Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and further comments.

Μη με ρωτάς

Ερμηνεία:  Μάνος Λοΐζος
Στίχοι:    Λευτέρης Παπαδόπουλος
Μουσική:   Μάνος Λοΐζος


Τα πολυβόλα σωπάσαν
Οι πόλεις αδειάσαν και κλείσαν
Ένας βοριάς παγωμένος
σαρώνει την έρημη γη

Στρατιώτες έρχονται-πάνε
ρωτάνε γιατί πολεμήσαν
κι εσύ ησυχάζεις
το δάχτυλο βάζεις
να βρεις την πληγή

Μη με ρωτάς, δε θυμάμαι
Μη με ρωτάς, μη με ρωτάς, μη με ρωτάς
Μη με κοιτάς, σε φοβάμαι
μη με κοιτάς, μη με ρωτάς, μη με ρωτάς

Στην πολιτεία βραδιάζει
το χιόνι τις στέγες σκεπάζει
Ένα καμιόνι φορτώνει
και κόβει στα δυο τη σιγή

Περιπολία στους δρόμους
και κάποια φωνή που διατάζει
κι εσύ ησυχάζεις
το δάχτυλο βάζεις
να βρεις την πληγή

Do not ask me

Singer:  Manos Loizos
Lyrics:  Lefteris Papadopoulos
Music:   Manos Loisos


The machine guns have quietened
The towns have been evacuated and closed down
A frozen north wind
sweeps the desolate land

Soldiers come-go
Asking why they fought
and you turn silent
you place the finger
to find the wound

Do not ask me, I do not remember
Do not ask me, do not ask me, do not ask me
Do not look at me, I am afraid of you
Do not look at me, do not ask me, do not look at me

Night comes to the polity
The snow covers the rooftops
A truck loads up
and cuts the silence in two

Patrol on the streets
and a voice that issues orders
and you turn silent
you place the finger
to find the wound

Do not ask me describes some of the horrors of war. Deserted lands and broken people abound. The average soldier was recruited under the pretence of moral superiority, of fighting for some noble cause, only to question everything after the fact; after they have been treated as expendable.

The war apparatus relies on impressionable folk who have yet to form a coherent and questioning view of the world. By the time they figure out how things work, they have already been given as fodder to the cannons or their vitality has been snuffed out. Whatever shell of a person remains subsists in desperation, while decision-makers and their corporate cronies are enjoying their newfound wealth.

War is devastating at such a mind-boggling scale in part because those who decide in its favour are not directly involved in the fighting. It would have been different if the president was leading the charge in his threat to erase an entire civilisation. Would genocide be happening if the prime minister was on the front lines? Would forever wars be a thing if all decision-makers were to form the vanguard as a matter of principle? I doubt it.

As with private matters, corruption occurs when actions are decoupled from their consequences or, at least, when there is a good chance that the decoupling will occur. Once combined with the power to determine the fate of nations, such corruption becomes an inexhaustible capacity for inhumanity.

Plans are drawn by policy wonks behind closed doors. The same core message is disseminated on repeat under the guise of impartial journalism through a network of channels that are owned by the oligarchs (i.e. the beneficiaries of the regime; a regime which claims the moral high ground). The moneymen who pull the strings connive on how to maximise their gains while socialising the costs.

Against this backdrop, the titular plea to suspend all questions is the veteran’s coping mechanism in the face of torment as well as the realisation of deep-seated misanthropy among the elites. Some veterans know they were offered as blood sacrifice to the altars of greed, yet cannot muster the strength to argue anymore. Such is their broken heart that they even fear the poetic “you”, which is presented as a benevolent caregiver figure.

This second person shows compassion. They are not there to make probing questions. Their role is to provide much-needed relief from what has transpired. As such, they focus on treating the wounds. We find here the interpersonal spark that gives people hope, including those who are dead inside.

It is the genuine caring for another in times of strife and uncertainty: the solidarity that ordinary people show when placed under collective duress. It does not conform with the profiteer’s calculus. It comes without strings attached. There is no fine print and hidden fees. It manifests as a gentle touch; a reminder that there is beauty to be found in the little things even when all seems lost.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and further comments on what all this is about.

Other entries I have written related to Alkinoos Ioannidis:

• Mirror (2022-06-28)
• Out of space and time (2022-09-03)

Ο κόσμος που αλλάζει

Ερμηνεία:  Αλκίνοος Ιωαννίδης
Στίχοι:    Αλκίνοος Ιωαννίδης
Μουσική:   Αλκίνοος Ιωαννίδης


Μεγάλο δέντρο ο στεναγμός
μεγάλη κι η σκιά του
απλώνει ρίζες στην ψυχή
στο σώμα τα κλαδιά του
Μα όπως ανοίγει ένα πουλί
φτερούγα στον αέρα
το δέντρο γίνεται γιορτή
και φτερουγίζει η μέρα

Πόσες φορές να σου το πω
πόσες να στο μηνύσω;
Να σου το πω ψιθυριστά
ή να στο τραγουδήσω;
Θα σου το πω ψιθυριστά
όπως μιλάει το βλέμμα
που κρύβει μες τη σιγαλιά
του κόσμου όλο το αίμα

Αυτός ο κόσμος που αλλάζει
πως σου μοιάζει, πως σου μοιάζει
Αυτός ο κόσμος που αλλάζει
με τρομάζει, με τρομάζει

Χαμένοι μοιάζουμε, λοιπόν
στο γύρο του θανάτου
στην παγωνιά του οριστικού
στον τρόμο του αοράτου
Μα οριστικά θα'χεις χαθεί
μονάχα αν το διαλέξεις
όπως διαλέγει η μουσική
τα λόγια και τις λέξεις

Αυτός ο κόσμος που αλλάζει
πως σου μοιάζει, πως σου μοιάζει
Αυτός ο κόσμος που αλλάζει
με τρομάζει, με τρομάζει

The world that changes

Singer:  Alkinoos Ioannidis
Lyrics:  Alkinoos Ioannidis
Music:   Alkinoos Ioannidis


Large tree is the sigh
also large is its shadow
spreads its roots to the soul
to the body [it spreads] its branches
Just as a bird spreads
its wings against the air
the tree becomes a feast
and the day flaps

How many times should I tell you
how many to convey it to you?
Shall I tell you in whispers
or shall I sing it to you?
I will tell you in whispers
the way the glance speaks
which hides in the silence
all of the world's blood

This world that changes
how it resembles you, how it resembles you
This world that changes
it scares me, it scares me

Losers we seem to be, then
at the tour of death
in the frost of the definitive
at the fear of the invisible
But you will forever be lost
only if you so choose
like how the music chooses
the expressions and the words

This world that changes
how it resembles you, how it resembles you
This world that changes
it scares me, it scares me

This is a song about a person who experiences stagnation and is now confronted with the prospect of change. Humans are animals of habit. We get accustomed even to situations that are not benign to us. This is how we end up with the concept of “the devil you know”. The prevailing conditions will bedevil us, yet we remain reluctant to introduce thoroughgoing changes out of fear that we might end up with something worse.

Stagnation, of the sort here considered, breeds pessimism. Every reform is treated as the harbinger of a greater evil. It is thus to be avoided at all costs. The person remains stuck. Grief takes hold. Its roots grow deep and get entangled everywhere. This situation normalises itself through the force of habit. Only then may the tree of disappointment be perceived as a feast. It becomes a celebration of itself, which is a metaphor for how a person will cling on to the devil they know, as if they were having fun the whole time.

Now why would the artist describe stagnation in terms of something as beautiful and peaceful as a tree and a bird? It is to emphasise how the logic of “the devil you know” works: it impresses in us the feeling that whatever prevailing conditions are not too bad after all—they may even be wonderful in some twisted way! This is the part where we find excuses to not make any changes and, thus, to conceal the attendant fear.

The poetic first person eventually musters the courage to speak about their dread. They decide to do so as discreetly as possible by whispering. Here the artist communicates a sense of emotional intensity: the whisper is likened to the silent yet decisively passionate glance. We know that stare, that moment when everything is said without words, when something pierces us and time stops for a little while. The blood in the second verse is a reference to passion. It is how we get all excited in those moments; a telltale sign of an emotionally charged experience.

Not all is lost though. Losers are those who declare themselves thus, who choose to quit without trying in earnest. They are the people who make the mistake of befriending their fears and making best buddies with their own inhibitions. When we choose to be losers, we condition our life accordingly. This is exactly how a given rhythm only enables certain lyrics, while precluding all others.

All consequential decisions delineate the horizon of possible subsequent actions. This is because we live with their consequences and, thus, operate within the confines of the state of affairs they engender. Choosing to fight is difficult for this exact reason: it needs longer-term commitment.

Whether one is a fighter or a loser is a matter of outlook. That can change. It is embedded as lifestyle through everyday affairs. To put the desk in order, for example, is a task that requires some relatively minor effort against inertia. Achieving that engenders the feeling that the immediate surroundings are controllable or, in other words, that our actions can indeed change our world one tiny bit at a time. By gradually increasing the intensity while widening the scope of our initiative, we can change our ways.

Fear, then, need not be interpreted as an evil. It simply is a mechanism which brings some reality to the foreground of our conscience. What matters is how we respond to it. This is about our attitude and the kind of resolve we show. To recognise one’s fear, and perhaps to share it with another, as does the poetic first person in this song, is the precondition for overcoming said fear.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and further commentary on my part.

Τα Ξωτικά

Ερμηνεία:  Σωκράτης Μάλαμας & Ιουλία Καραπατάκη
Στίχοι:    Σωκράτης Μάλαμας
Μουσική:   Σωκράτης Μάλαμας


Σε ποια σκιά τα μάτια σου θολώνουν
Μικρό πουλί σ'αγάπησα πολύ
Τα βήματα στα κύματα βουλιάζουν
Να'σουν εδώ να σε βρει η ανατολή

Μέσα στα ρούχα μου σε κρύβω σαν φωτιά
Να'χουν να λεν πως δε σε γνώρισα ποτέ
Όνειρο είναι η ιστορία μας καρδιά μου
Τα ξωτικά γυρνούν τις νύχτες συντροφιά μου

Δωσ'μου το φως κι ας κάνω πως δεν είδα
Δώσ'μου νερό να σβήσω τα βαριά
Ό,τι έχει μείνει μέχρι εδώ απ'το κερί μου
είναι τα μάτια σου που καίνε σαν φωτιά

Μέσα στα ρούχα μου σε κρύβω σαν φωτιά
Να'χουν να λεν πως δε σε γνώρισα ποτέ
Όνειρο είναι η ιστορία μας καρδιά μου
Τα ξωτικά γυρνούν τις νύχτες συντροφιά μου

The Elves

Singer:  Socratis Malamas & Ioulia Karapataki
Lyrics:  Socratis Malamas
Music:   Socratis Malamas


Under which shade do your eyes blur
Little bird I loved you so much
The steps sink in the waves
I wish you were here to be found by dawn

In my clothes I keep you like fire
So that they may say that I never met you
Our story is a dream my heart
The elves roam around with me at night

Give me the light although I pretend not to see
Give me water to erase the heavy parts
Whatever remains here of my candle
are your eyes that burn like fire

In my clothes I keep you like fire
So that they may say that I never met you
Our story is a dream my heart
The elves roam around with me at night

At the surface level, this sounds like yet another love song. It is how I used to think of The Elves for the longest time. Though now I am of the view that there is an alternative explanation, the hint for which we already get from the title.

Elves are a figment of humanity’s artistic genius. As with all myths, they are a metaphor for phenomena we bear witness to. This one, in particular, pertains to experiences that are at once relatable yet decisively alien. We can recognise in them patterns that the human psyche resonates with while realising that they cannot fit into the narrow confines of our quotidian affairs.

One does not encounter the elves at their 9-5 job. No. What we do for a living is typically a matter of need. It has a logic of its own as we have to suppress at least some of our individuality or altogether sacrifice a part of who we are to the altars of expedience and necessity.

The elves are exotic creatures. They are found well beyond the milieux most of us operate in and seldom escape from. They inhabit ancient forests and pristine lands. These we describe as “nature”. Nature is always close to where we live. A short trip is enough to take us to the nearest grove, mountain, or water element, for example. Proximity, however, does not necessarily imply a connection of any meaningful depth.

People can be physically close to “nature” yet clearly beyond reach of it. This happens because we need time to get accustomed to the new realities. Humans are products of their environment. They cannot just switch contexts without requiring a period of adjustment. Life outside the bustling human world unfolds at a slower pace than what we are conditioned to accept as the baseline of interpersonal relations. The stimuli we get in the great outdoors are much more subtle. There are sounds and musicality all around, though they are subdued enough for us to get the initial impression that the place is eerily quiet.

Furthermore, we fail to have situational awareness whenever we turn inward and forget to come back out. This is our default modus operandi. It reduces us to androids; cogs in a society-wide machine. Much of what we do is to just get by. It happens mindlessly as we sink into routines and thinking patterns that we eventually take for granted.

The elf as an artistic device, then, reminds us that the magic all around us is accessible to all of us provided we change our ways. It does not matter that something is close. What is of import is to develop the capacity to appreciate it. This requires that we free up resources from cognitively burdensome but ultimately needless preoccupations.

With those granted, we can understand the lyrics of The Elves as an appreciation of nuance: to discern that which hides in the open. This is not a typical love song because there is no lover involved. In the first verse, the poetic “I” figure wishes that some abstract “you” were present, while walking alone along the beach (where waves would wash away all the footprints on the sand).

In the refrain we learn how knowledge of this seemingly dreamy otherworldliness is kept within. It is not materialised as a person, as the partner to love, but as the impersonal fire that fuels one’s actions. Others will never notice because they did not get out of their own inward-looking routines. Had they done so, they would have encountered the elves themselves.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and further comments.

Remember to also check other interpretations of mine related to Pavlos Pavlides or Ta Xylina Spathia:

• At the rock (2022-07-05)
• The king of dust (2022-07-24)
• Illegal passenger (2022-08-17)
• White storm (2022-09-12)
• Pigeons (2023-02-16)
• So close (2023-10-25)

Τώρα αρχίζω και θυμάμαι

Ερμηνεία:  Παύλος Παυλίδης
Στίχοι:    Τα Ξύλινα Σπαθιά (Παύλος Παυλίδης)
Μουσική:   Τα Ξύλινα Σπαθιά


Μια ανατολή σ'ένα κόσμο που δεν έχει πάψει
ποτέ να γυρίζει στην ίδια τροχιά
Όμως στην άλλη άκρη της γης
κάποιος βλέπει τον ήλιο να πέφτει ξανά
Όπως ξανά ανάβει ο φάρος του κόσμου
χτυπάει ξαφνικά τα φτερά του.
Το φως απ'την χώρα των πάγων
βουτάει στην καρδιά σου
κι υψώνεται πάνω απ'τη Γη του Πυρός

Πόσες φορές θα στρίψει αυτή η σφαίρα
ώσπου ν'αρχίσω πια να σ'εμπιστεύομαι
ώσπου να πάψω να φοβάμαι
Μου'χες πει πως θα 'ρθει κάποια μέρα
που ό,τι αντικρίζω θα το ερωτεύομαι
Τώρα αρχίζω και θυμάμαι

Η αγάπη πληρώνει κρυφά δολοφόνους
συχνάζει σε δρόμους χωρίς γυρισμό
Σ'αγαπώ κι ας μην ξέρω ούτε καν τ'όνομά σου
Ετοιμάσου σε λίγο θα πεις «σε μισώ!»
Είμαι το ένα μισό της σελήνης μην κλείνεις
σε λίγο γεμίζει το άλλο μισό
Η αγάπη γεμίζει ξανά τα ποτήρια
ρωτάει ποιος διψάει, ψιθυρίζεις «εγώ!»

I now begin to remember

Singer:  Pavlos Pavlides
Lyrics:  Ta Xylina Spathia (Pavlos Pavlides)
Music:   Ta Xylina Spathia


Sunrise in a world that has not ceased
to move in the same trajectory
Yet on the other side of the earth
someone sees again the sun setting
as again the world's lighthouse lightens up
it suddenly flaps its wings
The light from the land of glaciers
dives into your heart
and rises over the Land of Fire

How many times must this sphere spin
until I start trusting you
until I stop being afraid
You told me there will come a day
that I will be falling in love with all I encounter
I now begin to remember

Love secretly pays headhunters
it frequents alleys with no return
I love you although I do not even know your name
Prepare yourself as you will soon say "I hate you!"
I am one half of the moon do not close yet
the other half will soon fill up
Love fills up the glasses again
it asks who is thirsty, you whisper "I am"

This is a cryptic song that nevertheless evokes familiar images and their attendant emotions. The overarching theme is of coming to terms with oneself and to maintain an open-ended outlook that is not committed to particular outcomes.

In the opening verse, we are presented with scenes of the daily miracle that is life on this planet. In a reductive sense, the Earth is just a pile of star dust that orbits a ball of fire, in a cosmos of unfathomable proportions where such phenomena occur everywhere. Yet we anticipate every sunrise, no matter which corner of this planet we inhabit. Like flowers, we prosper when turn our sights to the luminous star. Our vitality depends on this connection. Beauty is inexhaustible, no matter how many times we see it repeat across the patterns we discern. A slice of the world is enough to engender in us a sense of awe at the grandeur of its workings. It is a continuum of life. From the smallest to the largest, we can always find that which is common in the multitude.

The refrain presents the poetic first person in a state contemplation. They wonder what more proof do they need to suspend their disbelief; the disbelief that they already have what it takes to carry forward unto the next dawn and then the ones after. With some experience, we learn that there is no one answer to life. It is the hesitation to trust our feelings that makes us operate in fear. This is because we make decisions on the basis of what others want. We do it to fit in and to enjoy the moments of validation: a poor substitute for emotional stability. Without the courage to take the initiative and to think for ourselves, the courage to be different by becoming who we can be, we are left in a condition of emptiness. No matter how much we enjoy social approval, we cannot lie to ourselves: deep down we know that our choices are not genuine and our wants are thus not met. Hence the pervasive dread that there is something out there that is better for us. Those who learn to trust their feelings have no fear of missing out on anything: they know exactly what they want.

The refrain appeals to a mysterious “you” figure, who seems to have already offered words of wisdom along the lines of the aforementioned. This could be a sage. It could also be the personification of impersonal forces. We can anthropomorphise phenomena, to make it seem like there is a tutelary figure in the skies that communicates with us through a series of impressions. Cosmic consistency allows us much, for we can be initiated into the mysteries by assiduously studying whatever is in the slice of world we are experiencing. The point is that this “you” figure explains how one should accept who they are in order to start loving.

The final verse runs counter to the boutique view of love as undying and eternal. Love comes and goes, like everything else we experience. Each instance cannot be replayed. We can only have a relationship while it lasts. Yet this fact does not deter us. When given the chance, we opt for another round, while knowing that we can still get disappointed. Combined with the above, we understand the significance of keeping in touch with our emotional side, to periodically assess our condition. There will be moments when we have to change course. It is exactly then when we begin to remember that only by staying true to our self can we act decisively to make that necessary next step.

Their upbeat rendition of My old troubles is a case in point: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lyxHHlX6z0. There is the guitar and what sounds to me like elements of American country music, though it also captures the primordial spirit of a Dionysian festival. Compare it to a more traditional interpretation, which is also nice in its own way: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBNAhwaeyss.

Below are the lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and comments on the substantive points.

Also read my interpretation of The birds fooled me by Kadinelia (2024-12-28).

Τα παλαιά μου βάσανα

Ερμηνεία:  Καντινέλια
Στίχοι:    Παραδοσιακό
Μουσική:   Παραδοσιακό


Τα παλαιά μου βάσανα
περά- καλέ περάσανε και πάνε
Τα τωρινά γικήκανε
φιθκιά καλέ φιθκιά για να με φαν

Λελαλε κι αμάν αμάν
τα παλαιά μου βάσανα

Άνθρωπε γλέντα τη ζωή
μην εί- καλέ μην είσαι πλεονέκτης
Γιατί στο χώμα που πατάς
είσαι καλέ είσαι ένας επισκέπτης

Λελαλε κι αμάν αμάν
άνθρωπε γλέντα τη ζωή

Τα βάσανα μου τραγουδώ
τον πό- καλέ τον πόνο μου γλεντίζω
Κι όπως τον εύρω τον καίρο
ετσά καλέ ετσά τον αρμενίζω

Λελαλε κι αμάν αμάν
όπως τον εύρω τον καιρό

My old troubles

Singer:  Kadinelia
Lyrics:  Traditional
Music:   Traditional


My old troubles
they pa- dear they passed and they go
My current ones became
snakes dear snakes to eat me

Lelale and aman aman [expressions of joy and woe]
my old troubles

Human enjoy your life
do be dear do not be greedy
Because on the ground you stand on
you are dear you are a guest

Lelale and aman aman
human enjoy your life

I sing my troubles
my pai- dear my pain I enjoy
And however I find the times
thus dear thus I navigate them

Lelale and aman aman
however I find the times

This song is a celebration of flow and lightness. It is about not dwelling on what has transpired: letting go of the past woes and success stories to deal with the prevailing conditions as they unfold. The prerequisite is to understand that you do not take anything with you. Not the good parts. Not the bad ones. Time is inexorable. It goes by and you are powerless to stop it. What once defined you is taken away before your eyes, sometimes in tiny increments, at others in large chunks.

Flow is about dealing with the world as-is. Learn from the past, but do not remain preoccupied with it. Bring to the present the parts that are relevant and forgo the rest. There is no going back to rectify your mistakes. It is impossible to replay those states of affairs, giving you the opportunity to do things differently. Whatever lingering doubts or regrets about a world that no longer exists are forever burdensome. Same principle for the future. It is common to invest all your hopes in some potential outcome that is not a direct consequence of your deeds. You anticipate it, thinking that it will finally deliver to you all you ever desired. If that happens, it turns out that you actually wanted something else. And if it does not happen, the meantime is spent ignoring or bemoaning your condition. Your attention span has shifted away from the immediate circumstances, making it almost impossible to appreciate what is available to you.

Lightness is the emotional state you have once you start going with the flow. You recognise that experiences belong to their place and time. As such, you do not make an attempt at clinging on to them. They stay, but you continue. Life is a little bit like travelling the world on foot. All you have is a backpack with provisions. Your physical limitations mean that you cannot afford to carry anything else, no matter how much your heart desires it. And if you commit the mistake of putting more weight on your shoulders than what is sustainable, you will experience unending torment.

Kadinelia invites you to change how you deal with negative feelings. What someone said about you is often inconsequential. Yet if you keep revolving around it, doubting your abilities, and loathing your self for not being good enough, then the negativity gets amplified. It becomes a force so preponderant that it makes you act in a disjointed fashion.

Singing and dancing, among other physical activities, are effective remedies for overthinking. It is no coincidence that Dionysos (Dionysus) is more than just the god of festivities: he is also related to reanimation, resurrection, and rebirth. By participating in the festival or, more generally, by getting “out of your head” you do something in zest. It is engrossing and immersive. We call such activities “recreational” because they effectively reinvigorate us, remaking us as it were.

The challenge, then, is to find joy in what is in your milieu. Start with the little things. Pay close attention to them. Take note of what you think their positive qualities are. If it is only negatives you notice, make it a challenge to come up with a better design for at least some of them. How would you improve them? Try that in earnest. The very work on such a project is already channelling your vitality towards something other than the negativity you had discerned.

The general idea is to work on your situational awareness. To be able to describe what is around you and how you feel in the moment. This empowers you to quickly spot the aspects of the world that can have a benign effect on you. Whatever you do though, remember that you are but a guest on this earth. Do what you must while you can. And do not take yourself too seriously.

Below are the original lyrics in Greek, my faithful translation, and some comments on what I make of them.

Τον ίδιο το Θεό

Ερμηνεία:  Μπλε, Τζώρτζια Κεφαλά
Στίχοι:    Γιώργος Παρώδης
Μουσική:   Γιώργος Παπαποστόλου


Πάνω σου η γη ξυπνάει
Ήλιος μπαίνει από παντού
Κάθομαι και σε κοιτάζω μη με φοβάσαι

Είσαι ακόμα από τον ύπνο
Τ'όνειρο έχει εξατμιστεί
Μάρτιο θυμίζεις, πώς να σε προβλέψω;

Ένα απ'όλα τα βιβλία
Που έχω μέσα μου βαθιά
Του έρωτα φεγγάρια μαύρα το φωτίζουν

Τίποτα δεν έχει μείνει
Κι όμως όλα είναι εδώ
Άφησε με να αγγίξω τα μαλλιά σου

Τον ίδιο το Θεό
να είχα απέναντι μου
σου λέω προτιμώ
στην κόλαση μαζί σου

Άφωνη η ζωή ρωτάει
«Τόση ομορφιά από πού;»
Βρέχει ο ουρανός ρουμπίνια κι απαντάει

«Μόνο η αγάπη ξέρει»
Τώρα έμαθα κι εγώ
πόσο ανάγκη έχω από την αγκαλιά σου

Τον ίδιο το Θεό
να είχα απέναντι μου
σου λέω προτιμώ
στην κόλαση μαζί σου

Τίποτα άλλο εκτός
από εσένα στο φως
Τίποτα άλλο που να με σκοτώνει γλυκά

God himself

Singer:  Blé, Giorgia Kefalá
Lyrics:  Giorgos Parodis
Music:   Giorgos Papapostolou


The earth awakens over you
Sunshine enters from everywhere
I sit staring at you do not fear me

You are still asleep
The dream has evaporated
You evoke March, how can I predict you?

One among all the books
That I have deep inside of me
Love's dark moons are luminating it

Nothing is left
Yet everything is here
Let me touch your hair

God himself
had I in front of me
I tell you I prefer
to be with you in hell

Speechless life asks
"Whence all this beauty?"
The sky rains rubies and responds

"Love only knows"
Now I know as well
how much need I have for your hug

God himself
had I in front of me
I tell you I prefer
to be with you in hell

Nothing else except
you in the light
Nothing else that is killing me sweetly

This song is a recognition of—and appreciation for—imperfection. It invites us to keep things simple in accepting what we have. There is beauty to be experienced if we are willing to work for it, provided we do not fall in the trap of seeking perfection.

The poetic “you” is a flawed lover. They remind the first person of the notoriously temperamental month of March: sometimes scorching hot, at others icy cold. Oscillations between the extremes can be difficult to handle. This lover does have redeeming, even admirable, qualities though: it is why our protagonist has evidently fallen in love with them. The point, then, is not that the lover is erratic but that this fact poses no impediment whatsoever to the relationship.

One’s attitude is of paramount importance. The poetic “I” exhibits the necessary maturity to make things work by trying in earnest, despite admitting that this relationship is a drain on them. The frailties of character, the contentious parts, are qualities that every person and, by extension, every relationship exhibits. To entertain the typically false belief that the grass is greener elsewhere is to never be satisfied with anyone or anything.

Be constructive and supportive, while still drawing boundaries. Yet refrain from the self-fulfilling negativity of seeking triggers for anger, frustration, and petty complaints. Give and take gracefully without wanting to be the boss. The expectation to control the other, be it through physical coercion, emotional manipulation, or financial restrictions is what renders the relationship lopsided and abusive.

Admitting to one’s own mistakes is equally important. Otherwise it comes off as insecure, while being patronising and hypocritical. Whenever you catch yourself telling your lover in a belittling tone how to be a better person look in the mirror and ask what you could have done differently to set them up for success.

Sometimes the problems are insurmountable. It takes courage to recognise as much and seek a resolution. What this song reminds us is to not be trigger-happy: try to the best of your abilities before quitting.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and further comments on what all this means to me.

Έπαψες αγάπη να θυμίζεις

Ερμηνεία:  Πυξ Λαξ
Στίχοι:    Φίλιππος Πλιάτσικας, Όλγα Βλαχοπούλου, Νίκη Παπαγεωργίου
Μουσική:   Φίλιππος Πλιάτσικας


O καφές σου έχει κρυώσει
και το ράδιο κλειστό τώρα για μέρες
Σε θυμάμαι είχες ξαπλώσει
Στου μονού κρεβατιού τις καλημέρες

Το ξέρω πως δεν το διάλεξα
αν έπρεπε τη σκέψη μου να ορίζεις
Μα ακόμα δεν κατάλαβα
γιατί έπαψες αγάπη να θυμίζεις

Υπάρχουν το νιώθω υγρά μονοπάτια
Υπάρχουν κομμάτια από φως στη σιωπή
Τραγούδια που'γίναν με δάκρυα στα μάτια
Τραγούδια που'γίναν απλά η αφορμή

You stopped evoking love

Singer:  Pyx Lax
Lyrics:  Philippos Pliatsikas, Olga Blachopoulou, Nike Papageorgiou
Music:   Philippos Pliatsikas


Your coffee has gotten cold
and the radio is switched off for days now
I remember you had laid down
on the single bed's good mornings

I know I did not choose
whether you should define my thought
But I have yet to understand
why you stopped evoking love

I feel there are humid paths
There are pieces of light in silence
Songs that were made with tears in the eyes
Songs that were made as an impetus

The titular “you” is each of us in potentiality. We stop evoking love when we no longer care about our wellness. The coffee that stays there is a metaphor for the fact that we do not pay attention to our state of being: what should be savoured in a timely fashion is neglected altogether, left to the side where it cannot give joy anymore.

It helps to think of our person as a stranger. What would be our response to someone who, with sincerity in their eyes, would seek our help? We would probably react with kindness. We would even be willing to make a small sacrifice to accommodate this troubled soul. We would be eager to show our support in the hope of engendering in this person the belief that everything is going to be alright.

What we usually do, however, is to take our self for granted. Even if we are still polite to others, we assume we have a licence to apply a double standard: politeness for them, disregard or even scorn for us. This is not a sustainable arrangement. Each of us is like a delicate flower: if we do not water it enough and clear the weeds periodically it will wither away.

In the absence of self-love, there is no capacity for love at-large. The reason is that we make everything a matter of desert (as in “to deserve”). We argue that we do not deserve to be loved and how we are not good enough in this or that way. Self-loathing takes hold which eventually transmogrifies into a worldview of negativity, contempt, and resignation. Ultimately, it begets the thought that nobody is deserving of love as they too have many faults if we pay close attention.

The image of the radio that is switched off points to the disconnect we thus experience. Our view of the world is no longer informed by what is actually happening around us. We have become a cruel judge that ignores the facts, or selects only those that support their prejudice, and then has no capacity for equitable adjudication of the case. Once we mentally check out from our surroundings, we let our fears and insecurities define our outlook.

Exactly why we might withdraw into this bleak condition is unclear. Each individual will be formed by different experiences. The common in the multitude, though, is that the turn inward is not done with an intent for temporary introspection but a want for permanent escape. To be introspective is to look inside in order to find that which is of use outside. Whereas to seek an exit is to toy with the notion of giving up on life.

Others may care about us, but are nevertheless powerless to sustain the fire in our heart. We do not accept love because we do not believe we are worthy enough. Only our own initiative can change this opinion. It happens when we try, little by little, to reach the point of looking in the mirror without regrets, with no sense of guilt, with mere lightness having accepted who we are.

The final verse reminds us that there is scope for a rebound. Making songs with tears in the eyes still constitutes song-making. Those tears are the honest representation of the moment. We do not hide them nor do we pretend that everything is in order. We let it all out so that it cannot exert power over us. And then, from a position of clarity, we notice how there is light in the darkness, and that this song shall provide the impetus for a new beginning: to regain the capacity to give love and to receive it; to love despite all the imperfections.

Below are the lyrics in Greek, my translation of them, and some further comments on the meaning of this song. Also check my other interpretations involving one or more of these artists:

• Hamlet of the Moon (2022-07-14)
• Horoscope (2022-10-16)
• Always smiling (2023-01-06)
• A black stoker from Djibouti (2024-09-26)
• Minor adulterations (2025-03-01)

Δεν είμαι άλλος

Ερμηνεία:  Χρήστος Θηβαίος
Στίχοι:    Μάνος Ελευθερίου
Μουσική:   Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Πίσω απ'το φως της μουσικής που ταξιδεύεις
είσαι ολόκληρη Αργεντίνικο ταγκό
Και μήτε στ'όνειρο σου πια δε με γυρεύεις
όπως παλιά μ'ένα σκοπό χερουβικό

Και για τον κόσμο που μισείς, δεν είμαι άλλος
Και για τον κόσμο που αγαπάς, δεν είμαι αυτός
Άλλοι νομίζανε πως ήμουνα μεγάλος
κι από σπουργίτι θα γινόμουνα αετός

Μες τα νεκρά τα καφενεία ρίχνει χιόνι
κι εγώ πενθώ την ερημιά ενός φιλιού
που σαν το ρούχο η αγάπη μας παλιώνει
κι είναι σαν ήχος χαλασμένου πιστολιού

I am not another

Singer:  Christos Thivaios
Lyrics:  Manos Eleftheriou
Music:   Thanos Mikroutsikos


Behind the light of the music you travel to
you are an Argentinian tango throughout
And not even in your dream do you seek me anymore
as you did in the old days with an angelic tune

And for the world you hate, I am not another
And for the world you love, I am not this one
Others believed that I was grand
and from sparrow I would turn into an eagle

It snows in the dead cafeterias
and I mourn the solitude of a kiss
while our love ages like a cloth
and is like the sound of a defective pistol

I understand this song as a contrast between expectations and facts. The poetic first person is struggling to reconcile who they are with who they are supposed to be. They witness their world disintegrate before their eyes and are powerless to stop it. This order, represented by the love that once was, is likened to a rag and a broken firearm. Much like a weapon that can no longer perform its main function, what stands is a simulacrum of what once was: it looks eerily familiar but is devoid of the underlying drive.

One cliché about love is how much it hurts. While I understand the point, I think it helps to point out what actually causes pain: the expectation of permanence in a world of impermanence and the belief in ownership in a world of non-ownership. When there is suffering, it is because we have misunderstood the workings of the cosmos. Instead of appreciating the experience as it happens, we become invested in a promise that cannot be delivered.

In the opening verse, we learn about the poetic “you”. We may describe this character as more than a lover: they are art incarnate, the poet’s muse, if you will. Their entire being is likened to Argentinian tango, where each performance is defined by the intimate connection between the dancing duo. Tango also leaves an impression of power and attraction, which then is juxtaposed to the solitude one finds in the memories of a kiss. The kiss is a memento of joyful moments, but also a reminder of the prevailing conditions. The cafeterias are forsaken not necessarily because they are literally empty, but as a sign of death within: our protagonist no longer wishes to visit those places.

Here again we get a sense of how tormenting the overall phenomenon of love is. It leaves emptiness in its wake. There is no substitute for it. It makes and breaks us. Even though it is blissful while it lasts, it engenders in us the hope that the peak is actually the baseline. What liberates us from the torment is acceptance. To admit that our entitlement is misplaced and to acknowledge that the world does not revolve around us. There are no exceptions, no opt-out clauses.

Love, then, is about the “what is”. Like a dance under the light of the full moon, it happens here and now. Enjoy it while it lasts. The “what was”, the “what shall be”, the “what could have been” are all thoughts without a clear terminus that trouble the mind indefinitely. Same for the troublesome question of “what will others say?”.

If you are a sparrow, it is liberating to admit as much. There is the potential of love for every bird, provided it flies in the skies it belongs to. Sometimes those are in distant lands, in which case the little bird must work extra hard to get there. Do not pretend to be an animal you are not. Do not assume a role that you cannot live up to. Do not fall for the memes. Doing so will only further reinforce the dread that grips your heart each time you are left alone with your yourself with no more distractions to inhibit introspection.

The goal is to be at peace with your actuality. What others believe you should be doing with your life is just noise. They have opinions without knowing how you feel deep inside. In others words, they are misinformed. And, above all, they are prone to speak irresponsibly, for they are not going to live with the consequences of their opinions.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them into English, and further comments on the substantive points.

Πανσέληνος

Ερμηνεία:  Χάρις Αλεξίου
Στίχοι:    Χάρις Αλεξίου
Μουσική:   Χάρις Αλεξίου


Στην μέση ενός μικρού σπιτιού, που'χω νοικιάσει
το γέλιο ενός μωρού παιδιού με έχει αγκαλιάσει
Τα ζήτησα όλα απ'τη ζωή μου, τα πλήρωσα με την ψυχή μου
να έχει ένα τόπο η καρδιά πριν να γεράσει

Μα έχει πανσέληνο απόψε κι είναι ωραία
είναι αλλιώτικη η σιωπή χωρίς παρέα
Δεν νιώθω θλίψη μα μου’χει λείψει
το κοριτσάκι αυτό που αγάπησες τυχαία
Δεν νιώθω θλίψη μα μου'χει λείψει
το λάγνο ψέμα σου που τα'κανε όλα ωραία

Είναι σκληρό για μια γυναίκα να'ναι μόνη
στο λέω τώρα που η αλήθεια δε θυμώνει
Όση και να'ναι η δύναμή μου θέλω έναν άνθρωπο μαζί μου
Η μοναξιά στήνει παγίδες και πληγώνει

Μα έχει πανσέληνο απόψε κι είναι ωραία
το σπίτι μου έρημο μα κάνουμε παρέα
Δεν νιώθω θλίψη μα μου'χει λείψει
το κοριτσάκι αυτό που αγάπησες τυχαία
Δεν νιώθω θλίψη μα μου'χει λείψει
το λάγνο ψέμα σου που τα'κανε όλα ωραία

Full moon

Singer:  Haris Alexiou
Lyrics:  Haris Alexiou
Music:   Haris Alexiou


In the middle of a tiny house which I rent
the laughter of a baby child has embraced me
I asked for everything from my life, I paid with my soul
for there to be a place for the heart before it gets old

But there is full moon tonight and it is nice
silence is different without company
I feel no grief but I do miss
the young girl you once loved by chance
I feel no grief but I do miss
your lustful lie that made everything nice

It is harsh for a woman to be alone
I tell you now that the truth does not cause anger
No matter how much is my strength I want someone with me
Loneliness sets up traps and hurts

But there is full moon tonight and it is nice
my house is deserted but we hang out together
I feel no grief but I do miss
the young girl you once loved by chance
I feel no grief but I do miss
your lustful lie that made everything nice

I think of the lyrics as a confession. The poetic first person, who may well be Haris speaking in earnest, shares with us how she misses who she used to be. This person from yesterage, the “young girl” alluded to herein, is not merely a younger version of the protagonist. It is the one—and only one—who experienced a certain experience: the love of a specific man. The “young girl”, then, is integral to the story of this mature woman’s life, for it is that very girl that attracted someone special; someone with whom they partook in a shared experience that only they know the most intimate details of.

In this regard, the reference to the baby child and its laughter is important for two reasons. Firstly, what we are presented with is the perspective of a mother. Secondly, the child is the living embodiment of what happened and a sweet reminder of it.

Love in general is not uncommon. Humanity at-large expresses it in a multitude of ways. What is unique to each of us though, is the subjective view of certain instances of love if/when those do happen. It is all about the particular place and time where the paths of those involved intersect. According to the song, this convergence was a matter of chance. Yet such is not a quality that detracts from the magic of the moment. If anything, it is a contributing factor to it, for it reminds us how something exceptional can occur in a world of happenstance.

The confession I discern pertains to the oft suppressed desire for adventure which is hidden behind an intellectualist facade such as the typical claim that “I only care about his character”. The mention to the “lustful lie that made everything nice” tells us about both the burning passion involved in said adventures, erotic as they are, and also the most blatantly wishful and false belief that fuels them: “forever”.

Feelings of irresistible attraction are transient and short-lived, much like the full moon. Though we prefer to believe that our case will somehow be different, even though the odds are stacked against us. Yes, there are exceptions. It is those rare cases where the lovers make considerable efforts to fall in love again and again, instead of letting routine consume the excitement. “Let me tell you about my day” followed by a series of the same old complaints is how routine asserts its ugly dominance. What remains is an empty shell of a relationship.

Knowledge of the lie does not inhibit the passions, mind you. We want to play the game, even if only for a single round. It is why there is no grief in this song for what has transpired. There are no regrets either. No bemoaning of the fact untruths were spoken. The poetic “I” recognises its current pain and gracefully expresses the want for companionship, with everything that comes with it. Perhaps it is an admission that another round would be exhilarating. Hindsight, then, does not inspire us to seek the truth in such affairs but, instead, to hope for the day when we are told. in a whispering voice, that our dreams will survive the mornings.

This is how I experience these songs. They engender feelings, subject to the prevailing conditions. Only once I appreciate them at the level of aesthetics do I attempt to parse them with a cooler head. At that point, I am reducing the phenomenon to a matter of reasonableness. “Reduce” is the operative term. My interpretations are taking something away from the totality of the lived moment for the sake of making a commentary that has applications beyond the confines of art.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and some further commentary on what I think the meaning is.

Ανδρομέδα

Ερμηνεία:  Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Μουσική:   Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου


Άιντε μες της γης το πυρωμένο κέντρο
άιντε δυο πουλιά φιλιούνται σ'ένα δέντρο
Άιντε πέφτει λάβα, λάβα απ'τα φιλιά τους
άιντε και φτερά απολιθωμένα απ'τα κορμιά τους

Άιντε εκεί μακριά, μακριά στην Ανδρομέδα
άιντε πίνουν τσίπουρο και τρων λακέρδα
Άιντε κάτι όντα περίεργα κι ωραία
άιντε που είναι μόνα και ψάχνουν για παρέα

Άιντε εκεί ψηλά στην άκαρπη Μελούνα
άιντε φύτρωσε, φύτρωσε μια παπαρούνα
Άιντε που'χει στόμα, στόμα και δαγκάνει
άιντε κι όλο λέει πως δεν το ξανακάνει

Άιντε εκεί βαθιά, βαθιά στα σωθικά μου
άιντε κάτι γίνεται κυρά μου
Άιντε χίλια άλογα τυφλά γυρίζουν
άιντε έξοδο ζητάν και μ'αλωνίζουν

Άιντε εδώ σιμά κοντά δυο μέτρα βάθος
άιντε λεν πως φυλακίζουνε το πάθος
Άιντε ρίχνουν χώμα, με λουλούδια ραίνουν
άιντε και θαρρούν, θαρρούν πως ξεμπερδεύουν

Andromeda

Singer:  Thanasis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:  Thanasis Papakonstantinou
Music:   Thanasis Papakonstantinou


Hey in the earth's fiery centre
hey two birds kiss on a tree
Hey lava flows, lava from their kisses
hey and fossilised feathers from their bodies

Hey there far, far in Andromeda
hey they drink tsipouro and eat lakerda
Hey some beings strange and nice
hey who are alone and seek company

Hey there high at fruitless Melouna
hey sprung, sprung a poppy
Hey which has a mouth, a mouth that bites
hey and says it will not do it again

Hey there deep, deep in my guts
hey something is happening my lady
Hey a thousand blind horses roam
hey they seek an exit and flatten me

Hey near here about two metres deep
hey they say they imprison the passion
Hey they throw soil, with flowers they decorate
hey and believe, believe they are done with it

The artist masterfully takes us through the highs and lows of the Earth all the way to the furthest stretches of the universe. There is something to be said about the depths of the planet, the reality in Andromeda, the changing circumstances at the Greek highlands, and the facts in the immediate milieu of the poetic first person.

What all these magnitudes have in common is their presence on a continuum of life. The cosmos is consistent throughout. It exhibits pattern and structure, it is underpinned by computation, it sustains feedback loops of cause and effect, and therein it creates what effectively is communication and thus language. Why does this consistency matter? Because it makes the experiences of one person relatable. We can tell what passion is like. And we may feel for those Andromedan folk who are lonely and seek company, even though we have never met them.

The hope, then, of the poetic first person is to communicate the feeling of attraction to the third person of the song, who is described as a lady. The “I” is in love though is facing certain unnamed constraints which make a potential relationship unlikely or, indeed, prohibitive. The last verse gives us a clue about the “should not” norms that prevail and how individuals there suppress their feelings while pretending nothing is happening.

To the author this state of affairs must be strange, given that love is age-old and ubiquitous. This is why we learn about the fossils and then the creatures of the far away galaxy who are ultimately like us. We also hear about the barren hills of Melouna, a place in central Greece, where even there we find something fecund and, thus, realise the potential for new beginnings out of existing ones.

Ultimately, Andromeda, carries a straightforward message: “I like you, so if you like me let us not overthink it, my lady, because this is how it is everywhere and has always been”.

To my mind, love is simple and it never hurts. What is difficult, and what ultimately can cause trouble, is everything else around it. Love brings people together from where arises the need to manage shared resources. This is now a matter of economics, not benevolent feelings. The word “economy” comes from the Greek terms for house (οίκος) and law or rule more broadly (νόμος). Wherever many agents of action deal with their affairs in concert, there are emergent patterns of behaviour for accessing, distributing, and using the available resources.

We then understand why we are sometimes willing to hide our wants: they can be inconvenient. To have a child or not, for example, is an economic decision with far-reaching implications. This is true in agrarian societies whose mode of production is a function of land and manual labour. Families must have lots of children because they need the extra pairs of hands. It is also true in the modern industrialised and digitised world even though the forces at play are different: the society still needs injections of youth to fund the social safety net, to care for the elderly, to run businesses, to do all the work that cannot be automated, and to be consumers.

Yes, there is love and caring and the joy of having kids, but those cannot operate outside the ironclad laws that govern scarcity. For most people in the part of world Thanasis Papakonstantinou comes from, the decision to have a child comes at a high cost. The mother will, for example, take time off work and, perhaps, give up on her career altogether. Materially this is doable, especially if those involved are willing to change their ways and adjust their expectations. Though it is culturally out of fashion.

Perhaps, then, the poetic “I” is at odds with the underlying values of this culture that prioritise the career aspect, its derivative trends, and ideological underpinnings. Those are jobs which typically are bureaucratic in nature and all-too-often complete bullshit in their utility. Yet they somehow take priority over sociocultural rejuvenation. So here we are, overthinking the simple things, making the natural controversial, and decorating our graves in the process.

Still, commenting on my poetry gives me the opportunity to elaborate at greater length on my thinking process. Not in an effort to foreshadow other readings, but simply to expound on how I feel about the message I am conveying.

Here is the original poem from 2022-12-03, followed by my philosophical remarks about it, and then my subsequent revision of it.

Enchantress

Enchant me Siren
Guide my ship to your rocks
N'kiss me as I drown

The Siren is a figment of the Greek imaginary. In our mythology, it is a woman who inhabits rock formations at sea. Sirens are exceptionally skilful singers. Their chants have the power to capture the minds of sailors and make them perform the typically deadly manoeuvre of turning their ship towards the rocks.

Sirens are not malevolent beings. They do what their condition renders possible, which is to live in places where few else dare to go and to sing their captivating songs. If men happen to drawn as a result, it is because they did not take the appropriate precautions.

In the Greek world there is no pure good or pure evil incarnate. Put differently, there is no equivalent of an all-benevolent god and a corresponding agent of evil. What we always experience is in a state of admixture where the degree is the determining factor between the analytical extremes. For example, the symbol of medicine involves a snake, which we might assume to be venomous. The idea is that any given substance can function as both remedy and poison depending on its dosage. The substance, as such, is neither good nor bad: the dose determines whether the result is beneficial or detrimental to the patient, given their particularities. Such is the nuanced insight that underpins Greek culture.

Like all our mythology, Sirens are a symbol for phenomena in our quotidian reality. The Greek artistic mind tends to anthropomorphise those to make them more relatable, though not to imply that they are indeed limited to the human condition. The Siren is an alias for the allure of adventure; the appeal of the escape into a possible world beyond whatever baseline of normality one subsists in. The Siren’s song, then, is that irresistible call that some people heed in their head, which compels them to perform deeds that others do not dare to try.

The person who seeks adventure usually is a male. More specifically, they are single and/or are not tied to a place owning to a sense of duty towards dependants. This applies to sailors, but also mercenaries, and risk-takers of all sorts, who seek a challenge with full knowledge of the fact that their lives or livelihoods could be forfeit in the process (they could literally die or, more figuratively, lose everything they hold dear). Adventurers will likely not be those who have already found their calling in life, such as by settling down to raise a family and contribute to the wellness of a community.

The adventurer is fundamentally not content with the status quo. Their milieu is too restrictive for them. They dream of a way out and hope to find new possibilities in the process. We can think of it in banal terms, such as a single man leaving his village because there are no women there in hope of finding a mate somewhere else. Or we can consider the case of someone who is not willing to conform with the normativity they are subject to and who would rather take on a challenge of epic proportions.

In this regard, the Siren has to be a female figure to communicate how allure works its ways to attract certain men. She lives where danger is at its highest to demonstrate how knowledge of the risks is not a deterring factor. For example, whomever leaves behind the safety of dry land to board a boat heading to the unknown is fully aware of the fact that the journey may bring riches but might just as well result in a gruesome death. Similarly, the soldier of fortune operates with knowledge of what it means to fight in one of all the wars: only destruction awaits on the battlefield. Yet, these sort of people still choose to do what they do. What is that, if not the work of some magic spell? Hence the Siren’s enchanting powers.

Do Sirens need to be women and adventurers to be men? No. Every mythological narrative comes with a tacit “mutatis mutandis”: apply the edits you consider necessary, but make sure you retain the overall dynamics. It is mythology and not the putative true word of an omnipotent god exactly because we are the ones making it and we are those adapting it to our experiences. The gods and all of the creatures of our myths are artistic devices. They are useful insofar as they capture patterns in the cosmos which pertain to something we can relate to. And they have interpretive, predictive, descriptive, or creative value to the extent that they help us make sense of the phenomena.

With that granted, I will continue to refer to the Siren as a “she”. There is no singular psychosynthesis of the adventurer. Different individuals have their own motivating factors. One among them may be loneliness: an escape from the prevailing conditions might increase the chances of finding this elusive “her” figure. Another factor, probably related to that one, may be the will to outgrow whatever mould one is cast in by their social environment.

The boy who salutes his family and friends, never to live in their midst again is, at some level, seeking ways to become another person. Two decades will pass by and the boy, now a gritty man, will still be away from his home town, destined to forever live abroad as he does not identify with who he was and with the society that conditioned him thus.

To the adventurer, their place of origin is where they were an alien in and a misfit for. There is no going back, but only forward unto the world of their making. The only locus they consider “home” is where they realised their becoming. To their old friends and family, such people might as well be dead, long claimed by the enchantresses of the ocean.

