Η Μύκονος και το Χωροταξικό

Είμαι εξοργισμένη. Είμαι μυκονιάτισσα, 23 χρονών, και νιώθω μία οργή μέσα μου να μεγαλώνει.

Απόψε πήγα στην ενημερωτική εκδήλωση για το Χωροταξικό της Μυκόνου. Μια καλή προσπάθεια από τους οργανωτές, αυτό να λέγεται. Καθώς οι δύο ομιλιτές αδέξια προσπάθησαν να εξηγήσουν κάποια πράγματα μέσα από επαγγελματική πείρα, κοιτώντας γύρω μου πραγματικά αναρωτήθηκα ποιό ακριβώς ήταν το κύριο θέμα της συζήτησης. Κατά το τελείωμα των διαλέξεων που δόθηκαν από τους δύο ομιλιτές με κυριάρχισε μια αίσθηση πνιγμού, γιατί μιλώντας με όρους δικούς τους και ακαδημαϊκούς, κατάφεραν να με πνίξουν. Σίγουρα δεν ειναι λάθος. Αλλά σε μια εκδήλωση που γίνεται ουσιαστικά για να ενημερωθούν οι απλοί κάτοικοι του νησιού και όχι οι πολιτικοί του, χρησιμοποιόντας ειδικευμένη ορολογία ο στόχος αυτός χάνεται.

Τέλος πάντων. Το θέμα μου είναι άλλο. Γιατί η οργή? Κατάλαβα, μετά από έναν τρίωρο διάλογο, πόσο άρρωστη είναι η χώρα μας. Το νησί μας. Κατά την διάρκεια της ζωής μου έχω δεί το λουλούδι που ήταν κάποτε η Μύκονος σιγά σιγά να να μαραίνεται και να αργοπεθαίνει. Ανάμεσα στις βίλλες και τα ξενοδοχεία, τους οικισμούς και τα εμπορικά κέντρα, η ψυχή που είχε κάποτε αυτός ο πανέμορφος τόπος φαίνεται να σβήνει. Αυτοί που παίρνανε τις αποφάσεις όταν εγώ και οι συνομίλικοί μου είμασταν βρέφη ακόμα, δεν είχαν ποτέ το θάρρος να σκεφτούν το δικό μας μέλλον, τη δικιά μας ζωή και τη δουλειά που θα πρέπει να κάνουμε εμείς όταν ο δικός τους ο κόσμος καταρρεύσει. Ανάμεσα στα λαδώματα και τα φακελάκια, πρέπει τώρα η δική μου γενιά να τα καθαρίσει όλα. Και πραγματικά αναρωτιέμαι, αν αυτοί οι άνθρωποι πραγματικά καταλαβαίνουν το βάρος αυτό που τοποθετήθηκε πάνω στους δικούς μας ώμους. Μέσα απο αυτήν την εκδήλωση απλά κατάλαβα πως η φλυαρία έχει κυριαρχίσει όλα αυτά τα χρόνια, βάζοντας την πράξη στη σκιά. Γι'αυτό και πιστεύω οτι τα λόγια σε αυτή τη φάση ειναι περιττά. Γιατί να με νοιάζουν οι μελέτες, αν αυτοί που τις ερεύνησαν δεν εχουν πατήσει πόδι στο νησί? Γιατί να με νοιάζουν οι μελέτες αφού μπορώ να λαδώσω τον ξάδερφο της πεθεράς της αδερφής μου για να μου χτίσει το αυθαίρετο?

Για μένα, λίγα από αυτά που ειπώθηκαν απόψε είχαν ουσία. Όμως αυτό που με ταρακούνησε ήταν οτι πραγματικά συνειδητοποίησα πως αν δεν αλλάξουμε εμείς την δικιά μας νοοτροπία, δεν θα αλλάξει τίποτα. Γιατί αυτή η χώρα μπορεί να κατάφερε απο θαύμα να επιβιώσει όλα αυτά τα χρόνια, αλλά έχει πλέον φτάσει στο σταυροδρόμι και πρέπει εμείς να της αλλάξουμε πορεία. Πρέπει να μιλάμε ανοιχτά για τις παρανομίες που γίνονται ΚΆΘΕ ΜΈΡΑ, και όχι να τις αγνοούμε, και να τις θεωρούμε μέρος της ελληνικής κουλτούρας. Ήρθε η ώρα να χαράξουμε εμείς τον καινούριο δρόμο για την Μύκονο, και να το συζητάμε κάθε μέρα. Να το πολεμάμε. Γιατί τελικά, απ'ότι φαίνεται, εξαρτάται μόνο απο εμάς.

