Ἀ­λέ­ξαν­δρος Γραμ­μα­τι­κός: Μί­α πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα πα­ρα­κα­λῶ



Ἀ­λέ­ξαν­δρος Γραμ­μα­τι­κός


Μί­α πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα πα­ρα­κα­λῶ


ΤΟΥΣ ΠΑΡΑΚΟΛΟΥΘΩ προ­σε­κτι­κά. Αὐ­τιὰ τεν­τω­μέ­να, μά­τια ὀρ­θά­νοι­χτα. Μ’ ὅ­λες τὶς αἰ­σθή­σεις. Εὐ­αί­σθη­το θέ­μα, κρέ­μο­μαι ἀ­π’ τὰ χεί­λη τους, εἶ­ναι εἰ­δι­κοί. Κα­λε­σμέ­νοι σὲ τη­λε­ο­πτι­κὴ ἐκ­πομ­πή, συ­ζη­τοῦν γιὰ τὴν ψυ­χο­λο­γί­α τῶν νέ­ων στὶς μέ­ρες μας. Ἀν­τι­με­τω­πί­ζουν πολ­λοὺς κιν­δύ­νους. Εἶ­ναι ἐγ­κλω­βι­σμέ­νοι στὴν εἰ­κο­νι­κὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα τῆς τε­χνο­λο­γί­ας. Ἴν­τερ­νετ, ἀ­δη­φά­γο σερ­φά­ρι­σμα, παι­χνί­δια τρισ­δι­ά­στα­τα, κοι­νω­νι­κὰ δί­κτυ­α. Μέ­σα σ’ ὅ­λα, μέ­σα ζων­τα­νά. Δυ­σκο­λεύ­ον­ται ὅ­μως νὰ δρά­σουν μέ­σα στὴν ἴ­δια τὴν πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα.

       Στὸ πά­νελ κι ἕ­νας ἀν­τι­δρα­στι­κός, ἀμ­φι­σβη­τί­ας. Ἕ­νας γο­νιός, μὴ κα­ταρ­τι­σμέ­νος ἐ­πι­στη­μο­νι­κά. Ὀ­νο­μά­ζει τὴν ἴ­δια τὴν πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα, φαι­νο­με­νι­κή. Μι­λά­ει γιὰ τὴ ζω­ή του, τοῦ φαί­νε­ται σὰν κά­τι νὰ κρύ­βε­ται. Σὰ νὰ τὴ χά­νει. Τὸ πά­νελ μει­διᾶ. Συ­νε­χί­ζει, μὲ τράκ. Βι­ώ­νου­με τὸ εὔ­κο­λο πρῶ­το πλά­νο, αὐ­τὸ ποὺ ἐ­ξυ­πη­ρε­τεῖ τοὺς εἰ­κο­νι­κοὺς σκη­νο­θέ­τες τῆς ζω­ῆς, αὐ­τοὺς ποὺ πα­ρα­πλα­νοῦν ἠ­θο­ποι­ούς, πά­σης κα­τη­γο­ρί­ας θε­α­τὲς κι ἄλ­λους συν­τε­λε­στές. Χρει­ά­ζε­ται ἀ­δι­ά­κο­πη προ­σπά­θεια, ἐ­ξάν­τλη­ση ὅ­λων τῶν χρο­νι­κῶν πε­ρι­θω­ρί­ων, γιὰ νὰ γνω­ρί­σεις τὸν συ­νάν­θρω­πο, νὰ ἐμ­βα­θύ­νεις, νὰ ἀν­τι­λη­φθεῖς. Νὰ φτά­σεις στὸ με­δού­λι. Τὸ ἴ­διο καὶ γιὰ τὴ ζω­ή. Ὅ­σα καὶ νὰ φα­νε­ρώ­νεις ἀ­πὸ δαύ­τη, θὰ συ­νε­χί­ζει νὰ κρύ­βε­ται κι ἐ­σὺ νὰ προ­σπα­θεῖς μπᾶς καὶ κα­τα­λά­βεις τί κα­πνὸ φου­μά­ρει. Χω­ρὶς νὰ εἶ­σαι πο­τὲ σί­γου­ρος γιὰ τὴν κρί­ση σου, τὸ ἀ­πο­τέ­λε­σμα τῆς προ­σπά­θειάς σου. Γιὰ ὅ­λους καὶ ὅ­λα. Τὸ πά­νελ μει­διᾶ. Ἐ­κεῖ­νος μὲ κόκ­κι­να μά­γου­λα, πρώ­τη φο­ρὰ στὸ τη­λε­ο­πτι­κὸ το­πί­ο.

