marsia

Crete - Day 1

2009-11-01T23:43:00.014Z

This time Crete feels like a totally unique experience. I am here for research. NOT for leisure, NOT for pleasure. I underline this as I need to remind myself what the reason of this visitation is ... and GET back to work.

I have been on Crete before; in fact, at least ten times, but has always been during the Summer months. In the Winter, when the tourists rarely visit, Crete takes a sad, melancholic face and the island is dressed in gray. Loneliness and missing Martin, in my case, makes it worse. Everything here makes me want to talk about it and describe what I see. I keep taking notes, sketching things that impress me, amuse me or even scare me; I also keep a diary.

I only arrived here this noon, after landing during a terrible rainstorm. Flying through the storm was not great. At some point I thought that the aeroplane might crash on the Aegean sea. Oh, look! The isles in the midst of the Great Green! Ivory white and greyish-brownish, rocky islands, tortured by the sea waves. So wild but beautiful! I spotted one or two of them behind the clouds; nevertheless, due to the terrifying landing, my mind would not think of all-things Aegean but off all-things Egyptian 'Fields of Eternity'.

I did not need to collect my luggage. My backpack is my only luggage. When I go abroad for research, I never take any luggage with me, other than my hand luggage of course. It is not worth it. When I went to Egypt I did exactly the same. A school backpack full of clothes was good enough to keep me going for at least ten days. In the end, I got rid of most of them, giving them to a beggar begging outside Ramses train station. Minimalism is part of being me, I suppose. Some people do not want to understand it. That will never change, no matter the circumstances and no matter where I go. My limited clothes are good enough for both Summer and Winter. It's the inside that counts, not the wrapping paper.

The taxi driver was chatty. He did take me to the Taverna, but he asked way too many questions during the 15 minute drive. I gave him the answers he wanted to hear, making up a story from scratch, I never told him what I am really doing here.

On the way to the accommodation, of course, I had to speak Greek. I noticed that my accent is now slightly altered -and I cannot help it. It is not Englishised. It's just different to what it was before. It is milder; not that Athenian-Corinthian type of accent that I used to have while stopping in Greece. Do not ask me why please. I do not know the answer myself. The only thing that I can tell you with certainty is that in the last -at least- four years out of five that I have spent in the UK, I think in English and yes, I even dream in English. That is not completely bizarre. Martin says that he sometimes dreams in Greek, probably because we speak Greek at home.

Jumping from one paragraph to another is not going to help me improve my English language skills, but at least it will make me say what I want to say. I apologise for the bad spelling or syntax. I keep encouraging myself to write in plain English, even though I make mistakes. It can only do me good. Writing in a foreign language is not always the easiest thing in the world, and my new British surname does not automatically make my speech and writing reach perfection. At least I am trying. Innovation is not at all about the destination; it is all about the trip.

I was left to wonder at Villa Ariadne's gardens. The beauty of these gardens is unique. The apple and pomegranate trees where full of red fruit, its vivid colour popping out among the rich green foliage; flowers were planted in baskets and pots; even the landscape around the villa gives you that sort of feeling that the earth is full of hidden treasures. It was then when I started thinking of the spirits of Evans, Pendlebury, Money-koutsi (please allow me the Greekiness of her surname). I felt them wondering around and looking at me, placing way too many expectations upon my face. I lowered my head. By the time I opened the printed map in order to find my way to the Taverna, here he comes, the Knossos curator, to welcome me. 'Mrs Bealby', he shouted! (I still cannot get used to my British surname, especially in Greece). 'Welcome to the 'Taverna'. In English.

He showed me around. The Taverna is a beautiful place. All in all five rooms cover the needs of the visitors-members of the British School. Showers and toilets are for public use. Same with the kitchen, breakfast and dinner room. I am stopping in room five. The curator said that two of the rooms are used by semi-permanent visitors who study Knossos archaeology. They are now here and I am looking forward to meeting them tomorrow. A bit of socialising with similarly-minded peers will do me good.

I was impressed with the library. I unlocked and opened the door to find out that there is a hidden treasure of books and maps in there. Some of them are on Aegean-Egyptian interactions. 'Hmm', I said. 'I have to get back to them tomorrow'. Interesting. The dust creates a kind of ceremonial atmosphere every time I attempt to take a book out the shelves.

However, I was tired. My lack of concentration on the book that I had started reading annoyed me massively. Therefore I went back to the room. I was also starving. I had barely eaten all day, so I went out to find the 'last' open tavern of the season, at the village of Knossos. That was the one opposite the car park of the Knossos palace.

In the local tavern, two men were watching football on the box (Bolognia versus a Greek teem). The restaurant door was shut, but I was so desperate for a bit of food that I had to knock. The décor consisted of replicas of archaeology in order to attract the tourists. There was also a sign on the wall. NO SMOKING. The owner of the tavern was smoking like a chimney. They asked me what I want and they said that they only have mussaka. 'Mussaka would do', I said. The man served it to me, with some slices of bread to go with it. It was delicious, but I ate it all in minutes, because I felt uncomfortable and vulnerable. One of the men was looking at my wedding ring. I was asked about what I was doing there. I made up another story. I hate telling people what I am doing for living (if one could classify studying as a what-ya-doing-for-living thing), possibly because I know that the locals may find my lifestyle abroad a bit 'over-the-top'. Curiosity always kills the cat. I paid and left, I decided that I am not going to revisit the restaurant. Tomorrow I am going to get some food supplies from Irakleion and that will do. Funny again how I accept my that-will-does.

I headed back to the Taverna. On the way back, the wind was blowing like crazy. The frenetic rain would hit me straight upon the face and the sound of the wild nature partying outside the room reminded me of that maniac Libyan sea waves that I would hear overnight, when Martin and I had stopped at that isolated beach at Sfakia, making our tent on the sea pebbles and rocks (that was more than 5 years ago). A similar kind of wind, rain and salt water had then damaged our temporary shelter. So did the wind when we camped on the beach on Gaudos, the memory of which can now reassure me that the Libyan sea might have been one of the most dangerous seas for seafaring in the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean.

