On everything and nothing.

I’m relaxing a bit after a couple of days which have felt rather hectic on my soul. As if I was being lived even though I was aware that that wasn’t really the case. Sometimes I need my solitude, I will always have that. Tonight I will fill this in with this, some reading in Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Love (which I find rather appealing, something I hadn’t imagined when I started in it), so that I can finish it quickly and start in either Jeannette Winterston’s Written on the Body or Kurt Vonnegut’s Galapagos, both of which I bought today. Sometimes a man like me can be easily satisfied. Of course for further satisfaction I also bought a pair of white drainpipe trousers, 3 litres of chemicals (I won’t tell you for what, we must have our secrets now, don’t we?) and half a metre of baguette topped with spicy pita salad. Imagine just how satisfied I was. Imagine I say! And now I’m planning to finish the rest of Erik’s tiramisu that tastes yummy. ‘So things look up,’ joked the physiotherapist to a client of his who suffered from a back injury that had his head face up the whole time. In three weeks a new school year starts, I’m rather ambivalent whether or not I want it to start so soon (though after 4 months of summer vacation, it might be good to get some structure in my life again for a while).

As always (so it seems), I don’t seem to know what I want. I sometimes really feel like one of those people in cartoons who have an angelic and a demonic character talking to them in each ear. I can only seem to make up my mind now about wanting some tiramisu…

And now some photos:

The intention with this one was to show how people are so caught up in their own little lives that all they eventually care about is themselves. Erik had to show this sort of loneliness (that’s why he’s not wearing a shirt, not because he’s a nudist, though I must admit I’d like that too). In the background you can see a bridge in Venice of which millions of tourists take pictures ; of course my interest is not in the pretty view, but in the people themselves. I had to wait quite some time to get the shot I wanted and I clicked when I saw this little girl pass me by. I do like the picture.

One of the advantages of having a boyfriend is that you always have someone willing to be a model for you. I quite liked this double exposure (I took at a café where I ‘forgot’ to pay for two sandwiches we had because they were horrible); I like the combination of the bars and Erik’s dreamy face:

Nothing special, but it’s me in the mirror, I just like reflections:

And the last one of Erik and Vanessa I just find cute:


Timmy was in Venice the past few days for the Biennale and he thought it had some really great art works. Venice is a kind of city I would have never visited because of its resemblance to shit for swarm of tourists who are of course very attracted by that. The city serves no purpose any more today apart from taking money from tourists while slowly but steadily preparing for the all-engulfing flood that will one day come and make Venice into a third millennium Atlantis. At least we know this one existed (though I’m fairly convinced that the original Atlantis lies somewhere underneath the ice on Antarctica). The city feels as if you’re walking around on a film set that’s infested with lots of curious fans who record everything they see with their cameras. I was videotaped tons of times when I was walking in the city, people from around the world will now show me to their families (granted, I just stood in the way of what they were filming (buildings, a Dolce&Gabbana store, a café, etc…)).

The impression I got of the Biennale surpassed what the one I had at Documenta in Kassel in July. It’s a shame we had to rush through the second part a bit, the garden with all the nice little pavilions, but I found a lot of pieces that could really grasp my attention and cause me to respond emotionally.

“What you want, the screaming rocket of emotions, a hemisphere of touch around a body of uncertain proportions, lying gently in a dream, but the fierce creatures still attack, no man was safe from all the harm that was inflicted on their souls, you grew deaf just by the whisper of your name, a fragile second between in- and exhaling, a pause for all the minds that only have a voice in them, wash yourself clean with the words of another, but travel with care and dress responsibly, a skull falls to the ground, a metro station in which you reflect on the haziness of life around you, random emotions and violin music, a god standing in a lake and the sky dooming over you, a deaf couple arguing about what is best for the kids they’ve just made deaf, a curtain of showering water that serves as a wall between the parts of yourselves you would like to deny, the artificial smell of a glass of chilled red wine, a touch and a kiss and ultimately the question of whether or not to go on, but you always do, curiosity kills the beast of stillness.
But nothing, nothing, nothing, can ever be the same.
I promise.”


Got to post this now otherwise, my bf will fucking kill me and shoot my brains out and rape and attack me with all his penises and other appendages…. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!
I mean, it reminded me of Pulp Fiction and all, but I didn’t want to post it last night too, because I wasn’t  100% sure if people would see the link! But well, because I am SOOO scared, here’s the picture and please, please, please tell me it looks like Pulp Fiction otherwise he’ll molest me like no one has ever molested me before!

or whatever….


