Diamond in the back, sunroof top….

The voice of the wilderness (6) – the enemies of the spirit

That was the last time I ever saw S. For some reason I never bothered to check how she was faring after that. I had destroyed her worldview in 10 minutes and sent her out tripping. The event taught me that beliefs and other sorts of fake mental constructs serve as some sort of stabilizer for these kind of people and that if you destroy their ideas of the world they quickly turn into hallucinating, imbalanced idiots. For this reason alone getting rid of religions is probably not a very good idea. Frankly, I do not understand this need of having to live in self-constructed mental houses – its as if reality is not good enough for them, somehow – but its clear that most religious, dogmatic, dull, forgettable or otherwise mentally impaired people would change into raving lunatics if you chopped the basis of their stability away. I have a better view now on the mechanics behind the process being older now and more experienced: in my view these people are people who have never managed to beat the first enemy on the path of enlightment: fear.

They need these mental constructs because it is a protection against that monster of chaos lurking outside of it, whose real name is of course Fear. Thus, the god or ideology or other bullshit they believe in serves, they think, as a protection but in reality of course these mental houses are rather mental institutions they have locked themselves in, fearing the boogeyman outside and burning candles to him inside to worship his name.

In the end these sort of people are really dangerous, since whatever they do and whatever they believe in is ultimately a product of fear.

There are in fact very few people who manage to beat the first enemy. It is not an easy task at all. Whoever beats it can be recognized by a great mental clarity and a freedom from having to live in mental/dogmatic constructs. These sort of people rather see reality in a direct and transcient sort of way. I have been fortunate enough to meet a number of them but they are pretty rare. People who advance further than that are even more rare: the next enemy is clarity, and I have met maybe 2 or 3 people who seemed to have beat that one.

The 10 best Prince songs

1. Automatic (1999)

Sadomasochistic Porn Funk with grinding Hammond’s. Doesn’t get any better than this.

2. Uptown (Dirty Mind)

This is the most punky funk song ever recorded.

3. Bambi (Prince)

This is the only song ever recorded that actually makes you want to shag a cartoon character.

4. Lady Cab Driver (1999)

This overlooked song is like the funky gritty forgotten soundtrack of ‘taxi driver’.

5. The Beautiful Ones (Purple rain)

I think this is the best song of Purple Rain even if only for the impossible falsetto heights the master reaches towards the end.

6. Let’s Work (Controversy)

The best motivating song ever written and another highlight in falsetto funk.

7. Tamborine (Around the world in a day)

Anyone who can make a song about a tambourine sound this horny deserves a Nobel Price.

8. It’s Gonna Be Lonely (Prince)

There’s something about this song I really like. Probably the multi-layered development towards the end of it.

9. New Position (Parade)

Probably the best song of ‘Parade’ even though ‘Kiss’ is seriously tight too.

10. Erotic City (Bsides)

That one’s a real party shooter. Fuck so pretty you & me, Erotic city come alive….

Truly a beautiful game

One to none doesn’t sound as beautiful as it was.

In the first half the elfin El Niño made the world class move we all wanted to see. The Spanish held the side.

Federico Tornado of Thursday City recreates a scene from the game.

In the second half both teams puffed up their chests and began trading blows like true Titans. Though no goals were scored there was a controlled and determined aggression displayed throughout the second half. One could feel the build up like the earth rumbling in preparation for a volcanic belch. And though it’s the rare volcano that is as sensationally explosive as we imagine them to be in our musings the breathtaking—gasp inducing—beauty of even the slightest of such natural wonders is not to be denied. If the Spanish are to be compared to a natural wonder it must be to some tentacled aquatic creature. They flowed in a truly organized fashion combining the ethereal beauty of the oceanic dynamo with its sublime power. The Germans roared back with a characteristic bruteness, which could only be hated or despised by the fragile things. The Germans at their best have virtually none of the graceful force the Spanish showed, but one has shut off one’s most ancient sense organs if a twinge of ancestral terror is not felt at seeing those brute giants come storming down the field, reminiscent of their Gothic forefathers entering the fray with a guttural war-cry.

Is El Niño not patently molded by the gods to be an electrifying footballer? He played a focused and bellicose game from the get-go. Is Torsten Frings not the epitome of the long haired Goth, combining rugged power with surprising agility? And is Christoph Metzelder not carved out of black forest fir? But just as the truth obstinately remains obscure behind the war of opposing views the hidden gem for the Spaniards has to be Keeper Casillas. Mr. Iker was not tested often, but he played like a lightning cloud, striking with terrible might. From punching crosses all the way back to midfield to stretching like one of the Great Cats to bring down a dangerous pass he played like an impenetrable force. If he continues to play that way he will go down as a truly great keeper.

