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.

On Joy

To Michael Little

A letter came today. It was from two, no doubt lovely, girls who wanted to know a little bit more about the nature and motivations of my work. Although I normally try to avoid any comment on my own work – let alone on that of others – I thought it wise to make an exception this time since the girls’ request isn’t an isolated case, but, on the contrary, a frequently recurrent event. I will present you their letter and my reply. The names and places have been made obscure with an initial. In fact, I have falsified more than just the names, not so much as to protect their identity, but because I believe a higher truth is gained by letting go of parts of actual reality. Their letter:

Dear Mister Paradise,                                                              4/18/12

We work for the Apollonia Herald, the school newspaper of St. Apollonia College for Girls in the city of K. and we thought – actually, it was an idea of Miss X. – that it would be jolly nice for our next issue to interview you, one of the gloomiest writers we know. The angle is to see why you write such sombre, glum things that make everybody depressed and miserable and perhaps we can cheer you up a little so that you can write funnier things in future, like our favourite author, Graig Inglis of “Lucky” the happy dog. Can we come to visit you, say next Saturday, and do the interview at your house? That is, if you don’t have a cat; I am allergic to cats. Please respond quickly. Yours truly,

Chantal X. and Daphne Y. (St. Apollonia)

That warms your heart, doesn’t it? Young modern girls, taking an interest in literature. Who would have thought it still existed in these times of practicality and emoticons? So, with much kindness and without further ado, I hauled my old aching body to the old Adler typewriter to send them a reply which, I hoped, would bring them pleasure and insight.

Dear Chantal and Daphne,                                           Whatnot House, 19 April 2012 AD

Please excuse me for using your first names, but I feel that this brings us closer together, which is always nice and in this case even necessary, considering the personal nature of the topic you are making me tackle. So none of these false formalities please and call me Martijn if you like. Let me see, the centre of your kind letter is a request for an interview with me. Unfortunately, I can not grand such request since it is my habit of never giving interviews. You can come by my house of course, but perhaps we can play lawn tennis instead, or chess and eat French fries, and see what great things the night will have in store for us. [An obvious joke since I don’t have a garden and hate playing chess, and where the hell would I find French fries in my house?]

However, I think I can accommodate your requirements by answering your questions by letter... unless you prefer to use the perfectly legitimate medium of e-mail, which will keep deforestation to a minimum; a cause close to the heart of the Apollonia Herald, as  I had the privilege to read many a time in the many articles about this topic in your school organ. A propos… might I be so bold and suggest an electronic newsletter or App version of it?.

Concerning your question as to why, according to you, I write ‘sombre, glum things’, and whether I could write happier stories? Those are two separate, conglomerate (that’s a thing composed of heterogeneous elements) topics really. First of all: are my writings sombre? That depends first of all on definitions and your expectations of a story. Unfamiliar as I am with Mr Inglis’ work about the happy dog, I cannot possibly compare my endevours to his. However, if I take a long and honest look at my own work (for what that’s worth), I’m afraid I have to say that to me, it isn’t sombre, nor glum, at all. If, in your views, a non-sombre story consists of the denial and dismissing of all other things than happy dancing bunnies and golden unicorns, singing along merrily and cuddling in each other’s snug little holes for all eternity... and people walking around with American smiles (see: American cheese) on their faces… perhaps then, yes, one could argue my stories to be a tat less sunny.

So it depends on definitions and expectancy. But even than… perhaps a ruthless self-analysis of my writing would answer your questions and be beneficial to your readers. Taking a close look at my writing, bobbing through all of its layers and looking at it from all angles, in its face, from behind, up, down and in the mirror... I will try to establish the overlying Motives, Subjects and Composition Elements for you. I think you will be pleasantly surprised to see them all being of a very, even surprisingly positive nature!

