Happy face

Happy face


I have not written a word lately, – you would think I have nothing to say. Well, – I was very intensively out of my mind. While all Christmas-New Year and the rest of happy-family events were rather quite, – I stayed indoors. But happy 2015 started for me très violent. 

About my adventures in January I will tell another time. Now it is about today.

My day started very Friday 13th. On the way to the bus station it was, – did I locked the door, did I not? I said to myself, – let it grow. While waiting a bus I understood I forgot my cell home, – well “HOME”, I am homeless, penniless, jobless, hopeless and the rest of “less”. I had to run back “home” that is 7 min. of fast very walk. The door was LOCKED and I was LOCKED OUT. Luckily the back was open, certainly I am out of my mind and very absent-minded. Then I was waiting for a bus 30 min. when usually it is max 15.

Very now I am at Acropolis museum thinking, – “what next”. But everything looks peace and quite. And I am calm.

Perhaps it is the vitamins I am in-taking.

Furthermore while I was surfing in Acropolis museum “reading room” I had an argument with an young student. Alright, she asked me for a pencil, I told that I have only in colors. She was “OK” with that. Then she asked for WiFi password, I told that it is “open”. My little student was very neat, dressed “whatever” but certainly a very-very good student. Later on came a senior English couple sat down scrolled through a book and had a discussion in a hushed voices. Everybody speaks in hushed voices in museum. My little student asked to speak softly, that sounded like, – shut up, I am studying here. I told her that it is not exactly “a reading hall”(αναγνωστήριο in Greek, γνώση – knowledge) in a sense of the university or a library. And that she should go to the  another space to read. We spoke Greek and the Brits looked feeling uneasy. They left. Silence felt upon us. But my lil student made me a surprise. She came up with a lil text about the use of a reading room. That people of the museum can make use of the reading room. I have corrected her, – not people of the museum but visitors of the museum that come from all around the World. I was sitting there for 3 hours and in these 3 hours passed by plenty of people (it is Friday, babe!). Most of them were hissing and whispering and bragging in hushed voices. If one starts to make remarks to all of them you, – you are doomed. Plenty of tourists on Friday and they all drop by and stay for 5-10 min.

I left museum and was deep into thoughts about how idealistic and inexperienced the young woman was. She was very polite and well spoken (law school), protected life from books. Museum inspires her, – she told me. To see Caryatides make her wet, – I read her my way. Because she also a dancer and a choreographer, – what kind?!, – what kind of dances. She was so dry and SO way too careful. Like a dancer that is afraid of pain! Imagine that. A dancer that is afraid to fall. That was my lil student. These kind of thoughts were flowing through my sick mind. And the rights of the visitors in the reading room of the museum that is in my opinion differ from any academic reading hall. It is commercial. There are only twenty sits, only eight have a table. It is actually a passage from one side to another of the second floor.

Thinking of all that I took a wrong turn in Plaka and I met a friend. We were not in contact for 3-4 years. I was so pleased to see her! It had a very positive impact on my well-being. I was upgraded to PREMIUM. Because my friend is in the same field – cinema. Das lovely.

And I have bought a wallet after 3 years!

In any case my conclusion of the Friday 13, – even if take a wrong turn it might lead to the right thing!

Toxicana Cyber



The errors of a man are what make him really lovable.


Lately I could not write a word, nor type it. After the most crazy summer vacations with stupid stories I got so exhausted and indifferent for anything that I could not describe it in words how I felt (and that is after the vacations!). Was it a writer’s block or was it a general crisis of approaching a round date of my forties. While I thought it is just a depression because I had a serial row of unfortunate events. But my own unwillingness of at least solving one problem became so obvious that the awful truth was beginning to dawn at me. Now I know, – this is it! The crisis N40.