The two teams for the better part of 90 minutes played like heroes, which, when all said and done, is what we actually want from them. One could feel the power of the human spirit pulsing through the match. I couldn’t help but marvel at the absurd heights to which we have taken our play. It makes me understand why Gods of the past have, at our best moments, been jealous of humanity. The Natural and the Divine take it as a birthright to attempt the absurd, it explains the sardonic laughter of the Gods. But at our heights—and our depths—humanity has the potential to also orchestrate such profound paradox as to challenge the divinely absurd while also tasting of fiercely ripe mortality.

Original post by Jehosephat Sunrays

Heilige

Gevangen in het gouden web van een kerk
wacht hij tot het witte licht hem op zal vreten.
Maar klootzakken hebben glas-in-lood gelegd,
er is geen ontkomen aan. Op een dag zal iemand

het zware anker van het altaar lichten en rood,
kut-achtig licht zal eindelijk toestromen
en de dikke, zwarte spinnen
van de biecht verjagen.

Iemand, ver weg, herinnert zijn naam
en zal hem wegroepen voor hij kans heeft
een oud vrouwtje te wurgen met een
van zijn gouden haren, dat

elke morgen aan zijn voeten huilde,
nooit opmerkend dat hij, hol-geoogd
geen woord van haar geprevel verstond

omdat de vogels, buiten,
altijd oorverdovend waren.

Martijn Benders, 30-06-2008

Afterlife

I have a planet in my head
full of unsuccessful dead people.

It’s an aquatic planet, fortunately,
so their footsteps don’t bother me.

But the endless gurgling sounds
are enough to make me draw
my cotton bud of 20 pounds.

But damn it my ear
is like a needlepoint

and my rear is
too far away.

There is something about being dead
that demands success, lots of it.

Ever noticed
how knightly a
cotton bud can be?

For some reason,
knighting the dead requires
lots of gurgling sounds.

They can’t prove a thing, can they.

Saint

Caught in the golden spiderweb of a church,
he waits for the white light to devour him.
But the bastards made leaded windows:
there is no escape. One day someone

will lift the heavy anchor of the altar and light
will finally come at bay, reddish, cunt-like
chasing the fat black spiders
of confession away.

Someone, far off, remembers his name
and calls him away before he has the chance
to strangle an old lady with one of his golden hairs

who came, every morning, to weep
never noticing how he, hollow-eyed
never heard a word she’s saying

because the birds outside
sound deafening. Deafening.

George Carlin Quotes

I would never want to be a member of a group whose symbol was a guy nailed to two pieces of wood.
– George Carlin (attributed: source unknown)

I’ve begun worshipping the Sun for a number of reasons. First of all, unlike some other gods I could mention, I can see the Sun. It’s there for me every day. And the things it brings me are quite apparent all the time: heat, light, food, a lovely day. There’s no mystery, no one asks for money, I don’t have to dress up, and there’s no boring pageantry. And interestingly enough, I have found that the prayers I offer to the sun and the prayers I formerly offered to God are all answered at about the same 50-percent rate.
– George Carlin, Brain Droppings

The voice of the wilderness (5) – causing hallucination with speech

After I broke up with A. I immediately got into a relationship with S., a punk girl I had met in De Joek. She was a small, tender and bleak little girl with an enormous amount of eye shade on and pretty wild hair. The weird thing about her was that, even though she looked pretty punky, her mother was seriously religious and she was still going to church every Sunday. That’s a pretty weird thing to do for a 16 year old punk rock girl but one time I actually went together to see what it was about. I didn’t like the sermon at all it felt like these people were some sort of weird plants and the priest was the guy who had to give them water once a week.

Much to my demise S. also believed in the ‘no sex before marriage’ thing. Well we did have sex, but just not the full monty as that was forbidden. At some point I remember getting really tired of her. She came visit me and was sitting on my bed. I began holding a fiery speech about why everything she believed in was a crock of shite. I did that with such force and conviction she was dazed and said she wanted to go home. She looked sort of disoriented and I let her out. 5 minutes later the doorbell rang and she was standing there, totally deranged and hallucinating. She was simply incapable of riding her bike and we had to call her parents to come pick her up. I don’t remember exactly what I told her but apparently it was more than she could handle. It’s fascinating, however, that one can actually cause hallucinations by the mechanism of speech. I think that was one of the first moments I realized what the power of words or poetry can be.

The voice of the wilderness (4) – death is predictable

When I started being a punk at 15 I certainly wasn’t a conventional punk by any standard. I remember having this jeans jacket I decorated with hundreds of needles, medals (I had lots of chess medals I had won when I was 10-11 years old) and other weird regalia. I did the same thing to my shoes, and I put monopoly bills everywhere and bells. As you might imagine that looked seriously weird. I looked like a decorated pin cushion and the monopoly bills and bells gave it a strange surreal after touch. It didn’t take very long before everyone started to complain about the bells I tied to my shoes. When I walked through school it sounded like it was Sunday. It was a rather quick transformation from being an unnoticed little nerd to most weird creature that ever walked the school. Most people felt I was nuts but there also was some admiration of people that admired the courage of what I was doing.