       Κα­λού­τσι­κος. Δι­ά­βα­ζα τὶς προ­άλ­λες σ’ ἕ­να βι­βλί­ο ἀ­στρο­φυ­σι­κῆς ὅ­τι τὸ φῶς ποὺ βλέ­που­με ἀ­πὸ κά­θε ἀ­στέ­ρι εἶ­ναι πα­ρελ­θόν­τος χρό­νου. Πολ­λὰ βρί­σκον­ται ἑ­κα­τομ­μύ­ρια ἔ­τη φω­τὸς μα­κριά μας. Πα­ρὰ τὴν τα­χύ­τη­τα τοῦ φω­τὸς μὲ τὴν ὁ­ποί­α τα­ξι­δεύ­ει ἡ λάμ­ψη τους ἐ­μεῖς τὴν βλέ­που­με τώ­ρα. Ἡ λάμ­ψη αὐ­τὴ μπο­ρεῖ νὰ δη­λώ­νει ὅ­τι πράγ­μα­τι ζοῦν. Μπο­ρεῖ καὶ ὄ­χι. Βλέ­που­με, στὸ πα­ρόν, τὸ φῶς ἀ­πὸ τὸ πα­ρελ­θόν τους ποὺ τα­ξι­δεύ­ει στὸ μέλ­λον, χω­ρὶς νὰ εἴ­μα­στε σί­γου­ροι σὲ τί κα­τά­στα­ση βρί­σκον­ται αὐ­τὴ τὴ στιγ­μὴ καὶ πι­θα­νὸν νὰ μὴν τὸ μά­θου­με πο­τέ. Εἶ­ναι καὶ τὰ πε­φτα­στέ­ρια. Γι­νό­μα­στε θι­α­σῶ­τες τῆς στιγ­μῆς ποὺ σβή­νουν, χω­ρὶς νὰ γνω­ρί­ζου­με τὴ χρο­νι­κὴ στιγ­μὴ τοῦ θα­νά­του τους.

       Μπέρ­δε­μα. Οἱ εἰ­δι­κοὶ ψυ­χο­λό­γοι μι­λοῦν γιὰ τὴν εἰ­κο­νι­κὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα τῆς τε­χνο­λο­γί­ας, ποὺ ἐγ­κλω­βί­ζει τοὺς νέ­ους. Οἱ ἐ­πι­στή­μο­νες τῆς ἑρ­μη­νεί­ας τοῦ σύμ­παν­τος μᾶς ἐ­νη­με­ρώ­νουν ὅ­τι αὐ­τὸ ποὺ φαί­νε­ται δὲν εἶ­ναι σὲ πραγ­μα­τι­κὸ χρό­νο, ὅ­τι ἡ δρά­ση στὴν τρέ­χου­σα πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα ὑ­πο­δη­λώ­νει μιὰ φαι­νο­με­νι­κὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα. Ἐ­πα­λη­θεύ­ε­ται ὁ ἀν­τι­δρα­στι­κός; Συμ­βαί­νει κά­τι ἄλ­λο; Μή­πως δι­α­φεύ­γει, γιὰ κά­ποι­ους λό­γους, μιὰ λαν­θά­νου­σα πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα;