In truth, there is no binding magic that drives men mad. We are fully aware of the potential of openendedness: it can give us everything our heart desires, yet it can just as well forfeit all we have . This, too, is a pattern that the Greeks anthropomorphise as the lord of seas, Poseidon. The sea is a proxy for the dual potential of the world in its capacity to grant us everything, such as material comforts and knowledge through the commerce and exchange it facilitates, all while having latent in it the untimely death that awaits at its darkest depths or times of tempest.

Poseidon is a male god. Comparing him to other male gods, like Apollon, Hermes, and Dionysos, shows us how he also is depicted as a bulky, powerful man. This is no coincidence. His peerless strength symbolises the capacity to be a provider of the highest order: a strong man has the means to guarantee access to resources, at least in terms of appearances (of course, there is more to being a provider than raw strength, but you cannot symbolise, say, patience and situational awareness as easily/memorably as you can represent vigour).

In the case of the sea, the provision of valuable goods happens through fishing and trade. Waters, however, have their own logic and cannot become anybody’s playground. Poseidon is neither friend nor foe: he does what he wishes. At times the ocean enables commerce, at others it inhibits it. This, too, is inherent in the strong man who has the sheer power to inflict a great deal of harm and to be abusive, should his temperament go unchecked. This is Poseidon and, more generally, the world we live in: we enjoy what it offers us until the day it is not ours anymore.

Coming back to the theme of the enchantress, I have personally responded to her call several times. I left Greece when I turned 18, never to return. At one point in my early 20s I was set on a comfy career path, which some may consider prestigious, that I quit because I was not content to conform with the demands of a role-playing environment. In me there is the potential for hubris: I want to be different. Such is the binding of the spell that moves me.

I chose the mountain life in large part because I sought a challenge unlike anything I had tried hitherto. And I did it knowing that the rural life does not grant the same opportunities as a city. Then again, I followed the Siren’s song when I decided to defy the odds by building my house: “the hut”, as I have been calling it.

When I first got here, the place was unnerving: wild vegetation everywhere, poisonous snakes, rodents, mosquitoes, dense swamp-like air, and an overwhelming sense of desolation… The average person would understandably seek an alternative. But therein we discern the seaborn enchantment that governs me, in that I do not want to be “the average person”. Not for this, anyway. In the face of such a dreadful place, I envisaged a new beginning and was poised to act. I had confidence in my eagerness for work and believed that I possessed the tools to refashion this into a comfortable habitat. Everything has gone according to plan and continues to unfold as expected. Not a day passes without me doing something for my long-term stay here. I am pleased with the results. I persist with unyielding dedication in full knowledge that Sirens live in hard-to-reach rock formations: the only place I would be happy to settle in, after all.

With the above in mind, this is how I revise my poem to better communicate the decisiveness and absence of regret that characterise my choices in life:

Enchantress (version 2)

Enchant me Siren
Guide my ship to your rocks
and drown me in your kiss

Nikolas Asimos was such a figure. A modern-day Cynic, in the image of Diogenis, who spoke his mind plainly and boldly. His songs are defined by their authenticity. This is an artist of the highest order who makes no appeals to kitsch.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and some further commentary on the meaning of these words. Also check my other interpretation related to Nikolas Asimos: Interpretation of “The Mechanism” by Nikolas Asimos (2023-05-08).

Στο φαλημέντο του κόσμου αυτού

Ερμηνεία:  Νικόλας Άσιμος
Στίχοι:    Νικόλας Άσιμος
Μουσική:   Νικόλας Άσιμος


Θυμάμαι που σε κοίταζα στην άκρη του γκρεμού
Ισορροπώντας τάραζες το λάθος του καιρού
Παλλότανε το είναι σου ολόκληρο στο φως
Την καθαρή ουσία σου ετρόμαζε ο λαός

Στο φαλημέντο του κόσμου αυτού
Ο καβαλάρης εγώ τ'ουρανού
Με τους ανθρώπους ζητάς επαφή
μα έχει σπάσει κι αυτή η κλωστή

Τα χρόνια που περάσανε σ'αφήσανε πληγές
Κουβάλαγες το τώρα σου και σ'άλλες εποχές
Ενώθηκες σαν τίποτα με τον ωκεανό
και γνώρισες τ'απέραντο στον άλλο εαυτό

Στο φαλημέντο του κόσμου αυτού
Ο καβαλάρης εγώ τ'ουρανού
Της Αριάδνης το μίτο κρατάς
και απ'την αρρώστια τους και πάλι το σκας

At this world's bankruptcy

Singer:   Nikolas Asimos
Lyrics:   Nikolas Asimos
Music:    Nikolas Asimos


I remember looking at you at the edge of the cliff
While balancing you were disturbing the fault of the era
Your being was pulsating in the light
Your pure essence was scaring away the people

At this world's bankruptcy
I the rider in the sky
You seek contact with people
but this thread has also been severed

The years that passed by have left you wounds
You were carrying your present to other times
You integrated with the ocean like it was nothing
and discovered the boundless in the other self

At this world's bankruptcy
I the rider in the sky
You hold Ariadne's thread [ guiding tool ]
and from their malaise escape again

The poetic “I” and “you” both refer to the same person. It is none other than Nikolas Asimos himself. Artists conceal their loneliness in such figures of speech. It is how they can hide in the open. This song outlines the self-perception of a genius of a songmaker. He lead a life of independence, in which he refused to become anybody’s pawn and suffered dearly for it.

Not conforming to authority is not simply about expressing disobedience towards the establishment. It is an all-encompassing outlook for every facet of life: to not be swayed by trends, not be influenced by bandwagon effects, not do what all friends consider normal if it does not make obvious sense, and not even be involved with everyday niceties, like sociability for its own sake.

The kind of person who is independent lives at the precipice, at the very edges of this world, like how falcons build their nests along unreachable cliffs. This person is akin to the hero in a Greek tragedy: they are blessed by the gods with unusual gifts yet are destined to endure a lifetime of social distancing.

These myths are not pretty and there is no ending in which everybody is happy, hence the contemporary meaning of “tragedy”. People suffer from the very brilliance that defines them. In excellence lies hubris, namely, human’s propensity to go past the boundaries that are established by the greater forces of this world. In tragedy, hubris is not about the average person who commits mundane deeds, even though there is hubris to be had in quotidian matters whenever individuals fall for untenable exaggerations. With tragic heroes, hubris lies at the outermost points of the human experience, waiting to be discovered by those who have the temerity and skillset to push the boundaries and to do what others deem insane.

Such a hero balances at the edge of the cliff because (i) they have the ability to do so and (ii) that is the only place they can live in peace. Every other arrangement engenders some kind of disturbance. This is the grand design and there is no way to assail its ironclad structures. All our protagonist can do is accept who they are, what they can get, and what shall forever remain outside their reach.

Nikolas Asimos has the honesty and modesty to recognise both his rare talent and his curse. While he radiates, his very essence drives people away. It is why even though he does seek contact with people, he can never have it in earnest. There may be some simulacrum of a relationship that offers the appearance of a connection, but never a strong bond. Perhaps it is obvious why honesty is necessary for this kind of admission. But why modesty? It is required to avoid bragging about one’s qualities while also not complaining about the state of their living.

The titular bankruptcy of this world is not its literal implosion or imminent demise. Rather, it concerns the impression the poetic “I”, alias “you”, has of what is happening around him: duplicity and mixed signals abound and get exposed as shallow power plays or selfish gimmicks in pursuit of vanity projects. So what? The skybound rider is powerless to enact reform. He makes for the heavens because his work on earth is futile. The rider shall go his way while people will continue to mind their own business. So while the poetic “you” in the last stanza has the tools to make an exit away from the putative malaise, it ultimately is inconsequential.

[ Ariadne’s thread is how Thyseas got out of the Labyrinth where he slew the Minotaur. This is an artistic device to describe why people need to record their steps in order to retrace them, getting themselves out of a difficult situation. Being inattentive and unaware of the situation is how you meet your doom, literally or figuratively, in some complicated affair. ]

The third stanza notes that the hero finds solace in acceptance. It has happened as a result of experiencing his familiar normality: that defining present he has had presence in throughout the years. The ocean, then, is a proxy for the tragic self, in the sense here considered. While the allusion to integration is a reference to the process of accepting what kind of person the poetic “you” actually is.

The ocean can give you everything your heart desires, from commerce, to travel through unfamiliar places, untold riches and breathtaking vistas, the elusive love at some distant shore, or even noble death at the hands of a fellow pirate. It is full of potential and thus connotes openendedness, opportunity, and adventure. Yet the ocean has the sheer ferocity to take everything away from you. In practice, it is neither your friend, nor your foe. And, like Nikolas Asimos, it can neither be pacified nor domesticated. It has a will of its own. To be the ocean is to remain ever potent and unruly. It is to be empowered thus and to suffer accordingly.

Below are the original lyrics in Greek, my faithful translation of them, and some additional philosophical comments.

Also check the other entries in my series that cover songs of Vasilis Papakonstantinou:

• Minor adulterations (2025-03-01)
• Sophie (The wild crowd) (2023-03-22)
• Porto Rico (2022-07-28)
• Trench coat (2022-07-09)

Έχω ανάγκη

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Βασίλης Γιαννόπουλος
Μουσική:   Χριστόφορος Κροκίδης


Έχω ανάγκη μια σου λέξη
μια αλήθεια μες τις αυταπάτες
και μια αγκαλιά να με γιατρέψει
από θανάσιμες αγάπες

Έχω ανάγκη να βουλιάξω
μέσα στο πιο βαθύ σου βλέμμα
απ'την αλήθεια να τρομάξω
και να φουντάρω σ'ένα ψέμα

Έχω ανάγκη να σου δείξω
πως είμαι πλέον οπαδός σου
με την παλάμη μου ν'αγγίξω
τον πυρετό στο μέτωπό σου

Έχω ανάγκη να σε νιώσω
σαν μια προσωπική μου νίκη
με πόσα βράδια να πληρώσω
τη μοναξιά που μου ανήκει

Μια κρύα νύχτα του Σεπτέμβρη
ένα σακατεμένο βράδυ
μόνο τα μάτια σου θυμάμαι
δυο φλόγες μέσα στο σκοτάδι

Μια κρύα νύχτα του Σεπτέμβρη
που όσο θυμάμαι με πονάει
έχουν περάσει τόσα χρόνια
μ'αυτή η αγάπη δεν περνάει

Απόψε δε θα βγω στους δρόμους
στα όνειρα μου θα σε ψάξω
ότι δεν έφυγες ποτέ σου
έχω ανάγκη να φωνάξω

Σ'όποια αγκαλιά και να κοιμάσαι
εγώ μαζί σου θα ξυπνάω
την πιο γλυκιά σου απουσία
έχω ανάγκη ν'αγαπάω

Κι έτσι για πάντα θα σαλπάρω
στην πλάτη του δικού σου ανέμου
σαν να ‘σουν όρκος θα σε πάρω
που δε θα πάταγα ποτέ μου

I need

Singer:   Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:   Vasilis Yiannopoulos
Music:    Christophoros Krokidis


I need a word of yours
a truth among the delusions
and a hug to cure me
from lethal loves

I need to sink
in your deepest stare
to be frightened by the truth
and to rush to a lie

I need to show you
that I now am your supporter
with my palm to touch
the fever on your forehead

I need to feel you
as a personal victory
with so many nights
to pay the loneliness I own

On a cold September night
on a wrecked evening
I only remember your eyes
two flames in the darkness

A cold September night
that hurts the more I remember
there have been all these years
but this loves does not cease

Tonight I will not go to the streets
I shall search for you in my dreams
that you never left
I need to shout

Whichever hug you sleep in
I shall wake up with you
your sweetest absence
I need to love

And thus I shall forever sail
at the back of your own wind
as if you were an oath I shall take you
that I would never violate

Vasilis Papakonstantinou is probably the most accomplished rock singer in Greece. He does not have that teddy boy appeal of pop stars who specialise in love songs. Yet I need is a deeply erotic piece. “Erotic” in the sense of pertaining to the phenomenon of “falling in love” (i.e. erotas (έρωτας)): a kind of love that is distinct from love at-large (agape (αγάπη)).

As is often the case with appropriated cultural artefacts, “erotic” is a misunderstood term in English. At least nowadays, the word and its derivatives function as euphemisms for pornography, even though erotas is the opposite of what porn represents. Porn is misanthropic. It expresses the objectification—and, ultimately, the deep-seated loathing—of the sexual “self” and the “other”. It commodifies people, turning them into nothing more than outlets for lust.

Erotas is none of this. It consists in innocence, is underpinned by benevolence, and unfolds through wonder. This is what inspires, say, an eight-year-old boy to dedicate a poem to his “special one” at school. It even has an impersonal dimension, in how one commits to their passions with incessant intensity and an unwavering desire for excellence.

When it does become physical, erotas involves respect. Unlike a one-night-stand, there is a sense of care for the other person and a desire for continuity. It is neither opportunistic nor exploitative.

Against this backdrop, we can understand the lyrics of I need as acknowledgements of the multifacetedness of erotas: sincere, mutual or one-sided, yet always altruistic.

At first, lovers are drawn to each other more than to anything else, including the truth. What would even be the truth, anyway? To fall in love with someone is to have unmistakable feelings for them. Whereas many intellectuals, hierarchs, bureaucrats, revolutionaries, and tyrants of all kinds, have claimed to possess the truth throughout the ages, only to be proven wrong. Erotas is the bane of intellectualism and the cure for overthinking: you know it when you feel it and you benefit from it even if you do not realise it.

Then, I need shows us how caring erotas is, in wanting to support your lover and to take care of them while they are ill. Even when there is an element of vanity to it, when it needs to be felt as a personal achievement of sorts, erotas never becomes possessive: it remains benevolent throughout.

Its pure intentions are best discerned when the feeling is no longer mutual. The person who falls in a one-sided love still shows respect and care. They do not become vindictive nor do they harbour ill wishes, despite the suffering of not having their feelings met.

Ultimately, erotas subsists in the realm of the imagination, the world of dreams. There you shall find the others devoid of ulterior motives and freed from the burdens of happenstance. Everything else will sooner or later become intertwined with duties, role playing, and pettiness.

Below are the lyrics in Greek, my literal translation of them, and some further philosophical comments.

Προσωπικά

Ερμηνεία:  Πέννυ Μπαλτατζή
Στίχοι:    Λίνα Νικολακοπούλου
Μουσική:   Γιάννης Σπανός


Προσωπικά, δεν έχω αισθήματα για σένα φιλικά
μονάχα βήματα θιγμένα ερωτικά
που μ'αναγκάζουνε να φεύγω βιαστικά

Προσωπικά, δε θέλω τίποτα μαζί σου λογικά
μου πάει ο ήχος της φωνής σου τραγικά
και δεν αλλάζω το κορμί σου με την άψογη ζωή σου τελικά

Προσωπικά, εγώ τρελαίνομαι
το παραμύθι σου και να'μαι και να φαίνομαι
Προσωπικά δεν έχω αίσθηση
αυτό που ζούμε αν είναι αλήθεια ή παραίσθηση

Προσωπικά, τυχαίνει βράδια με τραγούδια λαϊκά
ντυμένη κι άδεια κι αφημένη γενικά
να μεταφράζω τη σκηνή δραματικά

Προσωπικά, εμένα ο χρόνος μου γυρίζει κυκλικά
κι αλλάζει ο τόνος μου στο τέλος ειδικά
γι'αυτό να ξέρεις κι επιμένω, κι ας μου το'χεις ξεγραμμένο οριστικά

Personally

Singer:   Penny Baltatzi
Lyrics:   Lina Nikolakopoulou
Music:    Yiannis Spanos


Personally, I have no friendly feelings for you
only steps touched erotically
that force me to flee hastily

Personally, I want nothing with you logically
the sound of your voice suits me tragically
and I do not change your body with your impeccable life finally

Personally, I lose my mind
to be your tale and to look the part
Personally I have no sense
if what we live is true or hallucination

Personally, it happens at nights with pop songs
dressed and empty and relaxed in general
to interpret the scene dramatically

Personally, my time turns cyclically
and my tone changes towards the end especially
so know and I insist even if you have it forgone definitively

As I have noted before in the interpretation of Just two days, the Greek language distinguishes between the phenomena of “falling in love” and “growing to love” or “love at-large”. The former is described as “eros” (έρως) or “erotas” (έρωτας), which is the name of the eponymous god. From there we get words like “erotic”. Love at-large is called “agape” (αγάπη): it encompasses feelings of affection towards family, friends, pets, et cetera. In Personally we get an honest account of erotic sensation. There is no ambiguity about it, no hesitation, no mixed signals. The poetic first person is communicating the essential feeling of erotas, namely, relinquishing control.

Erotas consists in the targeted suspension of strategising; targeted towards the object of the erotic expression. It resists planning and rationalising. It does not pause to ask about social norms, longer-term goals, potential benefits, and the like. Those are matters of logistics, of managing resources and of maximising opportunities. Erotas has a narrow field of application in which it reigns supreme. It is found in those instances of freedom from care, freedom from overthinking, such as when all you want is to be within range of your lover’s smile, to discern the look in their eyes which communicates everything without the need for words or other gestures.

There is a certain playfulness or process of discovery in erotas. It is why the song mentions the erotically touched steps that seek flight. This is not about a genuine want for a safe haven. No! It is how you discover that you are no longer operating in purely rational terms. Reason is but a facet of the human condition that some thinkers have mistakenly exalted as the superior human trait. The gods know better though. They can show us how brittle and misguided our intellectual superstructures are, such as through the power of subtlety. What do you feel when you are the sole intended recipient of that captivating stare? How is it to be strong and decisive, yet wanting to be treated by that certain one as a vulnerable form of life?

These questions do not require answers. Erotas is not about arguments or clever thought experiments. You know it when you feel it, when your defences are rendered ineffectual and all you do is focus on the little things: the turn of the head, the formation of that gentle smile, and the electrifying spark in the eyes. Personally thus insists on the authenticity of the moment: to transiently lose your mind and to forgo any desire for power in the relationship. Only then do you interpret the scene as an ancient Greek drama, an act of fate and of human design, of the gods making their works manifest through nuances we are powerless to master.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and some further philosophical comments.

Φύλλα αλκαλικά

Ερμηνεία:  Ιουλία Καραπατάκη
Στίχοι:    Άλκης Αλκαίος
Μουσική:   Σωκράτης Μάλαμας


Κλειστό το φινιστρίνι
και το γυαλί θαμπό
ποτέ στα όνειρά σου
δε μ'άφησες να μπω

Αν δεις λευκό καράβι
με πορφυρά πανιά
θα'ναι η δική μου αγάπη
που πάει στη λησμονιά

Μην έρχεσαι μαζί μου
μου είπες πριν χαθείς
θα μαραθεί η αγάπη
κι εσύ θα μ'αρνηθείς

Φτιάξε μαγιά στο χώμα
με φύλλα αλκαλικά
σε μια ζωή χαμένη
κανένας δε νικά

Γλυκάνισο σου στέλνω
και μέλι φοινικιάς
τις πίκρες σου να λιώνεις
και να μη με ξεχνάς

Κι αν σ'έπιασε το βράδυ
κι ο έρωτας αργεί
το πιο βαθύ σκοτάδι
είναι πριν την αυγή

Μην έρχεσαι μαζί μου
μου είπες πριν χαθείς
θα μαραθεί η αγάπη
κι εσύ θα μ'αρνηθείς

Φτιάξε μαγιά στο χώμα
με φύλλα αλκαλικά
σε μια ζωή χαμένη
κανένας δε νικά

Alkaline leaves

Singer:   Ioulia Karapataki
Lyrics:   Alkis Alkaios
Music:    Socratis Malamas


The porthole is shut
and the glass is blurry
Never in your dreams
did you let me come in

If you see a white boat
with red sail
it will be my love
heading to oblivion

Do not come along with me
you told me before disappearing
love shall wither
and you will deny me

Make a starter in the ground
with alkaline leaves
in a forsaken life
nobody wins

I send you aniseed
and palm honey
to sooth your sorrows
and to not forget of me

And if you are caught in the night
and love is running late
the darkest hour
is before dawn

Do not come along with me
you told me before disappearing
love shall wither
and you will deny me

Make a starter in the ground
with alkaline leaves
in a forsaken life
nobody wins

The song is about the antithesis between hope and hopelessness, as well as the desire to be welcomed in a relationship as opposed to the eagerness of embarking on a solitary adventure. The contrasting tendencies are expressed through the deeds of the poetic “I” and “you”. The first person is clear about their feelings and makes an effort to act accordingly. The second person has the quality of being aloof and hard to reach. They are hidden within the confines of a cabin and are not letting anybody in. Yet the window is blurry, perhaps because “you” is standing right beside it, gazing outside towards nowhere in particular, waiting for something that is unspoken and elusive.

There are times when we are reluctant to admit what our desires are. We have been suppressing them for so long that we are not even sure what they amount to. Why hold anything back? Perhaps because we know our wishes cannot be realised. Or, maybe, we are not prepared to deal with the unlikely yet possible eventuality where our wants are indeed met. We cannot know if something we want is impossible unless we try, yet the sort of person who perennially hesitates is fundamentally not believing in the full extent of their own abilities. Even when they appear reasonably capable, confident, and successful, they have managed as much despite not giving their self enough credit. The lone wolf does have the skills to be a pack leader, after all, yet operates solo. Thus “you” remains in limbo, breathing behind the glass, safe in their private space; safe yet sorry for not being decisive enough.

The first person of the song is prepared to give up. Their calls have not been answered and their advances have been consistently denied. What else must a potential lover do? The “you” here has not shown the requisite readiness or signalled any clear intent to proceed. Perhaps because they are not sure whether what they are seeing is intended or something that could be explained away as mere coincidence. Appearances can be hard to decipher, especially for those whose default mode of hesitation primes them to think that nobody could possibly want them. They are in disbelief and denial whenever that seems to happen, opting for the explanation that it is all happenstance. The “you” figure is the kind of person who has never been prepared to meet the opportunity presented to them. Not once. Sometimes they muster the courage after the events have transpired, when it is already too late. This is about their unwillingness to try something that might, just might, stick around.

“You” is not necessarily lacking in desire. They are more confused though. Is “I” for real or are the phenomena deceptive as usual? Theirs is the sort of attitude of not staring someone in the eyes out of fear that it might result in falling in love with them. The fear of success, however unlikely success is, is what keeps “you” in their quarters, in a state of comfort with what is their current lifestyle and discomfort about what their suppressed feelings might entail.

There is a sense in which “you” does not want to be discovered because they know that pain is inevitable. Giving somebody the keys to your heart renders them the only person capable of providing you with something special but also the only one who can hurt the core of your being. It is, yet again, the manifestation of the world as one of admixture, where the potentialities of unconditional trust and treason coincide. While factually true, this may also be a rationalisation on the part of “you” to justify what their hesitant disposition has already picked as the preferable option.

What then seems more appealing, albeit constantly displeasing, is the solitary adventure. Love does not happen there, though neither does its loss. “You” would rather forsake the potential life with another in pursuit of the unknown. What would the adventure aim for? Nothing in particular. Its appeal consists in its uncertainty. Though there is also an element of wanting to preserve the pure feelings before they get corrupted by routine. By embarking on a journey, “you” is effectively telling “I” to live with the memory of love, for the feeling will not wither, if genuine, the way enthusiasm does.

The titular alkaline leaves are the appeal of “I” to ready the soil where trees can grow. To be prepared for once to meet opportunity head on. The poetic first person is trying to communicate the idea that challenges are always going to be there and that only by tending to the seed long-term does a tree eventually grow. Planting seeds is also a metaphor for committing to a place, to its people, to an idea, as opposed to always being on the move, always running away from your suppressed feelings. “You” has to make that change inside of them, to allow for such an outcome. They must prepare the ground upon which future memories can be had. Given their track record, it is unlikely they will, though strange things do happen.

Here are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and some further philosophical remarks.

Ωδή στον Ήλιο

Ερμηνεία:  Κλεώπας
Στίχοι:    Κλεώπας
Μουσική:   Κλεώπας


Ήλιε μου βασιλεύεις
και μέσα μου χορεύω
Την ομορφιά σου σαν θωρώ
τα χείλη μου σαλεύω

Αχ της ψυχής τα σήμαντρα
λες σε γιορτή ηχούνε
κι όλου του κόσμου οι αγκαλιές
μέσα τους με καλούνε

Ήλιε μου ταξιδιάρη μου
και κοσμογυρισμένε
Ανέβασε με στ'άρμα σου
μαζί σου να πλανιέμαι

Ανέβασε με στ'άρμα σου
μαζί σου να πλανιέμαι
Ήλιε μου ταξιδιάρη μου
Και κοσμογυρισμένε

Ήλιε μου μαγεμένε

Τα μάτια μου μαύρα πουλιά
τις ενοχές στραγγίζουν
Πέρα στις ράχες στα βουνά
χαρά σε μακαρίζουν

Κι αρχίζουν να σου τραγουδούν
τ'αηδόνια της καρδιάς μου
Γιατί ποθήσανε να ιδούν
τα δάκρυα της χαράς μου

Ήλιε μου ταξιδιάρη μου
Και κοσμογυρισμένε
Ανέβασε με στ'άρμα σου
Μαζί σου να πλανιέμαι

Ανέβασε με στ'άρμα σου
Μαζί σου να πλανιέμαι
Ήλιε μου ταξιδιάρη μου
Και κοσμογυρισμένε

Ήλιε μου μαγεμένε

Ode to the Sun

Singer:   Kleopas
Lyrics:   Kleopas
Music:    Kleopas


My sun you rise
and I dance inside
Your beauty as I behold
I move my lips

Oh the soul's bells
ring as if at a festival
and all of the world's hugs
call me to them

My travelling sun
and globetrotter
Lift me on your chariot
to be wondering with you

Lift me on your chariot
to be wondering with you
My travelling sun
and globetrotter

My enchanted sun

My eyes black birds
drain away the guilt
Over at the mountain slopes
in joy they praise you

And they begin to sing for you
the nightingales of my heart
Because they desired to see
the tears of my joy

My travelling sun
and globetrotter
Lift me on your chariot
to be wondering with you

Lift me on your chariot
to be wondering with you
My travelling sun
and globetrotter

My enchanted sun

The Ode to the Sun is exactly what its title suggests: an appreciation of an everyday phenomenon that we often take for granted. This is not about the sun per se, beautiful though it is. It concerns the little things in life that each of us can experience regardless of social status, education, or whatever token we use to support the hierarchies that keep us apart.

When I explore the mountains, I notice how each day produces distinct phenomena. Today there was plenty of dust in the air. It filtered the sunlight in a unique way, contributing to the serene landscape. The cool breeze added to the tranquillity I was feeling. It all reflected my inner peace. I stood by a cliff, overlooking the valley below, as I thought to myself how blessed I am to experience such moments and, indeed, how lucky I am to not be haunted by vainglory anymore.

It is not enough to “go to nature”, as one must also be mentally prepared to enjoy the nuances of this world. While at the great outdoors, notice how many shades of green there are in any given patch of grass or across different trees. We do not require a temple dedicated to some god to experience harmony. Nature needs no intermediaries: we can just pay attention to the details, like those plants. From there we develop the habit of recognising the universals in the particulars. We learn how to connect with the underlying unity among everything.

The cosmos needs no praise to engender in us a sense of awe. When we do compose odes such as the one of Kleopas, we do so as a reminder for us people to stick to the basics. Being present in the moment demands that we free ourselves from ulterior wants. We simply are content with bearing witness to an instance in the eternity. It does not boost the value of our stock holdings, will not earn us a promotion, nor make us more attractive to a potential spouse.

To be present is to have the quality of character that speaks of humility, of that which no curriculum vitae can ever express; that which no business executive shall ever quantify; that which only sensitive souls can discern. So what if we never become successful in the conventional sense? It suffices to have the sincerity to sing along with the birds and the frogs.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and then some comments on the substantive point.

Δυο μέρες μόνο

Ερμηνεία:  Δήμητρα Γαλάνη
Στίχοι:    Παρασκευάς Καρασούλος
Μουσική:   Δήμητρα Γαλάνη


Δυο μέρες μόνο
Να σε κρατάω αγκαλιά
Δυο μέρες μόνο
Να σ'έχω δίπλα μου ξανά
Για λίγο μόνο

Δυο μέρες μόνο
Σ'ένα ταξίδι αστραπή
Να ξεδιπλώνω
Να παίρνει ανάσα η ζωή
Για λίγο μόνο

Για τόσο μόνο
Φως να γεμίζουν οι στιγμές
Να λάμπουν μες στο χρόνο
Όλο το σώμα μου να ζει
Για σένα μόνο

Δυο μέρες μόνο
Να συνηθίζει το κορμί
Κι εγώ να λιώνω
Έπειτα μόνο τη φωνή σου
Ν'ανταμώνω

Δυο μέρες μόνο
Όσο μια βόλτα διαρκεί
Για τόσο μόνο
Όλη η ζωή μου
Αυτή η στιγμή
Δυο μέρες μόνο

Just two days

Singer:   Dimitra Galani
Lyrics:   Paraskevas Karasoulos
Music:    Dimitra Galani


Just two days
To hold you in my embrace
Just two days
To have you beside me again
Just for a little while

Just two days
On a lightning trip
To be unfolding
Life to be taking a breath
Just for a little while

Just for that long
Moments to be filling with light
To be shining in time
My entire body to be living
Just for you

Just two days
The body to be adapting
And me be melting
Then only your voice
to be encountering

Just two days
As much as a stroll lasts
Just for that long
My entire life
This very moment
Just two days

In Greek we disambiguate the concept of falling in love from love in its broadest sense: this experience is called erotas (έρωτας) unlike the more subdued and general form of love, else agape (αγάπη). Erotas has been symbolised since antiquity as the god Eros, who is related to Aphrodite, the goddess of both beauty and love in their broadest sense. In English we have terms such as “erotic” (pertaining to Eros) and “aphrodisiac” (related to Aphrodite, though here this is a proxy for erotic and thus not faithful to the archetype of the goddess).

What Just two days describes is the intensely passionate phenomenon of erotas. The artist is not shy about expressing a desire to defy all constraints and dismantle all barriers, to be fully present in the moment of physical attraction, to become one with the lover by not hedging anything, and consequently to touch the eternal through the momentary.

Erotas is passion throughout. Authenticity is its beauty. As the ancient saying goes, it is invincible in battle (eros anikate mahan, «έρως ανίκατε μάχαν»). It being short-lived does not detract from the experience. If anything, it is what keeps it honest. The encounter has to be brief, just long enough to ride the wave of excitement but also to keep lust as the driving force.

Those who share erotas make no pretences to propriety and care not of meeting social expectations. Such concerns might occur later, once erotas transpires. But erotas is impervious to the mode of longer-term planning and will not be burdened by the trivia of everyday affairs. It shall not be the facade of a business transaction; of securing the partner that maximises the chances of success in terms of social mobility and financial outcomes. No! Those may be worthwhile, but they do not belong to passion of this sort.

When thinking of the different types of love, it is tempting to rank them and, perhaps, to place erotas at the bottom of the list due to how ephemeral it tends to be. This song inspires us to refrain from such an exercise, for it is misguided. It invites us to appreciate deep-seated erotic desire as such and to recognise it as yet another facet of the human condition. How can it be lesser (or indeed greater) when it is equally human?

More generally, Just two days unapologetically presents us with an aspect of reality. It defies whatever taboo forces people into a pretentious modus vivendi. Erotas is not interested in conforming with some ideal of normativity, such as the cultural construct of the coy lady or the indomitable man qua guardian. There is a place for those, but not here. The artist then gives us the truth of what the person wants.

We can choose to echo whatever moral precepts find currency in our milieu, about suppressing this and sacrificing that, or take the art as-is. However we go about it, reality does not care about our norms. Erotas will continue to be there, even if we condemn it as frivolous. It can still be felt equally by the unabashed womaniser and the shy girl, no matter the era and prevailing tradition.

Those who wish to understand what it is to be human, do not argue with the cosmos. They start their inquiry from a position of acceptance and conclude their investigations in a state of acceptance. They take a step back to suspend judgement, while they remain calm in the face of openendedness. Uncertainty will not go away. Every answer engenders a million questions.

With patience and sincerity, one shall discern the patterns exhibited in the world and take them for what they are. Only then is it time to admit, with humility, that without knowledge of the whole, there can be no final judgement about the parts. Our morality may then be appraised for what it is: a useful tool to make social life liveable; a tool that is refined to serve our ever-evolving needs; a tool nonetheless.

The Perseids is a shower of star dust that is visible from the night sky of Greece/Cyprus some time during mid August. I have observed the phenomenon a couple of times. It is spectacular! Though the song I am about to comment on is about a person’s inertia, even in the face of such special events.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and further commentary. Also check my other “interpretation” involving Miltos Paschalidis: Tale with sad ending (2024-11-20).

Περσείδες

Ερμηνεία:  Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης
Στίχοι:    Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης
Μουσική:   Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης


Πάνω στο μπράτσο χάραξε η μέρα μιαν ευχή
για το χορό που στήσανε στ'αστέρια οι Περσείδες
Τη νύχτα που ξαγρύπνησες μονάχη στο σκαλί
τον ουρανό σου χάρισαν μα πάλι δε τον είδες

Δε πέφτουνε χρυσάφι μου τα κάστρα με ευχές
μήτε ξυπνούν τα όνειρα στις μαύρες τις οθόνες
Δεν ξεγελούν τον ίσκιο τους οι μοναχές καρδιές
φτιάχνουν χαρμάνι λησμονιάς μα ξημερώνουν μόνες

Ανοίγω τα χέρια μου
που όλο τον κόσμο χώρεσαν
μα τώρα πια χωράνε
μόνο εσένα

Στο μπράτσο η μέρα χάραξε με πείσμα κι αντοχή
δυο κρίνα φεγγαρόλουστα που φύτρωσαν στη πέτρα
Μη μου ζητάς να σ'αρνηθώ ζωή μου και πληγή
μέχρι να μου τελειώσουνε τα βέλη στη φαρέτρα

Ανοίγω τα χέρια μου
που όλο τον κόσμο χώρεσαν
μα τώρα πια χωράνε
μόνο εσένα

Perseids

Singer:   Miltos Paschalidis
Lyrics:   Miltos Paschalidis
Music:    Miltos Paschalidis


The day etched a wish on the arm
for the dance the Perseids set up in the stars
The night you stayed awake alone at the stair
they offered you the sky but you did not see it again

Castles do not fall with wishes my gold
neither do dreams wake up on black screens
The lone hearts do not fool their shadow
they make a forgetfulness blend but find dawn alone

I open my arms
that fit in the whole world
but now only fit in
you alone

The day etched on the arm with grit and endurance
two moonbathed lilies that sprung on the stone
Do not ask me to reject you my life and wound
until I run out of arrows in the quiver

I open my arms
that fit in the whole world
but now only fit in
you alone

I understand this song as a description of complacency and self-inflicted helplessness; of wishing for some eventuality and of claiming to strongly prefer it while remaining in the habit of doing nothing towards its realisation, not even when the opportunity arises.

Sometimes the effort takes place but is halfhearted and thus too little to make a difference. It can be such that the person misses even the Perseids, this magnificent shower of gold pouring down from the heavens; a spectacle for which the poetic “you” had stayed up all night to bear witness to.

These indecisive half-measures only reinforce the sense of helplessness. They seem to confirm the feeling that every attempt at change is futile. Though this is a self-fulfilling prophecy of not trying in earnest and of eventually discovering that the results are discouraging.

The poetic “you” is likely limited in their choices by edifices that are thoroughly breakable, even if they do not appear to be such. It so happens that those allegorical castles are nothing but flimsy shanties, yet are impressed as unassailable fortresses in the mind of those who are not in the flow of trying hard enough.

The helpless person of the sort here considered eventually identifies with this way of life. “It is who I am”, they might say, and all but beg to be rejected. The longing for rejection becomes a form of self-realisation and the moral high ground upon which one’s victimhood is established.

If loneliness is genuinely bothersome, if it is what one seeks to escape from, then they must struggle to undo it with everything available at their disposal: fight down to the last arrow and then some. It is this unwillingness to give up—this desire to try with every ounce of one’s strength—that carries the potential to leave indelible marks and to ultimately bring about the wish of two lilies jointly bathing in the moonlight.

The poet acknowledges that a lover is not pure bliss. It is a wound in potentiality just as it adds meaning to one’s life. It is the recognition of this mixed reality that we find throughout Greek culture from antiquity to modernity, of nothing being purely good or bad. It is why, for the sake of limiting this to contemporary music, we have the traditional song from Heperus that speaks of one’s love as “my ruin” (Χαλασιά μου). It may be affectionate yet retains the notion of happiness bundled up together with destruction:

• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJIomBSCEJg (cover by Kostas Tzimas and company).
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtcjnbESfh4 (cover by Maria Gkouva).

Implied in this nuanced understanding of the cosmos is the view that love involves courage. It is not easy. Inertia can be comfortable, sometimes to a fault. It then is a matter of figuring out what one truly wants and of having the honesty to act accordingly. Is the poetic “you” prepared to experience this imperfect reality of love or are they content with how they are and do not want to change anything?

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and some further philosophical thoughts.

Also check the other “interpretations” involving Vasilis Papakonstantinou’s songs:

• Sophie (The wild crowd) (2023-03-22)
• Porto Rico (2022-07-28)
• Trench coat (2022-07-09)

Μικρές Νοθείες

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Οδυσσέας Ιωάννου
Μουσική:   Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Ποτέ του δεν κατάφερε να βγει σε μια λιακάδα
και ζει με ό,τι περίσσεψε από ένα σκάρτο ποίημα
τα πρωινά σηκώνεται με μια βαριά ζαλάδα
και λέει πως τον ξύπνησε ένα μεγάλο κύμα

Κρεμάει τις αφίσες του στα παράθυρά του
Κρύβει το φως μα κρύβει κι όλα τ'άλλα
γιατί το μόνο που λαχτάρησε ως λάφυρα του
είναι μια θάλασσα να φτάνει ως τη σκάλα

Βάζει σημάδια με στυλό πάνω στον τοίχο του
Μετράει το ύψος του που πόντο-πόντο χάνει
Μα κάθε βράδυ όταν βγαίνει απ'τον ύπνο του
στέκεται όρθιος και τρυπάει το ταβάνι

Είναι που ονειρεύεται πως φεύγει για ταξίδια
πως μπαίνει μέσα σε παλιές φωτογραφίες
Ξέρει αν μπορούσε θα'κανε μία απ'τα ίδια
αλλά τι νόημα έχει το όνειρο χωρίς μικρές νοθείες

Minor adulterations

Singer:   Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:   Odysseas Ioannou
Music:    Thanos Mikroutsikos


Never did he manage to reach a sunshine
and lives with whatever remains of a scrapped poem
The mornings he gets up with heavy dizziness
and says a great wave woke him up

He hangs his posters on his windows
Hides the light but also hides everything else
because the only thing he desired as plunder
was a sea that stretches to the stairs

He sets marks on his wall with a pen
Measures his height that he loses bit by bit
But each night when he gets out of his slumber
he stands up and pierces through the roof

It is that he dreams of embarking on journeys
that he gets into old pictures
He knows if he could he would do more of the same
but what is the point of a dream without minor adulterations

The poetic “he” is a person who is caught in a spiral of introspection. We get a hint as to what the cause is, in the form of the person’s own perfectionism, symbolised by the company of some scrapped poem. It is a memento of his works and his dissatisfaction with them. He is the most stern of judges in discarding works that do not live up to some ultimately irrelevant standard of objective excellence. Why irrelevant? Because a creator can only create what their condition renders possible. To reject the end result is to not recognise or accept what the condition is: it is to live in dissonance.

This person is fundamentally ashamed of what they do and who they are. Hence the desire to withdraw from the public eye, to hide in his ever darker room, and to reminisce about the few experiences that were worth keeping a photograph of. It is perfectly fine to have ambitions and to set high standards. Though every plan has to be couched in terms of practicality, of the immediate experience of the world. It cannot be decoupled from what one is doing, where they started from, and what their trajectory is. It cannot be “objective” strictly speaking, as there is always some context that determines what is happening and delineates the realm of the potential.

For as long as someone is putting in honest effort, to the best of their abilities, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Only cheating and faking it, only the lack of honour, is worthy of contempt. But the hard work is noble and praiseworthy as such, even if the results are not the best ever.

Hiding from others is a healthy coping mechanism when it is an initial response to some injurious situation. One needs time to recuperate and come back stronger. Withdrawing into a safe space is thus helpful. Though it is paramount to not become fatalistic by thinking that this is the end of the world. By disaggregating the big problem into its smaller constituents, the pressure becomes less intense: one can tackle minor issues and get a taste of the ensuing small wins. It is a matter of not giving up, of not shutting off the sunlight completely.

Concretely, the sort of overthinking described in this song cannot be overcome by more thinking. The cycle of negativity is broken by action. Our protagonist, this nameless “he”, must muster the courage to venture outside. Though this means that he has to swallow his pride and make some concessions, such as by relaxing his standards and lowering his expectations. Perhaps poetry is not what he is meant to do or he can still do it on the side while balancing it out with something else.

It is single-mindedness and inflexibility that undoes a man. Those same qualities are invaluable in certain cases where one has to power through hardship. The key is to not lose sight of the bigger picture; to not make unflinching commitment the goal itself, but to understand that everyone can be wrong while the world can always introduce new states of affairs. Thus the priorities we once set for ourselves are either no longer correct or relevant.

By blotting out the light and everything else with it, the person is bound to forgo the sense of perspective that informs sound judgement. Now, confined to their own space, dwelling over the same tired thoughts, all they can do is continue to lose any sense of self-respect, as they belittle their being one regret at a time.

The titular “adulterations” do give us a hopeful message though. Just as we once dreamt of achieving something grand, we retain the ability to dream anew no matter the setbacks. We may modify what once was to fathom a purpose we had not envisaged. It is this very pivot that makes the adulteration of the original dream benign and, indeed, necessary. The world may then reveal to us an altogether different reality that the one we had hoped for; a reality that may still fulfil us.

Before I proceed to translate the lyrics of Tolls and then elaborate on its deeper meaning, I must note that my plans this noon was to write an article about one of the songs performed by Eleonora Zouganeli. My first choice was The Gardener, which is the work of Pavlos Pavlides, another beloved artist of mine: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrEIY277C_A. Though I later decided to leave that for another time and focus on Tolls for the time being. Let us, then, enjoy the music and think about one of the lessons we can learn from it.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and further commentary.

Διόδια

Ερμηνεία:  Φωτεινή Βελεσιώτου & Ελεωνόρα Ζουγανέλη
Στίχοι:    Πόλυς Κυριάκου
Μουσική:   Σταύρος Σιόλας


Τώρα θα δεις τα χρώματα ν'αλλάζουνε
και τα βουνά να σμίγουν ένα-ένα
Άγγελοι σαν θνητοί θα σ'αγκαλιάζουνε
εχθροί θα σου μιλούν αγαπημένα

Τώρα θα πιω νερό απ'το ποτήρι σου
δικά σου θα'ναι πια όσα δεν έχω
Θα σπρώξω ουρανό στο παραθύρι σου
κι ό,τι δεν άντεχα θα το αντέχω

Τώρα θα πιάσω σπίτι στον παράδεισο
τσάμπα οικόπεδο σε παράλια
Του έρωτα θα βάλω το πουκάμισο
και θα νικήσω δίχως πανοπλία

Τώρα θα δεις μες στης ψυχής τα υπόγεια
τραπέζι με ψωμί, νερό, κι αλάτι
Τώρα που δεν υπάρχουνε διόδια
που πέφτει σαν ζεστή βροχή η αγάπη

Tolls

Singers:  Fotini Velesiotou & Eleonora Zouganeli
Lyrics:   Polys Kyriakou
Music:    Stavros Siolas


You will now see the colours changing
and the mountains merging one-by-one
Angels like mortals will be embracing you
enemies will be talking to you lovingly

Now I will drink water from your glass
yours shall be all I no longer have
I will push sky towards your window
and anything I could not endure shall endure

Now I will acquire a house in paradise
Gratis property by the seaside
I will wear love's shirt
and shall win without an armour

Now you will see the soul's basements
table with bread, water, and salt
Now that there are no tolls
that love falls like warm rain

To me, Tolls describes the outlook a person has when they no longer treat people transactionally. Others are not means towards individualistic ends. They are all equal, fellow travellers on the same journey of life, with whom one may share a table, no matter how frugal it is.

The worth of a person is not measured by how opulent their dining hall is. Indeed, excesses are often a sign of vanity and misplaced priorities. A serving of the essentials is enough when done with kindness. It is all about one’s intent and their willingness to recognise in everyone some inherent, inalienable value.

This hearkens back to the ancient Greek ideal of hospitality, epitomised by the concept of Xenial Zeus (ξένιος Ζευς or ξένιος Δίας): “xenial” means “of the foreigners”. One must welcome strangers and treat them with care, while they must, in turn, respect the integrity of the household. There is mutual respect involved, whose deepening manifests as love.

Love is not one-sided. A person can only feel loved when they are prepared to give love. This is because of the precondition of trust. One must open up their true self, to be recognised for who they are, to be confident that they are valued for their true self and not some persona thereof, and, in turn, to discover in others a genuine person that hides beneath the hardened carapace of quotidian transactionality.

When you are loved for something you are not, such as some carefully curated character you maintain on social media, you distract yourself from the deep-seated contempt you harbour for yourself by chasing vanity points online. The dopamine boost takes your attention away from the hard-yet-rewarding work you need to do to (i) accept yourself and (ii) to then put your faith in others.

One-sided love is a self-centred experience rooted in fear. It involves the imagination of another, who cannot be an actual person as their facets of selfhood are not explored. Those are substituted by potentially beautified or likely inaccurate fantasies. Such a state of mind happens within the confines of one’s comfort zone: they have not opened up to make themselves vulnerable and, necessarily, have not dared to discover real people.

Love can hurt precisely because makes you vulnerable. To love is an act of courage, of overcoming one’s inhibitions, of looking past one’s ego, to find the others as they are, with all their imperfections.

The reason Zeus is the tutelary figure of hospitality is because one must exhibit the combination of vigour, magnanimity, and big-picture thinking that befits the god of the sky and form-making. Hospitality is not the mere ephemeral business affair with a tourist, but the readiness to share with others that which you have no surplus of. It is this very attitude that dismantles the barriers, which exist between us.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary. Also check the previous entries about Trypes:

• New dizziness (2022-08-01)
• Train (2022-06-28)

Εδώ

Ερμηνεία:  Τρύπες
Στίχοι:    Γιάννης Αγγελάκας
Μουσική:   Μπάμπης Παπαδόπουλος


Εδώ δεν πιάνουν οι κατάρες, δεν πιάνουν οι ευχές
Εδώ το τώρα ζητιανεύει λίγη πίκρα απ'το χτες
Εδώ οι άγγελοι δεν κλαίνε ούτε γλύφουν πληγές
Εδώ η θλίψη δεν κερδίζει ποτέ

Εδώ οι μέρες ταξιδεύουν σαν χελώνες νεκρές
κι εγώ τρεκλίζοντας τις ακολουθώ
Εδώ οι σκέψεις ζωντανεύουν ναυάγια, πυρκαγιές
Καίγομαι ολόκληρος εδώ και ξανασβήνω εδώ

Εδώ οι νύχτες δεν διψάνε γι'άλλες άγριες γιορτές
μονάχα σκιάχτρα τραγουδάνε με καρδιές δανεικές
Εδώ πεθαίνουν νυσταγμένοι οι τελευταίοι εραστές
Εδώ η θλίψη δεν κερδίζει ποτέ

Here

Singer:  Trypes
Lyrics:  Yiannis Angelakas
Music:   Babis Papadopoulos


Here grudges are ineffective, ineffective are the wishes
Here the now begs for a little bit of bitterness from the yesterday
Here angels do not cry nor lick wounds
Here grief never wins

Here the days travel like dead turtles
and I follow them while shaking
Here thoughts revive shipwrecks, fires
I burn entirely here and abate again here

Here nights do not thirst for more wild festivals
only scarecrows sing with borrowed hearts
Here the last lovers die from sleepiness
Here grief never wins

While every piece of art has many truthful meanings, the one I feel the most for Here is the sense of peace we get when we have presence in our present. In other words, when we take the here-and-now for what it is, choosing to no longer yearn for a past that cannot be recreated or daydream about a future that is not realisable.

The titular “here” is both a physical location as well as a state of mind. It is about where we are at any given moment, with the prevailing conditions at play. We have situational awareness in appreciating what is and in recognising what cannot be. This awareness is rooted in a mindset of accepting what our immediate experience is subject to.

Acceptance does not necessarily mean that we are happy about what is. No. It simply is a recognition of how things stand and, thus, an admission that past and future are, strictly speaking, irrelevant to what unfolds right now.

The way we treat our present conditions us to think in one way or another. If we are in the mode of comparing the present to some glorified past, then we are in the process of counting our losses. We are sad and are bound to become more miserable. The reason is that we see in the past a value for which there can be no alternative, as if life only has one answer to it, one way of how nice things can happen, and as if one size must necessarily fit us all. Yet nature likes to surprise us, to teach us how little we truly understand of what we think is ours, and to expose our dogmas as ignorant opinions.

Past experiences may have been pleasant, but so can the current and future ones. Not necessarily in the same way though, but in their own right as diverse expressions of the continuum of life that is the cosmos. “Here”, then, is a place of bliss when we no longer insist on a specific type of experience; when we let go of our obsession of what our good outcome is.

We have to put our faith in the world, to trust that it can yet prove us wrong and naive. In the here-and-now, we relinquish the expectation to have things a certain way, accepting instead that we go with the flow of the phenomena, immersed in a world whose workings are beyond our control. There is a serendipity to this disposition that cannot be found elsewhere. It requires open-mindedness and the courage to challenge what we think we know. What we had may have been decent, but it was only one perspective on the vastness of the cosmos, which could not possibly show us everything about the greater whole.

