TH.D. TYPALDOS Issue 8 2018-12-24T23:17:22+00:00

TH.D. TYPALDOS

Lightning Rod

Today the weather is nebulous in Patras City…

Today the weather has tempests on its menu in Patras City…

Thunders are launching a ferocious attack on the citizens of Patras City. They are furiously falling upon the heads of the houses and upon the roof tiles of the humans. The passers by, agast, are running all hot and bothered, back and forth… Thunders everywhere, everywhere rain whips and hail shells, are hitting the brows of the statues and they, they are falling on the earth, they are bouncing off and they are rising high again, they are swaying and revelling in the orgasms of the storm! How beautifully the end comes, before we even discover the starting point. Tarot cards are swirling upward. The image of a decomposition with cerulean legs – how beautifully we center the nothingness of woe, that nothingness which Tzara set in motion a century ago, now, becomes an instant reality within an instant reality.

Yet, there it is; a lightning rod is sprouting from the subsoil! A lightning rod, not invisible but non-visible, is rising, festering, fighting. Its war, war of justice, an inexpressive war that expresses what nobody ever will be able to tame. The weather, today, is touching the madness of the persecuted, of the damned. Painters are crowding in the highest spot of Patras. They are observing and painting the non-visible lightning rod. Then, and after they manage to picture what cannot be pictured neither by shapes nor by colors, they are starting to devour one another. The tarot cards have reached, by now, above the aquatic borders between the gulf of Patras and Corinth. They are meeting seaways and vessels collisions. They are participating themselves in the paroxysm that has overwhelmed everything. The lightning rod smiles at the winds.

The rage of the weather phenomena continues. A journalist who trying to report the extremities of these phenomena, is struck by a thunder blast, straight at the forehead, resulting in the burning of her clothes, and, naked, she dies upon a song:

“Dance upon the shark’s wing…”*

“My little love, today the weather is a bit unstable. Take your coat with you, from Zeus’s hand, and rush toward the clouds, upon the celestial dome. My little love, beautiful like the morning star’s rawhide and like the daylight’s remnants. My little love, I love you through cataclysms and through snow’s anus. You know better than anyone what the word ‘rejection’ means, what the rain upon the dream’s cracks means. I love you when I am soaked, I love you as the lightning walks its myths and desires”.

The wind is rising – hurricanes and sandstorms are hitting the aspens. A spider turns its belly toward the vast sun of a deviation. All the residents have delivered their spirit and they are waiting for the price of the climatic overheat; build the basements in the penthouses and throw the penthouses to the tables of the poor! Convert the manifest emissions of Orion into jolly fusillades of euphoria! The weather is changing, the humans are dying – the weather is changing, the humans are born!

The weather is feeling blue, above Patras City…

Only hyper-reality can save us…

Do not hit car glasses, unless it is a quiet hour…

Not to forget it, the tarot cards arrived in Athens at 3.15 pm. Welcome, angry thinker. The motherland, grateful, is setting up non-visible lightning rods throughout the whole territory. The celebration goes on relentless, inexhaustible, unexpectedly splendid!

*Nikos Kavvadias, Woman