The school principle didn’t care much about courage. That’s not what our schools are for, courage needs to be punished somehow as it doesn’t produce the model citizens schools like these are build to produce. The principle called my father to school and told him I should be sent to a shrink. My father was pretty embarrassed, being a rather model citizen himself, but luckily he’s as allergic to the idea of shrinks as I was.

I walked around like a living Christmas tree for a few months until I got tired of it and changed my strategy. It did get me into some trouble – there was this big Chinese kung fu guy who didn’t appreciate my sense of fashion very much and on top of that I had demolished the glasses of his brother when he and some of his stupid pals tried to harass me in school. He stalked me one night at a club and when I was bicycling home he came after me and would have beat me up if some people didn’t pass making him change his mind. He cycled on. His plan was, however, to wait for me in the dark forest between Geldrop and Mierlo. Luckily the idiot wore a white shirt so it was easy to spot him in the dark and avoid him. The guy looked like an overhormonized version of Bruce Lee so I suppose I was sort of lucky. The point in life is rather to pick the right sort of fights and avoid the ones that have no spirit. When I demolished the glasses of his brother that was a spirited act: they never harassed me again. It did evoke another guardian but death was stupid enough to wear a white shirt that night.That’s the lovely thing about death: its so ultimately predictable.

The voice of the wilderness (3) – the Apple of knowledge

‘Adam and Eve in Saudi-Arabia’

The Christian story of Adam & Eve and the serpent is a plagiarized story as most stories from the Bible are plagiarized from other sources. The source of the story is the Jewish Kabbalah and in that context the story actually makes sense. It’s not a parable about some guy and girl far away in history but a parable about you & me, everyone! The Original Sin is something that happens in everyones life. On the Tree of Life there is a false sephira, Daath, which is also known as ’self-knowledge’. It lies between Kether (Divinity) and Tiphareth (Consciousness). The apple in the Christian adaptation is Daath, and after eating from the apple Adam and Eve become ‘aware of their nudity’ in other words self-awareness starts.

As babies and little children we are not restricted by this false Sephira. We simply live without having any self-image. The Self-image is a byproduct of the education (snake) our parents and schools give us. It blocks the communication between supreme being and the consciousness, which before that were one.

After we eat of the Apple of Knowledge, however, all of us start to be aware of ourselves, and our consciousness starts to be divided from our being. We start to have an image of ourselves which blocks our true expression.

How do we go from there? There are two ways of dealing with this situation. The first is to find a self-image one is comfortable with. This is what most people do. It has some advantages since it causes the mind to operate reasonably undisturbed and it brings some peace to most people. People who find and maintain a self-image they are comfortable with are generally known as ‘happy people’.

It doesn’t mean a whole lot, because in fact this image they are comfortable with is completely fake.
There is another road, the road of learning to get rid of all self-imagery. This is a hard road however and requires one to pretty much battle for the rest of ones life (which isn’t a bad thing at all since the sense and meaning of life are essentially to put up a good battle). One develops techniques to stop identifying with ones self-image. The more these mechanisms behind self-imagery are mastered the more easy it becomes to switch and correct ones identities. At some point we can simply get rid of the self-image and be reborn as the child we once were, but a different child who has the triumph of knowledge in his pocket.

If you are a person who always has the same image of yourself you must ask yourself what it is you really want. If you are one of those people who is content to live with one self-image you are comfortable with, cudos to you. If you are a person who always has the same image of himself but it’s a discontent image then you might rather take up the great battle. You have to realize the image is fake. It has nothing to do with you, it’s like an old photograph the mind took which it mistakes fro reality. You need to reset and reprogram your brain. This is a difficult path but its so, so much better than the path of the happy people. Because the happy people, they are fakes. Don’t let them know though, because happy people are dangerous people when you disturb them.

Ron Silliman

This weblog was mentioned on Ron Silliman’s weblog yesterday, a contemporary American poet whom I have never read. Well I have read some samples, now, and it looks pretty promising. Silliman apparently has been working on one single poem or poetic work since 1974:

He has written and edited 26 books to date. Between 1979 & 2004, Silliman wrote a single poem, entitled The Alphabet. He has now begun writing a new poem entitled Universe, the first section of which appears to be called Revelator.

Silliman sees his poetry as being part of a single poem or lifework, which he calls Ketjak. Ketjak is also the name of the first poem of The Age of Huts. If and when completed, the entire work will consist of The Age of Huts (1974-1980), Tjanting (1979-1981), The Alphabet (1979-2004), and Universe (2005-).[1]

Now, that’s someone with a serious attention span! I love that sort of epic conceptualism. If I hadn’t already summarized the Universe in 17 poems in Karavanserai I would seriously consider doing an A-Capella with Silliman, but luckily for him I consider The Universe to be sort of a closed chapter of my life, now. That might change some day, who knows.

