the last stand

Of late I have re-newed my devotion to Thanassis Papakonstantinoy mostly due to the interest epxressed by my good friend J. upon listening to a track of Thanassis, which I had casually posted on my facebook page. After giving J. a brief introduction and urging him to listen to "Vrahnos Profitis" (one of my most favourite Greek albums ever) I also found myself unconsciously pressing "repeat" over some of the tracks of the album.

This is how I got to remember "A. Manthos" (the album's fourth track and one with very particular lyrics) and how I came up with the story behind it. The song's lyrics have been adopted from a poem by Christos Bravos, referring to a real incident between Athanasios Manthos, a photographer of the town of Trikala and Thomas Gandaras, an infamous bandit of the region of Thessaly which took place in the 1920s. Gandaras had an extremely bad reputation among the great land-owners of the region for having an extensive record of kidnappings and killings, but as these were limited against the rich and the powerfull, the poor people were largely sympathizing with him. The legend had it that Gandaras became an outlaw in order to avenge the rape of his wife by a squire, thus he and his gang were more often thought of as "Robin-Hood"-like bandits instead of as fierce killers.

But authorities thought (as usually) otherwise and soon the head of Gandaras was put a price on. As the manhunt was closing down on him and his men, he realized that it was not meant for him to last long. Before his last stand, he wanted to strike a last pose. He decided to have his photo taken. One night, he
forgot all precautions and sneaked into the house of Manthos, by then a well-known photographer in the town of Trikala and the nearby villages. Manthos woke up in awe as the ruthless bandit stood before him but was relieved to find out that all the the outlaw wanted was his portraid done. Thus in the middle of the night, Manthos, who was used to photograph weddings and funerals, took a photo of the famous Thomas Gandaras in the living room of his house and in outmost secrecy. The story of this secret meeting is told in the aforementioned poem "A. Manthos" by Christos Bravos, has been made a song by Thanassis Papakonstantinoy and was recently the subject of a beautiful short film by Vassilis Kosmopoulos entitled "The Trikala photographer".

In the days that followed, Manthos met Gandaras in his secret hide-out where he took one more portrait of his (the one you may see here, taken from the blog of Konstantinos Davanelos) as well as a photo of the entire gang. Gandaras finally met his destiny as he was hunted down and killed by militia-men close to Deskati, Grevena on August 5th, 1923. He was decapitated and his head was exposed in the main square of Kalambaka the following day.

Wish you were here (E.T.)

That I am a devoted fan of Pink Floyd is no mystery to the readership of this blog (all three of you). I have repeatedly mentioned names and places related to the greatest band of them all in various past posts, including a (personal) obituary for the late Rick Wright. Having a particular strange tendency for both visual and audial connections it was then very easy for me to spot the missing link behind NASA's Astrobiology lab latest discovery.

According to this, the first living organism to be able to incorporate arsenic instead of phosphorus in its genetic material, was recently isolated in lake Mono in Southern California. The bacterion, whose name (GFAJ-1) comes as yet another proof that people in NASA may provide a whole new level to the definition of dullness, was the object of a greatly anticipated press conference which circulated media feeds and e-mail boxes all over the globe yesterday. People who were let down by the fact that the press release (initially making explicite mention to "the search for evidence of extraterrestrial life") turned out to be about an insignificant bug with an utterly boring name should think twice.

A long time before NASA turned to Lake Mono in desperate search for extra-terrestrial life, Pink Floyd had used its surroundings in a famous photo by Storm Thorgerson which appeared at the back cover of their "Wish you were here" album. This is the snapshot of a diver immersing in the alkaline, toxic but calm and ripless waters of Lake Mono. (And judging from the concentration of arsenic in these waters, I can only hope that the photo is the outcome of some artistic superposition of images.)

Whether the existence of extra terrestrial life was something that concerned Pink Floyd at the time, or whether it was the unwordly atmosphere of the environment that matched their nostalgic title of the album, I dare not speculate. However, the inconcistency with which the scientists announce a talk about alien life only to provide us with an example of what can only be terrestrial (even though underwater) can only make me think that in their quest for E.T, the guys in NASA maybe constantly thinking how they "wish he was here".

the end (is the beginning...)