Kingdom Come

I finished J.G. Ballard’s Kingdom Come last night and I’ve been pondering the book’s ideas for some time today. I bought it last week because it said on the back that it described a great dystopia and that The Independent had said that. Seeing how I like both independence and dystopia, my choice was easily made. I loved how people were getting so brainwashed they started worshipping the products they buy at a large shopping centre that’s seen as the new type of church. I felt a shiver down my spine when I thought about it. The book talks about consumerism taking control of people’s lives and being the only thing people can believe in. It’s about people in the suburbs: they’re bored out of their minds and riot, kill and attack people (mostly racial motives). When I did a translation today, again housewife banter on some commercial for a consumer product (Dash, whiter than white!), I analysed the women’s motives in light of this book. In the book, consumerism is put in absolute power through TV ads. A lot of the women answering the surveys are eerily similar to the people that cause the consumerist uprising: empty-headed, willing to believe anything the bright box tells them and so bored that they fill their spare time watching even more commercials than they do in their daily lives. The racism of the book is already here, it’s just not as blatant…. yet!
I dreamt of an island, full of all the smart people in the world, but that would be impossible because the un-smart people would end up destroying the planet in no time. So we’ll need  a whole new planet then… That’s okay, I can wait…

Something else now…

I had forgotten I took this double exposure when I got back my developed film today. I like it a lot.

This is from the play The Sandman Erik helped to create the past two months: in this picture, the sandman is sitting with a bandage on his head (I first though it was a baby nappy), holding a dead chicken. It’s experimental… and cool!

The Russians Are A-Coming!

I wonder why there are two Russians on my “Friend of…” list in LJ, because I sort of get the idea that neither one of them can speak English, maybe they want to marry me, but then they don’t know that polygamy isn’t legal here as it probably is in their silly excuse for a democracy. One of them also wrote to me once in a comment that consisted of a couple of sentences in Russian, upon which Timmy wondered where I had ever said I spoke the language. I didn’t, but luckily in such cases Babelfish can be of assistance, so I entered the text and it said something about him demanding me to write my entry for him in Russian, because he didn’t understand it, but would very much like to. I wondered why he then added me if he couldn’t understand a word, and more peculiarly, why he automatically assumed I spoke his language. While I am omnipotent and I like to say things like “I’m a linguist! I know every language in the world!”, there are boundaries to ones capabilities. For one thing, why should I adjust to him? The Russians don’t scare me, with their submarines, ugly haircuts and evil looking faces (let’s be prejudiced here, why not?). I can take them all! If Julius Caesar could beat them, well then so can I! Maybe I’m being monitored by the FBI who disguise themselves as Russians to gain my trust (the FBI are stupid, aren’t they? I mean, did Mulder and Scully ever catch a flying saucer or an alien? Did they even sleep together in all those years? Did they even have genitalia? I wonder, I wonder….). Haven’t they got better things to do than spy on my terrorist plans to make a gay bomb and then throw it on Texas? The gay bomb was their idea anyway! Spreading a mushroom cloud of hormones so that men would become so hot with passion they all turned to each other. It’s for the common good, democracy or something.

or whatever.

But I will leave my Russians be, whether they’re American, Chinese, or Iranese or whatever crazy country people anywhere sometimes fear. When earth will be discovered by aliens, all nations will unite and form an army to fight that neighbour and in the end, the world and all its people will be one giant country, shared wealth for everyone and no hatred amongst each other, only hatred aimed at the Real Foreigner, the things from outer space, “I mean, I’m not a racist, but those aliens have absolutely no manners, they don’t speak our language, they don’t want to breathe our air! Send them back to the planet they came from! We don’t want their tentacles here!” (familiar, innit?)

August 18, 2007

Dear diary,

I’m addressing you personally since I figure that will make this entry easier to write. I think you and me make a good couple, so don’t feel I’m abandoning you because I don’t write to you so often. But Timmy is fine, very much so.

Things are going smooth with gorgeous Erik as well. I find it’s amazing I don’t have to deal with anxiety attacks, depressions, collagen lips, questions about sexual orientation, drug addiction or stupidity (is this my love life so far? ermm, I think I’ll buy a vowel or something…). Last night we lay entangled in his (crummy) sofa-bed looking into each other’s eyes for maybe an hour or so, the voices in my head paused, inhaled and exhaled, took some rest from their 24/7 jobs of battering my thoughts, the peace and calm overwhelming me. He will read about it here that it made me incredibly peaceful, that a shiver of warmth engulfed my body in this time of closeness, that I wished he didn’t have to pee after that hour or so (though everything just continued afterwards, but how was I to know?).

