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.

vrijdag 24 april 2009

Piano, unknown

Sometimes I get lost in the woods

When I wander too carelessly.

I often meet girls there Some

Are afraid of me, just because

I have a penis Others

Seem to feel safer for the same reason.

I cannot blame them There

Is a certain ambiguity to being male

I haven’t figured out myself How

Can I expect them to understand then?

Others again run around Sheep

That behave like wolves, fierce but

Entirely defenseless Taking

On everything at the same time.

They are all nameless. names,

What do they mean anyway;

They are like questions Wandering

Around carelessly under a canopy of trees.

zaterdag 18 april 2009

Unsent

Letters, mounted upon each other, thousands,

But only hundreds tell of sweet adoration.

In my dreams I send them and in my nightmares

You yield them to my wrong postal address;

In life I’m never drunk enough to look upon them at all.

I don’t order these letters, but luckily they automatically

Order themselves chronologically. So if I die,

When you read them, don’t read the first ones,

Don’t read the ones on the top, written in blood,

For they are full of unjustified horrific thoughts.

Read the ones at the bottom full of indulging treasury

That marks the true romantic spirit of words unread.


I cherish the thought that you have written me back,

Somehow, mindless of the rumbling of our reality.


I hope I have never before written this, for it is untrue

And very shameful and distorts every ideal,

But I want to burn everything

Before I forget it all,


And then, sometimes, speak to you with a voice anew.

maandag 13 april 2009

Your life's a movie, my life's a poem

Haphazardly your eyes dilate to a diameter of almost the size of your big toe
- which shines through the nakedness of your April dress,
wearing thin Winter's depression of my manhood -
as the screen flashes red and green and yellow and purple
and
love love love is written all over the fixation of another movie.
Rapture screens your face and negates reality sitting next to you.
Stardom is as fantastic as it is real in anyone's mind.

No drastic measures are necessary, or are even welcome
in a house as blissful as a romantic comedy's positive plot alterations.
Therefore I keep quiet and enjoy everything there is to your dreams
while reluctance and a bubble of nerves forward the imagery
until your smile climaxes along with my stomach and the ending.

woensdag 8 april 2009

runaway lost

It’s all green here as the night sets in ----

Making a mockery of any other possible emphasis ---

While you stain my finger

Burning down to your toes.


Calme-toi.


Common sense and cultivation

Shake hands

Like we do: unfriendly, a bit too tight

But simultaneously stimulating and ultimately satisfying.

Your meaning is as ambiguous to me

As science and religion to us all --

You comfort and you distress,

Give desire and satisfaction at the same time (but so loveless);

You are loneliness and you are company,

-

You hide, are found and will someday

(hopefully)

Be ever lost.