What are my Motives? As you can see for yourself, they are quite simple: Joy, Poetry, Mystery, Self-Critique, Absurdism, The Divine Tragedy and People’s Hilarious Self-Delusion, including my own. My Subject? That’s always the same: Salvation… salvation in the knowledge of the absurdity of taking life too seriously and salvation in loving our fellow beings... in a Zen type nothingness, sprinkled with nuts and sunshine…

If that eludes you (and who could blame you?), then I can talk about the elements from which I build my stories. Excuse me if I can’t tell it any more textual and that I have to take refuge to using metaphors. My stories are built like a symphonic orchestra, starting with heavy, slow, low layers of warm sorrowful strings, the basses, and tubas; to produce a background of comforting melancholia. Then violins, trumpets and bongo’s will form counterpoints, being shrill and comic... after those, singers, tenors and sopranos will come out of the wings to top that, being utterly ridiculous and confusing in absurd carnivallesque masquerades and chaos… Then, the orchestra looks for a complex blend in all of these flavours, really trying to get All flavours in, mixing it to a mélange of wakening, comforting, wrongfooting, rip the mask of existence kind of religious epiphany. And then, it tries to find the ground tone again with the music dying out in blissful amourosity between writer and reader. All in order to reach said 'sunny Zen nothingness'. Whether or not I succeed to reach my readers as such, I can not say, but that is my aim nevertheless.

So to answer your second question: could I write any happier stories? No I don’t think so since my writings belong to the absolute happiest and most nourishing ones anyone has ever written in my opinion, and I can’t possibly try any harder than I do. But try I will! Furthermore do I think that the kind of ‘happy stories’ you want me to write (if you excuse my presumptuousness here and jump to conclusions about what those stories could entail) are not happy at all. They serve no other purpose than pleasing your mothers, who prefer to see you as happy idiots; that's evolution for you. Other beneficiaries are: Mr Inglis, his accountant, the board of directors of his publishing house and perhaps your Miss X., who thinks that a story of a lucky dog will keep you docile and do you more good than a story of an unlucky dog, and I don’t. When it comes to telling happy stories about yourself... when it comes to dispensing that type of ‘happiness’ to others, that is a completely egocentric, selfish, yes villainous thing to do: by flinging your own happiness in people’s faces, you are not doing them a favour… you are doing yourself (the writer) a favour. What you are saying to your friends is: ‘Look at me: I've got a new doll, I have had a nice diner with Bob & Beth, I won the state twirling competition… be happy for me!‘ It is asking for other people’s happiness for you; not offering them any. A very wicked thing to do indeed, and not something nice little ladies such as yourselves should be doing! By sharing your sorrow in a beautiful and honest manner, you are lifting other people’s spirit and offering them friendship and comfort… a comfort no happy singing elf could.

I hope this answers your questions, but don’t hesitate to ask me more. And feel free to publish this letter in your paper if you like. Give my kind regards to  your teacher, Miss X. She, of course, is always welcome at my house, day or night (without Mr X. ha ha... a cheesy little joke for the grownups here). All the best with your admirable work and always brush your teeth well. Yours sincerely,

Martijn Paradise

Seven Wishes VII

The Coming… Salvation. It will begin with a slight creaking noise, or soft crunching, like trampled sunflower seed hulls on the cinema floor. Other instruments might join in and mysterious light effects take place. ‘Baby Face’ Jonah & The Unprodigal Sons finish their set. The crowd goes wild. Someone shouts ‘Get your smokin’ cut-rate miracles here!’ It is a cheap country carnival show. But beware… and be prepared! After the jugglers & the clowns, and accompanied by a brass band, artificial smoke and go-go dancers, He will come on stage… the Great Redeemer. First the Seven Dwarfs… than the Messiah. He will swirl His satin cape and pass round bananas and drink tokens before making everything One again. The coming of the Messiah in my living room. When? After the war… after lunch. The Second Coming in my living room… One wish. And women with beautiful breasts dressed in modest, unfashionable robes. White macaws with yellow crests. Universal understanding and kindness. Deserted restaurants. Belonging. Or to be a very slow ship.

Seven Wishes VI

May you experience a condition strongly resembling love.
May you experience a condition strongly resembling happiness.
May you experience a condition strongly resembling tranquillity.
And may you experience a condition strongly resembling eternity.
May you have a character and mind accessible to others and to yourself.
May you have beliefs in the truths presented to you and in the things you have feigned yourself to be truths.
And may you never write lines as cynical as these, but if you do, that you believe in them.

