Wandering Adolescence In the game of wandering, man came to get to know the time he plays and gets contradicted the truth is shattered something impassable escapes in the flow of eternity’s quantum races are unmapped colonies the passing of time leaves them in the decay of distance. The body that commenced with the youth always looks at the same moon as you near, the water change route no one knows where they are headed as if we step backward. Each season has its ego each season is but a shipwreck in shallow waters the descendants of the sea and of the sorrow of empty roads betrayed by their subterranean cells look behind as the dust whirls and in front of them the ghostly light full of inventions floats like the mythical echo of the miracle.
…most were ordinary-looking housewives of the gossip circle, and of course, a few were the ones usually found in the aristocratic bars and lounges, ladies with housemaids and black chauffeurs, with small bedroom dogs and a gigolo on the side. Hermes always looked down on the so-called upper class; a degrading and pathetic life, he thought they were like snakes. Those people had all the money they needed, with their luxurious cars and drug addictions or similar kinds of crap, and they blindly followed whatever is “modern,” a certain mania to do as the foreigners did, just to be part of the trend. According to Hermes, this way of living did nothing to improve a person’s life. He didn’t belong to the idealists and skeptics, either, who ignored reality and lived in the clouds of their isolation with the hope that the world would change on its own volition on some fine morning and everything would just be splendid. What he wanted was a major change in society, a change that would make the commoners’ lives better and the upper class more decent and more confident people. What else he wanted to help achieve was to unhook the populace from the iron fist of the church that had grasped the people’s lives and orchestrated their comings and goings according to the dogma of an eastern religion that forbids them from letting go and adopting a freer mindset, Hermes believed was the inherited treasure of the Hellenes. That was the psycho-spiritual hold the church had over the lives of people, which exerted such power that no one ever had stood opposite to, from the days of their liberation from the Turks, beginning of the 19th century. However, how that could be possible and which method could be applied to get the desired outcome was unknown to Hermes. Yet he hoped that that would appear to him at some time in the future. A smile came to his face as if he had already been affected by such a change. He walked as he disembarked the ship. His uncle, Demetre, was among the others on the dock, lordly as always, waving his hand. Hermes beamed a big smile and walked to him.
Lyra Winds sharpen their teeth onto the willingness of fruit with their red lips like next day’s dawn boys raise their arms high up to the rosy contour of the moon’s breast
Thoughts You wished you had accompanied her You wished she hadn’t gone loneliness turns into muffled jubilation Perhaps better this way You have no one to report to No one to come home to Others, you must find on your path You wished you didn’t have to go through this junction of your life, yet This is a lesson for you And for your departed lover
I take something and place it somewhere else. I don’t know why perhaps I don’t like something; seconds later the cloth; then the paper which screams a whisper when its position is changed. Does this imperceptible sound perhaps expresses discomfort or relief for this new relation of the soulless to infinity? or perhaps the subject longs for its old place? A small imperceptible movement a glance, a spark of light and look, the internal-self springs out and moves freely in the abstract now. Then something as an erotic murmur is heard or a little whining of an unfed dog. matter will act as such, I say before my own silence takes control of me.
and people had already found their shelter and the forgetful ones or late sauntering souls were drenched in a matter of minutes when exposed to the elements. Rain fell in wide bands occasionally very strong as if wanting to cleanse all sins from the souls of sinful men or as if to purify all guilt some people carried in their hearts such was the duty of rain this November evening. While the tempest raged outside the walls of the mausoleum, the children had had their evening meals; George the Cretan cook had prepared bean soup for them merely enough to fill their small stomachs. Marcus as always made sure he was put on kitchen duty, his teachers hadn’t yet smelled his scheme, and soon after all other children left for their sleeping quarters Marcus went to the kitchen where his evening boss, George, allotted to him tonight’s duty: to scape clean two big cauldrons which were used for the soup. The youth, having a perpetual smile on his face, one would say he had planned this kitchen duty, stood by the sink and leaning over the huge vessel he started to scrape and clean which he did bit by bit and stroke after stroke while George supervised making sure the vessel would be spotless for next day’s use. And it came to be, spotless as the supervisor would want it and as Marcus the Indian youth who had a good sense of commitment knew which resulted in him being worthy of his reward: an extra bowlful of bean soup, a slice of bread and a small piece of apple pie. The youth was sitting at his regular kitchen table meant for the cooks and their helpers and relished his reward up to the last morsel; George was observing the youth who was enjoying his pie. Yet he sensed the heaviness weighing on his heart and reflecting in his eyes. “What is it, Marcus? What’s bothering you?”
IV Logos is residing far from the headmaster’s reasoning. The untouched Kore smiles at the breeze when the corn stalk stands firm and blushes while the poet throws his diaphanous love to the four corners of the earth identifying his brightest future. Ecclesia’s leader dresses his thoughts with heavenly perfumes and incenses myriad names and terms for the immovable turned into a commodity. Ape’s mind is always up to a new task and with appropriate fanfare with all required zeal replaces the ancient priestess with a new male code of conduct and the free-spirited became the slave of a malicious system using methods always decreed by the modern shaman.
“Do you like it there?” “No. It’s not where my heart wants to be but it is where I have to be.” “I was in Toronto once. I married Hilu’s father and he was from Ottawa, so I’ve been to Ottawa too.” “What happened?” “I don’t know how you people can live in a place like that. It’s soulless. It’s like people living in caves up in the air. It’s just not human. How is it that someone who isn’t born here, who doesn’t live here, and only spent a few years here, can love this place and these people so much?” “I don’t know,” Ken said. “I don’t know how that happened. We can have a lot of ideas and we can say a lot of things, but the reality is that we don’t know these things. We don’t know the first thing about love – we haven’t a clue. We have all sorts of feelings and all sorts of passions. We call it love and hate, but that’s just a lazy way of expressing something we know nothing about. I think love is something that is lived. It doesn’t have very much to do with the other person although we focus the idea on one person. I think it’s a life lived in a particular way. It encompasses all the things that are in that life and it depends on how that life is lived, whether the invitation to love will be heard and accepted. I don’t think there is any language, including Inuktitut, that truly expresses what that’s all about. The only conclusion I can come to is the one I’ve given you.” Joan let a long silence hang between them. Ken finally asked her again, how she knew this was the place where he had witnessed so much death. “It’s not just you knowing,” he said. “There’s something more concrete to it. This is a specific place where a specific thing happened.” “I know this is the place because my mother knew these people and knows their story and she knows about you,” Joan said. “This was the time of my grandmother, and my grandmother knew you. My grandmother found you very interesting. They called you the quiet Kabluna – the mysterious white man who had the capacity of silence. That’s how I know about you.” “Would it be possible to visit them in Baker Lake?” Ken asked. “Yes.” “Could we visit now?” “They’re away.” “Away?” “Visiting.” “Family and friends?” “Yes – very far away.” “So we can’t go and see them?” “No.”
Manolis Aligizakis 