Part Won-Toe

He knew he was faltering, trying to keep his footing. Everything in his life was temporary, ungrounded. Language itself had lost its solidity; it had become thin, contingent, slippery, a viscid film on which he was sliding around like an eyeball on a plate. An eyeball that could still see, however. That was the trouble.

He remembered himself as carefree, earlier, in his youth. Carefree, thick-skinned, skipping light-footed over the surfaces, whistling in the dark, able to get through anything. Turning a blind eye. Now he found himself wincing away. The smallest setbacks were major - a lost sock, a jammed electric toothbrush. Even the sunrise was blinding. He was being rubbed all over with sandpaper. "Get a grip," he told himself. "Get a handle on it. Put it behind you. Move forward. Make a new you."

Such positive slogans. Such bland inspirational promotions vomit. What he really wanted was revenge. But against whom, and for what? Even if he had the energy for it, even if he could focus and aim, such a thing would be less than useless.

Then he'd stay up too late, and once in bed he'd stare at the ceiling, telling over his lists of obsolete words for the comfort that was in them. But there was no longer any comfort in the words. There was nothing in them. It no longer delighted him to possess these small collections of letters that other people had forgotten about. It was like having his own baby teeth in a box.

At the edge of sleep a procession would appear behind his eyes, moving out of the shadows to the left, crossing his field of vision. Young slender girls with small hands, ribbons in their hair, bearing garlands of many-coloured flowers. The field would be green, but it wasn't a pastoral scene: these were girls in danger, in need of rescue. There was something - a threatening presence - behind the trees.

Or perhaps the danger was in him. Perhaps he was the danger, a fanged animal gazing out from the shadowy cave of the space inside his own skull.

Or it might be the girls themselves that were dangerous. There was always that possibility. They could be a bait, a trap. He knew they were much older than they appeared to be, and much more powerful as well. Unlike himself they had a ruthless wisdom. The girls were calm, they were grave and ceremonious. They'd look at him, they would recognize and accept him, accept his darkness. Then they would smile.
Oh honey, I know you. I see you. I know what you want.

Part Tree

It doesn't mean you won't get any sleep, actually you'll sleep more. Fall asleep in the couch, sleep until noon, feel tired even when you're washing dishes or when you're talking on the phone. You will feel numb. Flat. When something doesn't go your way, you'll just shrug and think that was the way it was supposed to go, that you deserved it. Determined fatalism. You will start losing time, get used to it. There will be hours in the day unaccounted for. You won't remember what you did or where you were, they are just blank spaces of time. When people ask you how you are, you'll respond only with 'fine', 'much better, thank you' and 'I'm doing alright.' A soft, yet distant smile will accompany these answers. It won't stop people thinking you're weak and pitiful, but it will stop them asking questions. You don't have the energy to get into that. You will stop having dreams, making plans, enjoying a good time. You will lose interest and soon enough you will be alone.

Filling space, everything on repeat. You'll probably develop habits such as peeing in the shower, brushing your teeth everyday precisely at nine, writing letters to yourself, buying a cage-held pet, alphabetising your books, ... These are just examples, you're sure to develop your own. Odd details will grow in significance, holidays and important national events will be your guideline to order your life, put everything in place and perspective. You will find ways to justify your existence if you focus on little things. Television will be your window to the world of which you are a spectator. You'll be nothing more. You might try phoning in to one of their games which is on late at night or in the early afternoon, but they will never put you on. People will never meet your eyes or smile at you at the supermarket or in the post office. They will expect you to pay and leave. Any attempts to better yourself will fail. You know you'll never dye your hair, lose weight, buy new colourful clothes. Why bother thinking about it. If you live this way long enough, they will come to you.

At first a haunting silence. The refrigerator will stop making noise, the clocks will stop ticking and no more cars will drive by. Then at night, the voices will come. You won't understand them at first, but give it time. You should understand that they have chosen you. They waited for you to be ready. They want you to be quiet and to stay away from other people. They need you to be detached. Mentally blank. No needs or desires.

If you're ready, they will start showing you things.

Part Won

"Hopefully you'll make something out of your life."

Then how much is my life worth right now? Is it measured by what I contribute to society? How much money I make, what great things I have accomplished? How much I give to the poor or how I help others?
Is it measured by my health? Should I be strong and lively, full of energy?
By what I know perhaps? By books and theories, streetwisdom and empathy?
By friendship? How many friends I have? How quickly I come to their aid? How much I give them and how grateful I am by what is given back? By how much I care for my family?
Or is it measured by love? How much love and sacrifice I give, equally measured by what's given back. How much he wants me, wants to kiss me, dreams of me.
Or all of the above?

How much is it worth right now?

Part Tree-Tree

October 14th, 2008 is a day where a 'channelling medium' called Blossom Goodchild (of all names) predicted that a large alien spacecraft will appear and will be remain seen for 3 days, while radiating an extraterrestrial love-pulse throughout the globe.

Goodie.

She already has quite the following, and the fun part is: tomorrow we know if it's true.

I've been reading about it online, and this anonymous post was the best one, I swear:

Whether or not there is a sighting on October 14th, we are very close to the Day of Declaration, in which these "aliens" reveal themselves. There have already been increased UFO reports around the CERN collider.

I have had a lifelong interest in UFOs, but eventually came to recognize that while these beings claim to be benevolent, they have other motives. Even before I accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior, I saw the usefulness of the "What Would Jesus Do?" test. UFOs do not pass this test. Would Jesus kidnap people and experiment on them without their consent, justifying such behavior by saying how bad humanity is? No, He would not. These beings claim to be loving and kind, but they have been here for a long, long time and have waited around to be useful until right now. I don't buy it. The Bible refers to an end times deception that will be so believable that the Elect would be deceived, if it were possible. These fallen angels/Nephilim will present all sorts of reasons why we should follow them (they will say that they don't want to be worshipped and that all religions are just misunderstandings of their messages, yada, yada, yada). Arm yourself now. Read the Bible. Pray to the God of the universe, Who died and spent three days in hell so you can spend eternity with Him. If you surrender to Jesus Christ, you will not be deceived by Satan's End Times lie.

Remember: If Satan showed up and said, "Follow me and burn in hell," he would not get many takers. Instead, he will pretend to be an "angel of light" and will say that he's all about peace, love and happiness--yet without worshipping Jesus Christ as Lord. Choose your allegiances wisely. God bless you!

What's wrong with people?

Part Tree-Won

I want to hear your voice. Your voice.

I want your voice that roots through the volatile carats
of playing clouds and children,
your voice who will sow the stars to my lips,
will steal the ground from underneath my feet,
your voice which hurts if happiness comes over me,
like a long sleep,
your voice which comforts when I have none.

I want to hear your voice. Your voice. I want your voice
of spinning cities filled with sun-less courts,
your voice which dresses me and quenches my old thirst
and your voice which stoned all the coolness out of me,
your voice which has cut me, man, as bread
and your voice who will salt my throat,
will pepper my puny mind with desire,
your voice which will tear open my lungs
and will waste the rotten gold of this tongue to passers-by,
yes, your voice which has collected bright lights
in this simple man, your voice which sings
or cries, your voice which teases
or loves, but still your voice, your voice, at least
a voice.