Tomorrow I’ll be playing Jesus in a photo shoot for a friend of a friend in some studio in Antwerp somewhere. It looks like it might be fun, I’ll get my feet washed in one of the pics (so I skipped that today), get Maria to go down on me (not so explicit I presume – but still something I don’t need to do today then (gha! I can’t even do that on myself…. meaning I’ve tried, of course, and couldn’t reach, stupid long back!), and then maybe some others, I don’t know…

I also pondered a photo project I might do that involves a play with space and dimensions and perspectives. It involves a series of combinations of (loads) of pictures of one particular room (say of one of those hotel rooms you can rent by the hour), as a sort of puzzle in which some kind of action (suicide? sex? dance?) takes places, but is deconstructed (literally split into pieces) to be then reconstructed by me to downplay the action’s content… Or something. I did some test shots on the technique and it appears to work fine (all hail Photoshop!). It’ll be a lot of work though. I’m thinking of including low-resolution webcam pictures in the collage as well, possibly for the action, when enlarged, I find those blocks show something cruel about modernity and I think the combination could look pretty cool… But I’ll see, I could also be rambling some random shit here…

Other than relating some random facts on my life, I’ve got nothing much to say.

Look, here’s me in all black!

I’m rarely ever all black, and I rarely ever sit amongst the mess in my room fully dressed, looking sexily to my right… Really, rarely!
Going to say goodnight now, it’s late and I have to be Jesus in the morning…



The Two of Me

            Why are there two of us? I look next to me in the backseat of a car I don’t recognize and notice someone who looks a bit like me, a similar version, perhaps somewhat more menacing. In front, a man and a woman are sitting having a muffled discussion I am not following because of my amazement at this own reflection of myself. The landscape we travel through is ‘rustic’ (as some Lonely Planet guide would euphemise rather than just saying it was ‘dull’, ‘boring’ and ‘downright ugly’), it’s mostly plains, old and withered houses, a surreal mixture of industry and countryside. The motorway we’re on is much like any other motorway: a scar in a landscape cut by an engineering scalpel in the name of progress.
            But I’m looking at this alleged brother of mine. I have no brother, I know that. Are you sure of that? a voice gnaws at my heartbeat, making it rise uncontrollably. My point of view rapidly shifts for a split second to that of my reflection sitting next to me: my gaze is violent and aimed at one person only. I blink and I’m me again, looking at that brother with a confused look that’s beginning to alter into a look of realization.
           ‘We’re going to stop at the next petrol station,’ the male voice at the steering wheel proclaims in a harsh and stern manner. Who is this man? I look at the man driving and don’t recognize his face; it should be my father, but it can also be my stepfather. We are one! is what I hear shouted in my head, don’t you see?
            The car stops at the petrol station, and our driver, my (step)father, grunts and steps out, forcing us to stay put. He says he’ll beat us up if we don’t stay where we are. My brother, unbothered, steps out of the car after him, nobody saying a thing. The woman in the passenger seat is not my mother, I don’t recognize her. She doesn’t say anything when my brother disappears into the little shop of the petrol station.
            I see through the eyes of my brother for a split second: he is following my (step)father into the lavatory. As soon as I blink, I’m me again in the car. The empty woman in the front is saying nothing, she could be a blow-up doll for all I cared. But she’s not the subject of this hallucination, is she? Go on, step out of the car too, I dare you. With shivering hand, I grab hold of the door handle and listen to the door’s screech as it wilfully opens. Look at the car and recognize it: it’s a beige Ford Taunus my mother owned after her divorce.
            I am forced to investigate, but I also feel that this is the last place in the world I want to be right now. I enter the small shop and notice the balding man running the petrol station not looking up from behind his counter. I can hear noise coming from the lavatories. As I blink I see someone kicking my (step)father so that his head falls into a toilet bowl; one that hadn’t been flushed in a while, are you enjoying the details I let you see? I blink again, and I’m me again, walking towards the men’s lavatories.
            I open the door and I see my previous flash being confirmed as my brother is kicking this father-type; I look at my brother doing this and I don’t do anything. I just stand there, and you are enjoying it, admit it!

