The Joker: Prologue

He, the Joker, had figured it all out. He once held all the cards in his hands and with one look he saw the society of Spades, Hearts, Clubs and Diamonds. All structured in the same manner. Every society existed out of thirteen members. The lower and middle part of society were build up by numbers two until eight. A higher class consisted out of nines and tens. Above these you had the jacks and queens, who were in fact company to the highest of all cards: the King. In every society, the King was the card that people looked up to. He divided and ruled all. The Ace was the only card that could overrule the King in decisions, mostly this happened when the Ace saw a decision or action from the King that could create problems among the nines and tens. And occasionaly he would care for problems amongst lower cards. As such the Ace was the force that had the final say when things got tense.

The Aces and Kings were the leaders in the eyes of the others, but the Joker knew better. Let the two’s, three’s, four’s and so on live in the illusion that the King and Ace are the world’s leaders, that they know everything and can solve it all, who cares for the cards under nine in the stack anyways? Once in a while there was a ten that said something interesting and to the point, he admitted, and very rarely a nine would come up with a brilliant idea as well. But the eights and lower, they were just created to keep the Kings and Aces in power. They were only called upon when the higher classes lacked an amount of cards. No one really cared, no one ever wanted a five or lower around, an eight or perhaps seven were acceptable in case of necessity.

As a Joker, he did not belong to any of the four societies. He was the only card that was able to live in diverse classes, in diverse societies. He could run amongst Hearts, Spades, Clubs or even Diamonds. He could talk to fours, fives, eights, tens and even Kings. And they all liked him as long as he did not stay around for too long. The only card that did not care for the Joker was the Ace. Their relationship was ever tense. The Ace seemed to know more about the Joker than any other card in the game. This made the Joker very uncomfortable around the four Aces. So whenever he visited the Hearts, Spades, Clubs or Diamonds, he tried to stay away from the Ace, the only card he felt a certain hate for. The other cards he did just despise, look down upon, feel sorry for, some he even regarded as plain useless to have in the stack, but hate he did reserve just for the Ace.

Although he was the only card that could mingle with any other card, the Joker was the loneliest card of all. Every card knew that somewhere in the game, in another society, there was someone just like him or her. And they were all part of a certain class within their society, so although lonely at times, none of the cards was ever totally alone. The Joker would start to feel anxious when too long around one type of card , and that moment his inner self told him to move on to another card. Strangely enough he felt most comfortable around the Kings and Queens. The Queens felt beautiful around the Joker, and they appreciated his company. Often the Joker had thought he would rather be a Jack, so he could be around a Queen all the time. The Kings appreciated his company, his view on society and his stories about the other cards, but they found him too tiring after a while, and at those moments where he was no longer welcome, he mingled amongst nines, tens and jacks.

There he had his share of fun, but their lives were so empty to him, it saddened him. Amongst them he felt their emptiness growing in himself, how sad must it be not to be able to escape that emptiness? Not even to mention the emptiness of sevens or lower, cards which he mingled with to keep in touch with all of society, not to become estranged from the world as was the case for the Kings or other high cards in society. But fond of the low cards, no that he was not. At least the low cards did not know how low they really were, some even thought they were in fact high cards, if they would realize how low and useless they were the world would change for the worse, so the Joker left them in their illusion.

Although he had been born a Joker, he once became close to accepting the position of the Jack. Every few years a card would leave the stack, and the Joker was the only one fit to replace a card. It would’ve brought him very close to the Queen of Spades, of whom he was very fond. The problem with a Joker is that deep inside he knows he does not really want to be pinned down into the society of cards he despises so much. And so it happened that a Jack from another stack entered the Spade society. The Queen of Spades was very hurt by the Jokers refusal of the position and handed him a blank card, telling him “I hope you can fill in this card with something your heart craves, because I will never be yours.”

Every night since receiving that card, the Joker looks at it and wonders what it is that his heart desires. All he has to do is draw it on the card and he will have it. But the years go by for the Joker and the card remains blank.

Threat, Gold, Chains

I want to go, leave it all behind
They say: 'Stay, out there you'll go blind'
So I remain, light in the distance
I need to give in, fight my resistance

And sometimes I look closely and begin to move
They rush in, they work hard to close the groove
After this, they take me back and give me gold
I accept the wealth, but feel oh so cold

Someday I will sneak out, no one will see
I will jump in the light, I will be free
And if out there I'll turn blind
I'll accept it, I won't mind

About to leave, to take the sunshine trains
They all rush in and lock me in chains
Imprisoned for life, I'm forced to stay
No more hope to find a better way

Connected to the Universe

And there I was again, staring at the ceiling.
I focused on my heartbeat -too fast.
I felt the blood rushing through my veins.

