Panayiotis Gouveris (author)
Katerina Kloura (translator)
I don't want to remember. I
find it hard; I was just a kid. I needed to be better protected. Someone had to
protect me. I didn't know what was going to happen. Kids only want to play. For
me, it was just a game. I picked a stone, hurled it over a nest and something
was happening to me. Like being joyful, but not exactly. I wanted it over and
over again. After all, they should build their nests higher I was just a kid. Every
kid wants to take down a swallow's nest. I just wanted a bit more. I didn't
know what was going to happen.
It's
not easy. Someone has to teach you. Someone brave and undaunted like Nikos.
Tough guy. One-shot and the nest was down. Truly gifted. He didn't enjoy it. It
was just a way to spend his time. When he couldn't find more nests, he used to hurl
at me. I felt no pain. I feel no pain.
The secret is to pick the
right stone. It takes a small, slender and sharp rock. That’s perfect. If I
didn't find the right one, I would get distressed. Stones are war weapons. It’s
you and your stones on the one side and the nest and the swallow on the other.
When I was at the beach, I
wasn't swimming. I was looking for pebbles to save, as war supplies. At first,
my mom was upset. She was grumbling. Then she quit and gοt used to me. I wasn't wearing
a swimsuit anymore, just a deep-pocket short, filled with stones.
Wherever there was a nest, it
had to be knocked down. That's how I felt. I was left peaceful and serene after
I had torn a nest down. I loved the swallows, but I hated their nests.
I
used to sing while I was knocking the nests down. Not too loudly. A mournful mumbling whisper to seize my regrets. Ι didn't want to look violent
and clumsy. I fancied a refined look — my church outfit: a white shirt and
black pants. Standing in awe under the strong nest structure, knowing that in a
little while it would be ruined. Nearly catching the smell of it. Oh! If only I
lived in a world full of nests. After all, people used to live in caves and trees.
Architects, doors and the flushing toilets appeared much later. What a pity!
Now we are full of lines and angles.
Even
while I was at school, I kept on painting nests. My teacher was upset.
Everybody is upset near me — even the swallows. We used to hang our paintings
on the class wall: homes, castles, princesses and my nests. One day I attacked
my pictures. My teacher then stopped
hanging them. Everybody is afraid near me; I am just upset. My heart is
sweating.
Mom was always worried about me. I was
different, and she knew it, ever since my infancy; late talker, late walker and
nest seeker. Oh mom, you who took care of pigeons and sparrows, you deserved
another son.
Αlong with the nests, I also
destroyed my mother and her expectations. Someone had to teach me the art of
being a son.
She took me to a bunch of
doctors. When you are a kid, psychiatrists won't give you drugs. They pat on your
mother's back and tell her to be brave. I don't understand; why is it so hard
for a mother that her child knocks down swallow nests?
A fluffy psychiatrist liked my
mom. He didn't pat on her back; he preferred to touch her waist. I used to play
with a real rabbit in his office. I wouldn't say I like rabbits; they have
silly faces. I had to pass five phases of zoo therapy. This moron knew nothing
about my autism.
After the rabbit, I adopted a
stupid shiny fish; something in between a firefly and a sardine. It died after
a week. Ι peed in the fishbowl, that's why. I adopted another one. I peed again. Oh,
mom, don't be upset, you could have placed a lid over the bowl. The psychiatrist wanted me to lay on
a sofa and narrate my dreams. That was impossible. I couldn't; nobody ever taught me how to
dream.
I was never an easy-going patient.
After all, there is no cure for me. I don't care; it's not my problem. I'm
being myself. My mother still hopes. She anticipates that one day somebody will
invent the pill for autism. Oh, mom, I'm not going to swallow it. I prefer peeing
on goldfish.
My father was a nice guy. We
didn't spend too much time together, but he had natural compassion for me.
Fathers are usually strict and controlling. My father was completely different;
unshaven, tired and dirty in his work uniform; he used to carry a toolkit bag
full of screws. I admired him; he could pick the right screw for the right job.
He was working double shifts. I used to see him just before I fall asleep. He
was standing by my bed, looking like a giant.
My father didn't like my
mother. They didn’t get on well. He used to say that she had got a screw loose.
He twisted his fingers and I was laughing. I usually don't understand jokes,
but this one was an exception. Once, he caught me peeing on the fishbowl. He
remained silent and never said a thing. That was our secret. My strange behaviour was not an issue for him.