A revaluation of my life up to now and in the way not flattering me. The fact that I see my life only in negative hues, only the “dont’s” not the “do’s” meant depression. I think of my life just through the what I have not done in my life and not what I have achieved, – the very sign that this is it, – the Crisis. If I compare my life in conventional way, – as the Dutch say “boompje, bootje, kindje”. Little tree, little boat, a child, – for me as a woman on the threshold of 40 is the worst way to analyze my life. Woman suppose to feel more intense the running out of time. The time bomb. Even the fact that my family stopped asking me of having a baby is a sign that I am out of a breeding league. And it is rather difficult to do it differently because most of the friends having the families, it is like a constant reminder of what I have missed. The same with a carrier. If I was a carrier woman, it would soothing to sip a (health) cocktail ( hey, you are almost 40, you should take a better care of yourself) while being deeply satisfied with the life. This is all about, – the satisfaction. Are you satisfied with your life you living (viva Bob!), yourself, your surroundings, your job, your achievements etc.? Not? Then you are lost. At 40, the proof that you are doing well should be there, as your children are growing, your carrier is growing, your spiritual life is growing, as you are growing, older. If you are accomplished, 40s could be your best time. Children are enough grown up, your carrier is steady, your point of view of the world is more or less settled down. I was focusing lately on the absence of those many things that are pushed on us by the society. And I couldn’t be of cause satisfied by the absence, who could to be satisfied by what you have not, by the vacuum. The thing is about that vacuum that it is neatly created by myself. Nobody is accusing me of not having this or that, people are busy with their own lives. So, I am sitting here and torturing myself by examining my life in a wrong way. To examine my life is certainly useful (dear Socrates) in order to know, oh, surprise!, that it is still worth living. My life is not just “minus”, there are “plus, zero, division, multiplication”.  And here you go, you get a degree that forty is just a zenith of my life! I am middle-aged, sound and proud. Proud of my mistakes too although they are not unique and I better have listened to the older more experienced people. If  I have listened to the others my life would be rather less bumpier but now my life is fully mine. And stop seeing your life with the other people’s eyes that leads to depression.

I got stuck in self-indulgence, self mockery, self diminution and that blocked me for some months, luckily not forever. In this shape I saw my writing as useless, in the hyper-flow of other people writing. I considered keeping up my blog as useless (to the others). There is Ecumene of a written word, so what?! I think there is a room for anybody.

As dear Marley sang:

Are you satisfied (with the life you’re living)? I am.

Exodus.  Down with the Crisis!

Move! Move! Move! Move! Move! Move!

p.s. As very nice Canadian lady in Stulpa/Greece told us, – oh, do you have 30s crisis? Don’t you worry, you are going to have 40s crisis, 50s crisis etc. She believes in education and not punishment. So, I educated myself on the subject of my life and if I am a good student, – my old mistakes not to be repeated. Certainly there will be new mistakes. The more errors the more experience.






That comes to my my, oh, my? mind. Seeing some peole really nothing to loose. Sleeping on the benches and under the trees. Believe it is hard to sleep on the ground, on a marble or stone bench. My gentle limbs seem to be not constructed for that use. And cold, and uncomfortoble. And when you have nothing absolutly. So desperate. “Strange” people leading this kind of life are the most happy ones.

The question is why the fuck my ex-boyfriend threw me out? Escaping to his papa and his mama telling me “NOT DISTURB THIS WONDERFUL FAMILY?” While he wasbegging me for three months through bloody skype to come to Greece. I stopped the whole traffic of my life to come here. And who do I get? A deppressed spoiled bitch. When no he was loaded with money no depression and no mama on horizont. Viva Greek MAMAS!

Is it not bitches brew?

Frustrated, lonely little planet made out of strange brew.





It is not appropriate to swear for a woman, – they say. I question for years myself and the others, -why? Yes, explain me why should I stop use all that cheesy slang, curse and swear. In Russian one can fully express their thoughts in full sentences only constructed from Gros Mots (swear), as they say it in French. Friend of mine composed a 12 volumes (!!!) dictionary on Russian “Mat” (A. Plucer-Sarno, Russki Mat). It is amazing, how codified becomes language due jargon, ’cause people start to talk omitting some words or changing them close by the sound or meaning. Like proper ladies say “shoot” instead of “shit”. So, to be economical on the subject I am smearing here, tell me how do I write a short scene that came to my mind now without swearing?

Noon, frenetic sun frantically scorches. A couple in their 30s, sitting in an antic VW car argues. WOMAN screams and yells at a MAN that is behind the wheel. She slaps him and spits on him, gets out of the car, slams the door, bends to the open window. Woman’s face is pink from all the effort she makes while screaming. She screams out into the face of a man, – FUCK YOU! Man looks in front of him the horizon, turns to her, smiles mildly and answers, – I love you too, babe!

How do I write it better without “Fuck you!”? You tell me, ’cause I do not know. Better could be only, – I love you too, bitch!

