Συνολικές προβολές σελίδας

Κυριακή 31 Ιουλίου 2016

ΚΑΤΑΝΑΓΚΑΣΜΟΣ ΜΕ ΑΕΡΟΠΛΑΝΙΚΑ ΚΟΛΠΑ



photo by gianpal333

Ό,τι και να πεις στην κυκλική παιχνιδοχώρα παίρνει το όνομα της απόλαυσης και λιμνάζει σε συστημικές συμβουλές του τύπου: «σκέψου θετικά!». Ακόμα και το «δεν θα φας τον άλλο» της βιβλικής Εδέμ, που εγκαθιδρύει τον Νόμο του Λόγου και της διαφοράς, μεταλλάσσεται σε ένα μελιστάλαχτο «Μην φας τον άλλον» γιατί είναι δύσπεπτος και θα πονέσει το στομάχι σου. Το «δεν» της άρνησης αποκτά θετική επένδυση και παρασιτεί στην απάρνηση. Διάφοροι καλοθελητές της εξουσίας σε προστάζουν να δοθείς σε κάποιον καλό βωμό. Φορούν θαυμαστικά και επικαλούνται την ευέλικτη μέση σου…

-Δώσε για να έχεις!

-Δίνομαι για να σε έχω.

-Μου την δίνει να μην σε έχω!

-Τότε δώσε για να πάρεις!

-Ένα πάρε-δώσε είναι όλο κι όλο; Και τι θα πάρω;

-Πάρτον  μου!

Κάπως έτσι το στόμα παύει να μιλάει και φράζει τους ήχους του. Προσπαθείς να αποφορτιστείς με ένα πήδημα, αλλά είναι εικονικό κι αυτό. Αντί για αλλαγή, παίρνεις μετάλλαξη. Αντί για διαίρεση και διαχωρισμό, παίρνεις μάτι τον διαμελισμό σου σε μια πολλαπλότητα εαυτών και οργάνων. Μπορείς να ανταλλάξεις τον εαυτό σου για τον εαυτό σου. Στη δυαδική φόρμα «εγώ και ο εαυτός μου» τίποτα δεν διαφεύγει και όλα συγκλίνουν σε μια στιγμή πανικού. Έτσι χάνεσαι σε ένα δάσος α-νόητων προτάσεων. Σε αντανακλάσεις του καθρέφτη σου. Ξαφνικά, από το πουθενά, ένας ανθρώπινος σίφουνας σε τυλίγει στη δίνη του.

-Γίνετε μέλος μας!

-Δεν θέλω!

-Θα έχετε δωρεάν περίθαλψη και επιπλέον δώρο ξυπνητήρι.

-Τι να το κάνω;

-Να σας αφυπνίζει για να είστε συνεπής στους στόχους σας και να μην χάσετε τους ταξιδιωτικούς σας πόντους στις παροχές μας.

-Ποιους πόντους;

-Στην αρχή 100 στον κουμπαρά σας και αν τσακώσετε και 100 πελατάκια θα σπάσετε τα όρια του κουμπαρά και θα σας επιστραφεί πεντάστερο ξενοδοχείο!

- Μα πώς να βρεις τον δρόμο σου με πέντε αστέρια; Δεν φέγγουν αρκετά.

-Τότε να σας αναβαθμίσουμε το προϊόν!

-Μα ποιος είστε τέλος πάντων;

-Το αεροπλανάκι σας.

Πέμπτη 28 Ιουλίου 2016

HAND IN HAND pt. 2

photo by Σπύρος-Ίωνας Μαρκάτης
 
 
The phone rang a number of times before he decided to pick up the receiver.

“Yes…”

“Mr. Query?”

“Speaking”.

“Could I make an appointment for a session? I’m… I’m Augustine… I’m… that is I was Vasiliki’s boyfriend… you know… her brother comes to you… ”

“Yes… Come by tomorrow morning at 8.30… You can tell me about it in person… tomorrow, then… goodnight”.