Part Tree-Zewo

Part Toe-Nain

Random Facebook status of some friends

... dead and broken
... is trying hard not to revert to zombie mode..braaaains
... is in 2.0
... needs a fucking cigarette
... is putting a hand out to people he lost in the past
... est à Paris
... is baking Kerupuk
... seems to be broken. Please contact manufacturer.
... told you so
... thinks there's love in the bodies of elephants too
... touched God in full explosion
... is looking for inner fucking peace
... is fucked
... is hungry for brainfood
... is in Lana Turner's villa enjoying Liz Taylor's company
... has issues with 'patience'


... thinks that life is great

Part Toe-Eyth

Part Toe-Sephenn

I'm dancing with the pink-lipped harlequin. We're in a field of poppies, burning bright. Sometimes he bites, he growls, he snorts haughtily, but I cling to his shoulders and try to keep in rhythm. In his diamond-patterned costume I assume he has knives hidden, but that's only a thought, we're swirling so fast I could never check. We stop. We step apart and look at each other. His disapproving glare puts tears in my eyes. I'm not a very good dancer, I'm not fast enough for him. I show him my picture of Madame Blavatsky and for a moment I seem to have his attention.

'Stand your ground chief,' the phantom ape says, 'stand your ground.'

He takes a knife out of his vest pocket and throws it at my feet.
'I'm not a saint', I say, 'and I can be a coward at times, unable to move.'
He looks at me, puzzled. I keep talking.
'I can be very forgiving, but I don't easily forget. And I'm edgy. I'm too sensitive. I pick up other people's moods too easily. I require lengthy explanations for things that shouldn't be explained in the first place, and yet I still wonder what is going on. I hear something, twist it around and then twist some more until I can't sleep at night and start shaking. I'm not acting very confident. My brain doesn't function like other people's, and that I experience things differently, so naturally I turn to others for guidance, and I trust, I believe, I dive in, but what if they're wrong? I'm a taciturn man, I'm an observer. I notice little things and changes around me. I skip the bigger picture and focus on the details. I'm mindful of the way things are said. The tone of voice, the matter in, the choice of words, details that are left out, but I can't trust my observations. They're coloured, I project too much into them, it all turns out clumsy and ambivalent. There's no more black and white left, everything's gray and shrouded. No more clear options, just choices you make to get to the next day. The grounding's gone. No words etched in stone, just acting on impulses and spilling out random thoughts. By every choice I make right now, my entire life changes. All I have is myself to rely on ultimately, and I can't trust my own twisted version of subjective reality. It is your fault, isn't it? You are doing this to me. These little games you are fond of playing.'
The pink-lipped harlequin takes the picture of Madame Blavatsky out of my hand .
'Are you going to take that away from me? You can't, you see. I need that picture. I was just showing you so you would understand. So you would see her eyes and understand. She knows and she's always looking. She can see right through all the chaos and nonsensical rubbish. Without her looking I'd be lost.'
He grins, folds the picture and puts it into his vest pocket.
'Naturally. It's all variations to the same theme. I'm going now, someone's waiting for me at the edge of the field. At least, he said he would. I sometimes doubt he will, but that's another story. I'm still going. Please give back the picture.'
The pink-lipped harlequin turns away his head and I silently start marching to the end of the field.

Distant Voices: Friedrich Nietzsche

Let us face ourselves. We are Hyperboreans; we know very well how far off we live. “Neither by land nor by sea will you find the way to the Hyperboreans"—Pindar already knew this about us. Beyond the north, ice, and death—our life, our happiness. We have discovered happiness, we know the way, we have found the exit out of the labyrinth of thousands of years. Who else has found it? Modern man perhaps? “I have got lost; I am everything that has got lost,” sighs modern man.
This modernity was our sickness: lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole virtuous uncleanliness of the modern Yes and No. This tolerance and largeur of the heart, which “forgives” all because it “understands” all, is sirocco for us. Rather live in the ice than among modern virtues and other south winds!
We were intrepid enough, we spared neither ourselves nor others; but for a long time we did not know where to turn with our intrepidity. We became gloomy, we were called fatalists. Our fatum—the abundance, the tension, the damming of strength. We thirsted for lightning and deeds and were most remote from the happiness of the weakling, “resignation.” In our atmosphere was a thunderstorm; the nature we are became dark—for we saw no way. Formula for our happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal.

- The Antichrist

Distant Voices: Ophelia

You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.'
O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.
This nothing's more than matter.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted.
There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when ... they say he made a good end. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy!

Part Toe-Siks

How horribly unjust of me would it be to categorize a man who crosses my path called Doctor J. I wish I was more like Lord Henry who said; "I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters and my enemies for their brains, and consequently they all appreciate me." Let's say he's a kindred spirit, very much different from myself. We met online, myspace I think, which leads to an interesting train of thought. It often happens that the real chances in life occur in such an inartistic manner that they almost shame us by their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of emptiness, and we revolt against that by charging it with meaning. Sometimes, however, a chance encounter that has artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements are true, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. It becomes a play, and we are both spectators and players. We watch ourselves being watched by the other and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthrals us.

We risk reducing our friendship to the memory of a single encounter. It could become stout and tedious, and all talk could go at once into reminiscences. That awful memory! It's a fearful thing, and it can only reveal an utter intellectual stagnation. We should absorb the colour of life, but never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.

Put in a crude way, it's all in the bigger picture.

Jason, cheers.

Part Toe-Won

Ba.Sha's Heresiological Cabinet

Ba.Sha. is an artist's duo consisting of the two young Belgians Noah Aspen (25) and Esther Staubach (24). During the summer of 2008 they decided to start a small artistic project together. Although they both have a literary background, they decided on putting their hands to use, handling objects to infuse them with their own ideas, meaning and by their own words 'pimp' them. Their objects of choice at the moment are items of by Catholicism inspired 'kitsch'. Religious paintings, crosses, statues of the Virgin Mary, and so on. They plan to form a collection embracing a common theme among the transformations, calling it 'Ba.Sha's Heresiological Cabinet' . Current pieces (in progress) include titles such as 'The Worshipping of an Unknown Infant, accompanied by St. Joan and St. Butch', 'Neustra Señora de Hollanda' and 'St. Barbie Crucified'. It could be seen as a form of mockery of Catholicism, which it is, but as the artists see it, it is also a higher and lower form of producing art. They say it's not meant to be seen as art, it's just a lark, but also that their almost intuitive transformations of the objects are of consequence. It is what happens when two atheists are charged with bringing meaning to religious artefacts. It is seen as a great distrust in religion and radical doubts of the knowledge of what is traditional. They create a new aesthetic code for these pieces, derived from the fleeting culture of modern day consumption, academic knowledge and mythology, technology and craftsmanship.

Although it's highly unorthodox, they allowed us to take a picture of a work in progress, for which we are granted permission to publish. Although it is expressed that it is not nearly finished.


Ba.Sha. -The Revery of an Unknown Infant, accompanied by St. Joan, St. Butch and St. Barbie

Part Toe-Zewo

I'm on a field covered in poppies, burning bright. I'm walking through it, on my bare feet, hoping that a snake won't bite me. By hoping I mean saying to myself that if there would be a snake, the chance of it biting me in the toe would be minimal. Contrary to Eurydice, I don't look back. If I move forward just a bit, past the scarecrow, I'm in the clear end where the farmer already collected his crops.