Op-Ed: University backs professor in “civil liberties” case

An excerpt from today’s Thursday City Chronicler:

By now everyone is familiar with the story of the events that took place last week at the Thursday City University philosophy department’s auditorium. But if you aren’t, a quick recap: During the question and answer portion of a panel discussion in Hegel Hall an attendee by the name of Friedrich Blitzkrieg asked the moderator, tenured professor of philosophy Jeremiah Squiggle, what Squiggle deemed an inappropriate question. When he continued his aggressive behavior Squiggle had Mr. Blitzkrieg escorted out of the auditorium by security and subsequently banned from all future University events. When informed of this decision several outraged students, most certainly shadow proxies of Mr. Blitzkrieg, contacted the Thursday City chapter of the radical left-wing ACLU and began a picket of the university.

We have unerringly voiced our opinion on the entire sordid affair, but the university issued a statement today and we think it merits consideration:
“Thursday City University prides itself on playing host to vigorous debate on the most controversial topics. Our myriad institutional curricula and public events aim to pique interaction and inspire critical discourse. That being said the University does not endorse nor tolerate hate speech in its class environment nor its public forums. The University unequivocally supports Professor Squiggle in his decision to eject and ban the offender at last week’s debate ‘The Quandary of the Spirit in Contemporary Pop-Culture,’ and will not be swayed by the aggressive tactics of the Thursday City ACLU.”

Here here! We at the Thursday City Chronicler could not be prouder of the courage our local university has shown in the face of that farcical organization’s frivolous attacks and vicious smear campaign.

And an artist’s rendition of the event based on audio tape from the Philosophy department at TCU:

Original post by Jehosephat Sunrays

New Design

The Mirror of my Soul

The voice of the wilderness (2) – banging on the guardian

I’ve decided to write my memoirs here instead of using this space for posts of random interests.
It is an exercise for me to see if I can actually recall my life. I believe that it’s everyone duty to recall his existence, since that seems the only way we can escape the torture or bliss of oblivion.

The memoirs were started here and I think I will keep that title, the voice of the wilderness, since it pretty much sums up what I feel is essential about all & everything.

So, where was I? Ah yes, Frank. Frank was a 25 year old Hercules living in the town of Geldrop, build like a bodybuilder with long Corinthian curls in his neck and a Greek sort of face with a giant nose. Frank’s hobby was to screw 15 or 16 year old girls he would pick up at the local youth centre, de Joek in Geldrop. De Joek was a pretty cool place at that time. We were 15, 16 and we got the first taste of some sort of nightlife. Somehow now it seems incredible that such a small club with teens in such a small rural Dutch town could have such wild, Dionysian edge to it but I suppose that, as with everything, life’s just what you make of it. Anyway, I was with the popular punk rock leo girl A. and I was getting really tired of hearing stories about all the stuff she did with Frank and how sometimes his massive load of sperm could hit the ceiling when he managed to miss whatever target I wouldn’t care to imagine. There must have been some sort of cruelty in her causing her to tell me all those adventurous stories. Or maybe I was just a total cunt for listening to them anyway, or even being with her in the first place, as she wasn’t particulary intelligent but as I said before I was in the transformation process between ‘nerd’ and ‘cool’ and that requires some sort of personal sacrifice.

My quick transformation from ‘nerd’ to ‘cool punk’ convinced me of the fact that change was one of the vital characteristics one should master in this existence. It also taught me that people who are trapped in a certain image of themselves are not only dull and wrong, but just scared to take risks. Essentially all self-imagery is fake. It’s impossible to have an image of oneself that is true, since that would be like claiming that a picture one takes of a landscape can be the landscape itself. As such, all self-imagery is manipulatable and changeable and to learn to change these sort of images is of vital importance if one wants to maximize ones existence. Most people eventually just find the self-image they are comfortable with. I suppose that is also sort of okay, for them at least, but in the end the idea of mastering the backend of self-imagery is much much more interesting.

I messed around with A. for about a year or so. She was a strong and dominant girl, half italian. She looked sort of cruel, she had these half chinese sort of eyes and sharp jawbones. She had the body of a full grown woman and a great set of tits. I remember one time some right-wing corps leader wanted to have me beat up because I was a weirdo. When she heard about it she walked straight up to him in De Joek, threw her glass of beer in his face and punched him to the floor. That guy never bothered me again. That’s the sort of girl she was. I did have loads of fun with A. We used to screw like monkeys every day after school, because she lived two blocks away and we used to get really stoned and screw until her mother came home from her job. There’s something inevitably weird about screwing stoned. I remember one time I was so far out of my head I didn’t even recognize her anymore. And the weirdest thing was, we were doing it but we started at around 14.00 in the afternoon and next time I looked at the clock it was like 17.30 and her mother would be there any minute. Three and a half hours but they felt like 5 minutes! That was one of my first experiences with the time altering possibilities of the mind, or drugs if you wish so.

