tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13650933198082332382024-03-05T07:00:09.367+01:00Another Day in ParadiseNo animals were hurt during the making of this blogMartijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-17237697321395603652015-07-07T21:26:00.000+02:002015-07-07T21:27:34.708+02:00The Young EyeMy little niece is a great artist. Who can forget the portrait she drew of me with the most befitting of captions: “<em>you are ugly, you are stupid, you are going to prison, Uncle Tijn</em>” (as seen on the left). Well, here’s another champ. With her latest drawing, perhaps involuntarily, she caught all my inner turmoil, brooding angst, dysfunctional frozen smile, psychic screams and glow-in-the-dark black stare… all set off in triumphant harmonic colourful counterpoints of my boyish bubblegummy fairytale panache and my unspoiled belief in high heeled Tink pink pixies doing the Charleston.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDY8amDffXMx0QeXfGEJTrGaZJXvsF5ZrsARNUmP2c5TTH4AZkndrO_HaQnuwduQI3unOUm6Z_a6ASjH5lazsSn-ERdJSwecihonYS4P_iNzwC7Qu3dKPiRgwZ1EcjPwa3k2r9TOaY1n72/s1600/1621665_736204359747642_429288093_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDY8amDffXMx0QeXfGEJTrGaZJXvsF5ZrsARNUmP2c5TTH4AZkndrO_HaQnuwduQI3unOUm6Z_a6ASjH5lazsSn-ERdJSwecihonYS4P_iNzwC7Qu3dKPiRgwZ1EcjPwa3k2r9TOaY1n72/s200/1621665_736204359747642_429288093_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ahoV0ok6D2NN8FhYDaGHnCJNJmYcMDqrNUScIHPRUMlNI8y2cyrcm-qbNmfVbL3GNOUdqy5hdfVWQAKac4OYHEL-YJuee1kg9p1AOe5Ov2JwcMWF3u0SGYZRGNJ8rDhTFgkPD16_PTPt/s1600/DSC01771.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ahoV0ok6D2NN8FhYDaGHnCJNJmYcMDqrNUScIHPRUMlNI8y2cyrcm-qbNmfVbL3GNOUdqy5hdfVWQAKac4OYHEL-YJuee1kg9p1AOe5Ov2JwcMWF3u0SGYZRGNJ8rDhTFgkPD16_PTPt/s200/DSC01771.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
(click to embiggen)Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-60661765167486425152015-05-22T21:09:00.001+02:002015-05-22T21:09:44.177+02:00<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All of my imperfections, flaws, ugliness and demonic impulses, I have you to thank for --- for all of my divine cordiality and angelic tendencies, I have only myself to blame.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCudQ1V-qi0iRXy83hKdRWmXTkn88cKPvhS9ZBp7LwltGoQmwH7wgeC9nqndTvi3juot3alq2lzGK_6JYOtoXbZJpveB_DfJTGn9WaZHXPCb1CwVWTBHG8XwHp1XH0aIWki5MnJo1vMsuL/s1600/11169403_992852174082858_10024854864439157_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCudQ1V-qi0iRXy83hKdRWmXTkn88cKPvhS9ZBp7LwltGoQmwH7wgeC9nqndTvi3juot3alq2lzGK_6JYOtoXbZJpveB_DfJTGn9WaZHXPCb1CwVWTBHG8XwHp1XH0aIWki5MnJo1vMsuL/s640/11169403_992852174082858_10024854864439157_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-39087440657277493002015-04-03T22:22:00.002+02:002015-04-03T22:22:12.466+02:00Behold!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1Wfo-CfCPuZjLi8g0h-XaQAV0FRK9oVdOtuiwq92NNSISqbOWGpszJQh2HSPiFbuK2HaOmAelIXqbru7ozeUDsJUEq0yF1xccMGlV81SLryQKeT5cmGfLo92nJf6qE2fOSS6Lu3h4ddx/s1600/fml.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1Wfo-CfCPuZjLi8g0h-XaQAV0FRK9oVdOtuiwq92NNSISqbOWGpszJQh2HSPiFbuK2HaOmAelIXqbru7ozeUDsJUEq0yF1xccMGlV81SLryQKeT5cmGfLo92nJf6qE2fOSS6Lu3h4ddx/s1600/fml.jpg" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
<br />Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-58019508173457623932015-03-28T22:18:00.001+01:002015-03-29T13:47:21.095+02:00On Seeing a Former Friend About in the CityDon't say: 'I used to know him.'<br />
Say: 'I know the person he used to be.'Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-19947590685013712172015-03-13T18:12:00.002+01:002015-03-13T18:12:40.053+01:00A Portrait of the Artist as a Spoon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bkLnud1yGPvjmN914N1dRzqDSg1MAcVyXF2J7tzSDM6ch73a34sFPTgh9RiGviRT2V_jmUVeRK6r4ScJxSQyEKAWINONPjXmI6JdfJZ9Ql91vQ17s0l4L4mOgWjyBdJ_ni7YLULEJ-M1/s1600/015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bkLnud1yGPvjmN914N1dRzqDSg1MAcVyXF2J7tzSDM6ch73a34sFPTgh9RiGviRT2V_jmUVeRK6r4ScJxSQyEKAWINONPjXmI6JdfJZ9Ql91vQ17s0l4L4mOgWjyBdJ_ni7YLULEJ-M1/s1600/015.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-17910261528150919132014-06-24T22:14:00.002+02:002014-06-24T22:14:54.436+02:00Athena & Telemachus<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_53a9d97ec3b2f4977930955">
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The question I put before you is: why… why on the Mighty God’s blue Earth would Athena order Telemachus to go out to search for news of his father Odysseus? It makes no sense to me. She sends the boy away to Pylos and Sparta… but for what reason? The story line isn’t logical at all. I’m sure you’ll agree when we see what happens next: Athena then goes off to help Odysseus escape the erotic clutches of Ca</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">lypso and make his way home to Ithaca. Then She, Athena, rushes back to Telemachus on the Mainland to instruct him to hurry home to Ithaca for the return of his father. He should never have left the place! Or he should have sailed to Ogygia, Calypso’s crib, to pick up his Dad. <br /><br /> Oh Homer… how well you knew the senseless ways of the Gods.</span></span></span></div>
Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-45301599695522646852014-06-24T22:10:00.002+02:002014-06-24T22:12:24.404+02:00Horse Badorties<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_53a9d8dbed6f80d26515937">
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This morning, I finished William Kotzwinkle's book "<em>The Fan Man</em>." That's right, <em>the</em> Kotzwinkle... tearjerker hors catégorie of homesick alien dwarf “E.T.” Kotzwinkle! Or so I thought: I learned today he wrote the book after the movie, which is strange; he was probably forced by Spielberg by some evil scheme or something.<br /><br /> Anyway, <em>The Fan Man</em> is a weird and wonderful book about a hippie lunatic called Horse Badorties who<span class="text_exposed_hide"> </span></span><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">makes a sublime mess of his life. Contrary to my custom, I read it in Dutch (under the weak title “Laat maar waaien”). I usually only read Dutch, French, Yoruba and Russian books in Dutch and take the English ones in English if I can get them, but this one moved itself into my hands and it looked strange and funny so I read it. <br /><br /> And for once... for once the translator, Peter H. van Lieshout, got it so So right! It moved like liquid lava, the language I mean; instead of the sawdust and excelsior you sometimes get with translations, especially low-budget ones... For instance the Dutch version of Hunter S. Thompson's "<em>Hell's Angels</em>" I read a few months ago... Awful! [I'm talking about the dreadful earlier translation or adaptation by Adriaan Venema; I haven't read the newer one by T. Heuvelmans.] But this translation was almost perfect. Just one time he translated (or so I can only assume) the exclamations "crap! crap!" with the decapod animal 'crab', in Dutch 'krab! krab!', which makes even less sense. And the translator mistook the made-up 1001 Nights fairytale opening spell of 'sesame' for sesame seeds. But otherwise... châpeau! <br /><br /> I have never heard about Kotzwinkle as an author to be taken seriously but I think we should. A book of high entertainment value with subject matter that will prove unforgettable, I’m sure.<br /><br /> It's a sunny day in the Netherlands... no reason to feel so depressed at all.</span></span></span></div>
Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-43237430627749858912014-06-24T22:05:00.003+02:002014-06-24T22:11:03.140+02:00The City Poet<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Today, I accepted the position of City Poet of the beautiful city of Darlington on the river Skerne. It’s purely an honorary position of course, but one that I will saddle myself with in the stern conviction of the importance of bringing art into the lives of the people of Darlington, as well as for the thrill of the unique challenge of such an endeavour. I haven’t informed the Darlingtonians of the happy news, and don’t think I will. That seems best for everybody.</span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-20831791077218597242014-06-20T19:33:00.000+02:002014-06-22T23:06:13.635+02:00To Improve the Unimprovable<br />
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<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have always been fascinated and thrilled by
objects and organisms that have reached the end of their evolutionary path, the
ones that have found their final shape eons ago and will never really change
simply because they have reached perfection. Examples are: the spoon, the wedding
ring, the wine glass, the horseshoe crab, the phonograph record, the word ‘no’,
the clay flower pot, Neil Diamond, candles… They will remain forever. What’s
there to improve on them? Nothing! Perfection on a stick! Sure, some con artist
will come along and try to sell you a pink or bio-degradable flower pot, a hep
new buzz word or a magic ring… but we should ignore those heinous imposters and
marvel at the greatness of the Unimprovable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To
this illustrious family also belongs… the Plunger. Or does it! Today, I found
one that is a drastic improvement on the classic model by the addition of a
very useful handle! Why hasn’t this been thought of before? Why don’t all
plungers have handles? Or Neil Diamond? In picture one, we see on the left the standard,
old, troglodyte plunger that gives you splinters and subpar results in
declogging the sink, and on the right we see the new TurboPlunger 2000 in hygienic
plastic, an esthetical pleasing orange colour and a snazzy omnigrip handle.