- rent
- new address
- scholarship
- pharmacist
- optometrist
- paint & brushes
- writing room
- meeting for novel

There is no hat on my head. No protection against sun, wind, bad hair and various hair-loving bugs. I'm domesticating. I wake up every day at sephenn, take a shower, brush my teeth, pick out clothes and read the newspaper (now the news is mostly about our failing prime-minister and tensions between two parts of the country) while I'm eating cereal. I feed the kitten, pet her a little bit, kiss my sleeping prior goodbye and I'm off to the factory. My mornings are variations to the same theme. I need reassurance, a pet on my back and someone saying; 'well done boy, welcome to the fold.' Why don't you go clean his socks and smile while you're at it. He deserves a pillar, a warm blanket and his martini.

I'm not very good at this.
The words gulping out of me are not my own. I speak blandness. I'm a bore. I snicker and snatch, no fun at all.
I apologize for having an opinion, I try not to.

Distant Voices: Ophelia Benson & Jeremy Stangroom

Catastrophism
A theory describing what occurs when we're asked to explain our ideas clearly.
Dream
Freud explained them. Whatever they seem to be about, they're about sex and wanting to kill people really. Except they're also messages from the Beyond or from extra-terrestrials.
Edge
A thing it is necessary to be on the cutting part of.
Education
Brutal, violent intrusion of arbitrary material into the clean innocent heads of children, which should be left empty.
Fashion
Important ethical principle. Something that is behind the times is very wrong indeed.
Force
A thing you want with you.
Human Gnome Project
Most likely something to do with genetic engineering. Probably the idea is to create a new race of tiny human beings.
Quantum
First name of various ideas that no one understands, least of all scientists, so it makes a great metaphor for chaos, complexity, relativity, randomness, Postmodernity, and just about anything one needs a metaphor for.
Relativity
What Einstein had a very special theory of, which means that it's all, like, relative.
Spiritual
What to call a belief that perhaps is not terribly plausible or even possible but makes people feel special and magical.
Truth
A quaint, old-fashioned word, like bustle or barouche-landau or button-hook. No longer needed.

- Dictionary of Fashionable Nonsense

Distant Voices: Jack Kerouac

Give me another slug of that jug. How! Ho! Hoo! I've been reading Whitman, know what he says, cheer up slaves, and horrify foreign despots, he means that's the attitude for the Bard, the Zen Lunacy bards of old desert paths, see the whole thing is a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway [...] I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young people wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures.

- Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums, chapter 13

Part Won-Siks

"Don't worry chief, it will be alright."
last words of Rudolph Valentino, actor, died August 23, 1926.

Part Won-Fore

My thoughts tonight are with John Donne, George Herbert, Andrew Marvell, Saint Robert Southwell, Thomas Traherne, Henry Vaughan, George Chapman, Abraham Cowley, Richard Crashaw, Edward Herbert (1st Baron Herbert of Cherbury), Katherine Philips and Edward Taylor.

These people were a loose group of British poets in the 17th century, who shared an interest in metaphysical concerns. They were not part of a group or school, most of them didn't even know or read each other. They were just looking beyond the palpable and in them they all had a foreshadowing form of existentialism. As Georg Lukács, the Hungarian Marxist aesthetist, said: 'They were attempting to erase one's own image from the mirror in front so that it should reflect the not-now and not-here.'

They asked questions, that's what I like about them.

Does everything have a mind? Does everything exist in a mind? Can you step into the same river twice? Is space meaningless? Is there a God? Are there many Gods? Is it possible to know if there is a God? Does the Divine intervene directly in the world, or is its sole function to be the first cause of the universe? Are God and the World different or are they identical? It is impossible that the same quality should both belong and not belong to the same? Is there a free will? Are all things determined? What is the origin of the Universe? What is its first cause? Is its existence necessary? What are the ultimate material components of the Universe? What is the ultimate reason for the existence of the Universe? Does the cosmos have a purpose? Are we a futile bunch of poets and overly vague, or of no use entirely? Why am I writing this down in the first place?

You know, things we think about. I'm sort of obsessing over them and thinking about writing a very very long essay about them. Of course, overly vague and of no use entirely.

Part Won-Tree

"I'm swaying like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff. I might come crashing down, or just sway, rocklike."

I've been standing on the edge of the cliff for so long now. I must have accustomed myself to the danger of falling, slowly letting go of the survival instinct, the intrinsic fear of falling. The subtle, yet addictive thrill of the possibility of falling has become so great that I can no longer step away. But I am cautious, I only take one little risk at a time, one step closer every time, slowly allowing myself to get out of balance, just for a little while. It's not that I have the desire to fall in, I just have been standing here for so long that it no longer scares me, unless when I close my eyes of course. When I let my imagination take over.

Good old Ovid wrote an epic poem called 'Metamorphoses', drawing on Greek mythology. The poem's subject, as the author indicates at the outset, is "forms changed into new bodies". From the emergence of the cosmos from formless mass into the organized material world to the deification of Julius Caesar many chapters later, the poem weaves tales of transformation. The stories are woven one after the other by the telling of humans transformed into new bodies — trees, rocks, animals, flowers, constellations and so forth.

A fictional assembly.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear.

We are indeed queer and quaint and all things that start with a Q, and we hammer like madmen, yet we wouldn't want it another way.

Step away.
Step away.
Step away.

Part Won-Toe

If we shadows have offended, think but this; and all is mended that you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear and this weak and idle theme no more yielding but a dream. Gentles--do not reprehend if you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck if we have unearned luck. Now to scape the serpents tongue. We will make amends ere long else the Puck a liar call. So--goodnight unto you all. Give me your hands if we be friends. And Robin shall restore amends.
- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V, Scene 2

Banality

Banality. Disbelief. Our trustworthy curtain of rationality that explains away our fears of the unknown but also snuff outs the spark of creativity that ignites into hope and imagination. Banality. The word that reduces the marvellous into the mundane, the miraculous to the ordinary and the inexplicable to the impossible. Banality. It epitomizes darkness, dreariness and relentless cold. Banality is the death of spirit. It clouds our minds to the wonders of the world, blinds us from the possibilities of making our dismal lives better. It imposes on us the belief that everything is the result of cause and effect. Evolutionary processes and entropic decay follow fixed patterns, and all things will eventually come to a grinding halt with the death of the sun. Banality is the wet blanket of the cosmos. Banality prompts a jaded parent to destroy a child's belief in Santa Claus. It forces a talented student to lay aside his dreams of becoming a great writer in favour of joining the work force because his advisors counsel him to make “realistic” decisions about his future. Banality is the end of dreaming.

We have left no place for dreamers. We destroyed amazement, it has become a commodity for the gullible and weak of mind.

Enough of that! Why should we not grant ourselves dreams and refuse reality? That is, this value of certainty in itself, which, in its own time, is not open to our repudiation? Why shouldn't we expect more from a dream than we expect from our consciousness? Can't the dream also be used to solve the fundamental questions of life? Who the fuck were my career advisors? Did they amount to anything great?

I dream of hearth and home, of wanderlust and adventure, innocence and play, passion and beauty, change and transcendence. I dream of standing tall, making people proud and seeing happiness around me. I dream of love, unconditional and deserved. I dream of busybodies, storytellers, tricksters, lovers and revellers.

I dream of finding the silver path and not walking it alone.

Part Won-Won

Teenagers put pictures of dead classmate on the internet

Turnhout - A group of Belgian teenagers put pictures of their dead classmate Paul Vanhoof on the internet. After the 14 year old died in a tragic accident his classmates were allowed to say their goodbyes in the hospital. More than one student took pictures of the boy with their cell phones and those pictures were deliberately put on the internet, without consent of the boy's relatives. The boy's family filed a complaint. "It's horrifying what people are capable of," father Louis Vanhoof said in another newspaper.