There are a number of reasons for why "Abbey Road" is the cover of this post, the first of this new year. For one thing, I have come to think of it as my favourite Beatles album. Apart from the myths and legends connected to Rock's most famous album cover, it contains some of my favourite songs plus the coolest medley of short melodic poems ever written (all the tracks from the "Sun King" to the end of the album are a continuous piece of McCartney's genius). For another thing, I recently read that "Abbey Road", although released prior to "Let it be", was actually recorded after it, thus it constitutes the last Beatles album. It moreover finishes off with a glorious "The End"*, a sort of coda of less than two and a half minutes, which at the same time conveys the message of closure and bids farewell.

Such an end of ends, the last track of the last album cannot but remind me the last week of the last of the weights I had to carry (and "Carry that Weight" is not curiously Abbey Road's next to last track) over the past year. My military service will soon be over and I cannot but look back at these last nine months without a sigh of relief. 2009 was the year of great changes, sudden adaptations and an irreplaceable loss. In all I am glad it's over. In some very different way, so must have been the Beatles about Abbey Road.

Still, all the changes that the last year brought about, the closure in many aspects of my life and completing the one last thing that I really HAD to do, somehow mark more of a beginning than an end. I am soon to be starting a new life, something I am trying for the first time, something for which I have been waiting for too long, something that is probably the reason behind all these changes.
I am starting a common life with someone so special, for whom I can only think of the last, the ultimate line of the Beatles' lyrics.

"...And in the end, the love we take, is equal to the love we make."

See that there is a full stop, right there.

---

*the album's last track, "Her Majesty's" is a mere joke and should not count

things to appreciate while in the army - Time...

It's 8 pm on a Friday evening. Having just finished my afternoon shift I am wandering around a deserted basketball court surrounded by parked cars. On one side the windows of the dorms where I am to spend half of the night (until my early morning shift starts at 3.30 am). Right opposite, a three-meter wall that separates ours (the General Military Hospital) from the one of the National Air Force. Facing westwards I can make out the sound of cars in the not so distant avenue and the fading lights of a city that is about to start the weekend. Then I turn and look towards the east. Just a few meters outside the wall, there lies the Institute of Biomedical Research of the Academy of Athens. A brand new building made out of a mix of robust yellowish bricks and grey double windows, a proud specimen of that arrogant architecture, reserved for newly-founded research institutes and post-modern bank mansions. Down here I am left with my solitary walk, trying to stretch a bit before my early night sleep, bound to be interrupted at 3 am. Up there, young (and perhaps some not so young) scientists are probably adding the final (and for some not so final) touches to today's experiments. And the fact that their lights are all lit at this time of day doesn't surprise me at all.

Less than a year ago, I was one of them, spending Friday evenings in the cosiness of my milky-lit office, trying to put stuff in order so as for my week not to appear completely lost. Less than a year ago, it looked like there was never enough time. Time for working things out, time for getting the calculations right, time for having a new brilliant idea that would change the course of a stagnating project, sometimes not even time for having a drink before going to bed. Less than a year ago, I hated my job (and I have some really angry posts dated from back then to prove it). Less than a year ago I was thinking of my military service as a way out from a way of life I thought I was fed up with.

But last night, while walking up and down that empty basketball court, listening to Explosions in the Sky's powerful medleys of appeasing and awe-inspiring melodies, the unthinkable happened. Suddenly, I wanted my old life back. Despite all the burdens of it, despite all the load that made me hate my job back then. Last night, I would gladly take off my uniform and join the people on the other side of the wall, take up their problems, read the papers they would hand me, allow their problems to bother my little mind. Despite of all the time they would be lacking, the stress and anxiety of getting things done before Monday's group meeting, I would gladly offer to take their place. I realized that all the things that seemed meaningless and boring, less than a year ago, had regained their old electric-like aura.

And I knew that because there, in the middle of that stupid basketball court, in that incredibly uncomfortable uniform, with "Explosions in the Sky" on my headphones and all that time on my hands, all I could think of doing, all I could do, was to take out my small pocket notepad and write down, single-handedly what appeared to be my next "brilliant" idea.

ChiosBios #3. Life after rain...

So it is official. I am not gonna get my first permit from my island prison before mid October. We still have one more full month to go, which means I want see friends and family until after I 've spent two and a half months in Chios. Since I was advised to keep a positive attitude I can only say it could be worse. Worse being having broken my foot while patroling the barracks at 3.00 am and while it is raining cats and dogs (which almost happened last Friday). Or worse being having no governement after the coming election, which will mean our permits will be once more postponed until Allah knows when...

So, we are crossing fingers...