I moved a little to the right, just enough for my shoulder to touch hers.
I connected to her heartbeat, my heart took over the pace of hers.
The rushing blood became a relaxed stream floating through my veins.

I felt connected to the universe.

The Wishing Well

--Underlying poem was written by a bird following Olivier on his trip to the wishing well, a well that would grand every unhappy boy three wishes. As he considered himself unhappy, Olivier left town in search for the well. He decided he would wish for: a beautiful girl, wisdom and adventure. Things he needed and wanted in order to be happy. The one thing he knew about the well was that: if one would ask for a wish that had already been satisfied, the well would answer "granted". For every new wish, it would say 'enjoy, happy boy'. --


Olivier...

As you walk, I must admit
The unhappy condition, you it does fit
I hope the well will bring you joy
I hope it will make you a happy boy

Focused on the road so long
You missed the beauty that walked along
Thinking of wishing at the well
You didn't notice for you she fell

And hasty as you were
For the wise man you didn't care
Thinking of wishing at the well
You didn't listen to stories he'd tell

Dreaming of what you wished
It's the pure adventure that you missed
Thinking of wishing at the well
You didn't notice the adventurous spell

Arriving at the well
Three wishes you did speak and tell
"Granted', the well it spoke
And you wondered if it was all a joke

Eric in the Storm

Eric was a beautiful young man, walking around in the sun everyday. He had a lot of friends, both male and female. Everyone liked him as he brought so much joy to people's lives with his smile and warmth, always accompanied by the sun. And all people, boys and girls, longed to spend time with Eric. Everyone adored him, everyone except the Queen. She never liked Eric, as she felt he did not treat her more special than he did any other human being. And the Queen used to spend her days thinking of ways to get him out of the way. And so the Queen made a pact with the wind, the clouds and the rain to create a storm that would chase away the sun surrounding Eric's life.

One day, walking around in one of his sunniest clothes, Eric looked up and saw dark clouds gathering. The sunshine had a difficult time breaking through, this spectacle was very new to Eric, who waited for the sun to shine through and walk with him. But more and more clouds gatherd, the sky became darker and darker and all of a sudden wind was mounting. People ran into their houses as Eric still waited for the sun. When he looked up again he felt rain falling on his head, it started raining so hard that the streets turned blank in just a few seconds.

To protect himself against the cold, wind and rain , he picked up an old blanket he found on the street and wrapped it around his shoulders. The weather became very stormy and Eric felt lost. He did not recognize any street in this darkness, he did not know how to return home. Eric panicked, he kept waiting for the sun, but it wouldn't come. At the verge of desperation, Eric decided to set aside his pride and went looking for shelter, as it was unbearable to continue walking through this storm. For sure his many friends would offer him the warmth he needed to recover.

So Eric knocked on the first door he found on his way, requesting:
"Please, can you offer me some help? Is there anybody there?"
No answer came, "nobody home" Eric figured.
And so he went on to the next door:
"Hello, I'm a little cold and wet, can you be so kind to you let me in?'
A male voice answered:
"I'm sorry my friend, it is too risky to open up the door. You wouldn't want the storm to catch me, right?"
Eric continued, knocking on the window of a beautiful little house.
"Excuse me, can you provide some shelter? Hello, anybody home?"
A girl came to the window, and all she saw was an ugly man covered in a disgusting blanket.
"I don't let strangers in, my mom wouldn't want me to, go away!".

After numerous refusals, Eric arrived at a house that looked familair.
It was the house of Anna, a woman he recently met and who was very fond of him.
He knocked: "Hey Anna, it's Eric, can you let me in? It's stormy outside".
And Anna replied "Dear Eric, you know how I like it when you come over, but today you did not bring the sun? I can't let you in, as the storm may find it's way in too".
"Oh, I understand, Anna, but I'll be sure it doesn't get in, ok?"
"That is very sweet of you", Anna said, "but I can't take the risk. Come back when the storm is over, okay?".

At the verge of giving up and die alone in the streets, Eric decided to try the Queen's castle for shelter. And surprisingly enough, he was welcomed into the castle, offered warm clothes and a warm dinner. He told her about what had happened, that no one risked to give him shelter. Touched by his suffering, the Queen requested the wind, clouds and rain to make place for the sun.

Eric returned to his house after thanking the Queen, who told him to come by any time he wanted.
Back on the streets, people longed for Eric's smile and sunshine again, but he never replied to the many requests. Anna came by as well, asking him to come over and telling him how much he was missed by her during the storm. But Eric never went to Anna's house again, nor did he ever invite her over.

