The city.

The city has fallen asleep. I feel awake though, stepping calmly through her urban veins. The ground underneath me rumbles; the city’s stomach is upset.

‘Must be something you ate…’ I mumble to her.

I put my hand on her belly and caress her soft skin. My soothing strokes seem to console her, at least for now. Still asleep, she twitches as a racing pain suddenly shoots through her.

‘Don’t worry, I’m here, it’ll all be okay…’

A large bang resonates from far away on the other side of the city. I only hear it when whatever caused it has already stopped. The city looks like she’s going to wake up soon. More rumbling, shakier than before, more restless.

‘Calm down, babe, calm down.’

She starts to shake heavier now. I’m holding on to her rather than caressing her. Around me buildings collapse into the earth without leaving a trace. There is sound, but it seems subdued and distant. She seems scared now, it’s clear it wasn’t her diet that caused this. I already knew it, though.

‘Don’t be scared, you’ll be fine,’ I lie.

Poor thing. More and more of her is disappearing. All disappearing buildings and traces leave empty scars in the landscape. A desert waiting for sand to come. She is powerless to stop it. The heavy shaking upsets me too, I lay down on her still warm body and hold on, closing my eyes.

‘Let go, just let yourself go.’

I open my eyes again, recognising nothing any more. A barren landscape, an unconventional abyss. The shaking stops. Wind lifts me up, taking me elsewhere, away from her, leaving a silent goodbye as I watch her becoming smaller and smaller, until she becomes nothing but a soulless dot.

The way it should be.

/T.

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TIM for ABNORMALS – TALK TO ME: impressions of gallery life…

There ain’t no way I’m gonna let tha’ moddafucker poop on my parade!’ (Oscar Wilde – drunk)

All kinds of people enter an art gallery:

– Wayward tourists asking if they can use our toilet (the joke’s on them: our toilet paper is rougher than sandpaper!!!)

– Pretend-businessmen who claim to have lost their wallets asking for 2 euro to make a life-saving phonecall (we offer them to just use our phone, which is when their whole scheme-to-get-drug-money instantly collapses and they rush off, crying over their defeat)

– My imaginary friend Fritz, the three-armed-no-legged boy I talk to when there is nobody in the gallery (he smells like decomposing bunnies, so our talks are always somewhat ‘strained’)

– Deaf and blind people: strangely enough, this group of people is overrepresented in the art world. They sneek into galleries, as if they are thieves, secretly snatching wallets from unsuspecting businessmen (see above), taking in the art (which they can’t even see!), and then head off, having farted (on average) three times in my air space without even acknowledging my existence. If ten people in a row enter the gallery like this, I always start to doubt whether or not I am actually just a figment of my own imagination (think about this for too long and your head will explode, so be careful). In the end, I solve my doubt by smacking my head hard against my desk (thus forcing the tenth visitor to acknowledge my existence).

– Evil people: they are the ones who storm into the gallery, call me FAT! and then run off laughing diabolically (we get a lot of those)

– Talkative people: the underrepresented ones. If you don’t have any money, most gallery people will vomit all over you if you ask them a question. We like to think that we are different (hence the ‘ab-’ prefix to our normality). In an ideal world, anyone who was once deaf and blind can come in and talk to me (ideally bringing a bottle of wine, because I already spent my 2000 euro wine budget for the month). I am open for fondling too, though initially, I prefer it to take place above the waist (I don’t want to get pregnant, you know). Maybe it is time for this last group to come out of the closet. If you open our door, just come to me, fall to your knees and donate your proverbial… err…. kidneys (‘heart’ would have been to cheesy, which is why I went for ‘kidneys’, without them, we wouldn’t know the glee of pee!)! So share yourself, with me and with the world!

I rest my case.

Dictated but not read,

TIM @ Abnormals

Tim van den Oudenhoven – a spectacular CV

From my CV…… who said I was unemployable?