The unperfectable perfected, the unsurpassable surpassed!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(P.S. An update will follow when the handle comes
loose and the suction cup breaks off.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwYqM28Z3EJcLKLsMsGXXKjWlAJpSLgp078fgfza4uyG2P5WlLxGQ_AjLIDQvAha_AsVDIFuZiFvpae9VGqZW8796CZ9-2hx8d_6uA-fsbcNW_9zn7ZlO_qopE7SZzkO9D6K9guLvd4oi/s1600/10304636_797482286953182_5343503089954558907_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwYqM28Z3EJcLKLsMsGXXKjWlAJpSLgp078fgfza4uyG2P5WlLxGQ_AjLIDQvAha_AsVDIFuZiFvpae9VGqZW8796CZ9-2hx8d_6uA-fsbcNW_9zn7ZlO_qopE7SZzkO9D6K9guLvd4oi/s1600/10304636_797482286953182_5343503089954558907_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-44718368963447990442014-06-13T17:46:00.002+02:002014-06-13T17:46:41.286+02:00Declaration<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The day has come. I
hereby denounce society and all of its rules, laws and truisms: no longer will
I play along. “Ah,” I can hear you say… “Ah,” invariably with a smug, tired
smile on your greasy, groomed face, happy with yourself for having a quick fix
& easy reply to this and not having to do some actual thinking… “Ah… you know
that, if you denounce society, you have to give it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>up, don’t you? It’s only logical. If you don’t concede your
moral sovereignty to society <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in full</i>,
you can’t have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> of it. You have to
give up subsidies and benefits too, splint your own broken bones…” Oh yeah?
Well… nibble my knob, I say! Perhaps you didn’t understood what I was saying. I
said I denounced society <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in full</i>! If
I stopped using its benefits, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i>
succumb to its rules, the unsanitary ‘Put-out-or-get-out’ rule, whereas I said
I don’t play along anymore… you dig?</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;">
<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;">I have capitulated for
many years. I have been a good soldier, I have worked and loved and paid my taxes,
I have been kind to my masters, old people, children and whales, I have written
thick books and poems to loved ones, I have smiled at birthday parties, I have
pointed out the flaws of our ways and given worthy alternatives, I have
presented new ethics and a poetica… and nothing has made the slightest
difference to you. Those loved ones, they never wrote me back and spat on my
paintings; society has rejected, betrayed, scammed and denied me, and it has
made a mockery of its own farce of a delusional state. It chose to be blind and
deaf to its own reported wisdom. It is mentally mortally ill and I can no
longer see it ever making a recovery. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0d0d0d; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Beliefs I once held high, are now shooting through the perpetual twilight
of my velvety room making a fart-like noise, a zooming deflating balloon in a
cartoon.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0d0d0d; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"></span></span><span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Despite all your big
shiny words about honour and grace, virtue and congeniality, you remain a bunch
of aggressive, moronic, hypocrite materialists, too dumb to see through the fog
of your own hallucinatory ideas about life, obsessed with your phoney social
status and the creation of offspring as if it’s a blessed event… Yes, your ‘bundles
o’ joy’, a-smiling on pink lace cushions, shot in soft focus photos, to be send
to grannies and cronies, and framed above the couch as hunting trophies… Yeah, those
shrieking, fecal-aromatic larvae of yours, they will only fill the </span></span></span><span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0d0d0d; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">shelves
with the next generation of dictators, war mongers, golfers and advertisers… to
form the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perpetuum mobile </i>of the
rat-filled trenches of the next Great War.