Autumn seems to be here for good. Having spent the three last Autumns in Barcelona, where September mostly means rain, I was kind of expecting that. It is hard though to be on a Greek island and face the cloudy skies so early in Autumn. It gets harder when you get to have half of your clothes wet, (because the Sergeant does not allow clothes hanging on the string during the day, as if they were going to dry overnight) and half of them being lost at the drycleaner's (good news, I located them this morning!). Under such conditions, the aforementioned positive attitude becomes a hard to bear task.

But it has happened before and it is bound to happen again. The rain will eventually stop, the sun will rise above the island (third sunniest place in Greece if what the locals say it true), the clothes will finally dry and then mid October will be here and I will be boarding a boat back to Athens, to meet beloved people, catch up with friends and my mom's adorable craziness, see Branford Marsalis live and forget about the army for a couple of weeks.

Come to think of it, it will be hard to come back here in November and it will be probably raining, but then again, this is not positive thinking at all...

The Kingdom of Rust

Speaking of the army. Again.
The councel I got from all those who have gone through it already is unanimous. Getting through the military service is like going through war. One has to try to suffer minimal casualties. And in the context of a propagation of a series of daily, pointless activities, not suffering casualties simply translates into trying not to be bored to death.
Trying to follow this (easy to say, hard to go by) advice, I am taking some small but important steps.

One is, I am reading as much as I can. And this means a lot. I have always been saving books for my retirement. Tough, thick (and very likely to be boring) books. Books of the kind that everybody talks about but noone has ever read. I am now through with Mann's "Magic Mountain" which had moments of greatness but could have been much, much shorter (except if it is meant to be read during one's military service). I have some good candidates lined up for next. I am talking about "big fish" and not the normal novels. Of those I read one every two days. Regardless of the boredom, this is something I really appreciate about army life.

Second step, I am trying to work a bit.
Scary.
That's why I am doing it in a slow and steady way. A little bit of reading, some thinking, a few notes on the margin of my small notebook, (already filled with stupid army info). It is still kinda fun and lets me think I am still into it. Perhaps it becomes productive in the future. Only time will tell.

Step three. The crucial one.
I need to change mode to be able to do all this. I look back at previous posts and recognize the source of painful nostalgia in the sound of music. Music that accompanied moments of joy, but moments that hold me back.
Punchline: I need a new soundtrack. New melodies to invest everyday life in this newly discovered Kingdom. This Kingdom of Rust.

The Doves sing about exactly one such "kingdom" in their latest album and Patrick Watson talks about a "big bird in a small cage". My case exactly.
So here I am, I take my books, my notes and my new albums by the Doves, Patrick Watson and Sonic Youth and set out to become the King in this new Kingdom. First I have to spend the next two days on guard for four hours every night.

But then again, as a great poet has already said:
Rust never sleeps.

the works and the days

The "Works and the Days" is one of the oldest poems ever written. Its chapters contain a large number of the most popular myths of Greek Mythology. In contrast to his other great work "Theogony", Hesiod chooses the "Works and the Days" to talk about the five ages of men. Therefore the "Works and the Days" deals with the "works" and the "days" of humans, not Gods. It thus states what might now sound perfectly obvious, which is that only humans may undertake "works" and that "days" have meaning only for them, contrary to the eternal Gods who neither have a sense of the passing time and whose existence is self-contained -even if the Greek ones always had a certain tendency for "acts" ( and often rather dubious ones). In this sense, people throughout history have always been meaning to pass their "days" in strong connection with some kind of "work" to leave behind.

In my -humble- case (as this STILL remains a personal blog) my "works" and "days" have been quite disconnected lately. Being in the army is the closest I can think of to being imprisoned, not just because of the obligatory confinement but mostly because of the utter boredom that the repetition of a useless life cycle brings about. In this way one has to face a paradox where on one hand the passing of time is what mostly matters while, on the other hand, the days pass with almost zero production of "work". One has to admit that there is an inherent impossibility for the conduction of any productive, constructive or by any chance meaningful task in the military environment but this only makes the frustration bigger. And which may become even bigger when it is combined with a relative necessity for work, work that cannot be carried out merely because the circumstances do not permit it.

Such were my thoughts last week when I found myself riding the bus back to Arta after a short weekend leave. In front of me lied a bunch of papers containing the comments on one of the papers I had finally managed to submit right before joining the army. And there I was, keeping notes on the margins, replying to some -often suspiciously- mean remarks, thinking over some parts of my work that could be considerably improved, accepting in the end that most of all this was quite useless. I was going back to a place where nothing of what I was thinking could be done, as there are no computers in the army (for the recruits), nor internet access (for the soldiers), or a way to download scientific papers from the web.

