Category Archives: Photos

Words, Meet Maker

If you here require a practical rule of me, I will present you with this: ‘Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.

—Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Sometimes I think I have these great insights (usually a side-effect of showering), that—as soon as I start to write the words down, and my mind is mulling them over, bending and stretching them to fit into these long doughy sentences that fit just perfectly onto the page—begin to deteriorate before my very eyes, until at the end there’s nothing left to do than to delete those god-awful words with an aching heart.

Life is never as simple as I can see in a flash of bright light. The light takes out most of the greys and the finer details that are hiding in the dark at the sides. But those matter, of course. And as I zoom out and gradually dim the light, those gradients and tidbits come into focus and start moving around, squirming like a colony of crazy ants—oftentimes confusing the heck out of me.

For every sentence that pops into my head and that I try and commit to this blank space waiting for me, I come up with tons of reasons to not write them. They are not witty, not smart, not beautiful, not dirty, not wise, not angry, not emotional enough. They are too long, too short, of the exact right length (are they though)? They are wrong, or the presumptions—or worse, assumptions—that precede them, make them tricky or possibly untrue and therefore unfit for use.

Or maybe my language skills fall short. Maybe my grasp of the English language is insufficient. It is, is after all, not my native language and a language I only really came into contact with at the start of my high school days when it was part of the curriculum. Whereas I picked up German naturally when I was still little—maybe about five or six years old?—because my dad liked to watch a lot of German tv, because, frankly, Dutch tv wasn’t all that great (it still isn’t).

—Wait.. where the hell am I going with this post? What am I doing here?

Ugh… See what I mean? I better delete this.

Poems twittereded

Posted some short poems straight to Twitter:

Of trees, the Moon and stars

“Not just beautiful, though–the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me.”

― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Yeah, I know, another Murakami quote — live with it.

I have a thing with trees. And with the Moon and the stars. I guess it has something to do with me sometimes just not wanting to see what’s underneath me, holding me anchored; or not wanting see what’s around me, like seeing reflections and truths, you know? No, this is about me looking up, looking into what could be, maybe.

With trees, you can’t see what’s underground, and you can only guess at what they are reaching for, for evermore growing and branching out. The great ones have already been here since centuries. And although they have this strength and wisdom, it is a scary thought that if I wanted to, I can just put an ax to it and stop the time. And kill history and future in one go.

And then it’s about me looking up into the night. Looking up at the only things that emanate intense energy, shiver with silver life, out there, far away in the vast darkness.

Yes, I know there are lamps everywhere that pollute and fuck up up the night sky, but stay with me here. Imagine that you’re out in the woods. Nothing there but the wet leaves on the ground, the mist clinging onto the birch tree trunks, and the thick, damp dark, hiding behind. — Until you look up to the sky, shimmering with a million (and more, always more…) bright lights, piercing through those naked, barren branches.

The biggest one out there, on some nights, is of course the Moon. And the Moon is something different. Different from those tiny, shiny needle holes, punched into that pitch dark blanket. No, the moon I can almost see. There’s some detail, some character there. Just enough to feel its nearness. But not enough to throw a rope around it and to pull it in.

For me the Moon and stars stand for the quiet, for relaxing, for letting go of the stress of the sunlight. Leaving behind that gigantic brightness, setting everything on fire from morning till night.

Looking up — it is a getaway. It is going far away while staying put. It is relaxing up there, when down here everything is hectic. But up there is where the dreams and the stories are.

Let’s see what I can come up with next.

There’s gonna have to be some danger

If the winds don’t catch you, I will, I will

What do I do, when I am dependent on someone else and I have to just wait and see in which direction this ginormous ball of crap is rolling? Well, I try and not curl up myself, I straighten my back, I hold my head up high and I live my life like I am the one that will have to die when my time comes.

Even when it seems the world is trying to quarter me, pulling my limbs into the four cardinal directions, I show it that it can’t hurt me, that it can’t even touch me. That I am, after all the shit — clinging to blades for just a moment and then with a nauseating ‘swoosh’ swinging in God knows what direction — still me, and that nothing or nobody can change that, but myself.

And if I choose to do so, if I choose to change, and they don’t like who I’ve become? Ha! Tough luck, the only one I have to report to (on occasion) is me and I like myself, so I have that going for me.

Fact is, I am changing. As time goes by, as moments pass, as I encounter and process, as I read and think and write, I change. Because I want to. It is something that started some years ago. (Yes, I am a late bloomer, winters don’t faze me.) The status quo was scaring me. Not moving means going nowhere. And I had travel plans.

With every molecule mutating, with every particle decaying and new ones being slung into this weird electric state simulating life, I look different from the moment before. In my experience a lot of people look upon that with eyes that seem to spark with fuses short circuiting behind their thick skulls. Usually people that appear close by in the rear view mirror, but are actually much farther away. Too bad. My life, my choice, my clutch, my stick shift, my gas pedal. Eat my dust.

So, nothing I can do at the moment. Somebody else is dealing the cards. It is not my job right now. And all the mess that maybe comes from the hand I will be dealt, that is what I am left with at that moment. That is my new jumping-off point. And jump off I will. It will be a giant leap forward, going straight into a free-fall. And the farther I jump, the bigger the chance I’ll land at some place interesting. A place I never thought I’d end up at. A beautiful new world.

Or I’ll smash into the earth.

Sometimes after I write something and reread it, another meaning suddenly hits me. I love it when that happens.