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;">
<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0d0d0d; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Man gives birth, it gives birth to misery, cruelty and wretchedness. Spreading
horror over the land. You’re selling TVs to the blind and yet you dear to call <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me </i>a cynic and deluded for not buying
into your mass fantasies, fables and nonsense. And what you don’t understand,
you like to call God. Thunder and pestilence, beauty and death. Oh Sinners
beware! Faith! There’s a party tonight at the Eclipse Inn… don’t forget to tip
your waitress.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;">
<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0d0d0d; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0d0d0d; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">So…
all bets are off. I will live by my own rules from now on. I will ruthlessly foll</span></span><span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;">ow my own ideas of
right & wrong, religion and crime, and keep score myself. I will lie,
cheat, steal, plunder, pillage and rape. I will jaywalk, double dip my chip and
stare at your cleavage for an unseemly long time. Henceforth, I consider myself
relieved from all my duties. You have had your chance to keep me on board and
failed on all levels. In fact: you still have that chance, but I place the ball
in your court now. All you have to do is reply to my letters, stop being
arseholes and give me a worthy place in your midst. Just one of you… just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i> of you, to say something nice but once,
to me or any other human being… I’d like to see that day. Then, I will gladly
play along again… I will listen to your mindless babble, about paella, poodles,
street art and yoga. I will skilfully feign an interest and go <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coochie-coochie-goo</i> over your monstrous prams
and gnome-filled gardens. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
<span class="null"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;">Thusly spoke Mehujael.</span></span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-82733149226257131002014-06-13T09:24:00.004+02:002014-06-13T09:25:10.106+02:00Meanwhile At Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyf13O5I7dsmAiFtIUUCEo84uOHmLyADo2F9Tb5R7iQ2VLRVGzhigOFfsTfNKyaN0UALZauKD-aSyBqCbGiW-qheHlwi7pyiB2x8E0NlOWWM1qhMBJ2mbTSZ00F8Bog_A7fI0WHusN6tk/s1600/10325140_787769594591118_4497965766486758479_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyf13O5I7dsmAiFtIUUCEo84uOHmLyADo2F9Tb5R7iQ2VLRVGzhigOFfsTfNKyaN0UALZauKD-aSyBqCbGiW-qheHlwi7pyiB2x8E0NlOWWM1qhMBJ2mbTSZ00F8Bog_A7fI0WHusN6tk/s1600/10325140_787769594591118_4497965766486758479_n.jpg" height="325" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-7958443731358159492014-05-29T11:44:00.003+02:002014-05-29T11:45:22.955+02:00Chimamandanata<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Meet Chimamandanata, my idol. She came into my life
one rainy Wednesday afternoon, for just a buck fifty, taxes included.
Don't be fooled by her minute size: the celestial powers she harbours are
unfathomable! When I hold her in my hands, the whole room begins to vibrate
with primordial élan. She's the Goddess of Books, the Lawless &
Contradictorians and Unblurred Boobies. Her name meaning "My God will
never Fail". Her shiny beads & breasts will tell you I'm not lying.
I'm glad I found her: I need someone on my side who's God never fails, because
mine does unremittingly. But that's what I like so much about Him… it makes Him
all the more real. That and His appreciation of Suffering. Chimamandanata is
His perfect opposite. We will be happy together. And our enemies smitten.
Praise Chimamandanata!<br />
</span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-85439292365975783902014-03-21T23:44:00.001+01:002014-03-24T11:17:07.468+01:00Act<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We see a dimly lit
room. Grubby, dusk, confusing… Say: a death-to-the bone professional office, with
the obvious dying Ficus, but very dark, with confetti on the floor… and a few beheaded
stuffed rabbits scattered about.<br />
<br />
In this room, seated on wicker chairs, are gathered 27 people, all dressed in
black or dark brown hooded costumes; most are grinning, or perhaps they are
wearing masks. One of them starts to sing.<br />
<br />
In a frail voice, he starts producing strange and beautiful songs of his
homeland. Of flowers and puddles. Of heather in August. Of the soul of a
seagull prostitute. Of Gods and Gravel. Of silken clay and skinny rain. Of
blessings and mercy, of eyes and death.<br />
<br />
When he is finished, a deafening silence breaks out. No one speaks or moves or
stirs. Not even a louse. Then… one in the back is making un-inspired arm-pit
fart sounds.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">‘Thank you’, the
singer mutters… ‘thank you.’<br />
<br />
Some of the others follow the first in making armpit noises. The singer joins
them reluctantly.<br />
<br />
Camera rolls back.<br />
<br />
Lights out.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Suggestion: Music starts building up, Chopin’s
Nocturne No. 2, first on itself, then penetrated by a fast Dixieland version of
‘When the Saints Go Marching In’, louder and louder, joined by a layer of
Butthole Surfers’ ‘Woly Boly’, up till unbearable levels and distortion… music
fades out in reversed order.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p>.................................................................................................................</o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We zien een duistere kamer. Groezelig, grijs, vreemd
te plaatsen. Laten we zeggen: een driewerf doodse ‘representatieve’
kantoorruimte, met de bekende stervende Ficus, maar heel donker, en met confetti
op de vloer… en een paar onthoofde pluchen konijnen her en der.<br />
<br />
In deze ruimte zien we 27 mensen zitten in rieten stoelen; allen zijn gekleed in zwarte of donkerbruine gewaden
met een kap, de meeste grijnzen, of misschien dragen zij maskers. Eentje begint
te zingen.<br />
<br />
Met dunne, onvaste stem zingt hij vreemde en prachtige liederen van zijn
geboorteland. Van bloemen en plassen. Van de heide in het najaar. Van het hart
van een meeuwenhoer. Van God en Grint. Van zijdezachte klei en magere regen.