In the end I was simply trying to convince myself that my "works" over the last years were important enough to need some more time.
In the end I was deceiving myself with the thought that some "work" of that kind could still be done while in the army.

As I went on turning the pages, listening to Coldplay, I remembered the last time I rode a bus listening to the same album. Some one year ago on the way from Seville to Cadiz, (instead of Athens to Arta), while on holiday (instead of the army), in the company of good friends (instead of on my own), reading a nice book (instead of a paper review). I remembered that back then it seemed that all the "work" could be done in the next few "days", while now it looked like all the "days" I have are not enough, not even for a paper revision.

Most of all, it seemed like the time of the innocence had irrevocably passed by.

Depress Mode

Quite sometime ago, while I was still in Barcelona preparing my to-do-before-I-go list (following the wise advise of my friend Sy.) I remember having left one thing out. One thing I had really missed and would have liked to do, if not before leaving Barcelona, at least before joining the Greek Army. That was to go to a big concert, get lost in the anonymous crowd, smell the collective sweat of thousands of people, and enjoy music in a way that would remind me that deep inside we can still be kids every now and then.

Then I left Barcelona and I came back to Greece and a number of sad events reminded me that instead of being a kid I am painfully growing older. And then I was summoned to the Army where I have to present myself next Monday and the clock started ticking again, counting down to yet another series of goodbyes. Suddenly, last Saturday, my sister came to me holding a ticket for a Depeche Mode concert and it looked like the chance had appeared and that I would finally be able to check my to-do list thingy of going to a big concert. They are not so good right now and their last three albums are rather bad but they have once been one of my favourite bands, I saw them once some eight years ago and I remembered having had great fun back then. Plus I was going with my little sister with whom we have been getting closer and closer lately (having gone through some rough times together) and her friends are really funny and the weather was perfect so everything looked like it was going to be great fun.

Before we knew, it was Tuesday night and we were some thirty kilometers away from Athens, in the middle of a nowhere-to-be-found park, us and twenty five thousand more people and I was buying everybody beer, so happy that I was there and having almost forgotten that I am growing old, almost ready to be a kid again and start jumping all around. And then a blond lady came on the stage and a guy with a strong Essex-accent let us know the gig was being cancelled due to “a sudden illness of Dave” (DM’s singer and notorious ex drug addict). And whatever it was, I think I didn’t really care, I was just so let down, that our “mode” had gone from “Depeche” to “Depress”, I was so sad that my little sister was sad and I was so depressed to realize I was suddenly growing old again.

Then we took the long walk towards the car and to the one-hour drive back home, cursing our bad luck. At some point of the way I took a brief moment and tried to enjoy the silence. It sucked.

today

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain

that could hold you dear lady from going insane

that could ease and cool you and ease the pain

of your useless and pointless knowledge

Bob Dylan

Tombstone blues

Have a nice (Lady) Day

I must be (in)famous for my difficulty to wake up in the morning. That is a lie. Or at least only a half one. Alike Marilyn Monroe (or was it some other star?), who once said that she wouldn't get out of bed for less than a thousand dollars (or was it more), I find it very difficult to get out of mine when I know that it is a thousand DNA sequences that await for me. On the other hand, I have never had trouble waking up to catch a boat to the islands, a bus that will take me to some nice place up on the Pyrenees or in general to any sort of activity that a normal person cannot but anticipate.

Today being a Thursday, like many others and many more to come, I found it a bit hard to force my body out from beneath the sheets. And as I found myself strolling down Carrer de la Merce on the way to the lab, I sensed I needed the sort of soothing music that would bring my mind in a tranquil and at the same time functional status. I chose Billie Holiday.

As the first notes of "In my solitude" started streaming through my headphones and my mood was slowly going back from frustrated to normal, I realized that I was passing by a number of bars that I have only seen full during the evening. Still, it was 9.30 and most of them had at least a couple of groups of customers who chatted while having their morning coffee, or having a light breakfast while reading the morning paper. I felt an indescribable envy. Right there and then I had just realized what would get me out of bed almost every morning and that was the promise that I could have the chance of starting my day, every day, in such a relaxing way. Walking in a bar, ask for a cup of coffee, a tostada or a scone, sit at a quiet table at the back and unfold my newspaper, or my book, or whatever it were that I might be reading. Now lets imagine that at the back of this coffee-shop there is a wide window facing the beach of Barceloneta, the sun is only starting to shine and Billie Holiday is discretely singing through the bar's speakers "God bless the child".