The sun, the moon and the river

Tired of the sad stories being exchanged by the  family on another first of November, my grandfather left the table and joined us, his grandchildren, telling us to not ever pay attention to grown ups talking about life and death. Since for him the conversations held at the 'grown ups'-table demistified the beautiful mystic of death, while killing life at the same time. Leaving pure boredom to be the only option. The story that he told us, always remained in my mind, and I still follow his advice of not paying attention to grown ups talking about life and death. And every first of November, while sitting at the boring grown-ups table myself, I always return to my childhood and find myself listening with the outmost interest and curiosity to the story my grandfather told us:


"Long time ago, when people were still able to talk to the birds and trees, there were three afterlives: the sun, the moon and the deep rivers of earth. According to your personality and your development of it over life, you were assigned to one of the afterlives. The sun was for the free spirits, the ones not being held down by the ruling ideas in society. The moon was for the wise, the ones that accepted the beauty of nature and lived in peace with it. The deep rivers of earth were for the people who never lived life to the fullest, the ones always worrying about what could happen to them.

Evertyime a free spirit - being it a child, a strong adult or a weak old man- left life and embraced death, he was brought to the sun by one of the permanent spirits. Arriving there he would be welcomed and celebrated by the other spirits of the sun. They all felt a deep love for one another and created the perfect harmony, and the fire of their love is the one that brings light in the darkness and warmth reaching all the way to the earth. All love that exists on earth finds its source in the sun, thanks to the free spirits. And when true love finds its way between two people, a free spirit turns into an eagle and flies all the way to the earth, to protect that true love and make sure it doesn' break.

When a person living in harmony with nature died, one of the permanent spirits came to guide him to the moon. Where he would be accepted and greeted by his fellow spirits. And together they would sculpture beauty and imprint the ideas of beauty into the humand spirit and send it to earth. And everytime you think something is beautiful, the moon rises and reflects extra love generated by the sun. And when the beauty, as imprinted by the spirits, is created on earth, spirits are able to make a trip to the sun.

People ending up in the rivers of death were not guided by one of the permanent spirits. As a punishment for their unwillingness to make decisions in life, they have to  make sure they find their way to the rivers by themselves. It's not a pleasant road to cover, with plenty of lost spirits, some crying, some scared and somes very aggresive. The people who do not give up and decide to make it to the rivers are put on a boat by the permanent spirits waiting on the shore. And forever they will be on a boat, listen to the relaxing sounds of the water, but unable to ever get off the boat."

The Snowy Plover

Once there was this little bird, unhappy with just being a bird. He was a Snowy Plover, passing by the beach quite often, wondering how it would be to be able to swim in the sea. He always figured that animals could fly and walk or swim and walk, flying and swimming was just not possible as far as he knew. Until one day, while flying from tree to tree, playing with butterflies and his fellow wingfriends, he saw an animal with wings floating on the water. The Snowy Plover flew down and took place next to the lake. The swimming bird came out of the water, it was a bird with a reddish bill,  red-looking legs and feet, with feathers all in white covered by black wingtips. And on its very elegant, slender neck the bird had a proud white head.

"Excuse me, what kind of bird are you?" - the little Plover asked.
"Well, I'm a goose of course, can't you see?"- replied the proud creature.
"Oh, I've never heard of that, Mr. Goose. Can you fly?". wondered the Plover.
"What planet are you from, Snowy Plover? Of course I can fly. Geese are famous for flying in their V-form, for sure they must've thought you in school." - quacked the goose
"Ow, I see. And I saw that you can swim and walk too. It must be wonderful to swim, is it not?" - and the Plover looked at the Goose, full of admiration.
"Swimming is the greatest thing in the world, I consider myself happy to be able to do so. I can not imagine being just another bird, what kind of life would that be?" he quacked.

At that point the other geese started quacking, giving a sign to get back into the water to swim with them. With his head up high, the goose entered the water and swam off.
The words of the Goose remained in the Snowy Plover's head all through the evening. Right before sleeping he decided that tomorrow would be the day, he would look for a small lake and try to get in the water. He hoped to become as cool and elegant as the goose he had met earlier.

The next morning, the Plover flew to a small lake next to the mountains. He landed on a small stone next to the water, now he stood there, with his thin legs on a rock, very near to the water. Ah, just one jump would seperate him from swimming. But first, with his wings, he touched the water -but  how cold it was, oh so cold! He pictured the goose from yesterday again, manned up and jumped into the water. He moved his black legs in the water, stroke his wings, but he didn't move forward. He started to go under water, and just when he was about to go completely under, a Falcon flew over the lake and saved the little Plover.

The Falcon took the small bird up to the mountains, for recovery. How great it felt to the Snowy Plover to be so high in the air and at such speed! Never had he experienced such speed. The Falcon told the Plover to remain still as he would go and look for something to eat. While his saviour was up in the air, the Plover couldn't help but worship that bird. He must have been three times as big as him, and while in the air his wings for sure had a span of 1 meter. And in the clear blue sky, its bluish, grey wings with black tips were like art to the little bird. The plover thought to himself: "What a speed, oh God the Falcon was so fast. How unbelievable it must be to fly at such a speed, while I am an average bird, this one for sure is the top of the top! I can't swim, but perhaps I can fly as fast as the Falcon!"