GOLDEN TOWER

PAST REPEATED
ANGRY NATION
ALL THE HATRED
SEGREGATION
/
NATION SHAKING
BRINGS DEPRESSION 
COUNTRY'S BUILT ON
SELF SUPRESSION
/
/
STEP AWAY NOW
LEAVE YOUR MOTHER
BE PREPARED TO 
LOVE YOUR BROTHER
/
* THE GOLDEN DAWN HITS THE GOLDEN TOWER
SO IT SEEMS IT'S THE GOLDEN HOUR
SO STAND UP
UNZIP YOUR FLIES
WE GIVE THE GOLDEN DAWN A GOOD OLD GOLDEN SHOWER*
/
/
ONE THING BINDS US
GHOST REVIVAL
ALL THIS BLINDS US
MONUMENTAL POWER
/
PITCH BLACK CROW EYES
LEAD TO EMPTY BRAINDEAD DICKHEADS
LUMPS OF MUSCLE
/
** THE GOLDEN DAWN HITS THE GOLDEN TOWER
SO IT SEEMS IT'S THE GOLDEN HOUR
SO STAND UP
UNZIP YOUR FLIES
WE GIVE THE GOLDEN DAWN A GOOD OLD GOLDEN SHOWER**
/

COPYRIGHT: BROEN

ΜΠΑΤΣΟΣΟΠ

GREECE vs. THE POLICE

Everyone who is Greek or has lived in Greece is fully aware of the corruption and constant abuse of authority that is the GREEK POLICE. Tough guys hiding behind a uniform as their mask, sadist violent pigs at their worst. I don't like generalizing. But when it comes to this issue, by generalizing I am ignoring a rather small minorty of people actually doing their jobs, if they even exist. These photos (below) were released after having arrested these alleged terrorists who were involved in robbing two banks. My problem is not with the arrest. My problem lies in the lack of democrary, humanity, and to be honest, the lack of COMMON_fucking_SENSE in this institution. You arrest, you question, you investigate. Nowhere inbetween those steps is there a hidden one that says - "oh by the way, beat them senseless". I don't know whether these kids are responsible. I'd really rather not contemplate on that - as it is not important at this point. The very cradle of democracy has crossed the line so far in that, to quote Joey from Friends, the line has turned into a DOT. Most of us know that this has been going on for a long time. But the fact that the police themselves know, that by publishing these photos that have obviously been manipulated (don't know if using the brush tool on Paint even classifies), they will go unpunished, is unreal. It's like they're doing it on purpose, taking the piss. To be honest, there's nothing I'd love more than to take a piss on Greek Police right about now.

Article in Greek on LIFO here.

poems on planes/i am no poet/part 3

AMSTERDAM - TRONDHEIM
thinking about the flight from AMSTERDAM - ATHENS
on the smallest plane ever, EMBRAER 190.

"Do you want one?"
No thanks, he said
in a thick scottish accent.
I wasn't sure what he meant
until I saw his electric cigarette.

"It's swedish
it's tobacco,
they sell it in Norway too,
that's where I'm from."

He asked me why I'm going to Greece,
Why I would choose the poor country, not the rich.

I didn't understand his question until he said he was working for a norwegian company:
"We are searching for oil in greek waters".

It infuriated me.
The thought of one homeland expoliting the other.
But it wasn't his fault.
He's just a poor old Scot,
no real agenda,
other than to support his family
working a job that always changes
always frustratingly
far
away.

His breath smelled of beer.
Mine smelled of wine.
Fifty-something years old
balled,
ring in his ear.

We really had nothing in common.
Not a single thing.
Yet, I found some comfort in this conversation with a stranger whose words I occasionally understood -
he had a thick accent.

A three hour flight can pass quickly by,
talking to a guy with so much to say.
His drunk mumbling was a lullaby to my constant paranoia.

Thank you for distracting me.
You made my day.

poems on planes/i am no poet/part 2

ATHENS - AMSTERDAM
PÅ TRØNDERSK

Æ veit itj ka som skjer, men det e sånn at når æ flyr
så blir æ paranoid.

