Bad Habit-The Dresden Dolls

 

biting keeps your words at bay
tending to the sores that stay
happiness is just a gash away
when i open a familiar scar
pain goes shooting like a star
comfort hasn't failed to follow so far...

and you might say it's self-indulgent
you might say its self-destructive
but, you see, it's more productive
than if i were to be healthy

& pens and penknives take the blame
crane my neck & scratch my name
but the ugly marks
are worth the momentary gain...
when i jab a sharpened object in
choirs of angels seem to sing
hymns of hate in memorandum

and you might say it's self-indulgent
and you might say it's self-destructive
but, you see, it's more productive
than if i were to be happy

and sappy songs about sex and cheating
bland accounts of two lovers meeting
make me want to give mankind a beating

and you might say it's self-destructive
but, you see, i'd kick the bucket
sixty times before i'd kick the habit

and as the skin rips off i cherish the revolting thought
that even if i quit
there's not a chance in hell i'd stop
and anyone can see the signs
mittens in the summertime
thank you for your pity, you are too kind

and you might say its self-inflicted
but you see that's contradictive
why on earth would anyone practice self destruction?

and pain opinions are sitcom feeding
they dont know that their minds are teething
makes me want to give mankind a beating

i'm tried bandages and sinking
i've tried gloves and even thinking
i've tried vaseline
i've tried everything
and no-one cares if your back is bleeding
they're concerned with their hair receding
looking back it was all maltreating
every thought that occurred misleading

makes me want to give myself a beating....

THE WHITE HOT POISON OF ANGER

When others make us angry at them- at their shamelessness, injustice, inconsideration- then they exercise power over us, they proliferate and gnaw at our soul, then anger is like a white-hot poison that corrods all mild, noble and balanced feelings and robs us of sleep. Sleepless, we turn on the light and are angry at the anger that has lodged like a succubus who sucks us dry and debilitates us. We are not only furious at the damage, but also that it develops in us all by itself, for while we sit on the edge of the bed with aching temples, the distant catalyst remains untouched by the corrosive force of the anger that eats at us. On the empty internal stage bathed in the harsh light of mute rage, we perform all by ourselves a drama with shadow figures and shadow words we hurl against enemies in helpless rage we feel as icy blazing fire in our bowels. And the greater our despair that is only a shadow play and not a real discussion with the possibility of hurting the other and producing a balance of suffering, the wilder the poisonous shadows dance and haunt us even in the darkest catacombs of our dreams. (We will turn the tables, we think grimly, and all night long forge words that will produce in the other the effect of a fire bomb so that now he will be the one with the flames of indignation raging inside while we, soothed by schadenfreude, will drink our coffee in cheerful calm.)
What could it mean to deal appropriately with anger? We really don't want to be soulless creatures who remain thoroughly indifferent to what they come across, creatures whose appraisals consist only of cool, anemic judgments and nothing can shake them up because nothing really bothers them. Therefore, we can't seriously wish not to know the experience of anger and instead persist in an equanimity that wouldn't be distinguished from tedious insensibility. Anger also teaches us something about who we are. Therefore this is what I'd like to know: What can it mean to train ourselves in anger and imagine that we take advantage of its knowledge without being addicted to its poison?
We can be sure that we will hold on to the deathbed as part of the last balance sheet- and this part will taste bitter as cyanide- that we have wasted too much, much too much strength and time on getting angry and getting even with others in a helpless shadow theater, which only we, who suffered impotently, knew anything about. What can we do to improve this balance sheet? Why did our parents, teachers and other instructors never talk to us about it? Why didn't they tell something of this enormous significance? Not give us in this case any compass that could have helped us avoid wasting our soul on useless, self-destructive anger?”
― Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon

For a dream

I picture us together 

Framed in gold leaf  

On the mantle with the others  

One big happy family  

But that snapshot can't be found 

And I don't trust my memory
But it's alright it's alright  

For a dream
I imagine we are gathered  

But this time not dressed in black  

There's laughing and smiling  

Not stabbing in the back  

But it's too good to be true  

And too bad I still recall the screams  
I keep half the picture   
Mostly in my mind  

Mama dressed in white  

Ripped when she held your hand  

Showing no signs of age  

Just slightly frayed along the seam
It's alright  

All that I can claim 

It's alright  

And it will have to do  

It's alright  

Better than the pain  

It's alright  

Better than the truth 

It's alright  

Alright for a dream  

It's alright  

Better than fate and the great scheme 

It's alright  

It's alright

“Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends.”