Recent Work Experience

Winter 2009: Timbuktu.
Breastfeeding orphaned urang-utangs (sadly, none survived because of my low milk production)

* skills acquired: washing dead urang-utangs, burying dead urang-utangs, skinning and eating urang-utangs, cooking urang-utang stew

– This was a life-changing experience, certainly because I encountered the limitations of my body (not lactating and such), luckily there were enough dead urang-utangs to survive on (though I admit I had to hunt down some well-nourished parent urang-utangs, because the orphans really didn’t have much meat on their bones – I did adopt their orphaned offspring into my group, however). 

Spring 2009: Paris. Organiser of "Bum Fights", a competition in which two homeless people had to attack each other to win a weather proof cardboard box.
* skills acquired: organisation of illegal betting, secretly disposing of dead contestants, opening a Swiss bank account, fleeing to Antarctica to escape prosecution

Summer 2009: Antarctica.
Slowing down global warming. Bringing 2 buckets of ice to Antarctica to stop global warming (sadly, the ice had melted when we got there).

* skills acquired: basic operation of the central heating system of an Antarctic icebreaker (only in Mongolian however, it was a Mongolian ship), chopping up Mongolian workers for food and to put them on our campfire while on Antarctica, melting ice, freezing water. 

Autumn 2009: Belgium. Employed as an arsonist by a local fire brigade who had become bored of doing so very little all the time. 
*skills acquired: using matches, trapping school children with walls of fire, preparing and throwing molotov cocktails (I even have a great new recipe for one!)

Winter 2010: Siberia. Banana tree planter/rapist. The local Siberian government contacted me because of all my talents and they asked me to make their region more appealing for tourism. So I suggested I come work for them as a banana tree planter because people only connect bananas with exotic countries, so once people would know Siberia has bananas now, it would be just a matter of time before tourists come pouring in from all over the world. They provided me with a labour force of 400 boys, of whom I raped at least 35 (8.75%). In the end, I didn’t plant any banana trees.
*skills acquired: Russian banana and rape language, burning locals for heat (perfection of the skills acquired when capturing Mongolians)

Spring 2010: Birmingham. Official City Insulter. The city council employed me to depress the population, confronting them with the ugliness of their city. 
*skills acquired: pouring alcohol into eyes to make the ugly city look at least bearable to look at. 

Summer 2010 (current). Berlin. Druglord and pimp. Head of a heroin and prostitute emporium focussing on the midget market. Our customers’ continuous receiving of government support money guarantees this to be a thriving and stable business. Might result in the production of midget porn, but the problem with midgets is that they have really short stamina (gha!). 

… to be continued…

Oh silly little structure!


You piss me off with all your arrogant concrete, staring at me as if I were already dead. Immovable skeleton that takes away my sky, I will gladly shatter all your eyes with pieces of brick that fall from you (it is almost like making you eat your own limbs). For all I care, you can collapse sooner rather than later. And I will dance on the rubble you leave behind. Urinate and defecate on your remains to fertilise all the death you left behind. 
Did you, building of buildings, really expect anything besides my most derisive laughter? I should hope you weren’t as naive, but we both know that you are. I have contemplated throwing molotovs cocktails into your intestines and speed up the process. But now that I see you’re already self-destructing, I will gladly pay for my front row seat and watch you implode with much delight. 
Seeing you destroyed will make me happier than the fictitious situation of me being told I can stop eating the cheese between an unwashed fat man’s toes (a bold and lengthy comparison, I know). 
I still have to figure out whether or not it is because you represent so much, or just so very little…

