεοτοκάς επικεντρώνεται στο αιγαιοπελαγίτικο νησί, του δίνει φωνή και πρόσωπο και αυτό μιλάει και λέει:

"Είμαι όλο φως, νιότη, χαρά και ελευθερία [...] Πιο μακριά, ολόγυρα μου, σεισμοί και καταποντισμοί, κόσμοι γεννιούνται, κόσμοι πεθαίνουν. Εγώ δεν σκοτίζομαι για τίποτα. Καμαρώνω τα λευκά πανιά που καθρεφτίζονται στα νερά μου, τα αγόρια και τα κορίτσια που φιλιούνται μεσ' στα αμπέλια μου, και γελώ με τα βαριά και μάταια κονταροχτυπήματα των ανθρώπων και των θεών. Είμαι ο αιθέριος πύργος απάνω από τις φουρτούνες. Είμαι πάντα Εγώ..."
Γιώργος Θεοτοκάς
"Ώρες Αργίας" του 1931

Και ο Paul Simon στο τραγούδι "I am a rock" σαν να μελοποιεί την παραπάνω υποθετική συζήτηση παίρνοντας όμως περισσότερο το μέρος του Θεοτοκά με τους στίχους:

"...I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armour,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries."
Paul Simon 
"I am a rock"
from the album "The Paul Simon Songbook" (1965)
Listen to:
Simon and Garfunkel - I am a rock

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Ένα κείμενο του Κώστα Ε. Τσιρόπουλου

Η νύχτα έχει τις δικές της λέξεις, 
τη δική της γλώσσα.
Βγάζεις τη νύχτα από το σώμα σου όταν, πολύ πρωί καλοκαιριού, προσέλθεις στη θάλασσα και παραδοθείς στα μυστικοτραφή της νερά.
Αυτά σε ξεντύνουν από τη νύχτα,
σου αφαιρούν τα αρώματα, τις περίεργες μυρωδιές της,
βγάζουν τα λέπια των ονείρων της και συνταιριάζουν το σώμα σου 
στο ρυθμό μιας άδολης ψυχής 
κι ενός ξεκούραστου νου.
Σου χαρίζει η θάλασσα τις λέξεις της ημέρας, την στέρεη γλώσσα,την ευκρίνεια και τη γιορτή του κόσμου.

Ώσπου να ξανάρθει η άλλη νύχτα 
με χίλια βαθιά μουρμουρητά
και να σηκώσει από τα έγκατα της
έναν ουρανό υποβλητικό, άστρα μοναχικά,
σελήνη ρεμβαστική, υψώνοντας τον κόσμο
σε μια φαντασμαγορία παράδοξη, 
όπου το σώμα βυθίζεται με σπαραχτική απαντοχή
και βρίσκει άλλη γλώσσα.

Κώστας Ε. Τσιρόπουλος

Sunday, October 18, 2015

From "The Ministry Of Fear" by Graham Greene

"... In childhood we live under the brightness of immortality - heaven is as near and actual as the seaside. Behind the complicated details of the world stand the simplicities: God is good, the grown-up man or woman knows the answer to every question, there is such a thing as truth, and justice is as measured and faultless as a clock. Our heroes are simple: they are brave, they tell the truth, they are good swordsmen, and they are never in the long run really defeated. That is why no later books satisfy us like those which were read to us in childhood - for those promised a world of great simplicity of which we knew the rules, but the later books are complicated and contradictory with experience; they are formed out of our disappointing memories - of the V.C. in the police court dock, of the faked income-tax return, the sins in corners, and the hollow voice of the man we despise talking to us of courage and purity. The little duke is dead and betrayed and forgotten, we cannot recognise the villain and we suspect the hero and the world is a small cramped place. The two great statements of faith are "What a small place the world is" and "I'm a stranger here myself..." 

From "The Ministry Of Fear" (1943) by Graham Greene

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

"History" and "Dispeller" - Two poems by Justin Runge

Justin Runge is a poet from Lawrence, Kansas.

- Tell us about “History,” the poem that was selected for Best New Poets 2013.

- For this poem, I set goals: to write a love poem objectively, a story molecularly, and an autobiography in which I barely featured. I also wanted to buck some obtuse tendencies, so I made sure that each detail felt naked, unworked. There's only one figurative moment in the poem, which feels like a small victory to me..." From an interview given to Jazzy Danziger. 

History by Justin Runge

Here is what I’ve collected: He set fire to the front lawn. She learned and then forgot the guitar. Like all daughters, she was a vegetarian. He was sent to school on the mountain. She would run through the mountain. Their siblings stood in the way. The mountain was beautiful but merciless. Its trees stood like chaperones. He took to botany. She slept in the haunted room. After the growth spurt, he was a natural athlete. She worked at a fast food restaurant. Both left without diplomas. He sat in a bunker, catching moths. She would walk to a payphone in the center of town. They would solve crossword puzzles days late. He escaped on a motorcycle, as in his favorite songs. They married on her birthday. Her hair was never longer. She left a home imploding. He had a television and a frying pan. They made mistakes—pepper oil, poison ivy. They had one child, then me.

Dispeller by Justin Runge

In my hometown, I am absence of home. I am shortfall of awe. I am defog. Wiper blade raking a glaze of rain. I am the kitchen light Mother kept on. Unlocked garage. Evening intersection’s non-traffic. I am what bends air so that it, tuning, forks. I am bed made. I am unchange. Ghost uneasily roomed. Yearbook yearly removed. So I am removal of book dust. Carpeting, cleaned. I am no apple tree. I am quietest stair climb. I am far-off mowing. Hypnic jerk. Reason for moving.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Transcient Art on the walls of Athens

Transcient Art on the walls of Athens - Transforming an ordinary block of flats into a lush tropical forest

A few cans of spay and an artistic predisposition can work miracles on the old Athens blocks of flats. This incredible intervention in the centre of Athens is so evocative that I was under the impression that I could hear the elephants move in the thick undergrowth. Some of the inhabitants in the neighbouring blocks have even placed small cages with parrots and canaries in the balconies. The birds sing, the streets and the cars start to fade away and the pollution is lifted. The illusion is complete.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

From "Burnt Norton" by T.S.Eliot

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera..."
From T.S.Eliot's "Burnt Norton", first published as part of the Four Quartets in 1936