It is with a great interest that I discovered the current debate about the Eurovision song contest.
I have to admit that I missed the TV translation because I was too busy participating in the comments under an article in the Guardian discussing whether a revolution is possible.
That’s what happens when one is stuck in defending one’s own argument.
I missed a small revolution happening elsewhere.
But the news caught up with me so to speak. There are some posts on Facebook, there is an article about it in the Guardian, there are some interesting tweets.
The theme of this year Eurovision, as it seems, was the theme of outsiders. You know, it has been the subject throughout the art during centuries. The question which bothered many great artists (for instance, Velazquez, Rubens, etc) was: ‘how do we portray weird people in a tolerant way’?
There are no sketches available from this year contest, but there are words, as well as some particular noises.
A tweet accused this year’s winner of being a bloke. This was a powerful statement, but it missed the point. Yes, he is a bloke, but he dresses slightly differently. It is like saying that boys can’t wear pink, because girls wear it.
Another interesting sound came from the audience. It was the booing every time Russia got some points.
This is particularly alarming, especially for me, as I thought that my biggest problem was being mental. Now, it appears that being Russian puts me in a greater danger than the whole business of navigating being bipolar in our over-controlled world.
But the main concern which bothers me while reading about the Eurovision contest is the rise of intolerance, hidden behind the politically-correct doctrine.
Weirdness, being different, being bi (be it bipolar, bisexual or anything else) is still greeted with suspicion by a society marching like robots in our intolerant world.
And a poem by James Berry comes into my mind:
If you see me lost on busy streets,
my dazzle is sun-stain of skin,
I'm not naked with dark glasses on
saying barren ground has no oasis:
it's that cracked up by extremes
I must hold self
together with extreme pride.
If you see me lost in neglected
woods, I'm no thief eyeing trees
to plunder their stability
or a moaner shouting at air:
it's that voices in me rule
firmer than my skills, and sometimes
among men my stubborn hurts
leave me like wild dogs.
If you see me lost on forbidding
wastelands, watching dry flowers
nod, or scraping a tunnel
in mountain rocks, I don't open
a trail back into time:
it's that a monotony
like the Sahara seals my enchantment.
If you see me lost on long
footpaths, I don't set traps
or map out arable acres:
it's that I must exhaust twigs
like limbs with water divining.
If you see me lost in my sparse
room, I don't ruminate
on prisoners and falsify
their jokes, and go on about
prisons having been perfected
like a common smokescreen of mind:
it's that I moved
my circle from ruins
and I search to remake it whole.