a day in southpark

Bullshit all day long

streets paved with idiots

my life paved with idiots

chasing me forever

calling me to tell me I was right

“hello idiot, so kind of you to remind me you existed”

elongated genitals in my inbox

the only thing they have to show

regurgitating information

brains melting like ice-cream

slimy sticky brains weighting over shoulders

complete override of disgust

conservatism praised for its graceful nothingness

narcissism styled to perfection

a desire to devour

like maniacs looking without seeing

screaming in silence

swallowing without tasting

revenge on everyone’s mind

Céline smiling from hell

and yet

nature beautifully tagging everything with expiration dates

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a tree

When I have my son’s friends over they blurt out outrageously freudian unconsciously formed phrases. They are completely uninhibited, which puts me in a position of having to constantly re-establish the boundaries. My own son is pretty clear about the context. However, the setting is completely unfamiliar to his friends. They can be insulting and uncontrollable, even though they’re very nice kids normally. This reminds me of my own friends sometimes, only it’s more blatant, due to their lack of defenses and references. We grew from primary freudian and darwinian readings to frommian and steinbeckian social understandings – the meaning being less important than the intention of writing what they did. I can feel that the outside world feels how this makes us socially dysfunctional and yet desirable. A world they might like to attack and yet feed from. A destructive desire for something insulting the surrounding pretenses and the numbing overstimulation they’re forced to become accustomed to and something that may entail the danger of altering you if you were to deconstruct it. We talk about it when everyone’s gone, listening to music and being complete freaks in our literary dimension of existence. But it makes it so much more clear that we live in a dystopian cannibalistic society and it fills us both with awe that we haven’t been devoured yet after 12 years. Whatever the references, every family feels like this sometimes. This is what is probably created after years of whispering a certain personal narrative to a small ear, often unwilling to hear. Like background noise, collectively appreciated one day as out-of-tune music or a tree reiterating, sometimes towards the wrong direction, due to ultraviolet radiation.

white noise

I sat with a man who makes white noise when he opens his mouth

I was trying to explain things because they told me that being elaborate enables collective thoughtfulness

but all I got in reply was white noise

he made very good points that dissolved my efforts to keep food well refrigerated

I feared for the germs that would develop in the tomato sauce can

but he gave me a canned tomato sauce refrigeration manual to read, explaining that the microbes were really nothing a healthy immune system could not cope with rather effortlessly

that night I dreamed a movie, it was about a pregnant woman who opts to continue with her life instead of giving birth

no need to bring anything to life before it’s aching to come out

when I woke up I wasn’t pregnant, I had tomato sauce on my fingers and the fridge was making blissful autumn sounds

bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Yo dog

He said I miss souvlaki

These are the nicest people on earth, but they’re fucken boring as hell

He’s like the nicest dad on earth, but he’s as boring as a berry in august in a bush in the Finnish countryside

May sound like nothing to you, but to us, all this is our life’s reference

It’s like winking to someone always watching over you watching over them

I grabbed the dog and went to see a movie

It was a screening for dogs

They were the happiest dogs on earth, cause anyway how many dogs do you know who get to watch spirited away accompanied by a very elaborate dj set along with their owners all in pretty good spirits?

Everyone was blissfully sniffing everyone’s ass

Really good smelling asses, well ok they’re asses, but you know how in touch it makes a dog feel with the universe to sniff a friendly ass

we were all drooling over everyone and sniffing and scratching and howling

Never felt this in touch with my dog side before

It was like the stuff a dog’s dream is made of

I felt like a good dog

but I wonder, am I really?

they say that a dog is always in love

AOUUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

The selfish meme

When you grow up in the kind of family, where certain references are compulsory, you have two options, either to reject them, or to take them as part of your childhood memories. As the third and youngest child, growing up in a house full of people and life, I went for the second. I grew-up gender-less, as unbelievable as it sounds, they allowed me back in the 80s to choose my own gender (I don’t think I was the only one back then, somehow we think we’re moving forwards, but I doubt it). They used to dress me as a boy and my hair was an afro, until I decided I wanted to be a girl and changed my name from a neutral “Maro” to “Maria” which seemed more feminine. I was their toy, everyone’s little experiment. They told me things too advanced for my age and watched how I would react to them. They always smiled, whatever I said. That kind of upbringing always makes one feel they will forever be meant to be a grown-up one day… one day.

So I was somewhat directed to watch a number of films, among which was La Strada, by Fellini. As my references became intertwined with childhood memories, I was not interested in remembering any titles or names. I never remember, because I never care. Sometimes I envy those people who discover things, such as Fellini, all on their own, but for me, Guilietta Masina is just a person I knew during my childhood.

I watched La Strada again today and realised I knew every little scene, every little dialogue, it was all somewhere in my brain. It was a funny, a really random and ridiculous meme that my parents had hidden there. Why on earth would they consider it wise to do such a thing, beats me, but I could tell you that I had even probably reenacted certain scenes or some of Guilietta’s expressions during my lifetime, without even knowing why.