The sex with A. was sort of cool. Like most fire signs she had a sort of masochistic side to her, which grows out of a sickness of their own domination. As they are dominant in real life most of the time they want to reverse that process sexually. I suppose one could say the sex we had was sort of unconventional but I think essentially all sex is unconventional so that doesn’t mean too much.

What wasn’t cool, however, was Frank. Franks massive ceiling-whitening escapades with 15 year old girls, one of which was sorta my girlfriend, wasn’t the sort of thing I found mentally challenging. So, there we were at Youth Centre De Joek and it was New Year. I was sitting on the dancefloor and at some point I saw Mr Hercules take A. by the hand and pull her outside of the club. I ran outside and saw they were kissing in the street outside next to the railway. I ran towards them and A. let go of him when she saw me and I started beating Frank like one would beat on a door. That’s not a metaphor: I was literally beating him like one would beat on a door. He had this giant chest that seemed sort of fit exactly for that purpose and i would bang my fists on them as if I wanted to see if someone would open it. Frank took me by the shoulders and lifted me up in the air. He was shouting at me, and shaking me. A. started to cry. I, on the other hand, experienced some sort of moment of beauty, as I was hanging there in the air. I felt like I had beat the guardian of the threshold, and Frank was sort of seriously scared of me because he thought I was insane.

I don’t remember what happened after that, but that scene is sort of frozen moment in my early teen life: banging on the door of the guardian. My relationship with A. kind of went downhill from there. I remember one scene in the school toilet when she tried to slash her wrists with a broken piece of glass. I was there too, for some reason, and the weird thing is she kept looking at herself in the mirror while trying to cut herself. It was just one of many suicide scenes I had around those times, for some reason I was always fantasizing about jumping from buildings I suppose it has something to do with the age. We split up, but it was sort of weird because she was still in my class and I had to see her everyday. To compensate that I immediately got involved with another punk girl, S.

(To be continued)

Hats off to Turkey!

That was one of the best semi-finals I’ve ever seen. Totally amazing how this Turkish b-team fought like lions and almost shuffled the Germans off the field. Amazing late goals by both teams, so much tension the camera’s broke down. Cheering rose from all the island when the turks made a goal and even all the ships started blowing their horns. Magic in the air tonight, but unfortunately the Germans had the mighty devil Schweinsteiger at their side who was simply everywhere on the field simultaneously. That guy could play a match all on his own. Have we even seen another German player in action during this game?

Driek van Wissen

Dat kon natuurlijk alleen in Nederland gebeuren, dat een post als ‘Dichter des Vaderlands’ al bij de tweede invulling totaal werd verkracht. Hoe verzin je het een man als Komrij te laten opvolgen door een sinterklaasrijmelaar als van Wissen? Maar goed, daarover is al wel genoeg geschreven. De post heeft simpelweg de aanzien die het nooit gehad heeft voor minstens een paar decennia verloren.

Het ergste is nog dat die van Wissen niet eens in de verste verte probeert er nog iets van te bakken. Je zou denken dat zo’n man toch denkt dat hij, met die aandacht op zich gevestigd, tenminste een beetje beter zijn best moet gaan doen. Maar hij wordt alleen maar genanter en erger, getuige dit uiterst schlemiele versje in NRC gister:

Guus Geluk Gewenst

Dit is zelfs voor van Wissen onder de maat, en dat zegt heel wat. Wat is er toch aan de hand met Nederland dat ze nooit maar dan ook nooit reglementen weten verzinnen die hout snijden? Echt op elk front loopt het mis (van belachelijke immigratieregels die geen enkel effect hebben tot overlullig en patroniserend domeinnamen verhandelen) en het loopt altijd mis op dezelfde achilleshiel: het onvermogen het belerende wijsvingertje in de broek te houden bij het opstellen van regels. Dat verkrampte kleinburgerlijke moralisme moet in Nederland gewoon de overhand hebben, want anders menen ze de weg kwijt te zijn.

Het echte geluk hier ligt natuurlijk aan van Wissen’s zijde: hij mag zich gelukkig prijzen dat ik niet de baas van Nederland ben. Ik zou de geheime dienst inzetten en hem een week lang aan zijn kortzichtige baardje laten ophangen als hij het waagde zo’n rijmelscheet onder mijn bewind tevoorschijn te toveren.

Ik zou die uit de pleepot van Antoon Pieck ontsnapte papierkabouter standrechtelijk laten fussileren als hij daarna nog in herhaling viel.

Van Wissen mag zich dus gelukkig prijzen met het kleinburgelijk moralisme dat mensen als hem in bescherming weet te houden. Zo zie je maar weer, ook het maaiveld heeft wormen nodig. Je verwacht alleen geen worm aan het stuur van de traktor.

What a day!

