An echo

Everything stares at me. The flashes of light that penetrate my eyesockets reveal nothing. I see the reflections of my body everywhere, in my dream, in puddles of ice, in some anonymous whore’s toenail. All these fractured eyes stare back at me, asking the same question: is that all? My heartbeat rises. I’m nervous. The echo every beat leaves against my chest is quickly replaced by another beat. But the heartbeat rises more as more and more bodies are staring back at me. 
I imagine my heart exploding in my body. Spontaneous combustion would make sure nobody would find me. I wilfully destroy my own body for your pleasure. I cut myself to see my own blood, to feel a connection to the world. But it’s no use. I hover on an impotent cloud, unable to take me out of this mess. 
I have no sense of space left. Every time I open my eyes, confusion spreads itself around the contours of my body. I haven’t seen the sky for as long as I can remember. It prevents me from zooming out on myself. To see the world as a whole rather than just an unstable, cold construction. 
I am in a coma, lying somewhere in a hospital bed, attached by several umbilical cords to some life support machines that neutrally steer the direction of my dreams. Possibly some family and a doctor are having a discussion about whether or not they should just shut off the machines and sell my organs to the highest bidder on eBay. The arguments in favour of this early ending are convincing: "Have you smelt him? It’s like sticking your face in a toilet bowl?", "We could use his bed for someone who is actually alive, you know.", "Nobody of the hospital staff has had sex with his comatose body in the last month, everyone is now more interested in the lean 15-year-old whose bottom is way tighter than this guy’s here.", "With the money we get for his organs, we could get a jacuzzi."

"If I close my eyes, you cannot see me.", I murmur. 
But every gaze still feels like a stab. 




If I was the pope, I’d probably tell people not to have sex too. If I can’t have any, they can’t either. Or maybe I’d be harassing little boys instead. But that’s only okay if you’re actually the pope. In other circumstances, such behaviour is frowned upon, even though history teaches us that this frowning is quite new. I remember the Greek poets I read for my thesis who couldn’t stop defending their right to do adolescent boys. The pope stated that you condoms exacerbate the spread of the HIV virus. Today, some Catholic politician tried to defend his statement in my newspaper. For some reason, she and her pope link the fact that having condoms gives one a false sense of security which would lead to them having more sex. And since condoms are only 99,99% effective, after 10.000 fucks, sure one of either partner will transmit the virus and then BOOM, 10.000 fucks later, everyone has it (or so). Without condom, that same guy would only have to sleep with one person to catch HIV or any other VD on the menu. But then he’d be sick and a sick man wouldn’t go out and have sex, right? Yeah, right! 
I learnt from the documentary Religulous, which I saw tonight, that in some old Egyptian, Middle Eastern and Indian cultures, there have been stories from hundreds to thousands of years before Christ, telling the exact same story OF Christ but with another name: virgin mother, dying for sins, walking on water (just to be with me! yeah!), resurrection after three days, twelve apostles, and so on… (I thought these were purely a Christian invention, but it turns out they just stole the story from someone else… booo, that’s plagiarism!!). Either that guy has resurrected more than once to be a prophet for various religions (nowadays we would call this person schizophrenic), or maybe Jesus never really existed. (The documentary was also hilarious; I know it’s very easy to bash religious beliefs, because they are, well, stupid, but it was just sardonically funny.)
Religion is part of the reason why I have such a bleak world view, I guess. It gives people a reason to act stupidly. Simply put: do you want a leader who believes that the end is nigh so he shouldn’t really worry too much about making things better, as long as he can talk about God being by his side (then by all means, fuck around without a condom) or do you want one who wants a better future so that next generations will not inherit an exhausted planet? 
Another image that struck me was the creationist belief that dinosaurs and people once lived together. I remembered the Born Again Christian in Cairns, Australia telling me that God invented carbon dating so that we could doubt him. So god knew that we’d discover carbon dating and all scientists who believe in it, well, they’re all doomed now because they can prove that stuff exists that’s millions of years old while some badly written story says it’s not. I remember giving another simple example, one of the stars in the sky: if the earth would only be 5000 years old, how can we be looking at stars knowing that they are millions of light years away, meaning that the light we see at night has traveled millions of years to reach our sky. He told me it didn’t matter, my gay ass would burn in hell anyway. 
Ah well, at least I’ll be warm… 

