Three quarters of a century ago today, Greece rejected a fascist ultimatum demanding the occupation of our territory. We are supposedly celebrated for not only having created Democracy, but for protecting it from all Goliaths who suppress the peoples of the world.
is not yours.
You shed no light
on how to rise.
Our way home
the proud Hellenes
and mostly the
Eleni Vakaki, daughter of Georgios, the younger lady, and the older one, Antonia Vakaki, wife of Demetrios. Historic photograph, taken in front of Nikos Kazantzakis and more members of the Committee for the Ascertainment of Atrocities, of two of my many fellow Cretans who defended their freedom in the unprecedented Battle of Crete in 1941, the first battle where Fallschirmjäger, German paratroops, were used en masse, the first mainly airborne invasion in military history, the first time the Allies made significant use of intelligence from the deciphered German Enigma code, and the first time German troops encountered mass resistance from a civilian population, although our heroic Crete had been disarmed by dictator Metaxas.
Heroes sure do fight like the Greeks, Mr. Churchill, and, dear invisible puppeteers, the fact that you got us all locked up and deprived in cages now with your misanthropic war being largely financial, does not shed any less blood, does not leave any less of our beloved descendants unborn, does not make us any less consciously heroic. No souls are ever for sale, not ours, not anyone’s we love, and we are not afraid of your darkness because we hold everyone in Light, the whole world fits in our arms and we, we as individuals away from your fancy organizations, fiercely defend every soul’s freedom to be who they have come here to be, each saving us all in magically unique ways. You cannot stop humanity from feeling divinity within. We are united in our hearts and no one is ever alone. No one ever belongs to you. OXI.
believe they own, control us.
Forgive them. Fear not. Our Light heals.
Love breaks all chains; works For us.
=-=-= / < 3 / =-=-=
Leon of SolitaryThinkers,
[Sleepstream] are a deeply atmospheric post-rock band from my hometown. The bassist who opens the following video, is also a mechanical engineer. With his gifted hands and creative mind, he repaired our old refrigerator in 2012 and it’s still going strong, thankfully; we couldn’t afford a new one. Bless you John; I looked familiar to you because we grew up by the same waterfront listening to the same music. We’d be brothers and bandmates, had my external life not always been [so unlivable]. We still dream up together a freer, more humane world.
Pre-flight / The Sail of Mary Celeste / They Flew in the Censored Skies / Cirrus Formed Antennae / The Nacre Top of The Sky / Chemtrail Borders I / Chemtrail Borders II / Lucy’s Dream’s An Overdose / Cycle 24. These are the nine superb tracks of Sleepstream’s sophomore album (please buy [here]) entitled They Flew in Censored Skies. A majestically melancholic work from these transcendental activists who through their lyrically powerful music express the ongoing heavy suffering of Greece and not only; we all fly in censored skies.
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* * * *
Wyrd bið ful aræd.
Again alone we stand. How many times have we been down this same road before? Our personal green mile, condemned for crimes we never committed. Weeping and trying to pick up the pieces, and yet we cannot but continue to be true to the beating of our heart, the truth of our spirit, the authenticity of our soul.
We didn’t see this one coming, did we? Masterfully executed. Venomous. Ironic, isn’t it? The more powerful the poison, the less of it is needed to do the damage. “Why?” I cry. “Shhh, my love”, you say, “Trust”. “Why all this cruelty?” I keep on wailing. “Hush, my darling”, you say, “Trust”, while we gently caress each other’s wetted cheeks. This ever-sparkling spirit of yours I have always adored, Leon, my Brighteyes, is already rising above this pettiness, but the mark left by the shadow in your gaze cannot be concealed. Or forgiven. The hurt caused to you, aches me, enrages me, never will I forget this look in your eyes.
But this one I promise you. Once the tears stop burning their fiery trails on my face, once the blood from my open heart wound stops dripping onto the ground, it will be over. Less than a faint whisper in the wind, less than a vague memory from a fading dream. Finished. Like it never existed.
After all it was nothing but a pipe dream. Poof! Already gone. See?
Plutonia of SolitaryThinkers,
~ Skinny sweetheart sits in bus,
contemplating near and far. ~
* * * *
* * *
I don’t know…
Look at this.
Don’t you want that?
Look at her;
How guys drool
and you always err.
Set aims high, you lazy girl!
Run, run, run; must melt this fat!
Shame on you! Zero’s too far!
Must. Not. Eat. Till pretty enough.
Measure! Weigh! …
… Oh, I wish I’d Stop…
So exhausted… Full of scars…
Fractured pieces no one hugs.