Van zegen en genade, ogen en dood.<br />
<br />
Als hij uitgezongen is breekt er een orkaan van stilte uit. Niets beweegt of
roert zich. Nog geen luis in het voorhuis. Maar dan… doet iemand lusteloos een
scheet na met zijn hand in zijn oksel.<br />
<br />
‘Dank je,’ stamelt de zanger… ‘dank je.’<br />
<br />
Sommige anderen beginnen nu ook de okselscheetgeluiden te maken. De zanger doet
ook voorzichtig mee.<br />
<br />
De camera rolt achteruit.<br />
<br />
Licht uit.<br />
<br /><em>
(Suggestie: Muziek zwelt aan. Eerst zachtjes Chopin’s Nocturene No. 2, maar dan vrij snel
doorbroken door een hard aanzwellende snelle dixieland versie van ‘Oh When The
Saints Go Marching In’ harder en harder, gevolgd door een laag van Butthole
Surfers’ ‘Holy Boly’ tot ondragelijk niveau… dan sterft de muziek weg in
omgekeerde volgorde.)</em><br />
<br />
</span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-59508437954995467942014-03-12T21:56:00.004+01:002014-03-12T21:56:41.434+01:00[nt]<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">How graciously she
walked the boulevards, on her high heeled shoes in pitiful pink, her voguish
handbag and her slender personality.</span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-21441780136746089572014-03-12T21:55:00.001+01:002014-03-12T21:55:15.444+01:00[nt]
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0cm 12pt -0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fascinated as he was with humanity and all its wonderful work,
Doctor Sockberger decided to spend the rest of his life studying lichens.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-48829053442609729922014-03-11T22:06:00.000+01:002014-03-11T22:06:02.372+01:00Tony the Sick Pony<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The lyrics of Hugo Matthyssen's song "Tony de Zieke Pony" as translated by me...<br /><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was raining like streams, and it smelled of rotting grass<br />
And the mud, it pulled my shoes into the ground<br />
I stumbled manfully through a sorrowful swamp<br />
With a self-made smile upon my mouth<br />
A helping of macaroni with some cheese is a feast<br />
It is to say, for he who’s really hungry<br />
But a sick pony can also be a source of joy<br />
For a man who really cares about sick ponies<br />
<br />
It was as dark as hell and godforsaken cold<br />
And I just kept on slogging through the night<br />
Over there, that pony stood under that willow thicket<br />
Sweating his sickness out in a canal<br />
A man that’s only used to the luxury of the city<br />
Where superficiality is watered down with booze<br />
That man understands nothing about ponies and will never get it<br />
How a sick pony can bring someone to ecstasy<br />
<br />
Tony the sick pony! (3 x)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I scratched myself on thorns<br />
I stumbled and I fell<br />
Yes, I hurt myself repeatedly and indescribably<br />
But still a great joy kept buzzing in my soul<br />
Some sort of happiness, oh how fine I felt<br />
Furniture of mahogany, large trays of salmon and lobster<br />
On the look of it, just pure superficialities<br />
While a sick pony has so much more to offer<br />
But you have to be receptive for it<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Tony the sick pony! (3 x)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I searched for many hours and although I couldn’t find him<br />
I always knew the sick pony would be near<br />
There was something ineffable connecting me to it<br />
In that obscure, that severe wilderness<br />
The world is demonic, a place filled with false pleasure<br />
And for money, even the holiest is for sale<br />
But as long as sick ponies are grazing not far from here<br />
There’s a chance of rescue and some hope<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Tony the sick pony! (3 x)<br />
Is near<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-11651822323691172592014-03-03T21:48:00.003+01:002014-03-03T21:48:55.862+01:00Messianic Rant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve heard people –
and invariably with gleaming, voluptuous pride – gladly call themselves a ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the glass is half full</i>’ kind of person. First
of all: baloney! And secondly: a very foolish pride, wouldn’t you agree? The statement
itself is fallacious, and the pride erroneous, because it is based on the false
assumptions that dissidents of this doctrine 1. have a morally lower standpoint
and 2. see the glass as being half empty as if the water level is on its way
down… on the way of being completely empty. This is not the case, but contrary: <em>they themselves</em> see the water as a
diminishing body!<br />
<br />
I don’t say ‘the glass is half empty’ (meaning: on its way to emptiness). I say
‘why isn’t the glass <em>completely full</em>?’ Móre than full even! Far beyond the
limits of the glass itself… infinitely full, over the brim and into the great
unknown! And a bigger glass! And <em>better</em>, not even in the same league as common glass!
