Yoghurt

‘Can you explain what this is?’
‘Yeah well,it used to be milk and now…well… time makes fools of us all!’

Everything is changing nowadays. Even though I am still in this hostel and I am achieving nothing, I am finding some peace I thought I’d never find here. Suddenly, I am not all that keen to move out of here – today I will book for one more week. I am liking it. Apart from the sauna in which we sleep (damn broken airconditioning) there is also human warmth around me, strong arms & wings around me.

Today the hour changed too in Australia. The difference with Europe is now 10 hours. Time is driving everything apart. The continents drifting away from each other, it is time for a new jetlag. Worlds are seperating (beyond our control) and life is taking away the scars. It feels as if, sometimes, bridges should be made to control our affections, not to lose track of one another. It is times like this I deeply realise that I am a poet, all poets suffer from life, from distance and from bridge-building. I am already in the future – 10 hours at least. Tonight I felt a bit of that future. I miss some things badly but I’m also living newness.

It is my paradox for the day.

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flashes of life

I pose *flash*
My face is neutral *flash*
He tells me to show some attitude; I do and he says “yeah, that’s it, really good!” *flash* *flash*
I am told to pose, look tough and strong. I comply *flash* *flash*
I hear that I have a great talent for facial expressions and posing in general. “Tell me something I don’t know already,” I think. Showing no emotions whatsoever must be my best one. *flash*
We go outside to get some street shots. I am virtually unmoved by my surroundings. I am told to use the street as my catwalk. The rest of the world seems so far away. *flash**flash*flash*
I feel objectified and there is nothing I can do. *flash*
He tells me to smile. It takes effort, lots of effort. I don’t feel like smiling. “Now one for the ladies, they want to see a big smile, bigger..BIGGER, BIGGEEEEEERRRR…yeah that’s it! Great!” *flash*flash*

So now what? I didn’t get the room in Chippendale in the end so I’m still living in a hostel. I’m now in a room with a supersweet girl who wants to take me out all the time and put my mind on something else. She came out of a long-term relationship and is in Sydney to put her mind on something else & to find some rest. We went to oxford street and got quite drunk. It’s the new life, I guess. The pace is slow, I cannot handle anything fast right now. I feel weak and uninterested in everything. The photoshoot was pretty cool yesterday. Professional and all that. In a couple of weeks time they’ll have composed my portfolio and a few weeks later I may expect my first modelling thing.
I started reading Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando”. It is referred to as the greatest loveletter in English literary history. It’s not smart to read that right now.

I also bought a collection of poems by Wilfred Owen; he’s a great poet, so sensitive.

If I would have lived along with him in the trenches in World War I, I would have fallen in love with him, I’m sure. I have never seen a picture of him but there is no other poet who I have reconstructed so beautifully in my mind. I wouldn’t even want to see a picture. We would be together in the dirt, blood and mud of the trenches, cuddling towards each other to protect us from the watery cold of Flanders’ Fields. We would be together until the last week of the war. Then he will get shot by some German on the other side. I would hold on to his body, cry over it, kiss it, try and breath him back to life. I would wonder how I could have saved his life, start blaming myself – not my dead lover lying in the mud looking as beautiful as ever he was – and ultimately be grateful for our time together. His death will always feel so pointless, as my life would after it. I would not be able to contain myself to ask “why?” all the time. It would have never been enough. He can live on through me. I still have his poetry which I will read for better times. They are parts of him that do will never die.

written with the most friendly intentions…

To you.

I shouldn’t be writing this, but I have to. I couldn’t write this in an e-mail because you may not want to read it. The intention is to be positive, to make you warm. I will ask nothing, I promise. If you want this text removed, just let me know.

