re: Modern Morality

a twice-monthly blend of music, linguistics, inquisitions, & personal stories, shipped from my Fahrschule-Tisch in Berlin

Are we in the same room right now?

Wouldn’t that be neat. It’s highly possible given you are receiving this at the tail end of the event I mentioned in my last post. I offer you a hug. I intend to offer myself a beer after a rare on-stage reading, as many who know my work are aware that I highly prefer to plan for the written medium. The author’s note of my first self-published collection of poems, in fact, speaks to this, stating:

As a non-believer I have not the language to explain these works. My entire self was needed solely to create the portal. Indeed, there are stories, flashes of memories, indications of where I was when scribbling down a particular idea, but the meaning is up to you. How have you navigated my towing of the line between freneticness and indecision? What has it said to you that I cannot hear? I above all thank you sincerely for picking up this collection of words, those which are, in my belief, far better experienced on the page than any stage. Despite loving encouragement from friends at open mics like Berlin Spoken Word and Re(a)d Wedding, the majority of these have never been read out loud. This is not to say they cannot or shouldn’t be – I’d encourage you to, if you connect with any of them that deeply – but rather that my joys of creation lie cozily in solace, not theatre. I seek the capturing of my own secret whispers to share them in equal intimacy.

I hope to hand you a copy of that collection someday. For now, let’s have a read of what brought me back to the stage this evening. If you witnessed it read aloud, I look forward to how the layout will strike you within the limitations of Substack.

STA-DOPOULO** (re: Modern Morality)

You’re right not to
guess
that this reader before you
was raised in a Greek Orthodox Church. Not
to say
I may
not
reflect i-
ts moral framework,
we’re all, after
all, mixtures of liturgies,
breathing in
societies who need us as their vital oxygen cells, yet most of us clot, (p)respiring in the most holy fear of changing one’s mind.
I feel so-
              mething, therefore it is. A
       phantasm, they call that.
The modern method with
no testaments be-
sides permission to
leverage the prism’s
refractions to suit
your current needs.

                     Why change my mind,
                     when I can change
                     the perception of fact?

When the flames
ceased breath in 1871, leaving a lakeside city lap(p/s)ing, Chicago would become flooded by eager men* with last names so long the port workers would start
missing the Germans.
Konstandopoulos,
my great grandfather’s, was one such too-long name immediately changed upon arrival. On January 28th, 1903, slashed
were 8 of the 15 letters, two
more would soon, too,
go.
This was his first
naturalization test. Of
what we would change for our
light to be allowed through the gate.

The gates and innards of the Greek Church are embellished to the point that any passerby would submit to its glistenings. Ornate passageways
licked by intrepid open
flames, choirs choraling
closer to the domed ceiling
than the gold-painted icons
placed so thoughtfully throughout our holy space. Windows to heaven, they call them. Cloudgate.

I loved that holy space, though
my being
there then now
leaves little to re-
call in
terms of practical lessons
& ways of being.
I kissed every window to heaven.
I devoured Galaktoboureko
to chase cinnamon-spiced beef
& with fingers sticky I basked
in the influence of spaced repetition,
the holy spirit stuttered
in Byzantine chants
from the lips of
persisting immigrants.

                     Let us be attentive.
                     Oh, to languish
                     in( )sola(n)ce
                     & through the
                     morality of old...

Today’s opinions of this institution are mixed, or-
biting about our charred cities. & while I look
back on my being
raised there with wonder, the long services counterpointed by microtonality,
the seat discomfort off-
                     set
by the smell of incense, the conservatism of orthodoxy’s morality washed clean by a language still largely foreign to me, I be-
come attentive. I
think now of how
that which most resembles church  to me might be where we now gather.
Are your seats comfortable?
Am I in tune?
Smell or kiss an object.
Gaze into the eyes of a painted figure.
Will you bring a lesson
home and how
long will it take for any of us to misapply its teachings?
To selectively choose who is worthy of being a character in our bibles?

Let us be attentive to where morality may root, sp(r)out, sp(l)i(n)t(er)  in an ever-more
secular world. Who will you go to when you are stumped, in need of propagating? Can it be that, like so many national flags, each religion committed to (a) tradition will find themselves trans-
lated to bigotry, us left
unwilling, able to
claim them, nor be moved by their gospel?

Let us be attentive. I equally bask in an increasingly-secular world as I did absorbing the services of the Greek church, yet I am nonetheless left Presbyter-less. With a twice-shortened Greek last name, whose story is set to disappear entirely less I sustain it.

*Men is used here to reflect the demographics of the earliest immigrants. According to one source, the first Greek woman on record did not arrive until 1885.

**Reflecting the letters removed from my grandfather’s last name over time, which I’m now considering as my musical project’s name. The name later went from Kokinis to Konos.

A Berlin event to support & enjoy

One more time! This coming Monday make three zine / book launches in about six weeks which I’ve had the pleasure to be a part of. I leave Berlin for two-ish months right after, so please come by if you can. More info here.

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