An education

Greece, November 2017. Today I came across this: A primary-school principal has issued a statement. In so many words the school will be implementing a groundbreaking and exciting approach to how they treat kids. For one weekend a month they will be allowed to go home without any homework and spend quality time with their families. Now, you might think “wow, this is good. This is a good start”. Let me tell you why it's not. First, I'd like acknowledge that to the people who came up with this “groundbreaking” idea, it probably really did seem that way, additionally this most likely is all they were afforded, instead of saying "screw homework altogether" which the education system's powers that be would be sure to swiftly shut down. However, it also doesn't hurt said powers, as it is cleverly and specifically designed to cater to the small-minded people (of which there are so many here) -who think they are in fact open-minded-, and their warped little realities. It's like a magic trick, “look over here” while the real trick is happening over there like, “look again, guess what? We tanked the economy”.( just a for-instance, not based on actual events, characters that may bare resemblance to existing people are purely fictional ) In actuality it's just another way to better prepare their future-worker bees. Essentially the age at which you become a worker has been significantly lowered. We are planting the idea, the seed from which our slave-like mentality will later flourish. You are getting time off from work little child, get used to feeling thankful. Gee, a whole, one(singular) weekend to be a kid? Boy, oh boy, that's mighty nice of you! Because as an adult, you will work the longest hours, at an often-thankless job and you will get a day off or two and you will be grateful. As if time off is a rewarding luxury and not a basic human right.

The way the education system works here, is that from a young age you are given a ton of homework. You must learn everything by-heart and generally aren't taught to exercise too much critical thought. I'm romanticizing. You are in large discouraged from thinking for yourself. You must study other people's critical approaches even when discussing the arts, a famously subjective matter. You are told to memorize entire tomes and learn complex, university-level sciences. Then you will be sent to actual University where you will study something you like, but mostly something your parents or your teachers or society has encouraged you to study, because God forbid you don't go to University! What will become of you? Almost all of my friends who are musicians, talented ones, have gone on to study shipping. How odd. Although I cannot in good conscience  judge them knowing what it's like to live here. I can only hope that they hold onto their creative outlets, their music. I remember telling a woman in Greece that I had dropped out of college in pursuit of a writing career. I've never seen a person's face contort that way before, I thought she was having a stroke. I also told a University professor abroad the same thing and he encouraged me and gave me the best advice I've ever gotten. 

  I can't tell you how little I remember from when I was in school, and I was a fairly good student. Over time I learned to filter, keeping the important stuff, reading, writing, basic calculus, some chemistry and biology. I learned how to teach myself about the things I found interesting, how to study the world outside of the classroom and how not to worry about proving that I indeed knew what I was talking about. But what if I didn't have to? I wholeheartedly am against homework, especially in its current format. I believe homework should work in the way of one or two assignments a week. Not based on memorizing the opinions of some old-fart, but in going out and experiencing the world. For instance “this week, go to a museum, look at the art, write about a piece that really struck you. Go to a park, learn about plant-life, conservation and how to save the environment. Go to the beach, learn about the ocean and its creatures. Read a book! Write about what YOU thought of it and how it made YOU feel. Stay home and this time on e.g Chemistry Week, conduct an experiment. Start learning a foreign language”. Kids are like sponges, and yes they learn quickly, but overloading them with useless information, all at the same time won't help educate them any faster. Education doesn't take place exclusively in school, it is a life-long learning process, through experience and discovery of the real world, the world out there. Putting bars on classroom windows and teaching high-school kids college-level algebra does not an educated person make. What it does make is sheep. So if that was your goal, you got it! Here's a plump, thoughtless little lamb!

 Of course in any event after we are done removing any inclination for common sense and critical thinking we send boys to the army, just for good measure. Here they are to be taught discipline and how to defend their country. My best friend is in the army. In the event of a war, I guarantee you homeboy gon' be half way to Switzerland before it even starts. And yet, we are going to take 9 months away from your life, stick you in a filthy dorm with a bunch of snoring morons, where you'll have to wake up at a certain time, sleep and eat at a certain time, follow a specific set of rules under threat of punishment like not being allowed to wear long-sleeves before a specific date even if it's cold, because that's the rule(it's true) and you're going to get sick, you won't be able to go home and you'll only be allowed to see your family on one certain day. So, prison. This is the definition of a prison camp. But it's totally normal right? It's not traumatizing at all! It'll make you into a functioning, disciplined member of society, definitely. Oh and we'll also teach you how to shoot guns which, quote, “are designed specifically to take a man's arm clean off with one shot, designed to kill with one shot”. Yeah, cause boys definitely need more violence.There are some of you who will produce the invalid argument of "we've all been there". Yes, and that still doesn't make it right. You are part of the problem. You have been conditioned to believe in the normality of your situation, trained to justify and uphold the reality of your predicament instead of being horrified, much like many women here aren't horrified by their 1950s-stay-in-the-kitchen status.

 You may think this has nothing to do with education or that none of the things I've written about are connected, but I'm sorry to tell you that you are wrong. It is all in the interest of making everyone into worker bees, all to keep them from looking up. The system throws its breadcrumbs so that you may follow, they present you with an illusion, a sliver of something good in a terrible situation, an exciting denouement in an otherwise uninspired plot that only makes you think you've received an education, the tools for an authentic life, the instruments to play your own original tune. The same way people here have wet-dreams about a romantic past as if they aren't living in that very place of inspiration, art and enormous achievement, in a place that birthed democracy and great philosophers, a place in which today a single fire burns down the entire country, a single flood kills 16 people. You wanna tell me how people here are so educated and yet so incredibly stupid? All of these things are products of a dangerously dysfunctional, ludicrous system, a well-engineered machine that strips people of their ability to think critically, learn from their environment, evolve and adapt and perhaps most devastatingly, dream. 
(P.S If you, friend who is reading this, have come out unscathed, a real-life thinking person, it has little to do with your school education, your homework or your grades which at some point felt like a life or death sort of thing. It has to do with you as a person and your ability to learn and think, and the people who supported you into becoming that person, so give yourself a pat on the back, you deserve it. If you managed to get yourself into the University of your choice and studied something you really loved congrats! If you did not get into the University that your parents wanted or didn't follow the career path that was assigned to you, stop worrying, you'll be fine! If you have held onto your dreams and the power they hold, it's never too late. If you are stuck at some job you hate, but are still educating yourself continuously through the world, a day might come that you will stand up and get the hell out. If you have left Greece and live abroad, you've done the right thing. Traveling and experiencing a different culture is an education in itself!)

As far as this year goes.