- Metro, April 23th 2008

Part Nain

Nostalgic Thinking in 5 artworks


Johann Heinrich Füssli, Nachtmahr


Bert Want, Titaanszoon


Jean Fouquet, La Vierge et l'Enfant entourés d'Anges


Pieter Paul Rubens, The Apotheosis of James I


Vincent Van Gogh, De Sterrennacht

Part Sephenn

A very merry unbirthday to me.
To who?
To me.
Oh you!
A very merry unbirthday to you.
Who me?
Yes, you!
Oh, me!

Let's all congratulate us with another cup of tea.
A very merry unbirthday to you!
Now, statistics prove, prove that you've one birthday.
Imagine, just one birthday every year.
Ah, but there are three hundred and sixty four unbirthdays!
Precisely why we're gathered here to cheer.

A very merry unbirthday to you, to you!
To me?
To you!
A very merry unbirthday!
For me?
For you!

Now blow the candle out my dear
And make your wish come true.
A merry merry unbirthday to you!

Part Siks

Character-Driven Confessions on the Couch, A Psycho-Analysis Exploring a Fictive Realm

What do you think of when you write about the Vampire?

Nothing. To me, he is nothing but a corpse. He leaves his grave at night to drink the blood of the living by biting their necks with his sharp incisor teeth and licking it clean with his anticoagulant saliva. He is nothing but an undead leech, an annalid worm but surprisingly timeless, eternal, unfaltering, flawless in his own imperfection. He is a methuselan patriarch with an endless stream of victims, but no offspring to call his own. He is an immutable void, does nothing but drain.

How about his counterpart, the Bride?

She is his opposite. While he exist freely throughout and out of time's bounds, she is firmly fixed. She can only manifest on her wedding day, ironically that's everyday. She is the feeling of excitement and mystery, remoteness of everyday life because she exists in only that sentimental, idealized way. But maybe, yes, I feel she is shrouded, in that eerie way, by her wedding veil which is like a membrane attached to her immature fruiting body and will ultimately rupture, or should rupture if she wasn't trapped in time. While the Vampire sees time as an eternal void with meaning nor consequence, it is everything to her and is faced with a pink tinge in her face at all times.

How about the other characters, the Pink-Lipped Harlequin for instance?

Well, I don't know. I don't know how long I can keep this up. Is it relevant, didn't I destroy, resurrect and wiped them away again? I suppose the Harlequin is, was, a demon in a diamond-patterned costume. A tormentor, the one to tickle my vices. A forceful, fierce and skillful agitator of cruel acts. He represents reckless mischief. He is always mute, but by his amusing and variegated chicanery a waterfall of possibilities. Pink-lipped, for what would an evil spirit want with a young man? Fool him into acts of sexual desperation. Rash and extreme behaviour, wild and abundant. Whipped into flesh-driven hunts at night, sheered into a frenzied ravaging and despoiling of what should supposed to be values. Theoretically, because he never did get a full hold on me.

I think that's enough for now.

I think so too.

Distant Voices: Mark Twain

The pause -that impressive silence,
that eloquent silence,
that geometrically progressive silence,
which often achieves a desired effect
where no combination of words,
howsoever felicitous,
could accomplish it.

Distant Voices: Rod McKuen

I have to walk at night and be with many,
and give myself to many strangers.
I don't know why.
I only know that people smile sometimes,
and I must smile back.
A certain eye, a smile, the way somebody walks,
I need mostly love.
Everything else must find it's place.
I need the warm touch, the unfamiliar smile,
the umbrella when it rains.
The head against the shoulder when thunder comes.
The unfamiliar touch, the knowing that someone loves me,
even for a little while.
You'll like my house.
The music's okay, the lights are nice
and I'm warm, you'll see.

Can you still go home with me knowing the way I am at morning,
might make you sorry that you did?
I mean, it's different for me in the mornings,
I'm not afraid of yellow sunlight,
or suspicious of rooms without music and atmosphere,
but things work best for me after 5 o'clock.
It's been like this always.
And you must believe I'll be good to you,
for me to work the best. I will, you know.
I will try so hard, for it's been so long since I had a woman
or a special friend.
So turn the corner with me.
Stay close.
Don't be afraid.
For there is no one else but me,
and I am warm, you'll see.

- Rod McKuen "Eros" Queer Noises 1961-1978: From the Closet to the Charts

Part Faif-Tree

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. Some don't call him much of a man, they laugh behind his back and call him names. Never in his face though, he's too much of a storyteller for that. An he's kind. Not that his stories are elaborate tales, mostly just little titbits of information that promise a fascinating life. He's always involved with different people, doing different things, travelling to wherever he wants to, stories you could envy if you wanted to. Most people don't though, because behind these little tales they easily see how he really is; lost, confused, unhappy, without a goal, cliché.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. He is smart, fun, well-dressed and knows just what to say and when to say it. Behind his cool façade, people think there's a little boy desperate for reassurance. Those people are right, but they don't know the little boy inside is a mean little fucker who would stab your mother in the back just for a piece of candy. That little boy is a passive-aggressive whore.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. He has a lot of cool friends but no personality of his own. A social chameleon who just goes with the trends and sells out at every corner he passes. If you were to put him in a room by himself, he would simply stare at a wall. A man who thinks everything is fine. A man without an opinion. A man without initiative. A man without a soul.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. Sarcastic, twisted sense of humour. A man you want standing by your side if you want to feel better than others. A mystery of a man he is, a closed book. A man who pops up when you don't expect it and make your night feel just a little more dark. A venomous spider who spreads just the right amount of poison to make you feel buzzed. A man you wouldn't introduce to your mother because you know he will be bored and hate you, and maybe your mother might cry a little.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. He's just like the rest of us. He farts and has bad hair days. And he gets it. No bullshit, no pretending. A man who wears comfortable clothes on weekdays, orders pizza and watches bad reality shows. A man who can't straighten his own tie. An ordinary guy, doing ordinary things. A man you'd like but would never call.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. I haven't quite figured him out.

Part Fore-Nain

The Alchemist has been too quiet for too long.

Distant Voices: Samuel Beckett

His plan therefore was not to refuse admission to the idea, but to keep it at bay until his mind was ready to receive it. Then let it in and pulverise it. Obliterate the bastard.
–More Pricks Than Kicks

Heroine of the Day: Marion Eaton

Who portrayed a brilliant Mrs. Gert Hammond in the 70's cult classic 'Thundercrack'
"Oh Charlie, people come and go, but cucumbers must stay."

Part Fore-Toe

I'm sitting across a man. The room is filled with smoke, a children's choir is singing a devil's hymn behind us, a woman, one leg, brings us drinks. Mi madre ha muerto, she says. I smile empathically. The man is an alchemist, he is here to teach me. He is my Señor Zenith. I know all of the Artes Liberales, now the forbidden arts are in order. The Alchemist drinks and smiles. I wish he would look into my eyes and see my conviction. The Alchemist is more handsome than I imagined, his voice warmer, his gestures soothing. I lean back. I hear the woman repeat herself, mi madre ha muerto, to the harpies sitting next to us. They shriek and laugh and spit in her face. A boy, a soprano clearly, yells out: 'look, she's back!' and as in a vision I see the Bride walk into the smoky room. She waltzes to our table and introduces herself to my Alchemist. My Señor Zenith.
"Forgive me, I should have warned you," I stumble. But he merely smiles and for the first time he looks into my eyes.
"I studied Ibn Hayyan, Hermes Trismegistus, Alain de Lisle, Masini and Boehme, but never did I find the symbol I need." The Bride takes my hand and we both look to the Alchemist for an answer.