It was almost midnight. He put down the receiver and leaned against his rocking chair. It was a carved cherry wood chair with a woven cane seat and a broad quilted cushion on the back. He never rocked vigorously back and forth. A light rocking was enough to set in motion the associative chain of his thought.

How peculiar! he thought. On the outside a rather good-looking Basilica of a girl and on the inside… mutilated at the foundation… a proper massacre… Another girl who apparently became an “object-hole” without knowing it…

So, where were we? At the second hole, then; a closed hole, that doesn’t pulsate. Besides, what can a whore shut inside a bottle do other than whoring?

Her mother would eat her like a piece of cake. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. Another maternal goddess eating her own fruit. Another totemic father witnessing his devoted priestess breaking the law of incest and does nothing about it. What happens if you kill or eat the totem? You die through murder. But if you remain undying, you turn into a pixie. You live your death in the here and now and on Elm Street, exactly at the bend before the cemetery, you encounter a shadow of death looking at you without seeing you. It’s called depression. Psychiatrists call it an illness. They haven’t got a clue. It’s a symptom that winks at all those Tiresias blinded by their distinctions…

They never even wonder who will stretch out his hand to touch the totem and escape sudden death. Not the members of the tribe, at any rate. And all of Thanos’ rituals with the tiles and the counting reveal an “unconscious consciousness of some guilt”. But let’s go back to the “hand” for the moment. Where will I find the profane hand that tightened the knot already at the throat? It was definitely the hand of a wizard of deception. Of the same tribe or from a neighbouring one? It’s too early to tell, although I have my suspicions… In any case, the murderer is one of those people who play “Totem and Taboo” in their spare time. Definitely…

Mr. Query took out a blank sheet of paper and flat-out wrote a letter to “Cain the murderer”:

… I know you’re trapped with your imaginary tripod. Which is it? Tell me… How did one of your three legs collapse and tumble tottering into the marshes of your repressed? Will you return some day, I wonder, as a biped?
For the time being you go about on one foot playing hopscotch on the flagstones your casual affairs trample on. You’re being punished: Sometimes forced to pretend you’re a ballerina on one leg and other times… a wooden soldier who lost his leg fighting against invisible enemies that terrified him.

Who is the enemy at enmity with you? No one.

What friend treats you to a kind word? No one.

The world of “poodles” circles around you wagging its tail… Groomed, harmless, with sly cat’s eyes and pricked up wolf ears. What crossbreeding did they result from? They’re poodles, but they speak with human speech. They are obviously some legendary monster that lives in your present, feeds on your past and belches out your future.

It doesn’t stomach anything. Nor do others stomach it. An unpalatable one-eyed Leviathan.

How can you love thy enemy, if you don’t start with the opposite? I hate my enemy. The enemy of “my”. I hate thy enemy. The enemy of “thy”. Once again you are entangled in the indivisible corpus of “my”, “thy”, “fly”. As in “fly, shoo”.

Only, you can’t exorcise the enemy with exorcisms because it also has a shadow that darts out of every shady corner along your path and sticks something murky on your forehead. It’s certain… you have the mark of Cain.

But try telling the incidental passers-by in your life your encounter with this “shadow” is anything but incidental. They’ll laugh a blunt laughter and pass you by.

Can you bear the stigma of the lonely traveller in the Land of Shadows?

If you can’t… park yourself on the outline of your shadow, prescribed with white chalk on the dark pavement, and don’t speak. They’ll take you for dead already. You meet all the necessary requirements. You’re already the shadow of yourself. Just don’t venture farther and get snatched by some wandering shadow theatre!

