What a race it is. Everyone trying to make a name for themselves, me included. I just bob along with everyone else, hoping at a chance not to be forgotten, a chance to move away from mediocrity.
There was an earth-like planet somewhere in the universe getting swallowed by its star that was turning into a supernova. I like the universe and its never-ending cruelty.
But the race is on. We stop being nice to each other, become competitors though we do not know what it is we are actually striving for. The only thing that matters is the race itself, and the longer we are in it, the more dirty tricks we are able to employ. We sabotage other contestants, but make it look like an accident or negligence, but secretly we smile at our succes.
"Yes, I saw the whole thing, it was terrible," some moronic eyewitness would say, loving his temporary fame.
If there would have been life on the unnamed planet, it would have been swept away in a matter of seconds, to be replaced by a wonderful spectacle of light, one we will only witness in a couple of million years. The ideas about the universe sometimes stop me in my race. Always then, my engine loses some of its horsepower to some random screams in my head.
We all find it unfair that our race only takes an invisible fraction of Time in comparison to the universe. We crash into each other, we rape each other’s exhaust pipes as a final tribute to those who won the race before us.
The fire keeps on burning for now, our collective Olympic flame still at a safe distance.
Until we become fireworks.
As part of my application to get an internship in the US, I have to write a motivational essay and a cover lettre directed to the person/organisation giving me the placement. I have found that it is not as easy to write these things as I initially thought. For the motivational essay, it feels like I need to find 100 different ways of saying "I want to live in New York and do something artsy if I can". And then there’s cover lettre (though I wrote "letter" because it’s for Americans; oh how it hurt my lingustic soul to write it thusly! *dramatic turn*): how to write something that’s general, but still specific enough that a reader will feel addressed by it? (and this could be anyone from professional photographers to artists to galeries or museums).
A version we shan’t use (though it was much easier to write):
"To Whom it May Concern:
I am writing because I want to do an internship for you or your organisation. I have always been attracted by you or your organisation because you or your organisation are perhaps well-known. But then again, I may not know you or your organisation after all.
I am Timpeltje, a 26 year old buttplug from Belgium and I would like to offer my talents to you or your organisation. I’m sure if you or your organsation are active in the field of photography that I can be of help. Suppose you are a reportage photographer, I could offer valuable counselling and therapy to relieve you of your ailments and I would help you get your life on track so that you can be an insurance salesman and stop bothering me with your passé line of work. If you are a commercial photographer, I could help you put some soul into your work, something I would gladly do at no extra charge.
Though please don’t despair if you or your organisation are something else, I have more talents than I have armpits, so even in other situations, my free hands may come in handy (oh how I hope you like puns!). Suppose you are a gallery, I could help you set up an exhibition about my work, absolutely free of charge (not counting expenses for transporting my work, my lover and my cat over here of course). Please do not ask me to make coffee, however, as I will refuse. Nor will I collect coffees at a local Starbucks, because the chances of it catching fire are always much higher when I’m around *schoolgirl giggle*.
Please, please, please take me. I have a cute arse – sorry, ass – and I can suppress my gag reflex.
Hoping that this letter may lead to an internship with you or your organisation, because really, you or your organisation is where I always wanted to do my internship.
Poor Caster Semenya. She’s the centre of a media storm that openly questions her gender, claiming she would really be a feminine boy, and not a masculine girl. It’s my childhood all over again. How many times was I not at the butcher shop when the half braindead shop assistant asked me: "what do you want, little girl?" But I was a boy, I tell you! I was a boy then and am a boy now! Sure, my voice had not reached the deep and booming tone it has today (my boyfriend tells me my voice on tape sounds like Tom Cruise’s voice, though I don’t know if that really is a compliment), at the time my voice was indeed more an open plea to accept me into the Wiener Sangerknaben castrates.
But I kept my balls.
Of course for me, also in recent years, it was mostly a hair and dress thing. Long hair confuses people, like leggings and women’s tops do. It’s also not really a trauma for me, since I’m a Judith Butler adept, which means that I’m convinced that androgynous people are the true heroes of this world (if you read between the lines of course).
The gold-medal winner on the 800 metres dash Caster Semenya is now going through a similar ordeal. There was so much commotion that they’ve forced her to undergo a "gender test", something that will apparently take two weeks. Two weeks? Does it take that long to determine someone’s sex? Or are there a series of test involved? Do you have to iron your way through ten laundry baskets and if you’re too slow on them, you’re definitely a man? Or do they send you to a football match and record the number of primal reactions you produce durin the game, again too many monkey noises and you’re definitely a man!
The poor woman was so upset that she first refused to go and receive her gold medal. Instead she should have climbed the stage, accepted her gold medal, and as soon as her national anthem started playing, she should have pulled her trousers down raising her middle finger towards the crowd and cameras (if the contents of said patents consisted of the right amount of vaginas of course (1?), if not, she’d better keep her trousers on).