       Μᾶς λέ­νε, δη­λα­δή, ὅ­τι ἂν ὁ ἄν­θρω­πος κα­τοι­κή­σει τώ­ρα σὲ ἄλ­λους πλα­νῆ­τες καὶ προ­σπα­θή­σει ἀ­πὸ ἐ­κεῖ νὰ με­λε­τή­σει τὸ φῶς τῆς γῆς καὶ τῶν νέ­ων της, θὰ λά­βει μιὰ πλα­σμα­τι­κὴ εἰ­κό­να. Ἔ­τσι, ἡ εἰ­κο­νι­κὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα, μέ­σα στὴν ὁ­ποί­α οἱ εἰ­δι­κοὶ ὑ­πο­στη­ρί­ζουν ὅ­τι ζοῦν οἱ νέ­οι σή­με­ρα, θὰ εἶ­ναι ἡ ἐ­πι­κρα­τοῦ­σα πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα. Θὰ εἶ­ναι μιὰ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα ποὺ θὰ τὴ βλέ­πουν στὸ μέλ­λον ἀ­πὸ ἄλ­λους πλα­νῆ­τες δί­χως, ὅ­μως, νὰ ἐμ­φα­νί­ζον­ται μα­ζὶ καὶ οἱ συ­νέ­πει­ες τῶν πρά­ξε­ων τῶν νέ­ων τοῦ δι­κοῦ μας πλα­νή­τη. Μή­πως οἱ νέ­οι δι­αι­σθά­νον­ται ἢ γνω­ρί­ζουν κά­τι πα­ρα­πά­νω;

       Πῶς νὰ μὴ μπερ­δέ­ψουν οἱ ἐ­πι­στή­μο­νες ὄ­χι μό­νο τοὺς νέ­ους ἀλ­λὰ ὅ­λους; Ἂς ἀ­πευ­θυν­θοῦ­με κα­λύ­τε­ρα στοὺς εἰ­δι­κούς, ποὺ γνω­ρί­ζουν ἄ­ρι­στα τὴν ψυ­χο­λο­γί­α νέ­ων, ἐ­φή­βων καὶ παι­δι­ῶν. Ἂς συμ­με­ρι­στοῦ­με τὴν ἀ­λη­θι­νή, ἐ­πι­στη­μο­νι­κή, θλι­βε­ρή τους δι­α­πί­στω­ση, ὅ­πως τὴν δι­α­τυ­πώ­νουν, τώ­ρα δά, μέ­σα ἀ­πὸ τὴν τη­λε­ο­πτι­κὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα, ὅ­τι οἱ νέ­οι βι­ώ­νουν τὴν εἰ­κο­νι­κὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα.