All my needs just go unserved,
no one likes me unreserved.
And why to explain, when they can’t know;
them always right, me always wrong…
They just talk, get rid of guilt
for not caring; not one bit.
* * *
* * * *
~ Bus moves faster, day meets night,
sweetheart prays with all her might;
thoughts relax while she retreats
to a place inside serene. ~
* * * *
* * *
Hope one day
I’ll see they are me.
Just as wounded.
Though, less free;
more reluctant to flee lies;
light much dimmer in their eyes.
Hope I’ll see…
so I can forgive.
I think I Know!
I’ll be confident and strong!
No, not “I’ll”;
I already AM!
for every precious soul
who knows darkness first-hand
so they can help others.
We can only heal ourselves
by helping relieve
the suffering of others,
even in the smallest of ways.
The smallest can be grand,
because we All are Channels of
Healing Power from Above.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, May 2015It aches me so, not
having enough time
or the peace of mind
to cater even to such a
tiny group of dear souls.
Comment moderation is off;
so this peaceful place is yours.
It crosses your path for a reason.
Allow yourselves to Lovingly connect!
Use email if possible for mutual healing;
hold each other, be nurtured and uplifted.
I am always with you in love and gratitude.
( ~ ( ~ ( ~ ❤ ~ ) ~ ) ~ )
Beloved Cheryl’s ode to the destructive masculine.
Words so wise, so sadly earthy at the same time;
56 of them, like the cards of the Lesser Arcana
which represent the mundane aspects of life.
We males are needed in much deeper ways
than this non-culture allows us to see.
Let us stop abusing our Sisters
and killing all our hearts.
Let the healing begin.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Bless you Cheryl!
sampling golden sweet youth,
he dances through life.
blind to the treasure
hidden deep within
each tender heart.
he will take wing,
but not before
the remorseless sting
that will be his demise
even as he flies
from the truth
In the sacred mountain of Latmos, in a cave near the peak,
blond Endymion has been wakelessly slumbering forever.
How he found himself under Selene’s eternal spell
is a story of passion beyond the deepest poet’s heart.
Returning from his pastures one day too ancient to place in time,
this boy whose gentle eyes were always overcast by a shadow,
as if he had been born with the sign of his obsessive love-to-be,
got carried away by his hunt of an animal, and stayed out until dark.
Tired as he was, this cave entrance was the ideal retreat for the night.
It was there through the dark leafage that she noticed him,
Selene, the goddess of the Moon, who saw eternity in his beauty
and could not help but decide to keep him for herself forever.
She leaned above Endymion and smiled her divine smile
so bright into his eyes, hypnotizing him, binding him to her charm.
He fell asleep hearing, as if in a dream, the jingling of his flock’s bells
growing more and more distant as his sheep went their way without him.
Seductively smooth light engulfed the young hunter’s sleep
as lovely Selene sat beside him and gazed at him entranced.
The freshness of her hair and sweetness of breath flooded his dreams with bliss.
She touched his eyelids with ethereal fingers and whispered:
“You shall never see the light of day again, my sweet boy. So beautifully you sleep…
I will be with you again tomorrow night, and every night from now on.
The most wonderful destiny I weave for you, a life you never dreamed of.
You shall never leave this sleep; immortally young you will remain in our eternal dream.”
So each morning Selene withdraws into the sky, giving her place to Eos,
the goddess of Dawn, who breaks her Sister’s spell, waking up all Creation,
painting golden all mountains, seas, meadows, rooftops sheltering the sleep of men,
restoring the brightness and glory of diurnal life for all beings.
Only enchanted Endymion will never escape his magical sleep.
Warm blood runs forever in his veins for his lover’s nightly visits,
but he remains still, forsaken, dead to the world, a faint smile on his half-opened lips
revealing his innocent yearning to roam again free with a flock of white-fleeced sheep.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, April 2015
My inspiration for this poem is the Ancient Greek myth of Endymion and Selene. The name of the unbelievably handsome young mortal shepherd and hunter prince Ενδυμίων is etymologized to the verb ενδημώ and means “The one who resides within”, whereas Σελήνη is connected to noun σέλας and it means literally “The one who sheds smooth light”. Selene, the Titan goddess of the Moon, fell so madly in love with Endymion, that she convinced the great Zeus to grant the boy eternal youth and immortality so that he would never lose his beauty. Endymion was placed in a state of eternal slumber in a cave near the peak of Lydian Mount Latmos, where his heavenly bride descended to consort with him in the night.