Is it crazy to think of a year as inherently evil? Can a measure of time indeed be the bearer of such malice all on its own? Because, one thing I think we can all agree on is that 2016 was fucking cruel, and as it nears towards its inevitable end, instead of rejoicing, I find myself terrified. 
For me, it all started almost a year ago on my birthday, when David Bowie died. On my birthday... I mean, how fucked up is that? One of the most talented, wonderful, alien-like creatures and one of my favourite musicians dies on the day I was born. Well, it went downhill after that as we all know. These almost consecutive deaths of beloved famous artists were most devastating, in the way they were often so truly unexpected. It became especially creepy when at the start of the year's final week three more widely adored people died in three days. George Michael, another personal favourite, died on Christmas day no less, forever lending a depressing note to "Last Christmas". Carrie Fisher, who I had just seen in an interview, the eternal Princess of effortless cool, of female bad-assery, of liberation, of taboo issues, and one of the most iconic characters of all time, I could go on... left us the day after George, followed by her wonderful and just as iconic mother. If that isn't horrifyingly eerie, I don't what is. I spent those days in bed, having mild panic attacks, a product of my ever-lurking anxiety and general dread over most things. What else is going to happen, I thought. Is this the part where we all die? Cause at this point that doesn't sound like such a shit idea. The planet is falling apart, Trump  was "voted" President of the most influential country in the world ; the man looks like a thumb, dipped in Cheeto dust with a dead rabbit on his head for crying out loud; and all the cool people seem to have abandoned ship. You know, my theory is, they probably aren't even really dead, maybe they're just in some alternate reality or a parallel universe WHERE SHIT LIKE THIS DOESN'T HAPPEN! One can hope.
2016, also claimed my beloved Grandma, and I'm not saying "also" as a sort of afterthought, like "oh yeah, also my grandma, who raised me like a daughter and was essentially a mother to me, died, whatever", it's just something I haven't really talked about. In my dream, she was so angry, livid that I didn't spent more time with her, that I left her alone and all I could do was cry. That about sums up my feelings about her death. But not about her. She was fiercely loyal, loving to the point where it was pathological, but gentle and generous and kind. She may have seemed weak or submissive but let me tell you she was cunning and strong, an intense personality. She used to tell me, the hand gets weak and cowers but the eye is mighty and brave. She said that when I was too lazy to write my essays for school but I've carried it around with me. What a wise thing to say to a writer! I loved her and she loved me and we had each others backs, always. Some of  my fondest memories are from when my grandfather yelled at us for some stupid reason and we would pull out the couch in the living room and have slumber parties. Just the two of us.
Other things happened, generally everything kind of went tits up but we ain't got long enough honestly...
What an abysmal year! What a wretched fucking garbage-fire of a time!
 Here we are, left raw, damaged and desperate for it to end.
The New Year is just a day away and if by some miracle the apocalypse doesn't come, we'll all be thinking about our new year's resolutions. They always felt like bullshit to me. A self-punishing tool that will set you up for disappointment at the end of next year or a pat on the back as if to say "we'll do better this time". I'll turn back the clock on all my wrongdoings, I'll eat less pizza, I'll be a better version of the person I was. It seems that motif is a bit of an oxymoron. On the one hand it  leaves little room for error but mostly reads like a repetition of all the same ones. As someone who is usually very unforgiving of myself and tries to set expectations very low, I tend to be a little more forgiving at New Year's.
You see, we make our list of pros and cons, punish ourselves for all that we did or didn't do and prepare to pick up the pieces and put them back together. In the puzzle that is us, as you pick up the pieces, you are often trying to place things that no longer exist. The way I see it the puzzle is evolving and in its ever-changing pieces we find our experiences, our pain, our desires, the landscape shifting with every new moment and memory. Instead of correcting what we perceive as flawed isn't it better to make space for the new bits of ourselves we discover? Aren't many of those existing pieces obsolete as they no longer seem to fit? After all this death don't we owe ourselves renewal? I certainly am not the same person that I was at the beginning of the year, and to reassemble myself as an improved version of that would certainly prove fruitless. It is impossible to turn the river back into a stream as is impossible to go back to an old self that has evolved. So take any pieces that you are capable of molding into something new, create your own sequence, your own fluid architecture and lose the rest.  The pizzas consumed, the hours at the gym not logged, the missed opportunities or wrong forks in the road taken, those things don't matter. They are passed, they aren't something to punish yourself over and they aren't a part of where you are going. Fuck new year's resolutions. Let those go and be who you're going to be in the new year without prejudice over past mistakes. Be who the puzzle of yourself is creating, who you want to be.
 I believe that's what I'll do.

Happy New Year! Love E.

What I learned this week

After work, I stopped for a quick drink at the bar where my friend was dj-ing. As I was walking towards the tram stop afterwards, a group of boys, probably in their teens weere catcalling girls as they went by, sexual innuendos and fat-shaming slurs depending on the appearance of each girl. That got me thinking. What a world! Fat-shaming, racism (I've been a victim of both), sexism(that one too) and terrorism. Last week Paris was attacked (so was Lebanon and Africa but who's counting when it's not the western civilization, right?). Social media blew up from all the people who came together to "pray for Paris", which honestly I found ridiculous- again who's praying for Lebanon and Africa- I had even prepared a post about it.
But then another thought entered my mind. A stranger on the street complimented my hair. Not my ass, or my tits. Hair might still be a part of my outside appearance but still, I doubt a passerby could have time to notice my wise spirit or my bright personality. And as stupid and superficial as it sounds, you know, I don't wake up like this dude, I take pride in my hair and, it was just a nice thing to say. It wasn't deep nor profound, but it was nice to hear. I realised how much we need more of that, more nice, more kind. Which brings me to last night. The night before I noticed my cat, Edgar, had not touched his food, I also thought he might have a fever. Yesterday, I had to go to work but I knew he wasn't well. It's true what they say, having pets is like having a child, it's a lot of responsibility and you worry. My stomach was in a knot the whole day. I knew I had to work till 21.00 which was a long time for him to wait and it would be hard to get a vet at that time. My friend who usually texts and then throws his phone cross-country, actually texted me right away with numbers to the best vets in the area. I called the first one from work and explained the situation. She told me that although she closes earlier she would wait for me until I got off work to take him. My boyfriend who was super supportive had a class, so he was trying to find someone else that was able to take me but it would be hard to manage time-wise. By this point my nerves were shot and I didn't know what to do. I called my manager and asked her if there was anything we could do. A while later she called me from her car and said she would be there in 10min. She had gone out of her way to come in to work two hours earlier, even though she wasn't supposed to be working(it's just the two of us) and after I had taken him to the vet she called to make sure everything was okay. My boyfriend also got one of his friends to pick me up and take me and the cat. The vet was super nice and did a thorough exam. He was running a temperature of 40.4 and just like in humans let's say that ain't good. She gave him antibiotics and by the time we were home he was already a little better. The kindness and support of the people around me probably saved my cat, who's only a baby.
Yesterday was stressful, honestly, it felt like I had to do so many grown-up things I had never had to do before. But then today something else happened. As I was closing the shop, my employer called and told me to take some money from the till. When I asked why, he said that we had done well today, that I had done a terrific job and to buy myself a drink on him tonight.
I don't know why people being nice, people being supportive or appreciative shocks us so much but the togetherness, the love, the humanity, that's what this world needs right now. So I won't write about how terrible those boys on the street were and I won't post that post about terrorism because I refuse to spread the ugliness and hate. I'd rather tell you about how much I love and appreciate the little and big things the people around me did for me this week and challenge you to think about any little kind thing someone did or said to you. You might be surprised.
That to me is humanity and that to me is what will save this world.