Frustrations of a linguist: if you cannot do English, then don’t do it

(Disclaimer: Below is a vivid portrayal of my frustrations I witnessed as a linguist today; if you – the reader – feels disoriented and uneasy after reading this, then you will know how I feel. If you, on the other hand, think that the following is a piece of poetry, please find yourself a toilet and drink its contents)

I had been irritated enormously today this way then I in my mails publicity got for the " projectweek" next week, a week for the easter holiday in which is worked on school for a single project. The makers of the mail found it apparently necessary to formulate their initiative if necessary in English, but they are still less powerful than the tongue of their own mother. The result is natural that there in each sense, however, a wrong or unsatisfactory construction stands. And then question I me finished for which that then per se in English must stand, whereas our people 100% Dutch-speaking are. But yes, it is " hip" probably and then can say nothing I. (That I write everything here in English is ordinary because I have public that not only Dutch-speaking is, plus I AM POWERFUL English). Wel, I hold me still, but I cannot guarantee that I reported at a next solecism them cynically a wheel.

It can then seem as if I waste energy to these shameful lice, but the beginning of all culture is nevertheless the correct and orgasmic language use, and not constant using judgements from another tongue which you master not yet once perfectly. Shoe maker, remains please at your reads! How can people can sell themselves ever as an artist if they can spell not yet once their name correctly as to speak? Your language look after is always necessary something reach. Or couple of that you then if visual artist feels suddenly the need what at your work English words to write, know that I am further the first will be absolutely no look at effort then that language error to which you let there answer from ignorance. And this way become you, artist of my feet, never rich or famous. Think therefore two times. Or question it someone who, however, the knows.

And Jesus? Well, he had this to say…

A Forest Nymph and a Gold Knight(I


Erik, the nymphiest he could be… and totally not posing! *giggle*


And Timmy, the golden-est he could be. ("I am Ze Golden Shower!").  (I still need to teach my nymph to take a sharp picture with my camera, so this’ll have to do). 

Another alter ego

When you black out from drinking, it’s like another version of you takes over. It may not be a particularly friendly, likeable or stylish alter ego, the fact remains that he is using your body as a tool while you yourself are powerless to do anything. I don’t like it when this happens and I am doing as much as I can not to let him be shown again. 
You wake up the next day, in a daze and in doubt about what actually happened and how it got that far, but the answers are a mystery. Did he do damage to you, this alter ego? Did he spend all your money in one night (which the bitch has done before)? Did he say hurtful things you don’t really believe? Did he speak truths that should not have been said out loud? What did he do all night?
You have no answer, you decide to move on because it’s all you really can do. 
And you hope to imprison the bastard in a confined cell. 
Metaphorically, I am doing just that right now, for my photo work. Building his cell. 

Customer Service

A grim smile. 
A nervous reply. 
The old man walked on the footpath, an old queen. You could notice the remains of years of protesting for gay rights sinking away into his wrinkles. He was part of the generation that set everyone free. Or at least, that’s what he says to his uninterested companion walking next to him with a sad step. 
A handsome lad. Around 20 years of age, thick brown hair and two big feet that happened to be part of our old man’s fetish. 
"I don’t live far from here. Right across the bridge." Even though it wasn’t that far, the walk would last longer than it should have. The man walked slowly, too slow to make you believe that this is actually his normal pace. No, he wanted to enjoy these moments where he could be seen in public with a handsome young boy. 
A guy on a bicycle who just came from a lecture notices them for a second, turns around to look at the odd combination and shakes his head.
The boy is silent, walks along the edge of the footpath, to keep as much distance as possible. This is part of the job he hates. The smalltalk, the chit-chat with people you just don’t care about. His half-open backpack was basically empty. He always took it with him just to have something to hold on to. 
"I really like your feet," the man interrupted the silence, "what size are they?"
"48." The boy lets his big feet take two fast steps, but the old man had no intention of going any faster. 
"Mmmm… 48." He thought of the possibilities. 
"I’m not sticking them up your arse if that’s what you’re thinking…" 
"Unless you pay double of course…" 
"It’s a deal!" The man said, decreasing his pace even more, letting the gulf of expectancy fill him with desire. 