Being present in the “here” is ultimately about having the guts and tenacity to explore what you may become, friend. Muster the strength to dry your tears. Then make small steps towards the “here”, to appreciate the little things all around you. Stop being a maximalist. Let go of the misbegotten notion that you can have perfection all around you or, worse, that you are somehow entitled to it. When you want everything, you get nothing. Plus, you are not perfect yourself, so why expect others to be that for you?

“Here” is where the stray souls finds their home. And we are all waiting for you to join us.

Below I provide the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and some further commentary. As I have covered the aforementioned artists before, here are the relevant entries:

• Letter (2022-06-29)
• The mystics of the desert (2022-08-28)
• Talk about you (2024-11-04)

Είχα τον κήπο της Εδέμ

Ερμηνεία:  Γιάννης Λίταινας
Στίχοι:    Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Μουσική:   Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου


Θέλετε, δέντρα, ανθίσετε, θέλετε μαραθείτε
Δε σας ποτίζω, δέντρα μου, και μη με αδικείτε
Όσο νερό μ' αναλογεί το ρίχνω σε μια γλάστρα
αχόρταγη που με κοιτά μ' αναίδεια στα μάτια

«Ρίξε δροσιά, ρίξε νερό, το χώμα να νοτίσει
ο σπόρος που 'χω μέσα μου να πιει και να ξυπνήσει
Να βγάλει ρίζες, να γενεί μία περικοκλάδα
ένα αγρίμι της ζωής, μια ξέφρενη Μαινάδα

Που θ' απλωθεί σ' όλη τη γη και, αφού τηνέ σκεπάσει
να κάνει ντου στα σωθικά εκείνων που 'χουν χάσει
φίλους, αδέρφια, και παιδιά κι εκεί ανθούς να βγάλει
Γύρη να πέσει στις καρδιές, να τις γλυκάνει πάλι»

Τέτοια μου λέει η άτιμη η γλάστρα και λυγίζω
Δάκρυ, νερό, δάκρυ, νερό, ο δόλιος, την ποτίζω
Ανάθεμά σε, πήλινο, και συ, παλιοβοτάνι
Είχα τον κήπο της Εδέμ και τώρα δε μου φτάνει

I had the garden of Eden

Singer:  Yiannis Litaenas
Lyrics:  Thanasis Papakonstantinou
Music:   Thanasis Papakonstantinou


Trees, blossom if you will, wither if you will
I am not watering you, my trees, and do not misjudge me
Whatever water is allotted to me I pour into a flower pot
insatiable it looks at me with disrespect in the eyes

"Pour freshness, pour water, to soak the soil
the seed I have within me to drink and awaken
To grow roots, to become Morning Glory
a beast of life, a frenzied Maenad

That will extend across the land and once it covers it
to force itself into the hearts of those who have lost
friends, siblings, and children and there to blossom as well
Pollen to fall on the hearts, to sweeten them again"

It is what this dishonourable flower pot says and I yield
Tear, water, tear, water, poor me, I water it
Curse you, clay pot, and you, damned herb
I had the garden of Eden and now it is not enough

The insatiable flower pot represents all these rationalisations we make whenever we give up on something we have in pursuit of an alternative that is ostensibly better. It is a flower because those tend to look pretty upon first sight, even when they are not benign for us.

We are easily swayed by first impressions, which then colour our judgement. We are willing to fill in the blanks and to make belief about how nice everything shall be. We make sacrifices and go to great lengths to accommodate the demands of this new fixation of ours. In the process, we ignore the inherent worth of the world we had while we valorise a figment of imagination; an unrealistic figure we have made out some phenomenon.

Such is a propensity we have in our relations with other people, objects, or fields of endeavour. There is a fear of missing out, but also an implicit sense of entitlement and desert (as in “deserve”, not the landscape). We act out of that fear because we fundamentally believe that we ought to get some better deal in our life.

There are times this is justified, when change is the best course of action. Though the sense of adventure is suspicious when it happens systematically, when nothing quite sticks and there is no longer-term vision to how things are in our life. If we are always in pursuit of novelty, we are more likely addicted to the immediate dopamine rush we get out of whatever discovery rather than genuinely trying to improve our condition.

Rationalisation is but a fig leaf we use to cover matters we have not thought through. “Oh, once I switch to THAT, I will solve all my problems…” How many times have we said this, only to repeat it shortly afterwards? At its core, this is a matter of not coming to terms with who we are and not trying to work with what is allotted to us by the fates. We would rather tell ourselves the lie that there is an easy way out, that there exists a shortcut on the path to excellence, and that we shall implement this “life hack” because of how much smarter we are than everybody else.

All such plans are futile. They can only result in failure, for they do not represent a potential in our life. Excellence is such exactly because it is hard to achieve. Commitment is difficult and at times inconvenient, but also uniquely rewarding and stabilising, precisely because it is a bond that strengthens the more time and sincere effort is invested into it.

We must then have the decency to reflect on our actions or to ask others who know us to help accordingly. The goal is to call out rationalisations for what they are and to make small steps towards appreciating the little things all around us; those that may no longer have any “wow” factor, but continue to have value for us.

When we consider everything replaceable, we are doomed to persistent discontent, for nothing ever fulfills us.

Those who leave and those who stay was originally performed by the eminent Yiannis Poulopoulos. Since I recently wrote an interpretation of “The statue” by Yiannis Poulopoulos (2024-12-09), it is time to showcase another artist; an artist who is a rising star.

Here are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and further philosophical comments.

Αυτοί που φεύγουν κι αυτοί που μένουν

Ερμηνεία:  Γιάννης Διονυσίου
Στίχοι:    Αλέκος Καγιάντας
Μουσική:   Γιώργος Ζαμπέτας


Αυτοί που φεύγουν σφίγγουν τα χείλια
πνίγουν τα δάκρυα να μη φανούν
κι αυτοί που μένουν κουνούν μαντήλια
κι αναστενάζουν γιατί πονούν

Κι αυτούς που φεύγουν
κι αυτούς που μένουν
οι μοίρες μ'απονιά
πάντα τους δέρνουν

Αυτοί που φεύγουν κάποιο λυγμό τους
παίρνουν μαζί τους και μιαν ευχή
κι αυτοί που μένουν στο σπαραγμό τους
κάνουν κουράγιο και προσευχή

Κι αυτούς που φεύγουν
κι αυτούς που μένουν
οι μοίρες μ'απονιά
πάντα τους δέρνουν

Those who leave and those who stay

Singer:  Yiannis Poulopoulos
Lyrics:  Alekos Kayiantas
Music:   Yioryos Zambetas


Those who leave tighten their lips
drowning their tears to not show
and those who stay wave handkerchiefs
and sigh because they are hurt

And those who leave
and those who stay
the fates remorselessly
always hit them

Those who leave take some sob
with them as well as a wish
and those who stay in their heartbreak
persevere and pray

And those who leave
and those who stay
the fates remorselessly
always hit them

Life has no undo action. There is no way for us to play out some eventuality, decide whether we like it or not, and then hit some reset button to try anew with a different set of variables. Life unfolds in vivo through continuous action. There is no way for us to withdraw into a realm of abstraction where every scenario can be tested out thoroughly to derive some objectively optimal result. There is no controlled environment, no in vitro human experience. All we do, we do it based on imperfect information, in response to cases we do not fully understand or control, and no matter how prepared we are.

This starts from the very moment we assume the form of life. There is no choice to be made about that fact, the set of talents and attributes we are endowed with, nor about environmental factors such as the place of birth, the prevailing conditions therein, the immediate experiences to be had, the people to be exposed to, and so on. Before we even develop a rudimentary sense of self, we are determined without or despite our volition. What we eventually get as the inescapable sense of will is the ability to choose within overarching constraints.

Freedom is not boundless, as each choice creates its own constraints. For example, if facing a fork on a road where the path to the right leads you to the seaside while the one on the left goes mountainward, your choice in the moment necessarily conditions whether your future self will be viewing seascapes or mountainscapes, ceteris paribus. More so when other factors are not held constant and our decisions are continuously framed by—or are done in response to—evolving states of affairs. What thus unfolds as the human condition is a series of moments, a continuous presence, in which we sometimes are the participant, at others the observer, and at others still part agent and part patient of actions. Cause and effect are two sides of a singular reality, in a cosmic continuum of incessant transfiguration. What transpires is a cycle of causes leading to effects which in turn provide the impetus qua cause of yet more effects.

The song mentions the fates to remind us of the three-fold expression of fate, namely, choice, chance, and inevitability. These are poetically expressed in Greek culture as three goddesses, which jointly form what we understand as one’s destiny. We control something, but not everything. We act in relative ignorance and can only hope that things go our way. But there is no knowing how the interplay between choice and chance, choice and choices, chance and chances, will unfold. Those who leave may find a conventionally better place to call home, though it will never be devoid of the vicissitudes of this world, the moments of joy followed by times of sorrow. All we ever get is an admixture between analytical extremes. There is no purity to be had therein.

Accepting one’s powerlessness in the face of these greater magnitudes is liberating. Instead of fighting pointlessly against the forces we cannot overpower, the ridiculous situation of ignorant me arguing with the omniscient god as it were, we take what comes our way for what it is: a contribution to a life that will ultimately be neither good nor bad.

The place may change. Material possessions will come and go. Impermanence will continue to define whatever microcosm of subjectivity we are immersed in. Let us then experience yet another moment in the here or the there, in the preparation for more of the same hardship or in the expectation of a hopeful tomorrow. To what end? Nobody knows, although many pretend otherwise.

In conclusion, I have the inspiration to compose the following poem, which I will also publish in the Poems section of my website.

Admixture

Tell me about this January sunset
with its cold air and pink clouds
As the red fox approaches
one can only wonder in awe how
in every land, at each corner
there is opportunity and danger
separated only by moments

Part of the appeal for me is the cosy environment of the performance. It is relatable, humane, authentic. It is the kind of event I have witnessed many times, when someone at the table will spontaneously pick up an instrument and start playing. These are my people.

I resonate with this simplicity and immediacy. It makes no pretences. There is something endearing about seeing a talented person be so down-to-earth. Unlike what you find in the opulent opera houses of the world, this show can be held anywhere without an empire bankrolling it. It is about us together, while at our symposia (Greek word for “drinking together”), as we make art in a spirit of camaraderie. The table we share, the experiences we partake in, remind us that we are all equal.

Below are the original lyrics, followed by my translation, and further commentary.

Με γέλασαν τα πουλιά
της άνοιξης τ'αηδόνια
Με γέλασαν και μου'πανε
ποτέ δε θα πεθάνω

Φτιάχνω κι εγώ το σπίτι μου
ψηλότερο από τ'άλλα
Σαράντα δυο πατώματα
εξήντα παραθύρια

Στα παραθύρια στέκομαι
τους κάμπους αγναντεύω
Βλέπω τους κάμπους πράσινους
και τα βουνά γαλάζια

Βλέπω το Χάρο που'ρχεται
καβάλα στ'άλογο του
Με γέλασαν τα πουλιά
της άνοιξης τ'αηδόνια

Με γέλασαν τα πουλιά
της άνοιξης τ'αηδόνια
Με γέλασαν και μου είπανε
ο Χάρος δε με παίρνει

Μη με παίρνεις Χάρο
μη με παίρνεις
γιατί δε με ξαναφέρνεις

The birds fooled me
the nightingales of springtime
They fooled me and they told me
that I will never die

I thus built my house
taller than the rest
Forty two stories
sixty windows

I stand by the window
staring at the fields
I see the green fields
and the blue mountains

I see Death (Charon) coming
riding his horse
The birds fooled me
the nightingales of springtime

The birds fooled me
the nightingales of springtime
They fooled me and told me
that Death will not take me

Do not take me Death
do not take me
for you will not bring me back

The song is about those who lose sense of their actuality as human. They have a good moment in their life, a period of success, this poetic spring time when the nightingales are singing, which fools them into thinking they are somehow special.

The birds are not there to fool anybody. No. They do what birds always do, namely, live in the present of their presence. It is the human who misinterprets the phenomena; who searches for signs in the universe to vindicate whatever self impression they have already assumed as true.

Such a misfortune to accumulate riches you can never enjoy, just so that you can brag about how much better you are than everybody else! It is a meaningless number on a scoreboard. Same principle for other vanity projects, such as how many followers you have online, the number of likes your latest post received, how much of a “personality” you are, and so on.

What matters are the little things in life. The moments we share when we can stare each other in the eyes without any power dynamic between us. We are honest when we have nothing to prove, nothing to fight for, nothing to persuade the other side with; when we feel no need whatsoever to proclaim “hey, look at me!” and to become the centre of the world. We are content with being a member of the community.

As we drink and sing together, we acknowledge our shared humanity; not with more of the same inane virtue signalling and vainglorious competitiveness, but through our participation in the commons. It is the deed of treating the others as your equals; the deed of setting aside whatever ephemeral successes you have had to see the inherent worth in others.

The personification of Death, the god Charon from antiquity, is a powerful metaphor for our natural equality. It has the obvious signification of our shared mortality, though it also speaks to the inevitabilities we are all aware of: happiness, sorrow, gain, loss, victory, failure, health, disease, and more. Being mindful of Charon thus is the means by which we keep a sense of perspective. We may enjoy the fruits of our labour, though we recognise that (i) we are not special and (ii) nothing we have is inalienable. Time takes it all away as all patterns in the cosmos transfigure. Let us, then, have another round as we appreciate the little things.

These songs occupy a central place in contemporary Greek culture, as people of all ages have at one point or another listened to them. The first time I remember paying attention to The statue was in my pre-teen years. At the time, I thought it was a nice song, but could not appreciate its profoundity. This only happens with experience. Here I am now, then, to expound on the meaning of this work of art.

Below are the original lyrics, followed by my translation and commentary.

Το άγαλμα

Ερμηνεία:  Γιάννης Πουλόπουλος
Στίχοι:    Λευτέρης Παπαδόπουλος
Μουσική:   Μίμης Πλέσσας


Χθες μεσάνυχτα και κάτι κατηφόρισα
στην μικρή την πλατεΐτσα που σε γνώρισα
Κάποιο άγαλμα που μ'είδε με θυμήθηκε
και τον πόνο μου να ακούσει δεν αρνήθηκε

Και του μίλησα για σένα και για μένανε
και τα μάτια του βουρκώναν και όλο κλαίγανε
Του'πα για το φέρσιμο σου και για τα άλλα σου
τα ασυγχώρητα τα λάθη τα μεγάλα σου

Κι ύστερα με πιάσαν θεέ μου κάτι κλάματα
που με βρήκανε κουρέλι τα χαράματα
Με το άγαλμα ως το δρόμο προχωρήσαμε
μου εσκούπισε τα μάτια και χωρίσαμε

The statue

Singer:  Yiannis Poulopoulos
Lyrics:  Lefteris Papadopoulos
Music:   Memes Plessas


Yesterday past midnight I headed towards
the tiny cosy square where I made your acquaintance
A statue that saw me remember me
and did not refuse to listen to my pain

And I talked to it about you and me
and its eyes were tearful and would keep crying
I told it about your behaviour and the others
the unforgivable big mistakes of yours

And afterwards my god I cried heavily
that they found me in taters at dawn
With the statue we walked up to the street
it dried my eyes and we parted ways

The song is about those moments in a person’s life when all they need is to be heard. The statue is not a talkative figure. They are not there to argue with the poetic “I”, nor to pass judgement. Statues of this sort provide an outlet for a deep seated feeling that needs to be expressed without the fear of reprisal. The one who opens up to the statue must feel safe in order to let it all out.

Unlike a therapist, the statue does not condition the person into the role of a patient. Those who cry at tiny squares are not expecting to be treated or to get some prescription on the immediate next steps. No. The song’s first person view presents us with a case of complex emotions, encompassing frustration and disappointment, but also determination and courage to keep going. Those who go through such a moment are not in need of treatment per se. What they benefit from is a reminder that the world does not end at the point of any given hardship.

Statues are cold and distant, yet there is a certain depth, stability, and authenticity to not exhibiting apparent compassion; to not being over the top in reacting to someone’s emotional state. These are the kind of unassuming and trustworthy fellows who seemingly do not care about the vicissitudes of life and who take it easy even in the face of extraordinary circumstances. They are readily available for those who need them. Their compassion is one that is felt, although not necessarily advertised.

Consistent with the theme of not offering therapy, all statues do is set the protagonist back on track. They will stop there though, because it is up to the individual to proceed on their path. One’s burdens do not belong to another and it is a mistake to make such an attempt. Statues may be robust, but they are not unbreakable.

Our protagonist shows fortitude and fearlessness in opening up to a statue: to a form that may look fundamentally different from a human. It is not though. There are some among us who are more statue-like in their disposition. The song recognises as much, in that it has the statue cry. Those people are no less human. They simply have a different way of expressing our shared humanity. The poetic “I” has learnt this lesson in the best possible way: by feeling it. Others may understand as much through artistic representations. And—who knows?—they too may encounter a statue when they need it, provided they are open to such an experience.

Below are the original lyrics, my faithful translation of them, and further philosophical commentary.

Παραμύθι με λυπημένο τέλος

Ερμηνεία:  Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης
Στίχοι:    Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης
Μουσική:   Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης


Κάποτε γνώρισα μια λίμνη
μάτια μου, μάτια μου
Κάποτε γνώρισα μια λίμνη
που 'θελε να 'ναι θάλασσα
 
Και κάθε που χαράζει
την τρώει το μαράζι
Και κάθε που χαράζει
την τρώει το μαράζι
 
Κάποτε αντάμωσα μια πέτρα
μάτια μου, αχ μάτια μου
Κάποτε αντάμωσα μια πέτρα
που 'θελε βράχος να γενεί
 
Και κάθε που χαράζει
την τρώει το μαράζι
Και κάθε που χαράζει
την τρώει το μαράζι
 
Κάποτε αγάπησα μια κόρη
μάτια μου, μαύρα μάτια μου
που ρωτούσε κάθε αγόρι
πότε γυναίκα θα γενεί

Και κάθε που χαράζει
την τρώει το μαράζι
Και κάθε που χαράζει
την τρώει το μαράζι

Έχουν περάσει χρόνοι δέκα
μάτια μου, αχ μάτια μου
η κόρη γίνηκε γυναίκα
μα εγώ απόμεινα παιδί

Και κάθε που χαράζει
με τρώει το μαράζι
Και κάθε που χαράζει
με τρώει το μαράζι

Tale with sad ending

Singer:  Miltos Paschalidis
Lyrics:  Miltos Paschalidis
Music:   Miltos Paschalidis


I once met a lake
my eyes, my eyes
I once met a lake
that wanted to be a sea

And whenever it dawns
it suffers in grief
And whenever it dawns
it suffers in grief

I once encountered a stone
my eyes, oh my eyes
I once encountered a stone
that wanted to be a rock

And whenever it dawns
it suffers in grief
And whenever it dawns
it suffers in grief

I once loved a girl
my eyes, my black eyes
who was asking every boy
when she would become a woman

And whenever it dawns
it suffers in grief
And whenever it dawns
it suffers in grief

Ten years have gone by
my eyes, oh my eyes
the girl became a woman
but I remained a boy

And whenever it dawns
I suffer in grief
And whenever it dawns
I suffer in grief

The titular tale is about the tension between our wishes and actuality. There are times when we do not live in the present of our presence: we do not appreciate what we have, longing for something entirely different instead. In the process, we do not enjoy our life; we declare indefinite absence from it, opting to find solace in an imaginary world that cannot fulfil us no matter how comfortable it may be.

Some wishes are realistic, like the girl wanting to become a woman. This is the natural course of events. Other aspirations cannot be made manifest though. We may then assume that the realistic ones are appropriate and that only the unrealistic hopes are detrimental to our being. The tale, however, correctly suggests that this is not how it is: being disconnected from our prevailing reality begets sorrow and suffering.

Fundamentally, there is a mismatch between what we can achieve in the here-and-now and what we believe we ought to be experiencing instead. It comes down to expectations, which themselves are shaped by mistaken views. If all we expect is something beyond the given milieu’s scope, we are setting ourselves up for persistent disappointment.

Being content presupposes acceptance. Admit to who you are right now in the specifics of your environment. This does not preclude who you might become in cases yet to be constituted. Accepting how things stand is not a prerequisite for them to be: it only is a precondition for you to not be labouring against forces superior to yours.

There will still be sad endings, though there may be something worthwhile to be had in them too, provided we are attuned to them. Besides, the cosmos is not about pure bliss. It is one of admixture; a blend of diverse events and the feelings they produce.

I am inspired to close this commentary with a poem of my own that just sprung to mind (I will also post it in the Poems section):

Tempests

Worry not of tempests to be
Moments cannot be embottled
Rain might wash you away
Yet time already does

Below is the original version, followed by my faithful translation, and subsequent commentary.

Μιλώ για σένα

Ερμηνεία:  Μελίνα Κανά
Στίχοι:    Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Μουσική:   Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου


Μιλώ με τα ψηλά τ'απάτητα βουνά
και τους μιλώ για σένα
πως έχεις ομορφιά και φρύδια τοξωτά
σαν πέτρινα γεφύρια

Και μ'απάντησαν:
Τα γεφύρια χορταριάζουν
Άμοιρη ψυχή μην ξεγελαστείς

Μιλώ με τ'ουρανού τα μαύρα σύννεφα
και τους μιλώ για σένα
πως όταν περπατάς, γλυκά όπου πατάς
η στέρφα γη ανθίζει

Και μ'απάντησαν:
Η γη ανθίζει εκεί που θέλει
Άμοιρη ψυχή μην ξεγελαστείς

Μιλώ με τις πηγές που ζούνε μοναχές
και τους μιλώ για σένα
πως όταν με κοιτάς, σαν λες πως μ'αγαπάς
αγγέλοι φτερουγίζουν

Και μ'απάντησαν:
Είναι χάρτινοι οι αγγέλοι
Άμοιρη ψυχή μην ξεγελαστείς

I talk about you

Singer:  Melina Kana
Lyrics:  Thanasis Papakonstantinou
Music:   Thanasis Papakonstantinou


I talk with the tall untrodden mountains
and I tell them about you
that you have beauty and arched eyebrows
like stone bridges

And they replied to me:
Bridges become grassy
Hapless soul do not be deceived

I talk with the sky's black clouds
and I tell them about you
that when you walk, sweetly where you step
the arid land blossoms

And they replied to me:
The land blossoms where it wants
Hapless soul do not be deceived

I talk with the springs that live alone
and I tell them about you
that when you stare at me, while saying you love me
angels flutter their wings

And they replied to me:
The angels are made out of paper
Hapless soul do not be deceived

What these natural magnitudes are warning the poetic “I” about is to not put anyone on a pedestal. It is easy to be thoroughly impressed by someone, especially when you do not know them well. In your imagination you are filling in the blanks: they simply are dreamy; faultless even. What life teaches us though, often the hard way, is that people are imperfect. We cannot expect anyone to live up to a godly standard. Doing so sets us up for disappointment and suffering.

Imperfection is neither bad nor undesirable. It is another way of acknowledging that an individual excels in some areas over others. This is how we get someone who is at once an outstanding musician and incompetent accountant. Nature has made it such that we are diverse. All forms are subject to differentiation, with no two being identical. We find our role in society, through the division of labour, and make strong bonds with those we resonate more with. We are picky because we are thus disposed.

Expecting someone to be immaculate means to deny them the chance to express their individuality, with all its peculiarities. It is to assume that they are not a person with strengths and weaknesses; with a talent for some things but not all of them. It also is a misunderstanding of love as a purely blissful experience. The world is one of admixture, where there is no pure instantiation of the ideals we infer out of the patterns we discern, such as beauty, harmony, love, and so on.

What we experience is an amalgamation of diverse phenomena, such as instances of joy followed by times of grief. Life is about the concatenation of those moments and their distillation into a nuanced impression of what has transpired. It is balanced, once considered holistically.

It is against this backdrop that I find unconvincing any precept that applies a godly criterion to the person. When Lao Zi tells us how “sages” should behave, or when the New Testament expects us to follow the example of Jesus, ostensibly the absolute God incarnate, we are presented with a moral code that we can never fully apply day-by-day while being human. We might be inspired to act in certain ways, but we cannot be either the personification of Dao or the almighty God.

To be human is to be imperfect. Rather than feel guilty about this natural constant, we may find solace in the application of principles that are consistent with our actuality. With common sense and practical reasonableness, we can be conscious of our limitations, moderate in our actions, excited about our love affairs, intolerant of tyrants, and mindful of the fleeting reality of all we cherish.

Here is the poem turned into a beautiful rock song by Thanos Mikroutsikos, performed by Vasilis Papakonstantinou: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0IDJInI3YI.

Below is the original poem, followed by my translation and subsequent commentary.

[ Also read: Dagger by Nikos Kavvadias (2022-09-25) and Mal du Départ by Nikos Kavvadias (2022-08-08). ]

Ένας νέγρος θερμαστής από το Τζιμπουτί

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Νίκος Καββαδίας
Μουσική:   Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Ο Γουίλι ο μαύρος θερμαστής από το Τζιμπουτί
όταν από τη βάρδια του τη βραδινή σχολούσε
στην κάμαρά μου ερχότανε γελώντας να με βρει
κι ώρες πολλές για πράγματα περίεργα μου μιλούσε

Μου 'λεγε πως καπνίζουνε στο Αλγέρι το χασίς
και στο Άντεν πως χορεύοντας πίνουν την άσπρη σκόνη
κι έπειτα πως φωνάζουνε και πως μονολογούν
όταν η ζάλη μ' όνειρα περίεργα τους κυκλώνει

Μου 'λεγε ακόμα ότι είδε αυτός μια νύχτα που 'χε πιει
πως πάνω σ' άτι εκάλπαζε στην πλάτη της θαλάσσης
και πίσωθε του ετρέχανε γοργόνες με φτερά
«σαν πάμε στ' Άντεν» μου 'λεγε «κι εσύ θα δοκιμάσεις»

Εγώ γλυκά του χάριζα και λάμες ξυραφιών
και του 'λεγα πως το χασίς τον άνθρωπο σκοτώνει
και τότε αυτός συνήθιζε γελώντας τρανταχτά
με το 'να χέρι του ψηλά πολύ να με σηκώνει

Μες στο τεράστιο σώμα του είχε μια αθώα καρδιά
κάποια νυχτιά μέσα στο μπαρ Ρετζίνα στη Μαρσίλια
για να φυλάξει εμένα από έναν Ισπανό
έφαγε αυτός μια αδειανή στην κεφαλή μποτίλια

Μια μέρα τον αφήσαμε στεγνό απ' τον πυρετό
πέρα στην Άπω Ανατολή να φλέγεται να λιώνει
θεέ των μαύρων, τον καλό συγχώρεσε Γουίλ
και δώσ' του εκεί που βρίσκεται λίγη απ' την άσπρη σκόνη

A black stoker from Djibouti

Singer:  Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:  Nikos Kavvadias
Music:   Thanos Mikroutsikos


Willie the black stoker from Djibouti
when he would finish his night shift
he would visit my room while laughing
and would talk for hours about strange things

He would tell me how they smoke hashish in Algiers
and how at Aden they inhale the white powder while dancing
and later how they would shout and talk to themselves
once the daze circled them with strange dreams

He would tell me further that he saw one night he had smoked
that he was riding a stallion across the sea
behind which were running mermaids with wings
"once we visit Aden" he would say "you too shall try it"

I offered him sweets and razor blades
and told him that hashish kills a man
and he used to laugh strongly
as he would lift me high with one hand

In his large body he had an innocent heart
a night at the Regina bar in Marseille
to protect me from a Spaniard
he got hit on the head with an empty bottle

One day we left him dry from fever
away in the Far East to burn and melt
god of the blacks forgive kind Will
and offer him wherever he is a bit of that white powder

There are three interwoven themes herein: (i) travelling the world as a sailor in anticipation of new challenges and adventures, (ii) how people of different cultures develop a sense of camaraderie through their shared experiences, and (iii) tolerating different cultures and diverse ways of expression, including those that involve the use of substances that are considered illegal in many parts of the world.

Willie is presented to us as a genuine, kind-spirited man who does not abuse his undeniably superior physical prowess. Willie speaks fondly of the psychotropic substances that he has witnessed. The people who ritually use them are not described in condemnatory terms. Instead, their ways of life are respected: Willie thinks highly of them, while the poetic first person expresses scepticism about their putative benign effects. Still, tolerance is evident in the attitude of the poetic “I”, who asks the god of those peoples to treat the kind stoker to a serving of the fabled white powder. This indicates that the author sees no moral transgression in this act, even if it may not be the healthiest course of action for a person.

[ Watch/listen: Seeking pleasures (2024-08-18). ]

The friendship between Nikos and Willie is strong, showing us how a Greek and a Djiboutian have a lot in common despite differences in appearance and cultural expression. What brings people together is their willingness to have a shared experience. Rather than let their uninformed prejudices and fears guide their behaviour, they show openness towards each other. To learn and to appreciate, not to judge prematurely.

Race is such a dubious concept, anyway. Relative to someone like Willie, I would be considered “white” though I remember clearly how some would tell me that it is important to dress well in Brussels to avoid any issues with my “North African looks”. I consider it a sign of feebleness to treat a person on the basis of some physical characteristic of theirs and to thus fail to acknowledge their individual merits.

The poetic “I” describes Willie as “black” without attaching an implicit judgement: they are good friends who spend a lot of time together and care for each other. Whereas those who would advise me about my “North African looks” implied that I could pass for somebody who is seen with suspicion. It is in this tacit claim where we find racism: your looks or background determine your quality as a person, ergo who should tone them down.

Same principle for a person’s modus vivendi. It is easy to be condescending towards those who make use of certain substances, for example, and to pretend to hold the moral high ground. I find that this attitude is most common among those who purport to love others the most and who profess tolerance—they love and tolerate everybody more than you could imagine, sure! When you hear such people speak, there is an obvious hatred in their exposition. Their worldview is that their way is the only right way and everything else should be dismissed as sinful, ungodly, idolatrous, et cetera. They speak in terms of love, but will happily undo your way of life to show you just how much they care about you.

In the poem, there is no moral grandstanding of this sort. The author believes that hashish kills people, but will not actively oppose its consumption nor be inimical to those who have used it. When it comes to different cultures, this is especially important as it highlights an outlook of non-interference. Whereas imperialism will be rooted in—and typically made manifest as—exhortations about how everybody “should” live. We witness it daily on Western media how basically every country except Western ones is some sort of “shithole” (at times that exact word has been used and when it is not, you can feel the contempt behind its otherwise politically correct alternatives).

May the god of Willie be kind to him and his fellow compatriots and may the gods of this world enlighten those who only know how to bully others while playing the victim.

What follows is the original work in Greek, my faithful English translation, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Ερμηνεία: Διάφανα Κρίνα
Μουσική:  Διάφανα Κρίνα
Στίχοι:   Κώστας Ουράνης


Θα πεθάνω ένα πένθιμο του φθινόπωρου δείλι
μες την κρύα μου κάμαρα όπως έζησα μόνος
Στη στερνή αγωνία μου τη βροχή θε ν' ακούω
και τους γνώριμους θόρυβους που σκορπάει ο δρόμος

Θα πεθάνω ένα πένθιμο του φθινόπωρου δείλι
μέσα σ' έπιπλα ξένα και σε σκόρπια βιβλία
Θα με βρουν στο κρεβάτι μου, θε να 'ρθει ο αστυνόμος
Θα με θάψουν σαν άνθρωπο που δεν είχε ιστορία

Απ' τους φίλους που παίζαμε πότε πότε χαρτιά
θα ρωτήσει κανένας τους έτσι απλά: «Τον Ουράνη
μην τον είδε κανείς; Έχει μέρες που χάθηκε…»
Θ' απαντήσει άλλος παίζοντας: «Μ' αυτός έχει πεθάνει!»

Μια στιγμή θ' απομείνουνε τα χαρτιά τους κρατώντας
θα κουνήσουν περίλυπα και σιγά το κεφάλι
Θε να πουν: «Τι 'ναι ο άνθρωπος! Χθες ακόμα εζούσε…»
και βουβοί στο παιχνίδι τους θα βαλθούνε και πάλι

Κάποιος θα 'ναι συνάδελφος στα «ψιλά» που θα γράψει
πως «προώρως απέθανεν ο Ουράνης στην ξένην
νέος γνωστός εις τους κύκλους μας, κάποτε είχε εκδώσει
μια συλλογή ποιήματα πολλά υποσχομένην»

Κι αυτή θα 'ναι η μόνη του θανάτου μου μνεία
Στο χωριό μου θα κλάψουνε μόνο οι γέροι γονιοί μου
και θα κάνουν μνημόσυνο με περίσσιους παπάδες
όπου θα' ναι όλοι οι φίλοι μου κι ίσως ίσως οι οχτροί μου

Θα πεθάνω ένα πένθιμο του φθινόπωρου δείλι
σε μια κάμαρα ξένη, στο πολύβοο Παρίσι
Και μια Καίτη θαρρώντας πως την ξέχασα γι' άλλην
θα μου γράψει ένα γράμμα και νεκρό θα με βρίσει

Performance:  Diafana Krina
Lyrics:       Diafana Krina
Music:        Kostas Ouranis


I will die on a mournful autumn evening
in my cold room where I lived alone
In my final agony I will be listening to the rain
and the familiar noises that the road disperses

I will die on a mournful autumn evening
amidst foreign furniture and scattered books
They will find me in my bed, the police officer will arrive
They will bury me like a human who had no history

From the friends with whom we sometimes played cards
one will just ask so simply: "Did anyone see Ouranis;
it has been days since he disappeared..."
Another will respond while playing: "But he has died!"

For a moment they pause while holding their cards
They will sorrowfully and slowly nod their heads
They will say: "What is human! He was living yesterday!"
And silently they will resume their game

One of them will be a colleague who will write in the papers
that "Ouranis died prematurely abroad,
well-known in our circles, who once published
a highly promising collection of poems"

And that will be my death's sole reference
At my village only my elderly parents will cry
and they will do a memorial with excess priests
where all my friends will be there and maybe my enemies too

I will die on a mournful autumn evening
in an alien room in boisterous Paris
And a Kate thinking I forsake her for another woman
will write me a letter and curse me while I am dead

The poet tells us indirectly what loneliness feels like in terms of its results. While alive, the poetic “I”, which we may associate with Kostas Ouranis himself, experiences things day-by-day as a stranger to their environment. The room is cold and foreign, his fellow card-playing mates barely notice his absence, while this vaguely romantic figure of Kate does not even know the person is already dead.

The loneliness is further expressed in the distance of the first person from its ancestral land. The village is no Paris and there is no fondness about life in that rural world. Instead, there is a sense of bitterness as the author remarks that nobody will be sad beside the elderly parents yet they will all spend lavishly on extra priests to show how much they really care.

The protagonist dies in the French capital, which is described as boisterous. Therein lies the essence of loneliness: it is the feeling of emptiness amid people. It thus is not the same as solitude, which does not necessarily entail any feeling of dread.

The lonely person is disempowered by the lack of meaningful, profound connections in their life. As with their affair with Kate, relations are kept at a surface level: they are casual, almost formal and business-like, leaving the person depleted, demotivated, and jaded. They are tired as they keep engaging with people yet cannot find this elusive quality they are after. Hence the dread of socialising further and subsequent withdrawal.

It does not matter that the person is a well-known intellectual. They are not gaining anything out of the popularity they have. Perhaps all this attention works to their detriment, as in the public eye they are reduced to the single thing they are known for: “Ouranis? Oh, the poet, right…” This is what kills the person from the inside.

The person caught in this dynamic has difficulty bonding with others, because they feel that others do not care about their intangible qualities of personhood. They will have trust issues, such as “are they my friend because of who I am despite my name or because I am a respected member of the intelligentsia?”

Each case depends on the specific factors at play. Some of it comes down to the circumstances, while there is also something to be said about the attitude of the individual. I think there are moments when we get absorbed in our little world and forget that we too are not connecting with others and are just imagining things about them.

There is a chance that the person is overthinking it, as the poet does here where he assumes his friends back at the village are hypocrites. Are they really that bad or has the author not tried to get to know them better?

It is easy for us to fall in the trap of our own mind, where we think we know more than we do. This is especially true for other people’s motives: they are hard to identify, while appearances are often misleading. Someone who is quick to reach conclusions and to weave elaborate scenaria therefrom is prone to loneliness.

I think such a person can learn to manage their propensity for getting into stressful imaginary worlds. It can be done by learning to gradually cease control—and the will for control—over the particularities of one’s own quotidian experiences. The poetic “I” and everyone in their place must try to engage with strangers in earnest, explore unknown lands, and generally challenge every assumption about the quality of people.

Given that is is already night time here at the hut, I am inspired by my environment to compose this poem:

In your loneliest nights
the crickets
will provide you with
a sense of perspective

[ All my poems are here: https://protesilaos.com/poems/ ]

Just as we can think of our self as alone in the universe, we can also take a step back to notice that, actually, there is a lot going on out there that we do not really pay attention to. What if those supposed enemies back home are nothing of the sort and we misunderstood them? What if we gave Kate the chance to come closer to us? Would she then not be more informed and thus considerate in her letters?

The experience of loneliness is generally debilitating though I think it can be turned into a force for creativity. The individual may realise how their attitude is too narrow in its outlook, presumptuous in its negativity, and ultimately biased against others. Perhaps, then, the crickets and the immanent life of this cosmos will serve as a reminder that we should not be too quick to judge that which we are oblivious to.

Closing with another poem that just came to mind:

When darkness besets you, fear it not
It is but an invitation
to perform a leap of faith
into a whole new world of possibilities

Ερμηνεία: Διάφανα Κρίνα
Μουσική:  Διάφανα Κρίνα
Στίχοι:   Διονύσης Καψάλη

Ξέρω πως θα'ρθει και δε θα'μαι όπως είμαι
να τον δεχτώ με το καλύτερο παλτό μου
Μήτε σκυμμένος στις σελίδες κάποιου τόμου
εκεί που υψώνομαι να μάθω ότι κείμαι

Δε θα προσεύχομαι σε σύμπαν που θαμπώνει
Δε θα ρωτήσω αναιδώς «πού το κεντρί σου»
Γονιός δε θα 'ναι να μου πει «σήκω και ντύσου,
καιρός να ζήσουμε, παιδί μου, ξημερώνει»

Θα'ρθει την ώρα που σπαράσσεται το φως μου
κι εκλιπαρώ φανατικά λίγη γαλήνη
Θα'ρθει σαν πύρινο παράγγελμα που λύνει
Όρους ζωής και την αδρή χαρά του κόσμου

Δε θα μαζεύει ουρανό για να με πλύνει
Δε θα κρατά βασιλικό ή φύλλα δυόσμου
Θα'ρθει την ώρα που σπαράσσεται το φως μου

Performance:  Diafana Krina
Lyrics:       Diafana Krina
Music:        Dionysis Kapsalis

I know it will come and I will not be as I am
to welcome it with my best coat
Neither absorbed in the pages of some volume
where I ascend to learn that I stand

I will not be praying to a universe that dazzles
I will not rudely ask "where is your sting"
It will not be a parent to tell me "stand and dress up,
time for us to live, my child, it dawns"

It will come the hour my light is torn apart
and I beg fanatically for a bit of calmness
It will come like a fiery edict which loosens
ties of life and the ample happiness of the world

It will not be gathering sky to cleanse me
It will not hold basil or spearmint leaves
It will come the hour my light is torn apart

As always with art, there is no single truth to be had in its interpretation. Each person can feel different emotions and relate to those lyrics based on their unique experiences. It is why no matter the era, we find something elusive yet uniquely inspiring in our creative endeavours.

Reading the poem, I can tell how the ambiguous figure which will arrive unexpectedly could be the personofication of death. Or, perhaps, that of love. Though it might as well be a more abstract form of interruption from our normality. Both death and love are as much, though we can also think of any event that catches us by surprise, only to enlighten us—and forever remake us—in the most profound way.

The poetic light which is torn asunder is the personalised truth each of us holds dear and lives by. It manifests as a set of beliefs and concomitant patterns of behaviour. In essence, this light is the malleable part of our selfhood: the concatenation of experiences and thoughts that form our impression of self.

When faced with such an interruption, we can only understand what “it” is intuitively. We know it when we feel it and shall no longer do what we used to. In the case of non-lethal events, these are the turning points in our life, those phases when we are poised to let go of all the burdens we keep rolling uphill, to finally explore those new vistas.

The way the poem describes this interruption is akin to a rude awakening. It is not waiting for us to come to terms with it, nor to negotiate some compromise between the reality it ushers in and our status quo. There is an urgency and immediacy to it: a catharsis. Whatever we thought we cherished is now but an empty shell, an idol of a falsehood that must be left behind for us to proceed.

Moments such as these need not be pleasant nor pretty in the immediate term. They still lead us to a new beginning; a state that ultimately constitutes a departure from our current path. Apart from affinity, there is conflict in the cosmos. It is in those incredibly cataclysmic clashes that new galaxies are born and forms of life transfigure, only to all be conflagrated anew.

Whatever the form of this abrupt termination of our quotidian affairs, it lies outside our control. It will arrive whenever it wants and be manifest in any way the circumstances render possible, to remind us once again how little our will matters.

All we can do is experience what is present, to the extent that we can; not because it matters, but simply due to the fact that we are in the here and now as this specific “I”. If there is another present to be experienced, we shall live it once again, despite our volition. Though, perhaps this time, with a sense of relief and lightness, having realised that we are not in charge of what is happening at-large.

Ερμηνεία: Σωτηρία Μπέλλου
Μουσική:  Ηλίας Ανδριόπουλος
Στίχοι:   Μιχάλης Μπουρμπούλης

Μη κλαις και μη λυπάσαι που βραδιάζει
Εμείς που ζήσαμε φτωχοί
Του κόσμου η βροχή δε μας πειράζει
Εμείς που ζούμε μοναχοί

Τα σπίτια είναι χαμηλά
σαν έρημοι στρατώνες
Τα καλοκαίρια μας μικρά
κι ατέλειωτοι οι χειμώνες

Μη κλαις και μη φοβάσαι το σκοτάδι
Εμείς που ζήσαμε φτωχοί
Του κόσμου η απονιά δε μας τρομάζει
Θα έρθει και για μας μια Κυριακή

Τα σπίτια είναι χαμηλά
σαν έρημοι στρατώνες
Τα καλοκαίρια μας μικρά
κι ατέλειωτοι οι χειμώνες

Performance:  Sotiria Bellou
Lyrics:       Elias Andriopoulos
Music:        Michalis Bourboulis

Do not cry and do not be sad that it darkens
We who lived poor
The world's rain does not bother us
We who live alone

The houses are short
like deserted barracks
Our summers are brief
and our winters endless

Do not cry and do not fear the darkness
We who lived poor
The world's indifference does not scare us
There will come for us a Sunday

The houses are short
like deserted barracks
Our summers are brief
and our winters endless

Do not cry speaks of everyday hardship of the sort only poverty creates. It is about those quotidian affairs you cannot experience because they are priced out of your budget. One can relate to the humiliation a person feels when their worth is measured in terms of money; when their many talents are cast aside on the basis of their low income.

There is no contempt in those lyrics. They describe a tough life in a manner that is courageous and optimistic. The poor people need not lose their greatest social quality: honour. They must not use their immiseration as an excuse for debasing their moral standing. Instead, they can muster the strength to continue on with life, showing a positive attitude, being helpful towards their comrades, and leading by example.

[ Also watch: Action, credibility, and restraint (2024-06-05): https://protesilaos.com/books/2024-06-05-action-credibility-restraint-confucius/. ]

There is a certain beauty in being poor. You do not feel entitled to anything in this world as you learn to appreciate the little things and to work with what you have. If you have to sleep on the floor because the inflatable bed is broken, you do it without complaints. Every moment is precious and you can only be thankful to have experienced it. It is not the overseas trips, the opulent decor, and extravagant nights out that provide the sole conduit to fulfilment. You can just enjoy the gentle breeze and the ambient noise of the cicadas during those “brief summers”.

Wealth is not inherently evil, though it easily distorts a person’s and society’s sense of place. When everything a petulant child wants is readily available, it is hard for it—be it as a kid or adult—to ever relate to the life of a person who has to toil day and night, with unpaid overtime shifts, just to acquire the essentials. The feeling of plenty and of its concomitant immediacy disconnects a person from the natural rhythms of the Earth Mother, the seasonality of crops, and the general fact that everything must run its course before it is ready. One shall never have patience when everything they ever desire is delivered to them right away.

You need not fear the darkness when your values are clear. The circumstances delineate the horizon of possibilities in any given state of affairs, yet they do not necessarily undo a person’s outlook. Let there be incessant rain: we will tolerate being wet.

Note that I have written about Pavlos before. Each song is aesthetically pleasing as well as intellectually stimulating.

• Pigeons
• White storm
• Illegal passenger
• The king of dust
• At the rock

Τόσο κοντά

Απ' τη σιωπή ως την κραυγή, ελάχιστη απόσταση
Μία ρωγμή και ξαφνικά γίνεται ο θόλος θρύψαλα
Πέφτει κομμάτια τώρα εμπρός σου ο παλιός ο ουρανός
Λένε πως έχεις πυρετό, ψάχνουν να βρούνε το σφυγμό σου
Είσαι ήδη μακριά... τόσο κοντά, τόσο κοντά

Από τη γη στον ουρανό σε ένα δευτερόλεπτο
Μες τον αιώνα μιας στιγμής μπορείς πια γύρω σου να δεις
Όλα όσα μοιάζαν μακρινά, και δυνατά τ' αδύνατα
Βράζει αφρισμένος τώρα εντός σου απέραντος ωκεανός
Σε παρασέρνει μακριά... τόσο κοντά, τόσο κοντά

Όσα ο χρόνος δεν μπορεί λένε τα φέρνει η στιγμή
κι ότι ο κόσμος είναι αυτός που είναι
Ζήτημα δικό σου αν θα βουτήξεις στα βαθιά αν θα κοιτάς από μακριά
Έτσι κι αλλιώς ούτε κι εγώ ξέρω πως βρέθηκα εδώ
Σ' αυτή την άβυσσο μπροστά... τόσο κοντά, τόσο κοντά

Όσα ο χρόνος δεν μπορεί λένε τα φέρνει η στιγμή
κι ότι ο κόσμος είναι αυτός που είναι
Ζήτημα δικό σου αν θα βουτήξεις στα βαθιά αν θα κοιτάς από μακριά
Έτσι κι αλλιώς ούτε κι εγώ ξέρω πως βρέθηκα εδώ
Σε τόσα βλέμματα μπροστά... τόσο κοντά, τόσο κοντά

So close

From the silence to the shout, minimal distance
A fracture and suddenly the ceiling turns into smithereens
The old sky now falls in pieces before you
They say you have temperature, they try to find your pulse
You're already away... so close, so close

From the earth to the sky in a second
In the aeon of an instance you can finally see around you
All that seemed distant, and the impossible as possible
A boundless ocean now boils frothing inside of you
It washes you away... so close, so close

All that time cannot do, they say is brought by an instant
and that the world is what it is
It is your matter if you dive in the depths and look from afar
At any rate neither do I know how I got here
In front of this abyss... so close, so close

All that time cannot do, they say is brought by an instant
and that the world is what it is
It is your matter if you dive in the depths and look from afar
At any rate neither do I know how I got here
In front of all those stares... so close, so close

My reading of this poetry involves self-actualisation following a courageous quantum leap. It is about the transition that must take place from the silent to the vocal phase; from conforming with others’ standards to the assumption of control over one’s life.

One of the most difficult choices we face is to find a balance between what society expects from us and what we want for ourselves. We cannot do everything we desire, as there are rules in place which preserve the balance between people. Though we also do not wish to assume a role that contradicts our nature. We have to find something that works for us, does not put us in danger, and does not harm others.

To reach a point where we are close to something we want, we must do the hard work of upsetting our status quo. We are the first to internalise the established rules and to enforce them as our own. As such, we entertain all sorts of “I must not” or “I cannot” which we actually have not thought about critically. Sometimes, those are true for us, while at others they are inaccurate and thus too restrictive.

Finding a virtuous balance in the aforementioned choice requires that we escape from our comfort zone. Initially, this is the milieu that was formed without our participation or, at least, that we took for granted. From an early age, we develop a sense of selfhood that we then consider fixed even though it is variable.

For example, one was a shy kid and continues to believe they have to be equally shy for a lifetime. The child does not know that shyness results in the accumulation of regrets and that those turn into unbearable negativity. Whereas the more experienced mindful person can understand that it is okay to be assertive in some cases.

What happens after we venture outside the comfort zone? It is unclear, otherwise it too would be well-known and comfortable. We can still act cautiously, though what matters is do it with intent. To figure out more about who we are and what the world has in store for us. The key is to muster the mental strength to commit to a course of action that involves unknowns and comes with uncertain outcomes. It is not easy, but this is what self-actualisation involves.

Others will be quick to judge our decisions. Many favour the realm of the known over the unknown. As such, comments we receive will put us in doubt about the propriety of our means and the desirability of our wants. We cannot know for sure and must thus trust our intuition. If we strongly feel that our initial state is constraining us, then we must perform the leap of faith into the unknown and hope we discover something benign.

It is only then that we can see things differently. What once appeared impossible shall then be understood as feasible. Those who we thought of as distant strangers are now standing right beside us as friends or lovers.

The buildup towards a major change happens slowly, though the culmination of it tends to be abrupt. It is in those moments when courage matters the most. Not to have second thoughts, not to feel overwhelmed by the beauty we seek; the beauty of heeding our inner voice while not harming others.

[ Read: Courage and the natural flow (2023-10-24) ]

We always are “so close” to such an eventuality, though our inertia may keep us in a state of “so close; yet so far”. Proximity is not enough. It is our disposition that matters: the eagerness to proceed with honesty.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, followed by my commentary.