My endless struggle with the rules, to accept a lot of stuff “just as it is”. I was told as a little girl, as a teenager, as a young woman not to swear, – it is just not allowed for a female, or it creates a negative image for a lady belonging to a middle class (let it grow, or worst case scenario, – she belongs to the upper class or, oh mein Gott, to the aristocracy). Profanity is a sin according to the Bible, with an explanation this time, – I love church, they explain everything. Jesus specifically taught that what comes out of a man’s mouth is evidence of what is in his heart. Luke 6:45 says, “ The good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth what is good; and the evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth what is evil; for his mouth speaks from that which fills his heart.” We pray and curse with the same mouth and we can’t do it, ’cause with the same mouth we say Jesus name. Especially, when it boils in one pot gods, devils, dirt and saints. But these are just words, aren’t they? Why a word strikes so much harder than a fist? Because first was a Word? The more I think now the less I want to swear, probably to many words I have written. But all those words sometime ago were just regular words, bitch – a female dog now it is a a pejorative term, fuck – complicated etymology, a lot of meanings, fagot – a bundle of twigs. How did it became all wrong? Gay is just happy. I know a woman with a name Gay, she is of a Greek origin and around 50 years old. I think her parents were hippies.
Well, I keep my speech profane-free when there around gentle and degradable brains of the children. More or less I try to keep it quite, ’cause foul mouth is a habit and to get rid of that is more difficult than to quit smoking. Smoking is a concrete action and then you have that foul, – or taste of freedom matter how you conceive it, – smoke in your mouth. With words… they are like birds, ones freed try to catch them. Always to late. I was given a lot of remarks on my misbehavior back in my supersonic youth’s years. Sometimes in so-called-proper company, snobs, parents of little children. Still I don’t manage to say “shoot” instead of “shit”. I always then imagine myself as an lady in pink bad taste dress but very expensive a-la Paris Hilton, after her “porn”-tape is out, with little girl’s thin voice “Is it bad, I like sex, so I’ve made litl-bit-o-porn”? That was me, with my thin voice, – Is it bad to swear?

My opinion: it is cheaper to swear loud and let it all out loud than to go to a shrink, – 200 euro cheaper per month, believe me. Of cause it does damage your image in the hui society. It is a lower stage of human being but it is sometimes so to the point. Just I would tell that there some rules about that, be general, swear at the aliens, at some forces you don’t. Don’t be personal, racist. If say a fag to a person that is homosexual, – it is offensive, if to straight guy, well, you might have some broken cheekbones. Oh, and I love my cheekbones, – they like prosthetic ones of a Hollywood star, would be pity to have them broken.
Ay, I preach again. Do whatever you want. LET YOUR HEART BEAT FREELY!  There are no rules on swearing or not swearing. But believe to swear rightly and funny and inspired, – is an art form. Some great poets wrote poems full of profanity. I know for sure Kharms, Pushkin, Esenin, Bukowski, Mayakovsky. Me.

I am profane. I am doomed. What the fag? For I can read a book with a title “Philosophy of a Cunt” and discuss it.







Dansu dansu dansu. 2014



Well, I have stolen the title from Haruki Murakami’s sixth novel. Lovely book it suits me to use its title since it is a lot on loss and abandonment, Murakami is like that.

I am burning to write about dancing and love of dancing. Yes, it is an International Day of Dance, and yes I did not manage to get to some seminars/ballet/show. The cause of me not attending all that was trivial, I did not have a bicycle and I am broke. It was rather disappointing but I hope to catch up with the seminar on Friday (I guess). In any case I have suppressed my love to this form of art for many years and suddenly all came up couple of days ago when I took absent-mindlessly a flyer somewhere in stupid shopping center. It was about Dance Limerick events and there was it, -the date of 29 April, Dancing Day. And all of a sudden I got so excited , I have realized that just by watching I can also enjoy art. I am kinda more of a doer. I like to watch and then to do it myself, whatever art it is. Poor me.

And now I have a flash back and I remember me being a little tiny ballerina and how I had  my first show. I was very disappointed due to Soviet kind of fest we had to wear brown uniforms with white aprons, so frustrating. We wanted to wear those pretty little pink voile ballerinas tutu. It was very important to wear it. It was more important than the choreography and how we executing the dance. We were a bunch of little furious dancers. That I remember well, the dance was a disaster. Through years I have learned that a dancer makes the shoes and not shoes make a dancer. And only in fairy tales the Red shoes make you dance. It is hard-hard work. First comes the sweat and then the beauty (Balanchine).  You become a tough girl, it needs a lot of ego swallowing, ’cause you find out slowly that prima ballerina could be just one, and sometimes it is not necessary best one. Or it is not going to be you! Just she was in the right time at the right place and got the part. A lot of factors. You learn not to give up and just continue to love your art. And to know how to dance is always cool! Dance makes music visible, – so true! Sorry for quoting Balanchine just agree 100 % with the guy. And he knew some things.