            Your view is shifted, you are your brother: I had followed my father into the petrol station’s lavatories because I felt like it had to end. When he was peeing, I banged his head with a metal bar I appeared to have been holding the whole time. It needed to end, my brother needed to be rescued from all of this. I banged the guy’s head, but he was still conscious. I wanted him to be conscious: he had to give resistance, otherwise there would be no gratification. The cries this man let out were icing on my cake. I was grateful when I saw my brother coming in. He is now watching me.
            You are you again: This young guy who looks so much like me grabs our father by his hair, dragging him out the toilet bowl. From his mouth, you could see he had been vomiting while he was being submerged in shit. I notice how neutral I feel when this reflection of me, my ‘brother’, is tying up my father who’s sitting on his knees, with his head bent over a rubbish bin my brother had placed there for him (I don’t ask myself why). My nameless brother is now covering our father in toilet paper, mummifying him while continuing to kick and beat him. Vomit and blood come out of his mouth and nose, but neither of us is particularly moved by this. I am leaning against the sink in the bathroom, looking at the reflection of the scene in the mirror. The terror from before is being replaced by anger and aggression. You’re a chicken! You haven’t got any aggression in you! Come on! Prove it, pussy-boy! I breathe in and take a step closer to my father; he looks up expectantly, and all I want to do, and subsequently will do, is hurt him so bad, more than he ever hurt anyone. I kick him a couple of times until the old balding guy from the petrol station storms in to stop me from finishing what we started. He’ll be back for revenge, you know it, he will always be back. You simply haven’t got the power to end it.

            We’re sitting in a backroom of the shop on some improvised bed the solitary man from the petrol station slept on, there is no sign of the woman in the car. I assume she’s just too petrified to ignore my father’s order from before. I am sitting in the middle between my brother and my (step)father, holding my brother’s hand. But are you holding his hand? Is your brother even there? My (step)father looks surprisingly unhurt by our beating, something that freaks me out as I look at it.
            ‘I don’t know who attacked me,’ my (step)father speaks softly to the guy from the petrol station who introduced himself as Martin.
            ‘But your son, he was the one who…’ Martin tries.
            ‘No no, my son tried to save me, it’s the other guy who attacked me.’ Is he afraid of you now? He’s bluffing, and you know it.
            ‘But sir, there wasn’t anybody in there but you and your…’
            ‘I’m telling you it’s fine!’ My (step)father is now getting up, gesturing at me to get moving, which I reluctantly do.
            But you couldn’t tell Martin what had really happened. You couldn’t tell anyone. All you knew was that the torture would continue.

           As we walk away from the shop towards the car, my father has silently made clear to my brother that he isn’t allowed to get into the car with us anymore. I see him taking this in stride. Helpless, I step into the old Taunus and look at my brother who I see walking away in one of the fields adjacent to the petrol station.
            Your point of view changes again: I had no intention of ever getting back into the car with my (step)father, I already knew I was going to walk here. For the first time in my life, I feel liberated. I don’t turn around to see a car get smaller behind me. I can see the horizon ahead of me. And look at the colours! What a wonderful landscape! No way that this is dull or monotonous!
            And one last time: As the Taunus aggressively drives away, I see the image of my brother fading behind us, deformed in the corners of the back window. His back is facing us and all I want is to be him.
Just let me be him.

            But you aren’t, and you never will be.


It’s a disturbing dream that haunted me this morning to which I added fictional details to make sense of it. It’s not me any more in the story, that’s what I was proving to myself.


I unlocked the door to my apartment and I heard a noise coming from the living room. Insecure, I searched for some sort of weapon with which I could defend myself. All I could find was a white and blue umbrella, but it had to do. I shouted ‘I AM HOME AND I AM ARMED, WHOEVER IS LYING IN MY SOFA!’ My bluff did not impress this intruder. I silently made a step closer and tried to listen more closely to hear breathing, or possibly even a heartbeat (though that would probably just be my heartbeat). Nothing.
I was doubting what to do (I couldn’t call the police, because they said they’d tickle me to death if I call them again, and I can’t take that chance: rather die heroically than die being tickled, I say!). My best move would be to surprise this intruder and overwhelm him with my presence. The faster I’d be, the more chance of success I’d have. I heard a grunt coming from behind the living room door I was now approaching. Before continuing, I took a pen from my pocket and scribbled down my will on my left hand. It said: ‘STUFF ME! REMEMBER ME!’ That was about all I could write down because of the stress. But it would do in any case. If the intruder had any weapon stronger than an umbrella, I’d be done for; that’s what I knew. I then wondered if a burning candle is a stronger weapon than an umbrella… If used wisely, I guess it could be.
Having nearly fallen asleep at my living room door, I woke myself up to force myself to deal with this life and death danger. I let out a war cry that mostly consisted of a repetition of the first letter of the alphabet (maybe the intruder just thought I had a speech impediment, how embarrassing would that be?). My foot kicked in the living room door, put its sole on the ground and let my other foot run towards the sofa, to where the noise was coming from, umbrella aimed too in that direction. I charged in a fit of rage and in my struggle I didn’t meet much resistance. Like a maniac, I jumped and cried, punched and kicked, and I knew that whatever weapon this intruder had, it was no match for my determination and umbrella.
A second of stillness. I allowed myself to take a long deep breath, one of realisation of victory. I looked around for cheering supporters, but naturally there weren’t any. Nevertheless high on my own success, I took my gaze down to the intruder I had attacked.
‘Timmy,’ the voice said in pain, ‘what have you done?’
‘My muse?!! YOU? Why didn’t you… WHY? What….?’ Victory soon changed into panic as I saw the soft face of my muse appear, a face that had now been remodelled with my umbrella (I also had to be amazed at the damage such a thing can cause).
‘I came back….I wanted… I wanted to be with you…’ Her voice sounded like she was in pain. My muse had returned and I had molested her.
‘I’m SO sorry, I had no idea you were coming back to me… Why didn’t you say something before?’
‘I… I wanted to keep it a surprise…’ the most painful answer possible.
‘I never thought you would come back to me… I built a fortress around myself. Why now?’
‘Never mind with all the whys and the hows… Just get me some water and an ambulance.’
‘Will you be back? Please come back.’
‘Would you come back to someone who beat you up and molested you with an umbrella?’
‘Ermm… Yes?’