Hadjiavatis will overshadow your fate and you’ll get spooked every time Barba Giorgos’ crook chases after the hump on your back…

Κυριακή 24 Ιουλίου 2016

Ο ΦΑΛΛΙΚΟΣ ΒΩΜΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΧΡΗΜΑΤΟΣ



photo by gianpal333

Τα ακέφαλα πόδια κάνουν τη ζωή σου ποδήλατο. Τα κορδόνια λύνονται και δένονται σφιχτά από μόνα τους. Έχεις προσπεράσει τα σύνορα της φαντασίωσης και τρέχεις και δεν φτάνεις σε κυκλική τροχιά.

«Οι παλάμες χύνουν ιδρώτα»

Όλα τα σενάρια είναι πιθανά και οι δρόμοι διασταυρώνονται μεταξύ τους και οδηγούν σε αδιέξοδο. Μπερδεύεσαι σε ένα σπιράλ με ισοδύναμες α-νοησίες (non-sense) και δεν ξέρεις προς τα πού να στρίψεις το νόμισμα και πως να παίξεις στον τζόγο την ζωή σου.

«Τι νομίζεις ότι κάνεις;»

«Κάνεις σαν» μωρό που παρασιτεί σε ένα γιγαντιαίο μητρικό σώμα για να τραφεί με διαπλοκή και διαστροφή. Αντί να εξ-ίστασαι, συστρέφεσαι. Δείχνεις εξαναγκαστική καλοσύνη και συσσωρεύεις κακία που σε κάνει δυσκοίλιο. Τρέχεις και ο διάδρομος διανύει από μόνος του χιλιόμετρα χρέους στον βωμό του χρήματος. Δεν αρκεί να γίνεσαι άξιος θυσίας ολοκαυτώματος για να τραφεί το σύστημα με σάρκα και αίμα, πρέπει να φαντασιώνεσαι ισοδύναμα spa για να ξεχνάς τον πόνο σου και να μεταβιβάζεις στα βλαστάρια σου το ηθικό χρέος «να καούν» κι αυτά, για να αποδώσουν μια υπεραξία- υπεραπόλαυσης στην επένδυση των γονέων τους.  

Έγκλειστος σε ένα καναπέ για δύο, κρύβεις τα κλειδιά της επιθυμίας σου σε τρύπες εικονοφαντασιακές ή θάβεις τα λόγια σου στα σημαίνοντα των άλλων για να ανήκεις κάπου. Κρύβεσαι ως ίχνος ακριβώς  κάτω από το χαλάκι της εξόδου.  Όταν θες να ξεμυτίσεις θα βρεθεί πάλι κάποιος που θα σε πατήσει κατά λάθος…

«Όλα καλά;»

«Καλά, όλα καλά!»

«Επιβιώνεις;»

«Αμέ! Και από επιβήτορες…έχει ο Θεός…»

Ποιος τολμάει να απαντήσει όπως η μικρή Αλεξάνδρα;

«Τι κάνεις Αλεξάνδρα;»

«Ζώ!»  

Σάββατο 23 Ιουλίου 2016

HAND IN HAND pt. 1

photo by Σπύρος-Ίωνας Μαρκάτης
 
 
A few lines on the night table, then…

“Bottle”: How can you be with the other at the bounds of the bottle? Do you serve the bottle or does the bottle serve you? Do you drink it or does it drink you?

The desire to desire a desire that desires to remain forever desirable… ungratified…

“Indigestion”: The poison words instil inside a text. The writing is half the text… the other half?

“I follow you”: I carry your cross. I’m not your follower or your servant. Am I your slave, then? I follow you. I remain loyal to the pleasure you induce me. I follow the drive of death until death. I don’t dream of an Eden in the future, nor do I root myself in the present. I withdraw to the Real of the “wild night of the world”.

“Follow = follower”: How can anyone be saved following another subject?

I walk by your side… drawn from the glass side of the bottle like Eva was drawn from Adam’s side. And yet, an ancient voice, primordial and tenacious as a spell, bottles me up inside the glass prison again and, what’s more, seals its mouth with a cork.