I could not help of thinking about other places and other times, where other people -more inspired than I am- were lucky enough to consider this dream of mine their daily routine. I thought about Joyce strolling down the south bank of the Seine, Freud walking into some Viennese cafe asking for a fresh croissant, Pessoa meeting with his friends in "A brasileira". And then I went on my walk to the lab, with the useless consolation thought that probably none of them was so happy about their mornings.

And that they all lived before having the chance to listen to Lady Day comforting them in the playful way she was doing it for me.

"Good morning heartache"...

and then there were three

There are a number of ways for one to realize he is getting old. The most painful being without doubt, loss. By the time "The dark side of the moon" came out, I was not even but a distant intention in my parents minds, I wasn't even speaking during the "Wall" tour and I did not listen to Pink Floyd until long after they had split. Somehow though, I not only felt that they "belonged" to me, but also that -in a strange, metaphysical manner- I have always been a post-modern witness of their glorious past. It was probably due to the lack of good music after the legendary 60s and 70s and their unquestionable genious, that I felt that more than re-discovering them, I somehow "deserved" them.

The only time they played a gig in a place close to me, on May 31st, 1989, I was probably celebrating my little sister's 10th birthday in our small flat in Athens, most likely completely unaware of such an event even taking place. This meant I never had the chance to see them live and given that a prohibitive number of years had passed since the days of "Wish you were here" and "Animals", I was not expecting to ever have the privilege to do so. Last Tuesday, when Rick Wright left for his own last gig in the sky, he took a lot of things with him. Among those I was not so much saddened with the irrevocable vanishing of hope for a reunion, as with the feeling that actors -no matter how insignificant- of my life's play are passing behind the curtain.

It came to me then that you may know you are getting old when your heroes are long gone, but it is at an earlier stage that you become aware of aging and this is when you no longer create new heroes to replace the ones that have departed. On Tuesday I realized I have no replacements for Pink Floyd. It has little to do with their immortal music but with their physical presence.
And you have to trust me, it is less superficial than it sounds.

today

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.


Charles Baudelaire
L' albatros

shut it down

Another week with visitors is going on at a frenetic pace. Trying to get some work done during the morning, with numbers growing increasingly stubborn and almost impossible to be put in order. Evenings are devoted to my sister and her friend who are -I hope- enjoying the city at its freshest, despite of it being July. Then, nights are starting to become that part of the day when I recur to work. My boss is officially out for the rest of the summer and his night e-mails are becoming more and more often. It is of course my fault to be reading them at 3 am.

They say that people in the Mediterranean are under-functioning throughout most of the summer. That it is rather impossible to be expecting work to be done under 40 degrees centigrade with the sea at your doorstep. And although I am a bit reluctant in admitting that generations of Greeks, Spaniards and Italians may not be wrong, I am still trying to put my numbers in order in the middle of July. At the same time I am forcing myself to share the enthusiasm of the friends who are having holiday right next to me, comfort the sadness and frustration of beloved ones that are still very far from their own vacation and cope with all sorts of internal pressure.

You see, at the side of all that, I still read the news every morning (or around noon). And most of the times they are not good. Beautiful places in Greece, suffer from drought, problems with our Slav neighbours of Northern Macedonia, corrupted politics, ignorant voters. Off the front page of the cultural section: the State Orchestra of Greek Music is to be shut down because of lack of funding. This is becoming all too much. "Memory", Sherlock Holmes once said, "is a closet with non-elastic walls. Once you have to stuff it with something, you have to get rid of something else you were keeping in." And although my memory seems to be still working quite well, I am growing more and more anxious to shut it down. And therefore stop thinking about Greek forests going dry and Greek musicians going out of work, while their minister of Culture is going on holiday with his super-rich friends.

Shutting my memory down is still two weeks away -if it even happens then. But until then, frustrated, dizzy and confused I choose to invent a new term for my memory status. I shall therefore fall into "estatization", (as opposed to "hibernation"). I 'll go into this limbo where, I am not supposed to think, or worry about all this, the corresponding of a summer marmot, only instead of sleeping I shall be dreaming awake about the beaches of Andalucia, my friends and glasses of cold beer. And I will listen to the music of the State Orchestra of Greek Music. And I plan to stay there, in my summer laziness, my "estatization", or what we Greeks would call "ραστώνη" until I feel strong enough to confront my numbers and the newspaper headlines again.

today

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time,
far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees,
out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, Silhouetted by the sea,
circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate
driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Bob Dylan
Mr. Tambourine man

apparently still not summer

I saw the president this morning
taking breaths of solid rain
as the economy was growing,
on its usual way down the drain.
He waved and smiled, so reassuring,
wearing his Sunday purple cape
as he jogged around in his helmet
for fear that his thoughts might escape.