I went to the room, went to bed and turned off the light. The hitting was on full power for the room was cold. I swear I once heard the earth growling; it must have been the noise of a distant earthquake. Tomorrow is another day. I am visiting the Irakleion museum.

picture: the blanket on the bed in room five. I loved the colours.

Copyright: Text and photography protected by M. Bealby.

His heart

2009-06-05T05:52:00.004+01:00

His heart is what it was before;
a taste of strawberry liquor
a simple child;
moody, in silence and tears;
a fire congealed with senseless cold;
a lake of fears
a field of gold.

Text and photography by M. Bealby. All rights reserved. Title of today's picture: Xylokastro.

2008-08-21T04:31:00.011+01:00

...The bus stop...

This morning, on the way home, I started chatting with the old lady who was sitting next to me waiting for the bus.

'Come again?!', she repeated.

Several minutes later, as our conversation was ready to come to dead end, I yelled to everyone who was at the bus stop in a very cyclothymic way :

'I wish I could speak!'

and again:

'I wish I could speak!'

Then I apologised for my funny English accent. It was a very personal thing.

Needless to say, everybody looked at me like I was mad! Except of the poor old woman who was looking... rather sad and lost in her own thoughts. She coughed a couple of times to clear her throat, then turned to me and said:

'I know how you feel, my dear. It's fine. I just really wish that I could hear!'.

Text and photography by M. Bealby. All rights reserved. Title of today's picture: Causeway House, Lichfield UK.

2008-06-27T21:56:00.014+01:00

...Fear not!...

There must be an exit somewhere out there.
This road is broken in half.
People are thirsty for revolutions and beating.
It's called the Grand Civilised War of the Coke era.
It comes in red and white,
to treat the wounds and open thousands more.
Someone screams in the hearing of an ambulance hooter.
The radio plays loudly the noisy songs of 69.
The kids feel the glory
of being astronauts for a day
feeding the inhospitable mud
with the footsteps of their trainers
as they run to escape.
The night will come early.
Finally, the winter will sprout
like the early bulb flowers of amaryllis.
The issue is always left untouched.
Untouched as the whispers of the timids.
Fear not! No fears!
Simply our soul's bonfires and tiers.

Text and photography by Marsia Bealby. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: bikes of Amsterdam.

2008-04-08T10:53:00.011+01:00

My little story about Sheffield...

My life is changing in such a drastic way that I run after it like a fool. Everyday is a number: yesterday it was 61, this morning it was 60. My nearest and dearest make it clear that I am not a child any more and I have a number of responsibilities. Information keeps coming to me in the form of emails and letters, but everything new - I swear - I can hardly chew and metabolise.

Sheffield was a relief. It made me discover the power of myself. In fact, I had forgotten how to process the power of myself. That conference made me open my eyes again. (Uncertainly...) was it the conference itself or the fact that I was all alone for a while? I wouldn't know. It had been ages since the last time I was all alone, in a room, talking loudly to myself and pulling my own leg.

Also, I discovered a lovely place in Sheffield city-centre. I used to spend ages there looking at the trams that come and go. People who were passing by would thing that I am a villager who had never seen such a technological miracle before: the vehicle on the tram lines moving and making noise like a modern monster, with a Cyclopean eye on the front and an antenna to support itself towards the sky... (there is no gravity on the hills of Sheffield, hahaaa).

In reality, it was not the trams I was looking at. It was the tram lines. I took a picture to show you and the moment I was taking this picture I suddenly felt like Antoine de Saint Exupéry sketching a boa that had eaten an elephant...and definitely, not another hat, not another grey hat...

This is the picture. Not a great picture, I know, but for me it is a very special one. You can clearly see my dilemma in this picture. Which way to go? Right or left? After all, life is like an Y letter. We should spell it LYFE, not life... and there are so many decisions of 'right or left' we need to take during our 0 to 130 years...

As about me, at the point I had to chose right or left, I chose to follow right. It took me to the train station. I waited and waited and waited there... until I decided to catch the train to Gainsborough. It started snowing. The snowflakes had an early April sunshine trapped inside them. One of these snowflakes was wearing a white wedding dress, moving nervously here and there, up and down...

And that was my little story about Sheffield...

Text and photography by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Pictures taken in Sheffield.

2007-08-17T14:32:00.000+01:00

...Atlantis...

Atlantis was a mythical place. I find it hard to believe that it ever existed somewhere in the middle of the ocean. In my dreams its location is somewhere over the clouds, not underwater. It has happened to me to see weird things over there, every time I routinely travel on the airplane.

Once I imagined the cyclopean walls of Atlantis encircling huge chimneys and rectangular buildings. One of them, possibly an altar of a mysterious fertility goddess, had set at defiance all known natural phenomena. It was an immense rhomboid construction with symbols and unknown alphabets on its external metallic walls and it was flying there, over a crown of fire, sparkling towards every direction. It took me some time to finally realize that the 'chimneys' were not chimneys but tall and impressive trees, with trunks made of various metals and branches made of big nails and screws, whereas their scant foliage was made of flags and banners.

I reckon that every building had a number; something like a code, to mark it and make it special, as all buildings were exactly the same. That number-symbol was written with light rays on the flat roof of every structure.

The king of Atlantis was a landholder, cultivating his land by giving orders to thousands of ant-formed robotic subjects. Their wages were payed in promise, little papers with prays and the head on the queen on them, reassuring the robotic creatures that the divine power is with them. But there was no hope. Because...