Draw – drawn – withdraw…

“The hand”: Why is the right hand punished? What did it do?

Is it the hand that curves to touch another mouth with the mouth of its palm … A mouth that opens and closes its tips at the feel of a touch… where the fingers grow moist from the burning flesh… or the childish state of “hand in hand”? Like saying “we will never part” or “together for ever”… The formidable shadow of “for ever” makes “together” seem a prison… a prison of the body…

Ezekiel Query carefully reads the letter he retrieved word for word from the patient’s under analysis memory before he left his office. He reads it as if it were a visible text slowly unfolding its pages before his eyes. He can even read what was never said where the narrative breaks off. He develops a hypothesis and begins to see what moves between the lines of the text.

Between the “mouth” and the sentence beginning with “… don’t eat it, it causes indigestion…” there’s a large piece of missing text. That’s probably where the coffee was spilt, the stain covering the words and leaving its mark in their stead. So, I’m tracing the coffee-marks then… he thought and smiled cryptically at the mirror opposite… Coffee isn’t just another pleasure. It has its own unique boons. It’s not like when you eat something with your eyes, then throw away the rest when you’ve had your fill… something like a girl, for example. Yes… why not? A girl. You glue your eyes on her… you follow her contour, her curves, the small arcs of her thighs, her thin shins and there you stop … having had your fill, you leave the rest of the meal untouched, namely her heels, her soles, her toes…

A meal of triangular patches half-revealing rectal sets is altogether another matter, of course. Hmmm… firm, flabby, shrivelled, with beds of cellulite or round crescents striving to separate from the rest of the body. What can the eyes eat then? How can they feast with so much detail? Instead of being gorged, they work up a greater appetite…

I don’t know why, but I just remembered a plump ripe damsel frolicking in the waters of a blue pool, the water spilling over from all sides, splashing the burning bathers on the wooden sun beds. An inept meal… Then she dried off on the sun bed in the scorching midday sun, waiting on her back for the prince who would lie comfortably on top of her. Obviously she was yet another child no one read fairy tales to. Otherwise, she would’ve known that the prince comes around midnight and you must remember the secret of the pumpkin. 12.01… the coach will turn into a pumpkin and the prince into pumpkin pie. And if you miss the moment miracles happen, it’ll be your fault…

But who is Cinderella’s grey gown and who the glass slipper in this nosh-up in Eden?

“Eden”: the name in Hebrew means pleasure. Hmmm… they usually think it’s the girl. An utterly superficial reading! Can’t they see the seer is the object?… Yes… the seer, whose entire being becomes a stare… without a body… looking through a camera lens… Wonder what the girl saw when she smiled faintly beyond herself, beyond the pleasure principle? What lies beyond? The pleasure of pain or the pain of pleasure? That seems like a dipole. Better I take the third route… walk through its rough, esoteric footpaths and see where it leads me… I might even encounter the “elevated – condensed – Evil”, the god of the underworld which feeds on the pain that withers the bodies of its innocent victims….

But let’s get back to the coffee… You drink coffee slowly, sip by sip, and it leaves a surplus of cream on your lips. Yes… you don’t often come across coffees that leave dregs anymore.

His mind wandered for a moment and his gaze fell on the picture above the couch. A young half-naked girl smiled at him over a cup of tea.

Let’s start from her anatomy, let’s trace her unconscious image a little… What was her name? It was Vasiliki, wasn’t it? Yes, Vasiliki1… With or without a dome? I’ll check it out later… So, let’s start from her image…

Ezekiel Query spread open one of his small notebooks on his oaken desk. He sharpened his pencil and began sketching the girl’s image reversed from the inside… out…

So, then, she was tall, very tall for a woman, and exceedingly thin… those were her brother’s exact words. Let me see… Her eyes lively but empty in their sockets… her glance darting here and there… from object to object… seduced by every new stimulus… What about her voice? Her voice rose to scream, to cry, to shout, but not to speak. Where was her speech? Why didn’t it bore a hole in the wall of her family’s language? Exceedingly thin, then! Perhaps she was extremely ceding towards others, then?

