When I look back over the years

Even though, there's no valid excuse for Mondays, well, we are soooooo backed up!! Almost, literally!

:-PPPPPP

And who by fire?

-Ψήνεσαι;

(Photo, ΕΛΜΕ Ν. Ηλείας)

-Ψήνομαι...

Who by water?
Who in the sunshine?
Who in the night time?
Who by high ordeal?
Who by common trial?

 ...

And who shall I say is calling?
(Who shall I say is calling?)

And what I choose is my choice

"And what I choose is my voice" 

(Smashing Pumpkins)

(By Ernesto)

Muere lentamente
 

Muere lentamente quien se transforma en esclavo del hábito,
repitiendo todos los días los mismos trayectos,
quien no cambia de marca,
no arriesga vestir un color nuevo
y no le habla a quien no conoce.

Muere lentamente quien evita una pasión,
quien prefiere el negro sobre blanco
y los puntos sobre las "íes" a un remolino de emociones,
justamente las que rescatan
el brillo de los ojos,
sonrisas de los bostezos,
corazones a los tropiezos y sentimientos.

Muere lentamente quien no voltea la mesa
cuando está infeliz en el trabajo,
quien no arriesga lo cierto por lo incierto
para ir detrás de un sueño,
quien no se permite por lo menos una vez en la vida,
huir de los consejos sensatos.

Muere lentamente quien no viaja,
quien no lee,
quien no oye música,
quien no encuentra gracia en sí mismo.

Muere lentamente quien destruye su amor propio,
quien no se deja ayudar.
Muere lentamente, quien pasa los días quejándose
de su mala suerte o de la lluvia incesante.

Muere lentamente, quien abandona un proyecto antes
de iniciarlo, no preguntando de un asunto que desconoce
o no respondiendo cuando le indagan sobre algo que sabe.

Evitemos la muerte en suaves cuotas,
recordando siempre que estar vivo
exige un esfuerzo mucho mayor
que el simple hecho de respirar.

Solamente la ardiente paciencia hará que conquistemos
una espléndida felicidad.

(P. N.)

Πες μου ποιο φόβο αγάπησες πάλι

"Terror—what Hunter Thompson calls "fear and loathing"—often arises from a pervasive sense of disestablishment; that things are in the unmaking. If that sense of unmaking is sudden and seems personal—if it hits you around the heart-then it lodges in the memory as a complete set."

(Stephen King, Danse Macabre)

"We will each write a ghost story," said Lord Byron; and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us....I busied myself to think of a story -- a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror -- one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered -- vainly. I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a story? I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative.

...Night waned...and even the witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw -- with shut eyes, but acute mental vision -- I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect if any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.

I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around....I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story -- my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! if I could only contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that night!

Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. "I have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow." On the morrow I announced that I had thought of a story. I began that day with the words, It was on a dreary night of November, making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking thoughts."

(Mary Shelley's 1831 introduction to Frankenstein) 

ΠΕΡΙ ΦΟΒΟΥ

Φοβάμαι, μήπως δειλιάσω ψυχή μου
και κρύψω την αλήθεια πιο κάτω απ’ τη φωνή μου
πιο χαμηλά κι απ’ την ανάσα που αφήνω εγώ χαλάλι
ζωγραφιστή στο προσκεφάλι.
Φοβάμαι, ρε, αλήθεια μονάχα μια στιγμή
που θα με στείλει ν’ αγκαλιάσω το σκοτάδι την ντροπή
φοβάμαι την στιγμή που θ’ αντέχω στα μάτια να τους δω
φοβάμαι που είμαι ακόμα ρε εδώ.
Φοβάμαι μήπως δειλιάσω ψυχή μου
και λυπηθώ να σου χαρίσω την ρημάδα τη ζωή μου
φοβάμαι μην ποζάρω για ένα πλάνο κοντινό
κι εκείνη τη φορά που το μικρόφωνο κλειστό θα βρω.
Φοβάμαι που έχω αρχίσει να ξυπνάω μετά τον ήλιο
φοβάμαι δεν θυμάμαι τον πιο καλό μου φίλο
φοβάμαι χωρίς λόγο να φοβάμαι γιατί
η μοναξιά μου έχει γίνει ξένη κι αυτή.
Φοβάμαι μήπως μάθω με τα φώτα να ζω
φοβάμαι μήπως φτιάξω ένα τραγούδι χαζό
φοβάμαι το κασέ και την τιμή μου να βρώ
και μ’ αρνηθώ, με σιχαθώ.
Μη σου κολλήσω φοβάμαι την κάνη στο κεφάλι
και προλάβεις και τραβήξεις την σκανδάλη
φοβάμαι φοβισμένο να σε δω
φοβάμαι μήπως και σε λυπηθώ.

Φοβάμαι αν είσαι ακόμα μαζί μου
μήπως δειλιάσω ψυχή μου


Φοβάμαι μήπως δειλιάσω ψυχή μου
και κρύψω την αλήθεια πιο κάτω απ’ την φωνή μου
φοβάμαι αν είσαι ακόμα μαζί μου
μήπως δειλιάσω ψυχή μου.

Δε φοβάμαι όμως ρε όσο υπάρχει βυνίλιο
δε φοβάμαι όταν βρέχει στο μεγάλο προσήλιο
δε φοβάμαι όταν πνίγει η ομίχλη τ’ αστέρια
θα 'χει κι αύριο πολλά είναι τόση η μιζέρια.
Δε φοβάμαι το λάθος μου εγώ να πληρώσω
δε φοβάμαι το ξέρω, δε μπορώ να γλιτώσω
δε φοβάμαι Σωτήρη θα την βρείς την αλήθεια
δε φοβάμαι το φόβο που είναι μόνο συνήθεια.
Δε φοβάμαι το χρήμα, αλλά αυτό με φοβάται
ούτε κι αν την ξεχάσω γιατί αυτή με θυμάται
δε φοβάμαι τα χέρια μου αντέχουν ακόμα
ζωγραφίζω στιγμές με το χρόνο για χρώμα.
Δε φοβάμαι τα ξύδια μόνο τ’ άλλα φοβάμαι
δε φοβάμαι τη νύχτα γιατί μέρα κοίμαμαι
δε φοβάμαι ψυχή μου να χαθεί το τομάρι
δε φοβάμαι ν’ αφήσω κάτι απ’ όσα έχω πάρει.
Δε φοβάμαι κανένα παρά μόνο εμένα
όταν τά ’χω χαμένα και κολλάει η πένα
δε φοβάμαι να δώ αν είσαι ακόμα μαζί μου
ή πρίν αρχίσω είχες δειλιάσει ψυχή μου.

Active Member

Ημέρα ενάντια στον φόβο.

Give me things that don't get lost

"Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire."
(J. L. B.)

 Sin palabras...

"A word after a word after a word is power."
(M.A.)