Μάνα δε φυτέψαμε

Ερμηνεία:  Γιώργος Νταλάρας
Στίχοι:    Λευτέρης Παπαδόπουλος
Μουσική:   Μάνος Λοΐζος

Έσπασε το κομπολόι, σκόρπισαν οι χάντρες
Πιάσανε το μοιρολόι ένα τσούρμο άντρες
Πιάσανε το μοιρολόι ένα τσούρμο άντρες
Έσπασε το κομπολόι, σκόρπισαν οι χάντρες

Μάνα δε φυτέψαμε ούτε ένα λουλούδι
κι ακριβοπληρώσαμε δυο σπυριά ζωή
Μάνα δεν τελειώσαμε ούτε ένα τραγούδι
Ήλιο ζητιανέψαμε κι έχουμε καεί

Έσβησε η ασετυλίνη, χίμηξε σκοτάδι
Βούλιαξε στη Μυτιλήνη το στερνό καράβι
Βούλιαξε στη Μυτιλήνη το στερνό καράβι
Έσβησε η ασετυλίνη, χίμηξε σκοτάδι

Μάνα δε φυτέψαμε ούτε ένα λουλούδι
κι ακριβοπληρώσαμε δυο σπυριά ζωή
Μάνα δεν τελειώσαμε ούτε ένα τραγούδι
Ήλιο ζητιανέψαμε κι έχουμε καεί

Mother we planted naught

Performance:  George Dalaras
Lyrics:       Lefteris Papadopoulos
Music:        Manos Loizos

The koboloí [rosary] broke, the beads scattered
A crew of men began lamenting
A crew of men began lamenting
The koboloí broke, the beads scattered

Mother we did not plant a single flower
and paid dearly for two grains of life
Mother we did not finish a single song
We begged for sun and got burnt

The acetylene run out, darkness ensued
The last ship sunk at Mytiline
The last ship sunk at Mytiline
The acetylene run out, darkness ensued

Mother we did not plant a single flower
and paid dearly for two grains of life
Mother we did not finish a single song
We begged for sun and got burnt

What counts in life are our deeds, not our intentions. We can draw ambitious plans and talk big about our lofty standards. Those are easy as they go by unaccountable. The difficulty lies in enacting change, in bringing ideas to fruition. In the absence of tangible results, we do not capitalise on our past actions, throwing them to the wind. We also have nothing to show for and are thus forced to subsist either frugally and/or perennially unfulfilled.

Why should one bother planting a flower? It alone does not add much value to our life. Right? Such is a reductive approach that can only lead to inaction when applied consistently because no single action amounts to much in isolation. To plant a flower is to perform a minute step towards a more deliberate lifestyle; a life of affirmation and of an unflinching willingness to toil against stasis.

Small steps lead to grand results when they are consistent. Plant a flower today, another tomorrow, and so on daily. You will soon be rewarded with a beautiful garden, you will provide a food source for bees, and indirectly enrich your environment. At the same time, you will realise how your actions have a cumulative effect and so you will appreciate the value of commitment to a cause over the longer-term. This is a lesson for life, beyond gardening.

The greatest challenge is to escape inertia. This is because of the inappropriate method of trying to change too many things at once, being overwhelmed by the challenge or the sheer magnitude of our misplaced ambition, and ultimately falling back to old habits. Whereas the act of planting a flower requires minimal effort. Start small and stay small for as long as necessary. What matters is the regularity of the task, not the “wow factor” of your proclamations.

Plant a flower, friend. Slow and steady. Your mother will approve of it. As will the mothers yet to be, who will benefit from your efforts even if they never realise it. This is how societies are made. We find what others left behind as the culmination of their efforts. Those who plant naught shall suffer, as they beg for a drop of blue sky amidst the darkness.

[ The name Seikilos (Σείκιλος) is pronounced as “Sea-key-loss”. ]

One such song is Dokhtare Boyer Ahmadi, which they translate as The Girl from Boyer Ahmadi: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9wNI42InnM. I do not understand the language yet here I am about to provide philosophical commentary on what I have just listened to.

I used to be a rationalist. If something was not reducible to reason, it was not reliable. Until one day I paid attention to my behavioural patterns. Why was I chasing sunsets? What was so special in the close-up photo of a flower? How can I be impressed by beauty when I cannot even provide an exact definition of what it is? The absence of a definition does not mean that the concept is arbitrary or, indeed, meaningless. We can still discern patterns intuitively, telling apart the beautiful from that which is not.

The rationalist cannot understand beauty because it is not reducible to reason. Or, to put it differently, it has to be stripped of its qualities to become reasonable, at which point it no longer is what engendered the original impression.

To appreciate beauty we must let go of the dogma that the human being can behave as a fraction of itself. To be human is to exhibit a multifaceted nature, where the reasonable and the aesthetic co-exist not as counterparts but as complements.

Ancient cultures celebrated the multiplicity of the human condition. They knew that the human being can be wise, insightful, creative, harmonious, passionate, as well as destructive. It is entirely possible for a person to sing and make love on one day, only to prepare for war on the next one. This is not about the often untenable binary of good versus evil. Rather, it is a product of complexity: complexity of constitution; complexity of the factors at play.

It is why I believe the attempts to describe humans as either Apollonian or Dionysian caricatures are misguided. There is no choice to be made. The ancient gods are archetypes, poetic representations of patterns inherent to the human condition. They are made by us, in our image, for our needs, to help us communicate the complexity of what we experience in a manner that is symbolic and elegant. The mistake of those who operate aloof from the ancient cultural milieux is to pick sides instead of trying to tend to all facets of their being.

People are not archetypes. They cannot be abstracted away from the particularities of their life and turned into concepts. They cannot subsist in vitro as the thought experiment of some intellectual. They are in the here-and-now of their actions, having to make decisions in the face of uncertainty, in evolving circumstances outside their control, facing trade-offs with available choices that are imperfect. They will reason, they will be emotional, they will be intimate, they will be awestruck.

[ Watch: The golden fleece and impossible standards ]

Returning to the idea of beauty, we often associate it with subjectivity. I think the difference between the subjective and the objective is one of degree. When we place two people in the same conditions only to get different results, we are not dealing with arbitrariness. There still is an underlying mechanism that is shared; a mechanism that triggers feedback loops. We simply fail to appreciate how each person is not a single factor but a system of factors in their interplay. The experiment, then, cannot be limited to how person A responds to stimulus X, because A has to be analysed further into the multitude of subsystems that contribute to its evolving state of being.

When we expect predictability in everything we do, we labour under the assumption that the world is—or should be—simple throughout. It is why we expect/want person B to respond to X the same as A. Accepting complexity in practice means tolerating uncertainty. We recognise how not everything we experience can be explained precisely, while we let go of the value judgement that such “irrational” cases are inherently bad or worthless.

The Girl from Boyer Ahmadi reminds me of how I liberated myself from the shackles of rationalism, to admit to the multifacetedness of my actuality, to experience aesthetics aesthetically, and to be at peace with the fact that I will never have a definition for that which I can nevertheless spot without mistake.

Below are the lyrics in Greek, my translation of them, and some further philosophical comments. Remember to also check my other interpretations of songs by Pavlos Pavlides or Xylina Spathia:

• The pigeons
• White storm
• Illegal passenger
• The king of dust
• At the rock

Σαν εσένα

Θα 'θελα να 'μουν σαν εσένα
ιστιοφόρο με τα πανιά του ανοιγμένα
αυτούς που με οδηγούν στην καταιγίδα
σε κάθε αμμουδιά να τους χαρίζω μια πατρίδα

Θα 'θελα να 'μουν σαν εσένα
ένα δεντράκι με τα κλαδιά του απλωμένα
να μη λυπάμαι, να μην καταλαβαίνω
αυτούς που με πετάνε στη φωτιά να τους ζεσταίνω

Θα 'θελα να 'μουν σαν εσένα
έρημος φάρος πάνω σε βράχια φαγωμένα
να 'χει χρόνια να περάσει από μπροστά μου το καράβι
μα εγώ να αναβοσβήνω κάθε βράδυ

Θα 'θελα να 'μουν σαν εσένα
περιστεράκι με τα φτερά του μαδημένα
να στέκομαι μετά τις Συμπληγάδες
και να κοιτάζω πώς περνούν του κόσμου οι φυγάδες

Like you

I'd like to be like you
sailboat with its sails open
those who lead me to the tempest
on every sandy beach to offer them a homeland

I'd like to be like you
a small tree with spread branches
to not grieve, to not understand
to warm those who throw me to the fire

I'd like to be like you
isolated lighthouse atop worn rocks
ages gone by without a ship in sight
yet I keep flashing every night

I'd like to be like you
a dovelet with ripped wings
to stand by the Symblegades [dire straits]
and observe the world's fugitives pass by

We have an intuitive sense of importance in our life. If we see an eagle fly nearby, we interpret it as a sign that Zeus is sending us a positive message. Such is our thinking that we are the protagonists in our life and in life generally, to the extent that the divine is paying attention to all our actions, tending to our every need, and guiding us in each step. We assume that the universe conspires in our favour, as if our volition is its prime mover; as if the realisation of our potential is its purpose.

This sense of significance keeps us going. We power through hardship, work tirelessly to not be left without shelter, and find solace in the belief that at least some god knows what we are really dealing with. Yet this very thought comes with the latent risk of confining us to a comfort zone of egocentrism.

The universe cannot have each person as its epicentre, while an omnipotent and omniscient god would have no need to wait, listen, or experiment with us given its absolute power and knowledge. A deity that expects to learn something is not omniscient.

To invest in our sense of self, we have to internalise the narrative of selfhood we have woven together through years of exposure to stimuli of all sorts. What we have learnt or experienced, with whom, within which arrangements of power or association. We are the product of circumstances beyond our control yet are not bound to what has transpired. Selfhood is ever-evolving.

[ Watch: Comfort zone and impostor feelings (in the snow) ]

I think it is not possible to be completely selfless, as in having no notion of selfhood while remaining human. The act of feeding oneself already is a subjective prioritisation among presences in the cosmos. Why feed yourself if you do not think you are somehow special from your perspective? Every fibre of our being exhibits such a bias.

As such, we cannot be the tree that turns into firewood that “blithely” keeps people warm. We cannot be a lighthouse that waits indefinitely to provide its service. We can learn from those metaphors to be less egocentric, less invested in what we think we have, less focused on the particularities of our microcosm, and more inclined to consider the bigger picture in which our subjectivity unfolds.

Absolute selflessness runs counter to the actuality of the human condition. What we can do is adjust the degree to which we cater to our needs and the manner in which we do it.

[ Watch: The golden fleece and impossible standards ]

Be magnanimus by applying the principle of non-discrimination. To discriminate is to (i) treat the dissimilar as if they were similar, or (ii) to treat the similar as if they were dissimilar.

Proceed in accordance with practical reason. If you can be the sailship that carries sailors through the storm into a safe haven, do it. But refrain from becoming an outlet for their recklessness to travel under such conditions.

And if, perchance, you are that pigeon of ancient lore that barely managed to pass through the clashing rocks, do help the fugitives of this world find a place they can call “home”. They may be inspired to be more selfless in turn.

Below are the original lyrics in Greek, my translation of them, and some further comments. Note that I have covered Memphis before:

• Pompeii
• Seas and fierce rivers
• Between
• I have a house
• The Sweet Paradox

Θέλω Να Μην Ανησυχείς

Όσοι την αλήθεια δουν
πάντα θα απορούν τί φταίει
Στα όνειρα τους κατοικούν
και ξυπνάνε τελευταίοι

Εκεί μαθαίνουν να αγαπούν
Εκεί κανείς κρυφά δεν κλαίει
Το βάρος του ουρανού ξεχνούν
γιατί η ψυχή τους επιπλέει

Τον κάτω κόσμο αγνοούν
και την φωνή που όλο τους λέει
πως όσοι ευτυχισμένοι ζουν
θα πεθαίνουν πάντα νέοι

Θέλω να μην ανησυχείς
για όσα δεν πρόλαβες να πεις
θέλω να μην ανησυχείς
ξέρεις δεν φταίξαμε εμείς

I want you not to worry

Those who see the truth
will always wonder what gives
In their dreams they reside
and wake up last

There they learn to love
There no-one cries in secret
They forget the burden of the sky
because their soul floats

They ignore the underworld
and the voice that constantly tells them
that those who live happily
shall always die young

I want you not to worry
for everything you had no time to say
I want you not to worry
you know it was not our fault

What I have learnt is to not postpone blithely, to not labour under the delusion that time is a magnitude I control. If we can do something, we better do it here and now. Why? Because we need a sense of urgency in our life. If we can always postpone, we get into the habit of dithering. We delay indefinitely and, ultimately, forget to live in full. Instead of trying to realise our dreams, we resort to overthinking, to masking our insecurities behind a facade of “strategic thinking”.

It is okay to think things through. What is a problem is to never commit to the task at hand. I don’t remember much of my 20s. I was indecisive, ineffective, feeble. Fundamentally, I was under the impression I could always do better in the indeterminate future and would thus not pursue fulfilling experiences in the present. That future never arrived, of course. It never does.

What liberated me was the realisation that (i) I do not need to prove anything to anyone and thus (ii) it was irrelevant how good or bad I was. When we have no inner need to validate ourselves, we stop hiding in the shadows. There is no pressure to perform, no feeling of being scrutinised by those elusive “others”, and no fear of accepting who we are.

Without this burden, we no longer have to worry about the experiences we could not live. We are focused on the actualisable ones. This is why acceptance is key. We work with what we have by no longer hating what we see in the mirror. If we truly wish to be another, we are already dead: we have forsaken the one life we have; the life that happens here; the life that happens now.

Unlike laboratory conditions, life has no means of rewinding and trying anew. The only way to not worry about words never uttered is to state them when it matters. The lightness of life consists in action; in the recognition that we cannot withdraw into a theoretical domain where all factors can be controlled.

Acceptance is not the same as conformity with the status quo. The latter is about yielding to the pressure of our milieu, becoming who society wants us to be. Acceptance is a matter of attitude: the disposition we have towards our self to never feel the need to apologise for the mere fact of being.

Political realities can inhibit us in our efforts. It is why shrewdness is necessary. Being honest with ourselves is not sufficient. We must also be smart with what we disclose to potentially malevolent actors.

Those who live fully die young. Their spirit never gets old. They are eager to spend their last breath planting yet another tree. By living in the here-and-now, they do not stay idle waiting for their inevitable end. They have no regrets, for they did not waste their years trying to be another.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and some further comments. Also check my previous publications on songs/music by Socratis Malamas:

• “The mystics of the desert” by Ioulia Karapataki (2022-08-28)
• “Letter” by Socratis Malamas (2022-06-29)

Το Ρήγμα

Ερμηνεία:   Μαριάννα Παπαμακαρίου
Στίχοι:     Μάνος Τσιλιμίδης
Μουσική:    Σωκράτης Μάλαμας

Δεν ανήκω πουθενά και κανείς δε μου ανήκει
Μη με περιμένεις πια, μόνη στη Θεσσαλονίκη
Δεν ακούω την καρδιά, δε γυρίζουν πίσω οι δρόμοι
Δεν περνάω άλλη βραδιά μόνος πίσω απ’ το τιμόνι
 
Πες πως ήταν μια ρωγμή κι άνοιξε μεγάλο ρήγμα
Η ζωή μας μια στιγμή που δεν άφησε ούτε στίγμα
Πες πως είμαι από γυαλί κι ότι έσπασα για σένα
κι ότι η πόλη αυτή που ζεις μετακόμισε στα ξένα
 
Τα παλιά μας τα φιλιά ένας άνεμος σκορπάει
κι έχω μόνο μια καρδιά που μονάχη τριγυρνάει
Για να έρθουμε κοντά έπρεπε να δίνω μάχη
και περίπτωση να ρθω σου το λέω δεν υπάρχει
 
Πες πως ήταν μια ρωγμή κι άνοιξε μεγάλο ρήγμα
Η ζωή μας μια στιγμή που δεν άφησε ούτε στίγμα
Πες πως είμαι από γυαλί κι ότι έσπασα για σένα
κι ότι η πόλη αυτή που ζεις μετακόμισε στα ξένα

Τhe Rupture

Performance:  Marianna Papamakariou
Lyrics:       Manos Tsilimidis
Music:        Socratis Malamas

I belong nowhere and no-one belongs to me
Don't await me anymore, alone in Thessaloniki
I heed not the heart, roads do not turn back
I shall not spend another night alone behind the wheel

Say it was a rupture that opened a deep crack
Our life a moment that left no sign
Say I am made out of glass and I broke for you
and the city where you live has relocated abroad

Our old kisses are scattered by a wind
and I only have one heart that wanders alone
For us to come close I had to struggle
and there is no chance to arrive I tell you

Say it was a rupture that opened a deep crack
Our life a moment that left no sign
Say I am made out of glass and I broke for you
and the city where you live has relocated abroad

We are transient. Whatever we do involves a finality. What we love dearly comes and goes. Not only intersubjective relations, but also our own constitution. Youth turns into old age. The nights by the seaside fade away as distant memories. Nobody knows about them or is around anymore to regale us with those stories.

That which we associate with our self is not dependent on our volition. It is forever removed from our control. We are not its owner, but its user.

Those who fail to recognise the non-ownership of life are destined to suffer. They will cling on to blurry reminiscences and yearn for cases that cannot be constituted anew. In their quest to salvage what was, they will drown under the weight of the baggage they have accumulated.

What do I have to lose? What do I have? It is liberating to let go. Things run their course, leaving us to choose between feelings of denial or acceptance. Speak the truth before the mirror. Admit that the glass is no longer intact.

You may still dream of shadows; smiles that weren’t; embraces that couldn’t. You are not invested in them. The path unfolds as you keep going. Part of you finds excitement in the potential of a new adventure, while another wishes to reach the terminus. There is no certainty to be had in a state of ignorance.

Cities relocate abroad as their people undergo change. What was is not; what is shall not be; what is to come remains to be determined only to be transfigured again. In the microcosm of your struggle, you are your own metropolis and Smurf village. Where you go there is the presence of you and your experiences. So what if they are made out of glass?

A life that leaves no trace is fine. Why should anyone’s being leave indelible marks on the cosmos? What makes it special?

We come from dust, we consist in dust, we move towards dust. Let the winds disperse us and the eternal fire remake us.

For this entry, I have picked The Mechanism: a critique of the contemporary music industry (and industrialisation at-large): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRhN9n-4XCw.

Below are the original lyrics, followed by my translation and commentary.

Ο Μηχανισμός

Με πείσανε να γίνω ρεβιζιονιστής
και να γυρίσω δίσκο
Θα ρθει όμως καιρός που κι εσύ θε να πειστείς
πως έτσι δεν τη βρίσκω

Τι να κάνω, ήτανε γραφτό
Θέλω δεν το θέλω, ότι τραγουδώ
να το πουλώ να ζήσω
Όταν πάω στον παραγωγό
πρέπει να βολέψω έτσι το γραφτό
Να του γυαλίσει, για να το πουλήσει
Να'χει σαλέπι, για να σας αρέσει
Να έχει θέμα με έρωτα και αίμα
Να είναι λόγια, λόγια κομπολόγια
Να σας καλοκαρδίσω
για να σας γαλουχήσω

Κι από χρέος συναδελφικό
να χαμογελάω στο κοινό
Να του σαλεύω για να το μερεύω
Να του σφυρίζω να το νανουρίζω
Να το φουντώνω να το ξεφουσκώνω
Και στην κομμούνα να είμαι οπορτούνα
για να σας εκτονώνω
με πλαίσιο το νόμο

Δουλειά σου είναι μού'πανε να κρύβεις τα τρωτά
των καθιερωμένων
Για να διατηρήσουμε τα οικονομικά
των ευαρεστημένων

Σιγουριά και δόξα τω θεώ
Τα καλά στον καπιταλισμό
είναι πως έχει βίδα
Άμα πιάσεις το μηχανισμό
από τ'αυτιά τον πιάνεις το λαγό
Τον Πελοπίδα τρως με μια τσιμπίδα
Στην Παρθενόπη χαρίζεις ένα τόπι
Και με τα χρόνια γυρνάς ες τα σαλόνια
Ξεχνάς ποια μάνα σε γένναε στο κλάμα
Και του εργάτη καβάλλησες την πλάτη
Μα θε να πει αμάν πια
Και πας ες τα κομμάτια
Και άει στα κομμάτια

Με πείσανε να γίνω ρεβιζιονιστής
και να γυρίσω δίσκο
Θα ρθει όμως καιρός που κι εσύ θε να πειστείς
πως έτσι δεν τη βρίσκω

The Mechanism

They convinced me to become a revisionist
and to record a disc
Yet there will be a time where you will be convinced
that this is not what I like

What can I do, it was destined
Like it or not, whatever I sing
to sell in order to live
When I go to the producer
I must so accommodate the text
To shine to him, for him to sell it
To have softener, for you to like it
To have a topic with love and blood
To have words; pointless words
To make you feel well
so as to indoctrinate you

And out of comrade duty
To smile to the crowd
To wave at it to tame it
To whistle at it to lull it
To inflate it and deflate it
And in the commune to be an opportunist
to relieve you
with the law as framework

They told me your job is to hide the weaknesses
of the establishment
To preserve the economics
of the well-off

Certainty and "God bless"
The good with capitalism
is that it has a way
If you understand the mechanism
you hold the hare from the ears [you are in control]
You eat Pelopidas with tweezers
To Parthenopi you offer a ball
And through the years you wonder the palaces
You forget which mother birthed you crying
And you ride the worker's back
But he will say "enough"
And you sod off
And sod off

They convinced me to become a revisionist
and record a disc
Yet there will be a time where you will be convinced
that this is not what I like

The lyrics of Nikolas remind me of the dissonance we witness in the behavioural patterns of the ultra-rich and their assignees in government. People are reeling from years of grinding precarity, while the establishment blithely wastes oodles of money in whatever vanity project. The facade of prosperity presented by pompous ceremonies contrasts starkly with the repulsive face of injustice in the neighbourhoods. Public services are understaffed and are suffering from underinvestment, but thank God the overlords are going from strength to strength!

We are told that we have the freedom to choose. You don’t like your job? Acquire new skills and get another one. Sure! And who pays for that? Not enough opportunities in your country? No problem! Migrate to some country whose tongue you do not speak and live in precarity there. The notion that we have freedom because we can choose between a rock and a hard place is a twisted interpretation of the ideals of liberty. To live in freedom, one must be empowered to make choices that do not compromise their dignity at the outset.

In yester years oppression was personified and thus identifiable. One could, for example, name the monarch as the kingdom’s tyrant, blame the clergy for its rampant corruption, and, generally, challenge someone for the prevailing conditions. The current order is much more subtle in this regard. There is no apparent despot, no storm troopers shooting people on the streets, nothing that reeks of totalitarianism. Yet the institutions embed values and rules which themselves pamper and proliferate injustice in readily recognisable ways.

Consider this much-touted freedom of choice. The gist of the American Dream is that you work hard and get rich. Ergo, the ultra-rich are hard workers. Ergo, you are a lazy piece of shit. In this narrative, there is no state intervention in favour of the status quo. No. Whenever the state is mentioned, it is playing the role of the boogie that tries to take money away from honourable billionaires. The other story, which is consistent with the history of capitalism as state intervention in favour of capital owners, is not discussed. It is too inconvenient to admit that platformarchs are in control of the economy’s platforms because of the relevant legal-institutional arrangements, not despite them.

Of course, you do have the freedom to voice your opposition. Which you will do via social media that are controlled by a handful of individuals. Or you can go for this sorry excuse of media pluralism where news outlets are but front offices of a larger portfolio that—you guessed it—belongs to a tiny minority. Same for your political freedom to run for office, which apart from public exposure (see above) also requires lots of funding that comes from yet more cartels (e.g. banks).

What the present order has achieved is to obfuscate sovereignty by making it impossible to answer in unequivocal terms “who governs?” and “where is the locus of power?” Power is diffused. Those who exert control are aloof from the quotidian realities of politics.

The institutionalisation of oppression is not limited to a power play of the elites against the rest. The familiar workplace norms underpin society and, as such, are shared by employers of all sorts. In my recent job search, I conducted several interviews with what I would consider “small fish” in the grand scheme of things. The question all prospective employers asked me is “why are you passionate to join us?”. Passionate, huh? Your boss does not want you to simply get the job done. You need to develop a sense of patriotic duty towards your employer, to evangelise them wherever you stand, and to not betray their “values”, of which they always have plenty. Your boss will seek to befriend you, yet the iron fist remains in place.

Companies these days do this gimmick of assuming a humane and approachable face. This is epitomised in the lie—blatant lie, yes—of the contradiction in terms known as “flat hierarchy.” They tell you that they have a flat hierarchy and everybody is equal there. Somewhere between the lines, they will admit that there is one person who is in charge of this, another who handles that, a third who approves of everything, and so on. Those wield more power than their colleagues. In other words, there is a clearly defined hierarchy, only it is commented away as its opposite.

If you buy in to the narrative, you develop a sense of pride in what you do. Sure, you work long hours and are drained of your vitality, but you resist connecting the dots. You internalise the idea that you are with the good guys.

Nations are no different. The Western world consoles itself with the deception that it is the bastion of righteousness on this planet. The average fellow will think they are doing great compared to “underdeveloped” countries and will thus refrain from demanding thoroughgoing reforms.

Against this backdrop, the tutelary figure must put on a nice show that will allow lots of meaningless words to be uttered. Such is the mechanism. Your choice, as a creative person, is to either conform with what is happening or subsist in poverty.

“Why are you passionate to join us?” I keep contemplating these words while struggling to build a hut in the wilderness… No, I have no such passion mate.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and some philosophical comments.

Μέθυσες καρδιά μου

Ερμηνεία:  Γιώργος Μίχας
Στίχοι:    Γιώργος Μίχας
Μουσική:   Γιώργος Μίχας


Χάρτινες βαρκούλες τα κορμιά
θάλασσες δεμένες με σκοινιά
νύχτες που λικνίζονται μες στο φως
κι ο ουρανός τους λάσπη και βυθός

Σκόνη οι μέρες κι ο άνεμος θρασύς
πόσο να πεθάνεις αν δεν ζεις
Κρύφτηκε η φλόγα στο ψυγείο
κι ο έρωτας χτυπιέται στο φορείο

Μέθυσες καρδιά μου απ' το κενό
τόσοι σε κοιτούν αλλά σε βλέπω μόνο εγώ
Δυο ευθείες παράλληλες εμείς
κι όμως θα συναντηθούμε αν το πιστέψεις

αν το πεις

Πέτρωσε η φωνή στην άρνησή σου
κι οι ρουφιάνοι όλοι ήτανε μαζί σου
Η χαρά μια χώρα που ποτέ δε βρήκα
η αγάπη σα κεντρί από μια σφήκα

τρελαμένα τα ανθρωπάκια πάνω κάτω
θα γαμήσουνε το σύμπαν για ένα πιάτο
Θα χορέψουν θα γελάσουν λυσσασμένα
και δεκάρα δεν θα δώσουνε για σένα

Μέθυσες καρδιά μου απ' το κενό
τόσοι σε κοιτούν αλλά σε βλέπω μόνο εγώ
Δυο ευθείες παράλληλες εμείς
κι όμως θα συναντηθούμε αν το πιστέψεις

αν το πεις

You're drunk my heart

Performance:  Giorgos Michas
Lyrics:       Giorgos Michas
Music:        Giorgos Michas


Paper boats are the bodies
seas tied with ropes
nights that oscillate in the light
and their sky mud and depths

Dust are the days and the wind rude
how much can you die if you are not alive
The fire hid in the fridge
and love at first sight gets hit on the stretcher

You're drunk my heart by the void
so many stare at you though only I see you
Two straight parallels are we
yet we will meet if you believe it

if you say it

The voice petrified by your refusal
and the ruffians were all there beside you
Happiness is a land I did not find
and love is like the sting of the bumblebee

Maddened the petty humans up and down
they'll fuck the universe for a dish
they'll dance, they'll smile rabidly
and won't give a penny about you

You're drunk my heart by the void
so many stare you though only I see you
Two straight parallels are we
yet we will meet if you believe it

if you say it

What I like about You’re drunk my heart is its authenticity and the simplicity therein. I get the sense that Giorgos is not merely voicing those lyrics, but is reliving memories, sharing with us the distillation of the accumulated knowledge.

To liken bodies to boats made out of paper is to acknowledge the fact that we are all breakable. We do remain afloat, though barely so. The metaphor also speaks to our lack of control in the grand scheme of things. We are the product of events beyond our control; circumstances that contribute to our presence yet remain outside the scope of our volition. To think we can choose whatever we want is to conflate situational privilege with general actuality. It burdens us and sets us up for failure by inducing a false sense of guilt and worthlessness.

[ Read: Comment on Seneca’s adoption of new parents and conversing with sages. ]

Yet our powerlessness is only rendered clear in juxtaposition to the Cosmos. In our immediate affairs, we are capable of great deeds; deeds that every hitherto establishment is bent on exploiting. The hubris of deranged tyrants rests in the belief that the sea can indeed be enslaved. Such is the human potential that it will find the means to undo whatever panopticon. Though here too, we are basically saying the same thing: we are not in control of our creativity either. We do not get to choose our talents, inclinations, and dispositions. What we get is yet another paper boat. It floats and may go somewhere, though its captain still cannot chart whatever course on a whimsy.

[ Read: Interpretation of “Sophie” (The wild crowd) by Vasilis Papakonstantinou. ]

Giorgos asks “how much can you die if you are not alive”. While I can relate to that sentiment, I think we always have something to lose, even when we feel long dead inside. We prefer certain outcomes over others, the company of our pet over solitude, singing over silence. We can only be content when we accept what we get, the way it is, for as long as it is. Start enumerating everything you missed: a lifetime will not be enough to compile such a list. We die more with each new unfulfilled desire. It was a stare, it was a smile, it is no more. Let go!

Happiness is a land we cannot visit because there is no refuge for those who seek that which is landless. Dreams can take us far and wide, to explore enchanted groves, partake in the rituals of mages, and behold the crimson moons. Yet none of those wonders can sate our appetite for more. Instead of being thankful for bearing witness to new possibilities, we ask for another round and, ultimately, beg for the overdose. Acceptance is what underpins restraint.

[ Read: No land for you. Watch: Comments on Dao #2 (on moderation and the Delphic maxims). ]

We do not recognise our paper boat reality, blithely leaving destruction in our wake. The average person does not admit to their transient presence on this patch of earth. There was a before and there will be an after. We believe we can get away with our profligacy. The gods will happily let humanity find its demise. When the reason we are endowed with is apparently failing to deter us, some greater force will.

The heart of the sensitive person is overwhelmed by all this, yet few can figure as much. The “how are you?” meets an eager “fine, thanks!”, followed by a smile. There is enough trouble already. Yet marginalisation, even with altruistic intentions, comes with the latent risk of twisting the perception of the person into thinking they are somehow better or worse than the rest. Such is the state of drunkenness. Sometimes the stares and the smiles must last a little longer.

I think Giorgos has done a remarkable job with You’re drunk my heart. Art shows us the power of honesty while the artist reminds us that wisdom does not come ex officio.

The performance by Vasilis and the accompanying musicians is a thing of beauty, though here I am interested in the main theme I can discern in this song. Below are the lyrics in Greek, my translation of them, and subsequent commentary:

Σόφη (Τ' άγριο πλήθος)

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Σταμάτης Μεσημέρης
Μουσική:   Σταμάτης Μεσημέρης


Σ' είδα πάλι αργά χτες το βράδυ
να τρέχεις στους δρόμους
σαν πρώτα με μάτια κλαμένα
Είχε απλώσει η νύχτα τη δόση
στα πόδια σου χύμα
όπως τότε σκουπίδια αναμμένα

Είχε βρέξει, δε μ' είχες προσέξει
δυο τρόλεϊ στη στάση ανάποδα
και πάλι καμμένα
Βήμα βήμα πέφτει σύρμα
υπόγειο Σίνα και Σόλωνος
να φύγει το ρεύμα

Ένα θύμα κι άλλο θύμα
δυο ανύποπτα μαύρα μπουφάν
το φιλί ως το τέρμα
Σαν ταινία η πορεία
θυμάμαι ακόμα τα χρώματα
στο πρώτο σου βλέμμα

Κι εγώ που ξέρεις πως φοβάμαι το άγριο πλήθος
έμεινα πίσω κολλημένος στη στροφή
κι εσύ ξεμάκρυνες κι απόμεινε ένας τοίχος
να γράφει "Σόφη κάπου έχουμε χαθεί"

Σ' είδα πάλι χτες τι βράδυ
λυμένα μαλλιά κατακόκκινα
πάνω στους ώμους
Μαύρη στάχτη πλάι στο κράχτη
μυρίζουν τα λάστιχα ύποπτα στους αστυνόμους
Τρεις και δέκα, χρόνια δέκα
κλειστό φερμουάρ, παγωνιά
και σκισμένο φουλάρι
Ξένη πόλη, ξένοι όλοι
κι εσύ σαν ελπίδα αδέσποτη
στο ίδιο φανάρι

Ένα θύμα κι άλλο θύμα
δυο ανύποπτα μαύρα μπουφάν
το φιλί ως το τέρμα
Σαν ταινία η πορεία
θυμάμαι ακόμα τα χρώματα
στο πρώτο σου βλέμμα

Κι εγώ που ξέρεις πως φοβάμαι το άγριο πλήθος
έμεινα πίσω κολλημένος στη στροφή
κι εσύ ξεμάκρυνες κι απόμεινε ένας τοίχος
να γράφει "Σόφη κάπου έχουμε χαθεί"

Sophie (The wild crowd)

Performance:  Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:       Stamatis Mesimeris
Music:        Stamatis Mesimeris


I saw you again yesternight
running on the streets as before with crying eyes
The night had spread out the dose
in bulk at your feet
like then rubbish aflame

It had rained, you had not noticed me
two trolleys flipped at the station
burnt again
Step by step spreads the message
underground of Sina and Solonos
for the current to leave

One victim and another victim
two unassuming black jackets
the kiss to the max
Like a movie the demonstration
I still recall the colours
in your first sight

And I, who you know fears the wild crowd,
stayed behind attached to the curve
and you fell behind and a wall remained
to write "Sophie, we have been lost somewhere"

I saw you yesternight
untied hair all red
on the shoulders
Black ash next to the megaphone
the tires smell suspiciously to the police officers
Ten past three, years ten
closed zipper, cold
and shredded scarf
Alien town, all aliens
and you like stray hope
on the same traffic light

One victim and another victim
two unassuming black jackets
the kiss to the max
Like a movie the demonstration
I still recall the colours
in your first sight

And I, who you know fears the wild crowd,
stayed behind attached to the curve
and you fell behind and a wall remained
to write "Sophie, we have been lost somewhere"

What impresses me with this song is that we are presented with a chaotic transition between phantasmagorical scenes of violence, desperation, rebellion, lawlessness, immiseration, and oppression. This is not the prettified version of quotidian life we find in romantic art, but the repulsive face of a social order that routinely pushes misfits to the margins, leaving them behind to fend for themselves.

My translation is faithful to the original style. Already with its formal features, Sophie captures the abruptness of life at the fringes of the law. There is no continuity here, no longer-term plans and poetic daydreaming, no “happily ever after”, no pretences of grandeur. Things are ugly yet noble and heroic at times where one struggles for control.

To survive in these conditions it is necessary to let go of the notion that promises are inviolable. Circumstances change rapidly. What once was is no more. What is stands in contradiction to what was. The self is a variable for it is a function of the interplay between ever-changing factors. Promises are the privilege of those who live in the security of apparent predictability and constancy. The precariat cannot access such a world. It subsists in the ever-evolving present.

A life at the margins of legality demands ruthlessness in how one eliminates fancies from their conduct. Practicality is not simply about achieving decent results. It is a matter of life and death. To entertain fairytale notions of human relations is tantamount to capital punishment.

The titular Sophie is the character that reminds us of the truth inherent to such an unwelcoming milieu: we are lost. Yet implicit in those words in the realisation that there is no place to be found, no land to host us, no xenial lord to blithely welcome us. Whatever path we find, is the one we clear ourselves, with hair soaked in blood.

Some stay behind, others take a detour. Drugs, fire, and tears. Friends are no more whenever their expectations undo them. It is sad, albeit natural. Sophie, which may be a reference to the original meaning of Sophia (Σοφία) as “wisdom”, reminds us to recognise what the constitution of the case is. Do not dwell on the past. Do not apologise for who you are and what the prevailing conditions make you do in your attempt to assume agency. Dithering will lead to your demise. Push forward in hope of finding a modicum of stability. And make the most out of every kiss, for it may be your last.

“But you promised…”, I hear you say. That was always with the proviso of ceteris paribus. Yet here we are in a life of unknowns where factors cannot be held constant. No-one lied to you, dear. You simply did not heed Sophie’s words, longing for luxuries that do not exist.

Further below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Note that I have written about Pavlos before as I consider those works beautiful artistically and insightful intellectually:

• White storm
• Illegal passenger
• The king of dust
• At the rock

Τα περιστέρια

Άφηνε όλα αυτά τα χρόνια το κορμί της
απλώς να βρίσκεται εκεί και να υπάρχει
και 'κείνο τόσα χρόνια είχε μάθει να ζεί
μαζί της

Τα περιστέρια περιμέναν στην πλατεία
κάθε απόγευμα να τα ταΐσει
όμως απόψε η παράξενη κυρία
είχε αργήσει

Μπήκε στο σπίτι της απότομα ο αέρας
και όπως τίναζε από πάνω του τ' αστέρια
την τρόμαξε και κάτι κρύα χέρια
της δείχνανε το τέλος της ημέρας

Από τότε όλα αυτά τα καλοκαίρια
μπαίνουν στο σπίτι με μηνύματα στο ράμφος
από τον άλλο κόσμο πέρα από το βάθος
Κάτι παράξενα πουλιά,
τα περιστέρια...

Αν σηκωθεί μέσα στον ύπνο σου ο αέρας
και 'ρθεί στο τζάμι σου μπροστά και μουρμουρίζει
πες του να πει μια ιστορία, τη γνωρίζει,
την ιστορία με την ωραία και το τέρας

Και 'γώ που χρόνια τώρα ζαλισμένος
γυρνώντας σπίτι μου περνάω απ’ την πλατεία
αναρωτιόμουν λίγο πριν αφηρημένος
τι ν’ απέγινε εκείνη η κυρία;

The pigeons

All those years she left her body
just be there and subsist
and it learnt all those years to live
with her

The pigeons awaited at the square
each evening for her to feed them
but tonight the strange lady
was late

The wind entered her house abruptly
and as it shook off it the stars
it startled he and some cold hands
showed her the end of the day

Since then all those summers
they enter with messages on their beak
from the other world beyond the depths
Some strange birds,
the pigeons...

If the wind starts blowing in your sleep
and comes in front of your window mumbling
tell it to tell you a story, it knows it,
the story with the beauty and the beast

And I who am dizzy many years now
pass by the square while on my way home
I wondered a while ago absent-mindedly
what happened to that lady?

To me, the lady of the poem is a person who had given up on life before “the cold hands” signalled her end. She neglected her self while finding solace in the city square’s pigeons. Feeding them added meaning to her life; the kind of meaning that she could not identify in her own presence.

The lady symbolises all of us who have not come to terms with who we are which, in essence, is our humanity. We lead mindless and wasteful lives as we assume that time is on our side. Instead of accepting our mortality, we postpone certain experiences, believing that we can always find what we want at some later point.

Opportunities go by yet we, caught in our mistaken attitude of dithering, explain them away as unworthy of our attention. Only to one day go for a walk and realise we have lived most of our life; lived it in denial. What happened? I was in my youth just the other day… Where is the lost decade?

As with the song’s lady, we neglect ourselves, failing to tend to all our needs. Instead, we reduce the totality of our experiences to disempowering routines that unfold within the realm of the known. Work, home, and work again. The same over and over. Incredibly dull! The body, then, learns to fake it and just be “there”, indifferent to what is happening.

[ Watch: Comfort zone and impostor feelings ]

We are living dead who somehow make it our life’s mission to toil all day for pointless causes. In our self-deception we tolerate all injustices we suffer because, fundamentally, we do not take them personally the way we should: our years are taken away from us and are served as sacrifice to the altars of some tyranny.

The pigeons symbolise our natural coping mechanism: they are our escapism. This body of ours wants to break free. It needs an outlet of creativity or, at the very least, a calming presence that is not related to this instituted reality that frames and confines us. We do not become friends with pigeons the way we do with dogs, for example, yet this is not pertinent to the escape function the interaction with them performs. What matters is that we find such activities to be rewarding because of how starkly they contrast with our dehumanising banality.

The pigeons and their fate after the lady’s passing also symbolise our powerlessness even towards our loved ones. What will happen to our friends if those frostbitten hands can no longer feed them? What if this cold wind is just too cold this time? Friends will have to manage even if this very thought puts us in tears.

Realising our powerlessness in the face of cosmic magnitudes needn’t be a cause for angst. We can take it with equanimity by recognising our actuality: we are but a tiny factor in a cosmos that does not revolve around us. What we really dread is the loss of something we never have: control. The world will continue its ever-lasting cycle. Worrying that it won’t constitutes a misunderstanding of how things stand.

As for what happened to that lady? I think she figured it all out before the end. Doing something we like is what ultimately matters to our subjectivity. And who knows? Maybe those are not pigeons after all, but some otherworldly presences that are here to rescue us from our self-destructive habits. Such weird birds they are.

Below are the lyrics in Greek, my translation of them, and relevant philosophical commentary.

Πάντα γελαστοί

Εμηνεία:  Δημήτρης Μητροπάνος
Στίχοι:   Άλκης Αλκαίος
Μουσική:  Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Της νύχτας οι αμαρτωλοί και της αυγής οι μόνοι
θέλουν βαρύ ζεϊμπέκικο και νευρικό τιμόνι
Σε τόπους τριγυρίζουνε, σβησμένους απ' το χάρτη
για μια σταγόνα ουρανό, για μιαν αγάπη σκάρτη

Όσοι με το Χάρο γίναν φίλοι
με τσιγάρο φεύγουνε στα χείλη
στα τρελά τους όνειρα δοσμένοι
πάντα γελαστοί, πάντα γελαστοί
πάντα γελαστοί και γελασμένοι

Τα νιάτα μας διαδρομή Αθήνα-Σαλονίκη
μια πόλη χτίσαμε μαζί κι ακόμα ζω στο νοίκι
Έπεσα να σ' ονειρευτώ σε ψάθα από φιλύρα
κι είδα πως βγάζει η νύχτα φως και τ' όστρακο πορφύρα

Όσοι με το Χάρο γίναν φίλοι
με τσιγάρο φεύγουνε στα χείλη
στα τρελά τους όνειρα δοσμένοι
πάντα γελαστοί, πάντα γελαστοί
πάντα γελαστοί και γελασμένοι

Always smiling

Singer:  Dimitris Mitropanos
Lyrics:  Alkis Alkaios
Music:   Thanos Mikroutsikos


The night's sinful and the dawn's lonely
need heavy zeibekiko and angry wheel
In places they wander, faded from the map
for a drop of sky, for an obsolete love

Those who befriended Charon [loosely "Death"]
leave with a cigarette on the lips
given to their crazy dreams
always smiling, always smiling
always smiling and beguiled

Our youth a trip from Athens to Salonica [Thessaloniki]
We built a city together and I still live on rent
I slept to dream of you on mats of lime tree
and saw how the night produces light and the shell porphyry [deep purple]

Those who befriended Charon
leave with a cigarette on the lips
given to their crazy dreams
always smiling, always smiling
always smiling and beguiled

Let’s start with the unknown word in the first stanza: zeibekiko. This is a type of dance that would historically be performed by a drunk late at night or in the early morning hours. The dance is supposed to express one’s frustration and sorrow. It is not a stylistic dance and should, conceptually, look drunken and feel spontaneous. In modern days, zeibekiko is taught in dance schools as a type of ballet for dummies: it has a lightness to it that does not capture the complex mental state of the original. The “heavy zeibekiko”, then, encapsulates one’s justified, even if poorly expressed, indignation with the state of their life and the world at-large.

Those who perform such a dance, the titular protagonists who always smile, are the stray souls of our society. They have no credentials, no accolades to pamper their social standing. Misfits who cannot tolerate the odious conditions they labour in and who would rather traverse uncharted territories as lonely wolves than be someone’s inert lapdog. The “drop of sky” symbolises the modicum of freedom such souls live for: a love affair that is rendered obsolete by an unjust establishment predicated on the control of human by human.

Such control is made manifest in the political realities of our quotidian life, where our work and the wealth of the globe in general is appropriated by a tiny minority. Inequality is not an intermediate side-effect on some inexorable path towards economic optimality. It rather is the innate propensity of a system of interventionism that is designed to prop up a demistate that privatises profits while socialising debts. We labour for long hours, “building a city together”, only to have the overlords threaten us with immiseration and homelessness.

To befriend death is to not tolerate the hubris of this order; to point at the fact that no euphemism, no amount of polish, can obscure its cruelty.

The smiling ones are dead inside. Alas! They always smile because they responded to hypocrisy with honesty, knowing that it was the right course of action despite the losses they incurred in the form of social marginalisation. While noble in their disposition, the smiling ones are beguiled in thinking that one’s martyrdom can suffice. It might give the impetus for thoroughgoing reform, though concerted and sustained action is required; action which rests on the conservation of all available forces, as no-one is expendable.

It is fine to be a dreamer and to die alone in the middle of nowhere. Know, though, that more will find the same gruesome fate unless someone sets a new paradigm by no longer being the smiling one. It is about channelling one’s vitality towards the kind of cause that ensures we live freely amid the superstructures that environ and condition our collective experience. This requires responsibility and a sober mind instead of a daredevil’s reckless appeals to Death.

Before I proceed with the commentary, I must remind the reader that these entries are misleading. Art is not reducible to reason. We can think in artistic terms, though we can also feel artistically. What I do here cannot capture the totality of the experience. In other words, you can enjoy the music and ignore the rest—I do it all the time.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and further comments. Also check my previous entries on Lhasa’s songs:

• La Confession
• Bells

J'arrive à la ville

Moi aussi
Moi aussi
J'arrive à la ville
Pour y verser
ma vie
Je monte la rue
comme un géant
Ça c'est la ville
et ça
c'est ma vie

Moi aussi
Moi aussi
J'arrive en fuyant
Je suis encore
loin devant
Si la ville me cache
on ne me trouvera pas
Je ne sais pas qui
Je ne sais plus quoi

Moi aussi
Moi aussi
J'arrive les mains vides
Au sud du Nord
Au nord du Sud
J'ai un passé
Mais je ne m'en sers pas
Le futur sera mieux
Tellement mieux que ça

Moi aussi
Moi aussi
J'arrive à la ville
Pour y verser
ma vie
Je monte la rue
comme un géant
Ça c'est la ville
et ça
c'est ma vie

I arrive at the city

Me too
Me too
I arrive at the city
To pour in
my life
I scale the road
like a giant
This is the city
and this
is my life

Me too
Me too
I arrive elusively
I still am
Far ahead
If the city conceal me
they will not find me
I don't know who
I no longer know why

Me too
Me too
I arrive with empty hands
To the south of the North
To the north of the South
I have a past
But I don't serve it
The future will be better
Definitely better than this

Me too
Me too
I arrive at the city
To pour in
my life
I scale the road
like a giant
This is the city
And this
is my life

Historically, cities are the hotspots of experimentation, innovation, and cultural flourishing. The city has a scale that is larger than the individual’s particular milieu. As such, the life details of the person are abstracted away, as folks from different backgrounds develop communities based on shared interests. Citizens, in the literal sense, are free to make contributions to something that is greater than their own work; unrestricted from the backwardness of their relatives; emancipated from the inertia of their neighbourhood; unaffected by the indifference of their immediate colleagues.

By contrast, the village only allows for self-development. Whatever culture is limited to formulaic folklore three times a year. The person can withdraw from all the noise to contemplate on matters of principle and to remake their self accordingly. Nothing more. Self-development, however, is inherently limiting as the person does not get exposed to the diversity of experiences that citizens enjoy. As such, the mindful villager can spend a decade of being disregarded and belittled. To arrive at the city is, in this regard, an attempt to upgrade oneself. To use the years of self-development as the basis for magna opera yet-to-come.

One can spend their formative years in the countryside and local will still not know who the person is. It is not that the person does not want to elaborate on the specifics, but that the society has no thirst for such knowledge: it has found comfort in its mediocrity and will dismiss or actively undermine any attempt at upsetting the status quo.

Years on the fringes do affect one’s perception, hence the poetic first person’s uncertainty about the future. The desire to hide in the city is none other that the willingness to leave behind all those trivialities of the quotidian rural experience. This relative obscurity, the sense of privacy it engenders, the renewed impetus it offers, is at the heart of every noteworthy proposition. The person has the liberty to redefine their self or, anyhow, to express their potential in ways that their previous environment did not render possible.

The person is not arrogant, nor thinks that they will change the world, hence the cautiousness. Rather, there is a basic notion of justice at play, this idea of utilising resources effectively, of doing something with one’s talents. The future will be better if the city provides the right conditions for novel communities to prosper; communities who will tolerate among their ranks those individuals who simultaneously flee from their old fate while chasing their new one.

Moi aussi, j’arriverai à la ville.

Below are its original lyrics in Greek, my translation, and subsequent philosophical commentary. Note that I have covered Memphis before:

• Seas and fierce rivers
• Between
• I have a house
• The Sweet Paradox

Πομπηία

Άνοιξε η γη κι η τελευταία μας πνοή
σαν μουσική μες στους δρόμους αντηχεί
Και η συμφορά κατά πάνω μας ορμά
λυτρωτικά, ένα βήμα την φορά

θα μας βρουν κοντά
μες στην λαβα που κυλά
μεσ' στην στάχτη, στην φωτιά

Φίλα με αργά
η Πομπηία επάνω μας
θα πέφτει και θα μας κρατά

Άρχισε η γιορτή, η τελευταία μας σιγή
Διστακτικά, πριν περάσουν τα μισά
ξαναμετρά, ένα βήμα την φορά

Pompeii

The earth has opened and our last breath
like music echoes in the streets
And calamity rushes towards us
as salvation, one step at a time

They will find us nearby
in the lava that flows
in the ash, in the fire

Kiss me slowly
Pompeii will be falling upon us
and will be holding us

The festival has started, our last silence
Cautiously, before the half is over
it counts again, one step at a time

The ancient city of Pompeii was a prospering city that was wiped off the face of the earth by a volcanic eruption. One moment it was there, the next it was no more. Just like that!

Poetically, this event reminds us of our powerlessness against the forces of nature. Our presence hinges on a delicate balance of multiple factors that we do not control. People can interpret such phenomena as the manifestation of a god’s wrath. We have this intuition that the world revolves around us, so something terrible on that scale must mean that we erred lamentably. The specifics vary depending on the culture, though the central theme is one of desert (as in deserve), of reward and punishment.

