The Open Air Library on the highest mountain of Buyukada is once again open. Kerem aka Argos Libertos managed to open it again after the police forced him to shut it down last year but they were no match to his persistance. Kerem cured well from his jump from 3 high in the centre of Istanbul and could walk well again after being operated, first half year with help of a stick. His library has now signed works of dutch poets Arjen Duinker, Tonnus Oosterhoff, K.Schippers and Alfred Schaffer who by means of Bart van der Pligt were kind enough to donate books. When you’re in Istanbul you should surely stop by and please bring a book or two!
The Kazakhstan born graphic artist Serik Kulmeshkenov is one of the few artists that keeps the ex Libris craft alive, a special genre within the arts. Ex Libris are special book seals people use to personify their person book collection. The works of Serik Kulmeshkenov are excellent examples of why this craft should never disappear:

Ex libris Natalya Chebotar / size 90mm x 90mm, 2005.

Ex libris Sergey and Irina Khrapov / size 80mm x 105mm, 2008

Ex libris Paul Elliott / size 65mm x 82mm, 2008.
These and many more magnificent Ex libris works you can view at the website of Serik Kulmeshkenov. Every serious book collector should have such an emblem, in my opinion.
Dear members of the Bush administration,
Yesterday I read an article about the possibility that terrorists could use games like ‘World of Warcraft’ to communicate with each other and spread hidden messages about plans and attacks. This theory was vented by one Dr. Dwight Toavs of the ‘Defense University’ on a conference in Washington Tuesday. I was in shock after I read the article. It suddenly dawned upon me that Dr. Dwight Toavs was not only absolutely right: but that this was just the tip of the iceberg, and that, far-fetched as his theory seems, he has overlooked the most obvious communication avenue for terrorists: poetry.
As you might know a ‘poem’ is a piece of coded text in which the writers uses so-called ‘metaphors’ to hide the real message of the poem. That already makes it a very useful medium for terrorists, as they, using poetry, can conceal their true message by pretending the text is about something else. A terrorist might write a line like ‘Oh wavering flowers of the city, where it that the bees could honk and loom’ and what he would be really saying to his fellow jihadists is ‘Guys, go take a cap and bomb those buildings flat’.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Arabic poetry has seen a suspicious rise in recent years. But please, let’s not forget that these terrorists could use any sort of poetry to communicate their message: what about avant-garde, Flarf, language poetry? They are all suspect. Dr. Dwight Toavs is right and wrong: writing poetry is dirt cheap while playing WOW costs 14 bucks a month, let’s not forget that’s a months salary in Afghanistan! So we can safely conclude that poetry is the tool par excellence for terrorists to communicate their hidden messages.
And it doesn’t stop with contemporary poetry, oh no. Who says these terrorists aren’t secretly reading Shakespeare to each other in those caves in Tora Bora? What did the Lithuanian poet Henrikas Nagys really mean when he wrote ‘I was awakened by the whistling sound of pigeons wings and the flood of sunshine rising in my eyes’? Is there really any end to the vile possibilities of misuse one can imagine such tools to have? Clearly, any society that is serious about combatting terrorism must do something about poetry.
What can we do? It’s clear that we have to scan the entire literary opus of humanity for hidden terrorist messages. But only experts can do that: a regular CIA trainee will have no idea what these poems mean. Therefore I must propose that the US government employs all currently known poets, domestic or foreign, to scan contemporary and past poetry for messages that seem, well, suspect. It’s a gigantic operation but it’s for the sake of World Security. While Dr. Dwight Toavs from the ‘Defense University’ has a minor point I would want to suggest he stops wasting tax payers money playing World of Warcraft and instead focus on the real dangers, the world of poetry.
The setup of this log allows me to post to it anywhere I go from my blackberry. At the moment I am sitting next to the seaside typing this. I can wander through istanbul and any moment I have an interesting idea just share it with the world. That’s principally what logging should be about – direct interaction with everything.Of course this means more typos and such will creep in – typing fast on a blackberry won’t produce perfect texts but the grammar fetishists will probably better look elsewhere anyway.
I have dreams and visions. Sometimes I hear weird voices. I don’t necessarily believe in anything I hear or witness. I regard myself as a scientist regards a piece of measuring equipment. The bottom line is: I ‘experienced’ something. I severely trained myself not to attach any conclusions or beliefs to any such ‘experience’. Let me give you some examples.
A visionary dream: I had a dream when my wife was just pregnant last year where I met this cute little girl near the sea. She took my hand, took me to the sea and washed my feet with the seawater. I looked at the sea and it was alive and vibrant with hundreds of colored, magical spirals. After she washed my feet the little girl disappeared into the sea. Suddenly I was in outer space, drifting between the planets. Very pleasant feeling.
This dream obviously meant that it was gonna be a girl, so I did actually believe that and it did come true.
