Αυτή είναι μια ιστορία που έγραψα το καλοκαίρι του 2006 στο Λονδίνο. Εν μέρει αυτοβιογραφική αλλά περισσότερο ένα μικρό πείραμα δημιουργικής γραφής στα Αγγλικά...Τη διάβασα πρόσφατα από εκεί που την είχα καταχωνιασμένη και μου άρεσε γι' αυτό είπα να την βάλω εδώ.
Day 2
Please don’t go home now/ Home is alone in the mob/ Home is an unheard sob…
It was not Christmas. It was not Easter or Halloween, not even St. Patrick’s Day. It was a normal day with no festivities on the streets, not fairy lights to capture your attention and change the course of your thoughts. And except for the Radiohead concert three days ago, nothing really happened in the city. Well, that is relatively true, because in a city like London it is impossible that nothing really happens. But let’s say that it was her that she found the last days devastatingly still. She was angry because she could not even feel special by being depressed and miserable walking in the crowded streets. With this annoying, constant rain, people- even Londoners- had every right to feel depressed because it was fucking end of August but the sun refused to come out of the clouds. Back in Athens, she was thinking while she was fighting to keep her cheap 4-pound Primark umbrella over her head, back in Athens I would be in a beach right now, sunbathing and feeling optimistic. I wouldn’t have to wear my coat and worry about getting soaked when this bloody wind will destroy the fifth umbrella in a row. But then there was this little inside voice reminding her that after all, she would be back in Athens tomorrow. Back to the sunshine; back to the beautiful beaches; back to reality. And she was secretly afraid she would not be feeling so optimistic. By the time her bus finally arrived, packed with people, she had managed to be so sulky that when her ipod filled her head with the familiar Mark Eitzel ‘Jenny’ notes and lyrics, the first reaction to him singing ‘here you are again/ another stupid rock show again/ a celebration of nothing’ was that this song must have been written for her and that Radiohead concert. This stupid concert for which she had paid fifty pounds and she was expecting it eagerly for the last three months. Damn, no, don’t destroy it; it was a great concert. And she wanted to cry right now; only her pride prevented her from starting to sob and make a public spectacle of herself but even that great pride of hers couldn’t stop the tears running down her cheeks. Silent crying is so exhausting. She could barely stand on her feet when the bus reached her stop. And then, the sight of him standing there did not help. She stayed in the middle of the open doors, unable to go near him but with her face blushing by the steadiness of his gaze. She was pushed by other annoyed passengers who wanted to step off the bus. What is wrong with you, lady? heard an angry voice shouting to her ear. Are you ok? Whispered an old man. She nodded positively but she did not step out. The doors closed in front of her by the time Anathema in her mp3 filled not only her head now but her whole existence. Music ran wildly through her veins at this point, because the blood had simply stopped.
Day 1
Even though the parade has passed us by/ Well you can still see it shining/ in the western sky…
The room was so empty. The walls seemed unbearably naked with the posters of 2046, Clockwork Orange, Trainspotting and The Insider now removed and carefully rolled and placed into one of the two suitcases. Last night tonight. She still can’t believe it and yet she always knew. It feels a little bit like her first night here, when exhausted from the journey and the excitement, she fell on bed with the french-window wide open to breathe the air of London. Although she felt her body tired and almost in pain, her mind was speeding towards the life she would live that year. One year- minus a few days –later this life is over. Now it would be the time for promises. ‘We’ll keep in touch’; ‘I will email you often’; ‘I will read your blog every day’; ‘I will miss you’; ‘I will never forget you’; ‘I’ll come visit’; ‘I will come back’. Oh, those beautiful, innocent lies…You mean it with all your heart, you sincerely hurt at departing, you even make plans. But soon forgetting comes, the old friends left behind for the new, which will be now themselves old, reappear and claim your attention, your time, your heart. You find a job, you start a new life and the places and people you thought you’d never forget are just photos to show to friends and relatives and then hide them in boxes in the attic. Sad, sad, sad but true... She unconsciously knows that this is exactly what will happen in a few months but at that moment, in her bare room, she refuses to let thoughts of this kind enter her head. She steps to the balcony, her eyes devouring the view the way she devoured his body a week ago. Oh, him she will never forget, no matter what I say, she shakes her head obstinately, she will never forget his eyes, his cheekbones, the line of his neck, the