All things are instant, but when you add moments together you create duration. Energetic fields are nothing else but joined instant moments or particles. Moreover, everything - from chakras and states of mind to practicalities and social phenomena - has two opposite ends, two poles. Love, for example, is an instant moment of survival that can be expanded either to an eternity or to an annihilation. However, at this point I have to inform you that time in Atlantis was nonexistent. Concepts such as past and future would not mean absolutely anything, as dimension of time was infinitely small. For that reason there was not day and night in the Atlantian's mind, there was no movement in his thought, even though in reality everything in Atlantis was made of movement, light and noise. Feelings were also nonexistent, as souls were dominated by the powerful kingship.

Despite the technological progress, nurtured by the common belief to the unknown goddess, that desperation of peoples' thought lead to the death of their civilization. First the poles conspired against the center and soon the center was broken into pieces. Then, poles were desolated and perished due to self-destruction. All the tall chimney treas and the rectangular buildings were lost in the condemnation of timelessness. Atlantis was a mythical place, after all.

text and photography by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: pot in gray scale and color (collection: Greece, 2007).

2007-07-28T20:37:00.000+01:00

...Fore-tellers...

I saw them kneeling on the earth
barefoot, their mouths dry
their nudity their only clothes to wear
Prophets with long ash-grey hair
and their voice of why
spat out with their breath

Star-like dolours heart their eyes
it's time for you to compromise
regrets are flying in the air
to wash away signs of despair

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved
Title of photograph: grandma's house

2007-07-15T23:27:00.000+01:00

...Bless you, mother...

I love him so deeply and purely and that I have denied the dusts of my past. Years ago, I used to sip life so typically, in a way that a nervous and anorectic girl would do, but since I met him I learned to taste every day and every little moment with the greediness not only to breath and survive, but to live; at last, to live.

I cannot face any happiness without his happiness next to me. I cannot face a second without him holding my hand. My love will last for an eternity and a day.

My new country, my paradise, has no borders but the borders of his heart. My children. . . I can see my children in his eyes, even before they get born.

I wanted to thank you, mother, because you gave birth to him; you raised him, you fed him, you stood next to him when he was ill and sad, you bought clothes for him and you sent him to school. I wanted to thank you, as you prepared him for me as the best present I could ever received. God bless you.

Text and photography by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: memories of Aggistri island, Summer 2006.

2007-06-26T09:52:00.000+01:00

I love thee, I love but thee with a love that shall not die;
till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

W. Shakespeare

You taught me, a long time ago, not to interrogate my consciousness. There were troubling things there, you said, and I should stay away from them.
Here is my thought: maybe I should have said to you that you are like waves. You start from the centre, where the pebble suddenly meets the surface of my sea, to expand your existence in the wholeness of my ocean.

Text and photography by Marsia Sfakianou. Title of photograph: what is after 12: 00? All rights reserved.

2007-06-14T00:21:00.000+01:00

...Desire...

Desire is the fools' best friend;
it lives in the spirits of those
who don't know when and where
to draw the line.

Scream is the vertigo of conquering peoples' hearts.
Clamour and groan.
Then clamour and groan again.
But you enjoy it,
as you strongly support the opinion that
cyclicity might be the sole criterion
of systematic relationships.

Your pseudo-allied behaviour
towards (or against) your enemies
is never bad or good,
never right or wrong.
However, it is that balance
between your two personalities;
it is that neutralism
that keeps you busy and muzzles your mouth.

Come on.
I will embrace you.
Softly and tenderly,
like an early morning nightmare.

Text and Photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved.

2007-06-04T17:09:00.000+01:00

Xylokastro

At the soul of things
desire is a heavy sentiment
such as feather made of lead
such as silk made of flesh

text and photography by M. Sfakianou. All rights reserved.

2007-04-29T22:46:00.000+01:00

...Black and white...

O fugitive body
when the breeze hits
the door panels
your necessity becomes the soul of a butterfly
desperate to escape
throughout the cracks of the walls...

O fugitive heart
I wish to touch you
behind your closed eyelids...
at the front line of the morning battle
I wish to conquer you...

O my tree,
I will turn into drops of spring rain
to bring forth the buds on your twigs
and to drip from your palms
onto the waiting ground
to put down roots
to seep into you...

I 've got another face,
the face of a doleful Sunday
and the more I desire you
the more you escape...

Your rhetoric love promises are beyond me,
they chew bay leafs in a state of languor...

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. Title of photograph: blossom in the back garden.

2007-04-11T08:08:00.000+01:00

...the pyromaniac...

The true picture of life came into my world when I was eleven or twelve. My teens were the period of evolution and revolution, the period I would built my best hope on the shoulders of school, the little village community and its various religious ideas. How wrong were I! I cannot imagine there will be much left of them inside me after thirty years. Like I said, this is the real reason for human sacrifice. To turn the card over and reveal its content. Or to step through the door after midnight and flash a light around you.

I thought I was going to tell you a story about me, but I have forgotten what I wanted to mention here. Twenty seven years of my life, I am still writing my autobiography on white papers I burn every so often, so...in the end, there is nothing left of me. I have to admit the Freud and his 'super-ego' are not among my best friends but, still, does it involve any indications of madness? Trough the rest of my history, I promise, I will try not to be a pyromaniac as a part of an ambiguous experiment to throw light onto my soul; for you not to become upset but have something to remember of me. OK. OK. As I do not want to disappoint you, I will give it a try.

However, I should brush your questions away for the moment. Time is running and I have to judge my character. I will keep you informed. And, of course, I will see you later.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Spring. University of Birmingham, central square.

2007-04-04T20:30:00.000+01:00

...Sun storm...

As a reply to the afternoon storm I fold my lips tight to a shape of uncertainty. For the moment, at least, it seems that this Spring is not as promising and alluring as it appeared to be on that first fresh yellow daffodil at the park, almost a full month ago. The sky is still cloudy and early morning I open my eyes to see a grayish daylight. However, I try to built a beauty around what I do and what I think. Life is passionate, and so does my chance to keep breathing and dreaming. Since the weather remains bitter I will survive enjoying the sun storm inside me.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: View from Victoria Square, Birmingham UK.

2007-04-01T22:38:00.000+01:00

...Mulberry...