At least, that’s what I would have done….
My fellow sheep enthusiasts,
You may not believe it looking at me, but yes, I used to be fat. The question that is now no doubt burning on all of your fat lips is of course: ‘How did he lose his excess luggage?’
Did I spend a fortune on expensive aroma treatments that drain all the bad Chi from your body and insert (the much less voluminous) Chu?
No, I did not.
Did I put my finger in my mouth after putting it in my anus?
No, it should be the other way round anyway.
Did I go on a diet consisting only of elephant meat (considering how hard it is to find elephant meat in a Western supermarket, this might perhaps be a good alternative)?
But no, I did not.
Did a team of so-called "doctors" insert tubes in my layers of excess volume and did they then suck the juice out of me?
If only, my friends… if only!
Did I spend the best years of my life on a treadmill, sweating until I imploded?
Good heavens: NO NO NO!
BEFORE AND AFTER TIMMY’S SEMEN DONATION! AMAZING RESULTS AFTER 15 YEARS OF ABSTINENCE*
No, it was a newspaper article, my friends, an alarming article that convinced me. I filled in some forms and soon I was going to get help. Today it happened. I asked the kind man at the reception of the hospital where I had to be for my sperm donation. I figured he didn’t like the word "sperm" because he looked at me as if I was a criminal of sorts (so he wasn’t all that kind after all). Of course it makes more sense to take exception to the word ‘sperm’ as opposed to ‘donation’ or ‘where’ or ‘the’, etc… Naturally, he thought that fat people like me should not give away their seed for reproduction, because he looked just like a nazi, only shorter, and not blond, and maybe a little bit too round a face. Okay, so maybe he didn’t look like a nazi. But seeing how there is such a shortage of donors, they really have to take anyone.
It’s a weird setting. A small hospital room with some 1970s or 80s nudie magazines with really ugly and really straight protagonists. I cannot imagine anyone getting off on this. The view over the city is really nice from the seventh floor. But we’re here on a mission, not for tourism. That mission is: to get skinny!
It was the first time in my life people so publically thanked me for touching myself (something I can only applaud).
Soon, it was time for a big alteration. Considering I had been abstinent for 15 years*, the amount of juice was just too much for the cup to take.
And ten minutes later I noticed. I had given the bucket of my produce to the local sperm collector (a young, rather handsome looking doctor**), who immediately tasted it for quality and inserted it in some hamsters for tests and drank the rest as a refreshing drink, considering it was a hot day (I imagine these things happened).
I was in the lift when I noticed it. I had gone out on the fifth floor, thinking I was already on the ground floor (not thinking clearly for obvious reasons), so I had to hurry back into the lift, while some other rather handsome looking lad** entered the elevator trying to seduce me. That hadn’t happened in 15 years. And then I saw myself. Reflected in the mirror.
Skinny again. Hallelujah!
*Or rather: what felt like 15 years of abstinence
**Men seemed more beautiful than they must have been (for obvious reasons)
Why the fuck am I still here? Nothing has happened to me for I don’t know how long.
Seperate every one of my cells and turn them into something useful. Reconstruct them into someone who can make a difference. A being that can achieve something. Not this decrepit excuse for a human body that I inhabit.
My space is covered with shit. It feels like my captors have forgotten me, like my cloud on which I lie unconscious has turned into concrete. If this is a test, I would gladly hear that I passed with flying colours. Maybe they have lost interest. Maybe someone shot them after a particularly rough game of Twister.
I no longer know if I am watched or not. I have banged my head on every square inch of my surroundings, but every thud died out even before it was made. I am deaf in the sense that I cannot hear anything except the whirlpools of screams within my head. But sound has no meaning here, anyway.
My hopes of getting rescued vanished a long time ago, though I cannot exactly tell you how long. I no longer know what I need to be rescued from. I hope that somewhere, some human is weeping over me. Wondering if he will ever see me again. Hoping that I wake up, maybe. But this human must not be a lucky person considering he has me to weep for, meaning the chances he has of getting brutally gang raped and killed are probably much higher than for people who get lucky all the time. All I can hope for is that this gang of rapists can abstain from raping my human before I get out of here, before he has a chance to tell me how much he wept. At least then I’d have a chance to know.
Nothing comes to me these days.
I have a hard time falling asleep lately. I could blame the insane man who is screaming down on the street right now, but it’s not his fault. Maybe he will stop screaming and kicking trees and cars if I hugged him and told him it isn’t his fault. Gently, I would make him aware that he has anger management issues, to which he would probably explode and damage my pretty body, certainly when realising that the person uttering those words would be standing half-naked and barefoot on the street, probably with a half-erection because of the cold wind (or whatever causes half-erections (while we all know what causes full erections: Erik!). And for some reason, I assume that anyone shouting and kicking insanely down on the street at half past one at night wouldn’t be a staunch defender of gayness, let alone my tender and warm embrace (which of course shows my prejudice towards insanely screaming & kicking psychopaths, but then again… you know I’m right in this case). (he’s come back to scream some more, some guys living across the street are recording it, soon on YouTube no doubt).