And then again, art is such a magically aimless thing to give to your child, it’s like telling them you will love them no matter what or like telling them that the only reason you ever had them was because you wanted their company and free expression, nothing less, nothing more. Just another cool person to hang out with and since there was none, they thought they’d make one.

It was probably the same time that I had been sat down to watch La Strada by my parents, that I had been sat down by my older brother to listen to the Talking Heads and it just hit me tonight that all these years I was actually considering Gelsomina and Tina Weymouth to be the same person… it’s funny, but Tina used to be my hero and for a reason no one knew I used to call her Heltina.

Thirty years later the mystery is solved and I’m smiling all by myself. Art is almost a language and the way a child perceives it resembles bilingualism. Everyone I ever took interest in, each one of my facial expressions anyone had identified with was dictated by those memes and my perception of them.

Rosebud

marriage

Everything about marriage is subject to criticism

its theoretical foundations are at first glance so religion and society related that I despair

I despair joyfully

however, beneath all the small-talk and the class-related affirmations, the anthropological significance is evident

It may be inappropriate for sexual intercourse to somehow involve a celebration and a gathering of families

but at the occasion of a formalisation of such a union by means of the credentials of one god or another, the exchange of genetic material somehow brings people together in a metaphysical context

The night before my brother told me he felt our father would have an accident on his way to the wedding. He felt that probability justified his fears. I felt nothing of the sort, which made the announcement of the accident almost cinematic.

We jumped on a boat and were transported to the mainland, where a car was waiting to take us to the place where the car had flipped over. Every conversation and every word anyone uttered seemed a bit too profound to be part of reality during our way there. It turned out everyone was fine and our father was immensely glad he didn’t wear a seat-belt, so he could climb out of the car quickly, while our granny was happy her hair still looked big.

Our new family-to-be had no idea how to interpret what they were seeing or what was being said, but they were already socially and genetically destined to start understanding, as were we to understand their less dramatic ways.

The union was sealed through a few scratches, a bump on a head and a wrecked car.

We had all been shaken collectively, sniffing out emotions, tears and neuroses. On our way back, the realisation that we had all been preparing for this moment throughout a relationship that was leading up to a marriage, delayed by one hour, was evident. No one felt the need to speak any longer, we could not keep up pretenses – even before the ceremony took place, we had all come to see that the blood of one stream was flowing through the other at the exact point of their union.

A jeep had to be sacrificed to gain approval from the dead. It was a perfectly healthy strong car and our ancestors were pleased.

We got wasted and danced all night. Everything was as it should, as it always was.

all the mean things you did will forever be online

I have a big mouth, but hold on, isn’t a big mouth the only weapon against the manipulative ethic of the patriarchy? My big mouth has always protected me from manipulative patriarchs, even when they were close friends or family – especially then. So sorry, not sorry, maybe convert to feminism and drop the ego? If you think about it most people ask you to keep their big ego a secret and in the rest of the cases the secret is worth keeping.

road rage

So this book by Henry Miller, the Colossus of Maroussi, absolutely exalts middle-class intellectual greeks just at the break of WWII. He’s the same man who was positively disgusted by the parisians in a previous book and yet the positivist outlook towards greeks seems somewhat adolescent in comparison – it’s almost a bit patronising, but in an involved and compassionate sense. As a descendant of the greece Miller describes, I recognise the charisma, passion and vulnerable intellect in the class-chaotic greece has been during modern history.

So I watch and try to gather some insight into what happened to the ancient philosophers, illuminated by the abundance of sun and the poets, drinking wine and eating food that effortlessly grows, with hearts filled with courage for every little war fate and patriarchy brought at their doorstep again. What seems to have happened is that they are now in the full-time business of raising kids, in Athens, a city specifically designed for adult audiences. Since the market has died and is now a ghost, haunting us and reminding us of our mistakes, parents with little to do, other than sit in an office of some dysfunctional corrupted public sector agency for a few hours daily or a bank, are today’s philosophers, the descendants of those people Miller adored. They, contrary to their ancestors, feel great resentment towards everything and everyone, as there seems to be no light in the end of this tunnel. And yet everything is illuminated by a very bright version of the sun.

The kids, the hope, the symbol of the light at the end of the tunnel, which fills everyone with a resentful kind of hope are not only in the eye of the storm, but also the center of criticism and often perversion. Because the system is saying “I shall not make sense for no one” and so the state has become a merciless god and parent to us all, stretching our minds to their limits and feeding off our struggle to survive on a ground now pretty much paved with the bodies of “the weak”. Well the weak are just people who cracked or where a bit unlucky. But still they fell and to those who do not know them this means less people to compete against.

You may ask me at this point, why am I discriminating against childless people, but of course because the childless people are the ones who have adapted and are not even interested in the light, supposingly somewhere at the end of this tunnel – they are underground life-forms, mutants and freaks who have accepted a parasitic form of life and produce their creative output in oblivion of their natural biological or economic foundation. The rest, the ones who strive to preserve a sense of respectful existence, in the old sense and still trust that their hard work will be pioneering for the much-awaited tunnel exit, are the ones who still feel, hurt and love with passion – but their sense of a future and the collective is overshadowed by the impossible system and simultaneously boldly illuminated by the abundance of light.