I think he might have been a bit autistic too. Maybe he is the one responsible
for my autistic gene. I wish mom had autism too, but it's hard for a woman to
pee in a fishbowl. Autism does not suit women. They usually have depression or
hysteria; autism avoids them.
After the second dead fish, I
stopped zoo therapy. We also stopped eating fish at home. I like salmon but I
haven't eaten for years.
My mother's sister brought me
a puppy. She had read a magazine article about the positive effect of dog
ownership on autism. It was a cute dog; not very smart, not very stupid. I
liked it. I called him Ulysses. It's silly to call your dog Jack or Benjie. I
later discovered that Ulysses had tits, but I didn’t mind at all. I didn't
change his name. I changed his fur colour though. He used to be black and
white, I took brushes and paints and started daubing him. A little blue, some
blobs of red here and there. He was beautiful. He finally came across a group
of Panathinaikos fans that beat him to death. He died in my arms. They didn't
hit me; my shirt was green.
I didn't want to bury Ulysses.
I loved him too much to bury him under the ground. I preferred to put my dog in
the freezer. Mom gave him to a rag-picker, to get rid of his body; I couldn't
stop crying. My dad went to the park and found all these dog killers; he
slapped them, one by one. I’d rather have them knocked down with my stones. My
dad let me spit on each one of their faces. Since then, when I don't like
someone, I spit on him. Especially the doctors. They pretend as if they don't
care. I'm sure they take a hot disinfected bath when they return home.
Oh, doctors are so useless!
Since there is no cure for autism, why do I have to put up with all those
medical charlatans? One of them showed me off to his students. I felt like a monkey in a
cage. Medical students are so naive; they ask your name, they give you some
candy and they are excited. Future autisticologists… The only way to experience
autism is to be locked in an igloo in Patagonia for at least three months.
Being autistic is weird, as if you have swallowed a silent rattle.
Sometimes I wonder if there
are any autistic animals. In my opinion, all fish have autism, except for dolphins;
they suffer from socializing mania. Ostriches also are autistic. They like to
bury their heads in the sand. I love it
too; I prefer sleeping with my pillow over my head. I’d love to sleep under the
mattress, but my mom will be upset. Camels are definitely autistic; they are
not thirsty every day, just like me. I
used to drink water only on the even days of the week. I like to follow a plan.
Dad got me a new puppy; I
named it Ulysses again. He had no tits. I had taught him to sit and to stand
up; When I ordered "down!" Ulysses would stand up. When I ordered
"up!" he was lying. A little mess but I didn't care. I attached a leash
around his feet. It seemed silly to put a belt on his neck; I didn't want to
choke him. I was afraid of my dog falling off the balcony. It's bad luck if
your dog jumps off the balcony. I prefer a car accident or a dogcatcher. My
father had installed a safety net on the balcony. It was safe but I was still
afraid. Ulysses felt my fear. He wasn't smart, but he had a kind of emotional
intelligence. I think he had realised my autism; when I was twirling or
flapping my hands, Ulysses was wagging his tail.
Mom got me three more dogs;
she believed in «the more the merrier». We lived in a house full of barkings.
Ulysses was scarred. They bit him. I couldn't stand it; one day I started
screaming. They took me to the hospital and got me an injection to calm down. I
slept for three days in a row. I don't know what happened to Ulysses. I never
saw him again. I miss him till that day. For a little while I used to bark
instead of talking. If I had a tail, I'd wag it as well.
Ι wish I were a puppy. My ears are big and they stick out. Dogs with long
ears look so cute. But I'm still a human and I suffer. I got used to feeling so
devastated.
Being a canary would also suit
me. I love cages. I like being locked up behind bars; It feels safe. At home I
used to lock the doors; then I hid the keys. My mom was upset; the locksmith
was happy.
My parents never smacked me
for my weird behaviour. They only tried once but they were scared; at the first
slap I stretched my body like a stick and I gazed. They could neither hug me
nor hit me. Mom poured cold water on my face. I recovered, I became a typical
autistic again.
They got tired of me. That's
why I have no siblings. They wouldn't have been able to handle more autism. I
would like to have a brother though. I'd teach him to tear down nests without a
feeling of remorse. The secret is to pick the right stone. It takes a small,
slender and sharp rock. Stones are war weapons. It’s you and your stones on the
one side and the nest and the swallow on the other. Oh! I've said that before.
It happens to me often. I repeat myself. I repeat my life. Doctors call this
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. They have names for everything. Hands are upper
limbs, shits are excrement and I am a “case”.
Maybe a vet would be better
for me. After all, I like barking. Nobody expects much of a dog. You only have
to bite the bad guys, that's all.