How many holes did she herself have? Mouth… vulva… Two, at least. First hole: Mouth closed or half-closed. To suckle, to suck, to sip… to kiss… maybe… What if they ate her? What if she habitually ate the person she fell in love with as well?
 

Κυριακή 17 Ιουλίου 2016

ΚΡΙΣΗ ΕΞΕΥΤΕΛΙΣΜΟΥ



photo by gianpal333
Το ενήλικο παιδάκι παίρνει θέση γύρω από ένα στρογγυλό τραπεζάκι με μικροσκοπικές καρεκλίτσες.

«Λοιπόν;»

Ζωγραφίζει έναν  αγριάνθρωπο  με πελώρια χέρια και πόδια. Στο δεξί του χέρι σφίγγει ένα λουρί περασμένο στο λαιμό ενός σκύλου με παιδικό πρόσωπο. Το δαρμένο παιδάκι εικονίζει έτσι το μέρος του σώματος του Άλλου που το αγγίζει με ατσάλινες δαγκάνες και του προκαλεί ρίγη εξευτελισμού.

«Μου αρέσει να με λυπούνται»

Αυτή είναι η φράση-περιλαίμιο που του φόρεσαν κατάσαρκα. «Τον φτιάχνει» όχι μόνο ο πόνος αλλά και η απόλαυση του πόνου της εικόνας του. Μια ανθρωπόμορφη εικόνα  πεσμένη στα τέσσερα πόδια του σκύλου γρυλίζει παραπονιάρικα. Μια μαζοχιστική σκηνή παρασιτεί στις φαντασιώσεις του.

«Οι γονείς μου με έκαναν για τα γεράματά τους»

Αγαπάει και απεχθάνεται τον βασανιστή του. Κάποια αναφιλητά αντηχούν στο στήθος του. Σφίγγεται κι ένα κομματάκι γλυκιάς φαντασίωσης  κολλάει στην κάτω γνάθο…

-Αγάπη μου, πόσα χρόνια κλείνουμε;

-Κάπου δυο…

-Δεν ρίσκαρες λίγο όταν με πρωτογνώρισες;

-Όχι.

-Πώς όχι; Κι αν σε απέρριπτα δεν θα απογοητευόσουν;

-Α.Π.Ε, το ξέρεις το ανέκδοτο; Ένας μαγαζάτορας χασαποταβέρνας στα προάστια καθώς δίνει τον λογαριασμό στον πελάτη προσθέτει τα αρχικά Α.Π.Ε=5.00. Ο πελάτης πληρώνει αμίλητος και φεύγει αλλά του κακοφαίνεται. Μετά από καιρό ξαναπερνάει από την ταβέρνα και ρωτάει εκνευρισμένος τον μαγαζάτορα τι είναι αυτός ο φόρος τελικά. Κι εκείνος απαντά: "Άμα Πιάσει Έπιασε". Έτσι και με μας.

-Άντε και γαμήσου! Μαλάκα.

Παρασκευή 15 Ιουλίου 2016

THANOS’ SESSION pt. 3


 photo by Σπύρος-Ίωνας Μαρκάτης




Thanos’ voice came coarse from the depths of the abyss.

“My mother used to say: ‘A whore will get out, even if you shut her in a bottle …’ and waving the dipper menacingly at my sister, Vasiliki, would scream in her ear:


”‘People point at the whore in the bottle like a relic… ̍Won’t you look at that tart! ̍, they say’”

”My sister was tall, very tall for a woman, and exceedingly thin. She tried to get out of the bottle and was found in a basement with the veins of her right hand slashed. There was a scarf knotted around her neck and a faint smile on her lips made the spectacle even more morbid. She looked like a half-finished statue of plaster in a grotesque pose… I remember the colour the knot of her scarf turned… It was a deep purple… livid… like her lips… Her gaze was fixed, as if she was looking at some blind spot on the ceiling… and next to her… right next to her… oh, God… I don’t want to remember… next to her was a picture of her in the same position as she had in death, like she was sitting for a photographer… how odd!”

