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Green Bitter Almonds

September 17, 2010

No one can take away my passport, they told me that much when I paid,

I carried this thought backpacking for five thousand five hundred and twenty-three /

One by one miles five thousand five hundred five hundred miles one by one mile per mile miles 500 1000 23 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 500 1000 23 end_of_the_skype_highlighting miles 250 + 200 + 27 + 23 = 500 miles

wet and dry miles through sound waves in rhymes and light speed tides

With fellow patriots in lame caravans tied in the parallel umbilical cord knots of time

I carried this freeing thought of belonging to a greater world far away

Far far away afar away from near and close and there, afar, so afar near + close +far = far away

And I came to this land, promising, sky blue eyes liberating, just watching

Blue eyes sky blue eyes eyes blue skies + eyes + blue = H-e-a-v-e-n
All these new plants, these unknown animals,

Even the green bitter almonds in a strange analogy of one in nine,

watching

so different to what I have known.

I have carried it here, sober, moist, the photo is rough, yellow, how much I look pale

no one can take away my passport,

Oh, sweet cane sugar, mirrored in my fading memory, I miss you, do you?

Peculiar wrinkled configurations on the tree trunk, it is not a heart,

I thought I saw a human child hide behind,

Do come to the front,

Look, my passport, can you take it away?

Do not assume you saw some of me little child,

Go tell your folks,

An alien I is visiting,

Half body me floating,

Half buried me in sand,

A pirate without his hook, a hitch-hiker without his thumb,

A thumb on a hand is a not a branch on tree without the tree as a thumb does not grow back whoever cuts it off whereas a branch on a tree always grows back larger ehm, and longer whoever does the deed.

No one can take away my passport,

Four copies of me make a whole,

Four pages left in it without a seal,

No one can take away my passport.

Four pages one picture no seal no borders recorded 1523 miles far away. And a child behind blue eyes behind a tree, all laid in order on a giant green bitter almond decaying.

June 28, 2010

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3 1/2

May 5, 2010

In the abandoned gym all the doors are locked with steal padlocks.  Two metres by two and a half.  Thick doors, heavy, as if the long-gone owner had wanted this gym to be reminiscent of his previous job as a banker.  But the round walls lacking any acute edges speak nothing of strictness and discipline.  Massive tall walls constantly yellowing with time and weather.  Their pinnacle lines do reveal some spreads of wonderful white dye, probably rainproof.

 – No guarantee for mold –

The outside yard and the parking lot are fenced with high aluminum frames, each one sprayed in a different colour, “only bright colours please”, the only direction of the owner to the painter still echoing through and out the tiled wires of the frames and inside the yard – never outside.  The outsiders do not peak inside, despite the transparency of the fence and the lifelessness of the trees and rose plants inside and along the perimeter.  Young children playing with older ones, pedestrians, ladies going to the church, dogs, cats, rats, insects, nobody would even turn their heads to the direction of the old but well-constructed gym.

It was the smell.  A dense, repulsive, dark odour.  A smell from hell, a smell from the Abyss, a smell of a million decaying corpses, the stink of a giant’s guts in a pit three by two and a half metres at a depth of three metres.

Nobody turns their face to the building.  The old woman uneasily holding her nose with her light hand and her stick with her left walks by, she needs to rest for a second, to place her fingers on the fence.  But she does not dare take the fingers from her nose.  She has seen people faint around the area.  She has heard of children sick. The cats dizzy, the dogs crying.  The rat trembling in the corner of the brick uplifted by the escaping root of the rose tree.  “Why isn’t the rat hiding or running away to my presence?” she wonders and presses her fingers more tightly on her nostrils.

The children choose this area to play because nobody ever comes to bother them for their noise.  But if you ask them they cannot describe the gym from outside.  They wouldn’t want to, anyway.  If you walk around the fence and count the missing toys inside the yard you will find the children have abandoned one hundred and thirty four plastic balls, fifty one single trainers and seven bats.  They never go and get anything that falls inside the fence.  Not that they are scared.  It is the smell coming out that doesn’t let them intrude, or they would – extra-heartedly.  The thick cloud of odour is very intense inside the fence, but only one metre further in the diameter outside the periphery.  And then it mysteriously dissolves abruptly, unexpectedly.  The pavement around is only one metre wide.  The old lady stays on it with the smell, but she doesn’t risk her life with the cars.  Others did, many accidents of running over stunned pedestrians were reported.  It is all but two hundred metres of walk inside the strange veil.  You either choose to walk within limits of reach or on the asphalt.  What could be worse?

Take your eyes and walk with me inside the yard.  Leave your nose behind, leave your ears behind, outside with your friends.  Just concentrate and follow these lines. 

If I jump over the fence I am always careful to cut off fall acceleration holding on any dry branch I find.  Careful!  Don’t land among the rose plants.  Thorns are never due to wearing out with time or weather.

The smell now is a thousand times worse.  Consuming.  Denser than the soil we are walking on.  More solid than the small white stones the path to the main entrance is surfaced with.  Don’t take your eyes off the path.  To your right and your left there are other eyes watching.  I cannot see them but you can.  So don’t look at them.  Perhaps they are the eyes of a new breed of Medusas.  Don’t look, let me.  I am scared, dude; hold my hand while we are approaching.  Did you bring the wire cutter?  No, I told you!  I’ve been telling you every day all this long!  We need to cut the padlock to enter.  No other way, wall’s too high.  Shhh, you are making too much noise on the path, lift your weight upwards as we are closing in.  Look at me doing it.  I am almost walking on my tips.  Lower your head and don’t look back to the other children.  They saw you enter with me, I know.  But they will soon forget.