I don’t want to be a drama queen and say that I will never know happiness again. These emotions well up inside and I am their slave. I don’t want you to hate me or feel anger towards me. Maybe it’s already too late for that, I don’t know. It’s not my intention to make you feel bad although I must admit I take solace in the fact that you are not well yourself. This means I know you care and for that I thank you. Of course I got some false hope – either given by you in your kindness or made up by me in my dream-world: the effect is pretty much the same for my current mental state.
The short film of our togetherness played before my eyes a couple of times. It crushes me time and time again when I consider the sacrifices I would have made. I feel crushed, I shouldn’t hide that – there are puddles in my eyes and cold shivers roll down my spine – and all there is inside my head now are questions, endless lists of whys, ifs and hows that are just left unanswered.
This is however, not why I write this. I want to write something just in gratitude. I don’t want to turn bitter after this; I don’t want to crawl into a shell to hibernate for god knows how many years. Thankfulness, just that, because you proved a number of things for me. Thanks to you I learnt that I can fall for someone again, that I can lose so much of my selfishness in favour of my love. To care for someone with all my heart, before you I didn’t know I could do that any more. Caring so much that I would have adapted all my plans for that – for me that was the strongest power which was inflicted on me, being turned selfless. I cried when you cried, protecting you from harm was always on my mind – seeing you in pain a stab through my heart. Protecting myself became less and less a priority; I let myself be taken in with my emotions, from that grew hope and ultimately, love.
I had seen myself grow so bitter and desperate over the previous years that my beliefs of love were beginning to fade away. Today I am also desperate, yes, but I must realise that I have it in me to find what I’m after. With my first love, I made the mistake of turning him against me, making him hate me (for a short time, but still). I don’t want to make that mistake again. I don’t want to be remembered for that, I want to be remembered for our good times. That is how I want to remember you. I may have been on the way of making that mistake again, but I want to steer away from that now. Forgive me for that, please. I am a bad loser; coping with my losses is something I have difficulty with.
It was nice to have somebody who cared, somebody who held me in his sleep, somebody to wake up with and kiss, somebody with whom sex had a meaning – the completion of a bond – somebody to feel secure with and all that.
Dear boy, I am just afraid. The scared little boy who’s always lived inside me shows himself. I will think of your warmth, remembering you in your beauty, knowing how I loved you and I will defend that image with all my strength from all the harm my mind would want to bestow on that. Some of my poems will still be about you, about this strong image in my head, about a beauty only I was permitted to see. Not superficial.

I want you to rest, ease your mind, feel me just once more around you, and then be strengthened for a new life.
I will try and do the same.
Let us sleep now.

Love,

timmy

life life life life life

There is so much I have yet to fathom that it is going to be impossible to it in my lifetime. If I could convince people of the emptiness of our being, maybe then they’d understand that the present is equally unconcerned with our past AND our future. The rules we live by limit us in love, in care-free affection and ultimately, in death. Striving for happiness and coping with life’s constrictions is perhaps most frustrating. Not believing in the eternity of Jesus and his love excludes us from having a goal in life, or so it seems. The system of rewards has penetrated our society for 2.000 years. Our morals are shaped solely on the basis of receiving the biggest reward, in life, in love, and in death. The non-believers face the problem of working out a system for right and wrong of their own. This system will almost automatically diverge from the ancient one and in the event of the clash, the biggest one will survive. I don’t believe that murder is wrong in itself – the reasoning for it may be beyond my comprehension, but from a Darwinist point of view, it should even be encouraged (as long as I don’t get killed). Maybe the answer lies in true bohemian love. Carpe Diem & his comrades are closing in on us. Either they suffocate us or they don’t.

timpeltje will be a catwalk model.
timpeltje has found a supernice room for only 120 AUD$
timpeltje will move in on Thursday
timpeltje thinks it’s funny the room is in an area called Chippendale (easily amused)
timpeltje can earn up to 5000 AUD$/day catwalking (don’t believe it though)
timpeltje likes it.

Moving on.

I wandered streets tonight, taking pictures in black-and-white of city surroundings that seem as strange as my own hands in writing. I saw several rats, insects the size of my thumbs, some rodents fled away in terror penetrating bushes so that I should not be seen. It all felt so pointless, finding a reasoning behind it all. I took about 50 pictures of an enstranged city, an estranged me and the pointlessness of life. Everything is dark and shall remain so. The positive thinker in me dies every now and then. I’m not sure the walk itself did me any good. What I came to realise is maybe that there is no escape possible for me. A tragic hero classic theatre would call it.

I wrote a poem.

