Ranters = ;

[Theseus]

Who is o δύτης των νιπτήρων; He appears in several places, as, for example, here:-
https://dytistonniptiron.wordpress.com/about/

Here is the text:-

Ο δύτης; των νιπτήρων;!


Εγώ ο μισοκοιμισμένος δύτης των νιπτήρων

…ξυπνάς με τα υπολείμματα του παραδείσου που μισοείδες στο όνειρο να κρέμονται πάνω σου σαν τα μαλλιά ενός πνιγμένου: τρομαχτική ναυτία, άγχος, μια αίσθηση του επισφαλούς, του ψεύτικου και ιδίως του μάταιου. Πέφτεις μέσα ενώ πλένεις τα δόντια σου, είσαι πραγματικά δύτης των νιπτήρων, είναι σαν να σε ρουφάει η άσπρη λεκάνη, γλιστράς σε αυτή την τρύπα μαζί με το πουρί των δοντιών, τις μύξες, τα φλέγματα, την πιτυρίδα, τα σάλια και αφήνεσαι να παρασυρθείς με την ελπίδα πως έτσι θα επιστρέψεις στην προηγούμενη κατάσταση, σ’αυτό που ήσουν πριν ξυπνήσεις και το οποίο συνεχίζει να επιπλέει, βρίσκεται ακόμα μέσα σου, ταυτίζεται με σένα, αλλά έχει αρχίσει να απομακρύνεται. Πέφτεις για μια στιγμή μέσα ώσπου οι αμυντικοί μηχανισμοί της αφύπνισης, αχ τι όμορφη έκφραση, αχ τι γλώσσα, αναλαμβάνουν να σε συγκρατήσουν.

Is it Petros Haritatos? And why the pseudonym? I can't quite work out the meaning of the text above. Thanks.

 

[daeman]

Who is o δύτης των νιπτήρων; ...

I guess he'll tell you himself, but in the meantime I'll give a hint: he has three posts in this thread.

 

[Themis†]

Hint: Σύμφωνα με ανεπιβεβαίωτες πληροφορίες, ο Δύτης των Νιπτήρων έχει αράξει σε μια μαρίνα.

 

[Marinos]

I guess he'll tell you himself, but in the meantime I'll give a hint: he has three posts in this thread.

Four; and you can click my signature :)
The name comes from an excerpt from Julio Cortasar's Hopscotch; one dives into one's sink every morning, while washing one's face, seeking to find or rather to grasp the memory of the dreams one saw during the night.

 

[Theseus]

How thick can some people be! Putting two and two together shouldn't be too difficult. The avatar was a big clue. Meanwhile, like Tom Dooley, I'll hang my head and cry......And "the stream of consciousness" excerpt from Julio Cortázar above now begins to make good sense.
But this passage expiates my ignorance and more than compensates for it:

“Between sleep and wakefulness, diving into washbasins.” And it’s so easy, if you think about it a little, you ought to understand it. When you wake up, with the remains of a paradise half-seen in dreams hanging down over you like the hair on someone who’s been drowned: terrible nausea, anxiety, a feeling of the precarious, the false, especially the useless. You fall inward, while you brush your teeth you are really a diver into washbasins, it’s as if the white sink were absorbing you, as if you were slipping down through that hole that carries off tartar, mucus, rheum, dandruff, saliva, and you let yourself go in the hope that maybe you’ll return to the other thing, to what you were before you woke up, and it’s still floating around, is still inside you, is you for a moment, until the defences of wakefulness, oh pretty words, oh language, take charge and stop you.
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