An imaginary scene at 4a.m titled: Detachment

My left side leaning lazily against the white porcelain sink, I had a chunk of her long auburn hair in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. I observed, absentmindedly, as the ashes fell like snow flakes in slow motion into the drain. She was bend over, almost doubled over her stomach in front of me while she braced herself with both hands on each side against the bathtub. He stood, his back to me, gripping a red solo cup, half-full with Haig in one hand, his penis in the other as he attempted to aim in the toilet bowl. My thoughts were like dull blades trying to focus but otherwise pointless and disengaged. My ears were buzzing and begged for the music and loud banging on the door in the background to stop. "GO A-WAY"! I screamed as I turned around and went towards the closed but otherwise unlocked door with it's scratched surface and protruding banged up frame. Securing the door and returning slowly to my post I was looking at the square mint-colored tiles reminiscent of the 50s and my grandma's bathroom where I watched her bathe, roll her hair into a neat chignon and put on cobalt blue kohl which brought out her eyes and, which even though she reapplied everyday, never seemed to take off at the end of it. Meanwhile a thick lock of hair had fallen to the side of her oval face and was now dangling with a little bit of vomit and she began crying even louder than before.I went over and somewhat indifferently patted her back in an effort to calm her down. I tapped his shoulder, borrowing a sip of his drink and a piece of toilet paper which I used to sloppily clean the barfed-on lock of hair. My ears were still buzzing and I felt my head spinning but I could hear "Uptown Funk" was playing, something which prompted the girl previously slumped over a stranger's bathtub to jump up, tear-free and spin around grabbing his forearm, launching them both out the door and into the party. Left facing the bathtub, I grabbed the shower-head and started washing away the stomach contents of my friend. Satisfied with a crime well-concealed, I now stood facing the mirror over the sink, which was filthy with cigarette ashes and I remembered that in spite of his usual OCD-level cleanliness he hadn't washed his hands before dashing off. I was rubbing mascara stains off of my cried-on cardigan, when the host came in through the door left ajar, her heels clicking on the tile floor, her tulle and lace skirt dragging. "Go ahead" I said, noticing that the ball of wet tissue paper I was holding was rapidly falling apart and shedding white-ish fibers, giving her a nod through the mirror letting her know that if she wanted to pee she'd have to do it with me here. She didn't seem to mind and sat on the toilet, unclasping her high-heels and tossing them aside. I heard the fake camera chime from an i-phone go off, multiple times a second, the sound of another selfie behind me. I stared blankly at my phone on the mirror shelf.  "Fuck" she said. Unzipping my leopard print purse and reaching inside, I handed her a tampon without turning to face her. I moved so she could wash her hands and she flew out the door, which was now left completely open. Outside was the long hallway, people tittering to and fro and beyond that more people, drinks and loud music. The mood outside had shifted I felt, all sense of feeling drowning in the fluids of inebriation. In another mirror, facing the bathroom door, out in the hallway, this one body-length, I starred at my self in dismay. My oily complexion had my face shining like an August moon, my hair, tucked behind my ears on both sides of my middle part, had lost all volume whatsoever. My curve-hugging outfit seemed less of a good idea than it was when I first put it on exactly 7 hours ago. I looked down at my shoes and the flattened cigarette butt peeking from underneath my right sole, apparently stuck after I had disregarded and stepped on it. On the brand new white Miele washing machine in the corner was a silver tray with ornate carvings that looked antique and on it an array of red solo cups, some empty, some half-full with murky brown liquid which I determined by the smell, was whiskey-coke, and some with bits of tobacco floating like castaway sailors. The smell of alcohol and smoke and vomit made me feel queasy for a moment but eyeing a small, green, glass bottle with a red and green label I grabbed it, unscrewed the cap and took a mouthful of lukewarm lager. I lit another cigarette. I waited for the next guest in my domain. The door open, the music pouring in, the smoke creating a halo around my head, beer in hand, living the dream.

Island Life:Koufonisi

The city has never felt more glum and I feel so disconnected, as if I've been gone for ages. In truth I was only gone for a week which thankfully seemed a lot longer as it was going by but suddenly feels brief and tiresome now it's passed. I wish I had stayed on the island. Time seems to work differently there or wherever summer finds you. As if it stops and starts at its own pace, languidly and hastily all at the same time. An hour feels like ages on the beach and a night feels like a minute. I'm a city girl, I grew up in the city, I adore the city. The traffic, the noise, the impurity and the beauty in the grey and murky. I mean I live in Athens so it's not so murky, actually sunny and alight most days. The murkiness perhaps draws itself from routine, from characters and from the idea that a city should be something out of comic book, dark and brooding. At least in my head. But I adore it. Summers though are really when  Greece is at it's most astonishing. Ever since I was a little girl the islands were my escape. I lived in Santorini as a baby, and later while other kids would visit their grandparent's villages I would be swimming in a different sea, discovering a new island.The water was always essential to me. I was always in the water. I guess it's where I feel most comfortable and weightless, flowing but secure. I swam and held my breath under water until I was blue in the face( I still do) and over the years I've associated the sea, the blue, the island with good things. But I always came back to the city and it always seemed different in its sameness. This time I just didn't get enough. My mind wasn't ready to quit daydreaming and my body didn't want to leave the water. I almost wanted to quit my job, not for any particular reason other than to protest coming back. To live in anarchy, not to conform, not to be told when to come back to responsibility, not to be told when to get out of the water because I'm not a child anymore..and yet isn't it funny that we get told what to do more so now that we are adults than when we were children? Not in the literal sense like when our parents told us to brush our teeth and eat our vegetables. Alas as adults we still have to sleep at a certain time to go to work, work certain hours, look a certain way, eat a certain time and in a sense those things aren't dictated by us we just enforce them on ourselves because of circumstance and routine. Many times I think part of what made me want to be a writer was that I could make my own schedule, not to have an everyday-ness that someone set for me, do it from anywhere and because I hate working with other people. Maybe next year I'll have written a book and moved to an island. Maybe I'll go back to the island we've been going to for the past two years. Speaking of which, the reason I started writing this, my vacation. Koufonisi is paradise, in no way exaggerating it is heaven on earth.

The waters are crystal clear and tirquoise, the cuisine is amazing and the people are friendly but at safe distances. There is a lot of walking involved but it is so worth it. Even this city girl found herself enamored with the blue skies and brownish green shrubs and white flowers that grew in the sand. Walking along the coastline, navigating around rocky, sharp cliffs and white, sandy shores was even more adventurous and majestic done at night, in the pitch black, when the sea looks like oil and everything seems somehow bigger. In total we must have walked about 20-25km during the 5 days we were there. We snorkeled through deep caves that led to open sea and along the rocks where my boyfriend kept collecting live seashells and I kept making him put them back in their "home". We climbed down to the most spectacular hidden beach where the water is milky white and frothy. We didn't spare any expenses or calories when it came to delicious meals and I'm so glad we didn't. I crave luxury and richness and I found all of that in the nature's colors, the sea, the food, the essense of the island life. In the end I don't know that I could live there but it is certainly hard to leave it behind.

Greeks and Retail: A guideline

You know why this country is knee-deep in shit? Well, first of all, the Germans, but also because as a folk they can be and often are, and I think this is the official, scientific term for it, bastards. Otherwise lovely people, Greeks tend to have no respect whatsoever for one another, simply put, they don't give a tiny rats ass about anyone but themselves. I'm sure there are of course exceptions to this (including myself and six people I know and actually don't hate) but I'm addressing this as a national issue. There is even a saying in Greek which is roughly translated to "as long as I'm okay, let the neighbour's goat die". His goat! I mean what kind of monster would be okay with watching the goat next-door die?
Today based on my intimate knowledge on the subject I examine one simple example of how much people here don't give a shit about their fellow human-being. Case in hand: retail. Now, I know what you're going to say. The perils of working retail are pretty much the same wherever you are. Sure, which is why the following series of guidelines should be considered not only the documentation of my personal hell but also as international rules for a better shopping experience. I do live and work in Greece, a country in a recession so bad we had to have capital controls inforced, and people are still out shopping. So let me sing you the song of my people.
Customers. Now, I'm sure that in your everyday lives some of you are most likely half-decent people, it's just that as customers, and I'm sorry to have to break it to you, you suck.
Number one: You are not always right. Never have, never will.
Number two: I'm inclined to be polite but I will not be as efficient if I'm dealing with someone who is not. Take your attitude somewhere else.
Number three: This one makes my whole case. I am here all day long, you have all day long to "swing by". Closing time is definite and non-negotiable. As someone who I assume works for a living, don't you just hate it when someone makes you stay after hours? So do I. Apparently people quite blatantly don't give a shit about this. This is not acceptable.
Number four: Neither is the excuse "I just finished work". And you have to keep me longer at mine?Why?
Number five: Using the excuse "I just got back from vacation" instead of "I just finished work" only makes the situation worse for you. I am now legally allowed to bitch slap you.
Number six: When you see me near the door, holding my purse, at 9 p.m don't ask if I'm closing. Ask how YOU can help ME close faster. The answer to this will always be: by quietly fucking off.
Number seven: If, by some cruel fate you have beaten me at my own game and got me to stay past closing time... congrats you have won this time. However I am not obligated to stay after hours. Your cunning ways may have deceived me but I am not your servant, stop acting like it. Show some goddamn respect.
Number eight: It's August. Yes, I'm tired and hot and I'd rather be at the beach or literally anywhere else, alas I am here and so are you. Stop asking.
Number nine: If you have a child keep it under control. This is a jewellery store not some futuristic, glass peting-zoo. Stop touching my windows.
Number ten: There used to be another store here, which clearly isn't here anymore. Obviously I don't know where it's moved to or if it still exists because a. I'm not the yellow pages b. my job requirements don't include keeping track of previous owners. Stop being offended by this. It's weird.

