Monthly Archives: July 2021

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:


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

Nothing to it | just bleed

Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.

― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

Evanescence – Use My Voice

I love writing. I can do it anywhere, anytime. Scribble. Or type. Think about it. Or pour my heart out. Any way I like it. There are no rules. Maybe you think there are, but believe me, there are not. How awesome is that? I can just think of something, or make stuff up, write it down.

I have a voice. Like you. You may not know it. You may not think it. But you do. Find it. Use it. Like I do.

Do I want to share it? Keep it to myself? It is up to me. I am in charge. And I love it. There are so many options. I can decide. I have control. Or maybe I just let go. Who knows? I just start, just do. Discover how great I can be. Am. Or how bad I suck. It doesn’t matter either way.

I don’t need to be a reader. I know that now. I thought I had to, but no more. I just have to want to write. And I do. And I do.

I can look different. I can look the same. I can not be seen. I can be lifelike. Fake. Whole. Or broken. I can get mean. I can be gentle. I can be me. Or somebody else. Anyone else. I get to pick.

I don’t have to wait. I can do it now. Here.

I can post. Share. Or not. Now, or later. I can be safe, or seek out danger. For real, or just on the page. And what is real? When I write, it becomes real. As real as can be. As real as I want. As you want it to be. For you. I just wrote it. You read it. It is my gift to you. To me. Take it, leave it. I want it, I have it. You can have it. If you want it.

I can tell a story. My story. Somebody’s. Anybody’s. I can be truthful. Or lie. And it is all right. It is all good. Or bad. It really does not matter. But I do. I just do. I just enjoy. I hope you do too.

I wish you well.



[Previously published on Twan’s Newsletter]