“This is about all the bad days in the world. I used to have some little bad days, and I kept them in a little box. And one day, I threw them out into the yard. "Oh, it's just a couple little innocent bad days." Well, we had a big rain. I don't know what it was growing in but I think we used to put eggshells out there and coffee grounds, too. Don't plant your bad days. They grow into weeks. The weeks grow into months. Before you know it you got yourself a bad year. Take it from me. Choke those little bad days. Choke 'em down to nothin'. They're your days. Choke 'em!”

 Tom Waits

Χωρίς λόγο...

Σε κυοφόρησα και πάλι βδομάδες, μέχρι που σήμερα είχες  πάρει τη σωστή θέση σαν έμβρυο στη μήτρα της μάνας κ ζητάς να βγεις.  Βίαια πιέζεις, χτυπάς το στέρνο δυνατά, ανεβαίνεις στο λαιμό κ τον δένεις κόμπο, πιέζεις τα μηλίγγια μου κ τα σπας. Μέρες τώρα αυτή η δουλειά.

Θαρρούσα σε είχα χωνέψει, σαν εκείνα τα κορίτσια που γκαστρώνονται κ το αμελούν, λες κ θα εξαφανιστεί ο φυτεμένος σπόρος, λες κ δε θα γίνει σώμα από το σώμα σου, λες κ δε θα μοιραστεί το αίμα σου, λες κ δε θα σε ανοίξει διάπλατα για να ανασάνει…

Να σαι λοιπόν, κ νιώθω να πνίγομαι ενώ ακούω από τριγύρω γέλια κ χάρες.

Και βλέπω τον εαυτό μου εφτά χρονώ να ζητιανεύει σε περαστικούς, .

Και μετά να ‘μαι πάλι να καθαρίζω το παρμπρίζ ενός οδηγού καμένη από την αντηλιά όχι τόσο για τα λεφτά άλλα για να ξεμουδιάσω από την ορθοστασία στο φανάρι.

Το βράδυ στην ουρά στο συσσίτιο, να περιμένω καρτερικά, τη μπουκιά που θα με κρατήσει στο σήμερα να αγωνιώ για το αύριο.

Κ βλέπω τον πατέρα μου να ρωτάει κρατώντας μου το χέρι  πόσο κάνουν δυο σουβλάκια στην καντίνα, πριν πει με αξιοπρέπεια …ευχαριστώ θα περάσουμε αργότερα.

Κ με βλέπω γέροντα με πληγιασμένα χέρια από τα χωράφια και πρόσωπο ευγενικό σκαμμένο από τον ήλιο , να κάθομαι καρτερικά στο ξύλινο σκαμνί πλάι στο πάγκο με τη πραμάτεια μου. Παιδεύομαι να αρθρώσω μια λέξη, έχω χάσει όλα μου τα δόντια κ η φωνή βγαίνει βαριά απ τα γεράματα. Πιάνω το χέρι μιας κοπελιάς νεαρης, βραχνιασμενα κ αργά της λέω : -Πάρε να δοκιμάσεις κοπελιά είναι καλές οι ντομάτες, μη κοιτάς που της έχω φτηνά! Δεν έχουνε φάρμακα δοκίμασε! Με τα χέρια μου τις φροντίζω! 

Παλεύω να κόψω ένα κομμάτι για τη δύσπιστη νεαρή…

Τα ματιά μου πέφτουν στα χέρια του γέροντα, τα πιο έντιμα χέρια που έχω αντικρύσει, ντράπηκα που μ’ αγγίξανε, άγια  χέρια… σκύβω να τα φιλήσω. Θέλω να τα κρατήσω αυτά τα χέρια τόσο δυνατά, να τους δείξω τον κόσμο θέλω, να τα γεμίσω δώρα. Αυτά είναι τα χέρια που πάνε στη Παράδεισο του Ζορμπά και του Καζαντζάκη άραγε ?