Over there, there was a silver marmot
stuffed inside a flying saucer's exhaust pipe,
you would like to think about it
but the time may not be ripe.
It seemed to be dreadfully disgusted
and would prefer to go back to bed
as the Martians flew to warmer climates
through clouds that were painted lead.

By the rotten seashore the dizzy bees
are buzzing to find their way back home,
I meant to ask them for directions
but felt I' d better let them roam.
The professor watched them flying about
preparing his next Nobel-winning speech
as the slave ship had just run aground
and all hope was out of reach.

Now, there's an unemployed programmer
and he's sculpting pink balloons
with his square head uncovered
slightly exposed to the monsoons.
His subconscious is so structurally different
from most fellas you would meet
on a random Tuesday morning
at the side of this sweaty street.

And, me, I was only having breakfast,
meditating in the haze,
when I tried to invent a tragic scene
going on in some man's mind's maze.
Then the early fog got thicker
and the actors staged a balcony,
as the neighbours stood there with indifference
and pretending agony.

today

A work of art does not exist without canceling what is functional and habitual, revealing the Other side, the one that deprives the common sides of every meaning. In this way it is creating a cleft, an opening, through which we can perceive the Abyss, on the verge of which we are constantly living and which we are constantly trying to forget. Art exists, equally and in a higher level and in a different way that thought does. It exists before and after it. Art spoke before thought and is still speaking when thought can do nothing more than remain silent.

Cornelius Castoriades
Devant la guerre

We must believe in spring #2

We may still believe in spring, but it seems that this faith is passing in vain, unnoticed by the Gods, or whatever natural powers rule the meteorological micro-universe over Catalunya.

Yet we pass another dull, indoor Sunday afternoon as the wind whips the drizzle against the closed window, the balcony almost flooded.

And the rain it raineth everyday...

The pale afternoon is filled with homely smells as the "small" family is having an unusual gathering. The clothes on the hangers of the living-room, avoiding the floating mists of the balcony with the familiar perfume of the softener, the sound of the week-end laundry being done in the kitchen and the smell of tomato sauce being prepared for a quick and easy Sunday meal. Those who don't have to study, are too lazy, or too tired or too hang-overed to cook anything fancier than pasta.

Sundays at home in May is a rare sight. We are no more students to be preparing for the exam period, neither family men to have to devote quality time to our beloved offspring. The usual Sunday afternoons do not involve activities of more advanced nature than reading the paper, watching a film, playing guitar or trumpet or chess and most of the times some of these activities are transferred outdoors, in a bar of Barceloneta, Bogatell beach or Montjuic's gardens. Alas, our faith in spring is still an orphan, waiting for its Messiah or an apocalypse.

We stayed in. Luigi stressed with his thesis project, due Tuesday, Giuseppe with his biochemistry essay slowly progressing, Rosa trying to translate a stupid American film script with more slang expressions than pronouns. Myself, lying on the counch with "The Sea" by John Banville and Ravel's "Pavane pour une infante defunte" to keep me company. Reading about some distant irish summers which can be even worse than this year's spring in Barcelona, made me feel the laziest of them all. And the least useful one except from when I could try answering some question Giu would have with biochemistry.

Then, we decided we all were in need of a break. The guys stopped working, I cooked and we shared a simple lunch while Giu had a nice idea of a game. The first three or four notes of known songs sounding from his computer and then us trying to recognize the tune. We were all in need of something, some of us in need of someone or both but all we could do is blame it on the rain and disguise our quest in the form of a game. That "something" became a song, that "someone" a forgotten rock star of the 80s.

Funny how simple things can sound fun but anything goes on Sundays like this. In the end, I found out about one or old Nirvana classics I did not know about. And I 'll hold on to them until the sun decides to show his disgraced face upon Barcelona.

Trumpeter on the balcony

This is my latest asset, a luxury I have always promised to allow myself once I had some extra money (to throw away). Thanks to Valentina's persistence and her volunteering to act as trumpet-bearer, I received my instrument two weeks ago.

Before we start, some clear facts so that you don't rush into erroneous conclusions. I have no idea about music, I consider myself extremely lazy and rather enthusiastic, a combination which most of the times leads me to take up a new task every week only to leave it aside the next one. This is exactly why I am still a mediocre climber, a rather sloppy skater and to my bosses' (both of them) disappointment I 'll go nowhere close to publishing my results in Nature. And that is only mentioning the activities I have undertaken while in Barcelona.