Winter sped on.
In the meadow of tears and smiles
in my emotional paradise,
the leaves of the trees were made of crystal;
their roots were made of glass.
The flowers were made of cotton.
their petals were made of silk.
I am a nervous egoist, suffering from the purity of a mourning childhood.
Every time it rains, breeze, raindrops and hail are the sprouts of my soul.
But my first spring hopes are piled in the front doorway,
waiting there to be collected and packed
for a very promising trip. After all...
Speramus meliora; resurget cineribus.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: university of Birmingham campus.The Latin motto 'speramus meliora, resurget cineribus' was adopted by the city of Detroit after a catastrophic fire in 1805. It is translated as:
We hope for better things;
it will rise from the ashes.

2007-03-18T15:38:00.000Z

...nour...

I wish I could be the sunbeam,
to be conquered among the curls of your hair,
to be trapped in there all day;
and when the night comes
to slide onto your naked body,
when you take off your clothes,
resurrecting myself every sunrise,
so as to spend with you
the unique companion
of an entire lifetime.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Photograph: York Cathedral.

2007-03-15T07:32:00.000Z

...Freakish...

It was the growing estimation of soreness that attracted my attention. The hit of pain was a devastating feeling, appealing an astonished misery. The symptom of that state was the inability to recall any memory, the inability to make my past survive through the picture and speech. I could not describe my sensation as ascetism or starvation. It was more like a decapitated Gioconda, like a limping beauty model. I am aware that sometimes estimation of past is a freakish, hard-core act. I am aware that radios do not always play our favorite songs. I did not even stop to discuss it. I kept it inside me, to decay, in the chaos of my emotional peregrination.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: the house and the tree. York. Xmas 2005.

2007-03-11T06:09:00.000Z

...The jester...

As I was walking, I threw my shadow onto the pavement. My sight captured the picture of a gangling jester clumping left and right, speeding, stopping from time to time to read the map and find alternative directions. In a moment, that jester was nothing else but a black sheet blown with the wind. His heart was a deep fold, a rumpled feeling. His soul was recycled and made of polyester.

Back into the years of my previous life, I dug a tunnel to join you and me. (How difficult it is to join opponent sides of oneself…)The soil became mud; then I found a pebbly surface. Later I was pale. Pale wet sandblasting.

The attempt to find myself ended up into the present. The present is elastic. It comes and goes, reaching the past and future. Like a rubber in the state of eternal reciprocations.

If you come closer and observe me, you will see my scars. You will see my sunshines, my sundowns, my earthquakes and rifts. My temper every often bursts into limbo. Never hell, never paradise. Limbo. A damnation of myself to myself. There is still much to be done to claim my alibi and escape from my phobias. There is much to be done to decide which path to take and which one to leave behind.

The jester is still there, laughing at me. I give him an ironic smile to encourage him. I will follow my instinct, anyway. You are all welcome to join my carnivalism.

Text and photographs by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Photograph taken in Ironbridge, UK.

2007-03-01T06:34:00.000Z

...The path...

The path is a vein. A vein on the face of Earth. Follow it and you will feel the heartbeat of a world you had never noticed before; where everything has a voice to speak, even the tiny insects, the mosquitoes, the water and the daffodils. If the spirits of nature have facial expressions then they can sing with the murmuring of the stream, they can dance with the grass blown by the wind, they can smile with the white half-moon on the clear light blue sky, they can even cry when it rains.

Spring, I do not need anything else to feed myself but the tranquility of your voice echoing inside me.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Picture: Birmingham canal, between Selly Oak and Kings Norton.

2007-02-26T12:04:00.000Z

...The obscure object...

The obscure object tormenting my mind was nothing else but a limping thought, eyes I could not forget and touch I could not reject even though all these years had faded away into the funnel of time and I could not distinguish dates and numbers any more. I -indeed- had kept my promises to escape, to run away as far as possible, but I would keep trapping my salutary way into cul-de-sacs, labyrinths made of walls going narrower and narrower until I would suffocate into a breathless second that would last an eternity. Finally, my previous life would end, gestating the sperm of a malediction without time and space limits. It was his entire fault, but I could never blame him for the slightest thing. It was my apathetic romance to blame of, the blindness that would keep my eyes and ears closed.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Photograph taken in London and then processed.

2007-02-16T23:39:00.000Z

…Marjorie…(or)…A short story…

The feeling of his absence had continued its shadowy existence in her life, making her show a surprising sympathy to her desperate tries to bring him back. That was the convalescent period she would deep herself in glasses of alcohol, suffer from a terrible eating disorder and start smoking. Her kitchen table had numerous glasses and dishes on it, all empty and speechless, waiting for her to abandon them lazily in the sink. Her hair would grow in patches of gray, and she knew, she could feel that she was looking miserable and unattractive. She tried to persuade herself that she had to-she had to do it - Right? She had to stay focused on her studies and carry on planning her future. That X was not the only man on earth, and -anyway-her size ten would fit better in the arms of another man. Alas. Alas.

Some women’s adolescence is a prohibited fruit hanging on the highest branches of a tree. Any attempt to catch it may lead to a broken ankle. Pressures and complexities make young women feel so lonely, that even if they scream into a room crowded with people, they think that nobody will actually turn his head to see what happens. It is like budgie jumping from the stage when you know that nobody will actually catch you.

Marjorie led most of her life in a caravan, in a town a few miles out of Birmingham. Her face was always pale and purple; her heart was always bleeding. Do you want to know what happened and how her life ended? Smell my fingers, man…Nobody knows that she even existed. That is why nobody ever understood her.

Text and photograph by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: London Underground.

2007-02-14T23:50:00.000Z

...1987...

I read my past in the eyes of the little girl sitting on the front steps of the old house, and watching the ants making ant nests in the muddy soil.