The Red Light

Cars stop instinctively, crossing the road wishing
just one of them would drive on and run me over, ending
in existence what I myself could never end – splashing
me against a windshield like just another bug
wiping me off to eternity with just a button’s push
I see myself standing third person viewer mode
no car is driving on – they suck as predators –
the road itself contains no danger nor do the predators upon
crossing it just seems an impossibility. The other
side of it does not attract – just a simple fact –
When I’ll try to return, after reaching the other side,
the light will have sprung to green predators arising:
it is the human choice, the choice to be devoured.

While writing this, I thought of a poem read long ago. It is pasted below and deals with the horrors of World War I. What those soldiers did (singing, laughing for the sake of escapism), I will be doing too in the time to come. Maybe I will, just like these fellas, even get convinced of my mood…

Everyone Sang (Sigfried Sassoon)

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on – on – and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away … O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

Just imagine: he’s still singing.
Coincidentally, what I wrote today in Hyde Park also corresponds with me now; reading it again, I read a new story in it than I did this afternoon.

Intrusion

Straight ahead, colourful flags will greet me,
colourful people, young and vibrant
owners of a newly-founded city. The newly-weds’
bed I penetrate, befouling their sheets with
the juices of my colourless farmer stench.
And then, combustion – fire cracking bedroom –
a new fault line dividing the young city:
sunburned suburb wipes away whatever scar
back then was made. The newly-weds were shaken,
but strengthened in their bond,
one hanging from a rooftop clinging on to life
the other faintly hoping to be rescued in a fall.
weighing the pros and cons of rescuing them,
I took both their hands
and jumped
with them twenty-two storeys down
kissing Death on the pavement:
blood indivisibly mingled –
the perfect union.

I did not reach Harbour Bridge in my walk, I couldn’t find it again getting lost searching for shortcuts & pictures that could resemble my mood. I saw a road sign “WRONG WAY TURN AROUND” I didn’t take a picture: it would have been too obvious.

I bought some belgian chocolate -releasing some sweet endorfines in my head- and some australian juice.

Suddenly, you feel yourself just wanting more & more, but then there is no more,
just trash.

What I want to do.

“You really REALLY have GREAT modelling looks,” she said after having introduced her and after having told me to wait for two minutes. I just smiled and said “good”. I am in a purple-pinkish office room in George Street surrounded by pictures of beautiful boys and girls. I will do it for the money. After six months I should be able to write for six months in a row. Not that I’m expecting the model thing to be quite demanding.

I just want to write.

She explained that the girls who hand out flyers in the streets are trained to look for specific types of people. I was apparently one of them. She inquired whether or not I had a portfolio: I said I did not. It would have been vain to say that I have hundreds of pictures of myself on my laptop. Narcissism is so misunderstood these days. They will make me a portfolio and then I will be able to appear in magazines, catwalks, fashion shows all around Australia.

I just want to write.

I am guessing it could be fun. It is a world I do not know and never really wanted to know. Now I will force myself to do so. Not out of vanity, my ego did not skyrocket when she told me how good a model I would make, but out of hunger for new experience. I am preparing myself for a world of superficiality & decadence. I don’t know which of the two tempt me more right now. Neither is particularly rest-giving.

I just want to write.

I’m seventeen years old again. My pimpled face looks at all the beautiful boys and girls and feels the insecurity growing and leading into low self-esteem. He is the same boy today, only swimming in oceans of confidence. Deep-down that boy rises again though, drifted away chased by a white shark. He is nervous about whether or not he will make a good impression, what people think of him, what he should say next on the telephone. Nerve-control just like five years ago. I have learnt to hide that better these days, but sometimes it gets noticed. Mostly when making a first impression, I can feel it. I want to witness superficiality at its purest to finally turn my back on it, to be able to do it. I don’t do it not to be nervous anymore: it’s a part of me too few people can see these days.

Then I will write.

I will write about what & who I miss, about my life in a solitary emotional prison, about love – my everlasting love; how I manage it (or don’t manage it) – , about happiness as the next stop on my way home (wherever that may be),
and,
…above all I will write about flying…

Fick You! Fick Me? Yeah! Fick You!