Here we are.  Give me the cutter.  Huh?  You wanna do it? No.

Give me the cutter.  Gently.  Right.  That’s it.  Now push with me.  This door is rusted like the axons of an eighteenth century wagon in a junkyard.  Push harder.  Oh my, the smell now, I feel I am opening the pit where I could have been saving a giant’s guts for a fortnight.  Fresh, boiling smell, poison. It is poison.  But we are not here, remember.  It is just your eyes.  You haven’t given me your body or any senses for what is worth.  Just your sight.  That’s all we need for now, relax, I know you don’t wanna come in, but if you pulled your legs a little harder to the front, and pushed your waist with the force of thinking that your friends might still be watching and not yet forgotten you,  then entering will become so much easier.  There you go.

It will be pitch-dark once you enter.  Watch where you are going and avoid any sharp edges or broken glass; it is possible that the smell sits on surfaces and materializes into poison.   

Thank you for choosing to follow me in here. But now you have to go on your own.  I cannot show you anymore.  I cannot enter any further than this.  My time is due.  I will walk back noiselessly just as I’ve escorted you until here.  I will close the door behind you for your protection.  Do not worry about darkness.  Its left hand is always left outside such buildings.  I will even place the padlock back to lock position.  For your protection.  The medusas are lurking, remember.  And we don’t want to bring light inside the gym.  Destroy it we will if we shed any light.  Give body to the smell we will.  Change the status of things we would, if I came in.  You are on your own.

What is this?  The door sound.  He really did it.  He left me here and locked the door.  Where am I, really?  I thought this was a gym.  An abandoned gym.  But it is a wonderful mansion!  Dark?  Where is  darkness?  Its right hand, or … whatever.  Why did he say it is pitch black?  I can see e-ve-ry-thing!  It all so well-illuminated!  Massive modern chandeliers hanging godlily at a length of five meters below the humongous height of this Hall! 

End of Part One

About ‘Throwing Dice On A Chessboard’ by Christos Tsiailis-fReado

April 30, 2010

About ‘Throwing Dice On A Chessboard’ by Christos Tsiailis-fReado.

tsiailis world

April 16, 2010

tsiailis world.

http://www.bringthemback.org/Default.aspx

April 16, 2010

http://www.bringthemback.org/Default.aspx.

Tools ‹ Throwing Dice on a Chessboard's Blog — WordPress

March 31, 2010

Tools ‹ Throwing Dice on a Chessboard’s Blog — WordPress.

some more preview – visit www.jigsawfiction.com for the book

March 7, 2010

Not many people knew each other that night at the beach. It
was a rave party, the ones that get you high with music, then higher
with little expensive secrets, and then you lose yourself on vodka,
tequila, and little deaths in extremely small glasses. They call them
shots, as if the barman holds a gun to your face, always with a big,
astonishing, white-toothed smile.
She was shot two or three times that night. Once with a B52, a
weird shot made of Kahlua and Baileys. Then she had tequila, after
licking her salted palm and chewing on a slice of lemon. She really
felt her knees bend on that one. Last came a sweet red shot, a really
tasty one. Karpouzaki is what they call it on the island of Cyprus, and
the barman explained to her right away, without her asking, that the
name meant ‘small watermelon.’ It was a good choice of a name.

Look at prices of the same book in different sites!

February 25, 2010

Compare at how different my book prices are on the internet!!!
My book on Amazon
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My book on Jabberwocky Bookshop
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My book on indie – Water Street Bookstore
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My book on Powell’s Books
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My book on Abe books
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My book on Αlibris
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My book on Barnes & Noble
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February 23, 2010

I have been asked about the name I am using between my first name and my last name.

I WAS TOLD THAT IT SOUNDS HILARIOUS. Like a man-woman name. Well, it is not. I do not claim the name Christos Rodoulla. Yes, that would be really funny. My name is Christos.

To support me view and defend myself, since I found my self among gunshots, I state:

First, linguistically, two names in a row with a space between them can easily be seperated and distinguished as being a first and a middle name. Come on guys, names in Spain are wagons of long trains. Picasso’s name for example includes (in a row of at least twenty names) all names of his family, mother’s, father’s, aunts’, grandmothers’, uncles’, grandfathers’. And it is not funny at all. I call it “respect”.

Well. Rodoulla is my mother’s name and I am all fire in doing this. I don’t mind becoming the first Cypriot who suffers contempt for using his mother’s middle name. But I shall not be a martyr. I want more people to support me. By Doing the same.  To me it is an act of protest against the ever so stone-hard patriarchic attitude of using only our Father-Descended Family Name. And in doing that we of course totally ignore our mother as an individual. We ignore her by leaving her name out of our own nominal name and by inexcusably establishing her inequality to and suppression by the dominant male figure – the husband.

Though I sound more like a feminist than a man with full pants, I can assure you that my jewels are shiny and ready to go, thanks to my creator, my mother. And I intend to honour her with my name on my book. I am ready to tolerate any attack of phallocrats against my action and at the same time I invite all of you who are in favour of Cyprus or other world citizens to be officially allowed and socially accepted to use their mother’s name as their middle name!

I invite you to cast a vote in my group called “Mother’s Middle Name”   http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/profile.php?v=feed&story_fbid=333988259160&id=100000838412216

If we respect out fathers only, we burry half our identity. Do we want that, indeed, after all?