‘Guess what time it is!’ I said when I woke up, noticing the big open eyes from my boy wilfully staring in my direction.
‘Quarter to twelve?’ he guessed, letting a finger travel down my spine.
It took my eyes nearly half a minute to focus on the small clock on my laptop screen to see that he was only 20 minutes off. Images from last night’s wildness, as from a camera, flashed through my mind. How to explain the nature of desire?

After sex & breakfast in bed, I was left to myself and I wondered how I would fill the rest of my day. I snoozed and fell asleep, drooling like a baby in my midday sleep. A girl from my Swedish years called me wondering if I’d help her with talking some Swedish for a radio programme she’s doing for Studio Brussel, something I might help her with tomorrow. I went to have a drink with her in the city and as she was talking to a friend of hers at the bar about radio stuff that interested me about as much as who Ridge will marry next in The Bold & The Beautiful, I let my mind wander off to thinking about my writing, that novel thing I would so much want to write. What it all boils down to is that crucial first sentence. Everything else is simple. My inspiration, something I can best relate to, is in the line of Bret Easton Ellis’ writing, with the raw voice of nihilism and escapism that surrounds my daily life. I found it may be time to begin with the thing for real.

When I was sitting on the terrace with my friend, I noticed one of the monks cycling past us at about 10 PM, which was past his bedtime hour. He was one of the ones who were very sympathetic towards me and who had always tried to convince me to join the monastery. He scanned the faces on the terrace, not recognising me, and then cycling on. He returned a second time, as if he was really looking for someone. I had to think of how I never gave them the pictures I took during the project.

People are strange and my hair feels soft.

Kölnischer wasser

I walk through a city I haven’t been in. A girl is holding my hand and the language around me is Germanic. I understand the world that does not understand me, and vice versa. A bar opens up and we enter. I had just punched an eight-year-old German kid who was pointing and laughing when she saw us (and I presume she mocked your truly; note how the solipsist thinks that everything is about him). Actually, it was pretty hilarious because we didn’t have a clue what she was mocking us for, but if we let every pigeon run free, the 100 metre breaststroke would not be won be humanity any more. I can’t, however, reconstitute the scene because I am not a writer, my talents lie elsewhere (bananas and junk).
The bar had Bacardi, chatter, music I cannot remember, and more Bacardi. My harem switched on a continuous basis and one corpulent German girl kept eyeing me as her and her group of friends came to sit around us in all their volume. I feigned shyness when she looked into my eyes so that she’d feel the interest was mutual. And then all those guinea pigs left, to leave us to our talking selves. A loner German lad replaced them, he was drinking a White Russian and taking notes in a little notebook he kept. We had a pointless conversation about how good his English was (not!) and then I decided I’d had enough: I drank my glass empty (doing it any other way would be wasteful) and smashed it hard into his face. There was no response from the crowd; they minded their own business, just like I had instructed them to do. “Dance, my puppets! Dance!”
Leaving the bar, sun had risen to an angle of 25 degrees, stumbled onwards to a next adventure which involved a pink elephant, a Turkish guy who claimed he was Italian (I could see right through that) and a German bum who started crying when he was confronted (by himself mostly) with his own past. He rolled up his sleeve to show a tattoo that made him cry even more. I didn’t know what the tattoo stood for, but in my mind it was a remnant from his Hitlerjugend days. We fled into a taxi that was shaped like an onion on wheels and we went to bed.