μ ω β___σ ε λ ί δ α___2

μ ω β___σ ε λ ί δ α___1

μ α ί α ν δ ρ ε ;

συγνώμη, αλλά τα έχω πάρει τώρα...
που είσαι παιδάκι μου;

με το που μπήκα εγώ, βγήκες εσύ;
κι άντε βγήκες, που έχεις πάει;
έχω πάρει σβάρνα τα monitors
και τα NEXT BLOG για να σε βρω.

δε λέω έχω γνωρίσει καταπληκτικούς/ές
bloggers με αυτό το searchομάνι,
αλλά εσένα δε σε βρίσκω.

θα αφήσω τούτο το post.
θα περιμένω comment σου εδώ.
θα διαβάσω τι θα μου γράψεις και "λίγο να παίξει το μάτι σου θα ξέρω..."

κι αν δεν απαντήσεις θα βγω σαν τον Δήμου με φέιγ βολάν να σε ψάχνω ως άλλον doncat.

gel yavrum, gel... (γλυκά ala Selcuk Munir)
cabuk gel, gibi (ala Selcuka turka προστακτικιά)
kardesim gelsin bekliyorum... (άντε και με υποκτακική μπρε)

hey :-)

hey :-)
don't go
ain't the world
just braces
aint't your dreams
dread places

hey :-)
smiles me
makes me-self
audacious

hey :-)
don't go

mauve knight

Του διόρθωσα το μωβ. Εϊχε βγει μπλε. Δε λέω, ωραίο και το μπλε, αλλά εδώ είναι μωβ...

"like a large, light-gray rock"

"like a large, light-gray rock"
1989-91, The Glacier Museum, Fjaerland, Norway by Sverre Fehn

Flatland - Fjaerland

I call our world Flatland, not because we call it so, but to make its nature clearer to you, my happy readers, who are privileged to live in Space.
Imagine a vast sheet of paper on which straight Lines, Triangles, Squares, Pentagons, Hexagons, and other figures, instead of remaining fixed in their places, move freely about, on or in the surface, but without the power of rising above or sinking below it, very much like shadows--only hard with luminous edges--and you will then have a pretty correct notion of my country and countrymen. Alas, a few years ago, I should have said "my universe:" but now my mind has been opened to higher views of things.
In such a country, you will perceive at once that it is impossible that there should be anything of what you call a "solid" kind; but I dare say you will suppose that we could at least distinguish by sight the Triangles, Squares, and other figures, moving about as I have described them.
On the contrary, we could see nothing of the kind, not at least so as to distinguish one figure from another.
Nothing was visible, nor could be visible, to us, except Straight Lines; and the necessity of this I will speedily demonstrate.
Place a penny on the middle of one of your tables in Space; and leaning over it, look down upon it. It will appear a circle. But now, drawing back to the edge of the table, gradually lower your eye (thus bringing yourself more and more into the condition of the inhabitants of Flatland), and you will find the penny becoming more and more oval to your view, and at last when you have placed your eye exactly on the edge of the table (so that you are, as it were, actually a Flatlander) the penny will then have ceased to appear oval at all, and will have become, so far as you can see, a straight line.
The same thing would happen if you were to treatin the same way a Triangle, or a Square, or any other figure cut out from pasteboard. As soon as you look at it with your eye on the edge of the table, you will find that it ceases to appear to you as a figure, and that it becomes in appearance a straight line.
...
When I was in Spaceland I heard that your sailors have very similar experiences while they traverse your seas and discern some distant island or coast lying on the horizon. The far-off land may have bays, forelands, angles in and out to any number and extent; yet at a distance you see none of these (unless indeed your sun shines bright upon them revealing the projections and retirements by means of light and shade), nothing but a grey unbroken line upon the water.
Well, that is just what we see when one of our triangular or other acquaintances comes towards us in Flatland. As there is neither sun with us, nor any light of such a kind as to make shadows, we have none of the helps to the sight that you have in Spaceland.
If our friend comes closer to us we see his line becomes larger; if he leaves us it becomes smaller; but still he looks like a straight line; be he a Triangle, Square, Pentagon, Hexagon, Circle, what you will-a straight Line he looks and nothing else.
You may perhaps ask how under these disadvantagous circumstances we are able to distinguish our friends from one another: but the answer to this very natural question will be more fitly and easily given when I come to describe the inhabitants of Flatland. For the present let me defer this subject, and say a word or two about the climate and houses in our country.