He sank onto the couch clutching the faint white cloth little fish with its greenish inverted bow-scales, which always slept in the same corner, there, against the arm of the couch. The couch in the shape of a chaise longue slightly touched a wall with a light blue background that carried you away into the open…

“Are you interested in photography?”

“Not really. Vasiliki was. She wanted to be a photographer. I adored her since she was little. She was my little queen, my sweet fairy of the dawn. I would get up very early to make her breakfast and listen to her dreams. Dreams of the day and dreams of the night. I listened to her attentively and encouraged her to make them come true. She’d give me a quick kiss on the cheek and leave for school. Oh, the tragedy that’s stricken us!”

“Where there any other photographs in the room?”

“On the night table, right next to the reading lamp, there was a childhood photograph of her. Vasiliki, wearing a short print dress and a purple ribbon in her hair, in the same position as dead Vasiliki on the bed. Creepy! Curled up in a peaceful sleeping position, like a foetus. A doll dressed in exactly the same clothes slept beside her. As if the doll was a scaled-down photo of her inside the photograph itself. I found that morbid and creepy as well! I don’t remember any such photograph of her in our family album. Where could she have got it, I wonder?

”My God… I don’t know what I’m talking about… am I going mad? At any rate, one thing I could never see in Vasiliki was her glance. She always looked somewhere else, even then… somewhere beyond me… beyond herself, beyond her doll… There was a letter on the night table next to her… a few words hastily scribbled by a quivering hand that read ‘don’t eat it, it causes indigestion’. There was a coffee stain on the letter …”

The coffee stain… on the trail of a ritual residue… hmmm… a trail… a para-language, Ezekiel Query thought and stirred absentmindedly in his chair.

“The sight of a naked sappy body terrifies me, even though I’m a sculptor. At first it fascinates me, it turns me on… then I imagine it full of wrinkles, aged and flabby and, fortunately, I go off. It turns shrivelled and I lose the appetite to chew its rosy flesh and spit the remains on the surly faces of each and every one of those girls. I don’t do it, though. I only let my imagination toy with the idea… But why did I recall all this now? I’d better go…”

Hmmm… far away from the vertigo induced by the crests of a sappy female body… Perhaps he constantly anticipates some terrible punishment for his temptations, which are of a sexual nature… At any rate, he’s not a confirmed lover of pleasure, as they’d say… The pleasure that floats his boat is the pleasure that hurts, Mr. Query repeated without vocalizing a sound.

“Just a minute…” he said emphatically. “What does one eat when he’s hungry like a wolf? Meaning? Far from sinful temptations? Why do you seek to compromise temptation with atonement?

”Think about it on the way out. What satisfies our hunger? There are texts we devour… others we swallow through our ears… and others still that are quite indigestible for our stomach. They’re sweet when you taste them, but when they reach the stomach, they bring on the bitter taste of heartburn…”

“Yet my words eat at me and I chew over their pain… At least, if I could… if…”

“If… Indeed, the condition of ‘if’ makes all the difference”.

“Yes… if I lift my foot off the ground, I won’t roll on the floor. I’m a mythical totem, the legendary farmer, at times. You know… the nursery rhyme ‘the farmer in the dell’. Not even that. I’m just a nutshell, without ‘nuts’. They’ve been cut off. Only a shell, then”.

“Who circle around you?”

