Tonight among other things I’ve listened to a band that annoyed me so much that it hurt my stomach.

To paraphrase Hunter S. Thompson, it was what all music would be like if the Greek junta never fell.

I’ve had enough of listening to trash bands and paying for the experience on top.

Never again

Coming back home I listened to music for an hour just so that I could forget that those two hours of my life ever existed.

It’s hard to feel futuristic when you live in a country that has 40 degree Summers

The sun bleaches everything and the humidity mushes what’s left up.

So the only way to accomplish that is either by watching something or listening to something

Like this.

Sometimes when I’m writing these posts I wonder how it would feel like to be stuck for months alone in space. Not on a cosy orbit around a planet but really out there.

Spend long enough in such an environment and the idea of other humans would start to resemble a fairy tale.

Even if you had a video link, eventually  you would cease to believe in it. Given this upgrade, at best the idea of humans would become elevated to a legend – a morsel of truth inside an audiovisual veneer.

How soon before you cease to consider yourself a human?  How soon before you feel more like a part of the spaceship that got loose and can’t fit back in no matter how hard you wish it?

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I never felt comfortable going to dentists. Even to this day. There is something about the setting – the comfortable chair surrounded by drills and strong lights – that generates in me a sense of palpable unease; the feeling that you will be interrogated and possibly tortured without having the slightest idea why. Over the years this persistent petty dread has also led me to regard dentists as a cross between a human and any of the species one might find in a 19th century gothic novel, all being members of a secret cabal moving in the shadows of civilisation.

Once I made a mix tape for a Russian girl.

She came here for a couple of weeks on business

It was a small collection of songs by  90’s greek “indie” artists of the punk/rock sound cause she said she liked the genre and wanted to learn about greek artists that followed it.

Hell, I liked those songs too and I hadn’t done that for anyone before so I jumped to it.

I remember spending ages trying to translate greek lyrics into english, discovering that, when you isolated them from the music and song, half of them didn’t make any sense in greek, let alone any other language.

A couple of days after I gave her the CD I asked her what she thought of her.

Her reply, a ritual of silence, lip movements, hesitation and factual statements related to the number of songs on the disk made it plain that it wasn’t something that she would fondly remember

A couple of days later she went back to Russia and I never heard from her again

Most of the time I recall this incident as an anecdote of life, devoid of any significance.

But sometimes it lingers on as all unsolved mysteries do. Just like finding where Amelia Earhart’s plane crashed wouldn’t make any difference to the lives of people today, finding out what exactly she didn’t like back then wouldn’t make a difference in mine; yet I like to think that such closure would at least leave me with a spoonful of satisfaction, much like turning the last page of a book brings with it a sense of accomploshment no matter how bad the story was.

As I get older, questions that once seemed to define my existence pale into insignificance, becoming nothing more than what you would get printed in a card from some children’s trivia game, spelled in garish letters.

At the same time, questions that before did not even exist have grown from small sprouts to gigantic structures, forming entire canopies that leave nothing but glimpses of what lies above