When you are human, everything
is more complicated. For example, kissing confuses me; on my birthday, I kiss
all the guests. At funerals I kiss them all too, even the dead. The life of a
dog is more straightforward. I have never seen two dogs kissing each other or
shaking their legs. Those are human challenges. Lucky dogs. I feel like barking
a little; it soothes me down but I shouldn't do that. I'm not a kid anymore.
I will probably never become a
dog. Except for the case that I may exchange body and soul with a dog . Maybe I
am a dog's dream. I should tell it about my autism though; I don't want to
cheat on it. It will be transformed from a dog to an autistic man. It may not
be fair. Oh, these thoughts shouldn't calm me down. I should be afraid of
myself. I feel like my heart is
sweating.
When I went to second grade, I
didn't want to go into the classroom. The teacher seemed strict and harsh. I stayed
in the hallway crying and kicking the wall. Finally, they got me a shiny fish.
They put it on my desk and I agreed to come inside. While I was watching the
fish swim back and forth, the other kids exercised in Maths. Time was passing
by.
I was always sitting alone at
the last desk, against the wall: me and my fish. I carried the fishbowl with me
in the schoolyard during breaks. I wanted to count the scales of the fish. It
was impossible; the fish was swimming up and down incessantly. When I want to
measure something, I am too persistent. I took the fish out of the bowl. It
floundered until death. Then I started to count. I prefer a counted dead fish to
an uncounted alive.
Mom had told me that she used
to count sheep before sleeping. I never saw or heard any sheep in her bedroom.
For a short period, I was sitting outside her door bleating: baa, baa. That
went on for about a term, until finally, on a Christmas day, I thought they
would bake me. I was the prospective meal. Since then I refuse to taste a lamp.
I felt as if I would bite a bit of myself. Poor sheep, we wrap your intestines around
and we swallow them without shame.
I love lambs because they live
on herds. They sleep together, eat together and finally, they are being
slaughtered together. I want to join a herd of dark-haired autistic men. We
would do weird things together. We would mock the world. We would mock our
parents and our unborn siblings. Then we would all grow old together. Proud and
autistic, till death.
We are not all the same. Just
like dogs, there are breeds of us. I am in the mild one. How lucky! I speak, I
write, I can even dance. Some will never talk. I don't get involved with them.
They may bite you for no reason. I also do things for no reason but I don't
bite. They are autistic Bulldogs and I am an autistic Boston Terrier. I like
music and parfait ice-cream. I am a gentleman. During Carnival my mother
dressed me up as a marquis. I wanted to dress up as a Pelegrin. By this name, I
call the black pelicans. They don't exist, but if they existed, that would be
their name, Pelegrins. My mother didn't want to masquerade me in a bird
costume. She feared that I might jump out of the window. It's not right for
your child to fall out of the window wearing a Pelegrin costume. Of course,
before I crash, I would flap my fake wings happily. I think Icarus must have
been autistic. He had dressed up as a Pelegrin, as well. I've seen him in some
pictures. No doubt, he was just like a Pelegrin.
Chickens have wings, but they
can't fly, they are ground birds. One day dad decapitated a hen. She was
running headless. I have tried to unscrew my head.—a waste of time. My head is
well stuck. I would like to escape from my head sometimes. It's full of endless
thoughts and that upsets me. Hens are lucky. They can live -even for a while-
without their head.
Mom used to burn the hairs of the chicken
before cooking. Decapitation, defeathering, chopping; a lot of hassle just for
a bowl of homemade chicken soup. I wouldn't like to be a rooster. Every
morning, one of my mistresses would end up baked on a plate. There is permanent
mourning in the chicken coops. I would love to be a vegetarian but it is
dangerous. I take pills, so I have to eat meat. When I swallow meat, I close my
eyes. I can’t watch. I can’t swallow with my eyes open. I rarely function in
one piece. When I walk, I don't move my hands. When I lie down, I close my
ears. My body is confused.
One day I burned my eyelashes.
I like fire. When a forest is on fire, animals run away altogether: wolves next
to deer, rabbits next to foxes. I would like to become a fireman to see all the
animals in one herd. I would run next to them. Maybe I would be an honorary
rider-fireman. My horse would have a burnt tail and I would have burnt
eyelashes. We should not put out fires. They keep us united.
There was a fake fireplace in
our house. It wasn't really fake, but mom never lit a fire on it. She thought I
would get burnt. I liked going into the fireplace and looking at the chimney.