Bonus: And this is true! I cannot believe I have to say this out loud or even reiterate in my head after I've heard it but... in case it isn't obvious by all the jewellery this is NOT a flower shop and I am most definitely NOT a florist. Our flowers you were admiring outside are purely decorative and most notably fake! As in plastic. As in if I were a florist I would not be selling fake flowers. It's unfathomable that you need an explanation for this.

And there you have it! Until next time, keep your crazy at bay. x

How I stopped being afraid

Written at work, Thursday, 9:30 am, slightly hangover.
For the past few months I've been living in fear. Not actual fear but a numbing, moat-y feeling which I guess can only be described as fear. Fear of writing and being in that vunerable, open place in my mind. The last time I wrote anything that wasn't work related, apart from my witty Facebook statuses (my mom thinks they're funny, so, so should you)? I think it was March, because it was still chilly and I was unemployed. At that point I took my dad's advice of going back to University and being miserable and did the exact opposite, as you do. I got a job which, funny story, I was afraid to get and afraid to start. I started supporting myself and paying my bills on time, queue, intense fear. My job at a jewellery store turned out better than expected and my bosses are actually decent people, when they aren't taking advantage of my kindness and mad skills. Shortly thereafter I signed up for e-learning writing classes which I was scared I wasn't going to be excepted to and when I did afraid to deal with it because I felt I'd fail. And somewhere in all of this, everything else stopped. I don't mean relationships, friends, nights out. I mean I started being a lot more afraid instead of less. I stopped being creative in the ways I was before. I was tired and felt spent. All I talked about was work. My boss is now on leave for the entire month of August and it's just me and the Internet here at work all day, everyday. Oh, and the crazy customers who show up at precisely 21:00 p.m, or as I like to call it the  time I should be on my way home but am not, because well, people. Yes, I'm exhausted, but more than that I've managed, by choice,to trap myself in a situation where work has devoured my life. I suppose  it's easier to whine about work related issues and stress than to have a crack at what is actually bothering me. Sure I could be doing other things as well but I'm too afraid to do them. Why? I'm not telling you, reader, I'm asking you. Why? Even at my most complacent, I still managed to create something. I was broke but I wasn't afraid. I was sad, but not scared. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but doing nothing at all wasn't an option. Last night I was afraid to open an email (gasp)! That's right. I was afraid to stay up late with friends because I had to wake up early. Right now I fear I'm becoming repetitive. My point is, my friend wasn't entirely wrong when he said I was becoming an old lady. My boyfriend, who convinced me to open that email, isn't wrong when he says I can do anything I set my mind to. He also says I'm pretty and an amazing lover and he makes me breakfast on Sundays, which has nothing to do with what I was saying but I just wanted to point out how wonderful my boyfriend is(and I don't want him to think I never write anything about him, so there). My other friend wasn't wrong when she told me to grow some balls( a mission harder than most, since I am in fact a woman). She said "you used to have balls", cause apparently this conversation is turning into some strange reverse Bruce Jenner situation, I don't know what she's talking about anymore. And I do kinda wish I had gone to bed earlier, or my head would be thanking me instead of throwing a tantrum like some spoiled teenager from the Valley, but nevertheless I'm glad I did. I felt a little less old lady and more like grown ass adult. This revelation of course came after half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc(the second half) while watching Bachelor in Paradise(it isn't shamefull if you don't do it alone) so I don't know if it counts as an epiphany.

"How I stopped being afraid" might seem a bit severe, it's more like "how I paused being afraid in order to write this and I'm pretty sure I'll keep being afraid
but at least now you all get to hear about it".

An open letter to my dying friend

I didn't know you well. I will not pretend to assume how you lived your life, your hopes and dreams. You were a boy in my school when I first met you and even as a boy you were tall and big and with a gentle heart, as much I could see. We took a trip together, us and two others and on that trip we laughed, played games, shared thoughts and in that I can say we shared a little of ourselves with each other. We talked sometimes after that and you were always friendly and kind, such things not going unnoticed in high school. We lost touch as it often happens. How small the world is as I discovered you were still a part of my life even if not in any immediate way or rather close to someone who is.
To me you were just a boy I knew, a boy who was now suddenly and tragically very very sick, a boy who was now dying. Nobody knows why this happened to you, as far as the world is concerned you were a perfectly healthy young man who unexpectedly fell ill and it seems like ever since, all of the odds have been against you. You lay in a coma in some unfriendly, white-lit room in the ICU, machines beeping and humming that you are still alive thanks to them. So many of your new unexpected neighbors are dead pale with their chests unnaturally inflating with a thud in their lifeless bodies. Unlike them, your body is muscular, manly, as ever holding the form of a gentle giant and you have kept your rosy color, your breathing steady almost as if you were sleeping, with everyone around you expecting you to wake up and rise, healthy as ever. If only you knew how you have effected the lives of everyone around you, if only you could see what difference you will have made in their lives even well after you are gone. Your devastating fate has lead me, me who only knew you so little, to think not of a life lost but of a life lived, however brief in might have been. Through my immense sadness, I imagine how special your existence was and what great things you would have achieved. Not because I knew you, not because you were only 23, the same age as me, but because people, all people, matter, because never mind how seemingly insignificant the ways in which you are wonderful and important, you are just that. No matter what path you chose in life, I trust you would have chosen to be true to yourself, kind to others and lived every moment and made each one count. You would have mattered as everyone does. In your untimely, inexplicable death, if it comes to that, I hope you will have inspired your family through their grief, to remember you as you were and for the amazing potential you never got to realize. I hope you will inspire your brother to live a full and happy life and to experience each fleeting moment, for life is so short. For your girlfriend, to feel blessed to have known and loved you and wishing she will love again and keep that love so close to her heart because it is the only thing that truly gives life its meaning. To everyone who knew you or anyone who will be reading this, never underestimate the importance of being healthy and loved and ultimately alive, because just like that, at any given moment it can all be taken away from you. Whether you are 10 or 23 or 60, know that while you are still breathing everything you do matters and everything is significant, so be happy, be kind, be extraordinary, don't let moments slip away from you, don't waste time on anything that doesn't add joy and wellness and delight to your being, value your relationships and learn from your mistakes as well as your achievements, take time to enjoy the beauty around you and add to it in any way you can. Finally, to my friend for I will always regard you as a friend, thank you. Thank you for teaching me how important life really is. I can only hope I will honor mine for the future as you surely would have yours.

