All that jazz

Music is like a dream. One that I cannot hear.

― Ludwig van Beethoven

This post is all over the place. Like my mind is these days. But it is Friday and on Fridays, after a week of long hours, my love and I like to stay up late and make them count. Netflix and gin-and-tonics and salted peanuts. Filling up the room with evaporated electric liquid. And then, when the movie is done and the light comes up, we lay down our heads, knowing this weekend will be too short, too nice, too delicious and the coming week will be dreadful. Again.

“Well, it’s nice to die of alcoholism, it’s very glorious. But if you write dull shit, it doesn’t do any good what you die from… You see?

In here

Blog posts that jumped up at me in my Reader:

Out there

Stuff I caught floating around on the interwebs:

I’m a mess. Like, literally.


Ivory ticklings:

Of the dearest events

Everytime you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.

― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

We have had a few days of nice weather and the water isn’t causing that much trouble anymore. Even though I live in the Land van Maas and Waal, in the middle of the Netherlands (and then to the East), where the water from Germany and Belgium almost comes together, apparently all the work on the dykes and the areas around it that was done after the high water of 1995 has paid off, at least for this area.

A little more to the South, in the province of Limburg, people weren’t so lucky and still had to deal with actual flooding and evacuations last week. Now it is time for lots of cleaning up and repairing the damage that the water has caused.

Out There


In the backgrond.


My skin’s too tight, my mind too wide
Drive me out to the beach and
Send my dreams out on white wings of wind

Concrete trees, they suffocate me now
Drag me to the water and
Drown my wrinkled body salty wet

Don’ t worry about me, I think I can
Draw my breath under and
I think I know how to survive the current

Behind The Mask

Tracks, that is the sound
Of streams
Conscious dreaming, no
Mind spinning out
Control the flow
Crashing symbolism, no
Heads butting
Highs and laughter
Eyes crying scorching black
Lines tearing, tracing
Across continents
Hold the reins and
Hold back the clouds and
Pulling strings and
Keep your eyes
On the Moon

Leaving Virgil

Moonlight piercing through
the leafy branches
silently burning away the places
I have never seen

Deaf and blind, fumbling, my only
memories in touch and smell —
quickly evaporating

And when I hear again my ragged breath,
my eyes getting used to the darkness

I see the trees