We seek an explanation to catastrophes that answers the underlying “why”. In the absence of definitive proof, we formulate hypotheses and attribute this outcome to the workings of a greater power whose machinations we do not understand. All this is plausible and worth considering. An alternative theory is that things happen despite us and we are simply caught in the middle. In this case, there is no grand plan with us as its protagonists or main victims, but the ordinary workings of a greater system of which we are but a tiny factor.

[ Watch: On forgiveness and hubris and On the meaning and purpose of life ]

In their song, Memphis deliver what I consider an encouraging message: presence, the virtue of focusing on the here-and-now. It is easy to interpret this powerlessness of ours in a way that deprives us of our willingness to live or appreciate what we have. We may wonder what the point is, anyway, and in the process reason ourselves into depression.

[ Watch: Loss, entitlement, and presence ]

To ask your lover to kiss you while your shared world collapses all around you is to say that this is beautiful, this is nice, this is meaningful to us, regardless of the before and the after. The moment is not beautiful due to its ever-lasting duration. No, we know moments fly by and, generally, we are transient. The moment is not worthwhile as an intermediate step to some greater reward. No, we can like something in itself, plus we never know for sure what our future has in store of us. By focusing on the event, we find meaning in the little things that our humanity is attuned to.

Presence helps us overcome existential fears and insecurities that we have. Why are we here? What is the purpose of all this? With presence, we learn to trust in our devices and to follow all those hints that our nature has scattered all around for inquisitive folks to make something out of what they have been endowed with. By being present, we learn to enjoy the journey while acknowledging our ignorance; ignorance which also applies to the fact that we do not know what the destination is.

In the end, we all die. The healthy and the sickly; the sober and the drunks. Everyone! With presence, we learn to appreciate what we have, in the way that we do, and for as long as we do. If there exists some other world where we still operate as human, some destination worth reaching, it will also be an ever-present experience, given our humanity.

Learn to kiss like there is no tomorrow. Kiss as if Pompeii is collapsing upon you. It happens here; it happens now.

[ In my collection, I have the version of Aremou performed by the Ghetonia band, in their album Per incantamento. The male voice gives it a different feel. ]

On first reading, this poem is about a bird, though we can draw insights from it that apply to our everyday life. Below are the original lyrics in Griko, my Greek and English translations, philosophical commentary, and some final notes on the applied language.

Aremou rindineddha mou (Griko (Italiot Greek))


Aremou rindineddha mou
plia talassa se guaddhi
che apute ste che ftazzi
m'outo kalo chero

Vasta to peton aspro
mavre vasta tes ale
stavri kulor de mare
che i kuta en diu nihti

Kaímeno pros sti talassa
ego se kanonó
lio gherni, lio kaléi
lio ghizzi to nero

Ma sou tipo mou lei
ya posa se rotó
lio gherni, lio kaléi
lio ghizzi to nero

Άραγε χελιδόνι μου (Ελληνικά)


Άραγε χελιδόνι μου
ποια θάλασσα σε φέρνει
και απού'τε (πώθε==από που) στες (στω==στέκομαι) και φτάνεις
μ'ούτο (με τούτο τον) καλό καιρό

Βαστάς (έχεις) στο πέτον (στήθος) άσπρο
μαύρο βαστάς στα φτερά
πλάτη σε χρώμα της θάλασσας
και η ουρά στα δυό ανοιχτή

Καημένος μπρος στη θάλασσα
εγώ σε κανονώ (σε συλλογίζομαι;---δες σημειώσεις παρακάτω)
λίγο γέρνεις, λίγο καλάρεις (πέφτεις)
λίγο γγίζεις το νερό

Μα σου τίποτε μου λέεις
για πόσα σε ρωτώ
λίγο γέρνεις, λίγο καλάρεις
λίγο γγίζεις το νερό

I wonder my Swallow (English)


I wonder my Swallow
which sea brings you
and where you stand and reach
in this fine weather

[You] Hold (have) white on the chest
black [you] hold on the wings
back in the colour of the sea
and the tail open in two

While grieving I stand by the sea
I canonise you (I contemplate you?---see notes below)
[you] tilt a little, descend a little
touch the water a little

Yet you say nothing
on what I ask you about
[you] tilt a little, descend a little
touch the water a little

The song speaks of a migratory bird’s struggles as it crosses the Mediterranean in hope of building its nest under the appropriate living conditions. Each year, the arrival of Swallows heralds the start of Spring. We admire the bird’s exuberance and what it signifies for the changing seasons, though we seldom pause to ponder the perils it goes through.

Every flight may be the Swallow’s last. Sometimes the bird drops, touches the water more than it can afford, and drowns amid the waves. Yet life continues: more birds will keep flying to find the temperate climate that is suitable for their survival; more Swallows will come to tell us about the end of Winter.

The poetic “I” is sensitive and attuned to this small bird’s experiences. This alone teaches us that we have more in common with other forms of life than what our inconsiderate colonialism over nature wants to admit. I need to migrate and find a place to call my own and so does the Swallow. I must proceed while taking care that my next move is not the last and so must the bird and, indeed, every other form of life.

This poetic first person shows a level of compassion that inspires us to be more refined in our disposition. There exists a whole world outside our private space and our instituted reality; a world that envelops and determines us, despite our anthropocentric pretences to our exceptional status. We cannot live without this world.

Why is the person grieving? I think it is because of the understanding that not all birds cross the sea. For some, the otherwise minor tilt is a free fall into their demise. Such is the natural course of things. No-one wants it, but it happens regardless.

As for why the bird does not answer the person’s questions, I believe it is due to its own grief over the loss of its loved ones. It cannot stop flying, though it at least remains silent in memory of those fellow travellers who could not make it to the end of the trip.

The song then turns into an epic where the humble bird embodies what each of us has to deal with in this life. If our little hero can rise to the occasion, then so can we. I too can navigate those waters, reach Salento, and cross paths with this poetic “I”. Whether I will be in a mood to answer any questions remains to be determined: the journey must continue.

Translation notes

I generally find Griko intelligible, although Aremou has lots of Italian words, probably for stylistic purposes (e.g. it has talassa (sea) but also mare). I surmised that every unknown word is of Italian origin and then proceeded through trial and error to find the root meaning:

• rindireddha is a variant of the Italian rondinella, which is the Swallow.

• guaddhi is a variant of the Italian verb guadare which means “to wade”.

• cali is an Italian verb: calare. We have its conjugation in Greek as καλάρω. It most likely is a loanword and probably comes from sailors as it is related to dropping the ship’s anchor (from what I can tell). The Griko kaléi is a Hellenised version of cali: καλέω, καλέεις, καλέει.

• ale is a variant of the Italian ala which is the word for “wing”.

• stavri probably is an allusion to the Greek word for cross (stavrós (σταυρός)—yes, my surname is the second person of the name Stávros (Σταύρος)) and is a shorthand for “to carry the cross”. In the poem, we thus find [to carry the cross] colour of the sea, which I interpret to mean that the colour is on the bird’s back.

• kuta is a variant of the Italian cuta, which is the “tail”.

• Words such as sou (you) and lio (a little) are also found in Cypriot Greek. Same for the pronunciation of che (and) chero (weather) and ghizzi (touches), which in Cypriot Greek are τζιαι, τζιαιρό and γγίζζει, respectively, although the latter’s double z sounds like zee, not chi.

• I am unsure about kanonó, though I read it as the verb for canon as in establishing something as the norm. To canonise is to consider things in a certain way. In the context of the poem, it may thus be read as “I contemplate you”.

• I could not find the root for aremou. I based it on the context, as άραγε (I wonder) makes perfect sense.

Poetically, polytheism is helpful in this regard, because it disambiguates archetypes of what we would analytically associate with “the mind” from those of “the body”. Apollon is not Dionysos, though both are part of the human experience and none is more important than the other.

Consider, then, this modern take on traditional rhythms from Southern Italy, including its Griko milieux: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dypsbQCdC9U . The lyrics do not matter. The meaning of words fades away as we are invited to dance along.

Both Elodie’s “Pizzica di San Vito” and the rich tradition it draws from are Dionysian. It is all about the festival, the feelings art engenders, the kind of expression that culminates in the loss of self-awareness: “you” no longer exist when you fully give in to the music, for “you” cease operating at your own rhythm for the duration of the event. If one is feeling too shy to act, more expressive friends, wine, mushrooms—or whatever—will make them budge.

Apollon and Dionysos are not opposites. They are different facets of an otherwise singular human experience. The idea thus is to find a balance in our life between all the facets of our being. Don’t be too rational, but also not too emotional; not too spiritual but also not too corporeal.

Let us then consider: which is the way to Puglia? Asking for friend…

UPDATE 2022-12-07 09:28 +0200: The ~3-hour video of La Notte della Taranta 2022 edition, if you are really feeling it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5da7NE8iRxE.

What follows are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and philosophical commentary.

Φτιάξε καρδιά μου το δικό σου παραμύθι

Ερμηνεία:  Διονύσης Τσακνής
Στίχοι:    Μαριανίνα Κριεζή
Μουσική:   Διονύσης Τσακνής


Φτιάχνουν απόψε με κουρέλια και σανίδια
έναν συνοικισμό αυτόνομο
Αυτοί που ψάχνουν για διαμάντια στα σκουπίδια
και στον υπόνομο

Κι εσυ που ψάχνεις το κουκί και το ρεβίθι
στο τέλμα αυτό που βυθιζόμαστε
Φτιάξε μαζί τους το δικό σου παραμύθι
γιατί χανόμαστε

Μες το δικό σου παραμύθι ξαναβρές το
το ξεχασμένο μονοπάτι σου
Και ξαναχάσ'το, ξαναβρές τo, ξαναπές το
το τραγουδάκι σου

Ξελευθερώνω την ωραία πεταλούδα
από τη σφραγισμένη γυάλα της
Να σου δανείσει τα φτερά της τα βελούδα
και τα μεγάλα της

Κι αντί να ψάχνεις τριαντάφυλλα στα στήθη
αυτών που χάμω τα πετάξανε
Φτιάξε καρδιά μου
το δικό σου παραμύθι
αλλιώς τη βάψαμε

Φτιάχνω απόψε με κουρέλια και σανίδια
έναν συνοικισμό αυτόνομο
Μ'αυτούς που ψάχνουν για διαμάντια στα σκουπίδια
και στον υπόνομο

Κι αντί να ψάχνω το κουκί και το ρεβύθι
στο τέλμα αυτό που βυθιζόμαστε
Φτιάχνω μαζί σας το δικό μας παραμύθι
γιατί χανόμαστε

Μες το δικό μας παραμύθι ξαναβρές το
το ξεχασμένο μονοπάτι σου
Και ξαναχάσ'το, ξαναβρές το, ξαναπές το
το τραγουδάκι σου

Make your own tale, my heart

Performance:  Dionisis Tsaknis
Lyrics:       Marianina Kriezi
Music:        Dionisis Tsaknis


Tonight they make with rugs and planks
an autonomous condominium
Those who search for diamonds in rubbish
and in the sewers

And you who search for fantastic stories [NOTE: uses an idiom, which I translate freely]
at this morass we are sinking in
Make together with them your own tale
because we're doomed

In your tale refind it
your forgotten path
And lose it again, refind it, retell it
your little song

I liberate the beautiful butterfly
from its sealed bottle
To lend you its soft wings
and its greats

And instead of searching for roses on the chest
of those who threw them to the ground
Make my heart
your own tale
otherwise we are screwed

Tonight I make with rugs and planks
an autonomous condominium
With those who search for diamonds in rubbish
and in the sewers

And instead of searching for fantastic stories [the idiom once again]
at this morass we are sinking in
I make with them our own tale
because we're doomed

In our tale refind it
your forgotten path
And lose it again, refind it, retell it
your little song

The song speaks about both the “we” and the “I”, as well as the “my” and the “our”. It suggests that there is no autonomy to be had in isolation. The individuals who forgo the collective eventually learn they are only human and cannot do it all on their own.

A person’s reality is framed, influenced, or otherwise determined by the institutional arrangements pertinent to the given milieu. You want to live sturdily on the fringes of civilisation by camping in the wilderness? Well, the law envisages incarceration for whomsoever pursues such a lifestyle. Enjoy your autonomy in the prison cell!

The point is that liberty has to be instituted as such. It must be enabled and supported at the outset by a network of conventions that renders certain patterns of behaviour possible. Conventions are formulated and upheld by humans. No law has effect without the acquiescence, consent, or active participation of people.

Rules are valid only insofar as they are observed. In the absence of application, all conventions are reduced to claims on normative states of affairs. In other words, they are no longer actual. They can, at best, remain latent in the thinking of those who uphold their nominal validity.

The human world is instituted and reinstituted by collectives. Groups of people have to work together towards the remaking of the established order, at least partially and with changes to the margins of its dominion. It is all of us like-minded people who must enact thoroughgoing reform over whatever stretch of space we call our own; not rugged individuals, but vibrant communities built on the resilient foundation of solidarity.

One’s heart can only make its own tale when it finds the others, never contra omnes. Circumstances can force us to deviate from our path. Over time we might forget where we were going and sacrifice everything we once loved to the altars of conformism, first with chagrin, later with the kind of indifference that is emblematic of one who is dead inside.

Not all hope is lost though. We can remain honest with ourselves, taking the necessary detour while safeguarding our vitality. Forge the unbreakable resolve to find the others. For everybody’s sake, do not quit. And if, by misfortune or inability, you do not find anyone, know that you tried in earnest, my heart.

What follows are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Θάλασσα μου

Ερμηνεία:  Αντώνης Ξυλούρης (Ψαραντώνης)
Στίχοι:    Γιάννης Παξιμαδάκης
Μουσική:   Γιάννης Παξιμαδάκης


Θάλασσα μ'εσένα έχω καημό
που δεν μπορείς, θάλασσά μου,
μες τα μπλέ σου τα νερά
να πνίξεις τον καημό μου

Όπως έπνιξες καράβια
και θαλασσινούς, Θάλασσά μου,
τον καημό μου τώρα πνίξε
πνίξε να σωθώ

Στ' άσπρο σου το κύμα απάνω
βάλε με να ζω, θάλασσά μου,
να κοιτώ πουλιά, καράβια
και τον ουρανό

Να κοιτώ και το φεγγάρι
μες τα σύννεφα, θάλασσά μου,
σαν και την καρδιά μου
να'ναι τοσο σκοτεινό

My sea

Performance:  Antonis Xylouris (Psarantonis)
Lyrics:       Giannis Paximadakis
Music:        Giannis Paximadakis


Sea with you I am sad
as you cannot, my sea,
in your blue waters
drown my grief

As you drowned ships
and sailors, my sea,
my grief now drown
drown it to save me

On top of your white waves
place me to live, my sea,
to stare at birds, ships
and the sky

To stare at the moon
amid the clouds, my sea,
which like my heart
is so dark

To me, the sea symbolises the open-ended adventure some of us yearn for: the sense of amazement, exploration, and discovery. As humans, we seek awesome experiences. A breathtakingly colourful sunset, the highest vantage point, the play of light as rays of sunlight reflect in the morning dew… We love all that!

There is an aspect to our being that is fundamentally disturbed by boredom. We appreciate a sense of stability, but we also need something fresh from time-to-time. The adventurer, however, is one who lives for the adventure. To them, stability is intrinsically boring and whatever balance between old and new is but an unpleasant compromise.

I suppose one is thrilled to venture into the unknown because of their very constitution. Their nature compels them to push forward. Are they searching for something though? Is the adventurer moving towards the horizon in the hope of finding something, or is the trip itself the reward? Perhaps a permutation in-between those extremes? My introspection tells me that what appears as one chasing their luck is, at times, them running away from it. There is something they want to drown in the murky depths of some distant ocean.

Suppose you have what you would consider the most preferable setup in your life. Let’s go with the common choice and say this includes a stable source of income, a partner with whom you are mutually compatible and in love with, a house in some fancy place, pleasant neighbours, good health, and the like. Do you cast all that to the wind and go on an adventure? I think not. Those who are more likely to leave it all behind are the ones who feel that the potential benefit outweighs whatever immediate cost. The “leave it all behind” may amount to nothing, after all, which makes the decision considerably easier.

I understand this sentiment of foregoing conventional comfort and doing something out-of-the-ordinary. I did it! Was there a tacit desire there for a terminus? Maybe it was codified in feelings that were never expressed? Or maybe it was latent in some rationalisation? At any rate, I feel this tendency to entertain notions of doom and gloom is driven by tunnel vision: we let the grief of the present preclude potential outcomes that may not consist in misfortune. Our decision-making is governed by the bias that we are omniscient: we pretend to know what the future has in store for us and how we will experience the world. It is also influenced by our misplaced sense of duty and significance: we assume too many responsibilities/burdens and think that everybody is judging us accordingly. In truth, we are not the epicentre and none of that matters to the extent we think it does.

[ Watch: Loss, entitlement, and presence ]

Your heart may be as dark as the clouded night sky. What you proclaim as a fascinating escapade is a tacit hope to meet your demise while in the open seas. I know. Though as with the weather, the clouds do not stay around forever. To think that the current sorrow necessitates eternal sadness is to make too many false assumptions.

No sea can drown your sorrow. It can only kill you. Whatever solution has to come from within: it is rooted in a disposition of aloofness, of not worrying too much, not assigning great value to things, not being fatalistic in the presumption that you know everything. Let life run its course. Admit that you are human. You do not have all the answers. Let go of what life tells you is not yours.

Take it easy, for you know less than you think.

The song is beautiful musically, but also has some profound lessons for those of us who want to pay attention. Also check my previous entry on a song performed by Christos Thivaios: Hamlet of the Moon.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary:

Ωροσκόπιο

Ερμηνεία:  Χρήστος Θηβαίος
Στίχοι:    Άλκης Αλκαίος
Μουσική:   Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Μέρες βροχής κι ένας αέρας δυνατός
σε παρασέρνει σε αδέσποτο σεργιάνι
Σκηνές φιλμάρεις με μια κάμερα νυχτός
ξέμπαρκα μάτια και φευγάτα στο λιμάνι

Στην πολιτεία οι τοίχοι μάρτυρες βουβοί
Φορούν συνθήματα παλιά ξεθωριασμένα
Ξέρω θα φύγεις πριν χαράξει η αυγή
κι εγώ θα μείνω δίχως άλλοθι κανένα

Μην πεις ποτέ-ποτέ πως όλα ήτανε μια πλάνη
περιπλανήθηκα μαζί σου και μου φτάνει
Βάλε σημάδια μες στη νύχτα μη χαθείς
είναι πιο εύκολο να κλαις παρά να ζεις

Έλεγες «αύριο θα 'ναι ο κόσμος φωτεινός»
έλεγα «είναι με το μέρος μας ο χρόνος»
Δεν ειν' ο χρόνος με το μέρος κανενός
τις συμπληγάδες του περνά καθένας μόνος

Μην πεις ποτέ-ποτέ πως όλα ήτανε μια πλάνη
περιπλανήθηκα μαζί σου και μου φτάνει
Βάλε σημάδια μες στη νύχτα μη χαθείς
είναι πιο εύκολο να κλαις παρά να ζεις

Horoscope

Performance:  Christos Thivaios
Lyrics:       Alkis Alkaios
Music:        Thanos Mikroutsikos


Days of rain and a strong wind
takes you on a free roam
You capture scenes with a night vision camera
stray eyes and elusive at the port

At the polity the walls [are] silent witnesses
They wear old worn off slogans
I know you will leave before the crack of dawn
and I will remain with no alibi whatsoever

Never-ever say that all was a delusion
I wondered with you and it suffices
Place signs in the night to not get lost
It is easier to cry than to live

You said "tomorrow the world will be bright"
I said "time is on our side"
Time is on nobody's side
Each crosses its dire straits alone

Never-ever say that all was a delusion
I wondered with you and it suffices
Place signs in the night to not get lost
It is easier to cry than to live

The bad weather described in the opening lyrics is a reference to the fact that (i) we operate under imperfect circumstances and (ii) life is not always pleasant the way a warm sunny day with gentle breeze normally is. In essence, we do not exert control over the magnitudes that inform, influence, frame, condition, or otherwise determine our experiences. We retain the impression of control over our disposition towards what is happening and we have a kernel of volition manifesting in the limited choices we can make. Still, our will alone cannot undo the “bad weather”: it is not subject to our whim.

The polity is the instituted reality we have set up. It consists of constructs that are the product of our mind and conventions, encapsulated in the substance of those writings on the walls. Even within this human-made milieu where we assign value and meaning, we know that what is to transpire will do so despite our preference to the contrary. I wanted this shared moment to last an eternity: I wanted what I could not get.

Our powerlessness to intervene in the workings of the cosmos does not render those moments irrelevant. We still experienced them, given our means. We cried, we laughed, we partook in ecstasy. Eternity being unrealisable for us does not cancel what happened to us. Instead of labelling them delusions, let us cherish the fact that we were in this together. In so doing, take notice of the moments, reminisce on what took place, and remember to remain open to what unfolds in present time. Live the moment, for that is all that can be lived.

Time is not a magnitude we influence. Its progress, the way we see it, is inexorable. We know this yet get trapped in our ways of overthinking things. We dither and delay taking action. Our years go by, postponement upon postponement. Then we suddenly remember our birthday and how we are 20-something, only to realise we are nearing our 40s. Fools! We think that we will do it at a later stage because, fundamentally, we are not prepared to admit the truth: time is not ours. Act now! Tomorrow does not exist: you may not be around by then.

As for those who stay behind, remind them of the here-and-now. Encourage them, friend, to not discount what they had. It was not a series of lies for them. And if you ever get the chance, do utter those words you so wanted but kept inside—they may be your last.

• Between
• I have a house
• The Sweet Paradox

The song I comment on here is Seas and fierce rivers (Πέλαγα και άγριοι ποταμοί): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjgDq6bb-ek (also check their bandcamp page for their entire discography: https://m3mf1s.bandcamp.com/music).

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and some philosophical musings of mine.

Πέλαγα και άγριοι ποταμοί

Όσες φορές είμαι ό,τι δείχνω
σχεδόν ποτέ δεν παίρνω ό,τι δίνω
Χαμογελάω και παραδίνομαι

Τί κυνηγάω πλέον δεν ξέρω
ούτε με νοιάζει αν τα καταφέρω
Χαμογελάω και παραφέρομαι

Φαιά ουσία τζάμπα ξοδεύω
χωρίς σκοπό έρχομαι-φεύγω
Χαμογελάω και ονειρεύομαι

Σαν την σκιά πίσω σου τρέχω
μου το χες πει πως δεν θα σε έχω
Χαμογελάω και καταστρέφομαι

Πέλαγα και άγριοι ποταμοί πάλι ξεχύνονται μαζί
πάλι ξεχύνονται μαζί απ’των ματιών σου την πηγή

Μα από την άρνηση που ζω
ήθελα μόνο, μόνο να σου πω
Ήθελα μόνο να σου πω
δεν βρήκα τρόπο για να σ’αγαπώ.

Seas and fierce rivers

Whenever I am what I show
I seldom receive what I offer
I smile and surrender

I no longer know what I'm chasing
nor do I care if I will make it
I smile and lose control

I waste vital energy
without purpose I come-go
I smile and dream

Like a shadow I run behind you
You told me I would not have you
I smile and am ruined

Seas and fierce rivers flow together again
again they flow from your eyes' fountain

But in the denial I live
I just wanted, just to tell you
I just wanted to tell you
I found no way to love you

My original impression of the lyrics—and the one I maintained until a few minutes ago—is that the poetic “I” is addressing another person, probably an elusive romantic partner. Though I have changed my mind, as that would not explain why the titular seas and rivers flow from the eyes of the poetic second person. This “you” figure has made it explicit that they are unavailable, which makes me think that they would not be devastated by the news. Whereas the first person is likely to burst into tears of disappointment.

This paradox leads me to the conclusion that the lyrics are a monologue. This is a person who is in or around a depressive state of mind. Maybe they showed love but never got any. Their continuous disappointments made them lose sense of purpose and direction. They now cling on to lost causes and have unrealistic ambitions. The poetic “I” has found no way to express self-love. Their denial consists in trying to distract their self from the grief in their life; from the mismatch between their wants and their actuality.

The flowing tears are those of the same person. There is no-one else involved. Our protagonist is lost in a world they feel alien towards; forever an outsider; ever the misfit.

Unlike the tales elders regale us with when we are children, life is not filled with happiness. Yes, it would be wonderful to kiss a frog and get a handsome prince in return. But this is not how things work.

There are numerous factors outside our control which prevent us from having anything akin to a fairytale life. We can always hope for the best, though we must recognise that sometimes we may not get anything noteworthy.

We are in denial when we think we are entitled to happiness or, worse, to the company of others. We conflate the wish we have for fulfilment with the specifics of the world, thus discounting the possibility of being unfulfilled, lonely, and the like. The poetic “I” has no self-love due to this denial, which exacerbates the problem. It is a vicious cycle.

This reminds me of the story of a lad who was walking back home on a rainy night. A car stopped and asked the boy to hop in. In the back seat was a lass. In front were her parents. The lad met the girl earlier: both were waiting for the same bus; the bus that apparently had a mechanical problem and never arrived. The lass approached the boy for chit-chat, presumably out of boredom. It is understandable, given the delay:

• We can take you home.
• Thank you!
• Where do you live?
• Just a couple of blocks down this road.
• Write down my phone in case you miss another bus.
• Thanks! I have no phone.

The lad’s house was not near the specified location. It was at the other side of town. He also did have a phone…

Denial is a state of mind that makes a person behave awkwardly. The poetic “I” is fearful. They are unsettled, for they doubt their very ability to achieve anything. “If nothing works, then I am the problem”, says the protagonist. Such is a rationalisation that ruins a person.

When we assign too much value to the object of our desire, we develop tunnel vision. We lose our sense of perspective, as we gauge our worth solely on the basis of our performance in satisfying this desire. In the process, we remain oblivious to the fact that we are not entitled to anything. We labour under the falsehood that “stuff” should be ours, hence the aforementioned rationalisation when this eventuality does not come about. We think we are a failure of a human being; defective by design; loathsome and worthless.

Recognise that some things are not meant to be. You will finally be relaxed about it. And if you ever find yourself in the lad’s stead, you will then specify the location of your residence and write down the phone number.

An honourable mention goes to the SEIKILOS channel for their remarkable work in bringing ancient melodies to life while adding new ones to the mix: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC5mCqBulD2KzLugC1lEEedA.

[ The name Seikilos (Σείκιλος) is pronounced as “Sea-key-loss”. ]

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them into modern Greek and English, and some further commentary.

[ Ancient ]

Ὅσον ζῇς φαίνου
μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ
πρὸς ὀλίγον ἔστι τὸ ζῆν
τὸ τέλος ὁ χρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ

[ Modern ]

Όσο ζεις φέγγε
Καθόλου μην λυπάσαι
Λίγη είναι η ζωη
Το τέλος ο χρόνος απαιτεί

While alive shine
Grieve none at all
Life amounts to little
Time demands the end

This song is an epitaph, meaning that it was written on a tomb. Seikilos copes with the loss of a loved one by acknowledging the powerlessness of the human condition. From our perspective, time is invincible, while life is a miracle we can only experience moment-by-moment. There is no living in the past or the future. What is, is present.

We cannot undo what has transpired. We cannot prevent what is to come. All we can do is control our attitude towards the here-and-now. We can either deny what the global magnitudes are, and forever suffer for not being able to exert control over them, or we can live peacefully in the knowledge that the cosmos does not revolve around us.

It is natural to cry. Part of our humanity is to develop emotional attachments. Seikilos is not prompting us to not grieve the loss of the ones we love. To feel sad is human. What the poet is saying is that our life at-large is not a matter of our volition. We do not choose mortality, just as we did not choose to live. Other forces contribute to this eventuality, which we may name “nature”, “the gods”, “the cosmos”… It does not matter what name we use, for as long as we recognise the underlying fact: our life is not “ours”—we have no involvement in the matter.

[ Watch: Harmony, tranquillity, non-ownership ]

What we can influence is the attitude we maintain towards what is already set in motion. At least such is the impression we get. Be content with what the gods have given you, the good and the bad, the plenty and the few. Be content because the alternative is an insatiable desire, a fool’s gambit. You can never have enough of whatever it is you want, as it will be alienated from you in one way or another, or always remain elusive.

When we seek the unattainable, we are reminded of our powerlessness while remaining in denial of it. This makes us suffer. Instead of trying to “shine”, we are unsettled, empty, dead inside.

What does shining amount to? Nothing fancy. It consists in acceptance. Recognise who you are: what you can and cannot do; what you can and cannot have. Admit to what the case is; to what your life renders possible. Live within your means. Live in moderation.

[ Watch: On meditation, walking, and acceptance as well as On self-importance and elitism ]

We can do nothing about matters of life and death, just as we can do nothing about owning or disowning whatever it is we like or dislike. A shift in our attitude does not alter the fundamentals of our state. It simply changes how we look at them. We no longer are inimical towards our self. We stop cursing our luck and blaming ourselves as “deffective”, “ugly”, “failure”, etc. We accept what we have.

“What if it is not enough?”, you might say. That is your insatiable attitude speaking. Adjust it so that it is enough.

Is this a happy message? No. You think those who appear to have “stuff” are happier than you? You think that time will not go after them? You think they do not suffer in other ways than yours?

When one day you find yourself walking alone in a forest, don’t lament your loneliness. Thank the gods for experiencing that moment: the walk, the forest, the vastness and ever-presence of this world.

The cosmos is ever-lasting. Life always is. What we perceive as birth and death are phases in an incessant cycle of transfiguration. This too, is not our affair. Whether we experience life before or after this one is unknown. It must still be outside our control though, for one cannot be the cosmos.

Shine, then, as the alternative is too burdensome for us feeble beings.

[ Watch: Being breakable and taking it slow ]

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and some further commentary.

Βροχή και σήμερα

Ερμηνεία:  Δήμητρα Γαλάνη
Στίχοι:    Λευτέρης Παπαδόπουλος
Μουσική:   Γιάννης Σπανός


Βροχή και σήμερα, βροχή στη στέγη μας,
βροχή στην πόρτα μας, ατέλειωτη βροχή
Και εσύ στα σύνορα, σ’ ένα χαράκωμα
Και γύρω ο θάνατος, ατέλειωτη βροχή

Εγώ στα σύνορα, σε κάποιο γράμμα μου
Βαθιά στη χλαίνη σου, γλυκά να σε πονώ
Και συ στο σπίτι μας, παντού τα χνάρια σου
Παντού τα μάτια σου, πληγές στο δειλινό

Βροχή και σήμερα κι ούτε ένα γράμμα σου
Κι ούτε ένα μήνυμα στον μαύρο ουρανό
Φυλάξου αγέρα μου, φυλάξου αγρύπνια μου
Φυλάξου αγόρι μου, από τον κεραυνό

Rain again today

Singer:  Dimitra Galani
Lyrics:  Lefteris Papadopoulos
Music:   Yiannis Spanos


Rain again today, rain on our roof,
rain at our door, endless rain
And you at the border, in a trench
And death all around, endless rain

I at the border, in one of my letters
Deep in your coat, gently hurting for you
And you at our home, your footprints everywhere
Your eyes everywhere, wounds in the evening

Rain again today and not a single letter from you
And not even a message in this dark sky
Hide my wind, hide my vigil
Hide my boy, from the thunder

The song is about the forced separation of loved ones in times of warfare. The poetic first person likely is a parent figure who worries about the fate of their child. The “boy”, as it is described, must be a conscript who was sent on the front lines as fodder to the cannons. An ever-pertinent theme, it seems… The rain can be a symbol for the prevalent sorrow, though it also serves as a reminder of the countless souls that perish on the battlefield or suffer irreparable damage from the conflict.

The poetic “I” tells us about the struggles of an individual. The sense of powerlessness to stop the unfolding calamity, the constant fear of losing a precious one to a futile cause, the unbearable pain and desperation that violence causes… Yet through the eyes of this person we can infer the scale of the disaster. Every parent, friend, and lover is put in this predicament of not receiving a word from their boy as the death count keeps increasing.

We glorify war and we casually dismiss its horrors as some necessary evils of an otherwise fortuitous process. Just think about those in history who are known as “… the Great”. They stand atop countless bodies. “Endless rain”, as the poet puts it. Yet they are remembered as benefactors because they forged empires; empires that we are indoctrinated into considering good in advance; empires whose dominion always depends on the latent use of fire and steel.

Rain again today. It will be the same tomorrow and the day after. Your boys were taken away from you. The neighbourhoods are left silent. Gone are the smiles and the games at the parks. You all cry helplessly while some maniac is basking in the glory of imperialism. Where does this stop, friend? At what point do we coordinate our efforts in resistance to the status quo? Why must we hate our neighbours and fight for the inane goals of a state apparatus? Is there really no other option than to butcher each other? Did wisdom truly forsake us?

Sure, there will be an intelligentsia that has a vested interest in the “rain”. The apologists of a future regime will write about the grandeur of yesteryears, with their visionary leaders, and their lofty values. They will simply obfuscate and filter out all the gory details that otherwise delineate the face of the establishment; the repulsive face of an arrogant authority.

Listen to Vasilis Papakonstantinou sing this poem in the music of Thanos Mikroutsikos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8I2s0WUQJQ.

Below is the poem, my translation of it, and some philosophical comments.

Ένα μαχαίρι

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Νίκος Καββαδίας
Μουσική:   Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Απάνω μου έχω πάντοτε στη ζώνη μου σφιγμένο,
ένα μικρό αφρικάνικο ατσάλινο μαχαίρι,
όπως αυτά που συνηθούν και παίζουν οι Αραπάδες,
που από ένα γέρον έμπορο τ' αγόρασα στ' Αλγέρι.

Θυμάμαι, ως τώρα να 'τανε το γέρο παλαιοπώλη,
όπου έμοιαζε με μια παλιά ελαιογραφία του Γκόγια,
ορθό, πλάι σε μακριά σπαθιά και σε στολές σχισμένες,
να λέει με μιά βραχνή φωνή τα παρακάτω λόγια:

«Ετούτο το μαχαίρι εδώ που θέλεις ν' αγοράσεις,
με ιστορίες αλλόκοτες ο θρύλος το 'χει ζώσει
κι όλοι το ξέρουν πως αυτοί, που κάποια φορά το 'χαν,
καθένας κάποιον άνθρωπο δικό του έχει σκοτώσει.

Ο δον Μπαζίλιο σκότωσε μ' αυτό την Δόνα Τζούλια,
την όμορφη γυναίκα του γιατί τον απατούσε.
Ο Κόντε Αντόνιο μια βραδιά το δύστυχο αδερφό του,
με το μαχαίρι τούτο εδώ κρυφά δολοφονούσε.

Ένας Αράπης τη μικρή ερωμένη του από ζήλεια
και κάποιος ναύτης Ιταλός ένα Γραικό λοστρόμο.
Χέρι σε χέρι ξέπεσε και στα δικά μου χέρια,
πολλά έχουν δει τα μάτια μου, μ' αυτό μου φέρνει τρόμο.

Σκύψε και δες το μια άγκυρα κι ένα οικόσημο έχει,
είν' ελαφρύ για πιάσε το, δεν πάει ούτε ένα κουάρτο,
μα εγώ θα σε συμβούλευα, κάτι άλλο ν' αγοράσεις.»
- Πόσο έχει; - Μόνο φράγκα εφτά. Αφού το θέλεις, πάρ' το.

Ένα στιλέτο έχω μικρό στη ζώνη μου σφιγμένο,
που ιδιοτροπία μ' έκανε και το 'καμα δικό μου
κι αφού κανένα δε μισώ στον κόσμο να σκοτώσω,
φοβάμαι μην καμιά φορά το στρέψω στον εαυτό μου.

A dagger

Singer:  Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:  Nikos Kavvadias
Music:   Thanos Mikroutsikos


I always hold tightly on my belt,
a small African steel dagger,
like those the Arabs keep playing with,
which I bought from an old merchant in Algiers.

I remember, as if it were now, the elder shopkeeper,
who looked like an old oil painting by Goya,
standing beside long swords and tattered uniforms,
uttering in a hoarse voice the following words:

"This dagger you want to buy,
legend has surrounded in strange stories
and everybody knows that those who once had it
each killed one of their own people.

Don Basilio killed Dona Julia with it,
his beautiful wife who cheated on him.
Conte Antonio his unfortunate brother on a night,
with this dagger he secretly committed murders.

An Arab his young lover out of jealousy
and some Italian sailor a Greek boatswain.
It fell from hand to hand and it reached my hands.
My eyes have seen a lot, but this one terrifies me.

Check the small anchror and the family crest it has,
it is light, hold it, it weighs less than a quarter,
but I would advise you to buy something else."
- How much does it cost? - Just seven francs. If you want it, have it.

I have a small dagger tied to my belt,
that whim made me own it
and as I have no-one to hate and kill in this world,
I fear that some day I might turn it against me

The story of a cursed knife is something that we would expect to come straight out of a folk’s tale. To the inattentive eye, this myth has nothing to teach us. It is provided for our entertainment. While it likely succeeds in that regard, it actually has a profound message for all of us. We can relate to its narrative even if we normally do not play around with daggers made out of steel and sold in exotic lands.

The dagger symbolises the obsessions humans have. It is an object we are passionate about. Something we want to acquire and claim as our own. The cursed knife is our most cherished possession because we assign it such special value.

[ Watch: Harmony, tranquillity, non-ownership ]

We obsess about all sorts of things. A fancy car, whether our hairstyle wins compliments, if our dress code impresses, the prestige we command at the workplace and among our neighbours, whether we reign supreme in an argument over some otherwise trivial issue… Our obsessions govern us by virtue of conditioning our behaviour.

Consider this case. Someone is waiting for their crush to fall in love with them. Meanwhile, the crush is getting married in another country with someone else. Our fellow clings on to an unrealistic expectation. It is an unsustainable situation. Life is tough, especially when we are delusional. Nobody is entitled to anyone. This person’s obsession—this enchanted dagger—is committing yet another murder: it is undoing them from within, eroding their sanity, snuffing out the fire of their enthusiasm.

Sometimes we seek to acquire the valuable asset for the vanity of declaring it our own. When we succeed, we name ourselves the winner and think we have achieved something special. We are not being mindful though. We have no sight of the bigger picture in that we do not understand how this victory is sowing the seeds of our destruction. In winning the meaningless points, we are sacrificing a part of our self. We are being ruled by the object of our desire. It makes us do its bidding. It determines how we operate. It objectifies and instrumentalises us. It owns us.

Today, I am deviating from the norm in that the song is in French, although the singer is part Greek. This is Le Métèque, meaning “the metic” (from Greek “μέτοικος”: which denotes one who has relocated—the emigrant): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WI5mld3uDz8. And here is the Greek version by George Dalaras (Γιώργος Νταλάρας): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAA0p9q0FxA.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and some further thoughts on the underlying philosophical points I discern therein.

Le Métèque

Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre Grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents

Avec mes yeux tout délavés
Qui me donnent l'air de rêver
Moi qui ne rêve plus souvent

Avec mes mains de maraudeur
De musicien et de rôdeur
Qui ont pillé tant de jardins

Avec ma bouche qui a bu
Qui a embrassé et mordu
Sans jamais assouvir sa faim

Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre Grec
De voleur et de vagabond

Avec ma peau qui s'est frottée
Au soleil de tous les étés
Et tout ce qui portait jupon

Avec mon coeur qui a su faire
Souffrir autant qu'il a souffert
Sans pour cela faire d'histoires

Avec mon âme qui n'a plus
La moindre chance de salut
Pour éviter le purgatoire

Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre Grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents

Je viendrai, ma douce captive
Mon âme soeur, ma source vive
Je viendrai boire tes vingt ans
Et je serai prince de sang
Rêveur ou bien adolescent
Comme il te plaira de choisir

Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir

Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir

The Metic

With my face of a metic
Of a wondering Jew, of a Greek shepherd
And my hair at the four winds

With my eyes all faded
That give me the looks of a dreamer
I who no longer dream often

With my hands of a marauder
Of a musician and of a prowler
That have pillaged plenty of gardens

With my mouth which has drunk
Which has kissed and which has bitten
Without ever sating its hunger

With my face of a metic
Of a wondering Jew, of a Greek shepherd
Of robber and of vagabond

With my skin which has rubbed against
The sun of all the summers
And all those who wore skirts

With my heart which has made for it
To suffer as much as it has suffered
Without making a fuss out of it

With my soul that no longer has
The least chance of salvation
For avoiding purgatory

With my face of a metic
Of a wondering Jew, of a Greek shepherd
And my hair at the four winds

I will come, my sweet captive
My sister soul [i.e. soul mate], my life source
I will come to drink your twenty years
And shall be a prince of blood
Dreamer or adolescent
As you will prefer to choose

And we will make of every day
A whole eternity of love
Which we will live until we die of it

And we will make of every day
A whole eternity of love
Which we will live until we die of it

The lyrics must be inspired by Georges Moustaki’s own background: a person of many identities. Part Jew, part Greek, yet decisively French. This metic is, in some way, a foreigner, yet in others a fellow citizen. They come from someplace else only to be naturalised as a local. The dynamic between the metic’s world-view and the local culture produces a blend that borrows attributes from both. What is culture, if not a melting pot of influences? Any identity we try to establish is, in some respect, arbitrary, for it introduces a distinction between endogenous and exogenous magnitudes on a continuum of concepts and experiences. Put differently, the “Frenchness” in Georges’ song is not strictly French, any “Jewishness” is not purely Jewish, “Greekness” Greek, and so on.

[ Watch: False binaries and the continuum ]

Cultural identities are abstractions. We derive them by observing patterns in the learnt behaviour of people, their aesthetic preferences, underlying values, and the like. At their best, abstractions give us a general idea of who a given person is. Even though one may have a notion of what it means to be French, no two French people are the same. To judge someone on the basis of their belonging runs the risk of mischaracterising and misunderstanding them.

[ Read/watch: The presumptive idol of you ]

The metic’s actuality reminds us of the diversity of the human condition. Within each culture and between cultures there are differences and similarities springing from a shared nature. We have race, ethnicity, gender, appearance, accent, hobbies, and whatever factor we single out as elements of differentiation. Though these are secondary to what we all have in common: a mouth that kisses, a heart that hurts, a body that ages.

To my mind, the metic is also a metaphor that describes a person who has lived a variety of experiences outside some controlled environment. The vagrant who is exposed to the beating sun of countless summers is one who has been places and seen things. Maybe they learnt something from all those travels, trials and errors. How does it really feel to be a dreamer who doesn’t dream all that much anymore? Perhaps this is the person who has something to say; something they did not read in a book and decided it would make them sound smart. They lived through every moment. Their every statement is rooted in the emotions associated with the relevant phenomena.

[ Watch: On thinking, living, acting ]

The metic is the person who has at least once disturbed a truth they took for granted; the person who outgrew any identity that applied to them, venturing into an uncharted territory only to eventually be acclimated in it. Though the metic at heart won’t stay around for too long, despite the promise of love till death. Their feet need to traverse new lands, their mind must explore any obscure recesses it can find. Whatever life-long love can only materialise with a fellow traveller. It will otherwise be ephemeral, like those summers.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and further philosophical comments.

Note that I have written about Pavlos before. They were the lead singer of the old Greek rock band Ta Xylina Spathia (Τα Ξύλινα Σπαθιά, “The Wooden Swords”). My previous interpretations:

• Illegal passenger
• The king of dust
• At the rock

Λευκή καταιγίδα

Την πρώτη φορά ήταν σαν να 'χε αρπάξει φωτιά
κάπου μέσα βαθιά κάτι μες την ψυχή μου
Κοιτούσα τις φλόγες κι αυτόν τον αέρα μακριά
να αλλάζει αργά τις σκιές της ερήμου

Χορεύοντας μου 'δείξες μέσα σε πέντε λεπτά
τι θα πει πουθενά και πως χάνεται ο χρόνος
Ότι αν το πιστέψεις στα αλήθεια η αγάπη μπορεί
Ότι αν αφεθείς σ' οδηγάει ο δρόμος

Από τότε περάσανε χρόνια, κυλήσαν νερά
όμως κάπου βαθιά η φωτιά καίει ακόμη
Λυπάμαι που έφυγα εκείνη τη νύχτα κρυφά
βιαστικά και χωρίς να ζητήσω συγγνώμη

Το μόνο που θα 'θελα αν κάποτε σε ξαναδώ
είναι να πω ευχαριστώ για το θαύμα που είδα
και να δώσω για μια τελευταία φορά το ρυθμό
στον τρελό σου χορό στη λευκή καταιγίδα

White storm

The first time was like it caught fire
something somewhere in the depths of my soul
I was watching the flames and this wind far away
changing slowly the shadows of the desert

By dancing you showed me in five minutes
what nowhere means and how time is lost
That if you truly believe it love can
That if you let go the road guides you

Years have past since, waters have flowed
yet deep inside the fire still burns
I am sorry to have secretly left on that night
hastily and without apologising

The only thing I want if I ever see you again
is to thank you for the miracle I saw
and give for one last time the rhythm
to your crazy dance at the white storm

While we can think of the White storm as a love song given its apparent theme and Pavlos’ erotic voice, I believe its imagery is allegorical. This is not the type of poem you would tell your crush or lover, for example. Well, unless they are comfortable with concepts such as you abandoning them without a notice…

I do not read the lyrics literally as it would then be impossible to describe the general theme of realisation developed therein. The poetic “I” was exposed to a truth they could not fully comprehend. It did light a fire, but its extent could not be understood at the time. The person thus continued with their life, ignoring what they had witnessed. They did eventually understand the profundity of that “dance” which lasted “five minutes”: it was a simple message; a universal, and timeless message, hence “what nowhere means and how time is lost”.

To know the truth and to realise its significance are two distinct modes of being. In the former case, there is no consequence on one’s disposition. It is like those encyclopedic trivia or academic discussions that remain self-contained. Or the doctor who advises against smoking but still lights a cigarette. Knowledge on its own is ineffective. Whereas the latter case of realisation entails a change in one’s attitude. It is the “aha!” moment when things click and everything makes perfect sense. The person undergoes a certain transformation: their outlook changes and their view of the world is more refined.

What I often tell others who check my philosophical works is that my greatest achievement is when their immediate thought is “this is obvious; I know it”. No, I am not fooling you. Strictly speaking, I have nothing fancy to teach you. I can only draw your attention to what you can already discern. All I do is render conspicuous the patterns which are “there”. The real challenge is not the complexity of the meanings I convey or the obscurity of the words I use, but your disposition towards them; your capacity to go from knowing the truth to living the truth. For example, if I tell you that all you need to be a philosopher is patience, you will think I am playing games with you. I am not. If I say that you own nothing, not even your self, you will again think that this is some rhetorical trick. It is not. I am simply “dancing”: what you see is what you get.

Read/watch:

• Who can be a philosopher
• On insecurity, confidence, and aloofness
• The presumptive idol of you
• The private and the political

The song is titled The pain of Heracles (Ο πόνος του Ηρακλή) with music and lyrics by Labis Xylouris (Λάμπης Ξυλούρης): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihgAP5dAKEc.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and some further philosophical comments.

Ο πόνος του Ηρακλή

Αν είναι πέτρα τηνε σπώ
Σίδερο το λυγίζω
Μα την παντέρμη αμοναξιά
δεν τηνε νταγιαντίζω

The pain of Heracles

If it is stone I break it
Iron I bend it
But the ever-solitary loneliness
I cannot endure

Heracles (Ηρακλής) is the indomitable hero of myth who is known for his peerless strength and self-discipline. Heracles is a demigod, endowed with talents that no human possesses. Yet the poet reminds us that even a being of such a sort is still not a god. Therein lies the insight that the seemingly invincible Heracles is, in fact, movable, fragile, breakable, human.

Our greatest weakness is our own narrative of selfhood. We sometimes make the mistake of believing in our own story, taking it too seriously, and confirming in our mind how we are, indeed, special.

[ Read/watch: On selfhood ]

One is healthy, energetic, and enjoys a life of plenty. Those comforts create the illusion of permanence, of safety everlasting. This, however, is the human who has deluded themselves into thinking they have transcended the boundaries of being human. None of those comforts are inherent to the human condition. They can all be taken away, leaving the being in its true state: exposed.

Heracles is breakable because all humans are. Even a half-god cannot escape from this reality. He can employ his strength to do unthinkable deeds, yet he cannot be immovable in the way the mountains in the video’s background are. Only the mountain does not flinch in the face of hardship. Humans can only work towards becoming less weak, less prone to self-deception. They shall never undo their humanity.

[ Read/watch: Who can be a philosopher and On insecurity, confidence, and aloofness ]

In my correspondence with people, I often use phrases such as “no worries” and “take it easy”. These are no mere figures of speech. I mean those words. Perhaps I should be more direct: “remember you are human”. Do not pretend to be tough. You are not. Do not pretend to be immovable. You are not.

Just stop pretending about your nature. Though not because I have some weird penchant for honesty. No. We are too nice and pretentious towards each other—I know how it works as I have done it countless times myself: masking my weakness, hiding behind a facade of happiness, saying that it is alright when it isn’t.

Don’t bother telling me the truth of your actuality. I know how to read people, anyway. A fraud can figure out another fraud given sufficient information.

[ Read/watch: The presumptive idol of you as well as The private and the political ]

Simply stop telling lies to yourself. Keep your self grounded in your reality. Whatever you think you have is not yours. Perhaps, then, you will be less fragile.

Now close your eyes and let the Muse take you to those mountaintops.

It is a slow-paced song with profound lyrics. I have covered Alkinoos once before in my Interpretation of “Mirror”, which was the first entry in this series starting on 2022-06-28.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and some philosophical thoughts.