My thoughts and prayers go out to you and your family

Life at 23

I am 23 years old. I am a writer, a thinker, a traveler, occasionally a retail-seller, a daughter, a friend, a girlfriend. Sometimes I'm sad and sometimes really-really sad but other times I'm over the moon ecstatic. I've written exactly 3 articles for a fashion magazine, conducted over 150 interviews, sold 1000 items of clothing, wrote one book for a chef, translated 50 bodies of various text, read numerous books, have studied countless hours. Approximately. I have cried, I have loved, I have laughed and I have written a million words about all of those emotions.
Thinking back at how I expected my life to be by the time I reached my 20s, well it was not this. I expected I would have graduated from an amazing university with honors and gotten a degree in something that I love, I would have written my first book and maybe even had it published, I would be financially independent and may have even gotten married to the love of my life. Being a teenager, 23 just seems so far away and so grown up. You expect that everything in life will have fallen into place by then and you will have everything figured out. Reality is far from that and for good reason. When at 18 I was planning my bright-looking future I picked a major that, though I stuck with for almost three years, I realized I hated. I love to educate myself (matter of fact I do educate myself every single day) but I refuse to study something that utterly bores me and that I have no intention of working with just to have a piece of paper to shove in someone's face. Furthermore, I knew in my heart that there was no school that could teach me what I already was sure I wanted to do, so I decided to drop out of University and proceed to actively follow my dream by getting writing jobs(which hasn't been easy) and by taking time to actually write. I never put school out of the question I was just only willing to study something that I really love and until I found that it would just have to wait.
I am now not so suddenly but definitely abruptly faced with the question, not so much posed to me as a question but rather as a threat, of what I want to do with my life. My options as posed by my father are these: go back to school or be cut off and left to fend for myself, in order to realize that I must go back to school. I think the phrase we are looking for is emotional blackmail. Because, while I completely agree with the fact that I have to think about my future and what I want to do with that future and with the fact that I should find the way to support myself, I feel that this is not the question my dad is posing. In his eyes I am meant to go back to school in either option whether that is by choice or by facing the hardships of the real-world and changing my mind about it and going back to school. I feel like I will not be supported in either situation but rather I am expected to fail for even trying to make it without a college degree. I am automatically put into a category of "the one without a college degree" when I am so much more than that. University degrees are for some people but not for all. Maybe they are for me too but not until and if I find what it is I would want to do with that said degree.
Forgetting the words of my father, I am posing the question of what I want to do with my life to myself, whilst having the knowledge that I have already accomplished many things and have a lot to be proud of. For I don't feel that the time I have spent has been a waste rather quite an experience that has helped me to know myself better and in that be a better writer. Because I always knew I wanted to be a writer and if I can put pen to paper and finger to keyboard and produce something worthwhile than damn it I am.
I have worked in jobs I loved and some I hated and I'd do it again, and if paying the bills means getting a job I hate then I'll do that too (maybe it'll even give me something more to write about). And if a degree is what I want to get then that's what I'll do. Though I've been dreading myself and my impossible thoughts and agony and stress methinks maybe this is not such a bad thing. I'm choosing to focus on the positive and to commit myself to committing, to really apply myself and to follow my dreams. Whatever I decide in the process of fulfilling those dreams, I won't do it out of fear or because someone said so, but because it helps me better myself, for myself and gets me one step closer to the end of my personal rainbow. 
Like my mum said "where there's a will, there's a way"

How to cook for your boyfriend...and ten other people

I hate being sick. I fucking hate it. Okay, who doesn't, but seriously it's like all the time I spend procrastinating means nothing cause now that I'm sick I start missing those things I all of a sudden have the urge to do but don't feel up for it. You ever get that? Anyone? Really?
Though I've been like this since Saturday, which is no excuse for not posting anything for almost two months (we will talk about this later), at first I thought I was just hungover from the night before, not uncommon since my buddy's band was playing Saturday night and going to their gigs hungover has become something of a tradition. The worst part is I'm not actually in a feverish delirium, inspiring Poe-worthy, morbid thoughts, bed-bound and semi-comatose. I say worst part because the way I'm feeling is like a never-ending hangover. Headache, nausea and a general mopy tiredness that seems to have to no intention of subsiding any time soon. With that said, I did manage the small feat of cooking for eleven people yesterday(an arugula and spinach salad with strawberries and bacon and a balsamic vinaigrette, meatballs on toasted brioche with a caramelized apple sauce and penne with shrimp,mushrooms and curry for the main course, impressive I know) and making eleven panna cotta set diagonally in individual glasses, a process that felt a lot like diffusing a bomb. In retrospect, my Speakeasy 20s-themed birthday-party which had me hosting twice than many people and required turning my entire living room into a bar seemed a lot easier.

 This whole time that I've been away from my blog, going out, taking weekend trips, hosting parties, taking on tasks for the sheer challenge of them, but mostly sulking at home, there's been this sense of hopelessness, for lack of a better word. Nothing is too terrible, or too exciting, meaning there's nothing really worth writing about and that, instead of making me restless or creating an urgency I so long for, is quite frankly putting me in a dreadful quick-sand of a rut. I've taken a step back for far too long and getting back on the saddle seems impossibly tedious at this point. In fact everything seems like tedious work. The tiresome reality of every fleeting day is dulling my senses and I don't feel in the least ready to face the fact that I must get into a head-on collision with this reality in order to change it. Ugh! Alas, it is up to me to acknowledge that I haven't been robbed of my talent nor have I lost myself in the mundanity of repetitiveness but rather have dimmed the switch of an otherwise brilliant light. A quarter-life crisis I think kids these days are calling it and I know I mustn't be the only one. And if getting sick is helping me realise that, well then there's definitely something wrong with me... which I am now strangely okay with. And at the end of the day if Sam Smith can win all the Grammy's, then so can I! Not win all the Grammy's that is, but at least make it through writing a post on a blog not more than five people read. Seriously, if you too are experiencing a similar situation than post a comment, share your feelings and become the lucky sixth+ person who reads my blog!

Squirrels, maple leaves and ten days with mummy dearest

I will never understand why people always, always insist on clapping when the plane lands. It's a fine tradition sure, but cringe! I mean it's their job! It's like saying "there was about a 50/50 chance they weren't gonna be able to land this plane and all of us would die, so applause all around for that not happening"! I'm more impressed when a massive metal thing with 200 people in it actually makes it up.  Now that's something to applaud. Take-offs are always the worst for me, those few moments when the plane lifts off the ground and starts its rapid ascend into the sky and you're like "is it gonna make it?", especially when you're sitting behind a fat, curry-smelling East Indian couple who seem to be stalking you since last Christmas when you were on the same flight sitting next to them and they didn't speak a word of bloody English and they kept fidgeting in their seats and kept you awake for the entire 9 hour flight. This time my exotic tormentors had their seats pushed back so far I couldn't get in or out of my already shitty seat. I mean, who does that? There is such a thing as flying etiquette ya smelly bastard. To top that experience I also had a lay-over in Paris which meant dealing with the French, whose incompetence is like second nature which they communicate exclusively in their native tongue. I can speak some French but apparently not enough to tell them they're cunts. Unlike the Canadians who are actually pretty cool folk. Of course most of their country is a god-forsaken icicle but arriving in Toronto, unlike last year, I found it to be surprisingly mild weather-wise. The day following my arrival we drove up to a friend's cottage, literally a cabin in the woods with a large window right in front of the toilet seat looking out upon the dark woods(perfect for say a bear or a serial killer to pop out and scare the buttons of your shirt. Actually if it was a serial killer, or a clown as my buddy likes to remind me, you'd be losing a lot more than just your buttons), located passed something called the Snow Belt, with a car filled with an excess of smelly cheese, wine and various gourmet delights, although we mostly stuck with the wine and cheese. I was comfortably plopped in front of the fireplace for almost all of the two days we spent there and my jet lagged, abnormal, sleeping patterns, which woke me at 6 a.m, offered a sun-drenched view of the frozen lake and woods right outside my bedroom window, utterly breathtaking. Mum, Bruce and I ventured to the nearby town of Gravenhurst for some thrift shopping and discovered a music and antique shop which I would be happy to be left at forever. Records, guitars and old books, far to heavy for me to carry back home, and a collection of typewriters one of which dating back 150 years, that made me tear up. And then came the plight of our adventure. I discovered that although if all else fails I could easily become a plumber, my surprising professional skill doesn't go as far as cutting through a frozen lake and replacing a water pipe frozen in its entirety. It's surprising how much you miss running water when you don't have it. We instantly felt dirty and itchy and fled to civilization. With a warm home, running water and clean hair I spent the rest of Christmas in Toronto going nuts over the squirrels(pun mostly intended and very successful) that were literally everywhere in all shapes and sizes, visiting a petting zoo at which I did not get to pet anything and eating amazing food cooked by my mum, who always swears she can't cook just to get out of doing it, and drinking mimosas, not just for brunch. On one occasion we found it a delightful idea to tipsily run around the neighborhood late at night and look at Christmas lights and decorations, most of them tacky and some downright terrifying such as one snowman, mum running down the street with her tiny skinny legs and I walking at my usual pace which doesn't count as running or strolling but is a rather odd combination, trying not to trip and fall as I usually do. The baffling truth is that this time around I didn't need to be drunk to get through the Holidays, me and mum got on spectacularly well and although I missed people back home I would have gladly stayed longer, voluntarily, sober(I know, I am shocked as well). Though I planned on writing earlier and while I was there, I was having to much of a damn good time to be bothered, honestly. My last day was consumerist heaven, a much needed day-long Boxing Day shopping spree for presents, a lot of them for myself, and a mother-daughter-and Bruce mani-pedi. In the evening we decided to end my trip going full circle to the place that started it, a charming pub on the Danforth called Allen's- a small parenthesis here to talk about the food at Allen's. The steamed muscles in white wine were to die for, the pork medallions were exquisite but the burgers...ah the burgers! Now, I basically eat for a living and I will go on record, with confidence, and say those were the best burgers I have ever had. Okay, parenthesis close, just had to share that- and once we were fed and sufficiently wined we popped in next door to the Irish Pub for what my mother called a jig. Due to the festive season there was a live band with traditional Irish music played not be ginger-bearded Irish folk but by massive clean-shaven Kiwis. It was sort of the perfect way to end my visit which was very merry indeed. At the airport I ran into the same Indian couple and laughed at the face of in-flight horror as the kind, wonderful woman at check-in gave me an excellent premium seat, right next to first class in which such a thing as the elusive, stuff of dreams, leg-room existed! Although it wasn't my preferred and most beloved British Airways, KLM did just fine and the tall Dutch flight attendants were polite and proper with a touch of effortless sophistication, and they let me use the first-class bathroom which is why somewhere in the world there is a Dutch gentleman flight attendant I very much love. And nobody dared clap as the plane landed...
Finally on dry land, with swollen feet struggling to fit in their shoes, I arrived back home to a bouquet of white tulips sprinkled with glitter and the sight of my wonderful boyfriend.