And of far superior content. And a glass with water not just enough for <em>me</em>… but
for all of mankind! <br />
<br />
Your typical militant optimist, the maudlin gospeller of ‘The Glass is Half
Full’ is not so much happy with his glass and or its content. Oh no: he is
extremely happy with one thing above all… <em>himself</em>! ‘The glass is half full’ is
a self-compliment of the worst kind! And to add injury to the insult: it’s an
infamous blaming of the rest of the world to suggest them being less thankful
for the bounty they have received! It’s like telling a one-armed man to stop
feeling sorry for himself as long as he’s got the other one in reasonably good
working order.<br />
<br />
I’m not proud to see all these shortcomings of life on earth and looking for improvement…
And I’m not here to blame. Remember that. All I’m writing for is that I don’t
care for being called a miser and an idiot by people without imagination. You say
you’re fine with your half glass… Okay. I hear you. But I don’t believe you, first of
all. And what if half of that half glass is poured into a smaller glass… is
that second glass half full again? Well, let’s say it is and you call it ‘half full’
and you’re satisfied again… I may be too (as I have little needs, littler than
most of you I take it!), but that is not the point! The point is: I will never <em>call</em> it half full with a smug grin on my face, proud of my false evangelical,
ascetic sainthood, like you do! A tepid windy day with a cold drizzle… you’re free
to call it ‘fine whether’? But I don’t. And neither do you… let’s be honest.<br />
<br />
You settle for three-coloured pansies. Why not five-coloured ones? Or seven? Why
not multi-coloured pansies that sing & dance… break, folk, tap & lap
dancing pansies! Pansies that make weather forecasts and fill out your taxes?
Pansies that sing the gospel and do the boogaloo? Pansies that turn into tulips
one day… into roses the next… the next into peonies… and then into blue whales
with seventy seven beautiful soft warm breasts that produce slightly chilled Drambuie?
Have you tried Drambuie? It’s delicious! I don’t look down on three-coloured
pansies, but I am realistic about them. That’s the point I’m making.<br />
<br />
Why settle for oom-pah music when you can have Chopin? Why shrug your shoulders
about two-faced, half arsed politicians, greed, race hatred, war, light beer, child
labour and this daily horror picture slide show of mental haemorrhoids we call a
social network? Dream Up, not Down! Come on, people! Why no golden flowers full
of naked elves cracking jokes who give you directions to where you really want
to go... in several convenient languages... with a complimentary city map, coupons to
your favourite restaurant and scratch tickets? And <em>a real </em>smart phone! A sensible
philosophy, picked up by everybody. Real progress, real improvement… But no…
you’re fine with it and count your blessings as the rats are climbing from the
sewers into the houses. Perhaps not your house… You can eat your cookie while
babies are bombed in faraway dusty cities. Cheers. And you’re even proud of your
view and say I’m a miser…<br />
<br />
<u>I say you’re no optimist: you’re just a very small thinker!</u><br />
<br />
Butterflies with gold brocade wings, making sweet xylophone music as they fly
and giggle… bees that, while they sting, inject high doses of endorphins… silver
streets with angels gently tickling your balls most delicately… No more depressing,
rain-drenched cul-de-sacs smelling like wet dog, littered with hobos and chip
bags. No more ‘talent shows’ on TV. Sex & drugs for everybody! And, if it’s
not too much to ask, a government based on wisdom, tolerance and generosity for
all.<br />
<br />
Are you a real optimist… or are you just devoid of dreams? Do you call ‘half’ some
sort of optimum? Is your complacency so big, or just your fantasy so small? You
say the glass is half full… you say that life is good. Then I say: you don’t know
me and you don’t know good.<br />
<br />
The glass is half full…<br />
The war is half won<br />
The brain is half working<br />
The book is half interesting<br />
The deal is semi-legitimate<br />
Humanity is half saved by Jesus<br />
The football is half over the goal line<br />
The man is half continent<br />
And half his teeth were saved<br />
Half the orphanage was saved from the flames…<br />
<br />
Yippee! That’s what I hear you saying when you say that your glass is half full.
And you call my glass half full too. So… what about someone else’s glass?
You’re no optimist… you’re selfish… self-complimenting… and a terrible pessimist!