       Μό­λις, ὅ­μως, ἐμ­φα­νί­στη­κε ἕ­νας κα­θη­γη­τὴς πα­νε­πι­στη­μί­ου σὲ ἄλ­λη ἐκ­πομ­πή. Λέ­ει ὅ­τι ἐ­μεῖς, τὰ τα­πει­νὰ ὄν­τα, ποὺ ἀν­τι­λαμ­βα­νό­μα­στε μὲ τὶς αἰ­σθή­σεις μό­νο τὸ τρισ­δι­ά­στα­το σύμ­παν, γιὰ νὰ μπο­ρέ­σου­με νὰ ἐ­πω­φε­λη­θοῦ­με τῶν πλε­ο­νε­κτη­μά­των τῆς τα­χύ­τη­τας τοῦ φω­τὸς καὶ νὰ κι­νη­θοῦ­με ἀ­νά­λο­γα, θὰ πρέ­πει πρῶ­τα ἐ­μεῖς οἱ ἴ­διοι νὰ γί­νου­με φῶς. Αὐ­τό, μὲ τὰ πολ­λὰ χρώ­μα­τα. Μπλέ, πρά­σι­νο, Κόκ­κι­νο. Ἀ­γα­πῶ τοὺς ἀ­στρο­φυ­σι­κούς. Τὶς ἐ­πι­στῆ­μες ποὺ ἀ­σχο­λοῦν­ται μὲ τὴν ἑρ­μη­νεί­α τοῦ σύμ­παν­τος. Εἶ­ναι σὰν πα­ρα­μύ­θι. Ἀ­πὸ μι­κρὸς ἤ­θε­λα κι ἐ­γὼ νὰ ἀ­σχο­λη­θῶ, δὲν τὰ κα­τά­φε­ρα. Ἐλ­πί­ζω νὰ γνω­ρί­σω κά­ποι­ον ἀ­πὸ κον­τά. Νὰ τοῦ πῶ γιὰ τὰ τα­ξί­δια τοῦ νοῦ ποὺ μοῦ χα­ρί­ζει. Νὰ τοῦ πῶ πὼς ἐλ­πί­ζω κι ἐ­γὼ σὲ μιὰ φω­τει­νὴ πραγ­μα­τι­κό­τη­τα. Τὴν πε­ρί­με­να πῶς καὶ πῶς κι ἐ­ξα­κο­λου­θῶ νὰ τὴν προ­σμέ­νω, πί­νον­τας τὸ πρω­ι­νό μου κα­φε­δά­κι, δου­λεύ­ον­τας, πη­γαί­νον­τας τὰ παι­διὰ στὸ σχο­λεῖ­ο, κά­νον­τας βόλ­τες μα­ζί τους στὴ θά­λασ­σα καὶ στὸ βου­νό, βγά­ζον­τας βόλ­τα τὸ σκύ­λο, παί­ζον­τας παι­χνί­δια τε­χνο­λο­γί­ας, σερ­φά­ρον­τας στὸ ἴν­τερ­νετ καὶ σχο­λι­ά­ζον­τας στὰ κοι­νω­νι­κὰ δί­κτυ­α, δι­α­βά­ζον­τας πα­ρα­μύ­θια, συ­ζη­τών­τας ἄλ­λο­τε γιὰ τὸ σά­κο καὶ τὰ ἀ­θλη­τι­κὰ πα­πού­τσια ποὺ ἤ­θε­λαν νὰ τοὺς ἀ­γο­ρά­σω καὶ τώ­ρα γιὰ τὶς σπου­δές τους, λέ­γον­τάς τους πό­σο πο­λύ τα ἀ­γα­πῶ, τὴν προ­σμέ­νω πνιγ­μέ­νος στὰ φι­λιά τους. Κι ὅ­σο πιὸ πο­λὺ μὲ φι­λοῦν τό­σο πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρο μοῦ θυ­μί­ζουν ὅ­τι δὲ θέ­λουν νὰ χά­σουν τὸ φῶς τους. Εἶ­ναι ἀ­γρί­μια, ἀν­τι­δροῦν. Σὲ ὅ­λα. Γιὰ νὰ μὴν ἐ­ξη­με­ρω­θοῦν. Γιὰ νὰ μὴ χά­σουν τὸ φῶς τους. Κι ὅ­σο πιὸ πο­λὺ μὲ φι­λοῦν τό­σο πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρο βυ­θί­ζο­μαι μέ­σα τους. Μοῦ θυ­μί­ζουν τὸ δι­κό μου παι­δι­κὸ φῶς. Μοῦ θυ­μί­ζουν τί πρέ­πει ν’ ἀλ­λά­ξω.



Πη­γή: Πρώ­τη δη­μο­σί­ευ­ση

Ἀ­λέ­ξαν­δρος Γραμ­μα­τι­κὸς (Θεσ­σα­λο­νί­κη, 1969). Σπού­δα­σε οἰ­κο­νο­μι­κὰ στὸ ΑΠΘ κι ἔ­κα­νε με­τα­πτυ­χια­κὸ στὴν Ἀγ­γλί­α. Ἐρ­γά­ζε­ται στὸ χῶ­ρο τῆς ἐ­πι­κοι­νω­νί­ας καὶ τῆς δι­α­φή­μι­σης. Πρῶ­το του βι­βλί­ο: Λά­θρα Beach καὶ ἄλ­λα δι­η­γή­μα­τα (Ἐκ­δ. Νη­σί­δες, 2009).