Seven Wishes V

Then I was a mommy and you were a daddy…

Then I was a bunny and you were a grasphopper…

Then I was a bandit and you had to catch me…

Then I was a fireman and had to save you from an all devouring hellish fire…

Then you were the Uncaused One, the Almighty King of Kings, and I was your most cherished creation…

Then I was a guard in a death camp and I had to separate the people…

Then I was a prison without inmates, a play without actors, a song without notes, a forest without trees, a poem without words, a…

Seven Wishes IV

He was a perfect stranger, a complete unknown. An apparition on the streets… occasionally seen on timid corners, conversing with bizarre types. A man sitting alone in dusky corners in destitute cafes, silently writing in eccentric hand. Some say he was a treacherous madman from uncharted provenance, others rumoured of a brilliant holy man. He had no alias… he was an alibi. He was a sailor who stood on deck at night, whistling strange songs from his homeland… some say he had killed a man in the Northern territories. He was a sentence where every word and position had a meaning… he was a language that was heavily mortgaged. The nameless actor had brought the house to unstoppable tears; when they searched for him in his dressing room, he was gone. He was a desert sunset (again).

Seven Wishes III

To be… a Masked Avenger, wreaking havoc on our foes, letting slip the dogs of war. Smile as the cruciation commences, scratching our cruel red beard. Then, laying low in the desert with a fretless banjo and a nest of rattle snakes. Singing ‘O velveteen moon, shining pearly light on a drunken whore…’ The perfect savage barbarism, acted out in psychopathic cool, plagued by laughter and insomnia. (Who will sing the praise of Evil?) Let’s escape, over the wall, behind our glasses. ‘Plush Rabbit, your punishment has been suspended, in the light of your great merits for the case.’

Seven Wishes II

To be… a creaking fence & a painless shed. A revolutionary pamphlet, defaced by moustaches. The fly, trapped in amber, then a fish deep in the ice. An unarmed smile, worn by an atoll. White Shadows, chased by tequila. A small group of people. An honest man.

Seven Wishes I

To be... a summer hat in a park in Volterra. A mysterious, unplayable instrument. A fearless monogram. A skilfully drawn knee on blue paper. Ancient patinated bronze values. The reflection of a tower in a river. A very slow ship.

Remote

It can take many shapes & forms. No one knows what to expect. We had grown familiar with the wild, extraverted lamentations, the brooding, the self-cursing and laying cities to ashes... This last way however, is the worst by far: a complete retrieval into faraway nothingness. 
 

Bleak reclusiveness had come again… And I have institutionalised myself. I needed to. I had to keep it out… all the filth & ugliness of the world, the aping, the egotism, the baseness, chaos, noise, the whole human stench… To nullify it… both in the world and in myself. The contrast between the Ideal and the daily Practice became too big. Insufferably! I had to not be at the places where I did not belong. And stop being a part of something I could not be a part of. I became a monk, wandering alone in a godforsaken cloister. Averting his eyes from people who aren’t even there.  

Conflict grew of course. It stopped me talking... writing. The human scale would have to be reinstated in my world first for words could grow back. I had to make everything simpler. Smaller. Truer. Stripped of humbug, of synthetic components.

I got back into the cave. Thinking… of colours, shapes and atom numbers. Not of reasons, values or objectives… Oh, to be an animal, pacing through his cage, waiting on nothing. Or better: a non-living object. Just standing on the mantle and go tic-toc, tic-toc... Ha!, hardly! Then to wrap my mind around the declining Universe and be of dreams… silence… visions. Staring at the reflections on a shiny, black, wooden table.

I got away for days on my bicycle. I pruned the trees in my parents’ garden. Read old stories of Russian peasants, dressed in rags, red faced drunk and violent. I transported myself into that world and into myself. Remote... Looking for silence. One with the stains on the ceiling...

Doodles II

History & Biological Evolution is written by Winners. Defeated Civilisations and their Ethos and ‘bad’ (unsuccessful) Evolutionary Designs get lost in the dust… That’s the way it goes. There are no right & wrong.

That said, and hopping on a happier foot: news has reached me (thank you, kind Brother A) that with a previous post, the attached pictures were invisible, and replaced by a big red cross. This was not the case on every computer though: on my own, they were perfectly okay; but on others not. Therefore, on popular demand, I’ll try to post some loose ones.

Monoliners

• What’s the Status?

• I have no problem with any religion, as long as it doesn't involve complicated handshakes

• On the market of Love, as well as on that of Employment, I play Hard to Get; so far, the yield of this strategy can only be characterized as humble

• Nine o'clock and all's we-hell!!!

• In my country, there's a saying

• Ice on my windows, sunshine in my house

• Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov : )

• uhn-yoo-zhoo-uhl

• Act normal

• And Martijn was his name-o

• I am the Theory of Nothing

• Long Story Short

• All People I know are Strangers