“Everybody… along with the dreams I dream at night, which I don’t remember in the morning. I feel like a snake that wants to uncoil, to lightly crawl like dancing among the pebbles before leaping into the crystal-clear waters of a cistern. A snake fighting to shed its skin… but something prevents it… I won’t manage. I know I won’t…”

The patient under analysis stood up without another word, a shadow of death tracking his every step. He mentally counted the squares on the wooden floors to the front door without mentioning it to his analyst, Ezekiel Query, and the echo of his voice resounded in his mind, counting behind him…

His aspect was indeed that of a snake. Was it that of an adder or of the serpent of Eden, who talks in order to prevent Eva from being born onto her desires? “Eat the forbidden and you’ll never die!” An omnipotence with no presence. A serpent already whistling the mournful tune of an imaginary presence that’s present, though dead as a statue. A serpent-totem. The progenitor of a tribe. Gaunt, with a pale face and a body that coils in its cavities. Thanos had grizzled hair and deep expression lines under the eyes. A mark like a seam furrowed his left cheek. His hands, raw-boned and skinny, sweated against the couch and when his tongue encountered the teeth of his lower jaw a consonant whistled as he uttered his last words through a half-opened mouth…

Κυριακή 10 Ιουλίου 2016

ΣΚΛΑΒΙΑ ΧΩΡΙΣ MASTER




photo by gianpal333
                                                      

Ο master εξαφανίσθηκε. Ο σκλάβος τον καταβρόχθισε και έγινε ο master του εαυτού του.  Αλυσοδεμένος στο βάθρο του, ως Θεός, παραμένει πιο σκλάβος από σκλάβο. Πιο δουλοπρεπής από δούλο. Είναι μια χειραφετημένη σκλαβιά. Διαχειρίζεσαι τα αποθέματά σου όπως-όπως, σε σάρκα και οστά, για να επιβιώσεις λίγο παραπάνω στην αγορά εργασίας ως προϊόν της. Όλη αυτή η νέκρα φέρνει μια απίστευτη βαρεμάρα. Αν την βάλεις να κοιτάει ανάσκελα το νταβάνι, με το στόμα γεμάτο αγχολυτικά, η βαρεμάρα θα μεταλλαχθεί σε μόνιμη ανία. Η ανία με την σειρά της, επειδή είναι ένα μη διασπώμενο υπόλοιπο, θα μεταλλαχθεί σε άνοια.

-Τσάμπα μαστούρα;       

-Δεν νομίζω!

Απλώς θα είσαι ένα προστατευόμενο είδος προς εξαφάνιση. Θα σε διατηρούν με βαμβάκια από χλωροφόρμιο στο κλουβάκι σου. Με φροντίδα και πρόληψη. Θα είσαι ένα ακόμη φετίχ, ένα ακόμη ντεκόρ, ένα ακόμη σπάνιο αντικείμενο ή ένα ακόμη λείψανο σε χρυσή θήκη. Θα ντύνεσαι ονόματα για να υποκριθείς τον εαυτό σου στην ετερότητά του, αλλά θα σε προδίδει ένα αμήχανο χαμόγελο σε τρεμάμενα χείλη.

Η Ήρα  ζητάει να βαφτίσουν την κούκλα της με νέα ονόματα. Απαριθμεί κάπου εννιά ονόματα με καμάρι. Κάποια στιγμή μου λέει : «Θα σου πω ένα μυστικό αλλά προσοχή μην το μάθουν τα αγόρια…Αυτή δεν είναι η αληθινή Barbie είναι η ξαδέρφη της…». Ούτε η Ήρα είναι η αληθινή Ήρα. Την βάφτισαν έτσι για να κρύψουν την αλβανική της ταυτότητα. Όλα τα αξεσουάρ της κούκλας είναι ψεύτικα. Καμιά φορά πέφτουν και οι ράντες της κούκλας και φαίνεται το βυζί της.

-Δεν πειράζει, λέει η Ήρα.

Μόνο που κάποια στιγμή σηκώνεται το φουστάνι της και φαίνεται  το βρακί της.
-Αυτό πειράζει!  λέει η Ήρα.