What a day! A hot day full of smoking frozen cigarettes, drinking wine, swimming, destroying the dutch flarf movement, angelic conversations and finally the cool retro film Delivrance:

Two artists I love

Yesterday I watched Cronenberg’s ‘Dead Zone’ as it was on TV. Not Cronenbergs best film but really enjoyable for the atmosphere and Christopher Walken is always great. Tonight I’ll watch a rather forgotten 70’s jewel, the movie ‘Deliverance’ with Burt Reynolds.

I found two artists recently I really love:

Tom Long

Wow, this guy immediately hit my bookmarks! He’s not very known, apparently, because there’s just one website that seems to mention him. Absolutely stunning work, and fascinating subject matters and technique. Definitely a keeper.

Lari Pittman

Lari Pittman is another new genius. His work is simply excellent and I can’t stop looking at it. It’s fascinating how he combines design and commercial elements with still life and surrealism. This is really quite impossible art.

People who think poetry is found in poems

…..are idiots.

This is my new couch. They removed the heating machine from our upper balcony and there’s enough room for a couch now. It’s a real blast to sit there. Unfortunately its impossible to catch the beauty in pictures, the colors, the silhouettes, the birds, the lights….

Benders Golden tip of the day: Frozen cigarettes

When it’s hot, let’s say above 30 degrees celcius, I always keep my cigarettes in the freezer. There is nothing more delightful than a frozen cigarette in the burning heat. To feel the icy smoke hit your longs, and an icy drink hit your stomach. I find it amazing that no one else ever seemed to have thought of the idea. Frozen cigarettes, golden tip of the day.

Mensen die menen dat je poezie in gedichten moet zoeken

…hebben het helemaal bij het verkeerde eind.

For You and Prince

I’m listening to the first two records of Prince today, ‘For You’ and ‘Prince’. For some reason I always have sort of ignored these, for some reason they did sound too ’soft’ before somehow. I was wrong, these records are absolutely brilliant. It’s hard to imagine how Prince could have made these all on his own at the age of 19 & 20. He plays all instruments himself! He got 180.000 dollar from Time Warner to produce 3 records but he spend it all on the first record, For You. That shows something about how serious he was about music. Both records are filled with classic songs that are often better than the sources they got inspired from. For some reason I never noticed how good a rocksong ‘Bambi’ is, before. It’s Santana, Jimi Hendrix and Little Richard on methadrine!

Feelings, emotions and spirituality

Most people do not differentiate between feelings and emotions. This is a fundamental mistake that creates lots of unnecessary and irritating problems. An example: when Holland lost the match against Russia yesterday it will probably have caused a lot of people to have a bad evening. Totally ridiculous, since these sort of emotions are completely fake. But since these people cannot differentiate between fake feelings (emotions) and real feeling they have no choice but to be the slave of them.

The definition of an emotion: any feeling that can be manipulated or is dependent on anything. Soccer emotions are illusions: it is very easy for me to turn myself into a Russian instantly and experience the same sort of joy I would have felt if the Dutch would have won. It’s just a question of manipulating your own beliefs. It’s a question of identification.

Someone who only feels happy when the sun shines is simply not really happy. Apparently his happiness depends on external stimulus, making his happiness more like a drug than anything else.

Emotions can be enjoyed, but they are essentially fake. People who don’t realize this are people that want to be manipulated.

Feelings cannot be manipulated. For example, If I really love a girl there’s nothing manipulatable about it: she can behave like a cunt, spit in my face, etc. and it won’t change my feeling because its a genuine feeling.

People also don’t understand what ’spiritual’ is. Quite simple, any moment when ‘the spirit’ manifests.
The games against France and Italy were good examples. Being ’spiritual’ has nothing to do with new age or fluffy theories. Those parasite-goeroes in india aren’t ’spiritual’ since it requires no spirit whatsoever to be like that. Sometimes being ’spiritual’ can mean you kill someone, for example. The woman who was trapped for 24 years by Horror Grandpa in Austria in my view was a very nonspiritual person since someone with spirit would have simply killed the guy. Anyone who allows himself to be bossed around for 24 years by a bully like that simply has lost all spirit. Being spiritual means you don’t allow these sort of beings to dominate you and, would you ever be in such an awkward situation, to simply kill the bastard with any means necessary.

India, onderbuik van de wereld

Iets meer dan een jaar geleden ben ik een maand lang in India geweest. Ik vond het een verschrikking, maar dat was mede te danken aan een slechte voorbereiding. Anderzijds denk ik dat ik gewoon niet de psychologische make-up van een toerist heb: het stikte er van de toeristen die het er allemaal ‘gaaf’ en ‘goedkoop’ en ‘alternatief’ vonden. Zich mengen met de indiers was er niet bij: ze klonterden allemaal samen, deze alternatievelingen, in bars waar de hele dag allerlei hippie en jaren 70 muziek werd gedraaid.