Here I am having a celebration on my own. Still I am glad that my warm feelings for dancing came upon me. I’ll go to salsa festival next week! Another 5 min of Dansu Day. Love you all crazy dancers. Make dance not war!



Pourquoi ou combien?




Lorsque vous êtes un enfant qu’il ya beaucoup de questions que vous posent au “les grandes”. Juste les enfants posent une question plus que l’autre question, tu sais cet question – c’est pourquoi? Une question de philosophie et de physics. Ci les anciens grecs jamais ne posent pas cet peut être le monde aurait été different.
Mais quand nous grandissons cette question est changée avec, “combine”. Nous nous demandons plus souvent,- combien c’est ecoute? Combien kilometres jusque la bas? Combien d’enfants aurais-je? Combien de temps avons-nous? Combien d’années ai-je jusqu’à ce que je mourrai? Combien combien combien.
Vous ne l’obtenez pas, le moment où le “pourquoi?” est changé par «combien?». La ligne entre les deux est floue. Comme la ligne entre l’enfance et l’age adulte. Vous vivez dans ce flou qui a appelé la jeunesse depuis quelques années sans en être conscients et tout d’un coup vous êtes tous impliqués dans le monde gouverné par le FMI.
C’est le moment précis où vous arrêtez de rêver et que signifie une chose – vous êtes vieux! Oh, mes excuses, je devrais être politiquement correcte, – vous avez arrivé à maturité! Lorsque nous nous arrêtons de rêver que nous vieillissons.
Ne vous laissez pas à tache floue! Non pour les lignes floues de la Zone Crépusculaire!


faites ce que vous pensez BON pour vous.

En tout cas, certaines personnes ont très courte période de «pourquoi». Ils ont sauté par-dessus “pourquoi le “pourquoi” période et ils frappent trop vite et trop tôt dans le “comment?” . Vous avez rencontré certains d’entre eux, ils sont assez effrayant surnaturellement au moins pour moi.


Cordialement vôtre,


Toxicana Cyber



write waste write

The worst happened, – I have lost my text. Now I have to re-write it that is awful and I have no choice. Sure nobody will be hurt if I do not rewrite, no hard feelings towards me neither. Just it is so unfinished. I am not done with you!

I write as I think and I think as write. Usually the best free style writing happens at night, when I am in bed and full of hopes to fall asleep immediatly. Ha! It is almost never happens. I can be dead from tiredness nevertheless I will wide awake wishing to die. I have made some experiences of not writing, – it does not work, I would stay until 10 AM in bed with no sleep. So, I stop forcing myself and I just scribble down all my great ideas and then come back to bed. Strangely enough all my great refreshingly new ideas become old and outdated in the sun rays next morning. My “news” ain’t “news” anymore like in fashion business, – tomorrow is today. It might be everything in life better to do something today you thought to do tomorrow. Procrastination rules the worlds. Lazy me thinks too this way, – why to do something today if I can do it tomorrow?!

And I write, and I write and I waste my precious time you say better I earn more money or spend more time with ma famiglia or whatever more. The thing is that I do not feel well if I do not. It is very important to write for me for my precious mental health. I better be a graphomaniac than any other with ending “maniac”. It is the way of debugging meself or kinda of antivirus program. And luckily it works!

and a flag into my hands, a train towards me, and an acidic sky overhead and a hell a lot of inspiration and workaholism. So I sit and write, write, write, like that bipolar schizoid artist Adolf Adolf Wölfli sentenced for a rape of three girls that wrote autobiographical book of 45 volumes, 25 000 pp. Good for him, – too bad for the little girls.

Мозги и глаза у баб.

Однажды в стране не очень отдалённой… Тут я плюнула на всё и опять начала писать про свои пережевания. Пережёванные и разжёванные. Больнючие и не очень. Вот, например про недавнюю сердечную болячку, очень интересной, мне одной. Так я мучилась всё лето до самого ноября, а теперь оглянувшись назад, и не понять, почему весь август не ела и лежала в на диване, смотрела в потолок. И не спалось и не елось, и слёзы наворачивались. А было из-за кого?! Просто смех разбирает, такой Ванька без оринтации. Слово не вытащишь, ни о чём понятия никакого. Мозги и глаза у баб не там растут, они растут между ног, не всегда, но иногда, – это точно!