So in my far-fetched exclusion of the childless (with a little prejudice, due to my disappointment at watching my generation go through its reproductive years worshiping death, destruction and pets like some kind of perpetual post-puberty emo crew) I find that between socially distinguished, but mostly anonymous people of Greece, there is one thing that stays the same – the heap of light on our fear of death. Where there is more light, the darkness also seems more overwhelming and under all this light, making fruit delicious and sweet, it becomes fairly obvious that the empty darkness of death is in direct and sharp opposition.

The fear of death makes everything more intense and passionate and the light illuminates this intensity further and so the parents drive through roads of traffic in the heat to get their kids to extracurricular activities, making up for the inadequacy of the failed state, which still pushes mercilessly for more conservatism and strictness and the kids scream and pull strips of hairs from their heads and kick balls and try to escape the inescapable fear of death in the tunnel the state and their parents force them to live in and the parents scream for them to hang on and try harder for the light will soon appear and their bodies have to be in the best shape so they can run towards it and not get lost or suffocated and the state and banks see more opportunity for profit there, basically draining the only source left, the greek sun and the parents make food and fuel and who-knows-what-else from only sun now and proudly they still survive and raise kids, but if the sun ever fails to rise then doom will prevail. Yeah, I mean if it was the arctic circle, darkness and the relatedness to death would be something people could cope with – but here… oh god here, just bright summer sun illuminating what has become an abundantly illuminated lost cause.

Sometimes, whilst sitting in traffic in the summer heat I’m thinking “go crazy dude! it’s the only sane thing to do” and then a moment later I’m thinking “you’re a terrible mother! as long as the sun shines, you should try harder!” and what comes out of my fucken mouth is “kid, you’ve got to try harder”. Oh bullshit!

time and love

When people gather around a loved one’s dieing bed, when a person in danger leans on a friend and when a baby is born, then time becomes transferred from one person to the other. It’s a loan in good faith and sometimes it’s a loan that will never be repaid. We do what we have to do, but we seem oblivious of what we’re passing over. Ι often write nonsense because the beauty of chance makes me forget about time being a vector, but if life could be measured, it would be in terms of time and love.

to pseudofeminists

Pop-culture is a bit of a plague and a blessing for the deconstructive among us. Everything, every single thing can be popularised and there’s a very widely available formula for doing this. But this is a different phenomenon altogether, it’s old, traditional, versatile and in the very core of human evolution – patriarchy, this time, disguised as the popular feminism.

Patriarchy, as a meme, seems to be incredibly persistent and eternally topical. Feminism is not about voicing the views of a repressed minority, but about the disillusioned majority. Now, with all the feminist literature, art and lobbying, a lot of men, considering themselves of higher intellectual foresight than the general population, express radically feminist opinions and a lot of these men deeply believe in what they’re supporting, or at least believe they do. The same goes for a lot of women and does not leave the queer community outside.

However, it’s not before you get to know them intimately and their relationships to women or other women, that you realise it’s all fabricated and in fact they’re replicating the very issues they believe to be addressing. This gives additional value to the patriarchy meme, which seems to be like a virus no one can find the cure for, in fact one that maybe almost symbiotic to human existence, considering the various intricate ways, in which it penetrates intimacy and has done throughout human history.

What’s interesting about this type of post-patriarchy, modern societies are plagued with, is that it usually manifests itself as something as intimate as sexual vice or recreational drug use-related behaviours. Thus, addressing it, is almost like one is a puritan, trying to corner people for enjoying themselves or “opening their minds”. Not all people who feel horny or high, however become sexists, that state of low inhibition and liberation, only helps in releasing past traumas in people having been subject to some kind of emotional or sexual abuse, with patriarchy being in one way or another the ultimate cause. Partying for many people is a way of dealing with trauma and exploring uninhibitedly their darkest deepest sides.

However, having seen people being horny or high and exhibiting no sexist behaviour, I am convinced that the pseudofenists usually have something to get out of their system. I’ve seen people shatter relationships, just because they felt like flirting or being out of their heads or resorting to abuse and violence as a final patriarchic state of decompression. The next day everyone might be willing to cut them some slack and it’s not that any damage is irreparable, it’s that their deep faith in the patriarch motives of the past actually manifested itself, yet making it somewhat difficult to pinpoint the underlying traumas and memes in the post-modern setting of bars and clubs. It’s that the lowering of their feminist intellectual facade and their coherance to patriarch prototypes of behaviour left them bare.

Everyone sees it, but everyone hides from it, is it because everyone has something to hide? Is it because judging someone strictly and based on political values makes people fearful that they might be judged some day as well? Is it because patriarchy is the vice of the masses? Is it because we’ve all been somewhat molested through a look, a touch or a more violent act by a pseudofeminist when we were children? and is it because our mothers were too afraid to speak-up? And if we’re all sick, then what is sick? Is it the hurt feelings of a mother who thought it best to shut her mouth and move on? Embrace it or address it?