Liberis Golfinopoulos
Liberis GolfinopoulosLiberis Illustrations
GaLLeRY1  2  3  4
WOrDS   tHinGS
“I have things in my head that are not like what anyone has taught me.”  - GEORGIA O'KEEFE


    Impressive the city, it sprawls out passionately against a backdrop of sky. Touching its edges harshly at places gently at others. Its variety a wonder, its order welcome. The city, beneath us, around us, and above.

    Enough to drive one insane. Itching inside your head, needing relief. Moisture collecting on your skin. Clothing clinging, prickly beneath your feet. Where is the wind?  Thick heat. Dense. The wind comes heavy, thickened by the sun. Shifting, stale, slowly, invisible. Touching, steamy frustration. Shuffles silently, a woolen blanket, itching skin, sweating. Changing the asphalt, liquid and soft. Iron absorbs, hot to touch. Reflections off glass, down through the leaves, rustling and changing the shadows they leave. The moisture inside those leaves must be cool. Absorbed in the night to refresh. The wind passes through those leaves up above, it emerges slightly cooler but only for a bit until the sun greets and steams it again. Relief only lasts but a moment. Was it really?

    The sun sets lower and shadows cast longer as winter approaches. Bundled they move, faster now for the chill finds them. No longer lingering with the length of the day. It invites a quicker pace. Warmth diminishing as the light dims, the streets become barren. Crisp winds snap, through empty branches whistling remorse and loneliness. They huddle in the darkness, shuffling between dim morning and blackened night. Depression.
    The snowflakes come. Silently. Gently landing in clusters, glistening in the blue light. Precious. Unique. In corners they gather and on the cold grass. Summoning courage to land on the sidewalk. Then you are walking on it, powdery and soft while it sticks to your eyelashes and tickles your nose. The blanket is clean covering all. Now crunching beneath you as you walk along. Your trail quickly covered, thicker than before. Daylight fades, the snow glistens blue. Harder to walk on, it barely gives, beautiful and shiny, dangerous too.

about beauty

    Perfection is not beautiful. Perfection is easy. A mathematical formula; an assembly line turning out dolls all exactly the same, without tolerance for variation.  That is not beauty. Elusive, ever changing and impossible to reproduce, our differences make us each unique and uniquely beautiful.

    When you breathe, your smile, the way you walk or laugh. Your taste, your sound, when you giggle or sigh. The tears you cry, when you twitch your nose or put your hand over mine as I drive. It's all these things and countless more that come together in a symphony that is you -
truly, effortlessly, always, beautiful...

a smile

    Sometimes a smile is all that one sees. It penetrates the surface it allows one to breathe. Its a show of affection, it shows you are pleased. It harbors tranquility as gentle as a breeze. A storm could be brewing and no one could tell. You hide it beneath there, you hide it so well. Until it emerges and snaps like a whip. The smile then is deceiving as it curls on your lip. No longer a smile of affection -
now ready to kill.

deceptively dapper
    Deceptively dapper he stands prim and tall. They look and imagine the life he might lead, the things he must see. Adjusting his collar and fixing his hair as if an imaginary mirror stands where he stares. They look at him longing, wish he were them and they were there or at least with him somewhere.
    His grammar is perfect they know without hearing a word. He must possess etiquette impeccable and stature to spare. All this they surmise from a brief glimpse in the eyes of this deceptively dapper young man parading in front of them, aware of their needs.
    They need someone like him to aspire to and hope. He has already made it as far as he will go. An empty shell, an object for others to fill, for others to use as they will.


             no breath

         so eloquent and vain she waits
           alone and saddened once again
           he looks at her and shakes his head
           not knowing what to make of it

           life can be a real mistake
           it leaves you with no breath to take

           gargantuan the task at hand
           to cling to life by only a strand
           a rhythm felt inside oneself
           of drums that beat a restless chord
           that lie awake and yearn for more
           and leave the soul without defense
           from far away to yesterday
           the pain inflicted never sways
           it keeps appearing, quite a test
           without hope it lasts and then

           life can be a real mistake
           it leaves you with no breath to take

           come out and play once more with me
           I promise not to run away
           remember when we used to laugh
           all the fun that we once had
           in time we failed I'm sure, or not

           life can be a real mistake
           it leaves you with no breath to take

very special animals

    On a farm there are these pigs. They wallow in the mud and play with their friends. The farmer comes out everyday without fail to feed them slop. He feeds them morning, noon and night. He feeds them as much as they want, until their bellies are practically bursting. If a pig gets sick he takes it aside and nurses it back to health. The pigs do nothing but laugh and play with their friends all day, amazed at their good fortune.
   The horses on the farm work all day plowing the fields and pulling carts for their feed. The dogs also work hard for their food, herding sheep and guarding the house.
   "How can the farmer afford to  feed and tirelessly care for us without ever asking us to do an ounce of work?" The pigs sometimes think to themselves. "We must be very special animals and the farmer must be a kind and benevolent man."

"If you are wondering what the product is,
      YOU might be the product."

imagine a man
    Imagine there is a man. He lives in a small village at the top of a mountain with his wife and children. He works hard to provide for his family.  He does not cheat, lie, steal or cause harm. He is loving and respectful to his wife, kind and nurturing to his children, always helpful and supportive of his friends and neighbors.
    He lives a long and satisfying life without ever being exposed to any religion. What becomes of this man after he dies?

   Imagine the same man, same exact situation - with one slight difference: One day, in the middle of his life, there is a knock at his door. Outside is a missionary who asks him if he would allow religion into his life. The man politely declines. The missionary leaves.
   The man never gives the incident another thought. He goes on to live a long and full life. What becomes of this man after he dies?