One day a swallow was trapped in the chimney. It was upset. I am not upset when
I am trapped or captured. On the contrary, I am upset when I feel free. I'm not
too fond of much space and fresh air. I would like to be tiny and live in a
matchbox for my whole life. When you are little, you can't have a huge illness.
Everything is small, little and few.
That's why I like ants. They
are tiny. What could possibly fit into such small creatures? Surely not a whole autism. Insects are
autism-free. I like counting things but not ants or stars. They are so many.
Once, I counted three thousand fifty-two ants. Then I felt drowsy; I closed my
ears and fell asleep. Mom counts sheep before sleeping.
I never saw my father asleep.
He always waited for me to sleep first. He is an honorary rider-dad. I wouldn’t change him for the swallow nests of the whole
world.
I don't remember my dad's
name; I always called him dad. My mother's name is Magdalena; I never called
her mom. Magdalena wanted another life, but she got trapped with an autistic
son, swallow nests, painted dogs and peeing fish.
Poor Magdalena. You should have abandoned me
earlier. Now your hair turned grey. No one will love you anymore. I can't hate
you. You gave birth to me. Childbirth is painful. Hens lay eggs, they don't
hurt that much. Magdalena, I'm sure you won't forget me. Goldfish memory spans
are a few seconds long, but you are not a goldfish.
Every other Saturday the bus
is here; we go on a day trip. Not all of us. Only those who were calm and took
their medication. You are calm when you sleep all night long without waking up
and you don't bother nurses and you shave your face every morning and you
always sit on the same spot in the dining hall. I don't know what my pills are
for, but I take them all: one blue, two white and one pink. At nights I take
the same pills without the pink one. I'm probably the most obedient here. One
of us never shaves his face. He is afraid of cutting his carotid. I don't know
what the carotid is. I tell him that if he cuts it, I'll bring him another one
from the grocery store. He still does not shave his face.
We always went to museums. In the
Byzantine museum, in the Archaeological, in the Military museum, then in the
Byzantine museum again, and so on. This Saturday we are going to the zoo. When
I was a kid, I thought that the zoo was an animal garden where we can plant
rabbits, deer and goldfinches; a gardener waters them and they grow becoming
normal blooming animals. One Saturday, dad had gone on a strike, so he didn’t
have to work and he took me to the zoo; I realized the truth: Deer with broken
antlers, obese bears, a tamed wolf, a few hungry ducks that were staring your
bread. All of them were being kept in cages, bored and sad. They were probably
under the influence of drugs. Me too, ever since I took the blue, the whites
and the pink, I have become bored and sad.
Every one of us, who has
autism, believes that everything remains the same. Therefore I expect that when
we go to the zoo, I will meet my dad. Τhese autistic expectations I hold, are usually not fulfilled but I continue
to hope until the truth comes out. Then I have a crisis. Maybe it would be
better if I didn’t go to the zoo. This way, I won't realize my dad's absence
and I won't have a crisis. But the social worker will take zoo photos and she
will pin them out of her office. I will be staring at them for hours, hoping senselessly to make out
my dad into them. Then I will have a crisis. There is only one solution: I must
hide the social worker's camera. Oh no, it's not a good idea. She will keep searching
for her camera, and I will start flapping my hands and she will realize that
I'm guilty so she will keep me off my cigarettes for a week.
In the past I had been
punished for feeding pigeons on the roof. They couldn't stand the bird poops.
What could I do? I can't make small toilets and teach the pigeons to use them.
They left me without my cigarettes for a
week. Another tenant provided me secretly from his stock. In return, I was
guarding his carotid. I don't know what the carotid is but I was guarding it.
He was giving me a cigarette every eight hours. Hard work but it was worth it.
I have always been always
afraid of our visiting the zoo. I knew that someday museums and their
repetitions would be over. Every Wednesday the social worker summons us and she
asks where we would like to go on the following Saturday trip. We always go
where she wants. We usually want to visit brothels and fast-food restaurants. They
finally take us to museums and we touch naked stone chicks. Not so bad. The
social worker’s son went on a school trip to the zoo. That’s how she decided that
it would be a good idea for us to do the same. I’d prefer the opposite: the zoo
should come to us. I would host an antelope in my room. I don't know what
antelopes are but their name reminds me of ancient Greek tragedy.
In Greece animals are short
and small. In Africa there are no zoo gardens but you can find big zoo parks:
elephants, giraffes, gorillas. After all, they can't fit King Kong in a simple
zoo cage. They need bigger zoo parks. I have never met an autistic person from
Africa. I wonder if people in Africa give birth to children or lay eggs. I have
never met any autistic Chinese as well, yet. Godzilla lives in China. In Greece
there are only brown bears and Caretta turtles and the same go on again and
again.