I am barefoot and I wear the short dress that my grandmother made especially for me: white cotton; pink ribbons, red buttons. Spring afternoons are lazy. I dream about the future days. How is it when you grow old, when you finish school? Staring up at clouds makes me dizzy. Their shadows look like boats traveling rapidly on the waves of the sky. The van of the rag picker will appear round the corner.

I now feel the imprisonment of being a young girl, falling in love every often, dreaming of princes coming to save me riding their white Syrian horses, matching the colours of the skirt and the top to impress my mates. My diary is hidden underneath my bed. My stress is hidden underneath my smiley lips.

Am I a woman in disguise, aged seven? It is cynical to believe that I - once upon a time - was born to recall all these memories approximately twenty years after the first day at school? A weeping age has passed away. I buried it among the roots of a young lemon tree in granddad's garden, at Xylokastro; and now I am eating preserved lemon peel sweet, dipped in nice thick syrup.

Text by Marsia Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Personal picture.

2007-02-13T21:07:00.000Z

...I love you...

I love your smile. I keep it inside me; I can see it every time I close my eyes.

I love your touch. I keep it in my heart; I made it my heartbeat.

I love your voice. I can hear it in my dreams; it always keeps me company to release me from my nightmares.

I love our everydayness, the way we drink tea together, the nights we lazily watch movies on the sofa, the 6 o clock waking up before you go to work.

I love to cook for you. I love to look after you.

I love the way we plan things together; I love our common future. I cannot wait for it.

I love our two children, Alexander - Ptolemy and Naomi - Susanna. Gods will bless them; they will have all the virtues of the World.

I love you, possible not being able to express my immense feelings in poor words. But I love you. Now I can breath, live and produce. Just thinking of you.

2007-02-08T22:06:00.001Z

...Mirror...

When I was born, being thirsty for survival, I drunk my life as a picture through the black-and-white eye of a satellite.

In my childhood, being hungry for knowledge and adventure I followed the pale dusty path leading to the sky and I joined the Milky Way. As I was flying, my hands and feet were weak but their veins were raised to touch the top of the universe. I would travel among the stars, to abandon myself on foreign pavements and in familiar hands, in rubbish pits and on red carpets.

I have heard the voices of gods saying that dreams are for beggars and homeless people and hopes are for these dogs that stray endlessly waiting for the dogcatcher.

When I grow very old, I promise I will target the satellite that gave birth to my existence. I will target it with my sight and my aggression will break it into thousand pieces. My life will be scattered on the waves of the sea, the south breeze will blow it towards my country. The children of my neighborhood will put me in their pockets to play marbles after school. The white flower in my garden will cry the morning rain.

2007-01-14T21:28:00.000Z

...ausensia...

mis ojos han visto la soledad del mundo

mis labios han besado la soledad de tus labios

tu ausensia es en la montaña de la creación

una noche sin estrellas

yo renaceré en tus sueños...

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Photograph taken at Trikala, Corinth.

2007-01-05T09:53:00.000Z

A sleepless night

Last night, in the sleepless moments of my loneliness, I desired to see you, to capture your sight and protect it underneath my eyelashes until it fades up in the end of my eternity. I was longing to see you, for the white of your eyes to reflect my speechless body, for your lips to taste the flavour of our first kiss.

I only wish I could be the winter breeze, to travel thousand miles to meet you; to cross the milky ways of the sky and land on the smile and murmuring of your dreams. Just for a second…Just to let my fingers take a walk through your soft, silky hair. And then, I would rise and hide behind the clouds to become the morning rain; just to devide myself in millions of raindrops to rain, for my body to cuddle your body and make you mine.

2007-01-03T23:01:00.000Z

"Songs have I sung

for blind ears

on roofs of expectation,

in gardens of whispering…"

The walls of my room are empty, they have lost their voice, colour and smile. There eyes have become two big blisters and they look at me, ready to burst into tears. ‘Why’ is such an immense word for the mouth of Gods that their teeth cannot pronounce it, they cannot even release it from their lips.

I once took you to Kerma, I took you there for a weekend, I offered you the secret sand of the Defuffa Temple, I made you mine, I made you promise that you would be mine forever. You were wearing the sky on your hair; you were wearing the silk of nomads on your hands. Your eyebrows were painted with grey eye shadows and your feet were walking on the soft white clouds of the first summer.

My breath, I have dreamt of you, I have incarnated your soul in the house of my body. In reality I wish to conquer you, more and more, greedily to chew every piece of you and digest your beauty, counting your genes one by one and grouping them into human ambitions, to recreate you the way I want you, the way I would always desire you.

I took of my clothes to reveal you my scars and you heart me. Now you heart me more that any unbearable pain that could hit my soul. Do not ever wish to leave me alone, ever again; do not ever betray me or else I will order my roses to decay and my incense to turn into dust.

2006-12-31T21:37:00.000Z

A wish

To surrender to you, for another day, for another cold or worm evening. To be yours for another month, for another year and for eternity.

And then, after I pass away from this world, to belong to you, for another life.
No, even two lives are not enough. Time is always too short when I am with you.

To have a dance with you, a magic glance of you that steals my heart.

To relax in your arms, to whisper all my secrets targeting your spirit.

To keep on dreaming of us. To carry on planning my life as a part of your life.

To deserve you. To love you with all my soul, to love you with every little cell of my heart, with every little cell of my body.

To be that little girl who stepped onto the roofs of the detached houses, walked and run on them and jumped higher and higher to fetch you that tiny white star you love.

A few hours before New Year. Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Photograph taken in the Ashmolean museum of Art and Archaeology, Oxford.

2006-12-29T09:02:00.000Z

More than two years of you

Standing next to me. We hold the same pencil with the hand of the heart, and we sketch something that makes us smile. There are times we have cried, I know, but we have left all the bad memories aside. Even the moments we were upset, even the moments of difficulty, your warmth was always there to release the pain.

You made me dream last night, you made me go to bed and keep my eyes flickering. I was dreaming of wearing that dress, whiter than any wedding dress; you were there too, all the people we love were there. Some were smiling, others had tears of happiness, others were in that secret place as spirits, we could feel them whispering.

