“How will I ever eat fish again, or swim in the sea, but I will eat fish and swim in the sea,” says Katerina.


How do you speak of days imbued with the halcyon sun as dead bodies wash up on the Aegean’s shores?

Or write when the writing never quite expresses what you are trying to express? I think writing, like our speaking, is a way to outwit chronology, dodge the banalities of cause & effect, and complicate effects. The causes are too big, too concrete anyway. So why waste time and spirit discussing the corruption, the compromise, the evil Arendt already described as banal. Anyway apart from the very concreteness of death, there are gradations of “dying to live” to crudely paraphrase Lorca.

I stopped writing the blog, or maybe it was a pause because I’ve been trying to channel the writing elsewhere… and then last night Grigori called, an ex student who, like other ex students, is now a friend, and he wanted to know why I had not blogged in awhile.

There’s always so much to do I tell him and he agrees and tells me that he is out of work but looking for work as he studies to be an ophthalmologist after his degree in English. We talk of other people out of work, and Natasha who will go to study creative writing in Scotland. I am suddenly feeling less burdened, happy to hear of this. It’s been a long time. It’s been months of not very good news all around.

I suppose I want to speak beyond what’s happening here even if what’s happening here has larger resonances than what’s geographically happening here. I think I want to speak less about “inside voices” with its connotation of entrapment, and more about sensations of living in precarity, to be conscious in that space as Katrina was saying. Being conscious and alert is its own challenge; one Katerina considers a privilege of being alive.

As I was cleaning beets in the sink, cutting off their roots and watching the pure burgundy spread over the white basin, I thought of the beheadings going on (not an invited image…). Cutting the beets had me reluctantly imagining what must take place when another human being is objectified in that pure totalitarian moment of an executioner’s unquestioned purpose. It’s war’s horror, that we kill each other to maintain an ideology, national purpose, border … the worst of history seems to boil down to that Freudian paradigm … how much easier to project onto some Other than deal with your own crap. Someone described one of the terrorists in last November’s Paris attack as slick, outfitted in leather. I’d read it somewhere in a newspaper, and think it was someone renown who happened to be there. Fascism is all about looking good and keeping that image intact while you dis-member those who threaten the delusion. Whole races have been wiped out for the sake of such. I’ve been teaching the Puritans and they were as fanatic as any group with their errand, I don’t think the Native Americans had a chance in that typology. But turning others into an object of projection is the mindset that allows refugee bodies to drown in the thousands.

There was a man at the stop lights today, his arm withered to the size of a twig and one of his front teeth strangely longer than the rest. He smiled and smiled when he asked for any change I might have and when I shrugged that I didn’t have anything he kept smiling and I was mortified. People don’t usually want their borders touched. They don’t want to be unsettled. I couldn’t stop thinking of him, that he didn’t stop smiling. Ruptures are never invited but you can’t deny them because they’re devastating. It’s Martin Buber’s whole premise in I and Thou, the reciprocity of a subject-to-subject relationship as opposed to an I-It exchange that makes a thing of the other, one we can detach from.

So here’s a poem titled so simply “Love” by Czeslaw Milosz that Anastasia posted, if only we could remember that simplicity, because we really are a mess. I wish Grigori would call me more often.

Love means to learn to look at yourself

The way one looks at distant things

For you are only one thing among many.

And whoever sees that way heals his heart,

Without knowing it, from various ills—

A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.


Then he wants to use himself and things

So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.

It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:

Who serves best doesn’t always understand.

About akalfopoulou

Author of three poetry collections, a book of essays, Ruin, Essays in Exilic Living, and most recently, A History of Too Much (Red Hen Press 2018).
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1 Response to Rupture

  1. Artemis says:

    Be ever present and don’t loose your head. The burgundy blood of the beets have spoken.

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