But like I said, it’s not his fault I cannot fall asleep (though I always eventually do). My mind is firing thoughts at me at an intense rate when I lie down in my bed to sleep. My next project is the subject of some of these thoughts. I think the work I make is always the result of a trip down Anxiety Lane (just off of Murder Avenue and Passion Boulevard), as if what I produce is these anxietes made tangible (which I guess goes for some of the things I write too). For said next project, there is some stress as to what form it will take and how much it will radically differ from/resemble the Chris-Winston.com project (something I am not completely done with, however – I want to take another episode for it, which will probably happen too in September). Naturally, I will still be looking for intensity in and from my work. It makes sense for this that my body will remain central for this to be achieved (perhaps in combination with Erik’s or someone else’s, I don’t know yet), that the photographic/filmed result is more than just a photo/video, but also a type of transgression (if that makes sense).
Also, thoughts pop up for what I can do to get that internship in New York that I’d like to do. Yesterday I fully read the requirements to get a visa to be able to be an intern in the US and they were quite disappointing. I thought at first it wouldn’t be that hard, since the labour I will provide will essentially be free and I wouldn’t be allowed to work for a US employer anyway (not that I’d want to; I’d be translating anyway). But apparently, it’s a lot harder, certainly in the arts (now it would be easier if I’d be a Business Student, but odds are I’d have probably already raped and shot myself ten times over for thinking myself boring). I thought the Americans would be more receptive towards institutionalised slavery, given their hands-on experience. The NY-thing is still possible if I could get an employer willing to fill out some paperwork for me that proves he’s looked for Americans for the same position, but didn’t find anyone suitable (how does one prove that?). Another option is through a government sponsored organisation that organises interships in the arts; I might try those. Well, as long as I don’t end up doing an internship with baby photographer Wilbert, I guess it can’t be that bad… (though if that would be the case, I would frame Wilbert for crimes he didn’t commit, like pleasuring himself on his baby pictures and things like that (why would I do that? Well, I would be bitter of course, seeing how I didn’t end up doing the internship I wanted to do).
Well, the insanely screamy guy must have already gone to bed. I can imagine him right now (insanely) sucking his thumb, lying in foetal position, all curled up with himself. I’m sure he was tired after all that raging.
Time for me to follow in his footsteps (the sleep bit, not the violent bit).
Our Hero awoke drowsily with half of his right leg unsubtly sticking out of his bed. Heroically, he tasted the remains of what once had been a mosquito or a fly, presumably a specimen he had killed in his sleep, for even in sleep, our Hero was ready for battle. He raised himself up to take in the morning view, to look out over his land and claim it his anew. An inhabitant living opposite our Hero had noticed him appear in front of the window. She started giggling as she spotted our Hero’s Morning Glory (despite it being past noon already), but confident as he was, our Hero interpreted this as a gesture of shyness and awe.
He went about his wicked ways, cleaning out his heroic armpits and his voluptuous belly button. For today was a good day. Decisions would have to be made. The future presented itself in the shape of a Nutella covered sandwich and a fresh pair of underwear. After an intense struggle, our Hero won the battles with both the sandwich and the pair of underwear (though the battle against the underwear had to be decided on penalties), meaning he was ready for the day’s challenge, which today would consist of a long journey and many a dangerous battle.
Though our hero had already gained the Princess’ heart, he knew he had to conjure up some tricks to keep it in his possession, for chaining it to his bed post had proven a useless strategem (and messy too, for soon the bed was all covered in the heart’s pumping blood).
A carriage of no horse drawn transported him to his destination (having to bribe the carriage’s owner not to be seated next to the smelly, farting lady). Our Hero handled his affairs in a manner befitting any epic hero, i.e. with lots of bombastically justified behaviour and a minimum of excrement. His final affair was the trickiest one: it involved meeting up with a sorceress of some kind who created an edible love potion made of roses (though our Hero himself despised the taste, he knew his Princess would appreciate the jar of jam, i.e. the love potion). The sorceress told our Hero his journey was in vain, for she could not offer him any potion that day. Furious with rage, our Hero kicked his foot against the woman’s shinbones, and then again in what used to be her vulva, but alas, to no avail.
He travelled back, thinking he had lost his Princess’ heart for all eternity. He sacrificed two pedestrians to the Gods to ask for a solution. But only then he realised the solution to his problem had been there all along, why in the form of Morning Glory’s brother: Evening Glory! And sure enough, love potion or not, all was well again in his kingdom and peace in the universe was at long last restored…