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

A small, dusty-pink, candy-adorned, silver-lighted Christmas tree, with a big magenta bow on top, has been put up in the far-left corner of my living room since the 25th of November. At the far-right a twinkle-lit red and green gift box gives off a subtle glow. On the inside of my front door hangs a white wreath with pink and purple ornaments and on the outside a silver "Merry Christmas" welcoming my guests(well, my one stable guest anyway) and serves as a gentle reminder to my neighbors that "Last Christmas" and "Santa Baby" will be playing non-stop, at an audible yet not borderline-noisy volume. Yes, as you might have guessed I'm one of those annoying people who start celebrating and decorating for Christmas before you can even finish saying "but it's still October". My usually non-enthousiastic self is uncharacteristically jolly and it is indeed the most wonderful time of the year! After a terribly stressful and hectic week I am glad to say that I am finished with work and ready for my "-20 and snowy, with a chance of polar vortex and seeing Patrick Swayze outside a resort in the woods, with a bear" Canada adventure. Well not really an adventure(unless Patrick Swayze does show up a la Dirty Dancing, preferably riding a bear or moose), since I was in Toronto last year so I know what to expect at least for the most part. This year my mum decided that we would go to a friend's cabin(somewhere in the woods,no joke) and spend Christmas there, which is fantastic cause that way we can stay in where it's warm and day-drink(which is the only way I'm getting through 10 days with my mother). I'll be back in time for my annual New Year's tradition with my best friend which will then result in going to some party or gathering that will ruin all expectations of a good time, get violently drunk and/or run into the worst ex in the history of all exes, because New Year's Eve always sucks balls.
 However, as it happens, my birthday is right around the corner, on the 10th of January(mark your calendars) which I vigorously plan a year ahead(because I'm a freak) and makes up for any 1st of the year debacle... and it seems it came early this year. My boyfriend already got me a spa treatment as a present so I can go get pretty before the big day(more like a long-weekend really) and my fairy godmother Jess got me tickets to the Black Keys who are playing in Athens this May(I cried and I'm not ashamed to say it). Best birthday gift ever, and it's not even my actual birthday yet! No offense to everyone else who's getting me something, but you know, thanks for trying, maybe next year. Also my two best friends are getting me a surprise birthday cake, which I am sure is going to be ridiculously obscene and possibly offensive to all parties present,  and my other best friend made some kind of weird dog analogy and all I said was "please don't get me a dog"(unless it's your dog that's basically a cat).
You, know though, in the true spirit of the holidays-consumerism-, the only thing better than getting presents, is giving them. I often get more excited as I'm watching someone else open my (perfectly wrapped, magnificently thoughtful) gift, than when I'm opening mine. So, I'm happy to say I'm bringing back gifts from Canada for my all friends and am especially ecstatic to watch the look on their little faces as they tear open the package and see their colorful onesies( I'm not even shitting you, that's what you're getting).
Until next time Happy Holidays everyone!!! Stay drunk and merry!

Hugs and Kisses xx E.
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFtb3EtjEic

Dear Diary...

Good evening, greetings to all, yo! "How have you been ?", I wish I could say and actually get a reply. I've been fine, I suppose. No, actually that's a lie. I've been mostly depressed, and isn't it sort of the definition that you never really know why? I got the Sunday blues last week after having an actually delightful weekend. Then the Sunday blues became Monday blues, until they were entire week blues. Most of my thoughts have been "dear diary" ones, which is why I haven't posted anything. I refuse to make this blog that kind of diary-like nonsense and I doubt anyone would be interested in reading about it anyway. Instead I can tell you, I spent last weekend at a place by the sea, called Sounio, and dreamed about a cat with a black mustache that was actually me. The reason I'm telling you this is because I thought it extremely odd and wondered intensely about what it could mean. I also played Monopoly which brings out my seriously scary, competitive self, even scarier this time due to the fact I was drunk! What must be noted is that there are probably four people that I can call my favorite in the entire world and whom I love to bits and I got to spend two days with 2 of them. Yet I came back full of melancholy. All I wanted to do was listen to Ed Sheeran, which then turned into eating a large pizza by myself, that made things somewhat better. Still, I felt like a pile of crap, just waiting to be stepped on and ruin someone's day. Not even the Black Keys could make me smile. I had been planning for months to go see them in London and then the opportunity to see them in Paris came. I swore they would never ever come to Greece anyway. A few days later they announced they were playing in Athens in May. I was almost in tears and secretly thought to myself that I willed it to happen! Even Christmas, though I put up my adorable pink Christmas tree, seemed futile! I'd been a while since I felt this bad and had forgotten what it feels like. It's surprising how easy you get used to it again. Functioning as if everything is normal, getting work done, when actually you have difficulty standing up straight let alone walking, where every breath you take is physically exhausting and all you want to do is stay in bed and watch "When Harry met Sally"(well that part is optional but you get the point). It's quite easy to find yourself in this situation, and whether it's just sadness or depression to you it might feel like the end of the world, at least that's what it feels like for me. It's truly devastating and it takes time to re-introduce yourself to being, well, okay, I guess. Personally when times get tough as it were, I like to talk, even to myself, just to get it all out. I'll cry and I'll scream and I'll get angry and then sad again but that's alright. I figure that as long as I feel better at some point and as long as I still find things to laugh about it's okay to feel miserable at times and even to try and self-diagnose(even that is part of a human need to label or explain things that are happening to them). This horrid week is coming to its curtain call and I'm glad to say I survived, maybe not completely sane but lighter somehow. And in my scrambling for myself I discovered a video in which they've synced Taylor Swift's "Shake it off" with an 80s gymnastics video and found myself laughing uncontrollably and aspired to be more like that one black guy who you know is just having the time of his life! It's silly really but it did get me smiling again! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlJI-GqB-6Y