/T. (from a one second observation on my bike)

Al and Al and all…

I went to see a lecture by artist duo Al and Al tonight, two 38 year old lovers who happen to have the same name (plus same middle names), were born in the same year and whose father died on the same day – though I bet one of them just killed his father after he knew the other one’s father had died that day, all to add more meaning to their relationship. They produced these bluescreen CGI video artworks that start out from their own motion-captured  bodies, and that was the reason why I went to see the lecture tonight, because that’s what I’m doing now, using my body as a vehicle for meaning. When they were presenting their lecture (in lovely RP English accents), I was charmed by the fact that they always spoke in the plural "we" when talking about their art. I wondered for a while whether I would have liked Erik to be a photographer too so that we could work together and have a website called Tim& (because Erik would have to change his name, it’s all about equality here, well, maybe he could also choose Tom for a name, I’m not THAT caught up with my own name). I figured it would be strange and maybe even impossible for me to live in such a relationship. I rely on solitude and nighttime to come up with ideas. I kind of have the idea that I’m being a writer even when I photograph, which I guess is why I stress that my new series is a post-post-postmodern novel (you can probably scratch one or two "post"-s, I’ll probably be writing 10 of them before modernism by the time my project is finished), one that’ll be very hard to read, because the thing’s unprintable, but hey, that’s the idea, right?
Not that I wouldn’t want to work wtih my love, I’ll happily employ him as my full-time muse which after all, is all that he should be (and bookkeeper/chauffeur while we’re at it! ghi!). 
Yesterday, the second photo/performance was taken. I vomited (intentional!) and completely trashed a room while drinking. It is more and more this alter ego I am seeing appear in the shots.
And all he is struggling with, as it turns out, will be me, his creator. 

Filling Emptiness

This is the first photo from my final project. It is part of the threefold concept that I have come up with, part of it is large prints from large format photos, always with my alter ego Chris Winston in place, another part consists of his Facebook page and the final, most perverse part is in the form of a website where the videos of the security cameras are posted as a sort of reality TV show, but online, so much more…err… intense. 


The Cell

From chriswinston  ‘s blog.

I am surrounded by a world of nothingness. I live in a nondescript space where everything white could as well be black. I entered this realm a long time ago and now I am its prisoner. Is this a bad drug trip? Am I in some sort of coma where my life is nothing but this emptiness? Sometimes people come into my space, but it feels like they’re only there to torment me. Sadly, the physical abuse is the only thing that keeps me more or less sane, it makes me feel I’m alive. I take the punishment, I stopped asking questions a long time ago. 

I remember nothing of what life was like before I came here. That is why I am convinced this is a drug trip, a hallucination that maybe only takes 5 seconds in real life but which seems to last forever. Yes, that must be it. I am actually lying in a hospital bed somewhere, wearing a nappy that’s overflowing with day-old shit (an understaffed hospital, you see!) and some caring friend or family member by my side (not that I can remember any), reading me from my favourite porno magazine… 

…And the cock entered the opening and all was well in Lala-land…



Vet Visit

When I wast just a little girl, I wanted to be a veterinary. That was before I wanted to be a dustman (thinking it rather manly to be throwing rubbish around all day) and after I wanted to be a toy racecar (yes, my toy cars were alive). I switched to the dream of becoming a dustman after people told me that you actually have to cut animals open and that there is lots of blood and that you also have to kill animals. And you think you only get to deal with cats and dogs and that your job would consist of stroking the animals all day? Yes, isn’t there a job where I have to do just that? 

I was remembered of this long-lost dream when bringing my cat to the vet yesterday to give her a sterilization. The vet, a friendly man, didn’t seem like the type who’d get off on cutting open my cat, so I thought she was in good hands. Maybe the people who actually are vets enjoyed the idea of cutting open live animals, (maybe out of some sexual perversion or the result of an abusive uncle – in any case, they weren’t put off by the points that made me want to become a dustman instead). Still, if you’re in to that kind of thing (and just for the record, I am not, since I’m not a vet), it must be kinky to see a cat like mine tied down with spread legs on an operating table (sick vets!). (Which reminds me of the story I wrote after having my wisdom teeth removed in which the nurses and doctors took turns raping me under narcosis).