Nonetheless, I have great fun with all of the above and I intend to do the same with music. Filipe has assumed the difficult role of introducing me to some basics of musical theory and I can sense he's already getting frustrated with my lack of progress (which should not be qualified as such, since progress -or its absence- is only to be defined as in reference to a previously existing condition). The truth is that I still have a lot of trouble distinguishing a C from a D on a musical staff (which makes me appreciate so much the human mind at the age of 6 when "C" and "D" as letters should have seemed equally indistinguishable) and I have adopted a primitive way which includes counting with my fingers when I am asked to built the E-major scale. But despite all that, I am having a lot of fun when at it. It looks like I am learning a sort of arithmetics, starting all over again, although sadly lacking the special abilities of 6-year-old.

When it comes to practicing though, a major inconvenience suddenly rises. If you have ever tried to blow through a trumpet, you 'll probably know what I mean. After the first desperate attempts which lead to nothing more than a stream of air flowing through the pipes, you may manage (if you are lucky) to produce the low squeaky tune of an elephant farting. And only after a lot of effort will you make the instrument sound like something that remotely resembles a trumpet. In all cases though, be it an eerie, otherwordly voice or the natural sound of a dying animal, there is one common thing and that is that it is simply too loud! Hence the obvious inconvenience, when trying to practice in a flat, which you share with two more -non deaf- people and whose walls -although not exactly with the susceptibility of those of Jericho- are thin enough to test the neighbours' acoustical stamina.

This left me no option but my balcony. Last Saturday night, with my flatmates dining out, assuming that the neighbours were doing the same and hoping that the noise of the cars rushing down Passeig de Colom would cover my unbearable, hearing-damaging squeaks and tweets, I practiced playing the trumpet. Of course at my level -to which the word "beginner" would make absolutely no justice- this meant that I only managed to get only three consecutive notes right. And even though I went on for a good half hour the fourth note of the first measure of the "Autumn Leaves", an E-flat, for which my lips should stress more than my cheeks can handle, would only sound right one out of ten times.

Still, one out of ten times, it felt really good. I would then take a small pause, look at the people walking down the road from the hight of my third floor, hoping they had heard it right this time, and I thought that even if I was not exactly the "fiddler on the roof" I could one day become the "trumpeter on the balcony".

PS. The sleepless "eye" of my tutor (really "sleepless" since he posted a comment at 2.30 am) spotted one more mistake. Namely, that this E-flat is not the last note of the first measure. The piece starts off tune, therefore the hard E-flat is simply the first note of the second measure. Am I saying it right, master?

Closing time

Today is Good Friday in whatever is called the "western christianity".
I am starting to get a bit superstitious with the observation (or fact?) that Good Friday tends to be cloudy no matter if it's March, April or May, if it's a Catholic "Good" one or an orthodox "Big" one. Then my well-hidden scientific side rises on the surface with a profoundly sound argument which claims that since we are talking about a whole day and since it is practically impossible that a whole day remains cloudy all over the world we have to be talking about an observer-biased phenomenon. Meaning Good Friday looks to be always cloudy to me, wherever I am, and perhaps to my mother, whose superstition can only be traced back to this same observation, every year.

In any case, cloudy or not, Good Friday in a Catholic country like Spain is a holiday, which means I should be having my siesta instead of seeping coffee in the lab. Nonetheless, here I am, trying to organize my stuff before I leave for my real holiday in order not to come back in 10 days realizing I don't even remember in which folder I keep my e-mail messages, a useful -though admittedly boring- practice I learned from my previous boss Yannis. But it somehow looks that neither today's blue and moody weather nor my slightly hang-overed head can help me in carrying out this task with the minimal decency. Instead I am reading poems by Miguel Hernandez, as a tribute to today's international poetry day, I browse lyrics on the web and keep blogging with musical references. Whoever notices the subtle one in this post, as compared to the immediate previous one, shall irrevocably earn my admiration.

By the time the evening approaches and my need for a late siesta can only be battled against with a huge mug of the lab's strongest coffee, I start putting stuff into order. I sent the last updates to our collaborators, sure they want read them today and supposing they want care even when they eventually do. Then I organize my shell terminals with tags denoting the project I am working on each, thinking that I am doing it (and writing about it) just to piss off Julien and Sylvain ....(got You!). Next I post my to-do list on my google calendar and pile up properly the -mostly unread- papers on my desk. I am left with a bunch of small scripts lying around on my desktop, tiny unfinished lines of code, striving to accomplish a function which lingers undecided, desperately trying to reach the end of the loop while self-aware of their rough-hewed ends. As I try to browse through this incomprehensible stream of dos and whiles it seems to me like I am reading geeky, surrealist poetry of the strangest kind.