Yes, I’ve said it! You’re seeing things as starting from nothing, expecting
nothing, wanting nothing and you pretend you’ll be chuffed with half a finger
of putrid water, just for you, yourself, your own material gain… instead of
seeing things from a divine ideal for all to enjoy. Go out of my sight with
your half full glass… and take my half too! You can have it.<br />
<br />
(Writing this, I was half serious.) </span></span><br />
<br />
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<!--[endif]--></span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-87028445786091644182014-02-28T22:44:00.003+01:002014-03-01T01:09:46.046+01:00Bontekoe<span class="userContent"></span><br />
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<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Subtitle: Religious Selection</em></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was about time. Yesterday, I started reading in one of my countries most famous historic books, written by fellow ‘Hoorner’ (a citizen of my hometown Hoorn). I’m talking about the book published in 1646 "</span><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Journal or memorable descript</span></em><span class="text_exposed_show"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">ion of the East Indian voyage of Willem Bontekoe of Hoorn, including many remarkable and dangerous things that happened to him there</span></em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">". <br /><br /> After losing his previous ship due to pirates of the coast of Barbary, and the subsequent slavery and hardship, skipper Willem IJsbrandtszn. Bontekoe is finally freed and made captain of the large East Indiaman “<em>Nieuw Hoorn</em>” that sailed to the Dutch settlement of the East India Company on Java (Indonesia). The journal is the accounts of the voyage, made between 1618 and 1625. <br /><br /> In the Sunda Strait (between Java and Sumatra), the barrels of rum in the hold of his ship catch fire by the clumsy doing of the ship’s carpenter. Then the fire spreads to the stock of coal and the men are unable to put the fire ou</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">t. Some sailors and the merchant save themselves by boarding the lifeboat, Bontekoe stays on board. Finally the 300 barrels of black powder explode and 2/3 of the men are blown up on the spot. Captain Bontekoe himself is badly wounded and barely rescued by the men who had fled the ship pre-blast in the life boat. The reduced crew sails on, they suffer from famine, scurvy, attacks from natives (from which many more die), mutiny and poisoning… But get this! When they – only by the magnificent navigational skills and outstanding leadership of Bontekoe himself! – finally find their way to the safety of the Dutch colonisers… the captain sinks to his knees and thanks the Lord God for guiding them to safety. Most remarkable!<span class="text_exposed_hide"><span class="text_exposed_link"><a data-ft="{"tn":"e"}" href="https://www.blogger.com/null">See more</a></span></span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0sek9M2yaU4qZnm8cT7EL2etHWvGod8_rpvM5kboUXuDErCORnoRso928lYYelaQaW9MEeSBPAp2gwlQMWNGZ1NqJpaYsCcUWK_xYM05J6-6DJMqnwCTN1N5TNqyeqXogsjJQAkvgv5M/s1600/477px-Willem_IJsbrandtsz_Bontekoe.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0sek9M2yaU4qZnm8cT7EL2etHWvGod8_rpvM5kboUXuDErCORnoRso928lYYelaQaW9MEeSBPAp2gwlQMWNGZ1NqJpaYsCcUWK_xYM05J6-6DJMqnwCTN1N5TNqyeqXogsjJQAkvgv5M/s1600/477px-Willem_IJsbrandtsz_Bontekoe.png" height="400" width="317" /></a></span></div>
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Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-64100880724811569242014-02-28T22:34:00.002+01:002014-02-28T22:34:53.441+01:00The Limo<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On February
14th, Saint Valentine's Day, I witnessed a sight that refuses to dissolve
itself from my memory records. It was a large, white stretched limousine that
took the road to the local prison. <br />
<br />
What was this, I wonder? The first thing I thought (and hope it to be true) was
of a man who thought it a perfect joke to go to jail in ironic style. [If I will
ever have the privilege of being send to jail, I’ll take a gigantic limo too… whereas
I’d go pick up a Royal or Public award on a donkey’s back (if it’s good enough
for Jesus… it’s good enough for me).] Or, contrary wise, a car sent for to pick
up a released convict. Or perhaps a man or a woman going on a conjugal visit.
