outside the walls

outside the walls
there is a fire

visible winds

No words…
Don’t know what to say
Stormy winds
I throw some colors to them
To make them visible

findings

blue-green

Green was a color I didn’t like in the past but my taste has change.
Blue was always my favorite color, as far I can remember myself.
Nowdays , blue together with green it feels “home”
Don’t know why, yet, not that is that important.

This blog has nothing important to say.
Just that I like blue and green.

testing times

lullaby.mp3

There are times we become kids and we need a lullaby to fell asleep.
Did you know that the song "summertime" is actually a lullaby ? I didn't till recently *blush*
Here it is:

Summertime, and the living is easy
Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high
Your daddy's rich, and your ma is good looking
So hush little baby, don't you cry.

One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing
You're gonna spread your wings as you take the sky
But till that morning, there's nothing can harm you
With your daddy and mammy standing nigh.

I said that to a friend and the next day I saved in my mind's hard disk his mp3 gift, for the nights I 'll need a lullaby to felt asleep ...

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altar

not enough

Love is not enough. I know that. I have learned that. But each time life proves that it, again and again, make me sad , so sad. As the first time I realized that love is not enough.
They love her. They say they love her but they are wrong. Because they hurt them.
Today they make her cry. I can’t see little children crying., and I hate to see others make them cry.

I hold her in my arms not to feel alone but this was not enough. Tried to explain her but this was not enough. Not for me not for her. Cause after all those years I haven’t find an answer to this “why” questions. I need an answer and she needs an answer too.

Its taught to be a child. You are not able always to protect yourself. You talk to them but the can’t hear. Too busy to hear. Preoccupied with their issues they fail to hear that little people’s voice talking to them, asking them. People fail to see and hear. Even the obvious is not obvious sometimes. Even you explain them the obvious wishing to start seeing, start hearing. But sometimes is not enough.

I guess this is when little people grown up. I guess is when you send away the little child because it doesn’t help you to survive. And in that child’s body a grown up being inhabits. You lock that little child in a dark basement and don’t let it go out. It can’t help you. But what is more frightening is that you can’t help it.

I don’t know what is going on in her mind or I do? Hmm, I think I do. She is confused, frighten , sad and all the answers to that “why ?” questions are not enough.

settlers of Catan

“In Settlers of Catan, players try to be the dominant force on the island of Catan by building settlements, cities, and roads. On each turn dice are rolled to determine what resources the island produces. Players collect these resources to build up their civilizations to get to 10 victory points and win the game”

This is a short description of the game. The beauty of it it’s that every time the board is different and each time you have to observe and create a new strategy. And of course there is a dice , and when the dice plays plans, strategies and forecastings fall apart. A good position or a bad position a good beginning or a bad beginning might means a lot or nothing. The strategy that helped you win at the last game maybe in the new one can not work. The dice is your friend , the dice can be your enemy.
Same game, different game. It's what makes that it exciting.

Dice .

What you get and how you play it.

That's all.

Always.

Everywhere.

.

back

.

.

Back

with a longer rope

maybe

.

.

the space between

At the background of the music I could hear the footsteps. Closed my eyes and a pair of shoes was asking me to wear them. I did and they took me for a walk. Gravity was not enough to keep me in the ground and the earth became a huge trampoline I flied to mountains. Rocky, green, snowy. I went to lakes and danced on their surface and dived to their bottom. In the warm sand I lye to rest and on the blue waters I draw cycles

Then , he came and invited me to a dance. Without resistance, I surrendered to him. I gave up my freedom and that set me free. Aggressive and gentle were both his hands, that lead my body to a sacred dance. He got into my mind , my body, my soul and swing me around the dance floor. The band was playing under a feelings-rain. We followed the music and the music followed us. Till the last note announced the past. .

He kissed in my eyes and I saw him fading. his images disappeared in the mist. I searched for the band to give me the moments but they had departure too. I squatted to take my dancing shoes off. A small piece of paper fall from my heart’s pocket. Two words were written with a space between them. “empty” “full” and with tiny letters an instruction was given. “fill the blank”.

I wrote “and” , fold the paper and put it back to my pocket-heart.

magic box

There was a man thousands years ago that loved to hear stories. He traveled a lot around the world and met thousands of people. To every man, woman or child he met he did the same question. “Tell me a story from your life” People talked to him and he wrote their stories.

After some year doing the same thing he noticed that some stories where similar. Then he started to categorize them and created 64 different categories. From that day, every night was putting the stories he wrote during the day in the 64 different small bags he had made. During wintertime when traveling wasn’t easy he opened each of the 64 bags and reread the stories. He noticed that in each bag, there where 6 differed kind of stories. He kept traveling, he kept asking but he was writing down less new stories. As the years were passing he was writing less and less. The stories he was hearing was already known to him. Till the time came where for almost two year he didn’t find a new story. Everything he heard was already written. It was the time to stop traveling.

The winter was almost there so he found a place to stay, make a wooden box and put his stories in the box. One night he saw a dream. He heard a knock at his door. He opened it and he saw a crowd of people entering into his house. We want the wooden box they told him. No its mine he replied. But the people start searching in the house to find the box. It belongs to us they keep telling him. He woke up . The dream was so vivid in his mind but he couldn’t understand the message. The dream keep coming night after night until one day, pondering on the dream and holding the box , he thought. Maybe gods don’t wanted from me to collect the stories but to spread them and those people coming in my dream and looking for the box try to tell me that.

When the spring came, he took the box and a bag and start traveling again. This time he didn’t ask people. People where asking him. “what do you keep in that box?” “stories” he replied. “can I read one ?” some people were asking. Of course the man was saying and opening the box. They were picking a story and start reading. From their face expressions and the tone of their voice the man noticed that something was happening. The people reading the story at the and were telling him. This is exactly what is going on in my life now.

The man at the beginning thought it might be a coincidence but after a long time the same thing happening again and again realized that this was not just a coincidence but something else that he couldn’t explain. Some of the people who read the stories visited again the man. There were people told him that the story they read help them to solve their problem and some others told him that they wish to pay more attention to the story they read because it turn to be the solution of their problem but they realized when it was too late.

“You are a wise man” one day someone told to the man with the box. No I’m not, he replied. I don’t do anything, the box does. The box and you.

There are many stories about what happened to the man and the box. Some stories say that when he was near to the end of his life he gave it to a young man and told him “remember, it doesn’t belong to you but to all the people” Some other stories say that he met some people that he trust him and let them make a copy of the stories saying them the same thing. “Never forget that you are just the carrier of this box. It’s the box and the people who search for it that make the magic. Don’t force the people to use it. Those who need it they will come and find you”

This is the story of the magic box.

summer

summer vacations at Kithira.

dream

I woke up with this marble head in my hands;
it exhausts my elbows and I don't know where to put it down.
It was falling into the dream as I was coming out of the dream
so our life became one and it will be very difficult for it to separate again.

- George Seferis; Mythistorema 3

shouldn't

I feel sad.

I shouldn’t feel sad, I should be happy
Because summer vacations are very close
and in my work I’m more productive
but I feel sad.

And I don’t know why.

Strange dreams come every night
Don't remember them
but this bitter taste
lasts all the day.