“Myths are first and foremost psychic phenomena that reveal the nature of the soul”, said Carl Jung. Decoding the story of Selene and Endymion, we could say that love can never be possessively restricted or restrictive in any sort of relationship, or its very meaning as the driving force of the universe is lost.
This myth has been fascinating me for months now, but I could not realize its full relevance to my life until a week ago, when I met my bedridden mother-in-law after thirteen years of separation. We held each other tight again and again, me leaning over her side-railed bed and scratching her face and neck with my mostly white beard, she trying to hug me with arthritis-crooked fingers and to kiss me with horribly drawn-in lips of a toothless mouth, both of us transcending all struggles and destruction, our souls naturally agreeing to leave all differences behind. We do not share a karmic past as heavy as she does with her daughter, her lover and enemy of old, whom she insists on punishing with her selective dementia when pressured to recognize the evil she had been doing in this lifetime together with her abusive late husband. Plutonia has been residing deeper within the underworld, probably a hunter-become-hunted like Endymion who has been unable to leave this cave for too long now.
I do feel the change in the air, though. I believe. I always have, no matter what, even if I have stood an inch off the cliff countless times in this battlefield of a life. And the reason I believe, is because I Feel things. “The Tarot deck is not all about Cups, you know”, my way-above-average-cerebral better half told me recently. Of course. Each life includes the energies of the whole deck of cards, but, how should I put it; it seems that it is more through the suit of Cups that I view the whole deck, more through the warmth of emotion that even my mental faculties function at their optimal level. So I feel that the time for release is drawing near, especially if we abandon ourselves with trust to the workings of the universe. We will be traveling again to my mother-in-law’s town a few more times, fighting to sort out the chaos her husband left behind him, and I will be feeling very safe. Our deepest gratitude goes out to our friends here who have been with us in unbelievably heartfelt ways. I include you all in my upcoming post, which is also my embrace of the smallest, most beautiful poetry challenge I had the honor of being nominated for.
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Hellenic mythology meets Finnish lyricism in My Selene, a wonderful composition of the amazing Jani Liimatainen’s who plays the guitar in both of the following versions, first in the acoustic one with Pisces Sun singer Timo Kotipelto, and then with Taurus Sun Toni Kakko and their band Sonata Arctica. Absolutely amazing, both versions.
Oh I know your soul… So pure and bright!
You radiate wisdom divine,
meager in those who feed me.
Your being displayed like you’re some toy
shows me where I am headed.
If I’m too wild, I already annoy.
They do not like us living free.
I greet in awe your ancient star
behind your toothless smile.
I don’t recall how I got here.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever leave.
Only my death will set me free.
It’s not your fault; thanks for this tear.
We’ll meet again. No need to fear.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, February 2015
Sequel post: Divinity in each other II
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* * * *
I never asked to be discovered.
They kept me buried out of sight.
Though mystery lay before me uncovered,
heaven and earth could not unite.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, January 2015
Music was my first and biggest calling.
I was four years old.
An uncle brought me for my birthday this children’s keyboard piano, the most promising present I ever received. I slowly unwrapped it, carefully took it out of its box, looked at it for a while wide-eyed with my heart pounding in my ears, and then hugged it in mysterious recognition, like it was whispering to me the most beautiful future magic. I still remember its pungent plastic smell that day; it was a rather primitive electric instrument, even by 1974’s standards, but what a revelation those next days were; a blissful one for me, an annoyance they just had to put up with for my troubled parents. The explosion of my father’s physical health problems (his mental ones had been long there) was only four years ahead, and my mother’s only ten. Without having taken any lessons, without having seen anyone play any instrument in front of me, I started rendering correctly whatever music was being heard from our black-and-white television set; with only one hand, but nailing the notes, duration, rhythm, everything with just a little experimentation. As soon as they switched off the TV, I went on playing variations of what I had heard and trying melodies of my own.
Two floors down from us in our apartment building, lived a famous pianist. This man was an internationally acclaimed classical conductor, a composer for piano, violin and voice, and also a music educator who promoted many talents during the latter half of the twentieth century here in Northern Greece. Moreover, he was a friend of my parents, but only until he discovered me and got discreetly kicked out of our lives.