...
FLATLAND, PART 1, THIS WORLD, SECTION 1, Of the Nature of Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott, 1884

mauve Σαρπηδώνας

Το ομορφότερο αγγείο. Ο Ύπνος με τον αδερφό του το Θάνατο μεταφέρουν το νεκρό Σαρπηδώνα στον κάτω κόσμο... Ευξίθεος ο κεραμοποιός και Ευφρόνιος ο ζωγράφος... χμμ νομίζω, μπορεί νά'ναι κι αντίστροφα...

mauve αφιέρωση

Αφιερωμένο στο φίλο μου Μαίανδρο, που με blogoπαράσυρε και που τον αγαπώ σα να ήταν ο μικρός μου αδερφός. (εννοώ να είμασταν αγαπημένα αδερφάκια, όχι σαν τον Θανάση που επιμελώς κανόνιζε τη δολοφονία του Παύλου, τρελαμένος από τη ζήλια επειδή βύζαινε το μωρό κι εκείνος κοτζάμ μαντράχαλος στα 4μισυ χρόνια του ήθελε να του λέει η μαμά του συνέχεια την ώρα, γιατί είχε το ρολόι στο χέρι που κράταγε το κεφάλι του μωρού και κάθε που κύτταγε για να του πει, έπεφτε το παιδί τ'ανάσκελα... καλά ήταν κι αστροπελέκι η Όλγα, η μάνα τους... χμμ άσχετο)
Αφιερωμένο λοιπόν στον αυθόρμητο κι ακριβό μου φίλο, αυτό το λουλουδάκι και σε όλους εσάς εδώ μέσα που τον έχετε βάλει στην καρδιά σας και το link σας φυσικά...

ε υ χ ή

m a u v e g h o s t

...εγκλωβισμένος μια 20η Ιουλίου...

mauve sidharta

In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe. Joy leapt in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to become great wise man and priest, a prince among the Brahmans. Bliss leapt in his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect. Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans' young daughters whenSiddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slim hips. But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a Brahman. He loved Siddhartha's eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decency of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow. Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all.

But he, Siddhartha, was no a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone's love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the teachings of the old Brahmans._SIDDHARTHA, an Indian Tale, by Hermann Hesse

oppland going north - n o r w a y

With each new generation a restless impulse stirs the hearts of men to capture the veiled citadel of the Arctic, the circle of silence, the land of glaciers, cold wastes of waters and winds that are strangely warm. Increasing interest is manifested in the mountainous icebergs, and marvelous speculations are indulged in concerning the earth's center of gravity, the cradle of the tides, where the whales have their nurseries, where the magnetic needle goes mad, where the Aurora Borealis illumines the night, and where brave and courageous spirits of every generation dare to venture and explore, defying the dangers of the "Farthest North." _ THE SMOKY GOD OR A Voyage to the Inner World BΥ WILLIS GEORGE EMERSON

ξ ό ρ κ ι

Συ που θα πας
Σσσς, μη μιλάς
Συ που θα πας σε ξένη γη
Σαν έρθει η αυγή
Να θυμηθείς
Τι προσπαθείς
Να σταματήσω τη στιγμή
Μας προσπερνά, δεν ωφελεί
Αν φύγεις, φεύγει
Δεν μπορώ
Ο χρόνος φεύγει
Όχι εγώ
Ανέβα πάνω στο λεπτό
στον λεπτοδείχτη
Κράτα γερά
Οι δείχτες σπρώχνουν το λεπτό
είναι από σίδερο γερό
δεν τους βαστώ
Συ κράτα τούτη τη στιγμή
Του ρολογιού τον χτύπο
Και φκιάξε επίμονο ρυθμό
που να 'χει μέσα τον καιρό
Και τον χαμό
Χρέος πικρό
Πού είσαι, πες μου
Εδώ μακριά σου
Έφυγε κι όλας η στιγμή
οριστικά
Και γίναν όλα διαφορετικά
Και η σιωπή
Που ακολουθά
Μας παρασέρνει, μας μεθά
Και μας βυθίζει στην αρχή
Του χρόνου πριν να γεννηθεί
Μνήμη πιστή
Πάει να σβηστεί

(Ένα ρολόι στο καπηλειό - Μάνος Χατζιδάκις)

ο καρώ πρίγκιπας με το flat top στο τρένο