Too many fucks

As it happens, the island was good for me. It was like a little vacation from myself. I realised unlike the trend that would have people giving zero fucks, my problem, ironically, is having too many fucks to give. My brain won't switch off and I'm constantly thinking and worrying about too much, all at the same time. It's exhausting really to not only contemplate things that are happening but to not be able to separate them from the hypotheticals you create. Those three days on the island though may have taught me something after all. While I was there I had conversations that revealed myself more honestly than I could have imagined. The words coming out of my mouth were being spouted unconsciously and never had they been wiser. I no longer want to waste myself away for people and situations that don't matter. Neither do I feel like I need to control anything beyond what is in my reach. I will not try to fix anyone who doesn't want to be fixed and that includes aspects of my own personality. I shall take my time, as long as it may be, until things become clear instead of trying desperately to make them so. And if I have too many fucks to give, that's alright too. That's who I am. I care about things.What was interesting was something my friend said that has been on my mind. She said she doesn't think I can be alone, because I have too much to give and need someone to give it to. I took that to mean that I am dependent on others. But no, I'd never thought about it that way, I am not dependent on others, I guess I just realise my full potential when I have people around me that are accepting of what I have to offer them. I like that idea. Further than that, I like this person I'm growing into, with all the quirks and little imperfect details and its the first time I feel that way. I think the reason for that is I always wanted to be perfect and I tried my very best, I achieved a level of what I perceived was perfection and it didn't matter, things still ran their course as they would and for once I didn't believe that was on me, simply because it wasn't. I stopped blaming myself and started being myself, however perfect or imperfect. And you know what? That was enough, people that were important to me were still there, the compliments that I thought depended on being the equivalent of a porcelain doll still came when I was just me, and at the end of the day things were not worse as I thought they would be, they were better(once I got that stick out of my ass). Certain people might think I have no problems, I haven't faced hardship or experienced the worst. When I talk to someone they often get the impression I am the sunniest, most optimistic person, because I'm trying to make the best out of their situations or to see the best in other people. That simply isn't true. I'm prone to self-destructive behavior, I often get depressed and I may at times be one of the least enthusiastic people I know. And yet it's because I've seen the bad that I choose to see the good and it's because I've experienced the unpleasant and been the harshest judge of myself that I want to see the optimism and beauty and judge others kindly. Although it doesn't always work, I try my best to give good advise to others, sometimes in order to hear it myself. I wear my heart on my sleeve and while sometimes I wish I could be all mysterious and elusive, my face betrays all my emotions and I can never seem to hide what I'm thinking. It's fine though, me and my many fucks to give will be alright being just the way we are and you, whoever you are, reading this, will be alright too, just the way you are.

Gone-for the weekend-Girl

I've been having trouble with writing a new post this past week. I could tell you I'm too busy with work so I don't have the time, but that isn't entirely true. Yes I'm busy but I'm also just not finding the inspiration I need to write something whole. I suppose it's because I might find my life at the moment less than inspiring. There are only a few snippets here and there that break the ordinary yet they wallow in their irrelevance in the back of my mind. They aren't of course irrelevant to my life but perhaps too scattered or uneven to create something concentrated on their own. Therefore I am leaving. Running away from the boring and habitual towards the exciting unknown... Okay that sounded totally dramatic! I'm just going away for the weekend and obviously not to the unknown, cause that would just be silly. I'm going to visit my friend who's here from L.A and is staying on the island of Mykonos. Honestly the last place you'd go looking for clarity but I'm hoping for at least a little bit of perspective. With any luck my best friend won't do anything stupid(let's just say we're still feeling the repercussions from the last long-weekend I was away, or someone is anyway) and that I'll get back to you with something newsworthy.

[8030] Days on Earth

They say memories are connected to our sense of smell and while I can't disagree with that fact I find my strongest memories are connected to music. For me it's not so much what I smelled but what I heard. Music and art in general have been a big influence on me ever since I was kid growing up. I remember my dad putting on funk and jazz and even punk. There was always music in the house. I never took to learning how to play a musical instrument, unlike my dad and more like my mother, I was a more animated character. I liked to dance, and sing and in that paying more attention to the words, which I guess makes sense now, me being a writer and all, and also how I felt listening to them, than to the music from a technical point of view. I remember going to the cinema with my dad to watch Fellini's Casanova and although I remember little of the movie itself, I remember the music. My dad bought a CD of the soundtrack( I think I may have even asked for it) and I remember listening to it all day and creating a choreography which I performed each time we had people over. As I got older my amusement with dancing was gone and I moved onto singing. Then writing lyrics for my own potential songs. You know, I've found you can be fascinated by someone else doing something but not necessarily being into to it yourself. I mean would it be cool to be able to play an instrument? Sure. But I can't really see myself doing it. I always admired my father's paintings but never wanted to be a painter myself.

Yet music was always there for me, in the heart of all my fondest recollections. I watched Nick Cave's "20,000 Days on Earth" and what stuck with me most from the film wasn't his music in particular even though I love it. It was something he said, the way I felt when my friend was braiding my hair while watching it and how at one point I got so lost in the moment watching him perform that I applauded as if I was there, in the front row of his concert, having just heard my favorite song. He said something in one bit that got me thinking. He was asked what he fears most and he said losing his memory, "cause memory is what we are. I think our very soul, our very reason to be alive, is tied up in memory". Strangely I connected this to music again, whether it was because a musician was the one saying it or because music plays such an important role in each of our lives. I thought about all the concerts I've been to and all the concerts I regretted missing, and even the ones I will go to in the future. The first thing that came to mind is when a few years back, my dad and I went to a Marcello Rota concert ( the nephew of Nino Rota who wrote the soundtrack for Fellini's Casanova that I loved so much) and at one moment I glanced over at my dad and he was crying. You see, when I think about places I've been, music I've heard or sang along to, I often don't remember a particular song, but who I was with, the way I felt and the way they reacted. It's kind of odd to imagine that I am a kind of a silent observer of the way other people react but it's sort of like brushing your own hair, it will never feel as good as when someone else is doing it for you. Quite in the same way as I see it,  nothing will be as funny if you have no one to laugh with you and the music will never be as loud when the person next to you isn't transforming into a screaming glorious mouthpiece for the sound of your favorite tune. I saw this movie once and it was the documentation of a couple's sexual relationship corresponding to the gigs they went to together and the music they listened to. Basically it was porn with a really good soundtrack, it was an interesting concept though. Music molds us and creates bonds with others in a way that little else can.

I guess it was a few years back, I went to a Clutch concert and, more than the music, the crazy crowd or that fact that I almost thought I was going to die in the midst of a pit, mostly I remember my lover's arms around me, protecting me, while the music resonated through my body like a second pulse, transforming me into a whole with the mob and at the same time a separate elated entity, as I knew that this moment would create a different meaning and memory for each and every one of us. Sometimes I'll see two strangers unknowingly creating a moment with each other as they howl and roar, as if to surpass the speakers, their bodies flailing in the interchanging lights shining from above the stage. Other times it's a couple, they almost  secretly stare at each other, even though they have nothing to hide, but they do so swiftly, not to miss one second of the band's godlike manifestation. She suddenly sees him as one with the band, reaching out to him as if trying to catch every note that he belts out in the palm of her hand. He, the performer, sees only her while everyone else around them disappears, he counts each breath she draws as if she were his own human metronome, and as she reaches out he hopes that she tears of his clothes and rips out his heart to hold and keep as her own. At the same time, my friend is clasping my hand as we make our way towards the bar, Kasabian's "Underdog" blasting in the background and I can feel the sweat in his palm, can hear his breath as he inhales the smoke from his cigarette and the gravel rumbling beneath his footsteps. A few months later that same friend crosses his arms across his chest and swallows in his dry throat, as our third party pleasantly interrupts the silence of our company to remark on how good the band is. I'm moving my hands and arms rhythmically to the sound of 70s, psychedelic-like tunes, sometimes purposefully caressing my floral dress to feel the soft fabric. We are now at an Allah-Las gig on a crisp November, Saturday night. These moments aren't mutually exclusive to other people or to big chaotic concerts of course but despite the time and place,whether it was from your childhood or yesterday, as they seamlessly as they unfold they can then be re-animated by the sound of that same familiar music and almost take on a life of their own after a while, clinging to the person you were at that moment or the person you were with even if that person in both cases is long gone.

Happy Halloween!!!