His practicing for his concerts always gave me the goosebumps in our neglected apartment where I was kept caged until my thirtieth year. Especially in the summertime when all windows were open, our whole neighbourhood was flooded with his majestic grand piano sounds that made my heart soar and sink at the same time. My parents would look at me sideways, hating my overflowing emotional world, hating themselves for not being able to control it. I didn’t care. My mother always saw red with this, to the point of physically assaulting me to rip passion out of my soul, but she only got tufts out of my head. Without ever moving to strike her back, which for her was but an even more infuriating sign of egocentric defiance, I let her have her way and walk away snorting and swearing with my hair clenched in her fists and limping with one shoe because she had hurled the other one at my face, while I continued breathing in with relish and despair this maestro’s virtuosity goldening up the stifling mellowness of the seaside city summer evening air.
I was four years old.
A few weeks after I had unwrapped my uncle’s magical present, this short man with the intense eyes who was a bundle of passionate, restless energy like me although he was exactly my broken father’s age, almost half a century older than me, happened to drop in fleetingly to let my parents know about the developments on a practical issue regarding our building. They were done discussing it very quickly, and he was about to leave, when …
What is this?
Just as he was reaching for the door out, he stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t realized I was there and he didn’t ask my parents anything, only gave them a rhetorically inquisitive look as he rushed tiptoeing with a raised forefinger towards the source of this melody that had just started coming from my room.
He didn’t enter; he just stood there frozen behind me for a minute, staring at this kiddie sitting with his back to the half-closed door and improvising on his simple keyboard like nothing else in the world mattered. My parents saw him frown in approving concentration, his fingers twitch like they were already guiding mine, and when he slowly returned to them and finally broke his silence, they heard him announce to them solemnly that no time should be wasted in promoting this great talent, that he is taking me under his wing in his conservatory as soon as possible, during the next few days.
“Alright Yorgo, thanks. We’ll see”.
He moves away reluctantly like an angel who feels that he will not be allowed to guard a soul in need, our apartment door closes behind him as he enters the old squeaky elevator, and my mother goes “Whaaat? My son; MY son will be touring the world giving concerts before he is even ten? Over my dead body!”
So it was me who had to die. A karmic enemy of hers I was, incarnated into that pious society to be considered by her as an absolutely essential, eternal child for her maternal role; her only role. Her husband didn’t allow her any work outside the home; my father’s income was more than enough. His mother, sister and aunts, none of whom he was on peaceful terms with, were all holders of piano diplomas with distinctions, but he himself could play nothing but a few tunes, although he had spent years studying the piano himself.
They did have to keep up some appearances and prove themselves worthy as encouraging parents, but they resisted manically, although the music would not die in me. Three years later, I was accidentally discovered by two scouts for a choir, who came one day and tested the voice of every child in my primary school. They chose only three children, me and two others. Those were enrolled in this choir and started touring Europe, I never.
Six whole years after that first hysterical “Whaaat?”, when I was already ten and no concert pianist or singer, but at least over my constant high fevers, they took me to this unofficial music school behind our neighbourhood’s church, where a few Christian musicians were offering free lessons to the disadvantaged, late in the evenings. I don’t know how this decent-looking couple managed to squeeze me in there by convincing people that they were unable to spend a dime for me. The person who was offering piano tutoring to a whole group of five or six children two times a week, was a bored middle-aged fellow who each time sent one of us kids to fetch his dinner in a plastic bag from a dirty nearby restaurant, and spent half of our time in that bleak room with the vertical piano chomping on his really greasy and stinking raw-onion-stuffed gyros pies over our heads. I showed no enthusiasm for those horrible lessons, a year of them was all I could take, and that settled it for good: my parents triumphantly announced to their supposedly-because-of-me ever-shrinking social circles that I had no interest in becoming a musician whatsoever or a social being at all for that matter. So I died again at eleven, I started denying food and didn’t even want to enter adolescence. Plutonia, whom I would meet more than a decade later, was going through very similar oppressive experiences all along in her equally destructive non-family.
I am forty four now.
I honestly don’t know where these decades have disappeared. The constant struggle for bare survival is such a draining business, and I have suffered too much with the suppression of my creative potential, not only in music, but in writing, too.
I would have suffered even more in some respects if I had succeeded. With this highly charged profile of mine, my absence of any clear limits between my psychic energies and those of any environment I am moving in, I would have completely lost myself in the expression of my gift and the admiration of others, I would have become addicted to all sorts of substances against my quite ascetic profile, so I guess I am grateful to my parents and all their severe internal issues in retrospect. All problems are here for a reason, I mean it and I know it is true, I am not saying this to console myself or any heart sister or brother who has suffered or is suffering in similar ways as you read this. We have all landed in this world for a while to tread a heavy educational path. My mother left this world twenty, my father fifteen, this maestro five years ago. I am still here, and without all this pain, I don’t think I would have unfolded as a person with any worth mentioning level of understanding for the pain of others. I am using a keyboard right now, it’s not a grand piano’s and I cannot make a living even with translation or writing anymore, but you blessed people do listen to my deepest soul, and this fills me with a gratitude I cannot contain.