Part Fore-Won

Zabayel

Distant Voices: George Orwell

The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they abandon individual ambition - in many cases, indeed, they abandon the sense of being individuals at all - and live chiefly for others or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, wilful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong to this class.

- from Why I write

Part Fore-Zewo

Because I was thinking and didn't know where to begin, a rough translation from the poem 'Eind van de Eeuw' by Leonard Nolens;

End of the Century

So What, Achmatova, we aren't in love anymore
with your pain, that iron fall of seventeen.
Other moustaches and Octobers have grieved us
before we were born, before we could see
Afterwards how blind we were in the crib
of this cold war. The enemy without a trace.
That's why we hated ourselves, our clattering lies
of this armed peace, a heaven without a saviour.

Yes, Achmatova, so what!

I feel conflicted about what I wrote about the actor I met last Friday. It is what happened, but it's my subjective version of the facts, fictionalized so it could fit in my story. I feel that he comes across as too arrogant and at the same time needy, and that I'm a cool-acting bitch. That's not how it felt at the time, but that's problem isn't it? If you write about things like that, it's always a lie. What I remember most is his smile, but I can't put that in words. I could try, but I could never give an accurate description of that smile and how I reacted to it. I also don't want to blow it out of proportions, after all it was just a drunk encounter on a Friday night, so I'm conflicted.

Distance and saying goodbye is the horny metaphysics of men who keep their love moist and damp in a faraway place where they can boil their days.
- From the hurting that I am, I have no part.

I talked to some people today, I want to remember what they said to me, although it's of no great significance.

"If your parents had sent you to art school when you were younger like you wanted, imagine what your life would have been like."
-My ex.

"Sure, you can borrow this book. It's only on the table because my sister asked what sort of books I enjoy. I couldn't get away with anything else, that would just have been ridiculous."
-My best friend.

"My shop looks way too pink from outside if you stand across the street. It just doesn't go with my chandeliers, it's like Barbie's dream house in here. Damn, now I have to paint again."
-My boss.

"If my former teacher could see how I'm fumbling with this html code he would yank my hair right out of my skull."
-My flatmate.

"Why can you never find work that's legal?"
-My mum.

"Oh right, I forgot you're still young and naive. When gay men discuss outdoor activities, they don't talk about camping or fishing."
- A friend

Part Tree-Nain

Step away from the computer.
Turn off the phone.
Put out the television.
Shut down the music.
And step into my darkened room.

A room with heavy curtains drawn over the windows. A room with no furniture. Close the door behind you. Come stand in the middle, together with me. Take off all your clothes and throw them away. Think about what you're doing. Do you feel alright? Are you scared? What are you thinking about? Just try to relax and tell me your first thoughts. Take your time.

An escalator.
Bathing when I was little.
The woman from the grocery store.
Maggie Simpson.
Smoking a cigarette.
A dead bird.
A sharp knife.
A dead bird.
A sharp knife.
A dead bird.

Let's try this another day. Try not to think anymore, open the curtains and put on your clothes. Log in, put on your music and chat away. Just don't think. Stay away from dark rooms. Drown your thoughts with sounds.

Whatever you do, never log off.

Part Tree-Siks

While Man has turned his back on me, making me coffee so I can be on my way, I ask the Phantom Ape some questions.

"Should I give my characters names?"

- They have names, you just never write them down. The Bride's name is ******. The Vampire is called ********. The Undead Soldier is *********. The Man in the Chair is the same of the Man you are writing about now and his name is *****. The Pink Lipped Harlequin you call ******. Should I go on?-

"No please, that's enough. Why do I have trouble naming things?"

- Because you get nothing in exchange for it. Once you name it, it becomes unchangeable. You will lose all the chaos you crave and the object of your interest will be locked within it's name. You'll have power over it. You wish for everything and everyone to have a name for usage and a true name, a name that should be hidden and secret. You know the philosophy behind that as well as I do.-

A conversation in between:

Ursula -Slaapwel, bisous.
Gaylord -Bonne nuit madame.
Ursula -Bonne nuit à le singe!
Gaylord -Il est plus populaire de moi!
Ursula -He's got a sexier ass.
Gaylord -Bon, laisse moi un message pour samedi prochain. Good night.

I am sleep deprived. Every time I sit down to write I feel like peeing. Tomorrow I have loads of psychological test with my psychiatrist. His favourite mental disorders for me are a form of autism and something that starts with shizo-. I think he would get a kick out of seeing them both manifest. I have to buy my chihuahua a fucktoy. I'm thinking -stuffed elephant. It's morning now and I'm so glad the crazy cat lady is keeping me company. Man is bugging me, I secretly think I'm a disappointment and that I should work on my act, but I just make it easy for myself and say Man is to blame. We're restyling the apartment and decided we're going to spend New Years skiing. It sounds eighties prep, but it beats being bored at a party. I'm surprised with how many of my friends have never seen any of the Star Wars movies. So far I've counted seven.

I was sitting in my living room, looking at the book shelves, wondering what I should read. I picked out a random book and it's title was 'Astral Entities Around Us'. The next two I picked out were 'A History of Erotic Literature' and 'Anna Karenina'. My first thought was - I should stop buying books impulsively- and the second was -If you combine these three, you get an interesting story. A Russian saga where horny phantoms try to speed up divorces, the morbid decadent downfall of aristocracy.

L'amour est un oiseau rebelle keeps haunting me. I swear I could hear a girl humming it on the bus. It reminds me too much of the house I destroyed. Of the Bride I killed. Is she dead? Could I bring her back? Is that girl telling me I should bring her back? Prends garde à toi.

I'll bring her back.

Part Tree-Faif

I'm in the bed of Man. The only thing masking my nude form is my pearl earring. Man is lying with his back turned to me, snoring softly. A flowing rhythm, a gentle wave covering me with sleep, uncovering me, covering me, uncovering me, making me want to cover me again. Man has confessed his love to me, but I could only smile at him. What is love without truth? Who's still looking for truth? Who can still love when truth is overlooked? Questions don't really matter now, all what comes next is morning, my cup of coffee and the journey afterwards. The Phantom Ape is sitting on the cupboard.

I ask the Phantom Ape; 'is it safe?'
The Phantom Ape answers: 'think of the cat."

The Cat. Man has a cat. When the morning has come, after my cup of coffee, I'll leave Man again. Until I miss Man, will want to see truth in his green eyes, will present my body to him so I can feel the waves, caress his stubble, forget the questions, hear the stories. It's all about the stories.

The Phantom Ape is waiting patiently until the sun comes up, until the naked bodies cover themselves with shame again and the morning game can begin.

Distant Voices: Daft Punk

Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,
Crash it, change it, melt - upgrade it,
Charge it, point it, zoom it, press it,
Snap it, work it, quick - erase it,
Write it, cut it, paste it, save it,
Load it, check it, quick - rewrite it,
Plug it, play it, burn it, rip it,
Drag and drop it, zip - unzip it,
Lock it, fill it, call it, find it,
View it, code it, jam - unlock it,
Surf it, scroll it, pose it, click it,
Cross it, crack it, twitch - update it,
Name it, read it, tune it, print it,
Scan it, send it, fax - rename it,
Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it,
Turn it, leave it, stop - format it.