Εκτός τόπου και χρόνου

Μοιάζει να ξεγλιστρά ο καιρός, μα δε με νοιάζει
Γίνεται στάχτη και καπνός, νερό που στάζει
Στις χαραμάδες του μυαλού, γλιστρά και φεύγει
Μα η αλήθεια είναι αλλού, σαν άστρο φέγγει
Σαν άστρο φέγγει

Εκτός τόπου και χρόνου να ζήσω μια φορά
Σαν ρόδα που κυλά στην άκρη εκεί του δρόμου
Με τίποτα δικό μου με πόδια δανεικά
Να κάνω το γύρω όλου του κόσμου

Μοιάζει να κυβερνά ο καημός, μα δε με νοιάζει
Έχει βαθύτερο σκοπό, και ας με πειράζει
Κι είναι ο σκοπός λυπητερός, και τραγουδάει
Γίνετε ύμνος γιορτινός, κι όλο γελάει
Κι όλο γελάει

Εκτός τόπου και χρόνου να ζήσω μια φορά
Σαν ρόδα που κυλά στην άκρη εκεί του δρόμου
Με τίποτα δικό μου με πόδια δανεικά
Να κάνω μια φορά το γύρο όλου του κόσμου

Out of space and time

It seems like time is slipping away, but I don't care
It turns into ash and smoke, water that drips
It falls through the mind's cracks and flees
Yet truth is elsehwere, like a star it shines
Like a star it shines

Out of space and time, to live once
Like a wheel that turns there by the side of the road
With nothing of my own, with borrowed feet
To once tour the whole world

It seems that sorrow rules, but I don't care
It has a deeper purpose, although it disturbs me
And if it's a sad tune, and it sings
It becomes a festive hymn, and always laughs
And always laughs

Out of space and time, to live once
Like a wheel that turns there by the side of the road
With nothing of my own, with borrowed feet
To once tour the whole world

We cannot literally live out of space and time. Our presence is temporal and spatial. We are transient and occupy a certain locus. Does Alkinoos speak nonsense, then? No, for we can develop a mindset of being focused on the here-and-now, which makes everything else irrelevant to our considerations.

While “here” and “now” are spatiotemporal magnitudes, the habit of operating within them allows us to escape from the thoughts about time and the particularities of the place. We stop being driven by the fear of time running out. We no longer have grand plans for the future upon which our whole world depends on. We acknowledge that things are not truly ours and contingent on our volition. We are a coincidence.

[ Read/watch: On insecurity, confidence, and aloofness, which is actually about non-disturbance and non-ownership. ]

In the present, we find the truth of the actual, of that which is, not has been, not will be. This truth is pertinent to the here-and-now. It is all that matters. Whether it will continue to be true in a different combination of space and time is of no concern to us: it is not for the present.

This is not about universal constants, but the attitude we have towards things. It concerns our experience. How absorbed we are in the illusion of permanence, of everything remaining the way we know it and want it to be. The belief in permanence underpins another illusion: that of ownership. We are invested in something or someone in a possessive sense of thinking of their presence as inalienable from our own. In actuality, there is impermanence and non-ownership. Everything is transfigurable.

[ Read/watch: Who can be a philosopher ]

Perhaps this is all too abstract, so let me couch it in terms of quotidian matters. Suppose you love someone and want to marry them. Perhaps you already did. Marriage is a long-term commitment. You are sure about your feelings for that person and are happy to stay with them. All good! Though you don’t love that person in the future: you love them now. There is no future in this experience. It is always a “now”, a “right here”, a “face-to-face”…

While the convention of marriage is a claim on a state of affairs yet-to-be, we don’t really know about it. You can say that you will love someone twenty years from now, though you cannot tell whether the preconditions for the expression of such an emotion will hold. You walk outside and get hit by a bus. There goes your illusion of owning the future: “your” future.

Our understanding of space and time in human relations is conventional. It is how everything works and that’s okay. We need such a shared belief to operate in practice. The mystical insight here is to not mistake conventions for universal constants. Such conflation will trouble us, undermine our stability, and jeopardise our condition. We will be labouring under falsehoods and keep making the wrong decisions. Then, when the truth of impermanence eventually hits us, we will feel devastated, empty, dead inside.

Returning to the lyrics of the song, we want to behave as if space and time do not exist, with our undivided attention on the present. We admit to have nothing of our own as we acknowledge non-ownership (check the link above for more on this matter). We shall then tour the whole world because our commitment to the present frees us from the concern of the locus: we shift from the place to the space. We live thus “once”, as we can keep doing it: there is no point in trying it “twice”.

And if you wish you just had that one thing you so desired; that which always eluded you; that which you were unfortunate to not have; that which is so close yet unattainable; that which saddens you; that which makes you wish you were somebody else; that which makes you hate who you are… Well, nothing is ever yours, my dear. Neither sadness nor hatred will change this fact.

Be.

In this entry, I want to experiment with a slightly different format. There will be music and I will still be logical as I cannot do any better, but there will be no translation of any lyrics. Just an appreciation of the performance.

Backstory on serendipity

I always listen to music while I knead my sourdough bread. Today I wanted to revisit a beloved song by Socratic Malamas (Σωκράτης Μάλαμας) whose translated title is “Gift of the world (cosmos)”. As I don’t have it in my local collection, I searched online and got an exact match. So I hit play and went on to knead the bread.

It turned out that this was a female singer performing at one of Socratis’ concerts. Though the media team did not specify as much in the video’s title (which is bad form): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f50PpLshjw4.

It is an outstanding performance! Wow! I had to learn more. This is Marina Dakanali (Μαρίνα Δακανάλη) who, apparently, does not have many videos of their work available. I did discover this gem, though: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guQQxeUAz4A.

The fully fledged human being

I am not translating the lyrics because I want you to feel these works. It is how I normally appreciate art: emotionally, aesthetically. These “interpretations” I started recently are, in a sense, artificial and misleading. I find songs that are remotely connected to whatever theory I want to expound on and then write the comments I already have in mind (or have covered elsewhere).

Feeling art is consistent with my philosophy on finding a balance in our life. The human condition is multifaceted. We are not purely rational, not me, not you, no-one. We are embodied, meaning that we are not—and cannot be—a spiritual presence. Our entire being will be at a benign equilibrium when we do not commit the mistake of wanting to be something we cannot.

There are stereotypes we try to conform with; expectations to fulfil in order to boost our credibility. Would we take an emotional philosopher seriously if we thought that philosophers are purely rational? No. It would contradict our view. We would have to either revise our position, or dismiss the information presented to us. The strictly rationalist philosopher is a figment of the imagination. As is every other fancy that is inconsistent with the multifacetedness of the human being.

This is why I like polytheism aesthetically (I don’t care about the religious aspect). It allows for different archetypes to be captured and to be expressed as the many sides of an otherwise singular divinity within the oneness of the cosmos. The goddess of wisdom (Athena) is not “better” than the god of festivities (Dionysos). Such is a false dichotomy. These are poetic constructs, symbols underpinning sprawling narratives, which help capture and express our all-too-human actuality. One can be wise and still enter the entrancing state that only a festival with no pretences enables.

I am against the “geek” or “nerd”, meaning the specialist who is obsessed with one thing but otherwise has no sensitivities. It is the kind of imbalance that inhibits our potential. Be an expert in your field, but don’t lose sight of the bigger picture. Get out of your comfort zone and, maybe, you will learn something more about you.

[ Read/watch: On insecurity, confidence, and aloofness and The presumptive idol of you ]

There are no invalid emotions

A few years ago, I had an experience that inspired a certain publication: Why you are not important (all those “Why…” dialogues are based on real events). Part of the discussion covered the point of what are the right emotions for someone who wishes to be philosophical. This is a recurring theme in my exchanges.

I think emotions cannot be wrong per se. They are hard-coded into our being. Consider, for instance, feeling sad for the death of a loved one. Any philosopher who counts that as “invalid” either has a peculiar way of expressing their views or fails to consider that emotions are part of the human condition. The sadness is what it is. It is okay to feel sad in such a case. The real problem is to not recognise certain facts:

• Death is inevitable. If we think otherwise, we are being misled by a belief in permanence. By accepting impermanence a burden is lifted from our shoulders.

• To feel is human and we are human. Pretending that we have no emotions is the same as lying. And lying consistently is the kind of denial that engenders the imbalance in our state.

The key is to accept our humanity and work towards a disposition that avoids the extremes. Through moderation, we do not abolish emotions and enter some state of humanlessness. We simply learn to not be disturbed by phenomena as we have already normalised them. For instance, we take death with a certain calmness because we acknowledge impermanence, else the incessant transfiguration of presences in the cosmos, not due to a lack of feelings.

To be balanced is to cultivate all sides of our humanity with a view of the whole. We care for the body in the same way we keep the mind sharp. We experience awe through exposure to the wonders of nature. And we broaden our analytical skills by making them work in concert with the rest of our condition.

Just listen to the music. This is beauty. No gimmicks, no hypocrisy. I don’t need to explain it to you. And who knows? You might be moved by art and shed a tear. It will remind you what you are. It will keep you honest.

• Must (Of course we mustn’t)
• Letter

I have chosen the version which is performed by Ioulia Karapataki (Ιουλία Καραπατάκη), with Socratis on the guitar, because I like her voice and how it helps us travel to otherworldly places through the words of this insightful song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqGUlgjrtwU. For context, here is Socratis being effortlessly wonderful: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzr_WIUkq-U.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Οι μύστες της ερήμου

Ερμηνεία:  Ιουλία Καραπατάκη (πρώτη εκτέλεση του Σωκράτη Μάλαμα)
Στίχοι:    Άλκης Αλκαίος
Μουσική:   Σωκράτης Μάλαμας


Θαμπώσαν οι ανάσες μας στο τζάμι
κι εσύ μιλάς για χρόνια της αρμύρας
μπροστά σε αδειανά μπουκάλια μπύρας
με βλέμμα καρφωμένο στο ταβάνι

Έξω κυλάει της πόλης το ποτάμι
δε μου 'πες στα ταξίδια σου τι είδες
αν όπως πήγες γύρισες, δεν πήγες
στου κόσμου το πολύχρωμο χαρμάνι

Δώσε μου την αρμύρα σου και πάρε τη βροχή μου
κι άκου τα λόγια που έλεγαν οι μύστες της ερήμου
φωτιά γυρεύει η φωτιά και η αγάπη πόνο
τον εαυτό σου δε θα βρεις αν δε χαθείς στον κόσμο

Θαμπώσαν οι ανάσες μας το τζάμι
κι εσύ μ' ένα δαφνόφυλλο στα χείλη
πώς θα 'σαι πάντα λες σκιά μου φίλη
και στρίβεις μ' ένα αντίο στο λιμάνι

Έξω κυλάει της πόλης το ποτάμι
δε μου 'πες στα ταξίδια σου τι είδες
αν όπως πήγες γύρισες, δεν πήγες
στου κόσμου το πολύχρωμο χαρμάνι

Δώσε μου την αρμύρα σου και πάρε τη βροχή μου
κι άκου τα λόγια που έλεγαν οι μύστες της ερήμου
φωτιά γυρεύει η φωτιά και η αγάπη πόνο
τον εαυτό σου δε θα βρεις αν δε χαθείς στον κόσμο

The mystics of the desert

Singer:  Ioulia Karapataki (first performance by Socratis Malamas)
Lyrics:  Alkis Alkaios
Music:   Socratis Malamas


Our breath has blurred the glass
and you talk about the years of saltiness
in front of empty beer bottles
with the sight pinned to the ceiling

Outside the city's river flows
you didn't tell me what you saw in your journeys
if you returned as you went, you did not go
to the world's colourful mixture

Give me your saltiness and take my rain
and listen to the words spoken by the mystics of the desert
fire seeks fire and love [seeks] pain
you won't find yourself if you don't get lost in the world

Our breath has blurred the glass
and you with a bay leaf in the lips
say you'll always be my shadow friend
and turn with a farewell towards the port

Outside the city's river flows
you didn't tell me what you saw in your journeys
if you returned as you went, you did not go
to the world's colourful mixture

Give me your saltiness and take my rain
and listen to the words spoken by the mystics of the desert
fire seeks fire and love [seeks] pain
you won't find yourself if you don't get lost in the world

To my mind, this song talks about authenticity. Being genuine presupposes speaking and behaving in honesty. Honesty is not the same as the age-old exhortation parents have for their kids to not tell lies. It is, above all, a matter of self-reflection, of recognising what the case is and how one operates within or due to it.

I have experienced people in different situations. For example, a heterosexual male acquaintance would be funny and relaxed while with me, but would act all serious and alpha-male-like in the midst of females. Why? Because being relaxed and funny is “childish” while conforming with the chimera of the “alpha male” is supposed to be what “real men” do. Such a person needs to reflect on their reflexive behaviour. Why does the presence of the gender they are attracted to cause this change in disposition? Will they keep this charade forever or will they eventually tell the women how they were acting this whole time? And who is the “real” person, anyway? My funny and relaxed acquaintance or the sociopathic “macho man” made out of him?

Honesty has to involve awareness of one’s condition. It needs to be conducted consistently, in a spirit of dubitativeness and inquisitiveness. It does not remain at the level of appearances; at the stage of not “telling lies”. Instead, it delves into the specifics to inquire about the underpinnings of phenomena.

[ Read/watch: Who can be a philosopher ]

Honesty involves discipline. There isn’t a boss that compels one into action, forces specific conditions, and sets clear targets. Rigour has to come from within. In one’s private world, honesty can only reveal what the person is willing to discover and what is rendered perceptible by their current attitude.

One may be formally honest, in the sense of not telling any lies, yet still withhold the truth from their self. A way this can happen is by never exiting one’s comfort zone. The person always does what has worked for them and never challenges their subjective narrative of selfhood. As such, their behaviour is conditioned by their comfort zone. In turn, the feedback of those actions serves as validation for—and rationalisation of—the comfort zone’s presumed significance. Too much comfort may be the sign of complacency, else a sweet delusion.

[ Read/watch: On insecurity, confidence, and aloofness ]

To be honest with consistency, one must be prepared to disturb their own truths. Inspect them again, put them to the test, and check whether they still stand. Through life experiences we learn that what we once took for granted is now exposed as a falsehood. Oh, how many lies I used to consider as self-evident truths!

Returning to the lyrics of the song, we learn how the poetic “journey” has the potential to remake the person. Those who travel only to return unaltered never experienced the “journey”. Perhaps they were not paying attention to their surroundings. Maybe they were invested in notions they had already established and had grown attached to. Or they simply got stuck in a snapshot of the past or an aspiration for the future, unwilling to let go and to simply experience the here-and-now.

[ Read/watch: On learning and being present ]

The reason one can find their self once they get lost in the world is because only such a sense of loss triggers an escape from one’s comfort zone. The truth is not always pleasant: it comes with great costs and requires sacrifices.

Who are the mystics of the desert? “Mystic”, “mysticism”, and related terms denote initiation in a school of thought or discipline. This involves knowledge: the mystic is profoundly knowledgeable, while mysterious is that which we lack knowledge of—it is not inherently unintelligible. And what about the desert? It is a metaphor for the loneliness that defines the mystic’s life. The mystic is alone. Not because they dislike society or think that having company is somehow bad. Not because they have an inflated sense of importance and are arrogant about it. The mystic is lonely due to their quality as a mystic: others simply do not understand what the mystic has to offer and/or are intimidated to go beyond the formalities with them.

The mystic is essentially invisible to the inattentive eye: too basic and unimpressive in their appearance and too subtle in terms of substance. Alone then.

One may find the truth in this “desert”, in this state of being where they can no longer rely on conventional truths and such conveniences. Are they ready for it? Do they understand how that feels?

Also check the masterful cover by Socratis Malamas (Σωκράτης Μάλαμας): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwjxJIysFyg (I prefer this one because I love his voice).

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and philosophical commentary.

Πρέπει (Ασφαλώς και δεν πρέπει)

Ερμηνεία:  Βίκυ Μοσχολιού
Στίχοι:    Άκης Πάνου
Μουσική:   Άκης Πάνου


Ασφαλώς και δεν πρέπει να μας δούνε παρέα
Επεράσαμε ωραία λίγες ώρες μαζί
Είναι η πρώτη μας νύχτα, πρώτη και τελευταία
Ασφαλώς και δεν πρέπει να μας δούνε παρέα

Ασφαλώς και το ξέρω πως δεν είμαστε ίδια
Μοναχά στα παιχνίδια είμαστε όλοι παιδιά
Και αν εσύ το ξεχάσεις η ζωή στο θυμίζει
Και πεθαίνει η αγάπη και σωπαίνει η καρδιά

Είμαι εκείνη που είμαι και έχεις όνομα κάποιο
Σε χρυσό κόσμο σάπιο δε χωράω να μπω
Κάνε εκείνο που πρέπει, όλα τα επιτρέπει
Το δικό σου το πρέπει ένα πρέπει θαμπό

Must (Of course it musn't)

Singer:  Vicky Moscholiou
Lyrics:  Akis Panou
Music:   Akis Panou


Of course we musn't be seen together
Had a good time for a few hours together
It is our first night, first and last
Of course we musn't be seen together

Of course I know we aren't the same
Only in games everybody is a child
And if you forget it life reminds you
And love dies and the heart remains silent

I am who I am and you have a certain name
In a golden rotten world I can't fit in
Do what you must, it allows everything
Your must is a blurred must

The apparent message of this song is that of forbidden love, of an affair that cannot materialise under the prevailing circumstances. Though there is nothing particularly erotic or romantic in the lyrics. They are but a description of how norms, roles, and social stratification or segregation work.

[ Read/watch: Expectations, rules, and role-playing ]

Each person has their status. It is not about the person, but the institution. Prince William is not William. The actual human being does not matter all that much. The focus is on the office and how the person performs in accordance with its demands. And if William forgets, life (i.e. others) will remind him that he is the Prince.

Either we conform with our role or have to escape from its grip. To rebel successfully or die trying. Else we embody the institution: we become the bundle of all those “must” and “must not” that are fastened upon the cultural construct we represent.

[ Read/watch On insecurity, confidence, and aloofness ]

How class or caste can divide people is quite clear. Though consider other types of relationships that suffer from discrimination and prejudice, such as a person from a deeply theistic community loving an atheist, instances of homosexuality, a foreigner in a racist milieu… “Of course it mustn’t” happen because the prevailing values and traditions demand otherwise.

Values and traditions do not speak, have no opinion, and no means by which to carry out actions. These are ideas that are shared by people and only become actualised through the behaviour of those individuals. They are preserved, substantiated, and enforced intersubjectively.

The “must” or “mustn’t” are products of institution: the process of enacting concepts as enforceable rules. The social whole applies its notions and works for their preservation or proliferation. Through this mechanism, the effective emergent organism reproduces itself in the form of intergenerational representations, else culture. Seen in macroscopic terms, this happens organically.

To institute is to set apart an opinion and exalt it as the right one. Not in a spirit of openness, but as a matter of favouring a certain view of the world. The instituted reality necessarily is opinionated and resistant to counterpoints.

[ Read/watch: Conventions, relativism, and cosmopolitanism ]

It is common for private choices or group behaviours to be justified by the presence of certain institutions. Values and traditions serve as the indisputable authority that people invoke in support of their deeds. When someone appeals to authority, they are not really interested in deliberation. They have no intent to cooperate in a joint pursuit to figure out what the truth is. The authority is absolute. The “must” or “mustn’t” tolerates no alternatives.

Especially in so-called “Western” countries, we can been conditioned to think that these sort of issues do not exist. We believe we have perfectly open societies that simply tolerate everything. Love everywhere! Yet hidden behind that facade of superficial “progress” are deep-seated biases and simmering culture wars.

Every society comes with a latent capacity of intolerance and totalitarianism. Those who think otherwise, those who hope that some constitution or legal document will by itself safeguard fundamental rights are naive. What is instituted, is continuously affirmed. What is instituted can be reinstituted. Freedoms can be rolled back. Absolutism may be established as the new normal. A civilisation declines when its members grow complacent.

The specifics of the forbidden love, then, are a reminder of what the effective instituted reality is at any given moment. Going by its precepts, we mustn’t proceed. But why should we provide assent to them, anyway? Let love speak. Enough with the “must”!

For this entry, I have picked Imagination (Η Φαντασία), which is a wonderful song with an insightful message: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0jej0gbAGc.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Η Φαντασία

Ερμηνεία:  Γιώργος Νταλάρας
Στίχοι:    Ευτυχία Παπαγιαννοπούλου
Μουσική:   Απόστολος Καλδάρας


Δε φταις εσύ, η φαντασία μου τα φταίει
που σ' έπλασε όπως ήθελε αυτή
Η φαντασία μου που χρόνια με γελούσε
πως θα μ' ανοίξεις την καρδιά μου την κλειστή

Μα ποιο είναι κείνο το όνειρο
που βγαίνει πάντα αλήθεια
και δεν αφήνει χαρακιές στις περισσότερες καρδιές
και μια πληγή στα στήθια

Δε φταις εσύ, η φαντασία μου τα φταίει
Γι αυτό μην κλαις που φεύγω βιαστικά
σε μένα τώρα πια ταιριάζει για να κλάψω
για της καρδιάς μου τα χαμένα ιδανικά

Μα ποιο είναι κείνο το όνειρο
που βγαίνει πάντα αλήθεια
και δεν αφήνει χαρακιές στις περισσότερες καρδιές
και μια πληγή στα στήθια

Imagination

Singer:  George Dalaras
Lyrics:  Eftichia Papayianopoulou
Music:   Apostolos Kaldaras


It's not your fault, my imagination is to blame
which moulded you the way it wanted
The imagination which fooled me for years
that you would open my closed heart

But which is that dream
that always comes true
that leaves no scratches on most hearts
and a wound on the chest

It's not your fault, my imagination is to blame
So don't cry that I leave in a hurry
It befits me to cry now
for my heart's lost ideals

But which is that dream
that always comes true
that leaves no scratches on most hearts
and a wound on the chest

“It is the hope that kills you”, as the saying goes. This is essentially what the song is about. Aspirations, desires, expectations… They all spring from the mind and all have the potential to force us into submission.

Our imagination is a powerful instrument. It is what allows us to fathom alternative outcomes in the workings of a given case and implement the requisite changes. The imaginary is that which is not constrained by the actual and thus has the capacity to reveal the inner mechanics of a given arrangement of factors.

To imagine, then, is to escape from the confines of the applicable into the domain of the possible. It is a mistake to think of imaginary worlds as unreal. They are real in their conceivability. Their very presence as objects of thought, noetic presences, is not false per se. They simply are not actual.

This subtle yet vital distinction helps us appreciate the key role imagination plays in one’s creativity or ingenuity. When someone appears to have created something from nothing, they have rendered actual that which was theretofore real albeit imaginary. In other words, a plane of reality has in its potential all that is conceivable within it.

[ Read: Why you are not important ]

Imagining things has its concequences. For example, a positive scenario evokes pleasant feelings. Emotions have a cascading effect on the biochemistry of the body, leading to at least a short-term boost to one’s overall wellness when the feelings are good (and the opposite when they are not).

To imagine thus means to engender states of affairs in this plane of existence. It is an action with its own chain of reactions, just as with everything else we take for granted in the “real world”.

Imagination is a double-edged sword though. The power to escape from the particulars can be used to great effect to produce consequences in the here-and-now, though latent in it is the destructive force of detachment and removal from the present.

Read/watch:

• On learning and being present
• Interpretation of “Between” by Memphis (Μ3ΜΦ1Σ)

The person can get lost in the imaginary domain and thus fail to distinguish the actual from the non-actual. This can take many forms, such as clinging to one’s past, believing that some anonymous stranger is destined to become your one true love, having an unfair view about your self-worth, and so on.

Imagination is what prevents us from disambiguating ideals from the actuality of things. Insofar as the actual is concerned, ideals cannot exist qua ideals. They may only be rendered present as instantiations of an ideal, though that means they will be subject to the vicissitudes of the applicable case and thus be informed, framed, conditioned, or otherwise determined by magnitudes external to them.

When we imagine things in this way, we fail to recognise the benign function ideals perform in our life. An ideal is an abstraction from the particularities. It is the common in the multitude of instances which we give a name to and fasten attributes (mode of being) upon. For example, the ideal of dog, such as how it is used in the taxonomy of species, has to have the minimum amount of attributes which are then substantiated and expanded upon in different breeds/landraces and then individual specimens. Yet dog as such cannot subsist, for the minimum of an ideal is not sufficient for the viability of the actual: the scope of modality between the two is different.

In simple terms, ideals help us understand things in vitro. To apply the findings in vivo we have to make certain changes. The ideal is our guide in life, as it helps us tell apart that which fulfils its stated ends from that which fall way short of them. Think, for instance, about a “good knife” as opposed to a “bad knife” when it comes to the function of slicing things effectively. The ideal is the benchmark.

Imagination becomes a problem when we fail to (i) recognise that ideals are not actual, and (ii) that actuality is not perfect. Everything we do and everything we have is imperfect, else not ideal. The most beautiful person is not Beauty. The most wise of sages is not Wisdom. The most effective of dogs is not Dog.

Returning to the words of the song, when we put someone on a pedestal, when we think that their pretty looks are peerless and that the value of the whole world is predicated on them, we commit the error of conflating the actual with the ideal.

It is not your fault: I was just imagining things. My mistake is that I did not keep my imagination in check.

• I have a house
• The Sweet Paradox

For the present entry, I want to comment on the profound words of Between (Ανάμεσα), all while introducing you to another wonderful song from this exceptionally talented band: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5cSDDhv_OVI (also check their bandcamp page for their entire discography: https://m3mf1s.bandcamp.com/music).

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical remarks.

Ανάμεσα

Τα πιο μεγάλα κύματα μονάχα ταξιδεύουν
Και όσοι τα ονειρεύτηκαν μάταια τα καρτερούν
Τα πιο θλιμμένα πρωινά είναι αυτά που θα 'ρθουν
Σε όσους τα φοβήθηκαν πικρό φιλί κερνούν

Aνάμεσα μου λες σ' αυτό που είμαι και που θες
Χρόνια θα παρεμβάλλονται, αιώνες και εποχές
Aνάμεσα μου λες στο αύριο και το χθες
θα υπάρχει ένα σήμερα γεμάτο ενοχές

Τα πιο σφιγμένα βλέφαρα αυτά μόνο γνωρίζουν
Λόγια που τόσο θέλησαν μα ντράπηκαν να βγουν
Τα πιο αθώα ψέματα στα μάτια σε κοιτάζουν
Και όσοι μαζί τους ξαγρυπνούν μαθαίνουν να αγαπούν

Between

The greatest waves only travel
And those who dreamt of them wait in vain
The saddest mornings are those to come
They serve a bitter kiss to those who are afraid of them

You say between what I am and what I want
Years will interject, aeons and epochs
You say between the tomorrow and the yesterday
there will be a today filled with regrets

Only the most tense brows know
Words which wanted so much but were shy to come out
The most innocuous lies stare you in the eyes
And those who hold vigil with them learn to love

“Between” is an intermediate state. We might think of it as transitory, as moving from one stable state to another. But what if every experience is of this sort? What if all that we live through is transient. Are there, then, any real stops along the way? Is there a point that can be treated as fixed? What is this “somewhere” we are transitioning towards and are we really getting “there” or do we remain in transit, always chasing after it?

The “between” is an analytical construct. Yes, there is a past and a future, with the present in-between. Yet we cannot say that either the past or the future exist. Where are they located exactly? What are their attributes and mode of being? Everything that is ephemeral, is predicated on what has been. However, the cosmos is ever-lasting. Time is pertinent to items whose presence is temporary. For the cosmos as such, time is irrelevant. Such is the implication of it being ever-lasting: it always is. There is no past, no future. It is simply present: a total presence.

[ Read/watch: Cosmos, Logos, and the living universe ]

The “between” is the innocuous lie we all arrive at intuitively. Who I was yesterday, what my plans are for tomorrow… I can understand the analytical constructs of past, present, and future, ultimately taking them as universal constants. Still, I know all-too-well that I cannot live in either the past or the future. Behold the lie right in front of me! All I can ever do is be present. This is not a matter of choice. My condition as human, my condition as a presence, imposes as much.

We sometimes cling on to the past. Perhaps to the “good old days” of yesteryear which provide a stark contrast to the particularities of our dystopic locus. Or we daydream of what is yet to transpire, as we find solace in the escape from the immediate into the possible. Even the strongest attachment of this kind cannot refashion our actuality. The past or future can only be lived in the present. The mind may travel wherever it wants, though its phantasmagoric journey is one of continuous presence.

Those who love are the ones who have learnt about this innocuous lie and have overcome it. They understand that only the here-and-now is lived and they find value in that fact. This type of love is unlike the conventional one, for it has no expectations of commitment, contractual obligations, associated social roles of conformance with some norm, delusions of “happily ever after”, and so on. This love pertains to the undivided attention one gives to the moment.

Such peculiar “lover” operates with aloofness. They are not burdened by worries and insecurities.

• Do they still love me?
• Will they stay with me?

Questions along those lines are meaningless to the agent of action who only operates in the here-and-now. They are troubling thoughts about what isn’t “there”. The “lover” experiences love in the present. There is no other experience.

It is for this reason that the song talks about the saddest mornings that are to happen. If we worry about them, if we fear that which does not exist, if we reify the conceptual as a substitute of the present, we are to be served a bitter kiss. We become insecure, fearful, stressed, unsettled. The expectation, the distraction from our actuality, the “what I want”, is undoing us. Same principle for those who wait pointlessly for some eventuality. They too shall suffer.

What about the shy words, then? I think they are those inklings of recognition we have for the aforementioned, but are trapped in the taboos of our cultural setting and are scared to pursue their truth.

• Will you always be by my side?
• Best friends forever?

Whatever the answer, it is unreliable. The questions assume as real the impossibility of a present future. To entertain that notion as the basis of one’s life is to labour under beguiling illusions. Admission of this simple fact is hard—I know. Those words are too shy. The embarrassment to speak the truth is what holds one hostage to falsehood. The shy ones shall thus wait in vain and be given the most acerbic of kisses.

The present is full of regrets only when it is pulled on either side of this intermediate “between” state. It otherwise consists in aloofness: the lightness of being ever-present. No regrets, no expectations, no fear, no hope. Nothing. What is, is.

Below are the lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Note that Pavlos was the lead singer of the old Greek rock band Ta Xylina Spathia (Τα Ξύλινα Σπαθιά, “The Wooden Swords”). I have already interpreted a couple of their songs:

• The king of dust
• At the rock

Λαθρεπιβάτης

Τις περισσότερες φορές που ταξιδεύω με τα μάτια κλειστά
ένας μικρός λαθρεπιβάτης από δίπλα με κοιτάει σιωπηλά
Καμιά φορά μου τραγουδάει ένα απόκοσμο τραγούδι μα εγώ
κάθε φορά που επιστρέφω το ξεχνάω όσο και αν προσπαθώ.

Και όπως φεύγουνε οι μέρες και περνούν τα χρόνια
τόσο μοιάζει ν' αντηχεί πιο καθαρά
σαν κραυγή από πουλί που διψασμένο αιώνια
καθρεφτίζεται στης λίμνης τα νερά.

Τις περισσότερες φορές που επιστρέφω κουρασμένος αργά
ένα αόρατο θηρίο πλησιάζει κι ανασαίνει βαριά
Καμιά φορά μου διηγείται ιστορίες που ίσως έχουν συμβεί
Τις περισσότερες τις είπα και άλλες τόσες έχουν πια ξεχαστεί

Και όπως φεύγουνε οι μέρες και περνούν τα χρόνια
τόσο μοιάζει ν' αντηχεί πιο καθαρά
σαν αρχαίο βουητό που ταξιδεύει αιώνια
και σκορπάει στου καταρράκτη τα νερά

Τις περισσότερες φορές που ταξιδεύω με τα μάτια κλειστά
ένας μικρός λαθρεπιβάτης από δίπλα με κοιτάει σιωπηλά
Την προηγούμενη φορά του είχα πει κάπου σ' αυτή τη στροφή
ότι θα άλλαζα πορεία κι ότι πια δε θα μπορεί να με βρει

Illegal passenger

Most times while I travel with my eyes closed
a small illegal passenger watches me silently from the side
Sometimes he sings for me an otherworldly song, yet
each time I return forget it no matter how hard I try

And as the days go by and the years pass
so it seems to echo more clearly
as a cry of a bird which eternally thirsty
mirrors on the lake's waters

Most times I return late and tired
an invisible creature approaches and breathes heavily
Sometimes it tells me stories that may have happened
I have already told most of them and as many have been forgotten

And as the days go by and the years pass
so it seems to echo more clearly
as an ancient sound that travels eternally
and dissipates in the waterfall's waters

Most times while I travel with my eyes closed
a small illegal passenger watches me silently from the side
Last time I told him that somewhere on this turn
I would change course and that he wouldn't be able to find me

To me, the illegal passenger is an alien being that accompanies the poetic “I” when it aspires to its highest. It is “illegal” because the instituted reality of humankind already has little tolerance for foreigners, let alone otherworldly presences or lofty standards.

The illegal passenger figuratively is the deity that is always by the artist’s side, ready to support them in their endeavours. This peculiar fellow traveller is the source of inspiration of all great works and the impetus for the apparent creativity of the person.

What Pavlos is doing here is to follow the several-millennia-long tradition of not taking ownership for one’s work. The ancient Greek creator would appeal to the Muses (goddesses of arts, letters, and science) for inspiration. The relevant Muse would sing and the human would create.

The creator, then, is not the owner of the work that would conventionally be assigned to them. The intent of the Muse is to share the message with humankind at-large. It belongs to the cosmos. The creator is but a capable messenger, which is a great honour and a matter of responsibility towards the world.

This is not to belittle anyone’s work, but to couch it in terms of the fact of non-ownership. Sure, the legal order may envisage that words, concepts, artefacts, etc. must have an owner, yet no law or edict may render this relationship inalienable. The thing being owned can subsist or be conceptualised independent of its owner, and vice-versa.

[ Read/watch: Who can be a philosopher ]

By attributing the work to the Muses or some illegal passenger, we stop providing assent to the notion that anything can be owned. We learn to let go and, in the process, feel no disturbance when something or someone is eventually—and inevitably—taken away from us.

We also acknowledge that we do not control how others will interpret our works and how those may inspire them to also heed the call of the Muses.

The other meaning of the “illegal passenger” figure is that of the misfit, the ever-alien, who speaks a truth whose profundity is only realised years later. They are a misfit exactly because they cannot be assessed using ordinary criteria. Going by appearances, the illegal passenger is unremarkable and, at times, an altogether invisible creature.

This reminds me of an occasion where I was asked if I earn an income from philosophy. The idea was to determine the worth of wisdom by the proxy of profit. I replied negatively, thus validating the person’s opinion on the uselessness of philosophy.

An artist may perform at some festival and earn an income. A painter might exchange their paintings for a sack of potatoes. What about the philosopher? How much should this omniscient market pay for insights that have the potential to remake a person, either directly or through their reverberations?

Mal du Départ is French: it means the “illness of departure”. It is the original title of the poem, even though its text is in Greek.

Kavvadias was a sailor by trade. He drew inspiration from his travels to develop the imagery and symbolism we find in his poems; expressions which encapsulate different facets of the human condition.

What follows is the original poem, my translation, and some further comments on what meaning I derive therefrom.

The song version of Mal du Départ was originally performed by Kostas Karalis (Κώστας Καράλης) with music by Yiannis Spanos (Γιάννης Σπανός). Here is the entry from the 1970s: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWbq3GSMSr8. And this is a more recent one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eu1n71vLyE8. I prefer the latter as Karalis’ voice is more mature—a master at the peak of his art.

Mal du Départ

Στίχοι: Νίκος Καββαδίας
Μουσική: Γιάννης Σπανός


Θα μείνω πάντα ιδανικός κι ανάξιος εραστής
των μακρυσμένων ταξιδιών και των γαλάζιων πόντων,
και θα πεθάνω μια βραδιά σαν όλες τις βραδιές,
χωρίς να σχίσω τη θολή γραμμή των οριζόντων.

Για το Μαδράς τη Σιγκαπούρ τ' Αλγέρι και το Σφαξ
θ' αναχωρούν σαν πάντοτε περήφανα τα πλοία,
κι εγώ σκυφτός σ' ένα γραφείο με χάρτες ναυτικούς,
θα κάνω αθροίσεις σε χοντρά λογιστικά βιβλία.

Θα πάψω πια για μακρινά ταξίδια να μιλώ,
οι φίλοι θα νομίζουνε πως τα 'χω πια ξεχάσει,
κι η μάνα μου χαρούμενη θα λέει σ' όποιον ρωτά:
«Ήταν μια λόξα νεανική, μα τώρα έχει περάσει»

Μα ο εαυτός μου μια βραδιά εμπρός μου θα υψωθεί
και λόγο ως ένας δικαστής στυγνός θα μου ζητήσει,
κι αυτό το ανάξιο χέρι μου που τρέμει θα οπλιστεί,
θα σημαδέψει κι άφοβα το φταίχτη θα χτυπήσει.

Κι εγώ που τόσο επόθησα μια μέρα να ταφώ
σε κάποια θάλασσα βαθειά στις μακρινές Ινδίες,
θα 'χω ένα θάνατο κοινό και θλιβερό πολύ
και μια κηδεία σαν των πολλών ανθρώπων τις κηδείες.

Mal du Départ

Lyrics:  Nikos Kavvadias
Music:   Yiannis Spanos


I'll always remain an idealist and worthless lover
of the long journeys and the azure seas,
and I will die on a night like all other nights,
without crossing the faint line of the horizons.

For Madras, Singapore, Algiers, and Sfax
ships will proudly depart as always,
and I, bent over a desk with nautical maps,
will perform additions in thick acocunting books.

I shall stop talking about long journeys,
the friends will think I have finally forgotten them,
and my mother will happily say to whomever asks:
"it was a youthful craze, but now it's over."

But one night my self will stand before me
and as stern judge will ask for a word,
and this worthless hand which shakes will arm itself,
take aim and fearlessly fire at the culprit.

And I who so desired to one day be burried
in some deep sea in the distant Indies,
shall have an ordinary and very sad death
and a funeral like most peoples' funerals.

The poem speaks about unfulfilled desires pertaining to one’s modus vivendi. The poetic “I” dreams about long journeys in distant lands but is ultimately pressured to lead an ordinary life.

The happiness of the mother represents social institutions and the roles they define. It is expected of a good lad to get a decent job, then a worthy spouse, and everybody shall live happily ever after. But dreamers cannot find comfort in such a state of affairs. It is a conventional brand of happiness that does not account for the subjectivity of the person.

The idealist lover of alternatives does not care if society at-large draws pleasure from predictability. To the adventurer these are the trappings of an unbearable actuality. Conformity is where dreams go to die.

The poetic “I” is worthless because of its failure hitherto to muster the courage to turn its back on the future that was prepared for it. What is the point of making your mother, friends, and this impersonal “society” happy, if it leaves you dead inside? Why toil over thick accounting books when all you ever wanted was to chase the horizon? Why can’t others just stop being opinionated about the life choices of another? Where is the difficulty?

Societies behave like organisms. They have a propensity to ensure their survival which, in this case, comes through the preservation and proliferation of their institutions. The “good lad”, the “worthy spouse”, the meticulously mapped course to the simulacrum of happiness… These are all institutions: beliefs that are codified into norms and/or laws which dictate what an agent of action is, which are the desired outcomes, and how those may be achieved.

The struggle for survival is what protects forms from the entropy that brings about formlessness. Though it is a crude mechanism that lacks judgement. It is not governed by wisdom and thus is devoid of an understanding of the bigger picture; a picture which otherwise hints at the potentiality of a new outcome.

[ Read/watch: Who can be a philosopher ]

The idealist embodies such a potential. Their aspirations provide conduits into possible worlds; worlds which the organism that operates on instinct alone is deeply afraid of and has trouble tolerating.

We do not pursue our dreams because of the false sense of duty towards others. But also due to the baseless belief that there will be a second chance. We think we can placate the mother and the friends in present time and, somehow, the universe will conspire in our favour to reward us for our heteronomy, for this decision of others to be determined by others.

There seldom are second chances in life. Such is a pernicious delusion. Either you follow your dream, even if its fire shall burn you or stay put at whatever role others have prepared for you.

It is not just society that fears the unknown and prefers to fall back to the certainty of its routines. All organisms have behavioural patterns of this sort. We are not different. While the inner voice of the lover of long journeys speaks of exploration, we are biased in favour of the immediately realisable.

There has to be a reckoning. We cannot simply ignore our wants. They won’t go away. They never do. It is at that moment when we can decide to perform what essentially is a leap of faith. We may land on a safe spot and live through a new beginning or find gruesome death then and there. No-one really knows. Sometimes it is a risk worth taking. It may even be the only sane option.

As for what mother and friends think… They will have to manage.

What follows are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and subsequent philosophical commentary.

Γυρίζω τις πλάτες μου στο μέλλον


Γυρίζω τις πλάτες μου στο μέλλον
στο μέλλον που φτιάχνετε όπως θέλετε
Αφού η ιστορία σας ανήκει
σαρώστε το λοιπόν αν επιμένετε

Στ' αυτιά μου δε χωράνε υποσχέσεις
Το έργο το' χω δει, μη με τρελαίνετε
Το πλοίο των ονείρων μου με πάει
σε κόσμους που εσείς δεν τους αντέχετε

Μένω μονάχος στο παρόν μου
να σώσω οτιδήποτε αν σώζεται
κι ας έχω τις συνέπειες του νόμου
συνένοχο στο φόνο δε θα μ' έχετε

Γυρίζω τις πλάτες μου στο μέλλον
το κόλπο είναι στημένο και στα μέτρα σας
Ξεγράψτε με απ' τα κατάστιχά σας
στον κόπο σας δεν μπαίνω και στα έργα σας

Γυρίζω τις πλάτες μου στο μέλλον
στο μέλλον που φτιάχνετε όπως θέλετε
Αφού η ιστορία σας ανήκει
σαρώστε το λοιπόν αν επιμένετε

Μένω μονάχος στο παρόν μου
να σώσω οτιδήποτε αν σώζεται
κι ας έχω τις συνέπειες του νόμου
συνένοχο στο φόνο δε θα μ' έχετε

I turn my back on the future

["you" is always plural]


I turn my back on the future
the future you make up as you want
As history belongs to you
sweep it [the future] if you insist

Promises cannot fit into my ears
I've seen the play, don't drive me crazy.
The ship of my dreams takes me
to worlds you don't tolerate

I stay alone in my present
to salvage whatever can be saved
and even if I bear the consequences of the law
I won't be complicit to the murder

I turn my back to the future
the game is rigged and to your standards
Remove me from your records
I won't do your bidding and your works

I turn my back on the future
the future you make up as you want
As history belongs to you
sweep it if you insist

I stay alone in my present
to salvage whatever can be saved
and even if I bear the consequences of the law
I won't be complicit to the murder

The inattentive reader of my writings will think that I advocate for an individualistic world-view where the person can just believe in their strength and the universe will conspire in their favour to grant them whatever they want. While there is scope for individual action and the assumption of agency, it always occurs within a structure that lies outside the control of the agent. In simple terms, the environment must be conducive to the change and contribute to its realisation.

[ Read/watch: Expectations, rules, and role-playing ]

The song’s message is clearly political. Politics at-large is outside the control of any one agent, especially those who are not members of the power elite. Let’s say you are a young, able-bodied male. The government has decided to wage a war of aggression which, of course, it calls by some other name such as a “peacekeeping operation”, “counter-insurgency”, “anti-terrorism”, and so on. The government needs an army and so it conscripts you to fight on the battlefield. You were not asked what your opinion is about the propriety of this campaign—not you, not your peers, no-one. You simply qualify as fodder for the cannons, so you must serve “the national interests” and die a hero. Why? For national pride! For the homeland! For whatever intangible and irrelevant pretext is used to obfuscate the real reason of the war.

This is the future they have prepared for you. Die or suffer irreparable injury while some kleptocrats at home will continue living at the expense of you, your peers, and the rest of the planet. You can believe whatever you want and hope that “the universe” will just make your life better. History suggests otherwise. Without resistance and concerted action for thoroughgoing reform, no impersonal force will ever enact change.

The Romans had “bread and circuses”: they would appease the empire’s subjects with promises of food and with spectacles. To this, I would add that statecraft has developed another shrewd notion: “bread and circuses, and, if those are not available, patriotism”. Boost their collective ego, tell them how great they are, remind them of some old fabricated glory, do whatever it takes to distract them from the actuality of rampant injustice. Such is your future and you have no say in the matter.

You can still turn your back to it, albeit at the cost of suffering the consequences of the law. One person’s actions alone will have no impact. But a critical mass does make a difference. If, for example, all soldiers sabotage the war effort, there will be no warfare. We can then focus on the here-and-now and salvage everything we can for a more equitable world.

The song is also a metaphor for major decisions in our life, which I discussed in the previous entry: Interpretation of “New dizziness” by Trypes. You are always set on a path that was not of your own making. From the day you are born there are expectations about your personhood. Cultural concepts and significations are fastened upon the “you” construct your milieu is developing out of your person.

[ Tangential: Re: what gender pronoun do you use? ]

You are a good kid, you become a good student, you land a good job, you find a good spouse, you lead a good life. It’s all great! Everything is there for you, a path that is meticulously prepared for you to walk on. The caveat is that you have no say in the matter. Your future is theirs, until you claim it through great hardship.

Let me then recall a personal story of how I turned my back on the future during the days when I was still a “good” lad (in the aforementioned sense). I was at a new job on a path to a promising career. During the first days, one of the main figures approached me. This is the gist of the discussion and although these are not the exact words, they are true to form:

• Welcome! Every Thursday we have a large party at PLACE, so we will see you there tonight.

• I’ll think about it.

• You must come! You’ll get a free beer.

• Any interesting people there?

• There are lots of pretty girls. You will have a good time!

• I’ll think about it.

Many Thursdays went by, but I never attended the parties. Why? Because “pretty” on its own does not inspire me. I could not see the point of fitting in. I was starting to understand that the “good” life was not for me: it was denying me my subjectivity, as I had to make sacrifices to just be a part of the group. For what? The validation? I couldn’t care less.

Sure, appreciable looks generally don’t hurt though they too can be dehumanising if people only know you for them: Interpretation of “Mirror” by Alkinoos Ioannidis. So please don’t be just “pretty”.

In this case, there was no law penalising me for my actions, no state apparatus forcing me into submission. There was a social setting that became increasingly adamant and passive aggressive: “Why didn’t you come? Don’t be shy. Here, let me introduce you…” Later it turned into “it’s okay that you don’t like us and it’s fine if you choose to ignore us.”

Turning my back on this future was necessary. I had no intention to satisfy those demands: they were inane and conformity with them would only leave me dead inside. Interesting people, then… Where do we find those?

As for the future, don’t let them have it though never forget that you are not fully in control.

For the present entry I have opted for New dizziness which is more poetic and slow-paced than Trypes’ typical rock song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6RVn9eN-C0. An honourable mention must go to the cover by Rita Antonopoulou, which is masterfully done: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5snUpMe3HkE (it also is a better video as you get to see the performers).

Here are the lyrics, followed by my translation, and philosophical commentary:

Κανούρια ζάλη

Ο χρόνος είναι ο χειρότερος γιατρός
Σε καίει, σε σκορπάει και σε παγώνει
Μα εσύ σε λίγο δεν θα βρίσκεσαι εδώ
Κάποιοι άλλοι θα παλεύουν με τη σκόνη

Θέλεις ξανά ν' αποτελειώσεις μοναχός
ένα ταξίδι που ποτέ δεν τελειώνει
Κάτω απ' τα ρούχα σου ξυπνάει ο πιο παλιός θεός
Μες τις βαλίτσες σου στριμώχνονται όλοι οι δρόμοι

Ποιοι χάρτες σου ζεστάνανε ξανά το μυαλό
Ποιες θάλασσες στεγνώνουν στο μικρό σου κεφάλι
Ποιος άνεμος σε παίρνει πιο μακριά από δω
Πες μου ποιο φόβο αγάπησες πάλι

Σε ποιο όνειρο σε ξύπνησαν βρεγμένο, λειψό
Ποιοι δαίμονες ποτίζουν την καινούρια σου ζάλη
Ποιος έρωτας σε σπρώχνει πιο μακριά από δω
Πες μου ποιο φόβο αγάπησες πάλι

Το όνειρο που σ' έφερε μια μέρα ως εδώ
σήμερα καίγεται, σκουριάζει, και σε διώχνει
Μια σε κρατάει στη γη, μια σε ξερνάει στον ουρανό
Το ίδιο όνειρο σε τρώει και σε γλυτώνει

Θέλεις ξανά ν' αποτελειώσεις μοναχός
ένα ταξίδι που ποτέ δεν τελειώνει
Κάτω απ' τα ρούχα σου ξυπνάει ο πιο παλιός θεός
Μες τις βαλίτσες σου στριμώχνονται όλοι οι δρόμοι

Ποια νήματα σ' ενώνουν με μιαν άλλη θηλιά
Ποια κύματα σε διώχνουν απ' αυτό το λιμάνι
Ποια μοίρα σε φωνάζει από την άλλη μεριά
Πες μου ποιο φόβο αγάπησες πάλι

Ποια σύννεφα σκεπάσαν τη στεγνή σου καρδιά
Ποια αστέρια τραγουδάνε τη καινούρια σου ζάλη
Ποιο ψέμα σε κρατάει στην αλήθεια κοντά
Πες μου ποιο φόβο αγάπησες πάλι

Ποιες λέξεις μέσα σου σαπίζουν και δεν θέλουν να βγουν
Ποια ελπίδα σ' οδηγεί στην πιο γλυκιά αυταπάτη
Ποια θλίψη σε κλωτσάει πιο μακριά από παντού
Πες μου ποιος φόβος σε νίκησε πάλι

New dizziness

Time is the worst doctor
It burns, disperses, and freezes you
Though you will soon not be here
Others will carry on fighting with the dust

Once again you want to terminate by yourself
a journey that never ends
The oldest god awakens underneath your clothes
All roads are crammed in your suitcases

Which maps have warmed up your mind again
Which seas dry up in your small head
Which wind takes you further away from here
Tell me which fear you loved again

In which dream did they awake you wet, manqué (incomplete)
Which daemons irrigate your new dizziness
Which love pushes you further away from here
Tell me which fear you loved again

The dream that once brought you here
today is burning, rusting, and expelling you
At times it keeps you grounded, at times it vomits you skyward
The same dream eats you away and saves you

Once again you want to terminate by yourself
a journey that never ends
The oldest god awakens underneath your clothes
All roads are crammed in your suitcases

Which threads tie you to another noose
Which waves expel you from this port
Which fate calls you from the other side
Tell me which fear you loved again

Which clouds have covered your dry heart
Which stars sing your new dizziness
Which lie keeps you close to the truth
Tell me which fear you loved again

Which words rot inside of you and resist coming out
Which hope guides you to the sweetest delusion
Which sorrow kicks you further away from everywhere
Tell me which fear beat you again (won over you)

To me, this song speaks about the uncertainty that prevails in all the major choices we make. Unlike a controlled environment where we can run tests and compare the outcome of all scenaria, life offers no rerun button. There are no retries where the “ceteris paribus” assumption holds true. All we can ever do is opt for a course of action and live with its consequences. If the case permits, we can change trajectory after the fact, though we may never revert to an original point of departure. There is no going back: change shall transpire and what once was either isn’t or is in a different way, even if ever so slightly.