Æ slår av mobilen på en manisk, bestemt måte,
og gir ordre rundt mæ om at folk må gjør det samme.

Det e jo logisk, e itj det?

Æ glane uten skam,
æ prøve å sje fram te tidspunktet æ lande,
men det e ikke lett når æ veit at det e det samme.
egentlig..
Æ prøve å vær lykkelig
og klare det!
Før æ går på flyet... e æ det.

Og æ e førsten te å innrøm at sjøl om æ har vært politisk aktivist og venstrevridd
så gjør all propagandaen rundt flytura mæ te en rasist.

Bare når æ e på flyet.
Fakk det.

Derfor drikk æ ett og ett glass vin
og prøve å sje film eller serie på datan
bare sånn at hjernen min får koble av litt.
Æ sitt og skriv dikt.

Æ e en hykler av en poet
æ har itj my å stå for, men det hjelp faktisk litt
mot frykten av det ukjente som kjem hver gang flyet tar av,
når lysan slukkes og alle går inn i en dyp søvn
e æ våken.

Plutselig blir sansan spissa te,
når alle veit at flyet drar og alle har snakka ferdig
kjem en stillhet uten makan -
plutselig hold dem fre'.

Kanskje det e fordi dem også e redd.
Kanskje dem nyt utsikta.
Det hjelp å tenk at alle føle med mæ.

Og når æ sir at æ vil ha vin
klokka seks om mårran trur dem sikkert æ e alkis,
æ tvile itj på det.

Whatever.

Æ putte en snus i leppa, tenke gode tanka;
at flyet sveve i en rosa ball -
det va mamma som lært mæ at det hjalp.
Og æ sjer mæ sjøl inn i flyet, inn i en rosa ball,
æ sjer ut viduet og vinke -
og æ smile.
E det mæ? Det e sånn æ sjer ut ja.
Uten frykt, uten fobia,
æ sitt ved sia
av en drøm om at æ en dag klare å stå opp mot det.
Æ miste itj motet.

poems on planes/i am no poet/part 1

TRONDHEIM - AMSTERDAM

The beast
breathing in the air
that is so willingly given to it by the sky,
and spitting it out again.

It is used to feeding so gluttonously it forgets its precious cargo.
Grunting, sighing
it does not change its habits.

Yet the undeniable tension is lost somewhere
inside its hollow shell,
every inch pulsating in a complex rhythm only the winds decide.

Lost in a place between time and space
the beast moves through continuums that makes one doubt on the reality of it.
On whether it is standing still,
if it is moving at all.
And before the mind is left to wander
it reminds you of a powerless desperation hidden in its size,
there's no place to hide
when push comes to shove.

But all of it is obsolete
in light of the one true thing it has in common with the people in its seats:
the destination.

Fed with plastic food with plastic names by plastic people,
the carry-on, cargo luggage is seduced to staying
people reduced to numbers dangling in the sky.
It is here the irony comes creeping in -
the realization of the inevitable truth:

no one else decided.

You are the keymaster, the pupeteer
the director
producer and star of your bitter attempt to prove to yourself that
YOU ARE NOT AFRAID.
and once again.
you failed.

Now all you can think about is how happy you felt a few minutes before stepping onto this
SUICIDE MISSION OF STEEL

and now you are stuck.
Trying to handle the mind games that the mind plays
when one thought is on repeat:
"I have to get through this"
and mute whispers of
"I swear I'll be a better person".

The desperation that human beings feel sometimes
is laughable and scary,
it makes you weary to say it but it's true.
Meanwhile you are sealing your eyelids tight,
you try to get some rest,
you try to block the light.

It doesn't change a thing.

The deep sleep you seek will not be visiting today,
even if you glued your eyelids shut it wouldn't.

This situation you are in, it is here to stay,
your hung-over neighbour leaning on your shoulder,
producing odours resembling dead horse's meat that's been hung to dry for three days
will not go away.

Sip your tea.
Eat your cookie.

Blue, yellow, red light to your left.
Sunrise.
To your right: pitch black.
Night.

Piercing through thick layers of smoked water
as you are once again facing the paradox of a tin can floating on air.

Not bad.
Not bad at all.

© msar