Surf it, scroll it, pose it, click it,
Cross it, crack it, twitch - update it

Lock it, fill it, call it, find it,
View it, code it, jam - unlock it,
Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,
Trash it, change it, mail - upgrade it,
Charge it, point it, zoom it, press it,
Snap it, work it, quick - erase it,
Write it, cut it, paste it, save it,
Load it, check it, quick - rewrite it,

Surf it, scroll it, pose it, click it,
Cross it, crack it, twitch - update it,
Name it, read it, tune it, print it,
Scan it, send it, fax - rename it,
Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it,
Turn it, leave it, stop - format it.

- Daft Punk, "Technologic"

Distant Voices: Ted Hughes

Work and Play


The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.

The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.

The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?

They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.

Distant Voices: Oscar Wilde

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new
material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without
being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are
the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth-century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing
his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth-century dislike of Romanticism is the
rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist,
but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect
medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true
can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist
is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express
everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of art.
Vice and Virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all arts is the art of the
musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,
complex, and vital.
When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself. We
can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.
The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it
intensely.

All art is quite useless.

- Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray

Distant Voices: Sylvia Plath

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Part Toe-Tree

I open another room. It's white again, same chair, same portrait.
A painter is trying to paint over the queen.

"Why are you painting over the queen," I ask.

The painter stops, blushes and hides away his brush.

"That's better," I say and close the door behind me.

Part Toe-Won

I move to another room. It looks exactly the same as the previous one, an empty white room. One armchair and a portrait of the queen hanging on the wall opposite of the chair. No man-pig this time, but a jazz musician.

He says: "Hello, I am Capricorn."

I wave hello and take my seat in the chair. Capricorn offers me wine and drugs and plays his sweet sweet music. I laugh and rest my head. Capricorn laughs with me and gives me a kiss.

The Phantom Ape says: "You promised."

I become sullen and stand up. I noticed that the queen is smiling to me.

I say to Capricorn: 'It's a quarter to nine. I have to go."

Capricorn answers: 'It's always a quarter to nine."

I smile, leave the room and gently close the door behind me.

Before the Phantom Ape can speak, I say: "not now little monkey, I still have those razors and I will make sure Madam Blavastky isn't looking."

Part Toe-Zewo

I am in a room I do not like. I am in a room I despise.

My hands are resting in my lap while I'm watching the man-pig from my armchair. It is naked and on hands and knees, snorting and whimpering. It is a vile creature. It disgusts me, it makes me want to kill it. I look at the picture hanging on the wall in front of me. It is a stately portrait of a woman, a stern and commanding queen. The man-pig crawls closer to me and instinctively I open my legs and let it pleasure me. I hold it's head firmly so it cannot pull back and lock my eyes with those of the queen.

Snow crystals have been tattooed on my right hand. I see them and I release the man-pig and kick it hard on it's side so that it crawls away in fear. I turn away from the queen, my queen, and I ask the Phantom Ape:

"Are you still with me?"

First, I hear nothing. I only hear the whimpering man-pig. Then I can hear a faint voice answer me;

"You promised."

I have? Yes, I have.

Distant Voices: Thomas Chapin

What would you do if you had a billion dollars?
I don’t know about you… but I would definitely develop a method to draw a smiley face on the moon. Call me crazy, but can you think of a better legacy to leave behind?
Yeah. I didn’t think so.
Think about it.
Future generations of mankind would look up in the sky at night, only to see a big smiling face. Wars would cease to exist!
How could people even think about fighting with a giant smile in the sky?

Part Won-Sephenn

I am unable to sleep. I tried for more then an hour, but I have given up for the night. I kept thinking that an exotic spider managed to crawl into my bedroom and would bite me so that I would become paralyzed and..die. That made me think of vampires. The vampires made me a bit edgy, so now I'm writing. I should start thinking of the mess that I made of my life lately, but I only talk about it. My friends know all about my filthy mess, but I never stop to actually, truly think about what I am doing. I just talk and then do exactly the opposite of what I said earlier.

I said I would quit Mr. Neverland, but I am seeing him tomorrow night.

I am reading 'And the Ass saw the Angel' and I'll quote the part where I am now, don't try to stop me;

Six years passed. Six young gunfighters down on their luck. Six pine boxes to carry them in. Six crooked miles walked. Six broken stiles crossed. Six passing bells swinging but making no sound. Six widows weeping. Six plots of cold ground. Six blackbirds throwing six crooked shadows. Six sinking moons. Six wounds. Six notches. Six muddy crutches broken in two.
So rolled the years of mah springtime.

Six wicker baskets.
Into these did the years of mah youthhead roll.

Six years ago I was eightteen. I thought I was going to become a famous writer. I thought I was a genius. I thought I was sane, beautiful and talented. I was ready for the world, and the world was supposed to sigh in relief of my much anticipated adulthood. I wish I could pinpoint the moment when it turned from silent confidence into the cynical void that I feel today. Am I failing somehow? Have I burned a bridge too many? Has my soul turned black? Have I become the vampire, the human leech, that I fear at night?

Is it easier maybe, could we say that my path of self-destruction, lack of self-worth, is merely a symptom of a clinical depression, the well-documented black hole that twenty-somethings experience after their college days? A lack of faith? Slight shizophrenia lingering somewhere in the dark periphery of my brain? A curious and unstable mind forced to see reality?

The Janitor of Lunacy said I reminded him of the following, It's the image I'll take to bed where I'll read until it's dawn so I can be sure the vampires are gone.

Distant Voices: C. Hein

Wenn der Augenblick sogenannte menschliche Grösse von uns verlangt, vermögen wir nur intensiv und fast ehrlich in unserer Kaffeetasse zu rühren.

Part Won-Siks

We’re having tarts in the star-lid sky. Pints of beer go round while we sit in the grass and the firstborn perform their magic while reason sleeps and vanity is born in the shadow of a tree. We’re too young for coherent dreams. Underneath the clouds we seek the comfort of a statue, and from a gaping hole in the sand we hear children’s laughter. We’re shielded from malady, the truth cannot find us anymore as our mirror show only lost keys. We unzip our trousers and I kiss you, my friend.

Part Won-Toe

And now, 3 references to Bard:

THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD

Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel--they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.

- William Blake, The Voice of the Ancient Bard, Songs of Experience (1794)

BARD THE BOWMAN

A significant supporting character in The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien, Bard the Bowman (abbreviated to Bard) of Esgaroth was a skilled archer and the heir of Girion, the last king of old Dale. He was described as "grim faced" and while a guardsman of Esgaroth he was often predicting floods and poisoned fish. He rallied the guards to defend the town when the Dragon came. Bard was able to slay the dragon Smaug with the Black Arrow after a tip from the old thrush (who had overheard Bilbo Baggins' description of Smaug) had revealed an unarmoured spot on the dragon's underside. Bard claimed a twelfth of the treasure amassed by the dragon, which he subsequently shared with the Master of Esgaroth to rebuild the town, but the Master stole the money and ran off into the wild where he died. After its rebuilding, Bard was the first king of restored Dale, followed by his son Bain, grandson Brand, and great-grandson Bard II.

