vrijdag 29 mei 2009

Yes, unstoppable

Unstoppable, this is the mood, but yeah my back still hurts. Why can’t the air be cleaner when it’s so warm, and why, when it’s cooler, do my lungs still feel polluted?


Hold yer horses, work is precious but only a means to an end. Relax every once in a while and take the time to regain consciousness. Do you listen to me, at all?


The sun presses on my plagued skin with nowhere to go. I feel as tormented as a bull in an arena, if those bulls still feel at all, or in fact especially if they don’t.


Steamy dripping sweaty palms feel how their own pulse rapes this interpretation of the realist dimension, leaving behind those dreams of honor.


Calm, fitter, healthier. Like a pig, in a cage – on antibiotics.


I’m hungry, and unstoppable.

woensdag 27 mei 2009

Letters to the Beloved, #2

Deze brief is geschreven met een vraag in gedachten die mij gesteld is door iemand die me zeer dierbaar is maar waarop ik helaas toen niet de mogelijkheid tot antwoorden voor heb kunnen vinden. Die vraag was: "denk je dat de toekomst fijn is?"

In de wetenschap zijn er veel mensen die beweren of die er de mening op nahouden dat alles wat wij kunnen voorspellen of alle waarheid die wij kunnen bereiken enkel en alleen voorspeld of bereikt kan worden met een 'probability rate', een zekere waarschijnlijkheidsfactor. Zonder al teveel in te gaan op mijn ideeen over wetenschap wil ik dit idee gebruiken als inleiding om te kunnen vertellen wat ik van de toekomst denk. Mijn toekomst staat namelijk gelijk aan mijn dromen. Mijn dromen zijn er in vele maten en soorten, sommige onrealistisch en andere misschien wat minder, maar ze hebben allemaal een ding gemeen: ik zal ze alleen kunnen bereiken door ze zo goed mogelijk na te streven. Ze zullen niet uit de hemel komen vallen op een dag om door mij omgetoverd te worden in een dagdroom (een realiteitsdroom; dat klinkt als een contradictio in terminis maar het is in feite alles behalve dat; ik heb soms momenten dat ik zo vol van geluk leef, dat mijn dromen realiteit worden, ook al staan ze nog altijd gelijk aan de toekomst) om, net als wat de mens alles en iedereen wat en die op deze wereld leeft of niet leeft heeft aangedaan en zelfs met zijn eigen soortgenoot probeert te doen, door mij aan een ketting te worden gelegd en als een servus mij op mijn wenken bedient wanneer ik daar de behoefte toe heb. Nee, ik zal er naar moeten streven deze dromen zo dicht mogelijk in mijn bereik te laten komen. Maar zelfs als ik mijn uiterste best doe, als ik mij van mijn volle macht bedien, is er nog steeds slechts een bepaalde kans dat mijn dromen waarheid worden. De vraag rest natuurlijk nog of ik denk dat mijn dromen "fijn" zijn. Daarop antwoord ik alleen dat ik graag zou willen dat je mijn dromen kon zien.

De toekomst is daarom een bepaalde waarschijnlijkheidsfactor van mijn dromen en van jouw dromen. Ik kan alleen maar hopen dat sommigen (of het liefst velen) mijn dromen delen en ook bereid zijn voor ze te vechten. Fortunately, I know you do.

zaterdag 16 mei 2009

Bakery Girl

Slippery day, boogie music, food for thought piled up in circles

Around me but the streets await me for my physical limitation.

You’re my breakfast, the best there is, and I dodge mental hurdles

Knowing that the smile of the whitest bread will bring compensation.


Between the platforms of parking spots and infrastructured violence,

Foul-mouthed drunkards and morning rapists, lies your estate

Of inside cheery charity and outside commercial diagrams.

Silently –or speechless– you hand me the shining jewelry, pre-made.


You start asking and I find you eye-dancing with my hesitation.

Non-conversationally, I wrap myself up in so many a heavy thing,

Always ending up with grain quality and workfloor dedication

While back home I find myself underneath the surface of everything.

vrijdag 15 mei 2009

The House Where We All Live

Vandaag regent het, dus ik luister muziek.

Written by Finn Andrews.

There's an old child's swing set on the lawn
And an ivied wall lured by the years
A neckerchiefed spaniel patrols the swamp
And drinks from the garden of our tears

There are many rooms and many floors
A billion up and a billion down
I'm not sure God knows we're here
Most nights it keeps to itself

There's a widow's wing and an unloved wing
On the unwanted floor towards the rear
I've tried to memorise their names
But no sooner one dies than another appears

There were bible verses all down the halls
But they soon got replaced with explicit cartoons
There’s lipstick marks on all our collars
And the sign on the gate reads 'Come Back Soon'

We all do our best to keep it clean
But some guy's minds are like a sieve
And sometimes it's a little hard to sleep at night
In the house where we all live

Now when I walk the grounds at dawn
I can hear the sounds of far off bells
I lay my feet out in the reeds
And I dream of being somewhere else

So boy, next time you are in town
Just ring the bell and I'll come let you in
I don't think you're going to need directions -
Just ask for the house where we all live



I wish you could see this moment.