Then I turned my head and I said to you that I am proud to become your wife, because I am in love with you, because you are the One, you are the person that I would always desire by my side for a lifetime. I had never given you a taste of my flesh, apart of my hand, to hold, and my body to cuddle. That night, I would become yours; we would sleep together for the first time.

Text and picture by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Photograph taken in Sfakia, Crete

2006-12-11T21:01:00.000Z

Every time we hold hands

When you give me your hand, when we hold hands, my fingers can feel every line of your palm. They greedily stroke your flesh, bones and veins, they fumble your little moles, and they silently read in the lifelines what is own to be done in your future. My dear, the geography of your hand is an embrace; when you hold me, all the carves of your fingers point to my soul.

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Harmony.

2006-12-10T15:24:00.000Z

Waking up not far from your hug

I conceder myself lucky to have you next to me. I conceder myself the most fortunate woman in the world because I have you, my angel, to love me so much and to give me all this grace you give me everyday. I bless the forthcoming days because I know that I will wake up not far from your hug, I know that you will always be here with me when I want to play, when I want to sing, when I simply need you.

There are so many thinks I need to tell you…
There are so many little thinks I want to share with you…
I look at you, my dear, and I can see a person nobody else could ever see. I look at you and I can see the father of our children in your eyes. I can see my husband on you, I can trespass deeper than flesh and I can read your soul, I can spell your secrets one by one, I can even read your dreams the enthusiastic way you present them to me.

Christmas is coming and New Year will find us under the same roof, with people we love, making plans for our future. From that moment we were together, my life has changed and I own you all the thanks in the world. If only you could imagine how madly, deeply I love you…

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of picture: the piano.

2006-12-06T00:18:00.000Z

Raat ki namaste

I espouse your thoughts, sweet like kiss goodnight. Lullaby to frozen memories, illusion with tempting eyes.

I desire you, for I am immortal, but my soul desires to drink from the beauties of your soul, my spirit is starving to taste the secret places you hide your dreams in your mind.

My home is not away from your existence, just a few miles away, my dear. My name is not different to your name, just a few letters different, my dear. My heart could not be beating louder than your heartbeat; just a few pulses louder maybe.

Your love is…
I accept the rules of your game, cause you set the rules but I created the game.

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Pirate's house. Gaudos, Greece.

2006-11-29T22:22:00.000Z

The sea inside you

Close your eyes and listen to me. Have you ever seen the sea the way you saw it in my arms that August?

Now open your eyes again. I can sea that sea in your pupils. You keep it there forever, such as all the moments we have loved and lived together. Remember that everything lasts forever if you just want to keep it alive in a secret place of your heart or your mind.

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Street light outside of Buckingham palace, London.

2006-11-28T21:56:00.000Z

Love is a trip without return

It is funny how weird life could be, how enigmatic life-games are and how two people from different environments and countries could get together.
It is not a matter of chemistry, astrology or fate. It is a matter of love, two people sharing the same dreams for the future, two people wishing the same wishes and dreaming of the same dreams.
I cannot stand your absence; I cannot stand being away from you. I feel like having you but not having you, at the same time. I love you so much that I want you more and more, I want to spend more and more time with you, I want to stop next to you forever, be one with you, promise you that I will keep you in my arms forever. You have become my obsession, my sweet obsession and passion…

text and picture by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Trafalgar square, London.

2006-11-22T23:33:00.000Z

Does it really matter?

I just thought of an idea: Reality is fragile. My dreams are fragile. I once posted them (both) in envelops to the unknown, sticking stamps of second class on them. Who was the master and who was the slave? It doesn’t really make any difference anymore. Who was right and who was wrong? Does it matter? Does it really matter?
Life is a toothache, as my sister would say (she practices dentistry). Some people are in pain and they are afraid to go to the dentist. They simply suffer quietly, moaning all the time about their bad luck. Others have a bad tooth but they stubbornly keep chewing using the healthy side of their mouth. I don’t really know in which category I belong to. However, I do what it has to be done. I simply brash my teeth every night hoping that the doctor will not take 90 pounds out of my pocket.

Regards,
The elf

Crazy text and Photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Memories.

2006-11-20T15:57:00.000Z

A pray

Don’t let me go because it is freezing out there without you.
This is a world of madness and I cannot bear facing myself without you next to me.
Do not let me go, as Monday is always the same, it always rains, my brain is paralyzed due to your absence.

Do not let me go, because I count my heart, I count my belongings, I count what I am and what I do but I am not the same person without you. I have forgotten something, a part of me, back in your place. My sentiments are limping, do you understand?

Do not, please, do not let me go because I have no voice, I have no voice to speak if I don’t speak with you; I close my thoughts and problems to myself and I don’t talk to anybody, a share my fears with the emptiness of my room, I just cannot hope without you…

Listen to me, for the last time, before you let me go. Let me speak and tell you things you have never heard, let me tell you about that pain I feel in my heart every time I go away.

What is the meaning of not seeing your smile when you laugh and not wipe your teardrops when you cry?

Am I still there? Do you say hello to an empty house, thinking that I am still there after you come back from work?

At night, do you scare my nightmares away; do you open the door of my room to make sure that I am sleeping peacefully on my bed? Please, promise me…

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Flowers. In love.

2006-11-20T15:28:00.000Z

The trees

I visited a village with weird trees. Short trees in the middle of the green autumn meadow, at a place called Wall, not far from Lichfield. Their trunk was bare brown, their leaves were skinny yellowish, each one mysteriously pointing towards the same direction, where the wind blows.

See? I told you...
The leaves stand still pointing to your house, they were probably born being like that; it is likely that they had in their cells that insignificant order to be created with their nerves like tiny arrows, a kind of natural compass being a silent evidence of your existence in my life. We stopped for a moment to admire that beautiful landscape. I was holding your hand, then you walked with me in the narrow streets, you felt the cold breeze on your face and got worm from our kiss.