Then, disgusted of myself for having dared to think of such an obscene metaphor, afraid of Sylvain preparing his geek-card all the way from North California, I decide to send most of it to the recycle bin, or in any case away from my screen. I am stuck in front of the last one, which is supposed to solve a simple problem but in the fastest possible way. I slightly tilt my head to get a better view of it, thinking that I should be looking like one of this apes of the "Space Odyssey" upon facing the famous black column. Which reminds me of the news of Arthur Clarke's death, which reminds me that it's a long time since I last listened to some classical piece I really like from that great Kubrick film, which, which, which.... the series of digressions can now only compare to my friend Filipe's thoughts. I am confused....

No I am not. I just realize that today is not a day to work. Before I finally leave the lab for good for the coming ten days, I take a last look at my script and decide it would be nice if I placed it somewhere it wouldn't be lost, but without getting in my way all the time. And I guess I 'll leave it there, at the back of my mind, like a small riddle, like this pair of snickers hanging from a power cord in Barceloneta, which Julien captured one day, so insightful of the small everyday problems of a poor bioinformatician at the verge of a nervous breakdown.

It's closing time. I am off to Greece.

Back to the stone age

Going through one of the least productive phases of my life over the last years (work not being done, books remaining unread, blog not updated) I am dedicating my time in more passive activities. No wonder then that finding myself in Razzmatazz last Saturday for a concert by the Queens of the Stone Age, I was already surrounded by an aura of anticipation for self-fulfillment.

I arrived at this famous Barcelona Club, dizzy and tired from the previous night's hungover, looked for a quiet spot at the back and waited for the set to start. Then, as the first notes of "Regular John" started floating in the air I had it. The perfect flashback.

I suddenly realized that the last time I had listened to this song live was a long time ago, in some distant stage in Agios Kosmas in Athens, during a summer festival. As I started calculating the exact time distance, based on memories of people standing next to me, albums just released and football championship titles I realized that it was back in July 1999, with the Queens having only one album and with me just about ready to become the modest chemist I remain to date. As the band carried on with "Avon", (being the second track of the first album, having just followed the first track of of the first album) I took some time off my headbanging -doomed to look ridiculous at my age as most of my friends would be so kind to verify- and drifted off in a trance of recollections covering these nine years.

First came the people. I remembered people there with me on that concert, whom I now occasionally only talk to on facebook, some that I knew back then but have lost completely now and some that I didn't know then but met in the coming years only to share distant, separate concert memories. It was a different place back then. Climate change simply meant a cool April following a warm March, my hometown Athens had not seen snow for decades -since then the airport has been shut down three times due to heavy snowfall-. Ronaldo was still a phenomenon and Zidane a rising star, Greek football was in a limbo unaware of the greatness of a European Cup to follow. Kosovo was still part of Serbia -perhaps slightly more aware of foreign-office-supported greatness to follow-, New Orleans was still in its place and so was Baghdad. The Taliban were the good guys. Saddam was just being a bit stubborn before assuming the role of the personification of evil. Some people had mobile phones, none had one with a camera. Pavarotti was still alive and so was Pinochet. People were worried about Y2K. Ground Zero was still World Trade Center. September 11th was still simply the birthday of my friend Giorgos.

Personally I was just into my early 20s, much less anxious than today, only a bit more ambitious, equally lazy and frustrated with women. My hair looked more or less the same -thank God-, I was still walking around in shorts and hiking boots, wearing T-shirts with band names on them (it was Blur and Radiohead back then, Tool and Radiohead today, some things have not changed a bit). I had just returned back home in Athens after four years of college, I still wanted to become a journalist, I had no idea what Bioinformatics was -and somehow I think neither did Bioinformatics itself-, I had never been to Barcelona, nor ever ridden a plane.

As the third song -I think it was "Do it again"- steered the crowd to rhythmical "heys" I was rudely awaken. This was 2008, two world cups and five Queens' albums later, with so many things in the middle between myself and the "stone age" I had been tripping back to.

But aside of all that, I was still headbanging at the same pace, like the old times, like that distant hot July afternoon in Athens, so pleased and so reassured, that at least some things don't change. And the song remains the same.