- J.R.R. Tolkien’s legendarium

ETYMOLOGY OF THE WORD 'BARD'

The word is a loanword from Proto-Celtic *bardos, ultimately from Proto-Indo-European *gwerh2: "to raise the voice; praise". The first recorded example is in 1449 from the Scottish Gaelic language into Lowland Scots, denoting an itinerant musician, usually with a contemptuous connotation. A Scots ordinance of ca. 1500 orders that "All vagabundis, fulis, bardis, scudlaris, and siclike idill pepill, sall be brint on the cheek". The word subsequently entered the English language via Scottish English.

Photo Story Nain: The Jungle Suite

Part Nain

First of all:

Shame on you, Bagnasco!

Donc, so, ne me takine pas, don’t tease me. I’m flying to London tomorrow with Mr. Neverland, oh yes I am. Where is the line with you? What’s the matter? Why do you always direct what you see what should happen before anything actually happens? Why can’t anything just happen? I’m surrounded. Listen, I will get you into trouble. Chuckle. My lazer isn’t on stun. Little girls punching mirrors. I’m feeling fine today, feeling just fine.

I’m a simple man, with simple needs. All I want is someone to hold my hand, look at me and say: ‘Let’s go inside, it’s a damn cold night.'

Part Eyth

My trusted friend, Jasper, has been receiving telepathic messages from spider aliens from another dimension. Even though he is a lawn gnome, I have promised to look out for him. The only thing I could think of was to smash his skull and wrap it in aluminium foil.

I do hope the voices stop talking to him now.

Distant Voices: Cécile Volanges

À la Marquise de Merteuil

Maman est incommodée, Madame;

elle ne sortira point, et il faut que je lui tienne compagnie: ainsi je n'aurai pas l'honneur de vous accompagner à l'Opéra. Je vous assure que je regrette bien plus de ne pas être avec vous que le Spectacle. Je vous prie d'en être persuadée. Je vous aime tant! Voudriez- vous bien dire à M. le Chevalier Danceny que je n'ai point le Recueil dont il m'a parlé, et que s'il peut me l'apporter demain, il me fera grand plaisir. S'il vient aujourd'hui, on lui dira que nous n'y sommes pas; mais c'est que Maman ne veut recevoir personne. J'espère qu'elle se portera mieux demain.

J'ai l'honneur d'être, etc.

De ..., ce 13 août 17**

Distant Voices: Søren Kierkegaard

What is the Absurd? It is, as may quite easily be seen, that I, a rational being, must act in a case where my reason, my powers of reflection, tell me: you can just as well do the one thing as the other, that is to say where my reason and reflection say: you cannot act and yet here is where I have to act... The Absurd, or to act by virtue of the absurd, is to act upon faith ... I must act, but reflection has closed the road so I take one of the possibilities and say: This is what I do, I cannot do otherwise because I am brought to a standstill by my powers of reflection.

- Journal, 1849

Part Fore

I don’t know why I should write this, but the thought occurred to me and I can at least give it a try. Try not to read it as an ode to past lovers, but more as a reflection on people that once held me in their arms and promised to protect me. How I reacted to their love is, of course, not always what they expected. I’m not trying to make a full list here, just who pops in my head.

I’ll start with you Annamati. You were my first great love. You gave me the fever from the moment I first saw you in your white gown. I took us more than a year to confess our love to each other, but the three years that followed were a riot. You shaped me into the man I am today, you made all the foundations, and I cannot thank you enough for that.

Morgana, I’m sorry I was so messed up when we were together. I never talked about the chaotic whirls in my mind, you had to try to analyse it through my poetry, and that must have sucked for you. Thanks for believing in me still, too bad we didn’t graduate together. I can’t help but wonder if we would still be friends if we had never been an item. I would have liked that.

And how can I describe what you mean to me, Sam? You have so many names and faces to me, and I absolutely unconditionally love everyone of them. You will always be my other half, no matter how much people hate us for that. No matter how destructive it may be.You’re the bride I will never have. You deserve every inch of happiness your man is giving you, and you’d better make the godfather of your firstborn.

Jazz, I remember referring to you as my kitten. You were my great escape. The big strong arms I needed to hide into at that time. I know you needed more from me, and I couldn’t help you. But if I say 174, you’ll know what to think of.

Mr. Alain Proviste, you’re one crazy cat. I wouldn’t dream of letting you know what I think.

You are going to loathe me soon, Mr. Hollingworth, but I hope you’ll still have some happy memories from our time together. We rode on camels in the Sahara together for crying out loud, so smile when you think of me! I know I do when I think of you.

Thunder, I think we already played our cards and that everything has been put on the table. What’s done is done and I propose we don’t waste any more energy on it. You’re a true lost soul, and that’s why we were drawn to each other, no matter the distance. I’ll visit you soon and we’ll raise our glasses to each other.

What happened between us, Doran, can be easily dismissed as a very brief intermezzo of no great significance. I dare not beg to differ. However, I feel inclined to include you in this, you made me dream again after a long time of banality. Thank you my friend, I’ll see you more often now, I’m sure of it.

Hey, I’m looking in your direction Mr. Neverland. You’ve swept me off my feet. No matter in which language we talk to each other, we understand each other clearly. I’ll see you tonight. And many more nights to come.

Part Toe

I'm on my way to Neverland. Don't worry, I'll bring cookies when I get back.


Second to the right, and then straight on till morning.

Distant Voices: C. Scott Ananian

I'm losing my identity.

I am a loner. That's who I am.
I can't...

I'm becoming half of a pair. That's not me. That's not who I am.
*You're* not who I am. I am I. A christian. Follower of Christ.
A hard worker. Productive. Bright. Maybe somewhat aloof.
A stalker of quiet night spots for contemplation. Contemplative, that's
me. In the corner booth, alone, scribbling madly. Woeful words, mostly.

And recently I've had nothing but trite happinesses to write about.
Not that I've had time to write.

You've filled my life. With you. Leaving none of me left.
You're taking over my soul. Corrupting me, you say. I agree,
sometimes. Eating away at my essence. Who I am. I am I. Not you.

I love you. I long for you. You complete some primal circuit in my soul.
A hand to hold, a partner in life. Instigation to my insanity.
The person who will drive me to meteor observation. I am unmotivated alone.
You provoke me. Excite me. Fill me. Listen to me. An ear to hear
what I am, to see who I am, to mirror me so I can see myself.

Someone to share life with. My enjoyments doubled in you. A companion
for Brecht. A meteor-watcher. A lightning-maker. A midnight snacker.

I walk down the street with you in my hands, your hand in mine, and I
feel complete. Happy. Everything is doubled.

But it's not right. Not quite right. A jarring note. I'm losing myself.
Losing my soul.

That twisted knot at the center of our unhappiness. Fundamentally unshared.
Driving us apart when we're closest together. I will not lose it. I cannot
lose it. It is who I am, what I dream for, for whom I strive.

I sing songs to my god, and am happy. You stand silent. Frowning. Upset.

I love you, but this cannot go on.

I am not brave enough to tell you that.

