Behold!

A man sits by the window in his house in a green leather rocking chair. He looks outside, peacefully and bored. There’s no wind and light rains falls serenely. Across the street, on the orange tiled roof of the house on number 66 two doves chase each other. The man in the chair changes his focus to follow the drops of water gliding down the pane. They are mirroring the watery landscape upside down and minimized. After a while, changing his attention, he assesses the spring green on the hornbeams in the street. It sets him off on a course of thoughts about time: love, deception… life, death… ideal, sin.


Suddenly startled, he casts an angry look at the pale yellow flowers on his windowsill. His annoyance is short-lived because then he notices the chandelier alight in the living room across the street, and realises with chagrin that it is impossible for him not have an opinion about it. He tries to suppress feelings of contempt and despair. But he smiles. A stream of angelic visions came forth from the beguiling depths of his mind... Seven Giants were swinging Seven Pool Cues through the air and trampling on the houses as were they shoe boxes. First smitten was the Temple of the Hoaxing Chandelier at number three score and six, reduced to rubble from which purple smoke arose. Sea creatures with burgundy claws and the finest brass sneakers are gnawing at the holy foes who fled crying with great voices out in the street. Knights from the synagogues of Satan hacking away with sharp two-edged swords at little men in robes of white. And the number of the avengers was sixteen thousand thousand… they who brought fire mingled with blood, shouting giggling “woe woe woe”. And they burned with fire. And they killed with death. And overthere shall be no day... And we shall make us a city there, a city for whoremongering, for lying and fornication, a city built of gold and jasper, of sapphire, chalcedony, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, et cetera. And there shall be a great orgy for the beasts and the seven plastic gypsies, phony-balonies and workers in advertising… and all goodness will come to nought…

‘We rather embrace all evil than mindlessly celebrate but one false good,’ the man in the chair thinks. In the grey street, cyclists, dressed in rainsuits zoom by, bent over their handle bars. Feelings of compassion and its shadow futility are alternating. Then his wife enters the room with two cups of tea on a little tray. She sees him sitting there and holds still. ‘What are you doing?,’ she asks. ‘Nothing,’ he says.