Example of a vision: if you want to have ‘visions’ theres a technique you can use. it’s all about quieting the brain and bring it into a state of sleep without actually losing consciousness. There’s a certain ‘area’ where the consciousness must be focussed to produce the visions. It’s like some sort of inner antenna, which just functions when you know how to focus your awareness on it.
One shouldn’t attach any definite meanings to such visions. They can sometimes be rather overwhelming. The main trick is simply to stop the mind. This is in fact an extremely hard thing to do. I still struggle with it every day.
A few months ago I had a vision where I was watching some deer graze in a forest, like white deer. It was an incredible peaceful scenery, but as soon as I began to be aware *that* i was watching I lost it again.
Another example: the seagulls here, I hear them talking in my dreams. Sometimes I wake up and they are still talking, in dutch. But that soon disappears, like some sort of after effect. One time I ’sensed’ that they are actually watching into my dreams and commenting on them. I was dreaming about something and the seagull on the roof was giving comments about my dream, I heard his voice loud and clear. Seagulls are weird creatures. I dunno if I like them a whole lot. They seem to have no sense of privacy, that’s for sure.
Last example: it happened to me a few times this year that in the morning I hear a soft voice that says something like ‘This is the time’ and then exactly after that voice spoke my alarm goes off. Quite absurd. I hear that voice quite clearly. There’s something weird about the whole thing, because it’s so exact. I could accept an ‘inner clock voice’ theory but this really has atomic precision. It’s like some sort of doppler effect of reality.
I love animals. I even love insects nowadays. Insects are great. They’re better friends than most humans. I love wild animals. I love people who behave like wild animals. I don’t like domesticated people. I love new clothes. New clothes make me feel like a new person. I love sweat. Sweat is the language of the skin. I love fire. I love to see things burn. I love people with a smirk around their lips. I love girls with worn out nail polish. I love passports. Passports are works of art. I think everyone should have at least five passports. I love that pickles don’t grow in the sea. I love people with lights in their eyes. I love storms. I love girls that kick me when they disagree. I love to play with eyebrows. I love old money. I love the smell of money, old or new. I love disasters and I hate bureaucracy. I love people who answer letters. I love people who write letters instead of books. I love tension, difference, contrast. I love Hungarians. I love Istanbul. I love the difference between Hungary and Istanbul. I love views. Everyone should have a view instead of an opinion.
Proust, altijd weer Proust. La Prisonnière deze keer. De verteller, Marcel, ligt in bed na een nacht ruziën met zijn gevangen liefde. Onverhoopt heeft hij heerlijk geslapen. Volkomen verkwikt laaft hij zich aan de geluiden die van straat komen, de venters die in zijn rijke buurt hun waar te veil aanbieden: oesters, garnalen, makrelen (maquereaux = pooiers), asperges. De scharensliep en de voddenman wedijveren met de uien en sinasappels. Het is een groot koor, wiens gepsalmodieer M. terecht vergelijkt met gewijde gezangen. In Carol Reeds `Oliver Twist’ zit een scène, waarin Oliver, fris gered uit de handen van Fagin en Sykes, net als M. na een zoete nachtrust de blinden van het raam wegduwt om de straatventers, die hun waar uitzingen te kunnen zien. Ik ben een boon als het koor van Prousts straatventers niet model heeft gestaan voor het lied Who will buy uit Reeds musical. Proust heeft op deze pagina’s het lied in taal gecomponeerd, dat bij Reed gezongen kan worden. Toeval bestaat niet.
Jo Willems, Cultuurpaleis, maart 2008
Was het niet Friedrich Nietzsche die beweerde dat er niets verderfelijkers voor de mens bestaat dan zich ‘s ochtendsvroeg vol te laten lopen met andermans gedachtegoed? Ik kan het daar absoluut niet mee eens zijn. Wat een plezier verschaft mij mijn vroeg leeshalfuurtje. Alsof ik weer kind ben en de ochtendmis moet dienen. Het lezen in de vroege ochtenduren verzoent mij met de onafwendbare nieuwe dag, het lezen in de vroege ochtenduren is de onontbeerlijke warming up voor de enige spier die telt (behalve die andere dan): het verstand.
Hedenochtend vroeg was het weer eens zover. De lectuur was van dien aard, dat het leek alsof bovengenoemde spier een injectie van metabole-stereoïden ontving.