Heart-shape leaves pointing towards you?

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: Flowers. The colour of my soul.

2006-11-17T21:14:00.000Z

For my Martin

There are some moments too peculiar…seconds of madness and passion without any logic. Those moments are strictly personal but at the same time, so obvious that I could never hide them.

Even that time that I seem not to exist in your life, when I am far or just busy, I am mad of my desire to cuddle you…

Mornings I wake up being next to you, moments I wake up being away from you, but always in your heart.

Evenings I spent in my house, counting the days to see you.
Periods I travel abroad and I long for my return to see you waiting for me in the airport.

Weekdays my hands and mind work but my sentiments belong to you.

Moments that I cannot see a think, I don’t want to see a thing when I open and close my eyes, apart from your picture…

Those moments, those seconds are too short, too negligible, they can kill me and at the same time they can wake me up from death. Crumbles in time, that’s what they are…Clocks simply cannot mirror them.

Minutes I would like to be inside you, to see what you see, to hear what you hear…to walk on your steps…

Seconds I would like to destroy everything that makes you unhappy, even those little things and bad thoughts that make you angry.

Moments I would like to be your pulse, to pulse your heart day and night, when you are happy or even unhappy.

Alas, if I could once be your tear, to comfort you by stroking your cheek, even if I have to end my life on the floor.

I only wish I could be your everyday habit, your guardian angel, your smile.
I wish I could be that girl you met in the playground when you were five, and you felt madly in love with her.

I wish I could be a god to protect you and make your life easier, taking away all the impediments.

Look at me. I weigh my desire for you and I see myself collapsing. The simplicity of your kind heart and the power of your personality, all these petrify me…

When you look at me, I am lost, I have nothing to say or do, I get confused, my thoughts are nude, I can promise you everything…

I hang myself from your lips; I count your breath to breath, to inhale thru it.

When I am desperate for water, you give me your kiss and I am not thirsty any more.
When I am desperate for bread, you embrace me.

When you talk, I can read the words before you say a thing. And when you are silent, I have loved your mind so much, that I can make the words for you.

When you sketch, I am the pencil you hold, when you colour, I am your brush and the bareness of your white canvas…

I am the letter you get; I am a card with wishes.
I am an embossed line on your palm.
I am a Saturday evening and a Monday morning.
Rain and sunshine; that’s what I am.

All those moments last so little, but my love for you is eternal.

So, if you want to love me the way I do, just share this time with me, hold my hand and lead your life next to me, sit next to me, tell me a story and let’s play that game when we count the stars, let’s go out dance all night, let’s cook together, let’s make music. Talk to me in my language and let me speak your language.

We are the flame of the same candle.

I promise I will never leave you…

Text and photographs by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photographs: 1)Our paradise in Sfakia. A boat made of rock. 2) Look how I made a sea in my house...

2006-11-16T09:32:00.000Z

August

Lying there with you, counting the stars.
You told me you had never seen the stars before, as bright and sparkling, the way they looked that night.
Do you remember?
We could see the galaxies, icing sugar on the top of the world, for the children to make lollipops.
Our eyes were magnetised by running satellites and aeroplanes.
The breeze would take us to places of spirits, it would make Aphrodite look fade but beautiful. The rocks next to the sea, where the waves end, had turned into creatures. Even the moon had our steps on it, and its face was laughing of happiness.
My head on your chest.
We were holding hands.
How could I ever forget that night?

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: that special night.

2006-11-15T23:54:00.000Z

The humour of being in love
(Or being unloved)

I guess I cannot stand a second away from him. Even if he is next to me, in the same room, I still miss him. I miss him for the moments he is not next to me…
Complicated, I know. Love is a weird think, lots of passion, lots of sweets, chocolate, syrup, nights out, but lots of absence too. Jealousy, desire, moaning, playing…it’s a part of the game, sir…

They call it love. I call it more than love. Passion. No, that’s wrong…Obsession. Yes, that’s the right word. Love is just four letters, but each one of these letters has the gravity of a tone and a half. Obsession outbalances; it is simply overweight. So, it is difficultly-digestive…But still, I like it, exactly the way I would appreciate that extra salt and vinegar on my chips… (I add black pepper too, by the way. Does it mean that I do know how to eat healthily?)

Love. I know that feeling, I can recognize it very easily. No more lies. No more excuses.

But what is after love?

Miserable love poems with 'come back' words?

I miss you, I am here, you are there, and in reality there are 20.000 miles between us?

The quarrel about who is finally paying the telephone bill?

Extra fat packed around your waste, just because you were snaking crisps watching ‘Coronation Street’ day and night?

Lights off?

Hysteria?

Finding substitutes?

That’s too much. I apologize. I think I said too many things today, things I should not have said. After all, I am just the victim…

Bye…

Text and picture by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Picture's title: Loved and Unloved...

2006-11-15T22:57:00.000Z

Dealing with people

Dealing with people…it is hard, indeed. You just cannot be in people’s mind, you just cannot read their thoughts and you cannot invade their dreams… It is, in a way, a secret code, a moral code known by anybody, that interfering in people’s lives in not such a ‘good’ thing. It is weird, though. It is weird, because, dealing with all these customers as a part of my everyday routine at work, I can somehow see through their eyes, if you know what I mean. Most of these people are quite old; some of them can hardly walk. They come and find me in the shop not to do the shopping but to have a chat, to gossip a little bit, to tell me about all those health problems, to have someone smiled at them. Like home…

Text and pictures by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Picture's title: the tea pot (coloured and b/w)

2006-11-07T22:47:00.000Z

Just a thought...

Empty words are the futility of deceased sentiments.
Οι άδειες λέξεις είναι η ματαιότητα των αποθανόντων συναισθημάτων.
Le parole vuote sono la futilità di sentimenti deceduti.
Las palabras vacías son la inutilidad de sentimientos difuntos.
Les mots vides sont la futilité de sentiments décédés.