Κ βλέπω τα μάτια μου εφτά  χρονώ να με κοιτούνε σήμερα με την ανελέητη κατηγόρια κ απορία ενός βιολογικά αθώου:  τι διαφορετικό έχω κάνει εγώ από εσένα κ εγώ είμαι εδώ κ εσύ είσαι εκεί ?

Ένας τοίχος ανάμεσα μας. Καθόμαστε αντικριστά δε με  βλέπω μα με νιώθω. Το δικό μου κεφάλι σκυμμένο, το δικό της μουτζουρωμένο από τα χώματα. Κοιτά ολόισα πάνω μου κ ας μη με βλέπει.

Ακούω τη φωνή της μάνας πρώτα κ μετά του πατέρα, του αδελφού ύστερα. Που είσαι? Μ’ ακούς? Που θα πας? Βλέπω τις ζωές τους να περνούν μπροστά από τα μάτια μου σα ταινία.

Σκοτώνω  ηδονικά στο μυαλό μου όσους τους τσουβαλιάζουν με τα λαμόγια, τους αλήτες, τους αγύρτες, τους άρπαγες…

Νιώθω ένα κύμα να με παρασύρει να με πετάει με λύσσα στο βυθό κ να με γυρίζει γύρω-γυρω μέχρι να χάσω τις αισθήσεις μου. Ξεβράζει το κουφάρι μου στη στεριά. Βήχω… πνίγομαι, ξερνάω, ξερνάω τα πάντα , όσα έχω καταπιεί, όσα έχω μισήσει, όσα έχω απογοητεύσει, όσα έχω χάσει, όσα έχω φταίξει, όσα μου χουν κλέψει.

Κ ύστερα, σα να μου φόρεσαν γυαλιά, σαν το γκρι πέπλο που κάλυπτε τα πάντα να το φύσηξε αγέρας μακριά βλέπω καινούρια, καλογυαλισμένα τη θάλασσα, τον ουρανό κ τα πουλιά .

Τα βλέπω όπως τα νιώθω μοναχα…όπως τα ένιωθα στα τραγούδια του Θεοδωράκη κ στα ποιήματα του Ελύτη παιδί. Ναι έτσι τα βλέπω όπως στα ποιήματα.

Γαλήνεψε η κάρδια για λίγο στο όνειρο. Ξύπνησα κ η ελπίδα κρεμόταν στίχος πάνω απ’το κρεβάτι μου.

Κάποιες μέρες κλαίω χωρίς λόγο λένε όσοι με ξέρουν καλά.

Almost Blue

SmeLLmory

She had been driving for 2 hours. The body refuses to admit to tiresome when taken by the enthusiasm of reuniting with old friends. It's been 10 years since they all got together. Now spread all over the world. Once they were heroes. Once they were knights. They were going to change the world, she thought to herself, with a hind of drama and nostalgia.

Now some have babies, others jobs, were dress codes of ties and formal jackets are obligatory. She laughed to herself knowing that she could witness the responsible parent behind the baby and the corporate salesman behind the Armani suit. Instantly comes into her mind, the image of them drunk, returning home early morning, screaming songs at the top of their lungs, laughing and doing all shorts of crazy stuff they did on their nights out.

Its funny how those people that have witnessed your first clumsy years in the world, become your closest family, she wondered. A feverish little clod you were. Believed to be a hero, holding a spear and yelling fearsome accusations to the world. What was your armour then? Was it your size? No, you are still infinitesimal! Was it your courage? No you didn't even know if you had courage yet. Was it youth then? Was it innocence? Oh yes. That’s what it was. Innocence, how everything tastes like new when you experience it on your own, for the first time.

The way you are willing to wake up its morning to see the sunrise and you believe that you will stick to that commitment for the rest of your life. The way you give a chance to everything to prove themselves to you, because you have not decided yet. The way you are open to both joy and pain. Now you turn your eyes from suffering, you have witnessed too much of it. You know now you are not immune to it. You are not special, you can be affected by pain and suffering.  So you turn your eyes away when no one else is looking, like an ostridge that hides its head to the ground. Fear of being devoured by pain and calamity, turned you into a feverish little clod without an armour on. Ridiculous, helpless and hiding from the world. Is that all years and experience give up for exchange of grey hair, just fear then, she wondered.