Mijn ervaring met India was tweeledig: enerzijds hangt er een hele vreemde en magische energie, het is zeker een bijzondere ervaring. Anderzijds voel je de ellende gewoon achter de schijnvertoningen hangen. Neem nou zo’n bericht als vandaag:

Enkele Britse en Canadese hulporganisaties bekeken de situatie in vijf deelstaten in het noorden en het noordwesten van India en stellen dat er nog nooit zo weinig meisjes ter wereld kwamen. Zo werden in de staat Punjab bijvoorbeeld slechts 300 meisjes geboren tegenover iedere 1.000 jongens.

Door de druk op vrouwen om zoons te baren, worden vrouwelijke foetussen geaborteerd. Ook komt het geregeld voor dat meisjesbaby’s na hun geboorte dusdanig worden verwaarloosd, dat ze sterven. Naar schatting zijn er in heel India de afgelopen 20 jaar zo’n 10 miljoen meisjesfoetussen geaborteerd.

Het Kinderfonds van de Verenigde Naties Unicef zegt dat in India iedere dag 7.000 meisjes worden gedood nog voor ze geboren zijn.

Daarnaast bleek uit een ander onderzoek dat ruim 40% van alle indiers als kind door familieleden of bekenden seksueel misbruikt werden. Ik ben om die reden, en vele andere, helemaal niet dol op dit land.
Het is een rare, akelige, totaal genepte sfeer waarachter grote ellende schuilgaat, en dan hebben we het nog niet eens over de armoede.

De doorsnee toerist merkt hier schijnbaar niks van. Ik wel. In elk restaurant waar ik zat te eten voelde ik de vrouwenblikken uit de keuken priemen, een bloedhete keuken die ze niet verlaten mochten. Ik kan daar niet tegen. Of zo’n bus indiers die 800 kilometer reizen om naar het strand te gaan en dan niet eens een duik nemen want dat mag niet of dat durven ze niet.

Wat had ik een hekel aan al die nep-alternatieve teringhippies daar die zaten parasiteren op de indiers met hun schijttantra lessen en nepmeditaties. Uitschot dat daar het halve jaar de goeroe zit uit te hangen omdat ze met hun uitkering daar de koning te rijk zijn.

Gelukkig ontmoet je er ook interessante mensen. Ik kon het prima met Nepalezen en boeddhisten vinden. Prachtmensen zijn dat. Maar voor India zelf heb je zeker een sterke maag nodig, of gigantische oogkleppen.

Studeren op Nijenrode

Je begint een beetje te begrijpen waar die hele ‘war on terror’ vandaan komt als je het nest waarin deze potentiele corporale leiders worden opgevoed aan een onderzoek onderwerpt:



Hoeveel Nederlandse politici hebben daar hun opleiding genoten?

The voice of the wilderness (1) – knocking the door

When I was 14 years old I was a complete and utter nerd. I had these ridiculous glasses, like the one Ad Visser wears, and I spend all my time reading books. All books I read dealt with the fantastic. I read all science fiction books the library had, books from Einstein and Bohr, quantum mechanics, occult books, basically anything that promised a way out of the dreary nerdness of suburban existence. I never even thought for one moment that I should take care of the clothes I am wearing. I wore whatever my mother bought for me. Of course all this didn’t make me a very popular guy. Girls wouldn’t even look at me, as I recall. At some point, however, that did start to bother me to some extent.

The first thing that dragged me into the spirit of the wilderness was a record I bought when I was 14. ‘Dirty Mind’ from Prince. I clearly recall hiding the cover when I drove home with my parents, as it looked sort of embarrassingly gay with a guy in leather underwear. That record blasted my mind however, this was the most horny music ever put on record on this planet. The record taught me that one should, somehow, express ones sexuality. Then some time later I bought ‘Rum, sodomy & the Lash’ by the Pogues. Another Brain blaster: I heard the voice of the wilderness drift into my nerdy existence, dominated by the predictable dutch atmosphere of insurances, lawns and open curtains. I heard the ancient voice of Dionysus, calling me into a different sort of existence where one didn’t live the day by the clock. These two records played a major role in my punkinisation process. I personally regard both of them as the only real punk records in existence.

Okay, so I heard the voice. I still was as unpopular a nerd as ever. But there was this girl in my class, a popular and strong leo punk rock girl. The kind of girl that represented everything I didn’t have. So my natural conclusion was that that girl just had to be mine. Of course that was a mission impossible since she wouldn’t even notice me as I walked by and I would be the last guy she’d ever screw. Not that we screwed much we were 15 but we did hear the call, mind you. I was confronted with a serious problem: i needed to have that girl but it seemed impossible. But that’s sort of the thing about the voice of the wilderness: it makes the impossible seem very, very possible, somehow.