way he kissed her. She is in love. How beautiful is that? Even the pain that she feels now is sweet…she had him, he had her, there were together, she lived it. That is what it counts, right? She won’t have regrets for not grasping the moment, for not seizing the day. ‘It is better to have regrets for something you did rather than something you didn’t’, they say. It is true. This way you get rid the ‘if’. There is nothing more tormenting than the ‘if’ thoughts. They keep you awake at nights, rolling in your bed and unmaking the sheets. No, no, if something would keep her awake some nights, that would be the memories… But now it was time for another memory to be added in the many of her London days. The knock at the door brought her into the room again. She invited her visitors with a warm ‘come in’ hoping that the lump in her throat would clear soon. She knows she is sentimental but she can’t help it; she only tries to hide it. But alas, her flatmates and friends entering the room with chocolate ice-cream, marshmallows and DVDs, can read between the lines of her chattering and recognize the melancholy. They can either stop her, hug her, help her release the tension or they can play her game and act as if tomorrow would be the same day as today and yesterday and the day before. Because they are her friends, they do the second.
Day 0
If your broken face can find a lover/ Give away your chance to fly/ Give away your will power…
Airports are strange places. She is alone and she is waiting for her flight. She has checked in her suitcases and carries a handbag. There is the red notebook inside but she has nothing to write. Sitting among other travellers, she finds comfort in studying their faces and trying to guess how they feel. But she soon gives up. Who is she to know? She can only speak for herself. Last minute thoughts: Why do I leave? I don’t know if I will like it now back home. I could always come back if I wanted to. I will miss them so much. Will we really keep in touch with the girls? I love him, oh, God, what a fool I am, why didn’t I ask him to be here with me now? If only I could have another kiss. Stop it!!! It was a hard call, I have to admit. She thought that it would be easier if they didn’t spend the last days together. She ended it a week ago. After the best weekend of her life, a weekend of talking and making love in a hotel room in Brighton. It was as if they were two gallant lovers, hiding from the world, living stolen moments. There were no discussions about the future, they had finished with these conversations months ago. She wouldn’t stay. He wouldn’t follow her. It was common sense. Prospects were better for her in Athens, for him in London. They knew it from the very first time they met. However, they took the risk of falling in love and breaking their heart because they both knew it was a worthy risk. Now she couldn’t help thinking if she did the right thing. Could she stay? If she really loved him, she would have stayed. So, she didn’t really love him. But her heart and her body protested to this conclusion. They are right to protest; they know love, they feel it, they do not need proves to explain or defend it. But films and books have taught us to think in capital letters; so we always expect something spectacular and breathtaking, earthshaking and dazzling to happen. But most of the times the important things in real life are simple or just quiet, that is why we usually fail to notice them. Or if we do notice them, we tend to undermine them and to question their impact. Look at her now as she plays vaguely with a curl; she is tempted to think that only if he appears in front of her and try to convince her to stay, their passion and love would be as big as she felt it to be all these months. But he won’t come. He won’t call. He won’t send an email. It is agreed. There is no point in dwelling on the past when there was no possibility of it becoming a present. ‘We should forget each other and move on’ she had told him. ‘We will, eventually’ we had answered. But he added that they should be together till the very end, until the airplane took off and then continue talking for some time, until time and distance would wear the passion off, naturally. But no, she wanted her capital letters. She didn’t want her love to wear off naturally; she wanted to have control over the power of her feelings. He had looked at her and he had seen a silent plea in her eyes. He had arguments and maybe he could change her mind. Or he could do it her way. Because he loved her, he did the latter.
Her flight was announced. She rose and started walking towards the gate. Last minute she succumbed and turned her head, her eyes anxiously looking for his face. Next thing, she smiled and I smiled with her.
[i]
[i] The lyrics in the beginning of each section are from the Mark Eitzel songs Jenny, Western Sky and Here they roll down, all found in his album The Ugly American.(Tongue Master, 2003)
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