Zittend aan het aanrecht lepelde ik slaapdronken mijn kommetje Dokkumer vruchtenmuesli met magere yoghurt naar binnen om daarna, gewapend met een mok dampend hete koffie, mijn zetel aan het raam op te zoeken voor een herlezing van À la recherche du temps perdu. Bij de eerste regels was het al raak. In het laatste deel van Du coté de chez Swann, het deel getiteld Nom de pays: le nom, begint Proust voor de zoveelste keer te jeremiëren over al die slaapkamers in welke hij de slaap maar niet heeft kunnen vatten. En tussen al die mijmeringen door komt hij met de bewering dat echte schoonheid niet iets kunstmatigs is en niet voor Prousts eigen lol en comfort gecreëerd. Schoonheid is volgens Proust van een heel andere orde. Schoonheid is noodzakelijk, onveranderlijk, onontbeerlijk. Schoonheid is derhalve slechts aan te treffen in de natuur en in grote kunstwerken.
Deze stelling vulde mij aangenaam met allerhande behaaglijke gedachten. Totdat de koffie zijn werking liet gelden en mijn nog rustende ingewanden het ‘ontwaakt, ontwaakt’ begon toe te schreeuwen. Spoorslags begaf ik mij naar het toilet om mij aldaar mijn zondig door veel vlees eten verontreinigd lichaam weer te reinigen. Terwijl ik daar op Gods alziend Oog – de Wc-bril – druk doende was met mijn ochtendritueel, begon ik de wanden van mijn nauwe heiligdom te betrachten. Bij het aanschouwen van het door mij zojuist gebracht offer voelde ik mij waarlijk een hogepriester. Totdat de rol closetpapier mijn aandacht trok. Ineens, in een flits, was ik ervan doordrongen dat die Proust eigenlijk ook alleen maar wat voor zich heen fantaseert.
De goed gevulde rol was voor mij als de brandende braamstruik was. Ik hoorde het Ehejeh asjer ehejeh – Ik ben die ik ben en ik zal zijn die ik zal zijn. Wat een schoonheid. En dan nog een schoonheid zonder meer kunstmatig en louter gemaakt was voor mijn lol en comfort. Als in een visioen zag ik de wonderbaarlijke werkelijkheid achter elk van die grijze kringloopvelletjes (nergens is dit woord meer op zijn plaats). Ik zag de duizend zachte, maar o zo sterke, dubbele vloeien, die enerzijds dun genoeg zijn, zodat je ze in elke bilinkeping kunt inbrengen, maar anderzijds dik genoeg, zodat je er niet met je tastende vingers doorheen glijdt.
Van de ene overweging kwam de andere. Wat voor hollanders (niet het volk, maar het werktuig), welbakken en machines waren voor het vervaardigen van dit papier ontworpen? Hoeveel mensen hadden niet de beste tijd van hun leven gegeven om na te denken over de procédés om deze onontbeerlijke attributen van onze beschaving de juiste vorm en maat te geven? Wie had zich niet allemaal het hoofd gebroken over het meten van de scheurweerstand, trekvastheid en het opzuigende vermogen van de voor mij hangende velletjes?
Wat ik aanschouwde mocht waarlijk een wonder heten. Maar was het Prousts natuur? Was het Prousts kunst?
It’s a good year for poetry here in Istanbul. In May there’s the ‘Istanbul poetry festival‘, a brand new attempt to create an international Turkish poetry festival, this time including Dutch poet Arjen Duinker, who will also perform in Perdu, Amsterdam today. Other poets performing include John Ash and Sergey Gandlevski, a russian poet and novelist who has a dutch article here
And, last but not least, The Man is coming to Istanbul to perform here in August. This time I won’t skip the occasion.
“The very ink with which all history is written is merely fluid prejudice”
Mark Twain
“Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of congress. But I repeat myself.â€Â
–Mark Twain
“Irreverence is the champion of liberty and its only sure defenseâ€Â
-Mark Twain
“The easy confidence with which I know another man’s religion is folly teaches me to suspect that my own is also. I would not interfere with any one’s religion, either to strengthen it or to weaken it. I am not able to believe one’s religion can affect his hereafter one way or the other, no matter what that religion may be. But it may easily be a great comfort to him in this life–hence it is a valuable possession to him.â€Â
-Mark Twain
“We have a bastard Patriotism, a sarcasm, a burlesque; but we have no such thing as a public conscience. Politically we are just a joke.â€Â
-Mark Twain
“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heal that has crushed it.â€Â
-Mark Twain
“It now seems plain to me that that theory ought to be vacated in favor of a new and truer one…the Descent of Man from the Higher Animals.â€Â
-Mark Twain
“No sinner is ever saved after the first twenty minutes of a sermonâ€Â
-Mark Twain
“Statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.”
-Mark Twain
Sebastian Horley, a British author whose book, Dandy in the Underworld recounts his life of “sex, drugs and finely tailored clothes” has been barred from entering the US for a book tour, on the grounds of “moral turpitude.”
Sebastian Horsley was deemed “not admissible” by U.S. customs agents.
Horsley said he was questioned for eight hours Tuesday by border officials at Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey before being denied entry on grounds of “moral turpitude.”