-- csa, 21-nov-1998. 1:20am
-- discoveries made while folding laundry --

Distant Voices: Christo Botev to Kiro Touleshbov

.... I'm writing to tell you, my friend, that I stayed here (Bucharest) with the intention of becoming a teacher at the Bulgarian school, but I was sorely disappointed. I have fallen on such hard times, that I can hardly describe my miserable state. I'm quite broke, the rags I had aren't fit to wear any more and I'm ashamed to show myself in the street. I live in a draughty mill on the outskirts of Bucharest, together with my fellow-countryman Vassil Levski. It is better not to ask what we eat, because we only once in two or three days get hold of some bread to still our hunger .... I'm thinking of giving a lecture at the "Brotherly Love" reading club one of these days, but I have no idea in what clothes I shall appear there! In spite of this critical situation I have not lost my courage and honour.... My friend Levski, with whom I share my lodging, has an incredible disposition. When things with us are at their lowest, he is as merry as when they are at their best. When it is perishing cold outside, and we have gone hungry for two or three days, he will be merry and sing. He sings while we are getting into bed in the evening and he sings the moment he opens his eyes in the morning. Whatever your despair might be, he will cheer you up and make you forget all your grief and suffering. It is a pleasure to live with such a character ....

Bucharest, the end of 1868

Distant Voices: Emanuel Hocquard

XI

From no point of the canale is it possible to see
the burnt stump. Not because of the hedge-row.
Because a word is missing. Pond two communicates with pond three by a
drain of cemented tiles.
Pond three with the canale by the view from
the stone island.
But how make the burnt stump communicate
with the memory of the canale?
How line up in a logical sequence the
construction work of these past summers?
I have not yet told you about the hut, but I’m
correcting this omission.
I am going to tell you about the word hut.

XII

Hut is a childhood word. To build a hut in the
woods, in the trees, etc.
Hut is also a Wittgenstein memory. He had
built himself a hut in Norway, to which he
withdrew at various times to think and write,
when not teaching logic in Cambridge.
Last summer, I built myself a hut in Bouliac, in
Alexandre’s old studio.
I often go there to think and to write.
When I run out of bread I walk to Fargues to
buy some, with Alexandre for company.
In front of the hut window, we have built a
feeder in the form of an antefix for the birds in
winter.

XIII

Chronicle of recent summer work.
1993. Exavation of pond two. The first frog and
extensive bookshelves.
1994. Voyage to Reykjavik (montage of film).
Excavation of pond three. The Chinese carp, the
weeping willow and the vehement frog.
1995. Configuration of the canale. The mole.
The book of the mole. The gray heron. The
book of the canale, outline.
1996. Construction of the hut and the primitive
totem for the tits and robins.
1997. The Voyage to Reykjavik (the book). The
four chickens. The consumption of the stump.
Construction of the antefix for the birds.

XIV

This chronicle contains all the words that
stake out the route from the hut to the burnt
stump except one.
The one that is missing. What properties do
the stump and the canale have in common?
Memories: of the chalk pond traced in the
grass and of the ancient cedar uprooted by the
Storm.
Italy: canale is an Italian word designating a
long rectangular pond, and the burning of the
stump is a technique brought from Rome.
Two properties in common is not enough.
At least one more is missing.
The missing word.

XV

The rule says to see is a verb of action.
I change the rule and say to see is a verb of state-
of-being (or change of state-of-being).
Which is obvious when one thinks about it.
I see a leaf. I pick up a leaf.
The two sentences are not equivalent.
I draw a leaf is something else again.
Giacometti sees a dog. The dog that he sees on
this particular day.
He says: “I am this dog.”
He makes a sculpture of this dog. Selfportrait.
I see Viviane.
Viviane is Viviane.
I write the sonnets of Viviane.

Part Won

One door in front of me. The door. I know already that in a few seconds I will open it, step inside the room and destroy everything that I will leave behind. Too many rooms behind me, always the same rooms. He knows, he is waiting. Just behind this door. It is in front of me, all I have to do is open it and step inside the room. Just a few seconds now and my old world is lost forever.

The Phantom Ape asks: ‘Will you take me with you?’

I glance back at the rooms I left behind, the people sitting in them. They all know, they know how I will destroy them. How I will open the door, step inside the room and condemn them to oblivion. They do not worry, they know no fear, they simply know. Only the Phantom Ape is afraid. Only the Phantom Ape is afraid. Only the Phantom Ape is afraid. He is shivering on my shoulder. He is clutching on. He is whimpering silently.

The Phantom Ape asks again: ‘Will you take me with you?’

All eyes are on me now. I am standing in front of the door. The only door that matters. I study its frame. I look at the lock that cannot stop me from entering. It has no defense against me. The Phantom Ape clutching on. Me standing in front of the door. Condemn them to oblivion. Open the door. He is waiting. A shriek. It has begun. I know that in a few second I will open the door.

I answer: ‘You will always be with me.’

Part Fore-Zewo

`Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began in a great hurry; `and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--'

`What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.

`They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.

`They couldn't have done that, you know,' Alice gently remarked; `they'd have been ill.'

`So they were,' said the Dormouse; `very ill.'

Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: `But why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

`Take some more tea,' the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.

`I've had nothing yet,' Alice replied in an offended tone, `so I can't take more.'

`You mean you can't take less,' said the Hatter: `it's very easy to take more than nothing.'

`Nobody asked your opinion,' said Alice.

`Who's making personal remarks now?' the Hatter asked triumphantly.

Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. `Why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.'

`There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.'

`No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be one.'

`One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--'

`What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.

`Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.

`I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: `let's all move one place on.'

He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.

Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?'

`You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?'

`But they were in the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark.

`Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.'

This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it.

`They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; `and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--'

`Why with an M?' said Alice.

`Why not?' said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: `--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness-- you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?'

`Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I don't think--'

`Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.

- Lewis Carol, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter VII 'A Mad Tea-Party'

Photo Story Eyth: Vanity, definitely my favorite sin

A good friend of mine, co-member of the 'Werkgroep' and talented photographer, stole my soul with her magical little box. Lookie Lookie!










Go visit her on http://wrappedinlustandlunacy.blogspot.com!

Part Tree-Eyth

Dear People of Bamboo Snacks,

You make my days a little more shinier. Please don’t close or go broke any time soon, I need you like a junkie needs crack, like a nun needs Jesus or a panda needs bamboo which is perhaps more suiting.

Thanks for all the lovely snacks during my lunch breaks, and bringing them to my table where I can look at the frenzied shoppers at the Empire Mall. Even more thanks for bringing me coffee afterwards, you know I need it. Don’t stop selling those croissants, and that bamboo special sandwich.

I’ll try not to order food and call someone on my mobile at the same time, and maybe I can clean up my table a little bit when I leave. But you know I tip and give back the tray. I hope you like that.

Anyway, before I get too emotional, thanks for the snacks Bamboo!

Love,

The Michel d’Or guy

Photo Story Sephenn: My Old Room

The old room, about to be abandoned for something new and adventurous.

Many firsts in this room, many firsts.

Part Tree-Siks

I’m wearing a suit with an orange tie. My head is shaven and my eyes are filled with hopeful contemplation. I think of warming myself by a fire, the landscape outside caked with snow. I should be chasing my Indian rabbit, but he outsmarted me, chained me to a tree and took a plane to Miami. The leaves are falling on my head and somewhere in the back of my head I keep thinking someone’s laughing.
I hear the ticking of the clock, but it’s always a quarter to nine.

There ain't no-one gonna listen if you haven't made a sound
You’re an acid junkie college flunky dirty puppy daddy bastard

I’ll give it one more chance. No, no more chances. Maybe just one more, and then I’ll pick up the dignity I still have left and leave.
I take a pear-shaped diamond out of my pocket, lick it, and swallow it.
One more chance, and then I can move on.

I find the map and draw a straight line over rivers, farms and state lines
The distance from a to where you’d b, it’s only finger lenghts that I see

The virgin has bitten me, and I can’t stop the blood from flowing.