Text, translation and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: House of lovemaking. Monastiraki, Athens, Greece.

2006-11-07T06:13:00.000Z

Alas, are they whispering my secret?

Specific moments of my past became nothing but pebbles on the beach. Grinded gray pebbles on the sand, waiting for me to collect them one by one and dash them into the sea. Memories would rest on the bottom, never to be recalled again. They would be forgotten down there, till the earthquake brings them back to the surface. After all, why should I permit myself having memories while my own life was away?

text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Title of photograph: pebbles.

2006-11-05T22:32:00.000Z

Pink elephants and lemonade

My dear love, my life’s passion, I am taking to you. I am talking to the one that can plant a seed into the earth not to see it rotting but to admire it as it turns into a beautiful red flower.

I know a place away from here, away from every reality. I know a secret city, at the limits of the world, where the sky ends, with the beautiful buildings hidden behind its white clouds. I dare to see lights and sparkling stars where others can see nothing but shadows. Dreamland sleeps into the peaceful meadows of my mind, in the places you reach with the power of your heart. Do not be afraid to listen to my words and my silence. Just hold my hand and follow me…

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved.

Text ispired by the song 'Dear Jessie", by Madonna.

2006-11-03T03:04:00.000Z

Bonfire afternoon

After that afternoon storm, I walked slowly towards the steps of his house, longing for the view of his reflected figure on the window. It is true what they say that, on the piece of earth where the northern rainbow reaches the ground, wide-open eyes of pure souls can distinguish unique treasures. If that is the case, then I would bite a little bit of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. I might peel the skin of the rainbow colours to taste them, like rare multicoloured fruit of the countryside, one by one; I would inhale the nostalgic beauty of the wet soil that takes me to him...

I could grasp that moment for eternity.

Text and picture by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved. Picture titled: berries.

2006-11-02T15:48:00.000Z

away from you
...

The light of starts was so fade when the night came… Your voice had turned into a thrum. Your hands looked bonny, so bonny that all those veins had carved their revolution on the thin flesh. Your face had no face, had no colour, had no existence. Did you ever think how she felt away from you?

Text and photograph by M.Sfakianou. Title of photograph: the fabric of my dress. All rights reserved.

2006-10-31T22:08:00.000Z

Weekdays

You say:
“Close your eyes and tell me
what you can really see
behind the darkness of your eyelids.
All love songs are composed
for lonely souls
strolling into the dark alleys of passion”.

text by Marsia Sfakianou, all rights reserved. Photograph titled: my hat, taken by M.Sfakianou. All rights reserved.

2006-10-24T23:06:00.000+01:00

I regret...

My angel, I love you so much,
that I regret for the instant moments I take my eyes away from your eyes.
I regret for my wasted smiles, the ones I didn’t share with you in the periods of your absence.
I even regret for my past, because fate didn’t allow me to be here looking after you…

My love, I love you so much…

Marsia Sfakianou, all rights reserved. Picture taken by M.Sfakianou. Title: The tree in the my favorite Park, Kings Norton. All rights reserved.

2006-10-24T18:47:00.000+01:00

Desires...

Behind your shadow I can read your most secret desires. When you look at me, your eyes whisper me the most silent words. They say that love is mad but my love for you is the pure, disastrous insanity that makes me want you more and more, that makes me desire you more an more, trespassing all the limits I put to control myself. Thirsty I long for your kiss. Hungry, I long for your hug. Should I beg for an eternal reflection of yours on the windowpane of my soul?

Marsia Sfakianou, all rights reserved.
Picture taken by M.Sfakianou. Title: Lichfield Cathedral. All rights reserved.

2006-10-23T23:09:00.000+01:00

A dream of you

I dreamed of you, your hand seeking my hand
and your fingers begging to touch my smile.
I dreamed of you, always memorizing your words and moves
of that first time.
Now there are not principles in my dreams
apart from capturing your eyes in the eyes of my soul.
Escape me?
Never.
How could the sky be separated from the beloved summer sea?

Marsia Sfakianou, all rights reserved
Picture taken by M.Sfakianou. Title: The Chocolate Vanilla Lichfield House. All rights reserved.

2006-10-20T16:19:00.000+01:00

That favorite thing…

Black high heels and dark blue hat.
Black and dark blue were always my favorite colours.
I suppose that Friday nights were always black and dark blue for me.
I might add a little bit of sparkling silver occasionally, but in general I would wear the night sky on me.

Marsia Sfakianou, all rights reserved. Picture taken by M.Sfakianou. Title: Glass-made high heels. All rights reserved.

2006-10-19T11:40:00.001+01:00

Holding hands

A dream for the night with the one I love.

Streets are distant, narrow and depressing when you don't walk next to me holding my hand. In the big city, cinemas are closed, lights are off, and the noise of the cars is deadly silent. Sunday night pub without music. The church in Exeter Road is a ghost. Your old flat, the University campus, the places we used to share our moments, are simply black and white pictures.

Your loneliness is the feeling that kills me. Your togetherness is the feeling that keeps me alive.

I have never told you that all the unimportant, daily things we do together cowhide my life routine.

Without you, the chocolate is bitter, the coffee is cold in my cup.

My skin does not shine without your smile, my high heels are bestowed in the wardrobe.

I don't have my mate to play with, as we do on our lazy weekends.

I hide my sketches in my suitcase, to show them to you when I see you. I send you love letters by post, to speak to your heart, even though I hardly use any words.

The train-you are right-is a big snake. It is perhaps the big snake in my favourite book of Little Prince. It swallows the serpent in just a bite and when I turn to Kings Norton and unlock the door of my place, I realise that I have left behind, I have left back there in Lichfield, in your hands, half of my life.

I really miss you.

I simply miss you.

Marsia Sfakianou, all rights reserved. Picture taken by M.Sfakianou. Title: Female body next to door. All rights reserved.