Or perhaps just a gangster who’s only car is this limo. Just questions again…
never an answer.</span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-60578436186590529862014-01-29T17:38:00.001+01:002014-01-29T17:38:08.955+01:00Smør<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngULWrIR2jY1cB37c3_uV5PYyotUOnHaKwBG2aUkv61hXkeKVC3uwqr06SFImFhlMSyTS4IDzPE1ujFNWhlVmMbPV3Jr6qeQN4R-pcY2ZXEPNSM08zdaKfEBXsFeUXvJACOCoMC1nwGJV/s1600/IMG_9013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngULWrIR2jY1cB37c3_uV5PYyotUOnHaKwBG2aUkv61hXkeKVC3uwqr06SFImFhlMSyTS4IDzPE1ujFNWhlVmMbPV3Jr6qeQN4R-pcY2ZXEPNSM08zdaKfEBXsFeUXvJACOCoMC1nwGJV/s1600/IMG_9013.jpg" height="232" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-72422857788467768222014-01-27T12:40:00.004+01:002014-01-28T18:03:29.757+01:00IV<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">17 January 2014</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> IV</span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">You’ve escaped, my prose
and I'm sorry you are dead. You quietly undid the doors on a moonless night and
snuck out, leaving a goodbye note underneath a rock. I believe you were last
seen in the boondocks as a captive of ruffians, enslaved, beaten and flattened
to taste. <br />
<br />
There was so much I still wanted to say to you, my lamb… I could have tried to
explain. Why you were sick and untouchable… and you had to die running or retreat
on some hill, to be destroyed by a cyclone, lightning, hunger and fallout. Why
you had to go.<br />
<br />
I was wrong too. Saw you, marauding, running with a bunch of strangers, thugs, ragtag sleaze,
intoxicated imbeciles and genius fiends… notorious, burlesque… dancers,
depraved priests, the source and summit of antique liturgies in back alleys fit
for murder… You were the death of the party, the life of life. I didn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I saw you crawling like a snake, sliding in the dirt,
hissing… believing no longer in the company of friends… with fangs to kill,
relying on your senses, precision and ambush. Naturally, I was misguided: I thought
you were the scaly beast, the dusty venomous worm shedding its skin in the
grass. So wrong… When I found out, it was too late and you were gone…you
weren’t the snake: you were the skin! <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<!--[endif]--></span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-79650622652704209392014-01-24T12:44:00.005+01:002014-01-24T12:44:56.779+01:00III<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;">25 October 2013</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> III</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My prose was up on the mountain… getting a taste for gulls and sacred songs…
eating bitter herbs from barbaric lands. Then it was tempted by angels, seduced
by harlots. My prose flinched… went for cloister and hermitage. When it broke
out, it took a journey through the slums, asylums and jungles. It started living
with the undereartheners, advanced in the abhorrent, the occult, the absurd. <br />
<br />
She became a beast. An enemy, operating under many aliases. She murdered her
uncle and poisoned the dog… wiped out entire villages. There was no precedence
for acts so beastly and depraved… but all executed so delicately and sublime.
My suave brute, my vampire queen. We remember when she was young and awed by
splendor, with hips like herring boats and teeth like lionesses. I had leaded a
white goat to the altar for her in those days… <br />
<br />
That was before you were sick and tarred with shame. Now we are much closer.
That’s why I keep you hidden and chained.</span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-39102751990201573452014-01-23T16:35:00.000+01:002014-01-23T16:35:29.786+01:00II<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">22 October 2013</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 12pt 0cm 12pt -0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: NL;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> II<br />
<br />
My prose lives shy and crooked in a lined burrow… like a wounded animal. It
watches the passing of the camel train on rainy nights, doing three solitary
dance steps. It winks, as lovers do, and villains. My prose itches, like a bald
sweaty head covered in termites. But it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lives</i>,
even though sequestered behind thick monastic walls in a strange sunlight. Now
and then, it is allowed out for a walk on the premises.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-62672872606343272592014-01-21T23:11:00.001+01:002014-01-23T16:35:52.590+01:00I<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;"><em>18 October 2013</em></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;"> I </span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />My prose is sick... My
prose is wicked... My prose is unattractive. By day, making a grand entrance
from showbiz stairs, all smiles, clad in a silver glitter jacket. At night…
scraping around on all fours in urine soaked alleys underneath a blue silk
balaclava. It laughs… it sings… it coughs.</span></span>Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1365093319808233238.post-49987358920351765292014-01-17T10:49:00.003+01:002014-01-17T10:49:51.470+01:00[n.t.]<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There once was a…
no, no... In the summer of 1976, when wafer thin skirts in carnivalesque colours
were all the… no. ‘Come in, my sheepskin stools and a deep hello down there’,
was all she had said that first gentle… ah. With the precision of a Beverly Hills proctologist,
Franz managed to… no, Herman managed to… K… Although expected, still the purple
gooey substance underneath Suzanne’s left breast had left Inspector
Kreckswitszki puzzled for… No! The world was dark and… He had one of those
little propeller caps and a loaded… Seven long years it had been since Jim had
seen his mentor, the one they called ‘The Bungalow’ and it… hm. At the point
where one was certain all roads had dissolved into the beautiful insanity of
the desert, that was where Carlos had burned the corpse of… no. The barman had
little ears and a green complexion. Time & time… no<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<br />Martijnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18098980192737397708noreply@blogger.com0