Still, I fail a lot in expressing it. I would so love to connect more with you and really listen to you and start writing healing poetry with you, but our lack of prospects and a host of hostile circumstances show no intention of letting us continue being here. We cannot make it without a lottery win, as ridiculous as this idea seemed to me when I was younger and thought I lived in a Western country where I could succeed based on my efforts and unfolding abilities. Our running on empty with Plutonia is unbearable at times, and it gets too hard for me to muster whatever will is left in me to stand by her strongly enough. She too is losing hope, because we are getting more and more abandoned after the curiosity of her German relatives was satisfied. They too are tortured people in their own internal ways, and they cannot possibly pay off our debts and drag us up to the heart of Europe as long as we don’t have any money of our own. A little more on these non-developments [here].
So please forgive me beloved friends when I disappear or appear unavailable. My loving thoughts are always with you, I cherish each one of you with all my heart and this blog belongs to you, too. I am deactivating comment moderation so that at least you can be hearing from one another as soon as anyone posts here. Please be very kind to yourselves and know that whatever you are feeling or not feeling, you are never, ever alone. Please follow your heart’s passion knowing that energy never gets lost, and that each one of our dreams we cannot realize here, is stored safely in the aether for another time and place. I keep on passionately working for this time and this place. Hang in there everybody. I love you.
Enjoy the gloriously uplifting sadness of my fellow Leo Sun singer Tarja, and always fare well on your blessed journeys which are also parts of mine.
Born out of stardust we all are
We know no earthly homes
We are not meant for permanence
Our souls bow to no thrones
If you too feel you’re floating
somewhere at the edge of space,
forlorn, forgotten, purposeless,
cursing your empty days,
please know this is a sentiment
by far not shared by few;
it rather shows that you’ve still got
a lot more things to do.
Your heart is strong; kept safe and warm
by friends who feel your pain,
fumbling themselves out of the dark
to send more light your way.
Those tears are fine; they cleanse our souls,
uplift us for rebirth,
leaving us free to start again
from where our rainbows end.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, January 2014
For my beloved sister Lily, whose spark one year ago tomorrow, the very first Like on this blog, her aching poetry and her friendship, made me feel I should never give up on this world. Please visit and explore her lovely thoughtful works.
From an anonymous Greek author somewhere in the Greek-speaking web.
Hier die deutsche Übersetzung.
We were afraid that we would lose our salaries and social benefits, and now our salaries have shrunk to social benefits.
We were afraid that protesting through strikes would cost us wages, and now we’ve lost our jobs altogether.
We were afraid of the economic refugees storming our country, and now we see our own children becoming economic refugees.
We were afraid of the banks going bankrupt, and now the banks are throwing us out of our own homes.
We were afraid that we would lose our savings, and now we are left with no money at all.
We were afraid they would remove our agricultural subsidies, and now they are taking away our very fields.
We were afraid of pension cuts, and now we cannot even afford our medicine.
We were afraid we would be faced with fuel rationing, and now we’ve been massively forced to give up our cars and we live in cold apartments.
We were afraid of poverty and social decline, and now a growing world of fellow citizens survive thanks to soup kitchens and garbage cans.
We were afraid that the pension funds would collapse, and now their reserves have been depleted through the Private Sector Involvement.
We were afraid that the demonstrations in the center of Athens would negatively affect shop sales, and now all Greek city centers are full of locked-up shops.
We were afraid of a direct confrontation with the government, and now we direct our hatred to the civil servants, the freelance professionals, the homeless, the beggars.
We were afraid to make demands on our employers, and now we get annoyed by those who still dare to resist.
We were afraid of the private media propaganda, and we witnessed instead the close-down of the public television.
We were afraid that our life would not be livable without the euro, and now we are left without even a cent for ourselves in our pockets.
We were afraid that there would be only death for us outside the European Union, and now we have unprecedented high mortality rates in infants and children, and a decreased overall life expectancy.
We were afraid to dream of a better life for ourselves, and now our reality has become a living nightmare.
let alone those of others or the riddle of life.
who cannot handle his own scary depths,
there’s nothing to befriend in someone
a useless mess of a person;
and may always remain
he has always been
and he thinks
and he aches
and he sinks