Impressions of… Berlin

No, I am not a racist. What I said about the Poles, well, I was just scared they’d take me for a woman and violate me in more ways than one (you are no doubt asking yourself: "would he not like that?"). To prove so perfectly that I am equally prejudiced towards all people (even my own!) I think it’s time today to tackle the German species. Having lived here for over a month, I think I can provide a more educated account of what makes them the nutters that they are. For they are mad, of course!
No, the prostitutes don’t welcome you here as much as they do in Poland. Forests enough for the whores to crawl out of, but not enough traffic jams for mediocre-looking whores to truly make an impression (it made me wonder about what job the Polish whores will do once the Polish motorway is finished, they’ll be back to milking their own tits and selling the produce as "cow milk" to unsuspecting travellers…… oh, the sadness!!). Here in Berlin, my traffic jam "entertainment" consists of glaring at guys who want to wash my windshield and who do not get the meaning of the words "NEIN, DU SCHWEIN!" (poetic, I know). Perhaps if their water weren’t as dirty as it is (some of them splatter some water on your windshield, making it dirtier than it was before) or if they wouldn’t give me their middle finger like they did today, well, even then I think I’d prefer a car wash (or the prositutes for that matter). 
On a tube, a local bum tried to beg for some money because he probably hadn’t been drunk since 4 hours before, but nobody gave the man anything. Maybe it was because he released a smell of diarrhea and vomit as he was passing by. Giving the man anything would just result in him standing longer at a place where you would be trying to breathe. Life’s choices are simple when someone in front of you has shit all over himself. Later that day, I saw the man prancing around on the streets, which meant he somehow made it out of the tube, no doubt off to his penthouse apartment with a swimming pool after a hard day’s work.
All of this makes it odd to realise that Germany is in fact the best performing economy in Europe. Of course, the West of the country produces most of these figures, while the east is probably just busy shitting all over itself. I have said it before and I will say it again: prioritites, priorities, priorities!

Impressions of Poland

 One of the first things you see when driving into Poland is the inflatable obese prostitute that lies seductively on one of the many "24h night clubs" you come across in the middle of nowhere. If a horny motorist would not have been paying attention, he’d still have been able to pick up one of the many voluptuous prostitutes standing along the road, easily recognisable because they all chose to wear fluorescent clothing (there was a green one, a pink one and a blue one). People also sold mushrooms along the road, which led me to believe that these women of ill-repute did not accept regular cash (be it normal Euros or Polish Ding-Dongs), but that they closely worked together with the mushroom pickers to secure a sustainable amount of mushrooms.
Apart from these hospitable women (and a man with a moustache, though he may also have been waiting for the bus), the entrance in Poland wasn’t as warm as we would have hoped. When changing Euros into Dingdongs, our first Polish native succeeded in not speaking a single word to any of the Abnormals people who greeted him (and I did warmly say "Thank you very much!"). We didn’t think much of it – everyone can have a bad day – and continued our journey. 
 
Since motorways in Poland will only be finished by the European Football Championship in 2012 (suddenly, when a stupid football game is played, there IS money for development), most of the road to Poznan consisted of a single road with one lane for those wanting to get into Poland and one lane for those wanting to get out. Surprisingly, many more people wanted to get into Poland than out, so our road to Poznan, while paved with good intentions (the whores and such), was soon blocked by an insurmountable amount of cars and lorries. Traffic jams on motorways have the advantage of still going forward, slowly, but forward nonetheless – not so on the Only Road in Poland. After many five to ten minute "full stops", everything just fully died down. Engines were switched off, urine was being poured all over Poland (mostly against trees and shrubs from full-bladdered drivers such as myself), and all my followers (for there were many!) peered at the horizon, hoping for some movement that would never come. 

But we had to get to Poznan, for there was to be the grand opening of Abnormals Gallery there at 8PM. Timmy The Driver and all his ballast were closely followed by Italian artists who were at the opening in Berlin the night before, all hoping that in following me, they would see the light. The wonderfully sweet Italians (I am sure they taste like candy!) luckily had a brilliant plan: they had planted a "mole" in the traffic jam (more Italian artists) who had left 2 hours before us and who also had been stuck in the same queue, only way ahead of us. Our beautiful moles had a satellite navigation system that worked, even in Poland (my SatNav only functions in Western-Europe apparently), and they returned to fetch us so that our cars could follow them on even smaller roads than the one we had just been travelling on. Soon, we were on our way again. According to positive-minded Google, it would only take 3h34 to travel the 284km to get to Poznan. In reality, it took us almost 7 hours, not that this would dampen our spirits. 