		
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Naya Koutroumani: Underground



Naya Koutroumani


Underground

 

IT WAS AFTER FIVE when they buried me. I tried to breathe deeply, but dirt covered me and I sank into darkness. Then it started raining. The water dripped all over me, around me, inside me. It talked: ‘Don’t worry. Soon you’ll see the light again.’

       Yeah! Sure. I didn’t need such kindness. They stuffed me inside a tomb, with no way to deal with that unbearable silence. Did I say silence? No. Not silence. When sight became obsolete, my ears started picking up sounds. There was a lot going on in there. First, an endless tramping of millions of ants digging catacombs, carrying loot, satisfying the queen. Then it was the hissing. Devouring worms trying to spot me. There was also something else which I couldn’t make out. Something was happening right inside of me. A kind of intestine swelling. My skin being torn apart. A disease of the darkness.

       Every day I heard voices coming from the world above the ground. They stamped on my grave with their heavy galoshes and laughed. Pigs! I’d like to see them in my place. My only relief was when rain soaked the ground, refreshing my bones, making me feel alive. Its voice became a balsam to my painful existence:

       ‘Soon now. You’re going to see the light in a few days.’

       During the endless hours debating with myself, I was wondering what the hell did I do to deserve such punishment. Even if I was a murderer, they would have given me the electric chair and everything would be over in a minute. But this torture was to last forever. There was no sense of time inside the bowels of the earth.

       Suddenly, I heard a girl screaming. Another soul had been buried there. I think even deeper. I suppose I should thank God, for there was worse.

       ‘Is anybody there?’ I yelled. ‘Do you hear me? Are you buried in here too?’

       A strangled sigh. I stretched my ears.

       ‘Help!’ I heard a woman crying clearly now: ‘Is anybody there?’

       ‘Yes! I can hear you!’ My heart filled with joy. ‘You’re not alone. I’m down here too. Next to you!’ And that next to you gave me the power to live. Because now I had to be strong for  her.

       ‘My skin,’ she cried. ‘It’s cracking open!’

       ‘Don’t worry! It happens. You have to be patient. I heard that in a couple of days we’ll be out of here.’

       I tried to make my voice soothing and convince myself the rumours were true. ‘The only thing you need to do is try to move as little as possible. Don’t let the worms feel you’re here. Do you understand? It’s just a matter of time. Try to hold on.’

       I knew I had given her hope. She wasn’t crying anymore. How I wish I could see her. Hold her tight against my body. But the ground was thick and I was weak. The rain, my redeemer, fell on me. ‘Tomorrow,’ it whispered. ‘You’re out tomorrow.’

       I wished it was right. ‘Will the girl come out too?’ I shouted, but there was no answer. Only dripping.

       ‘Do you hear me?’ I yelled to her. ‘We’ll be out of here by tomorrow!’

       There was no response. Just a sound coming right out of hell’s jaws. Worms were eating something or someone on my left.

       It wasn’t fair. I couldn’t lose my best friend like that. I bit myself hard, bones and muscles hurt, and I let out a scream that froze the pigs’ laughter aboveground, I’m sure. My body opened up like a ripe melon. Green stuff came out of my skin and moved straight up. Was I dying? I tore up the layer separating dirt from sky and burst out in the sunlight. Barely. But I could breathe the air again.

       A hand touched me. ‘Look, Dad! Here comes the first bean!’

       Oh my God! I was a bean. I was never going to walk, love, go to school. Never get married or have a dog or a car or spend lazy Sunday mornings reading my newspaper in the livingroom.

       I gazed at the open fields. The other beans would spring out any minute now. Except for the bean on my left. She didn’t have the chance. At least, I thought, she died without knowing. Who knows? Maybe she was the luckiest of us all.



Source: First published on the blog Bonsai Stories (October 25, 2010).

Naya Koutroumani (Athens, 1963). Writes stories for advertising and for herself. Some of the latter have been published in literary magazines like Planodion, Diastixo and The Books Journal. She is about to take the plunge with a collection of short stories.

Translated from the Greek by the author.