There is a sex shop next to my hostel. Outside, several prostitutes offer their services to passers-by. It is the street where I now live. They try to seduce pedestrians with the magical words: “arse-ficking – arse ficking!” They do say “ficking”. Maybe “ficking” is something completely different. I wouldn’t know though since it has not crossed my mind to ask them to elaborate on that. It might be superembarrassing asking them how on earth you “fick” somebody’s arse. They may start laughing loudly because maybe, in Australia, everyone already KNOWS from birth what ficking is. It’s probably something pleasurable. It’s bound to be. I’m guessing you’d have to be incredibly obese & British-looking to do it though (the “girls” who offer fick-services are all suffering from obesity & British looks). I’m coming closer to the answers – the deductive powers of the mind are not to be underestimated. Maybe I earned some ficking now, after this hard mental labour. But still, ficking may just be one of those things you get addicted to and I wouldn’t want myself to be seen with obese British-looking women ALL the time. Because ficking is like smoking – once you pick it up, it superdifficult to quit. And besides, it’s probably incredibly hazardous for your health. I’m guessing it’s probably best to live without any ficking whatsoever. I observed the men who are not as strong to resist it as I am (people who fick are mostly men I’ve noticed): they show eery similarities which are too similar to be coincidental. Ugliness would be a good denominator for it; Unshaved too; wearing oversized coats as well, lacking style too, being old as well… The list goes on but I guess I’ve said enough to prove that I should not let myself be tempted into a fick-session.

Where would it all end?
Where will it all end?
In creativity? In joy?
In a depressive rain shower
of the solitary boy?
In short-lived ecstacy
stacks and bundles of poetry?
Not really, no.
Ficking hell.

learnt at a course for the Responsible Service of Alcohol:

excessive consumption of alcohol gives men tits.
testosterone levels drop when a man drinks excessively.
women’s testosterone levels rise spectacularly when drinking excessively.
the McDonalds sign is more recognised than any other sign in the world.
there is a AUS$ 5500 fine if you serve alcohol to underage drinkers or to drunk people.
Allan Taylor drank 17 tequilas, 34 beers and 4 bourbon & colas in 100 minutes (he got up, went to work & died).

It was the only course ever in which I had 100/100. (disregarding the fact that the answers were given beforehand by the teacher (and again during the test if somebody had forgotten something)).

All I need now is a teaching licence. and a place to stay. and some rest. and some warmth. and some sobriety. and a hug.

I’m escaping & realising I haven’t a thing to worry about. I can worry about love, food or sex but it will have to work out in the end. I don’t know where I’ll be next year at this time – heck, I don’t even know where I’ll be next month. I should set up a goal for myself – both long-term & short-term, both physical and mental – and try and achieve that goal while I’m here. Personal development should be the key to this whole year. I am dancing in the streets – I’m improving. I’m not as reserved as I used to be. I’m not as annoying.
Next week, when I will have a place of my own, I will go to the beach, read a book and write some poems. I will devise a plan for my novel. I have the feeling that I should be able to write it here. I want to start it – the ambition is pouring down off me. I will seek some mindless employment for the weekends and maybe do some translations. I bought two books today – one poetry, one short stories – which I will read on the beach next week.
The future looks bright.

I should accept what I miss in life, rejoice in the new life and be grateful.

Just a note: Everything is conditional today.

I wrote a letter of surrendet to the enemy,
without regret throwing it all overboard
calligraphic symbols on a withering page,
through my hands the letter feels like
a paperthin weight resting on my shoulders.
The lives of many are now changed –
there is no space for innocence,
nobody’s neutral towards anything.

For once I wasn’t willing to escape and I did. I am one of those artists who will write about the nothingness of being, of love as a house on the other side of the road. It’s a wonderful house, but it seems as if it’s a place you’d love to live but where you can’t afford the rent. by staying there now, it feels as if you’re living in a place which is too chique for you. But you’re making debts, you don’t care about money. You know you’ll earn it back somehow.

The city I am in now is a very cool one. The price for that house is really high but still I feel like I want to do so much to stay there. It’s a supercool city anyway. Everything that comes to me is new. I would enjoy living here. But I don’t want to leave my house.
it’s a weird life.

I feel kissed.