I started changing my clothes. I started wearing weird stuff I thought was cool. I started to tease her in mathematics class, throwing paper balls into her bra & stuff. She told her boyfriend about it, who was like 5 years older. He came to school and threatened me that he would cut my throat if I didn’t stop throwing little paper balls into the slit of her bra. I didn’t care much. Fuck him. I started writing her letters. I wrote insanely personal, emotional and fantastic letters I would put in the pocket of her coat. That was sort of a thrilling thing to do. I was very surprised to get a letter back, actually, also stuffed into my coat. For some time we exchanged letters in this way.

The end of that year, at the end-of-the-year school party, she wanted to kiss me. But the next day I would go for a 6 weeks holiday to Turkey with my parents. I knew that if I kissed her that holiday would be hell. So I didn’t, but the holiday was hell anyway. Longest 6 weeks of my life. When I got back I instantly stepped on my bicycle, drove over to her and asked if she still wanted me. She said ‘Yeah but I also have a boyfriend’. I said I don’t care. So for the next months we went to her house after school every day and got stoned and screwed. She did have a boyfriend, apparently, but I never saw him so I didn’t care. I heard the spirit of the wilderness.

Later on the spirit would stab me in the back. She started cheating on me with this 25 year old bodybuilder who was like 3 heads bigger than me and she was always talking about his giant dick and other details I wouldn’t be very interested in. One time I saw him drag her outside in the youth club we would frequent and I ran outside and saw them kissing there. I started beating that guy like one would beat a door. I wasn’t actually hitting him I was more like knocking on the guy, hoping that someone would actually open and there would be a person inside or something. He grabbed me and lifted me up in the air like a little twig. He started shouting at me ‘What the fuck do you want, you idiot!’ . I suppose some people would find it an embarrassing situation. But I really do believe that, once you’ve heard the voice of the wilderness, such events are somehow really beautiful.

Interessante poeziediscussie op in Letterland

In Letterland is een nogal statisch weblog met weinig interactie, mede doordat het een gemodereerd weblog is vermoed ik. Hoe dan ook, tot mijn grote verbazing stond er vandaag ineens een prachtig stuk van Sven Vitse te lezen welke ogenblikkelijk een interessante poeziediscussie in het leven riep. Wellicht kunnen de echte debaters hier ook even overwaaien om een potje mee te sparren:

Debat vindt hier plaats

Het debat tot nu toe, geparafraseerd:

“Maar misschien speelt hier de illusie van de terugblik mee, wanneer men retrospectief parasensus waarneemt in een situatie die op dat moment wellicht als dissensus en als subversie werd ge�ntendeerd en gepercipieerd.” (Sven Vitse)

Wellicht. Anderzijds zou je penologisch retro-addentief kunnen redeneren dat de situatie, als een soort prontamente parrataas, zich niet uitsluitend laat in het quinqertium van de percipatie. Ik zie het eerder als een soort quincunx waarin de mainstream, geparafraseerd als het ware door
de reprobatie van het establishment, zichzelf tot represtinerende norm weet te verheffen middels obligate anti-kritiek en intertekstuele wolligheid. Het is gewoon te belachelijk voor woorden. (Martijn Benders)

Technicolor dreams

This is Jamie Butler. She appeared to me in a dream the other night swathed in vivid technicolor beauty. She informed me that I am moving too fast, and that Freud’s interpretations of dream symbols were, in her words, hogwash. When I asked her what she meant she replied, “Figure it out for yourself, mister.”

I am trying to slow down.

Original post by Jehosephat Sunrays

Dat hij maar snel zijn coltrui in mag slikken, die Domenech

Domenech, de trainer van Frankrijk, is veruit de engste trainer ooit in de geschiedenis van het voetbal. Die man zou nog geen spoor van emotie tonen als zijn leven ervan af hing. Dat kan bijna niet anders dan een dictator in de dop zijn, een Waterman, dus. En bovendien nog eentje die gelooft in astrologie ook.
Lees dit maar eens.

Jammer alleen dat onze ultra-rationele, postmoderne voetbaltrainer ook al geen reet verstand van astrologie heeft. Schorpioenen zijn juist geweldige spitsen. Leeuwen op het middenveld (Schweinsteiger is een leeuw), boogschutters aan de zijlijn. Een stevige steenbok of stier in het doel. Maar nee, mijnheer de Waterman wil geen schorpioenen in zijn team die verpesten de sfeer. In zijn uiterst psychologische watermannenlogica passen rammen en kreeften schijnbaar goed bij elkaar en vissen en leeuwen. Laat die man alsjeblieft snel zijn coltrui inslikken.

Ik vind het gewoon een enge astrologische mengele, die Domenech. Je ziet hem zo ’s nachts de kleedkamers doorbanjeren met een scalpel in zijn hand, de astrologische rubriek van de Viva uit zijn kontzak stekend. Die bijdrage van Frankrijk aan het songfestival dit jaar was een briljante persiflage op Domenech maar jammer genoeg had niemand dat door.

Gelukkig duurt het weer twee jaar voor Domenech zijn enge theorien weer op het voetbal kan gaan uitleven.

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