Uncertainty grounds us in our humanity. We are not omniscient. We always labour under imperfect conditions. The ideal may be our guide, yet the realisable is all we ever get. We can try for the best, optimise for every detail, yet we cannot eliminate uncertainty from our life at-large. To wait for absolute certainty is to remain forever inactive.

We like to think that we are under control, though such is a sweet delusion, a distraction from our actuality. When we promise, for example, how “I will love you forever” we know it is not an absolute statement as it sounds. There is an implicit claim on the constancy of relevant factors.

Certain decisions we make are akin to a leap of faith. We jump into the pit and hope for the best. What is at the bottom may be a safety net or hard terrain. We cannot tell for sure. Our fear of the unknown chains us to our routines. Consider, for example, the all-too-common scenario where a person is doing some soul-crashing job in pursuit of inane ends. There is nothing rewarding about it even when it pays relatively well. The person serves their sanity and/or physical health as sacrifice to the altars of profit, convenience, and conformity with the status quo. The person eventually recognises the problem, though is afraid of the yet-to-be-known state of affairs that an alternative may engender. Should the person quit their job and do what instead? Not an easy answer and definitely not one that can apply to everyone equally.

There comes a point where we might feel an irresistible urge for change, but even then we cannot know if the likely new normal that awaits us will be any better than the previous one. Would a person substitute, for instance, a stable income for a precarious life in a remote area where not even warm water is available at their premises? At what point is the change not worth it? And what could have been done differently, if anything?

Again, there is no rewind in life. Contemplating the “what could have been done” is useful only insofar as it potentially applies to outcomes yet-to-unfold. Otherwise it poses an impediment to our attempts at living in the here-and-now. We cannot affect the past and cannot ever revert to it. Time is the “worst doctor” because it alone does restore what was lost. Such is what our humanity renders inescapable.

Uncertainty can easily lead to indecision, which then manifests as inertia. Our imaginary person from the previous example perseveres at their bullshit job. Not because they hope it will ever get any better, but simply due to fear of the unknown.

Fear is a powerful emotion that often deprives us of our means of action. Yet we know that inertia is not sustainable. When the need for change gains momentum, we have to act and hope for the best. One must then learn to live with their fears, to befriend and love them, as the song suggests. The poetic “you” figure in the lyrics is experiencing the inexorable power impulse that brings about change. It is the awakening of an ancient deity, the drying up of seas, the fate pulling from the other side, and so on. However we describe it, this transition must take place.

We adopt life-changing decisions so that unspoken words no longer rot inside of us and annul us from within. Our choice is not grounded in certainty and the concomitant mapping of all subsequent states of affairs. It is driven by hope. It may just as well be a lie; a lie that we need to stay close to our truth, to the truth that the current normal is unsustainable. One does not change things blithely. There is great pain and sorrow involved, death and rebirth, yet never a true escape, which in the song is described in various ways including my favourite: “Which threads tie you to another noose”.

Once we were enamoured with our fears and mustered the strength to enact reform. We look back and wonder if it was all worth it. The answer cannot apply to the past: we ain’t going back, anyway. Whatever we think might only serve us henceforth. The key is to remember that we are not strictly bound to a given state of affairs. Maybe we will learn to love another fear, which will send us on another journey. Where to? Nobody knows in advance, while those who took the trip have no definitive answer. Uncertainty; uncertainty writ large.

Finally, I find that New dizziness complements other entries in this series:

• In the allusion to “fighting with the dust”, I see a connection to what I have commented on about non-ownership: Interpretation of “The king of dust” by Xylina Spathia.

• Regarding the description of the dream that burns you, it connects to my commentary on the instituted reality: Interpretation of “Porto Rico” by Vasilis Papakonstantinou.

• As for the concept of fate, which is compelling the poetic “you” into action, read: Interpretation of “At the rock” by Xylina Spathia.

For this entry I have selected: Porto Rico. We can treat it more as a poem than the average song, though its music also makes it a noteworthy contribution to the rock genre: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPELcaItvFY. The second half, in particular, is exceptional.

Here are the lyrics, my translation, and philosophical commentary:

Πόρτο Ρίκο

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Άλκης Αλκαίος
Μουσική:   Σταμάτης Μεσημέρης


Φιγούρα ξωτική και ταξιδιάρικη
στο φως του φεγγαριού ανθίζει πάλι
γιατί όλη τη ζωή του την εξόδεψε
παράφορα γυρεύοντας μιαν άλλη

Θυμάμαι σαν παιδί γελούσε κι έλεγε
στη σέλα ακροβατώντας ποδηλάτου:
«Τον κόσμο εμείς θα φέρουμε στα μέτρα μας
πριν να μας φέρει εκείνος στα δικά του»

Μα ο κόσμος προχωρά χωρίς να μας ρωτά
κλεισμένοι δρόμοι, κλέφτες και αστυνόμοι
«αγάπα το κελί σου», του παν, κι ύστερα
έξω πιο μόνος μα γελούσε ακόμη

Μια νύχτα μεθυσμένη παίρνει ανάποδες
ημερολόγια καίει και πτυχία
Το χάραμα μπαρκάρει σε πειρατικό
για της ζωής του την σκηνοθεσία

Αλγέρι, Αλεξάνδρεια, South Africa
στο Άμστερνταμ δυο τέρμινα και κάτι
Γλιστρούσαν οι αγάπες μες στα μάτια του
σαν τον αφρό στα δάχτυλα του ναύτη

Στο Πόρτο Ρίκο χρόνια ασυλλόγιστα
και τις καρδιάς του σκόρπισε τα φύλλα
σε υπόγεια σκοτεινά και ύποπτα
λες και έψαχνε το φως μες στην ξεφτίλα

Κάποια ζεστή βραδιά σε ένα μπλουζάδικο
άκουσε να φαλτσάρει η μουσική του
τα αφεντικά στο δρόμο τον πετάξανε
τα στίγματα σαν είδαν στο κορμί του

Κι η Σύλβια που με πάθος τον αγάπησε
δεν έλειψε στιγμή απ' το πλευρό του
ζητώντας με μανία στην αγκάλη του
την κόλαση και τον παράδεισό του

Σαλπάρισε μια νύχτα με πανσέληνο
και στο στερνό του γράμμα μου 'χε γράψει:
«Αξίζει φίλε να υπάρχεις για ένα όνειρο
και ας είναι η φωτιά του να σε κάψει»

Τα χρόνια έχουν περάσει δε θυμάμαι πια
Ερνέστο τον ελέγανε η Νίκο;
Κι ακόμα συγχωρείστε με που ξέχασα
αν χάθηκε στο Μετς η στο Πόρτο Ρίκο

Όσο για μένα είμαι πάντα εδώ
με των ματιών σας την φωτιά σημαία
είναι όμορφα απόψε που ανταμώσαμε
μ' αρέσει να αρμενίζουμε παρέα

Porto Rico

Singer:  Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:  Alkis Alkaios
Music:   Stamatis Mesimeris


Exotic and wondering figure
blossoms again in the moonlight
because he spent his whole life
passionately searching for another

I recall as a kid he would laugh and say
while balancing on a bicycle's seat:
"We'll bring the world to our measurements
before it brings us to its own"

But the world moves on without asking us
closed off streets, cops and robbers
"love your cell", they told him, and then
ever-so-lonely outside [the prison cell] yet he still laughed

On a drunken night he goes berserk
burns diaries and diplomas
At dawn he embarks on a pirate ship
for his life's art direction

Algiers, Alexandria, South Africa,
in Amsterdam two terminals and something
loves slipped through his eyes
like the froth at the sailor's fingers

Reckless years in Porto Rico
and he mindlessly scattered his heart's cards
in dark and suspicious basements
as if searching for light in humiliation

On a warm night at a blues bar
he heard his song out of tune
the masters threw him on the streets
as soon as they saw the spots on his body

And Sylvia who loved him with a passion
never left his side for a moment
desperately asking in his hug
his hell and heaven

He sailed off on full moon night
and in his final letter he wrote to me:
"It is worth it, friend, to live for a dream
even if its fire is to burn you"

The years have gone by and I can't recall anymore
Ernesto was his name or Nikos?
And further forgive me as I forgot
if he got lost in Metz or Porto Rico

As for me I'm always here
with the fire in your eyes as my flag
it is beautiful we've met tonight
I like that we travel together

Let’s get this out real quick: “Ernesto” refers to Ernesto “Che” Guevara, while “Nikos” is Nikos Beloyannis. Both were political figures who believed in the ideal of progressing towards a more just world. They would not accept the established order as-is. The song is thus inspired by the politics of resistance, anti-imperialism, and revolution, though its contents are not political, let alone communist, per se. They can be read in those terms, which is fair, though I want to pivot towards a different direction.

When we speak of “politics” in everyday parlance, we tend to imagine shrewd politicians on TV, conniving apparatchiks running things behind the scenes, unscrupulous lobbyist exerting control at the centres of power, shameless spin doctors weaving noble truths out of egregious lies, and so on. It is dirty and messy. Yet “politics” also encapsulates the instituted reality we all live in.

Our culture is a nexus of social norms, legal rules, and concomitant roles. It is underpinned by value judgements for practically every aspect of life. What it means to be a “girl”, which job counts as “manly”, what is the place of the individual within the family structure or the community, whether the younger generation gets any say in major decisions, how wealth and resources are distributed among the members of the group, what even constitutes a group, the way work is organised, what is property or ownership, et cetera. Every interpersonal relation is underpinned, foreshadowed, framed, or otherwise conditioned by politics.

It is an instituted reality because it is predicated on conventional arrangements. There is nothing strictly objective to it, notwithstanding various rationalisations and apologias of the status quo as the mechanistic outcome of “human nature”. What is instituted necessarily can be re-instituted. It can be fathomed in a new light. It is possible, for example, to redraw the delineations of what a “manly” job is, how resources are distributed among the members of the social whole, who gets to decide for our common needs, and so on.

What is truly part of nature cannot be subject to institution. Humanity may not, for instance, decide that the Sun shall no longer rise from the East or that lungs shall henceforth perform the function of the liver. It is not institution that informs those magnitudes.

[ Read/watch: Conventions, relativism, and cosmopolitanism as well as Expectations, rules, and role-playing ]

While an instituted reality is not human-independent, it still remains outside the purview of any given individual. We must not conflate the philosophical point on the non-objectivity of institutions, with the practical perception of constancy as seen from the perspective of an individual.

No person can, for example, unilaterally change how all others uphold the various institutions. In this regard, on this microscopic scale, the individual can only treat the instituted reality as a given: it simply is there and it influences everyone. An individual cannot merely proclaim that “it is all arbitrary, anyway!” and thus be emancipated from the grip of the instituted reality. This is why the song says that the world can/will bring us to its measurements: we are cast in a mould and are made in the image of the particular political milieu. What others think and decide—what has been codified as culture, tradition, rules of conduct, wants and expectations, as well as legal order—has a profound effect on our personhood and outlook from day one of our life.

Consider the diplomas that our rebellious hero destroys unceremoniously. We live in a world in which we are our degrees and qualifications. The substance gets lost is or disregarded very easily. A personal anecdote is relevant. I once applied for a job and was asked to supply proof of my knowledge of English. I have no formal document to support my claims, as that requires a lot of money to acquire; money which not everyone gets in life when they need it. I told them that I have written a zillion words on my website and can speak to them in person, expound at length on matters I know about, produce any essay or report for a test, and so on. “Sorry sir, we need a certificate”… To which I replied: “no, you need a reality check”.

The point is that whatever the individual may think is largely irrelevant. If the world around us works a certain way, we either grow/shrink to fit its measurements or suffer the consequences of being a misfit—and “suffer” is not a figure of speech here! If we don’t do things the expected way, we will be marginalised and/or have trouble finding opportunities. This goes for potential employment positions, but also for human relations at-large. It is why the song mentions the solitude outside the prison cell.

The poetic third person, here going by the name of Ernesto or Nikos, speaks to us twice: (i) about the measurements of the world and whether we should fit in, and (ii) that it is worth living one’s dream. We already covered the former, so let us consider the latter. I am of the view that the meaning is encapsulated in this scene where the agent of action burns diaries and diplomas. I can relate to it through personal experience. The lyrics symbolise a turning point, where one decides to walk their own path, whatever the cost. It is not the rage of the moment that provides the impetus. Such is but the culmination of a long and deliberate process of sincere self-reflection: we set new priorities, cut ties with the past, strip away the fakery, and perform a leap of faith into the unknown.

I, too, have discarded tokens of all sorts. It is all those items which serve as currency for social recognition. Just visualise the pedantic administrator who demands redeemable superficialities, else proof of our prior conformity with the rules of the game, to assess our worth. It is not our qualities that are being put to the test, but the performative aspect thereof. It matters not whether one speaks English in practice, for what is needed is the rubber stamp of whatever authority (salient or otherwise). Per this example, the administrator embodies the prevailing mentality: they instantiate and enforce the instituted reality in the given situation.

Who is Sylvia? The fellow human, here a lover, who appreciates our Ernesto/Nikos for who he is, not who society wants him to be. Sylvia, then, has the resolve and perseverance to look past the phenomenalities in order to find the real person within. In this sense, Sylvia shares the same goal as her lover. She is yet another Ernesto or Nikos who seeks the truth, who wants to discover what one’s true self is, and who is prepared to show to the powers that be how there exists an alternative and how we needn’t all be put to the Procrustean Bed in order to fit the measurements of the world. One size does not suit everybody. Such is a dream worth living. May its purifying fire burn incessantly.

I couldn’t find an official recording so this will have to do. In the video’s introduction, Dimitris (I presume) says that he had no father growing up and that his mother worked tirelessly, assuming the role of both parents in raising her children.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and my philosophical commentary.

Εντελβάις (Edelweiss)

Εμηνεία:  Δημήτρης Μητροπάνος
Στίχοι:   Άλκης Αλκαίος
Μουσική:  Μάριος Τόκας


Σ' ένα κόσμο γυάλινο κι αποστειρωμένο
ήσυχα τις μέρες μου περνώ
Πάνε χρόνια που έπαψα να σε περιμένω
Πάνε χρόνια που για σένα ζω

Σε παράδεισους ανθίζω
και σε θερμοκήπια
ονειρεύομαι κι ελπίζω
και πεθαίνω ήπια

Σε παράδεισους ανθίζω
και σε θερμοκήπια
ονειρεύομαι κι ελπίζω
και πεθαίνω ήπια

Όταν σε συνάντησα άρχιζεν ο Μάης
Φόραγες λουλούδια γιορτινά
έκοψα απ’ το στήθος σου ένα εντελβάις
και δε σε συνάντησα ξανά

Σε παράδεισους ανθίζω
και σε θερμοκήπια
ονειρεύομαι κι ελπίζω
και πεθαίνω ήπια

Σε παράδεισους ανθίζω
και σε θερμοκήπια
ονειρεύομαι κι ελπίζω
και πεθαίνω ήπια

Edelweiss

Singer:   Dimitris Mitropanos
Lyrics:   Alkis Alkaios
Music:    Marios Tokas


In a glass and sterile world
I pass my days quietly
It's been years since I stopped waiting for you
It's been years since I've been living for you

In paradises I blossom
and in greenhouses
I dream and hope
and always die mildly

In paradises I blossom
and in greenhouses
I dream and hope
and always die mildly

When I met you May (the month) was starting
You were wearing festive flowers
I picked an edelweiss from your chest
and never met you again

In paradises I blossom
and in greenhouses
I dream and hope
and always die mildly

In paradises I blossom
and in greenhouses
I dream and hope
and always die mildly

To me, this is a sad song with no happy ending. It speaks of an ephemeral experience that engendered powerful emotions; emotions which eventually left the person dead inside.

The poetic “I” clings on to the past. They are trapped in that moment which evoked happiness. They cannot move on. There are no delusions here. There is full knowledge that the past will not be reenacted. Yet this insight makes no difference: it brings no consolation.

Our protagonist is likened to a flower, which although it can blossom in many places, always withers away without going anywhere or asking for anything. It passes its days quietly and dies mildly, as the lyrics describe.

Perhaps you know what it means to pick an edelweiss and never see its origin again. This is a metaphor for a special occasion followed by a sudden end. Every unexpected loss feels like an open wound in our heart. It never heals and will hurt forever. Just how one remembers for the rest of their life the puppy they so loved yet lost too early all those years ago.

Our humanity grants us faculties of emotion and memory. There are cases where those operate against our present self. They pin us to a world that is no longer relevant and cannot exist again.

The hasty answer to put an end to suffering is to renounce emotion and to do whatever it takes to practice forgetfulness. I think this involves a process of dehumanisation. We are essentially treating the problem as innate to our humanity and thus want to do the impossible of becoming non-human while still being human.

Our nature does not give us only emotion and memory. It also endows us with reason and the potential for wisdom. With those we learn not to try to hide from our human condition. We understand its inevitability, while we recognise that the transfiguration of all presences in the cosmos is inexorable. There is nothing we can do about it.

[ Read/watch: Cosmos, Logos, and the living universe ]

This apparent dispassionate treatment is merely normalising the state of affairs. It removes the value judgements from it. Instead of thinking of this or that as good and its opposite as bad, we admit to the spontaneity of it all. We are but a tiny factor in a system of systems. The complex associations between all those factors are outside our control. Both the seemingly good and the ostensibly bad. Nothing is ours.

Suffering is ultimately the product of our falsehoods. We believe in permanence and we have an innate sense of justice. We feel betrayed when something is taken from us without notice. We remain firmly rooted in the dogma that we can own stuff and that there is such a thing as “taking away”.

Wisdom tells us otherwise: the cosmos is not ours and everything that can be associated with us remains alienable—it is not inherent to our presence. We may worry, cry, blame ourselves or the gods, go to the greatest lengths… No matter our course of action, ownership is unattainable, strictly speaking.

Why live in the present though? What’s so special about it? Why not cling on to the past, to those good times before calamity struck? In a sense, there is no reason to focus on the present. We do not know if there is a meaning to living or dying, or living while being dead inside, and so on. We can speculate and make deductions, but we have no unequivocal statement that “this is”.

I think that living in the present is not a matter of preference. It is not “better” in the ordinary sense. It simply is the only option. Even when we don’t let go of the past, we do so as being present: we do not occupy some world of yore.

I cannot ask anyone—or convince myself—to choose life over death, because I have no means of assessing their respective values. From our perspective, life marks a beginning and death signals an end. For the cosmos, there is none of that: it is all part of an incessant process of transfiguration. Circles everlasting. You die, you live. There is no difference in an ever-present order.

Presence, then, is not a judgement call. It just is. We will always be in a given present. And we will always do what our condition renders possible in that situation. Nothing stays with us. Sorrow and bliss are not truly ours. The opposites collapse into themselves as we move from the particularities to the abstractions.

[ Read: Comments on the meaning of Yin-Yang ]

Is there nothing left behind? In a sense, nothing. In another, everything. The cosmos always is. What about wisdom then? What does it give us? Perhaps the wiser we get the less we take. It should ultimately give us nothing. It should merely remove what we think is ours. All those beliefs and dogmas that burden us. Wisdom brings aloofness, the kind of lightness that the admission of non-ownership entails. Then, maybe in an unexpected turn of meanings, the song has told us everything we need to know: like blossoming flowers we shall pass our days quietly and die mildly. What comes next? Nothing. Everything. There is no difference.

For this entry, I have picked to translate and provide philosophical commentary on a classic: “The king of dust” (Ο βασιλιάς της σκόνης). It sounds good even if you don’t get the lyrics, while it has something profound to teach us: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBabLCTXUxs (not an official video as the band predates this era).

Here is a link to an official recording, performed by then lead singer of Xylina Spathia and now solo artist Pavlos Pavlides (plus B - movies): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MA0lvGp45Ss.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and my comments.

Ο βασιλιάς της σκόνης

Εγώ ο μικρός, ο αμνός του Θεού
ξεχασμένος στο Νότο, γεννημένος αλλού
Ξέρω πάντα η Τροία θα 'ναι μίλια μακριά
κι η Ωραία Ελένη θα 'ναι τώρα γριά

Βγαίνω στο δρόμο ορκισμένος να μπω
στα παλάτια του ήλιου, να μπορέσω να πω
το τραγούδι του τράγου με φωνή φονική
και να κλάψω μετά, να χαθώ στη σιωπή

Ο βασιλιάς της σκόνης

Θα περάσουν τα χρόνια, θα γυρίσει ο τροχός
όλα θα 'ναι σαν πρώτα, όλα θα 'ναι αλλιώς
Θα σε ψάχνω στους δρόμους που γυρνούσες, μα εσύ
θα 'χεις γίνει σκιά, θα 'χουν όλα χαθεί

Ένα βράδυ θα φέγγει το φεγγάρι τρελό
Θ' απλωθεί η σκιά σου σ' ένα δρόμο στενό
Τα ταξίδια, οι φίλοι, οι αγκαλιές, τα φιλιά
σ' ένα κόσμο θαμπό μακριά, μακριά

Ο βασιλιάς της σκόνης

Από του δράκου τη χρόνια, περάσαν χρόνια
τώρα μπορεί να μη θυμάσαι τίποτα
αλλά η ρόδα της ζωής γυρνά αιώνια
και μόλις λιώσουνε τα χιόνια
να 'ρθεις να με βρεις

Ο βασιλιάς της σκόνης

The king of dust

I the small, the lamb of God
forgotten in the South, born elsewhere
I know Troy will always be miles away
and Beautiful Helen (aka "Helen of Troy") will now be old

I venture on the road sworn to enter
the palaces of sun, to be able to sing
the song of the goat (literally the ode of the goat, i.e. "tragedy") with a killer voice
and cry afterwards, get lost in the silence

The king of dust

Years will go by, the wheel will spin
everything will be like before, everything will be different
I'll be searching in the streets you wandered, but you
will have become a shadow, all will be lost

One night the moon will shine madly
Your shadow will cover a narrow street
The travels, the friends, the hugs, the kisses
in a hazy world afar, afar

The king of dust

Since the year of the dragon, ages have gone by
now you may not remember a thing
yet the wheel of life spins eternally
and as soon as the snow melts
come find me

The king of dust

Who is the king of dust? What is the poet trying to communicate? My impression is that the king of dust is every possible king, emperor, supreme leader, et cetera. It also is every one of those who thinks they possess something. The song is a comment on the theme of non-ownership, which I covered before: Interpretation of “Bells” by Lhasa de Sela.

We think we own stuff. Our possessions, our holdings, our loved ones, our self. Yet everything is alienable. Everything can be stripped away. There is nothing we can hold on to. At best, we die with it.

The song starts by describing the exuberance of youth and its lack of perspective. The fearless fellow who goes on an adventure and will stop at nothing. Here Helen symbolises the pretexts we have, just as in the legend of the Trojan War (Homer’s Iliad). No decade-long war was fought over the beauty of a woman. This is the poet’s way of showing how we come up with excuses and rationalisations. (Modern wars have such “Helens”, but let’s not disturb those who blithely believe otherwise.)

Helen also represents the unattainable dream. Much like how the Achaeans went to war to restore their honour and bring Beautiful Helen back home. Helen is a tragic figure because she is known for her beauty—for something she purportedly has—even though beauty is ephemeral. No matter how good one looks, the years will take their toll on them. This too is a note on the topic of non-ownership: Helen is a queen of dust, although she is not recognised as such. We do not own what appears to be “our” beauty. It comes and goes. Pretend otherwise.

This youth, this poetic “I”, enters the palaces of the sun to basically claim a right to some kind of ownership. Yet the youth leaves the place crying, with nothing left to say. These palaces are, in my reading, a symbol for the truth. They represent enlightenment. We want to cling on to what we think is rightfully ours, yet the truth is that nothing is ours and there is no right of such a sort. Some are not ready for the truth: their whole world collapses. The least prepared are those who act out of enthusiasm and believe that elderly Helen is still the famed beauty of yester years.

Our hero learns about the fact of non-ownership and eventually comes to terms with it. The “I” will still reminisce about past experiences, even though it knows those are not present and only exist in a distant, hazy world: the past. These are not disturbing. They do not evoke sadness, for there is an understanding that they cannot be acquired. It is the desire to the contrary that harms us, the expectation of ownership, the falsehood of—and misplaced belief in—permanence.

The king of dust admits to the incessant change of the cosmos. Everything is in a state of flux: the wheel keeps spinning, ever-transfiguring the presences.

The king of dust, in the realisation of being a king of dust, remains tranquil. The right perspective consists in acceptance, in recognising how things stand, which begets calmness. The upside is that we exist in the present. We can experience new moments. This is my reading of how the song ends: forget about the past, come find me, and let’s live in the here-and-now.

[ Somewhat relevant: Interpretation of “Kiss” by Michelle Gurevich ]

The king of dust is tranquil in the knowledge that one cannot lose anything because one owns nothing. There is a lightness to this mindset, a sense of relief, which frees us from the fetters of false worries and concerns.

For this entry, I am translating—and providing philosophical commentary on—the song “I have a house” (Έχω ένα σπίτι): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCrFjcfF4yQ (also check their bandcamp page for their entire discography: https://m3mf1s.bandcamp.com/music)

[ By the way, the solo at 02:48 is art at its scintillating best! ]

Έχω ένα σπίτι

Έχω ένα σπίτι που δεν θέλω να κοιτώ
Έχει παλιώσει πια και μου θυμίζει εμένα
Ίσως να φταίει που δεν έμαθα να ζω
Ίσως να φταίει που τα έχω πια χαμένα 
 
Κι αν σωθώ απ' όλο αυτό, κι αν σωθώ απ' όλο αυτό 
Θα 'ναι από θαύμα, μα δεν είναι γραφτό

Έχω ένα σπίτι που όταν θέλω να κρυφτώ
έχει παράθυρα και πόρτες καρφωμένα
Ίσως να φταίει που φοβάμαι πια να μπω
Ίσως να φταίει που δεν κάλεσα κανένα

Κι αν σωθώ απ' όλο αυτό, κι αν σωθώ απ' όλο αυτό 
Θα 'ναι από θαύμα, μα δεν είναι γραφτό

Έχω ένα σπίτι που γκρεμίζω από καιρό
την κονσερτίνα του μου χάρισε για στέμμα
Ίσως να φταίει που γλιστράει στον γκρεμό
Και το κρατάω με δυο χέρια κουρασμένα

Κι αν σωθώ απ' όλο αυτό, κι αν σωθώ απ' όλο αυτό 
Θα 'ναι από θαύμα, μα δεν είναι γραφτό

I have a house

I have a house I do not want to stare at
It has grown old and reminds me of myself
Maybe it is because I didn't learn to live
Maybe it is because I've lost the plot

And if I survive all this, and if I survive all this
it will be a miracle, but it is not meant to be

I have a house that when I need to hide
it has sealed windows and doors
Maybe it is because I'm afraid to enter
Maybe it is because I never invited anyone

And if I survive all this, and if I survive all this
it will be a miracle, but it is not meant to be

I have a house I've been demolishing for a while
it has given me its concertina wire for a crown
Maybe it is because it slips down the cliff
And I hold onto it with two tired arms

And if I survive all this, and if I survive all this
it will be a miracle, but it is not meant to be

The titular house is the personal space and selfhood of the poetic “I”. This is the edifice that was constructed over years on the foundations of insecurity, low self-esteem, and the concomitant feeling of worthlessness.

The house is, to me, a metaphor for what we call “the comfort zone”. We have a propensity to rationalise our condition as desirable. It is a coping mechanism to alleviate pain and suffering. Not only do we tell ourselves that it is going to be alright, we go a step further and convince ourselves that what we have is necessary and benign.

Writing from experience, the comfort zone can be a dreadful prison cell which has been rationalised away as a wonderful habitat. Depending on the circumstances, we can let life slip away as we lose control and allow our own devices to be employed against us. Kind of like an autoimmune disease killing the host, the “house” we construct to reside in is working to our detriment.

There is nothing wrong with comfort per se. The problem is to identify when it is genuine and when it masquerades as such. We must try to reflect on our condition by being as honest as we can. Does any of the activities I do ever challenge my sense of self? As selfhood is a subjective narrative—an opinion, basically—do my experiences ever question what I think I know about who I am?

[ Read/watch: On selfhood ]

If all that happens to us basically is an echo chamber, if every event is a pat on the back about how great we are, we may fall into the trap of developing a personal cult of personality. It is that dogma where we take our self too seriously and give it disproportionate value. We cling on to it as a prize we cannot live without. By obsessing over it, we become its servants. Why? Because we condition our behaviour in such a biased way as to always vindicate that which our rationalisation has already established as precious.

Even the truth needs to be disturbed from time to time, just to be sure it can stand on its own. If it needs pampers, if we have to actively confirm it through sheer prejudice, it is no truth at all. It is falsehood; falsehood writ large.

Do we ever invite anyone into this house to help us do a reality check? Or do we remain protective about it? What is it that fear? Perhaps our little charade will be exposed?

When we are in such a perverse comfort zone, we have a deep seated love-hate relationship with our self. We try our best to provide sacrifice to the altars of this deity we call “self”. We try very hard in order to distract ourselves from how much we loath what we have become. As this internal strife intensifies, we get sucked into it. Days, weeks, months, years go by. We spent so much time taking care of the house and forgot how to live.

The song’s refrain is that nagging rationalising voice which keeps reminding us how we cannot do it. It warns us how we will not survive breaking free from our prison. And it goes to great lengths to do so, even invoking fate, as if the universe is conspiring against us.

What do you mean “it is not meant to be”? This is! I just did what was hitherto uncomfortable. The house is no more. In its stead I will set up tent and live the rest of my days as a nomad whose doubt, whose unwillingness to settle for a convenient lie, inspires them to explore the space instead of remaining firmly rooted in the place.

Kiss, the song I am about to provide philosophical commentary on, feels to me like a “hidden gem”. It is not as intriguing as Party Girl, not as hard-hitting as First Six Months of Love, not as downbeat as Friday Night, and not as daring as To Be With Others. On the face of it, Kiss is a simple-minded song. We’ll see if that’s the case.

I could not find a video link, so this is the track on Bandcamp (from the album Ecstasy in the Shadow of Ecstasy): https://michellegurevich.bandcamp.com/track/kiss.

[ Support Michelle via a purchase, if you can. ]

Below are the lyrics, followed by my comments.

Kiss

We've been friends
For a long time now
Missed our chance
For the window of romance

I can tell
Wouldn't take much to get there
Do you dare
Let this glance become a stare

Let's kiss and see what happens
Let's kiss and see what happens
Let's kiss and see what happens
Let's kiss and see what happens

Through the gate
Of your prime real estate
Oh the view
Darling sure looks good on you

Slow that kiss
Feels good to be nervous
I admit
I could get used to this

The salient point of this song is erotic—and I like it for that. “Slow that kiss” and keep it real. Though the core proposition of deciding to do something is not limited to the act of kissing a lover.

Michelle basically encourages us to not overthink things. It is okay to have some sense of structure and a plan to follow. Yet too much analysis usually results in inaction. The window of opportunity closes and we are left to belittle ourselves for how useless we think we are.

To all introverts such as myself, Michelle speaks like the elder sibling who gives quality advice on practical matters. The introvert’s capacity for self-reflection is their greatest strength, though it also becomes a curse if not managed properly.

We often dither and postpone important decisions. Implicit in this behaviour is the prejudice that chances occur in regular intervals: a bit like public transport. You missed the bus? No problem, there’s another in ten minutes. However, life does not work that way. At least not at all times.

We tend to think that some divine providence takes care of justice in our little world. If we behave nicely, we will definitely be rewarded. Such is our hope. While this can be plausible given certain conditions, it tends to lead to complacency because we unquestionably rationalise our dithering as a virtue. As we become more experienced, we learn that second chances are the exception to the rule. Either we get it right the first time, or we miss out. It’s gone forever! What we are left with is regret for what we missed and contempt for who we are.

Michelle’s call to action is a classy one. We do not want anyone to turn into a creep. This is about building on top of mutual respect. There is nothing reckless in Kiss. Nothing unilateral. No-one is entitled to anything. What happens is the product of mutual consent which culminates in the suggestion to go for a kiss.

Keeping it classy on erotic matters is just as important as with everything else. The fact that second chances are the exception does not entail desert (in the sense of “merit”): we do not deserve anything in advance. We cannot get everything we want. It is why we need to strike a balance between the extremes of overthinking and recklessness: to act when we can, but to do it from a position of knowledge and with the utmost respect for others and our own self.

Knowledge can only come from a place of honesty. We need to be patient with ourselves and recognise when it is time to disinvest from a certain goal or dream. Not getting the things we want does not mean we are worthless: it may simply be that we have the wrong desires.

We want the wrong things whenever we role-play; whenever we act in conformity with the expectations imposed upon our person by our milieu. We are misguided when we lack perspective and are not behaving philosophically (Who can be a philosopher?). To think that what we desire is necessarily good for us—and indeed achievable—is nothing but bias.

Those granted, there is another point in Kiss that I notice (or perhaps imagine, but please bear with me). It revolves around the theme of falling in love versus growing in love. As the verbs suggest, to fall in love can happen almost by accident. Tripping over, so to speak, only to appreciate the other person through rose-tinted glasses. It is ephemeral and may be unreliable. To grow in love though presupposes sustainability. It cannot be fuelled by momentary enthusiasm alone. This is why the song says “Wouldn’t take much to get there” because there exists a bond that can be strengthened.

This links back to the importance of finding a balance between the extremes of overthinking and recklessness but also the vital insight of keeping it classy. When something is already embedded, there is no point pretending otherwise. Pretentiousness ultimately is counter-philosophical: it is the attitude of lying to oneself. The key is to remain respectful and to never forget that no-one owes us anything.

Think, but don’t overthink. Operate in a moderate way.

Here are the original lyrics, followed by my translation and philosophical commentary:

Ο Άμλετ της Σελήνης

Ερμηνεία:  Χρήστος Θηβαίος
Στίχοι:    Μάνος Ελευθερίου
Μουσική:   Θάνος Μικρούτσικος


Ξεγέλασες τους ουρανούς με ξόρκια μαύρη φλόγα
πως η ζωή χαρίζεται χωρίς ν' ανατραπεί
Κι όλα τα λόγια των τρελών που ήταν δικά μας λόγια
τα μάγευες με φάρμακα στην άσωτη σιωπή
 
Πενθούσες με τους έρωτες γυμνός και μεθυσμένος
γιατί με τους αθάνατους είχες λογαριασμούς
Τις άριες μιας όπερας τραύλιζες νικημένος
Μιας επαρχίας μαθητής μπροστά σε δυο χρησμούς
 
Τι ζήλεψες, τι τά 'θελες τα ένδοξα Παρίσια
Έτσι κι αλλιώς ο κόσμος πια παντού είναι τεκές
Διεκδικούσες θαύματα που δίνουν τα χασίσια
Και παραισθήσεις όσων ζουν μέσα στις φυλακές
 
Και μια βραδιά που ντύθηκες ο Άμλετ της Σελήνης
Έσβησες μ' ένα φύσημα τα φώτα της σκηνής
Και μονολόγους άρχισες κι αινίγματα να λύνεις
Μιας τέχνης και μιας εποχής παλιάς και σκοτεινής

Hamlet of the Moon

Performance:  Christos Thivaios
Lyrics:       Manos Eleftheriou
Music:        Thanos Mikroutsikos


You deceived the heavens with spells of black fire
that life is offered without being toppled
And all the lunatics' words who were our words
you enchanted them with medicines in the dissipating silence

You mourned with loves naked and drunk
because with the immortals you had unfinished business
The arias of an opera you would stutter defeated
A province's student in front of two oracles

What did you envy, what did you want in the glorious Parises (Paris in plural form)
At any rate, the whole world is an opiumden now
You pursued miracles granted by hashish
And hallucinations of those who live in prisons

And one night you dressed up as the Hamlet of the Moon
With one blow you snuffed out the lights of a scene
And you started monologues and riddles to solve
Of an art and an era bygone and dark

While this song may have been inspired by real events, perhaps the suicide of an intellectual, I feel its origin story is irrelevant as far as we are concerned: through the particulars it still captures the eternal. That is what we want to understand.

To me the poetic “you” is a person who has no sense of self and direction. This is a figure who suffers from the inner conflict between their aspirations and actuality. One who is dead inside yet pretends to be brimming with life. We witness this emptiness in the reference to the mourning that takes place amidst what ought to be carnal pleasures, at least temporarily.

We also notice the theme of running away, of not wanting to face up to who one is. This is done in the opening verse where the “you” believes to have deceived the heavens. Who is the fool, really? No heaven can ever be tricked. It is always humans who, in their lack of perspective, do not recognise the limits imposed on their condition by virtue of their humanity.

The Moon’s Hamlet is the person who is not honest about who they are and what they do. No matter where they go, they can never be separated from their own self. Whether it is at the most glamorous places or the shadiest of alleys, one cannot simply run away and become another without first undoing what was there before. There has to be a reckoning. In other words, we can only refashion who we are by being honest with our situation and by making the requisite changes.

[ Read/watch: On learning and being present ]

The song’s “you” is dishonest. They resort to drugs and hallucinogens in the hope of finding enlightenment, since unbridled sex and the wanton consumption of alcohol offered no way out. Such is, after all, the commodified brand of spirituality (i.e. fake) we find in some parts of the world, including where I live. “Take this magic mushroom and you will turn into a guru”, the charlatan promises. “Here is some acid to open your mind.” While I am not against the notion that a substance can have a benign effect by emancipating one from falsehood, I have yet to meet anyone whose wisdom is the result of such substance abuse. What I have beheld, instead, is lost souls; folks who have been tricked into thinking that there exists a shortcut to wisdom and are instead left to labour under the delusion that they are smarter—indeed, more enlightened—than everybody else.

In Greek, we name a city in plural form to generalise its significance. Hence, the allusion to Paris is not about the capital of France. It symbolises all possible megacities and promised lands, where the lost souls rush to in hope of finding refuge from the inner self they so desperately seek to avoid. There isn’t enough grandeur in this world to fix you without you putting in the requisite effort. All Parises combined still leave much to be desired. And no miraculous shroom or hash will suffice either. At least not if you keep hiding stuff and lying to yourself.

The Hamlet of the Moon, this poetic “you”, encapsulates the deep seated insecurity that masquerades as boldness to experience new things. It is the type of renegade who falls into the trap of what I described in another song’s interpretation about challenging conventional wisdom:

The renegade’s latent hubris is brought to bear when their propensity for self-righteousness turns into a cult of personality. It is prudent to not take oneself too seriously. It would be frivolous to claim that one’s truth is the truth.

The Hamlet of the Moon thought too highly of himself. Tricking the heavens, venturing off to the Parises, and seeking miracles in psychotropic substances. The hubris here is the prejudice of entitlement: the “I am too smart for this” type. Smartness alone gives you nothing but a false sense of security. It boosts your ego and you thus overestimate your abilities. In turn, this leads to reckless behaviour as you trust others too much: you do it because you think you are smarter than them and cannot ever be duped. Yet only a fool believes that life cannot be toppled. Only a credulous fellow falls for the blatant lie that there exists a shortcut to wisdom.

Below are the original lyrics, my translation of them, and some further thoughts on the underlying philosophical points I discern therein.

La confession

Je n'ai pas peur
de dire que je t'ai trahi
Par pure paresse
Par pure mélancolie
Qu'entre toi
et le Diable
j'ai choisi le plus
confortable
Mais tout cela
n'est pas pourquoi
je me sens coupable

Mon cher ami
je n'ai pas peur de dire
que tu me fais peur
Avec ton espoir
et ton grand sens
de l'honneur
Tu me donnes envie
de tout détruire
de t'arracher
le beau sourire
Et même ça
n'est pas pourquoi
je me sens coupable
C'est ça le pire
 
Je me sens coupable
parce que j'ai l'habitude
C'est la seule chose
que je peux faire
avec une certaine
certitude
C'est rassurant
de penser
que je suis sûre
de ne pas me tromper
quand il s'agit
de la question
de ma grande culpabilité
 
Je n'ai pas peur
de dire que j'ai triché
J'ai mis les plus pures
de mes pensées
sur le marché
J'ai envie laisser tomber
toute cette idée
de «vérité»
je garderais
pour me guider
Plaisir et culpabilité

The confession

I'm not afraid
to say that I betrayed you
Out of sheer boredom
Out of sheer melancholy
That between you
and the Devil
I picked the most
comfortable
Yet all of that
is not why
I feel guilty

My dear friend
I'm not afraid to say that
you scare me
With your hope
and great sense of honour
You make me want
to destroy everything
to tear off
the beautiful smile
And even that
is not why
I feel guilty
That's the worst

I feel guilty
because I have the habit
It's the only thing
I can do
with a certain
certitude
It is reassuring
to think
that I am certain
to not be mistaken
when it comes 
to the question
of my great guilt

I'm not afraid
to say that I've cheated
I missed the purest
of my thoughts
at the market
I want to let go
this whole idea
of "truth"
I've been keeping
to guide me
Pleasure and guilt

What is this confession about? Who is betrayed and what does the betrayal amount to? I think that without the final part of the song, we would have to surmise that this pertains to a private affair. Yet the allusion to the “truth” makes me believe that Lhasa sings about the person who defies the norms in their cultural milieu.

We can think of La confession as an open letter whose opening statement is “Dear society”. The person did not behave in accordance with some conventional wisdom and expresses their guilt about the fact. Though this guilt is not authentic. The poetic “I” has no regrets. The admission of culpability, this performance, is what the prevailing cultural norms expect of an agent who deviates from them. The “I” simply role-plays because that is what it has learnt to do in such circumstances.

The first person view of this confession is the irony of rejecting the given truths of society while still not having fully overcome the misplaced sense of duty one has; duty to conform with the rules; duty to perform the role imposed upon their person; duty to become what this impersonal “society” wants us to be.

You are a boy? You will grow up to be a real man! You are a girl? You must become a mother one day and make a family. Family? But, of course, the union between man and woman! What else? Society has lots of truths and if its infinite wisdom is never challenged, these turn into a superstructure that tolerates no genuine diversity.

Some “truths” are blunt, like gender roles. Others are more subtle, such as how your worth as a human is measured by the material possessions at your disposal. Don’t tell us about yourself. We don’t want to learn about your possible profundity through your words and deeds. No! Show us your status, your certificates, the proof of your qualifications. Otherwise you are a nobody.

Truths! Tokens exchanged at the marketplace.

The poetic “I” betrayed some conventions. In so doing, it realised that these are truths in name only. Their verity is contingent on circumstances and/or institutional arrangements: it does not stand on its own. We provide assent to such narratives through years of indoctrination, during which we learn which is “our” group, who fits in to it, and who the misfits are; the misfits whose tacit claim on the fact of diversity we stand ready to suppress.

It does not matter why the person did not conform with their role. It could be out of boredom, or depression, or chance. The point is that the “I” learns about the possibility of an alternative. As such, it finds a new friend in this newfound realisation; an amiable presence that gives hope and provides the impetus to walk down the path of uncertainty. The “I” shall free itself from the fetters of duty: the fetters are now theirs.

I mention “uncertainty” because rejecting established truths does not mean that we have replaced them with other truths. The renegade’s latent hubris is brought to bear when their propensity for self-righteousness turns into a cult of personality. It is prudent to not take oneself too seriously. It would be frivolous to claim that one’s truth is the truth. Rather, one has merely discovered that what is all too often taken for granted does not withstand scrutiny. What those truths purport to represent are nothing of the sort. Their pretences to sagacity are just that: pretences.

Does the aforementioned irony have a resolution? Will the escape from all the norms engender a better state of affairs? What does “better” even mean? One cannot know in advance. There are cases where it is necessary to make a leap of faith by trusting in our own devices. If it works for us, then that’s good enough. And if the hierarchs of this world admit that, whatever our state of knowledge, there remains the possibility of an unknown god, we will not be persecuted.

[ Read: On hierarchy, heterarchy, and taxis ]

In the absence of definitive truths, we expect from others to just let us be, our great “guilt” notwithstanding.

Here is a link to a video I first watched in the summer of 2013: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTJJoDwlLCs. It is how I was introduced to Lhasa’s entrancing art.

Below are the lyrics, followed by my philosophical commentary.

Bells

Bells are ringing
all through the drowned town
in the empty streets
and a hundred miles around

Bells are ringing
birds are flying upside down
my heart has been lost for too long

Bells are ringing
ships will be leaving
This was my home
Nothing's moving, nothing is breathing
Bells are ringing
ringing me from sleep
My sleep was not restful
but my dreaming was deep

Bells are ringing
and we both know
there's nothing left to do
but walk out there and go

You could lean your head down
and rest it on my knee
You could tell me a story
that does not end this way

Bells are ringing
and we both know
there's nothing left to do
but walk out there and go

I have listened to this song a hundred or more times over the years. Lhasa communicated with me from the first moment. Before I even paid attention to the lyrics, I knew there was truth to be had in this work of art. This is a case where emotion precedes reason, where feeling comes before thinking. As an emotional agent, I connected with Bells and with Lhasa immediately: we were in sync, despite the fact we could never meet in person to exchange views and jointly discover our intersecting points (Lhasa de Sela died in 2010). In 2013, I still had not ejected rationalism from my life. I was the foolish young adult who, while smart, is actually an idiot. How can you trust your emotions if you have not even listened to the words of the song? How can there possibly be anything reliable in that feeling? Through trial and error, I became a philosopher, which means that I eventually transcended the false divide between reason and emotions: I applied wisdom in the recognition that human is multifaceted. It is reason and emotion, depending on the specifics.

[ Read/watch: (1) Ataraxia, moderation, and mysticism, (2) On selfhood, (3) On learning and being present ]

Anyhow, this is not why we are here. I believe Bells inspires us to think about profound concepts and understand who we are in relation to magnitudes in our life which we do not control.

The ringing bells signify the end of an era. An “era” can be many things. The end of autumn comes with the jingle bells that welcome the new year, as the day starts to grow after the solstice in December. Bells ring to announce an event, such as a gathering at a church, the end of class at school, another ceremony of sorts. The theme always is one of transition. Something ends, something else begins. Circles everlasting. In our quotidian life we experience this continuity. There is no emptiness in-between, no nothingness. We are ever-present, regardless of whether we go from something “good” to something “bad”, or vice versa. The cosmos is ever-present.

[ Read/watch: Cosmos, Logos, and the living universe ]

Lhasa sings about a finality. The ultimate terminus to our life is death. We all know about it. There is no escape from it. Our default disposition is to fear the unknown. We fear death because it is inscrutable with the ordinary means at our disposal. We build elaborate conceptual structures to make ourselves feel better about it. We codify our hopes of a better place post-death in culture and religion as we fear the ringing bell that awakens us from the slumber to remind us of the inevitable. We can always tell stories with an end that does not involve death, though we know we are lying.

Fear of death is fear of the unknown. It is the prejudice, the deep-seated bias, that what we have is better than what we do not know. This is a useful heuristic in life, but if we were to apply it dogmatically, we would never push the boundaries of our knowledge. We would always be confined to whatever comfort zone.

The unknown is to be explored, not feared. What we fear about death consists in the fact that we are biased in favour of our current state. We do not want to lose everything that gives value to our life: animals, other people, the place we live, our faculties of sense and intellect… We are dependent on them and so valorise them greatly. Death takes all that away.

Now one must wonder “what” exactly do we have, which we consider preferable to that which we have not? What is truly ours? Is there something specific that death takes away? And, if so, where is it taken to?

Did we choose to live? No. We make sense of who we are and how we are alive after the fact. Did we pick our parents, the place of our birth, the milieu in which we were immersed in, the people that had an impact on our life, and so on? No. We like to think that we are in control of what happens to us, but this is an elaborate deception. Our free will is, at best, a fraction of what conditions our actuality. Most factors remain outside our control.

We do not even own our life. There is this notion that one can take away their life. Metaphorically, we understand this. Literally though, it leaves something to be desired. Take it where? Who takes it from whom? Take “what” exactly?

Fundamentally, nothing is ours. We have a sense of self, which we develop as a subjective narrative based on our experiences in life and how we see our own in relation—or juxtaposition—to them. This narrative is not ours either. We know it, for example, from conditions like amnesia or dementia. One can be without a fixed sense of who they are.

We know that nothing is ours, yet we pretend otherwise because it makes us feel comfortable. Instead of being honest with our condition as humans, we entertain the falsehood of permanence in our life. But the ringing bells will always remind us of our hubris, of our unwillingness to see what our humanity renders inescapable.

We fear and we suffer due to the false belief that we own “stuff” that some force wants to separate us from. Lies cannot alleviate the pain and will not dispel that sense of dread. They only make matters worse, as it is lies that cause the problem in the first place.

When we are honest about our humanity, when we are honest about the workings of the cosmos, we admit that every presence is subject to transfiguration. An era ends, another begins. This is not the same as saying that some kernel of our self—some true “I”—persists. No. The notion of a permanent self, typically referred to as the soul, is a way of maintaining that illusion of ownership and permanence. Besides, if the soul carries on, why do we still fear death? Maybe we don’t have much confidence in our stories, after all?

The lightness of being present in the moment comes from the realisation that there is nothing to be gained or lost. We simply are in the here-and-now. What happened before and what may happen afterwards is outside our control. What we think we can cling on to is elusive and not ours to keep. We are free from our falsehoods when we simply “walk out there and go”. Let this era have your undivided attention. What happens afterwards is for that presence to deal with, with the means available at its disposal, if any.