Finally, we did arrive though…
The opening was nigh. A beautiful city centre erased the memories of the poverty-struck surroundings. The people still didn’t seem to welcome us into their lives, throwing suspicious looks at us and our selves. We all wondered who really was to blame: was it the sensitive darker-skinned Mexican whose skin colour they hadn’t seen here since last year’s circus (it’s okay, because he said so himself he was the only dark person there :-))? Or maybe it was me, with my general blonde sensuality and Rick Owens heels? Who knows! Fact of the matter is: we wouldn’t really care about the people. They all looked the same anyway… (the Male Poznan Style Guide: VERY short hair, muscles, small tits and an angry I’m-going-to-beat-you look at Timmies). 

The opening was a success, by the way. It made me realise that it makes sense to open a gallery in such an odd location as Poznan. In Berlin and perhaps in every big city in Western Europe, art is almost unable to make an impact on people’s minds, because of the specific way in which it gets marginalised. Whenever anything artistic comes into the news, it is about how much a work was sold for (e.g. Damien Hirst, who probably bought it himself) or just to make people laugh at a funny example of modern art. I must say that in Poznan, a gallery like this can make more of an impact, something that is proved by the amount of attention our Abnormals opening had there. Not that the people will accept what they see, of couse not, but at least they will be confronted with something they haven’t been confronted with before. 

When driving away from Poznan on Sunday, we passed a huge very explicit anti-abortion poster, showing a crying newborn covered in blood. I had to think of the hysteria the Abnormals poster caused in Poznan. Only in this case, nobody seemed to ask questions… 

That day, everyone was happy when we crossed the Berlin city borders a few hours later and saw the beautifully different people walking on the streets… 

Here comes the video of the opening, made by some Polish newspaper (find me in the video and win a stay in Berlin at my apartment where you will be doing my laundry and massaging my limbs!!!!):

And a random image of Poznan of a beautiful Catholic church…. 

Forestry – Analogies are Weak

Walk with me through the forest. There are trees, bushes, grass and empty condom wrappers all around. Try to make the best of it. Wander about and ignore the presence of all humanity. For now, we don’t belong to them. Only you exist. Only I exist. When one of the trees in this forest collapses, we will hear it fall harmoniously, as if we had already been expecting it. 
Show yourself to me. There is no hiding in this alternate reality. No point in telling me you are a fungus, because the spores you release clearly show otherwise. The forest we are in seems like it is located high above the entire world. Almost like an island in the sky, unreachable to most. 

"Baby, I am tired."
"And I am a suppository!"
"Say what?"

We can shape the forest. There are traces of history here, but we can ignore them if we want. We SHOULD ignore them. In the Before Time, I was arachnophobic, now I still am, but I want to hold my fears in my hands and rather than mercilessly crush them by urinating all over them with my sulfuric urine (that’s right!), set them free and coexist. (I realise that in my previous sentence, it almost seems as if I now take spiders and hold them in my hands so that I can urinate on them and in doing so, also urinate on my hands, but I can assure you, I DO wash my hands afterwards!). 

"We shall make soup of this branch!"

In the gentle forest, you and I, we are alone. There are no hunters, no mindless madmen who will tease us into our graves. Here, we can find an open space and lie down in the dead centre of the place. Curious bees might come to investigate but they will ultimately realise that our nectar is not for them. In gratitude, they may give us some of their honey (after we burn the nest, naturally). 

"We have been walking around for hours! Can’t we take a break?"
"No, baby, no! We cannot lie down too long here and let ourselves be masturbated by insidious bugs. There is a time and a place for that, and they are Never and Not Here!"
"Those poor little creatures…"

Did you know that all of this used to be desert? All this soil was just dry sand before I realised I could store a year’s worth of saliva in an oil tanker and fertilise this soil instantly. So think of this whenever you use any of these trees as masturbatory aids (no pun intended)….

"Sleep, my baby, sleep tight and I will watch the grass grow for the both of us…"