I trust that in the "true"(which is definitely not this) spirit of the Halloween tradition, all you girls and boys, danced, got drunk and frolicked in streets, clubs and restrooms dressed as slutty bunnies and pop culture icons. I, myself am more of Christmas kinda gal and no, I don't mean I like Christmas, oh no honey, I AM Christmas! I get the fascination with Halloween though. For kids it's more about the candy and dressing up as their favorite heroes and for adults it's more about hooking up with strangers while pretending to be someone else(which is true in most cases anyway). We all have as people this strong urge to be someone else, someone better, or provocative and sexually suggestive, generally to pretend but we also don't want to be judged for it. Halloween poses the perfect opportunity. In traditional folklore people supposedly dressed up so that the dead that walked among the living only on this night, wouldn't recognize them. Nowadays I guess its more about escaping our own realities and ordinary selves. I too, went to a costume party last night , actually to two if I'm being honest, dressed as a film noir vamp(or a fancy prostitute, I mean however you wanna look at it...just kidding! But really as a reference to Mean Girls I could've been booo, you whore! but sadly no one asked). Getting ready was a kind of ritual, of getting in the vintage mood. I pin curled my hair and put on dramatic makeup while listening to jazzy tunes. I wore stockings with a garter belt, gloves, a hair piece and a skirt that prevented me from ever sitting down again for the rest of the evening! My friends went as a corpse bride, Marie Antoinette *post guillotine and Luna, Sailor Moon's cat(I did her cat makeup!). We felt fabulous as we walked down the street, all eyes of casually dressed people on us. If they were making fun of us, we didn't care. In fact, I'd love to walk around like that every day. At the party everyone was dressed up as something scary, skeletons, ghosts, ghouls and one guy who was dressed as a terrifying scarecrow, who I would not want to run into alone. Thankfully no clowns! Also thankfully no slutty nurses or cops or slutty-anythings for that matter. We choked on the gallons of dry-ice that gave the place an eerie horror movie effect, drank out of water bottles filled with wine we brought from home and danced like nobody's business to 90s pop anthems. Going to the bathroom was a bit of nightmare as was having to squeeze back into my skirt but even that was kinda fun. We also took like a million pictures in which my face almost looks exactly the same! Until next time, Happy post-Halloween hangover!

Positive attitude, negative thinking

I guess it's been a while and I've been a busy bunny. Work related mostly although I did go to my friend's music gig last week. It's amazing to me how a person so talented can be so pessimistic about his talent. God, I don't know if I'm talking about him or myself. Because lately I find myself feeling frustrated and often annoyed, well more than usual anyway, over the smallest things. The truth is I'm feeling the pressure of "making it" as a writer and considering I decided to drop out of college, I guess I'm anxious about what will happen in the future. I'm always thinking and stressing myself out and it's like my mum always jokes when I tell her I'm thinking, she says "don't hurt yourself". I see people, my friends, doing so many things and accomplishing even more as we speak, learning foreign languages, getting degrees, continuing their studies abroad, traveling, and I'm starting to feel slightly depressed, feeling like a loser. I was studying Art History before I made a conscious decision to leave because I had gotten most of what it had to offer and no longer felt I belonged. In fact, ever since the beginning I never felt I belonged. I hated that school and almost everyone in it. Furthermore while I enjoy studying the subject as a hobby, I am certain that is not what I want to do with my life. I don't regret my decision, but I wonder if I should be doing something else. If I had the financial means I would go to another college and maybe one day I will. But is money the issue or am I being lazy? Am I less than perfect? Am I daydreaming? Or am I just afraid of living outside the comfort zone? So many people never leave their comfort zone, while I decided not to live there in the first place. Is that wise?  I mean I don't doubt my abilities as a writer nor do I not know what I want to do with my life. I guess I always knew I wanted to be a writer. Ever since I could write I was writing poems and stories and songs. It's just that sometimes I don't know exactly how to get there. I suppose for my age I've been doing a pretty good job, with my articles being published and now writing and editing a book for a famous chef and having completed an early draft for my own novel. But I worry, as my dad says, when do my smarts run out? Is talent really enough to make it? I guess in his opinion, as an artist himself, no. I'm not determined to prove him wrong, I'm determined to prove my own fears of failure wrong. I'm good at giving other people optimistic advice, like my crazy-talented friend with the amazing voice, who one day is going to be a very famous musician, even if he doesn't believe it now, or another friend who always wanted to be a dancer and so I told him "go be a dancer". And you know what? He did! Somehow though I fail to take my own advice. I've talked to people who are so anxious because they have no idea what they want to do in their lives and they say I'm lucky because I already do. I say to them "do whatever makes you happy until you can find the thing that you can also make a living out of", no matter how long it takes. So why is it that I feel so small when I'm actually doing what makes me happy? I think society's idea of what a 20-something should be doing, getting a degree, a job, having everything figured out has been etched into my brain. Or maybe it's what I think I should be doing. Perhaps I'm the one putting pressure on myself to be what I think others will find acceptable. In many ways, my own thoughts are what is holding me back from realizing my potential. Maybe yours are what's doing it for you.

The private eye

I suppose I'll get a lot of backlash for this one but I'd just like to put it out there as an argument and an observation, not as a personal opinion. There recently was a big scandal over nude photos of celebrities being leaked all over the internet and in the end the whole thing caused intense responses from both people who saw them and the celebrities involved. I had never really been interested to see the photos myself nor to read about how exactly this happened. Last night I was with a friend and he told me he had seen them and I admit I was curious, so I downloaded the files and tried to see what the fuss was about. What I saw in fact were women just like me, in their private moments. Now, many of you will say that downloading the images(and videos) is just adding to the problem and dragging it out. I can't disagree with you. The blatant invasion of privacy is indeed shameful and wrong. Even so I think we all are on some level voyeurists, we are curious about one and other, we like to compare and observe each other in a closed setting.
My argument isn't about challenging how atrocious it is that these private moments were made public without these women's consent, but rather the reasons surrounding the reactions toward this and the act itself. My argument therefore, or better yet my question is this: when you are a public figure shouldn't you be more careful about what you do even if it is in your personal life, being fully aware that it may come so easily under scrutiny? Or are others expected to respect that personal life, when they themselves put their personal lives out there for everyone to see through their social media? Is anything truly private anymore? In this day and age everything we do, feel, where we travel, eat, live, what we like and don't like, whether we are single or in a relationship and with who, the people we hang out with, it's all out there for anyone's knowledge. Many of us have sexted and sent nude pictures to our boyfriend or girlfriend. Those are also out there, if only someone knows where to look or cared to look anyway. Or does it only matter because these people are famous? On the other hand, is it really about privacy or is it because the female body and female sexuality is something taboo, something to be ashamed of? I don't see any photos of male celebrities being leaked and even when they are -like that sex tape of a certain male actor- I doubt it would get the same reactions. Because somehow the male body in its naked form is ok and a woman's is not? What's interesting to me is how in a world where we are taught that sex sells, where we have built a whole industry around it we are shocked by what is actually perfectly normal. With television programs as offensive as Teen Mom and video clips of teenagers twerking and being sexualized by grown men, you think women taking naughty pictures that were clearly intended for their boyfriends is wrong or something to be ashamed of? The truth is if it were me or you, nobody would give a shit. That being said, I am truly appalled on behalf of these women, (whether they are celebrities or not) for their private life being exploited in such a way, yet I wonder if the message we should be taking from here is different. While it is terrifying that no one realizes exactly how much of themselves they share with the internet ergo perfect strangers all around the world, what's more is that we, especially women, are viewed primarily as sexual objects by this generation of public information. These celebrities were the target of such wide-spread focus perhaps because they were viewed less as women like you and I, as people even, that do exactly the same things as common folk and more as universal sex toys, if only for the fact they are famous. In that position, I'd worry less about my magnificent ass being seen by the world and more of the fact I am being de-humanized and observed through the peep-hole of voyeurism like a victim of sexual prey.