As Lhasa sings, “bells are ringing all through the drowned town in the empty streets and a hundred miles around”. Does anyone listen? Did we get the reminder about our condition? Or do we remain in denial; in a state where our suffering masquerades as happiness?

For this publication, I decided to translate and then comment on Καμπαρντίνα (Kabardina, Trench coat). This is the version of song from the aforementioned live concert: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsD11nrkAjI. Though this link has the video of the performance, which is a thing of beauty in its own right: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjYrFw63vDM.

Here are the original lyrics, followed by my translation and commentary:

Καμπαρντίνα

Ερμηνεία:  Βασίλης Παπακωνσταντίνου
Στίχοι:    Λευτέρης Παπαδόπουλος
Μουσική:   Χριστόφορος Κροκίδης


Φορούσε άσπρη καμπαρντίνα
και βάδιζε στον κόσμο του,
κομμάτια έγινε η βιτρίνα,
που βρέθηκε στο δρόμο του.

Κόβει τη νύχτα η σειρήνα,
τα μπλόκα μπαίνουν στη σκηνή,
τον τύλιξαν στην καμπαρντίνα
και τον αδειάσαν στο κελί.

Μόνο η βροχή ξέρει
και λέει τραγούδι βουβό.
Μόνο η βροχή κλαίει
μ' ένα τραγούδι μισό.

Τη φυλακή δεν την μπορούσε,
θα φύγω είπε κι από δω,
η σήραγγα τον οδηγούσε
απ' έξω στο άπιαστο κενό.

Αέρας μπαίνει στο κελί του,
ξυπνάει όλη η φρουρά,
στοίχημα βάλαν τη ζωή του,
μην τους ξεφύγει άλλη φορά.

Γαλόνια χάσαν την τιμή τους,
κυκλώσαν όλη την Αθήνα,
με τη χαμένη υπόληψη τους
να κυνηγάει μια άσπρη καμπαρντίνα.

Μόνο η βροχή ξέρει
και λέει τραγούδι βουβό.
Μόνο η βροχή κλαίει
μ' ένα τραγούδι μισό.

Φορούσε άσπρη καμπαρντίνα
και βάδιζε το δρόμο του,
οι σφαίρες βγήκαν απ' τα σκίνα
και χώθηκαν στον ώμο του.

Έμεινε λίγο σαστισμένος
μπερδεύτηκε το βήμα του,
σκέφτηκε, είμαι σκοτωμένος
και μπήκε μες στο μνήμα του.

Ύστερα βγήκε ο δολοφόνος
κρατώντας ένα δίκανο,
δήλωσε, τι ωραίος φόνος
και μ' έλεγαν ανίκανο.

Μόνο η βροχή ξέρει
και λέει τραγούδι βουβό.
Μόνο η βροχή κλαίει
μ' ένα τραγούδι μισό.

Trench coat

Singer:  Vasilis Papakonstantinou
Lyrics:  Lefteris Papadopoulos
Music:   Christophoros Krokidis


He was wearing a white trench coat
and walked in his own world,
shattered into pieces was the facade,
that stood in his way.

The siren cuts through the night,
the blockades enter the scene,
they wrapped him in the trench coat
and threw him in the prison cell.

Only the rain knows
and sings a muted song.
Only the rain cries
with half a song.

He could not stand the prison,
I'll leave from here as well he said,
the tunnel was taking him
outside to the uncatchable void.

Wind enters his cell,
the whole guard awakens,
they bet on his life,
never to lose him again.

[Military] ranks lost their value,
circled all of Athens,
with their lost pride
hunting down a white trench coat.

Only the rain knows
and sings a muted song.
Only the rain cries
with half a song.

He was wearing a white trench coat,
and was walking along his path,
the bullets came out of the bushes
and penetrated his shoulder.

He stood a bit confounded
he lost his step,
he thought, I have been killed
and entered his tomb.

Then came the murderer
holding a double-barrelled rifle,
declared, what a beautiful murder
and they called me incompetent.

Only the rain knows
and sings a muted song.
Only the rain cries
with half a song.

I think the salient point of this song is a critique against the vanity of authority. How the establishment will go to great lengths to ensure that everyone conforms with its demands. Sometimes the powers that be take the form of security forces: the police and the military. At others, it is an imperialistic apparatus that will employ all means necessary to wage war against—or otherwise undermine—countries that do not fit in its vision of a world order. At others still, the establishment is a cobweb of unwritten rules, social norms, and institutions that govern how people behave in their interpersonal affairs and how they treat misfits.

The “misfit” is the operative term. We can interpret the story in the song as the typical cops versus criminals scenario, though I hold that the notion of a white trench coat is a metaphor for an irregular presence, as seen from the perspective of any given establishment. How often do you see white trench coats, anyway? I have never encountered one. They tend to be dark in colour. If, then, people expect to see us dressed in a dark coat and we wear a white one instead, they will consider us weird. Fashion choices are not the issue here, but only the core idea of being different and challenging expectations.

The misfit in the song is wondering in their own world. The broken facade is a poetic construct that captures pretences; appearances to intellectuality and sophistication; appearances to tolerance and open-mindedness; appearances about lofty values and ethical standards. Every society, every establishment, thinks of itself as great and righteous. Americans bring “democracy” to parts of the world. Europeans safeguard “European values”. Russians engage in “special operations” for the de-nazification of countries… Everyone is righteous.

The white trench coat will have none of that humbuggery. It shatters all forms of hypocrisy that stand in its path. Power, however, does not take kindly to those who do not fall in line. It will tolerate them only for as long as they are not a threat to it. Otherwise it will utilise everything at its disposal to turn that white trench coat into a straitjacket or, ultimately, a cloth to wrap a dead body with.

Casting misfits into a mould is the kind of ordinary procedure that goes unnoticed. This is why only the rain knows about it. When people take something for granted, they do not question it and will not see how preposterous it is. What is the problem with wearing a white trench coat, contrary to the prevailing fashions? Nothing whatsoever. The metaphor shows us how an otherwise small thing can become a big deal. Us being ourselves rubs others the wrong way. Combined with phobia, this phenomenon has the potential to trigger their most repressive, authoritarian reflexes. That is the moment when authority appeals to its power to enforce its ways. The “beautiful murder” of a misfit is how the one-size-fits-all is applied.

The establishment does not always need to resort to brutality. It can apply the softer touch of indoctrinating us. We internalise its value judgements as our own. We uncritically echo what we have been told and blithely join the rest in becoming the establishment and in committing the hubris of self-righteousness. Why? To not be bullied and harassed. To fit in with the lads. To be cool like everybody else. To be happy.

[ Read/watch: Expectations, rules, and role-playing ]

Indoctrination does not happen only in a formal setting, such as at school. It is a daily affair. The culture’s norms are embedded in patterns of collective action and eventually inform each person’s subjectivity. Forget about guns and violence. Consider those seemingly innocuous exhortations about something as trivial as hair:

• “Men cannot have long hair.”
• “Ladies must not have hair on their forearms.”

You get the idea. Maybe you agree with those views. It is okay to have an opinion. The problem starts when this opinion elevates itself to the status of authority and now serves as justification for every “beautiful murder” imaginable. Cutting one’s long hair while they are asleep—a beautiful murder of personality. Pressuring one to remove the hair from their arms—a beautiful murder of the potential for self-expression. And so on.

Social-cultural institutions will always exist. Just as individual organisms, so do societies reproduce their kind. Expectations develop interpersonally as an emergent mechanism of cultural propagation. This is not to say that we are doomed into a state of perpetual tyranny or that everything we have been taught is wrong and we must abolish it outright. No. Just that we should evaluate our own culture on the basis of reasonableness, remain sceptical of what we have, and do not participate in inflating our collective ego. That some notion found currency among our ancestors does not mean, ipso facto, that we too ought to keep it around forever.

I already mentioned the concept of internalising prevailing beliefs. We learn to judge ourselves from the third person view of society. All those standards about how we look, how we feel, what we ought to do in order to count as worthy, are all part of our social conditioning: we think in those terms. It is how we develop false wants and set misguided goals in our life. When we inevitably fail to meet the target, we blame ourselves for it: we hate who we are, we loath the failure we have become. In doing so, we do not recognise the key distinction between our underlying actuality and the idols we make out of our self; idols which operate within the domain of any given role-playing expectation, such as that of having a successful career, being a manly man, behaving and looking like a lady, et cetera.

Internalisation of this sort clouds our judgement. It prevents us from being honest. We take the righteousness of our milieu as a given and inevitably rationalise our condition as one of self-induced agony. This is prejudice writ large, as we now assume the role of the murderer who finds fulfilment in assassinating our character. Honesty is about wearing our white trench coat and walking in our own world. We do not fear to explore who we are by understanding what the world is. This is not done for the sake of being contrarian or to merely upset others. We simply want to know what the truth is, not what passes as acceptable. Our very nature predisposes us thus.

By being true to ourselves, we indirectly help others realise that there is another way. The authoritative view is not the single source of truth it purports to be. Of course, we can always try to fit in and be “normal”. Sometimes it is possible to mask our actuality and be who others want to see. Though it is unsustainable over the long-term. One cannot pretend forever. There will be a reckoning. It then is a matter of becoming the change we want to enact. And who knows? Courage is contagious—others might join us in placing a check on the authority’s vanity and in working towards a more tolerant and genuinely open-minded culture. Enough with the “you should be”. Focus on the “you are” and learn to appreciate the value in what you have.

For this entry, I decided to provide my interpretation of—and philosophical commentary on—the “At the rock” (Στο βράχο), even though the band’s repertoire includes lots of classics for fans of the genre: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BftlNRhDls.

The original lyrics, followed by my translation and commentary:

Στο βράχο

Στέκομαι στην άκρη του γκρεμού
και κοιτάω όλους αυτούς που τους έσπρωξε ένα χέρι
κι αναγκάστηκαν να βγάλουνε φτερά,
τώρα τους φωτίζει αυτό το υπέροχο αστέρι,
τους κοιτάω να πλανιούνται μακρυά
πέρα από τα πέρατα πέρα από τα πέρα μέρη.
Κάποιος πλησιάζει σαν να θέλει να μου πει,
κάποιος απ' αυτούς θα ξέρει,
κάποιος πλησιάζει σαν να θέλει να μου πει:

Άσε τη ζωή να λιώνει
μέσα στα χέρια της σαν χιόνι

Στέκομαι στην πόρτα σου μπροστά
και διαβάζω ένα μήνυμα γραμμένο με μαχαίρι
ότι έπρεπε να φύγουνε ξανά,
ότι τώρα διασχίζουν το μεγάλο μεσημέρι
και την πιο παραμυθένια αμμουδιά,
πέρα από τα πέρατα, πέρα από τα πέρα μέρη.
Κάποιος πλησιάζει σαν να θέλει να μου πει,
κάποιος απ' αυτούς θα ξέρει,
κάποιος πλησιάζει σαν να θέλει να μου πει:

Μη με ρωτάς αν η αγάπη ανασταίνει
μου είπε κάποιος κάποτε το είδε να συμβαίνει.
Θυμήσου, τότε που σ' άφησαν μονάχο
τον σκορπιό που βρήκες όταν σήκωσες το βράχο,
το βράχο που επάνω του το κάστρο φτάνει στους ουρανούς.
Για ναύτες σαν κι αυτούς λιμάνι.
Κάνει να ακούγεται κι αυτό το βράδυ
ο ήχος απ' τα κέρματα που ρίχνει στο πηγάδι η μοίρα,
θυμάμαι τ' άρωμά της,
τους κύκλους που ησυχάζανε κάτω απ' τα βλέμματά της.
Πήγαινε δε θα το μετανιώσεις
πες της πως ήρθες εσύ και θα το νιώσεις...
θα νιώσεις στο πλάι σου την πνοή της
μια νύχτα με πανσέληνο στο ιπτάμενο χαλί της.

Άσε τη ζωή να λιώνει
μέσα στα χέρια της σαν χιόνι

At the rock

I stand on the edge of the cliff
and stare at all those who were pushed by a hand
and were forced to grow wings,
now they are luminated by a wonderful star.
I see them wonder away
beyond the bounds, beyond the furthest places.
Someone approaches as if to tell me,
someone among them must know,
someone approaches as if to tell me:

Let life melt
in her hands like snow

I stand in front of your door
and read a message carved with knife
that they had to leave again,
that now they cross the long noon
and the otherwordly dunes
beyond the bounds, beyond the furthest places.
Someone approaches as if to tell me,
someone among them must know,
someone approaches as if to tell me:

Don't ask me if love resurrects
someone somewhere once told me it happened.
Remember when they left you alone
the scorpion you found once you picked up the rock;
the rock upon which the castle reaches the skies.
For sailors such as these it is a port.
It makes it be heard this night as well
the sound of the coins that fate tosses in the well.
I remember her aroma,
the circles that rested under her gaze.
Go, you shall not regret it
tell her that you have arrived and you shall feel...
shall feel her breath at your side
on a night of a full moon at her flying carpet.

Let life melt
in her hands like snow

We are not invited to take the words literally, but are instead asked to connect with the impressions pertinent to each of the described scenes. How some grew wings, the long noon at the otherworldly dunes, travel that goes beyond the edges of the world, the rock upon which a castle is built, the personification of fate which in the Greek language has the feminine grammatical gender, and the life melting away like snow. While each scene evokes unique emotions, there is a common thread running through them.

Poetry, and art in general, is special in that it tolerates multiple valid interpretations. What I think about those images and metaphors in my capacity as a philosopher who mindfully prepares the present entry may differ from my experience as an emotional agent when I lose myself in the soundscapes. Art teaches us to tolerate different views by virtue of not imposing an orthodoxy.

It is this diversity that At the rock puts forth when considered in abstract. A phantasmagorical exchange between the magical and the mundane. We go on a trip during which we envisage surreal settings yet recognise behind their superficialities a truth that pertains to our quotidian reality.

This song is about the theme of seizing the moment. It delves into the dynamic between the subject and its milieu, else how our impression of self is informed, influenced, conditioned, or otherwise determined by factors outside our control; factors which are here encapsulated in the poetic figure of fate.

[ Read/watch: On selfhood ]

Contrary to the run-of-the-mill self-help literature that makes you think you are the centre of the world and that “if you truly believe it” the universe will conspire in your favour, the mythical fate reminds us that our presence is always contextualised. There is no such thing as a decontextualised “I”, a mind or soul in a vacuum that simply operates without constraint and brings about whatever eventuality it wants. Our very nature as humans grounds us in a multifaceted reality that involves carnal needs, emotions, intellectuality, and spirituality. To try to behave as if we were a decontextualised mind or bodyless soul is to labour under the delusion that we can be non-human within the rigid confines of your humanity.

Fate needn’t be conceived as a kind of determinism that eliminates the dynamism we understand as volition. It should rather be used as a mental shortcut for saying that the interplay between internal and external factors specific to each phase in evolving states of affairs has an impact on what our in-the-moment possibilities are. Put differently, we are in control of something, though not everything.

Consider this concept of “control” in the opening lines of the song. In the introduction we have the first person view of others who once stood at the precipice, where forced to jump, yet survived by growing a pair of wings. They did not jump on their own: it just happened. Why? It does not matter. As they were falling, as they were put on this path of no return, so to speak, they managed to assume agency: to make something out of it. This is not about absolute control. It is how selfhood develops in tandem with or in juxtaposition to stimuli that trigger feedback loops.

Towards the end of the song one of those survivors of the cliff fall prompts the poetic first person to meet fate and spend time with Her. We may thus assume that the subject has also transitioned from merely observing others—from living life on the sidelines as I noted in another interpretation—to partaking in their company. Perhaps because the “I” has learnt that fate does not preclude possible outcomes: She lets everyone explore their own world, travel to its furthest reaches, and be guided by their own lodestar.

The song alludes to the reanimating power of love. Given the context, I believe this is about self-appreciation combined with respect for the world. Self-love is easy to misconstrue as self-obsession and the kind of egoism or anthropocentrism that sees nothing of value “out there”. However, I am of the opinion that one cannot develop a narrative of selfhood in a vacuum, which is to say that to know who we are we must know about the others. Couched in those terms, self-love can only be the inward aspect of a general disposition of seeing in the other a presence that shares the same substance we do. At its most abstract, this is about the universality of life and the consubstantiality of all of its forms.

[ Read/watch: Cosmos, Logos, and the living universe as well as Ataraxia, moderation, and mysticism ]

Self-love, which must spring from a position of knowledge and openness towards the world, has the power to reanimate because it teaches us to distinguish between our underlying self and the avatars or idols of our own which we predicate on it. This is typically seen in scenaria where a person thinks they are a misfit in life and, thus, only harbours hatred for their self. How can a person be a failure? Maybe because they failed to have an illustrious career. Perhaps they did not conform with the normativity of marriage or romance. There always is some standard out there by which we gauge our performance. When the person blames who they are, they are actually lamenting the fact that the expectations imposed upon their role-playing simulacrum—the avatar/idol of theirs—where not met.

To be clear, if I judge my philosophy on the social standard of academic qualifications, I am creating a replica of my own that lives and dies by how many degrees it has. What I say or think, what I do, how my works affect others, become irrelevant. All that matters for this idol of mine that I created is how many degrees it has. Otherwise, it is useless; useless on the basis of a meaningless metric that I was misguided to attribute value to.

[ Read/watch: On learning and being present ]

This is why self-love that comes from a position of love for the otherness our subjectivity perceives in the Cosmos is so powerful. It dissociates us from our idols. It puts an end to the induced need we have for engendering all those avatarisations, as we no longer seek worthiness in the form of a token, of a commodity that can be acquired in some market, but find it as an innate quality of ours.

Fate, here representing the world beyond the narrow confines of our subjectivity, always waits for us to approach Her. She will not take us by the hand. She leaves us to our own devices: to discover self-love when we are left alone. It is at this point where the titular rock is introduced. As soon as others leave the scene and we feel abandonned and lonely, we pick a rock perhaps with the intent to hurl it at something in frustration. The rock, however, holds more truths than we initially thought. It conceals a scorpion, which we couldn’t have noticed before. What our frustration obfuscates, which we can interpret as egoism that prevents us from recognising the otherness in the world, is the castle built on this very rock. What was once hidden is now rendered conspicuous. This castle is a home to all those “sailors” who were left alone to discover their self and the world within and around it.

These “sailors”, those souls who ventured past the furthest places, can now listen to what fate is doing. They can hear how She tosses coins in the well. Why do we throw coins in fountains? For good luck and the expectation of living through another pleasant experience. Fate, though, has no such needs. She throws coins to bring closer those who listen, those who grew wings through the power of love for their self and the others, those who discovered the castle on the rock that the inattentive (e.g. egocentric) eye perceives as an ordinary stone.

The dissociation between our self and our avatars is distilled in the here-and-now we live in. Life melts in Her hands. We know it. We do not worry though. We take each moment for what it is. There is no before or after that we need to obsess with (notice the parallel with my interpretation of “Letter” by Socratis Malamas). Those who know, the ones who grew wings as I already explained, prompt us to “let life melt in her hands like snow”, which is exactly the idea of not clinging on to what we think we have. We are but a presence in the Cosmos: an endless totality; a world where presences undergo transfiguration. Letting our life run its course means that we have reached the level of awareness that is necessary to recognise the consubstantiality of all there is. The self and the other collapse into themselves as impressions of universal oneness.

Το Γλυκό Παράδοξο

Όσα κι αν έχω κάνει
λες δεν είναι αρκετά
πες μου αν είναι λάθη
πες μου αν είναι περιττά

Ίσως καταλαβαίνεις
όταν με συναντάς
σαν κάνεις πως δεν βλέπεις
και κρυφά χαμογελάς

Όσα κι αν έχω να πω
θα 'μαι μια ζωή εδώ
να μετράω όσα ξέχασες
και ίσως να είναι γραφτό
μόνος κόντρα στον καιρό
να φυλάω όσα έχασες

Όσα κι αν έχω κρύψει
λόγια μέσα μου βαθιά
σα παιδί θα τρέχω
με τα χέρια μου ανοιχτά

Βλέπω το πρόσωπο σου
με τα μάτια μου κλειστά
πες μου αν νοιώθεις κάτι
πες μου αν είναι πια αργά

Όσα κι αν έχω να πω
θα 'μαι μια ζωή εδώ
να μετράω όσα ξέχασες
και ίσως να είναι γραφτό
μόνος κόντρα στον καιρό
να φυλάω όσα έχασες

Σαν μαύρο σύννεφο εγώ
στο γαλάζιο σου ουρανό
θα σκορπάω όσα πέταξες
Ρίχνω στα κύματα εδώ
στον απέραντο βυθό
να φυλάει όσα έχασες

The Sweet Paradox

No matter what I've done
you say is not enough
tell me if they are mistakes
tell me if they are superfluous

Maybe you understand
when you meet me
while pretending not to see me
and secretly smile

No matter what I have to say
I'll be here for a lifetime
to count everything you forgot
and maybe it is destined
for me alone against the time ["time" could be "world"]
to safeguard everything you lost

No matter what I've hidden
words deep inside me
like a child I'll be running
with my hands wide open

I see your face
with my eyes shut
tell me if you feel anything
tell me if it's already too late

No matter what I have to say
I'll be here for a lifetime
to count everything you forgot
and maybe it is destined
for me alone against the time
to safeguard everything you lost

Like a dark cloud
in your blue sky
I will be scattering everything you discarded
I throw at the waves here
at the bottomless depth
for it to safeguard everything you lost

The paradox I notice prima facie is that revealed by art as a medium of expression. We can appreciate a song even if its lyrics make no sense to us. Here I am providing a translation, though I link to a performance that is done in the Greek language. You can enjoy the latter without reference to the former. I am doing this translation to use it as the basis of a lesson in philosophy, not to add to the song’s artistic quality—I simply lack the skills for such a task.

Art presents us with a paradox. How can we like a collection of words when we don’t understand what they are saying? If an intellectual were to speak to us in ordinary terms whose concatenation made no apparent sense, we would dismiss the person as arrogant or a charlatan who tries to play tricks with us. Yet when an artist utters a sequence of common words, we may feel a deep connection to them. Why is this a paradox?

A paradox is that which runs contrary to established opinions or beliefs. As such, it is not art which is inherently paradoxical: our beliefs about it—the expectations we have—may simply lack perspective. When you say “I am surprised” that typically says a lot about you, not just that which you are reacting to. We find it paradoxical that words without apparent gestalt meaning can actually engender feelings of appreciation for them because we are indoctrinated in the view, the dogma (dogma is related to doxa, which we find in para-dox), that everything needs to be parsed through a rational filter.

Art presents a paradox to all rationalists and all who are misguided in the belief that a human can be reduced to a purely rational being. Sometimes the right answer is given by our feelings. At others by our aesthetic inclinations. And others still by our instincts or “gut feelings”. Reason is part of a wider system. It is important, though it cannot be the only one that matters, for it cannot stand in isolation. We exist as fully fledged humans, not as a decontextualised mind, or spirit, or whatnot. To focus on one aspect is to remain oblivious to their totality: the emergent reality of the interplay between all our facets. Once we accept the multi-faceted-ness of our humanity, we no longer think that the aforementioned paradox exists.

With those granted, let me tell you what I think about this song’s lyrics. The “paradox” hinted at therein is three-fold:

1. The phenomenal contradiction of an agent who has doubts yet musters the courage to go against the grain of their time.

2. The contrast between safeguarding what one lost while throwing those items into the depths where, presumably, they are never to be retrieved from.

3. The juxtaposition between hiding everything yet keeping it exposed to this poetic “you” figure.

I think these revolve around the theme of perfectionism. How we relate to our own condition in light of our aspirations to perform at the best of our abilities.

Perfectionism is that inner voice which keeps demanding more. No matter what we’ve done, it continues to plant doubts in our mind that our deeds are erroneous and our acts are in vain. This perfectionist side does not give instructions: “here is how it’s done”. No. Instead, it remains obscure and elusive, almost toying with us, counting the times we failed to meet its lofty standards.

To seek perfection is part of what drives us forward. We do not settle with what we have, as there is that nagging thought that we can do better. In this regard, perfectionism has a positive spin to it. Though every “ism”, every ideology, can be corrupted into its opposite when taken to an extreme. Life teaches us that the difference between remedy and poison is one of degree: a pill addresses the headache while a bottle of pills poses a lethal threat. When the ideology turns into an obsession, when it becomes a self-serving end that tolerates no compromises or deviations from its path, it is deleterious for us. Such may be a paradox unto itself: how easily the benign turns pernicious.

Perfectionism can become that ideological facade we put up to conceal our insecurities. When, for instance, the perfectionist spends an hour reviewing a brief email they composed, they are no longer seeking perfection: they are acting out of insecurity. This insecurity may be the fear of being judged by others such as whether the writing is any good and the substantive points valid.

The fear of being judged is a fear in its own right. We thus have the “fear of fear”. To be afraid is normal: our humanity, our very nature, determines as much. But the “fear of fear” is no ordinary feeling. It is an arrangement of beliefs which embed value judgements about what “ought to be”. It is framed as pressure to perform in a certain way for the public, to placate those who test our conformity with the prevailing values.

[ Read/watch: Expectations, rules, and role-playing ]

Perfectionism then, is not about how we relate to our own self. It is an act of servitude, of insisting on patterns of behaviour that are actually harmful to us in order not to be called out as a failure or misfit: as one who does not satisfy the requirements of the role bestowed upon them.

What is a misfit in terms of social expectations? It is a paradox in the literal sense of upsetting established views. Just like how a paradox is not inherently paradoxical, the misfit’s misfitness is not innate: it is a relative, intersubjective construct. When, then, the perfectionist internalises opinions of all sorts—opinions that underpin those impossible standards the perfectionist sets—they uncritically reverberate beliefs. In short, perfectionism emanates from a dogma.

One sets goals that oftentimes are not the product of careful deliberation and sincere self-reflection. The perfectionist simply echoes what they heard and follows the trend. That is not necessarily wrong. The problem is more nuanced. Sometimes what works for others does not work for a given person. If the person insists on role-playing instead of recognising the tension, they will eventually suffer the consequences.

[ Read/watch: On learning and being present as well as On selfhood. ]

As such, the perfectionist is their own worst enemy because their high targets are not consistent with their actuality. If, for whatever reason, one’s social milieu forces them to be an engineer and if, as a perfectionist, this person sets high standards in pursuit of that task, they would be miserable if engineering was not within their abilities.

Insofar as the perfectionist insists on the propriety of their goals, without ever daring to question them, they are dogmatic. What if the goal is wrong? What if we need to take a step back and make changes in our life? Why worry about what others may be thinking? These are the sort of topics one must contemplate. Does the perfectionist admit to the error of their ways? Or do they pretend, in splendid perfectionist hypocrisy, that their vaunted meticulous methods could not have produced any errors?

The perfectionist is a fool who annuls the ideal of a perfect state in any given arrangement. The ideal cannot be instantiated. It is unattainable, strictly speaking. The ideal can only serve as the guide of the realisable. The perfectionist is not willing to admit as much, as they keep comparing what they have to what they believe is the telos. Take any presence you want and judge it vis-à-vis its ideal form: it pales in comparison. If the perfectionist cannot admit to this fact, they are condemned to a lifetime of agony.

Perfectionism is a dogma. To go against it is quite literally a paradox: an opposition to established views. It is why I hold that the reference to the dark cloud is about the imperfect self who is like a smudge on an otherwise “perfect” canvas. By lifting the burdens of all those norms from my shoulders, we shall cast to the wind everything our perfectionist self gave back to us while marking it with an “F” grade. And, while we’re at it, we’ll let the sea wash away everything this perfectionist fool missed in life.

It is never too late to enjoy the sense of running contrary to beliefs imposed upon us; beliefs that we continue to reinforce. Be the paradox!

But that is not why I’m writing this. Psarantonis interprets “The tiger”, which is a performatively brilliant piece of art though also deserves our attention for the profundity of its lyrics: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iV1CwUQl-pM.

What follows are the lyrics in Greek, followed by my translation and philosophical commentary.

Η τίγρη

Έχω μια τίγρη μέσα μου, άγρια, λιμασμένη
π' όλο με περιμένει
κι όλο την καρτερώ,
τηνε μισώ και με μισεί, θέλει να με σκοτώσει
μα ελπίζω να φιλιώσει
καιρό με τον καιρό.

Έχει τα δόντια στην καρδιά, τα νύχια στο μυαλό μου
κι εγώ για το καλό μου
για κείνη πολεμώ
κι όλου του κόσμου τα καλά με κάνει να μισήσω
για να της τραγουδήσω τον πιο βαρύ καημό

Όρη, λαγκάδια και γκρεμνά με σπρώχνει να περάσω,
για να την αγκαλιάσω
στον πιο τρελό χορό,
κι όταν τις κρύες τις βραδιές θυμάται τα κλουβιά της,
μου δίνει την προβιά της
για να τηνε φορώ

Καμιά φορά απ' το πιοτό πέφτομε μεθυσμένοι,
σχεδόν αγαπημένοι,
καθείς να κοιμηθεί
και μοιάζει ετούτη η σιωπή με λίγο πριν τη μπόρα,
σαν τη στερνή την ώρα
που θα επιτεθεί

The tiger

I have a tiger inside of me, wild, hungry
who always awaits me
and I always expect her
I hate her and she hates me, wants to kill me
but I hope she will become friendly
as time goes by

She has the teeth on the heart, the nails on my mind
and I for my own good
fight for her
and the goods of the world she makes me hate
so that I may sing for her my deepest sorrow

Mountains, ravines, and cliffs she pushes me to cross
to embrace her
in the craziest of dances,
and in her cold nights when she remembers her cages,
she offers me her hide
to wear her

Sometimes from the drink we fall drunk,
almost in love,
each to get some sleep
and this hour feels like the calm before the storm
like the final hour
when she will attack

Humanity has a complex relationship with apex predators through its myths and symbolisms. On the one hand, these animals are feared for the indubitable threat they pose to unsuspecting, reckless, insolent, or cocky humans. On the other, they are exalted as the embodiment of noble values: they adorn crests, flags, and the paraphernalia of anything that involves social status. Reverence of this type is an act of objectification. The animal qua image of power does not engender any genuine respect towards the species it represents, nor towards its habitat or the ecosystem at-large.

The object tells us a lot about the objectifier: humans revere the apex predator only when there is a power structure involved in which they are the weaker part. An allegory for social status. Otherwise our kind is quick to toy with such animals, hunt them for parts of their body, and the like. Hypocrisy; hypocrisy writ large.

Psarantonis’ tiger is not a heraldic construct. It is a being of another sort, one that has an intimate, albeit not straightforward, relationship with us. As the peerless hunter she is, the tiger remains a lethal threat to our human protagonist. Yet she also functions as the power impulse which provides the impetus for great deeds. Furthermore, this big cat, the mightiest of the panthers (“panther” is of Greek origin: it is the hunter of everything, i.e. apex predator), is not fearless: there are moments where she remembers her cages…

What is this mighty animal, anyway? I think it encapsulates our self: the subjective narrative of our selfhood.

[ Read/watch: On selfhood ]

How we conceive of our self has profound effects on our condition. At the one extreme, it can send us down a destructive spiral of negativity where we live on the sidelines. At the other end of the spectrum, it propels us to the greatest heights as we traverse mountains and then travel through uncharted paths. This peculiar “tiger” can make us hate everything this world has to offer, yet it also has the capacity to partake with us in the craziest—perhaps the most ecstatic and sincere—of dances. We are presented with two extremes. The permutations between them substantiate the spectrum of values we can associate with our own mental image.

Sometimes we lose our resolve. Those are the moments when the tiger reminisces about her captivity. It is not necessarily a trauma, an actual event in the past during which she was held captive. Our mind can set up obstacles that are not there. It can either aggrandise an experience or even exaggerate a mere doubt, weaving a whole story around it. When the tiger evokes the image of the cage, when she renders it present, when she clings on to it and doesn’t know how to let go, she no longer is the indomitable panther we are familiar with. She grows insecure and needs to put up a facade, exemplified in the reference to us wearing her hide so that we may look like a tiger when, in fact, we dread ever being challenged to prove that we actually are one beyond the appearances.

What will the tiger do without us? She has nowhere to hide when she is insecure. What can we possibly be without her? We lack the drive to scale those cliffs alone. Fate binds us. We are one.

The tiger within symbolises the love-hate relationship we have with our self. Here the tiger encapsulates the subjective narrative of selfhood that we develop: at times overly confident, at others extremely fearful. While the human protagonist stands for the underlying organism that contributes to this narrative.

Unlike smaller predators whose size makes it more practical to be domesticated, a tiger can never be turned into the equivalent of a house cat. Just imagine her jumping to greet you in excitement. Clumsiness alone can prove lethal. She thus retains the potential of being dangerous to us, even when she joins us for a round of drinks, dances with us ecstatically, and sleeps by our side.

We learn to befriend our tiger when we turn her insecurities into an antipode of her aggression. One must face their fears and acknowledge their fragility. Pretences to the contrary are hubris. A misplaced sense of entitlement or confidence can only bring calamity. There has to be a virtuous balance in how we think of our self and how we behave. We shouldn’t have to go to great lengths to please our impulses, nor be dragged into the murkiest depths by our doubts.

The fear of fear is a mentality that forces us into submission: the cagiest of cages. It essentially is a dogma, as we make a value judgement and are then not willing to entertain the notion that our disposition towards it may be misguided. Overthinking never leads us anywhere because our humanity conditions us into a state of relative ignorance. If we wait to figure out everything before we act, we will be waiting forever to no avail. By the same token, our nature gives us the means to act with a degree of purpose without completely giving in to impulses. If all we do is react to stimuli, if we only ever choose to accommodate the tiger’s whims, we lose sight of who we are. We eventually make a fool out of ourselves; a fool who will sooner or later face ruin.

[ Read/watch: Ataraxia, moderation, and mysticism (well, check all my presentations in this series) ]

Do we ever break free from the tiger’s grip? In a sense, no. We will always have impulses, needs, and desires that surface contrary to our volition. Does she ever go on the prowl without us? No, we are always together. Her insatiable appetite is what underpins our curiosity to explore this world. Can we overcome the love-hate relationship we have with her? Yes, when we find the virtuous balance between the extremes, when we reach that state of tranquillity where we simply take our presence for what it is.

First I provide the original lyrics, followed by my translation, and then some comments:

Το γράμμα

Δε θέλω πια να σκέφτομαι τα ίδια και τα ίδια
Σα να'ταν όλα ψέμματα, στάχτες κι αποκαΐδια
Θέλω ανοιχτά παράθυρα να με χτυπάει αέρας
Να'χω το νου μου αδειανό
Να'χω και πρίμο τον καιρό

Δε θέλω πια να μου μιλάς για όσα έχεις ζήσει
Δε χάθηκε κι ο κόσμος πια το τζάμι αν ραγίσει
Θέλω να'ρθεις και να με βρεις να κάτσεις να τα πούμε
Πως νιώθουμε παράφορα
Πως ζούμε έτσι αδιάφορα

Δε θέλω να πικραίνεσαι
τις Κυριακές τα βράδια
Χωρίς αυτή τη σκοτεινιά
τα χρόνια μένουν άδεια

Θέλω να φύγεις να σωθείς να πάψεις να γκρινιάζεις
Να ξεχαστείς στη διαδρομή ποιος ήσουν και πώς μοιάζεις
Έτσι θα σ'αγαπώ πολύ και θα σε βλέπω λίγο
Σα μια γυναίκα μακρινή
Που αγάπησα πριν φύγω

Δε θέλω να πικραίνεσαι
τις Κυριακές τα βράδια
Χωρίς αυτή τη σκοτεινιά
τα χρόνια μένουν άδεια

To gramma (the letter)

I don't want to think the same over and over
As if they were all lies, ashes and embers
I want open windows to feel the breeze
To keep my mind empty
To also have the time as guide

I don't want you to tell me all you've been through
The world does not end even if the glass is cracked
I want you to come find me and sit for a chat
How do we feel passionately
How to we live so dispassionately

I don't want you to be saddened
on Sunday nights
Without this darkness
the years are left empty

I want you to leave to save yourself, to stop complaining
To become forgetful on the path about who you were and how you looked like
Thus I will love you a lot and see you a little
Like a distant woman
Whom I grew to love before leaving

I don't want you to be saddened
on Sunday nights
Without this darkness
the years are left empty

Socratis Malamas sings about a letter. Who is the author and who its intended recipient? What does the author try to accomplish? And which are the recipient’s woes? I believe this is a monologue. The person is trying to escape from their own obsessions, to let go of the past, and to accept the present for what it is.

[ Read/watch: On learning and being present ]

In the opening verse, Malamas, speaks in the first person. All those bothersome thoughts that keep playing in a loop need to be rendered irrelevant. They must be treated as lies, or, better, as ashes and embers—a metaphor pointing to their transient nature. Embers die out as the fire subsides: so must the long-obsolete mental burdens we carry around.

Malamas then addresses the self as a “you”. The “I” has already broken free from the shackles, while the “you” represents the part that clings on to the past. This “you” continues to rave about what has transpired and what they have lived through. Central in those moments is a certain sense of failure, represented by the cracked glass. There is no undoing such irreparable damage. The “you” regrets that moment and their guilt makes them suffer. This is why the “I” wants to empty the mind: to put an end to all those scenaria, all the what-could-have-been. They do not exist.

The comparison between passionate feelings and dispassionate living is not a contradiction. Both are consistent with the idea that we keep our undivided attention in the moment. When you utter “I love you”, the emotion pertains to the here-and-now, to the exact experience. Not the ambitions, not the longer-term plans, not the “what will others say about it”, and certainly not in relation to what your past self could have done. What occurs, what is in the present, is the feeling, which is passionate. When we live moment-by-moment we do it with aloofness, for we are not fastened upon constructs of either the past or the future. We have already cleared the room, freed the mind from such concerns. Experiences can then be savoured in full.

What about those “Sunday nights” that bring sorrow? Why are the years left empty without their darkness? I think emptiness is at the root of the sense of dread and helplessness we feel once we recognise the disconnect between our actuality and the figments of our imagination. In other words, we accept moments of loneliness for what they are, without dwelling on the fact of our loneliness—it is what it is. Insisting on the “what if” and the “have to” contradicts the reality: it builds up tension, engenders incentives to be someone else, sets up insurmountable obstacles, and makes us feel worthless as we move to the sidelines. Hence the sense of feeling lost which brings sadness. To those who are ever-present, darkness simply is; years are not left empty.

Do yourself a favour and venture on the path, forgetting who you once were and how you used to look—none of those considerations matter.

Which brings me to this wonderful reference to the “distant woman whom I grew to love before leaving”. We can only expect this emotion to have been genuine: a passionate feeling, as I already noted. Yet the person did not latch on to it: they left. Why leave behind someone you love? That is not the point. The real issue here is whether you accept the fact that when conditions are such, you must move on, else you develop obsessions about a state of affairs that has ceased to be. The memory remains, yet the woman is distant because one learns to remain aloof from the fray and not give in to superficially sweet delusions.

Let me then comment on the legend of Laodamia. This was a young woman who married Iolaos, the prince of a small community in Thessaly (modern-day central Greece). The couple were in love. Iolaos had to join the Trojan War on the side of the Achaeans. Such are the duties of a prince. As the soothsayers had foretold, the first to set foot on Troy would die on the spot. None of the leading figures dared to venture forth. Iolaos took the initiative to break the standstill. And died… History records this act as one of selflessness: Iolaos was posthumously renamed to “Protesilaos”, the “first of the people”. Back at home, Laodamia could not live with news of Iolaos’ death: she loved the man, not the symbol made out of him. Symbols persist, but the man was dead. Laodamia thus created a simulacrum of her husband and dedicated her life to it. She could not move on; she could not accept that Iolaos had become “distant”, to re-use Malamas’ lyrics. Laodamias’ father lit a fire to dismantle the effigy, in hope that his daughter would come to terms with reality. To his surprise, Laodamia jumped into the flames and burned to death.

While we can interpret the story as one of eternal love, I hold that would do us a disservice. There is no denying how Laodamia felt about Iolaos. Her love was sincere. The gist is that she anchored her life in the past, in an imaginary world that would never correspond with her actuality. It is not the fire that killed her, but the powerful delusions that denied her the experience of the present. She was dead inside. The rest was a formality.

The “distant woman whom I grew to love before leaving” is neither limited to love nor to a certain woman. It hints at our resilience, at the lightness which characterises our conduct, when we have mastered how to let go.

[ Also check the high quality metal cover, by Dope Default: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51AtbnbyGd4. ]

First I share the original lyrics, followed by my translation, and then my commentary:

Τρένο

Όταν θα 'ρθείς
να με ξεθάψεις απ' τις στάχτες
και διώξεις από πάνω μου
όλη τη σκουριά
και ξαναβάλεις
τις ρόδες μου σε ράγες
και εγώ αρχίσω να κυλάω ξανά

Τότε οι λύπες θα με ψάχνουν
κι άνεργες θα θρηνούν
θα πέφτουν μανιασμένες οι βροχές
και θα ρωτούν

Τι έγινε κείνο το τρένο που έβλεπε
τα άλλα τρένα να περνούν

Treno (Train)

When you come
to unearth me from the ashes
and clear off of me
all the rust
and place again
my wheels on rails
and I start rolling again

Then the sorrows will be searching for me
and now idle will be mourning
Rains will be falling maniacally
and they will be asking

What happened to that train which spectated
the other trains passing by

It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Yet it also is true that a word evokes a thousand images. Train, an otherwise simple song, is a case in point. It tells the story of one who lives from the sidelines. This is a life that goes to waste, covered in ashes and eaten away by rust. It is the grinding routine of a person who does not assume agency; a person conditioned into thinking of their self as worthless.

The “sorrows” and the “rains” represent the naysayers in our life. These can be other people, though they may also emanate from within: figments of our imagination which personify a value we have assumed as truthful a priori.

[ I make a relevant point about thinking of ourselves as a failure in a recent presentation: On learning and being present. ]

They are not questioning us because of how evil they are. Such is a rarity—bullies can be misguided too. It simply has to do with the fact that they echo what they have heard without thinking it through.

Take the common beliefs in favour of marriage as a means of fulfilment: the normativity of marriage and all the institutional arrangements revolving around it or predicated on it. You have to marry and you must do it while you are young. If, for whatever reason, you are past thirty and have not married yet, others in your milieu will think of you as a failure of sorts.

“Where is your wife? How many children do you have?” I lost count of the times I’ve heard these… If you believe in the notion that you are a person manqué, a “half” who must necessarily find some “other half” to qualify as a fully fledged human being, you will spend the remainder of your days belittling yourself for your perceived worthlessness. You are conditioned into thinking that not conforming with a social norm is indicative of a defect of yours. Much like the train in the song, you will live in sorrow, merely spectating the others. You do not appreciate what you have—there is so much you could do with it, provided you showed the requisite self-respect.

Make no mistake: there is nothing wrong with marriage per se. It is the “you must do it” part that is problematic. It serves as a simplistic yardstick by which everyone is measured. A one-size-fits-all that turns into a ritual of casting everyone into a mould. Do it and you are worthy; don’t conform and you jeopardise your position. There is no nuance, no tolerance for the hitherto undefined. Such a crude formulation incentivises people to conform with a role. Those who accomplish the task in this little game earn a type of credit— the superficial respect of others—which they hope to redeem in exchange for some other goods. Not pursuing those tokens means that you lose out on the subsequent transactions. How unfortunate!

The song starts with a call to a figure who liberates us from the fetters that hold us still. This can represent an altruistic fellow who helps us accept who we are, or it symbolises a revelation that springs to mind. Whether someone else puts us back on our tracks or we achieve it by ourselves, we take the initiative: instead of spectating others while being sad, we venture fearlessly into the great unknown, at peace with what our nature renders inescapable.

The naysayers find comfort in your inertia: they work laboriously towards that end as it ultimately justifies their condition. Do not believe their value judgements to be true in advance. Move on. Start rolling again. Find your own way. Let them grow paranoid as they wonder what happened to the one they once held captive.

You are free. The fetters are now theirs.

First I share the original lyrics, followed by my translation, and then my commentary:

Καθρέφτης

Μια μέρα ήρθε στο χωριό γυναίκα ταραντούλα
κι όλοι τρέξαν να τη δουν
άλλος της πέταξε ψωμί
κι άλλοι της ρίξαν πέτρα
απ’ την ασχήμια να σωθούν

Κι ένα παιδί της χάρισε ένα κόκκινο λουλούδι
ένα παιδί
ένα παιδί της ζήτησε να πει ένα τραγούδι
ένα παιδί

Κι είπε ποτέ σου μην τους πεις
τι άσχημοι που μοιάζουν
αυτοί που σε σιχαίνονται
μα στέκουν και κοιτάζουν

Κι είπε ποτέ σου μην κοιτάς
τον άλλον μες τα μάτια
γιατί καθρέφτης γίνεσαι
κι όλοι σε σπαν’ κομμάτια

Μια μέρα ήρθε στο χωριό άγγελος πληγωμένος
τον φέρανε σε ένα κλουβί
κι έκοβε εισιτήριο ο κόσμος αγριεμένος
την ομορφιά του για να δει

Κι ένα παιδί σαν δάκρυ ωραίο αγγελούδι
ένα παιδί
ένα παιδί του ζήτησε να πει ένα τραγούδι
ένα παιδί

Κι είπε αν θέλεις να σωθείς
από την ομορφιά σου
πάρε τσεκούρι και σπαθί
και κόψε τα φτερά σου

Κι είπε ποτέ σου μην κοιτάς
τον άλλο μες τα μάτια
γιατί καθρέφτης γίνεσαι
κι όλοι σε σπαν’ κομμάτια

Kathreftis (Mirror)

One day came by the village a woman tarantula
and all ran to behold her
one threw her bread
and others threw her a stone
to save themselves from the ugliness

And a child offered her a red flower
a child
a child asked her to sing a song
a child

And she said never tell them
how ugly they look
those who loath you
yet stand watching you

And she said never stare
the other in the eyes
for you turn into a mirror
and all shatter you into pieces

One day came by the village a wounded angel
they brought him in a cage
and people were ragingly buying tickets
to behold his beauty

And a child like a good tear, a little angel,
a child
a child asked him to sing a song
a child

And he said if you want to save yourself
from your beauty
pick an axe and a sword
and chop off your wings

And he said never stare
the other in the eyes
for you turn into a mirror
and all shatter you into pieces

Alkinoos draws two contrasting images which share a common thread. In the first, we have a spider, an insect that people tend to find disgusting; a being worthy only of contempt. In the second is an angel who, albeit wounded, remains strikingly beautiful and admirable.

Starting with the spider. What do we think of bugs, really? Even in as something as technical as programming, we find people participate in “bug squashing parties”. Sure, it is not literal. But even the choice of metaphor says a lot about our underlying values. Humanity has a hard time appreciating those forms of life. Instead, we judge them on the basis of their looks. We deal only with superficialities to make ourselves feel more special. Such is our vanity and self-valorisation. Our prejudice prevents us from discerning in the tarantula anything other than a loathsome creature.

Whereas the child, the lad not yet indoctrinated in social norms, sees things without a filter, without anthropocentric pretenses to worthiness. The child recognises that this insect can sing a song and can, in fact, teach us a lesson. It offers a red flower to show its respect.

The tarantula tells us how ugly, how profoundly insecure about themselves, are those who loath you. The reason they judge you is to boost their own confidence: to affirm to their own person and their peers that “I am not that ugly, therefore, I am better”. Those who are insecure cannot stand the truth: their modus vivendi consists in the hypocrisy of being someone else, of concealing their true self out of a misplaced fear of who they are in actuality. Those who pretend to be another person need to put up an act at all times, a performance for the public eye, a charade they themselves must believe in, to deny or wish away that which is real about them. The hypocrite dreads being exposed.

When you are pure, like the tarantula in our story, and stare a hypocrite in the eyes you create a juxtaposition in their mind between your truthfulness and their falsehood. This is why you become a mirror: they see in you the liar hidden beneath their mask. Those whose life depends on a heap of lies can only hate the truth: it ruins what they so laboriously set up. Thus they will shatter any “mirror” that exposes them.

We then have the angel. Why would a being of peerless beauty ever entertain the notion of saving oneself from one’s looks (“if you want to save yourself from your beauty”)? Isn’t it good to be beautiful? Don’t practically all benefits come from this attribute? We live in an overly sexualised and superficial society that commodifies certain standards. Apply this lotion to develop silky smooth skin. Buy this other chemical to have bright, healthy hair. Spend inordinate amounts of money on this and that gimmick that your prospective sexual partners ought to find attractive (the “ought to” is where brainwashing comes in). In short: play by the rules of the game and you might win big time, else you will get the tarantula treatment.

The angel wants to save himself from his beauty because it too engenders superficial and misleading judgements. People like the angel not because of his personhood but due to his appearance, which reduces him to an object of admiration. “Admiration”, yes, but an object nonetheless.

Here too the charlatans are not interested in the truth. Their sole concern is to reaffirm their standards and, by extension, do their best to fit in with their social group. This is akin to the deeply phobic man who feels the need to praise the “ideal of the alpha male” in order to conceal his underlying reality; a reality from which he is running away; a reality he is ashamed of because he is the victim of social expectations that he has mistakenly internalised as indisputable truths.

Read commentary: Thoughts on masculinity.

Relevant presentations:

• On learning and being present.
• On selfhood.
• Expectations, rules, and role-playing.

The angel shall emancipate himself from the superficialities by ritually chopping off the markers of his undeniable beaty: his wings. In so doing, he becomes “normal”. We must now appreciate him for who he is, not assess his worthiness on the basis of his score on an inane metric.

Those who are honest, like the child, recognise the wisdom in the angel’s song. In a world of hypocrites, in a world that objectifies the subject, a world in which people hate themselves despite their litanies to the contrary, being a mirror, reminding them of who they are, is dangerous.

Alkinoos sings about the contrasting figures of a spider and an angel to prompt us to look past the appearances and to appreciate others for who they are, not how we compare to them.

Observe people’s behaviour towards those whom they consider their inferiors and superiors, respectively. Search for differences. If there are any, you will understand who you are dealing with. Such is the rule of thumb I have developed through my experiences. Do you loath the spider for her ugliness and admire the angel for his beauty? This tells us a lot about you.