When I'm upset, the nurse makes
me watch animal-videos on tape. They are always the same: a zebra desperately
trying to save her child from a tiger, some grazing buffaloes, and two snails
fucking each other. Dad used to take me to the circus. He went on leave to take
me to the circus. When a circus left the town, we would follow it to the next
cities, to visit it again, until it was far away. Once, he had paid a clown to
let me ride an elephant. It's nice to touch the ears of an elephant. I also wanted
to ride a whale but whale skin is slippery.
My dad was killed in a car
accident. He fell asleep while he was driving. At his funeral I only kissed his
hand. Every bone on his face was broken. I don't want to say that he had fallen
asleep. I prefer claiming that his car crashed into a bend while he was trying
to avoid a squirrel. That way he becomes a hero. After my father's death my mom
put me in here.
Deep down, I know that Ι won't meet him at the zoo.
Dead people don't go to the zoo. My dad went to heaven. All fathers who have
autistic children go there.
I don't want to go to the zoo.
My dad is not there. I am bored with ordinary animals. It would be nice to
visit a garden where I could see Ulysses, the swallow nests that I hadn’t taken
down, the peed goldfish and the whale that I didn't ride. But there is not such
a garden. As I get older, I realize that there are things that do not actually exist.
I have to make up an excuse
for the Saturday excursion. I don't want to go to the fucking zoo. I can
pretend I am dead. Sounds good but If they think I am gone, no one will go to
the zoo. They will stay to mourn my loss. When one of us is dead, the social
worker tells us to cry. I cannot cry like that. On the contrary: I find it
funny that everyone wears black. They remind me of buffaloes.
All human beings look like a
specific animal. I look like a penguin; I like wearing black pants and a white
shirt. Animals do not need clothes; they were born dressed. I was born naked
and autistic.
It's Friday night. Tomorrow is Saturday. I
need to make a decision. Some tenants are lucky: Every Saturday, their
relatives come to visit or pick them up. I don't really care about tomorrow but
I need to think about something to calm me down and get to sleep. Mom used to
count sheep to sleep. If I don't sleep, I will wrinkle the bedsheets. I have to
keep them in place or else they can be tangled up around my neck. It's not cool
to die suffocating by a sheet.
I could ask the nurse to give
me a sleeping pill but I shouldn't disturb her at such a late hour. My roommate
-the one with the carotid- has been sleeping for some time. He thinks I am
awake every night to guard his carotid. My father did not sleep until I was
asleep. When he died, they told me he was sleeping deeply. I went to his grave
and I heard no snores. Here, I have to snore even if I'm awake. Otherwise, the
nurse will come and ask me why I'm still awake.
Τhe most beautiful moments of my childhood were just before I fell asleep:
my autism thought Ι was sleeping and left me alone. But I was still awake, just for a moment!
At this precious moment, my father was standing next to my bed, and I smiled at
him.
This night I will count sheep
for the first time. It’s probably the only way to fall asleep. I need to think
about their colour, their weight, their bleating sound. I don't want to count
snow-white sheep. I'll put a black mark on their face. I want them to be quiet,
I can't sleep, if they are bleating: baa baa, it will be a disaster! I want
silent, black and white sheep—the best breed for a good night’s deep, safe
sleep. I never asked my mother about her sheep. She was a bit of a coquette:
her sheep would surely have a bell on their neck. I want mine to jump
over a fence: a short wooden one, just for the case. I want all of my sheep to
be able to pass it over.
Oh, it's so silly to insist on
jumping fences. After all, sheep are usually fat and slow. It may be better to
count hares or goats. I prefer counting yawning sheep; it might be more
relaxing. I don't know if a sheep can yawn. Anyway I'll try with the ordinary
sheep and we'll see. After all, sheep wouldn't have been so popular if, they
weren't effective.
I would simply want them to carry a little swallow
on their backs.
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This monologue is the English
version of the Greek piece "Ιδρώνει η καρδιά μου" (My heart
is sweating). It is the last chapter of the book "Μην κλαις, ρε Γοργόνα!" (Don't cry, you Μermaid!)-
Gavriilidis, ed. 2017
Author: Panayiotis
Gouveris
https://gavrielidesbooks.gr/books/min-klais-re-gorgona/
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With Red Swallow-Patterned Wallpaper, 1915 by Alexej von Jawlensky
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