Τρίτη, 22 Φεβρουαρίου 2011

Ο Νίκος Παπανδρέου είναι αυτός που λέει ο ίδιος ότι είναι "ψυχάκιας"


Παραδέχεται ότι έχει ψυχωτικές εμμονές και τικ που θα τον συνοδεύουν μέχρι το τέλος!!!
Το καλύτερο βέβαια είναι αυτό με το καρούμπαλο επειδή χτύπαγε το κεφάλι του στον τοίχο...

και το ότι παρομοίαζε, όταν ήταν μικροί, τον ΓΑΠ με τον Lewis
Διαβάστε τα στα αγγλικά όπως τα έγραψε για το περιοδικό The Threepenny Review τον χειμώνα του 1999:

At the age of two I'd developed a callus on my soft bald skull because I rocked on my knees and butted my head against the wall. A doctor told my mother the reason for my head-butting was that I didn't like to abandon the day, I didn't want to be put away from the adult world. Maybe there's more, he told her, but it was too early to tell. Leave that to the cognitive stage. By eight I developed the first signs of what another doctor called compulsive behavior, things like jabbing my index fingernails into the cuticle of my thumbs, pinching the skin in the middle my chest, lifting my shoulders, bloating my cheeks, clacking my teeth together, raising my eyebrows, opening my eyes wide, crossing and uncrossing my fingers, and stepping on cracks. I found special satisfaction in stepping in the place where the doorframe met the floor, where the vertical line crossed the horizontal...

At night my older brother, George, who at fourteen looked more like Jerry Lewis than the son of a Greek politician, would lie down across the base of my bed and recite his homework and then, while still reciting, would suddenly yawn, close his eyes, gently rest his head on the bed, and doze...

It was during those forced siestas(in Greece) that I perfected my compulsions. I catalogued them. If I discovered that one of them had disappeared, I would substitute another for it. I discovered I could create new routines through the repetition of any action ten times in a row. Something irresistible about looking at the ceiling and getting stuck with that motion for the next six months, something seductive about crossing your eyes the way your mother has told you not to, with the full knowledge that you'll be saddled with that habit and all its parental ramifications. I never ran out of new routines when the old ones died away. Here are some: purse your nostrils like a rabbit sniffing, stick out your lips like you're about to give someone a big cartoon-like puckery kiss, lift your eyebrows, fake a hard smile. Performed in concert, the full repertoire of sounds and motions was an appalling thing to behold.

For people behind me, passing through a doorway meant waiting for me to push the side of my shoe into the part where the doorframe joined the floor. A missed crack in the stone, a missed kick against the door frame joint and I felt incomplete, unfinished. I overheard my older brother, George, telling a friend he wondered what it was like to be me. That my mind thought in a weird way and didn't let me sleep. That I had a perpetual motion face. He might last being me for three minutes, George said, but not longer. I was proud my older brother had even considered the possibility...

By accident I learned to make a sound that only dogs could hear. I was playing around with our dog Gilda, growling at her to see if she would bark back at me, when for no reason I closed my mouth and pushed up air from the base of my throat without opening my mouth. I didn't hear anything but apparently Gilda did. She flipped her ears back, looked at me, and whimpered. I tried this same thing on other dogs and received the same reaction: the ears flipped back, the animal barked or it retreated, tail between its legs. A coup of a sound. Whenever someone came over with his dog I could make it run away or bark without anybody being able to point an accusing finger at me...

The night of the Greek coup, in April of 1967, when soldiers and tanks arrived at our doorstep to snatch my father— his strident calls for social justice irked the powers-that-be— I stood on the balcony and imitated the siren of a police car, thinking that this might scare them away...

The grass was wet. I slipped. Nothing so tragic in that. I landed on my back. My hands went up into the air for balance and I pulled the lawn mower in my direction. Over my foot. I heard the spinning blade whine, whiz, and whirr and suddenly— thunk!— the Procrustean propeller chortled red and I felt a searing emptiness and saw frayed jagged bone protrude from the end of my left foot, the torn flesh hanging from it....And then I was lying down, my foot up in the air, all bandaged up. The doctors said I was lucky the lawnmower hadn't taken more. Two toes, part of the foot.

Τι άλλο να προσθέσουμε; Δεν χρειάζεται τίποτα νομίζω...

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