maandag 11 mei 2009

Letters to the Beloved, #1

My heartbeat is irregular. It leaps, falls, gets up and leaps again at the thought of me writing you. My hands tremble and create an avalanche of fallen teapots in an historical imagery. My ears are so focused I swear I could hear you breathe even though I have no idea where you are. Every thought of anything else other than you is murdered brutally. You’re looking at me as if I’m insane. You resemble the lady of the only film that I’ve ever seen. Or was she in a photograph? No, I have always said photos mean nothing to me. But the dearest memory I carry of you is of my eyes succumbingly staring into yours as a photographer gazing into his lens. And I realize that I’m happy I don’t like taking pictures as you can never rely on them as you can rely on your own eyes. A girl today explained to me the notion of realism in art and how it can never be achieved, how the painter’s attempt to visualize what he sees is always imperfect and how the photographer is only able to capture just the smallest part of reality. Well, in fact a photo’s goal should never be to approach the truth. Or so do I believe. If that was the aim of the inventor of the camera we wouldn’t just see happy pictures, those images that reflect our prosperity and the grace of having posterity; instead, the camera would show us a well-balanced compilation of moments spent together, the sunny but also the windy and rainy days, including the face of adversity – the mouth of the tiger, perhaps even the stomach of its child. But it’s not that which still makes me hesitate when looking at photographs, not knowing whether to truly enjoy visual pleasure or cast it away as if it were a paper tiger. It’s just that this image of you, this photo the little artist in my head took of you in your moment of shining brightness – no, not true! It was a very well-balanced day! – surpasses everything I have ever seen before. I can’t even seem to remember the moment. I woke up this morning with my roommate’s music on. A second later I realized it was my music, but played through his sound-system. He was playing an album I lent him, one of the greatest albums ever. It’s called ‘Disintegration’ and one of the first songs (I think it’s the second one; have you ever realized the magic of the number 2? It’s so magical that if it hadn’t existed, I probably wouldn’t even be thinking of you right now) is called ‘Pictures of You’. It’s the one thing that makes me question my indifference towards pictures. I’m thinking now that perhaps I can’t remember the moment because there was no moment in the picture, it was just you.



The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.


(A Line-Storm Song – Robert Frost)


I apologize for my scrambled mind.


À plus, bonne nuit, mon coeur.

zondag 10 mei 2009

What's Wrong with the World, part I

Homogeneity of Humanity (and its Tyranny)

‘Mental illnesses’ are new. By new I don’t mean new as in the commercialized meaning of the word – even though I haven’t quite decided whether or not the business of treating mental illnesses is commercialized – but I mean rather that it has slowly seeped into Western thinking. The existence of a mental illness presupposes one important thing: there is also something like a normal mental condition, a condition that should, because of its regularity, reflect the condition of the average human being. It is of significance to see that is unimportant whether something like that – a normal mental condition, I mean – exists or not; it’s a lot more important that we believe it exists. We totally embrace the medical world in the hope it can cure our illness, normalize our mental state.

By normalizing, not to say homogenizing our humanity – I could in fact give many different criticisms on this, such as the disappearance of creativity or the insecurity imposed on women by beauty ideals, but they won’t really help me prove my point – by normalizing fellow humans, we believe we can make them happier. We believe happiness lies in normality, in homogenization, and, although I’m not a competitive kind of person and this should be plainly viewed as an argument for those who are, averageness! Happiness equals being normal. I’ve never taken any psychology courses, but this seems to be the basic law from which the whole field has emerged.

Perhaps we have already accepted this by long, and perhaps my vision that humanity is disgusted by everything that is out of the ordinary – except when you can make money with it, that is – is based on my own prejudices and therefore nothing better than any other unjust conclusions that are derived from prejudices. But I can’t suppress the idea that not so many people consider themselves to be normal, even though they might not stray from ‘the point of normality’ as much as those who are diagnosed with a mental disease. In fact, almost everyone wants to be special, failing to perceive one of the most striking characteristics of being normal.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that is the problem with having good norms and values – one might say ‘normal’ norms and values, or is that too tautological? – that even I myself preach, for it seems that without those values, call them Christian, European or Western, our society is unable to function properly. Those who are more normal than others, who are also those who are with larger numbers, maintain control over what is good and bad, what is just and not. They have the ability to single out everyone that tries to denormalize their system through either official coercive means or the much more powerful social communal means. Which puts being out of the ordinary in a very awkward position, in the first place because society declines them the ability to strive towards their kind of happiness (through legal means), and in the second place because they will become jealous of normality and therefore necessarily unhappy.

Is there a balance to be found? A balance between the normalizing pressure of society and the oddness, I prefer creativity, which seems inherent to many populating that society? It is too bad that these people do not at all become any happier with the relentless attempts of civilization to homogenize them, otherwise there would be no problem. But those who are abnormal, even though they can be made normal, can hardly ever be made happy by making them normal. In fact, they are the ones keeping society in its equilibrium by being abnormal, in which it allows for more people to live than just the ‘normal’ ones, almost sacrificing themselves for the others to be happily normal. For if there was no abnormal to compare themselves to, there would be no normality and thus no happiness.