Long car drives…always a good excuse for self-critique. But today it should be more than that. Today she hoped for a time travel. After all they had loads of  stories to tell, so many things to remember. All the adventures, vacations, extravagant demonstrations of power, the funny moments and the angry moments and the bad moments. All had changed shape with time, in her mind, they had acquired a graceful shape. It all felt good, it had all been for a reason now. A shelter, some comfort on her lonely nights, a good excuse for her nemesis. Or even a precious book, she’d take down from the bottom self of her minds library, on those lonely Sunday afternoons when it feels harmless to wet your toes in the steal waters of Memory Lake.

It was not far now. She had a perfect timing. Right when they were finishing catching up with the present and started reminiscing...They were all there, her two closest friends, the always noisy yet unofficial head of the gang, the girls, married now, her first love, his wife expecting a baby. Everyone had come unattached as promised. Just the group, no wives, babies, boyfriends, girlfriends. It felt like a screen-writers setup for a proper time travelling launch...indeed.

No one cared to ask much about her present once she was there. Secretly, she thought,  they all knew, but did not care to admit, that they travelled so far for the same reason. To remember and catch a glimpse of themselves in their youngest, most fearless time. To see themselves through the eyes of the narrator that bares the burden of the story through the years, idealizing the characters and the circumstance so, that a story becoming of a legend comes out of his mouth, to mellow the soul, and whisper softly in your ear that in your most fearless times your dids were witnessed by someone. That circle of friends comes together to get high with memories. Each one, becomes anothers god, through one reminiscent. And this goes around like a joint or like an Indian pipe to be inhaled and let out, leaving you intoxicated with contempt. 

The ceremony, as she called it, went on for hours. They had finished almost ten bottles of wine, burned approximately 3 trees in the fireplace and sacrificed one and a half pig. Some earth offerings as well, potatoes, vegetables. As per usual the end of a story telling orgy, leaves one as satisfied as a night of a heartbroken man in a brothel. There is this emptiness when the past stories are magnified to the point of legend, and the present or the future , show no promise.

Left with a deep sadness of "what now" she went to sleep like everyone else had. Found herself a good spot in the couch next to two lumps of blanket, formed by the sleeping bodies. It was not five minutes that she had closen her eyes, when the blanket lump has turned her way, only to find out that it was him. Him,once her first love, now a stranger whose wife was expecting their first child. As he moved her way, a familiar smell ripped through her mind, after all these years.

It smelled of late nights out, music and love. The smell reached to the most remote memory cells, and blasted a feeling of carelessness and happiness. She felt weightless, gravity had disappeared for a moment, spring and blossoms and passion and youth. Passing with the speed of light before her eyes, the cd he gave her that day, his clumsiness the first time they made love, that time he cooked, coffees and laughs and fightings and endless discussions on sleepless nights.

As if the clock had turned 10 years back and stood steal just bellow that blanket she was covered with. She did not resist his hug or attempt to kiss her. She tried to inhale as much of the memory as she good. Started sniffing his mouth like a hound. His forehead, his ears, his neck, like a playful tease before a kiss. The hands remembered their way though the body, the skins route was familiar. Palms on the cheeks, passing through the hair, low to the ears, the neck, the shoulders, the arms. Thumbs on the lips. The skin remembered everything. The odour gave away a hall time of her life, and she was back at that time.

Frustrated by all the delay, the first love whispered softly to her ear. 

- I have what you need! 

A damaging noise blocked the intoxicating flow of memories.

She looked up the strangers face and said:

- How could you possibly now what I need?

- You need unattachment. I am attached, I have a family, I cannot smother you with a relationship and I can offer you some good times without restrains. That's why you love time travelling to the past so much. You don't want to commit to the present, or the future.

Behind the hypocrisy of his offer, the hind of truth in his outspoken grasp of her needs, made her leave the room saying nothing but

- I just wanted to smell you, who you were to me, what I 've made of you...Just smell you.