The Falcon returned and gave the Plover something to eat. The Plover took a look at the mighty bird's yellow feet, and became a little scared of its black beak and claws.
"Are all Falcons as fast as you"- he asked.
"Oh, no, I'm not just a Falcon my friend. I am a Peregrine Falcon, I'm the fastest flying creature on earth".
"Wauw, I never heard of a Peregrine Falcon. Can you swim as well? "-wondered the Plover
"Swim? Why would I want to swim? The water is cold, mostly dirty and it's dangerous. We, Falcons, are free to fly all over the sky. There is no limit to our freedom. And with our speed, oh no, I wouldn't trade it for anyting in the world!" - lectured the Falcon.

After he got back on his feet, the Plover thanked the Falcon and flew back home. After hearing the Falcon talk, watching him fly, he didn't care for swimming that much. He decided to fly to the highest hill the next day to gain very high speed in free fall. To feel how cool it must be to be a Falcon.
The Plover flew higher than he had ever been, he felt tired so took a rest on top of a mountain. From there he would fly in full speed towards the beach, to show all swiming creatures how fast and happy he was. But the Snowy Plover couldn't handle the speed, and during his free fall, he lost his balance and crashed heavily into the sand. With broken wings he lay there, crying for having failed again.


A turtle came by, slowly inspecting the Plover. He promised the little bird to help him fix his wings, but for the time being he was not permited to fly. And the Turtle told him about how dangerous it was to fly too fast. The Little Plover got keen on the Turtle, and told him about his dreams. How he had always wanted to swim, but almost died trying. Of how he got rescued by a Peregrine Falcon and tried to fly as fast as him. And that now, walking slowly next to the Turtle, he felt so hopeless and without any dream.

"Why do you think the Falcon loves his speed so much?" "Why does the goose love to swim and fly?" - the Turtle asked.
"I don't know", said the Little Plover. "I guess they are lucky enough to be doing what they like. While me, I have nothing to live for". - he said very depressed
"Nonsense!" replied the Turtle. "Every animal has something to do, and we all wonder from time to time how it would be to be another animal. Don't you think I have never thought of flying? Of running as fast as a Cheetah?" - he asked
"Ow, but did you try to fly? Did you try to run as fast as a Cheetah?"  - the Plover asked in return
"When I was your age, desperate as I was, I tried many a thing. But in the end I could not deny it, I was a Turtle. The moment I accepted this, that was the most beautiful moment in my life." spoke the Turtle.

And before the Snowy Plover's wings healed, the Turtle confessed that he would love to know how the world looked from high up in the sky. And he made a deal with the Little Plover. While the bird would fly to places the Turtle would never be able to go, the Turtle would swim places and tell all about it to the Snowy Plover. So both lived according to their nature, with a view broader then before, meeting eachother oftend and telling about what they had seen in their habitat.

Painter in my Dreams

Sometimes I dream that I'm a painter
And in those dreams all I do is paint you

You, laying on the sweet green grass
Your eyes, dark and lovingly as they are
Your lips, always ready to receive my kiss

And while I'm painting you, I feel alive
I seem to exist only during those dreams

I paint your elegant hands, guided by your precious wrists
Your fingers, playing on my belly as if it was an instrument
Your hips and legs, moving to the rhytm of music

In these dreams all I feel is your love
All I see is your beauty

And on paper I put your naked body in Eden's garden
I paint perfection, of which you are the realization
You pose as a Queen, Princess and Angel all in one

While I'm painting all this, you seduce me
You express your love and I fall for it, everytime

And I paint us, hand in hand
I paint us, body to body
I paint our souls uniting in eternity

And all of a sudden, I wake up
You are gone, were never here

And I can't even handle a pencil
Can't draw the loneliness I feel
So I tire myself out, to get back into the dream

Little Hank and the Book of Truth

Once every fifty years five boys and five girls were granted acces to the towns old library. They were given the task to find the Book of Truth, which had been hidden by a mad old wizard long long time ago. In that book the solution to all of the towns questions and problems were to be found. The mad wizard told the people of the village, before departing from this eart, that only a child would be able to find the book, as he assumed they would search by the purity of the heart, not poluted by the mind or society. And in spirit of these words ten kids ranging from four till ten years old were randomly chosen and send to the library, in hope to find the Book.

Little Hank was amongst the ten lucky ones, it goes without saying that for every parent it was a great honour that their child was given the opportunity to go and look for the Book. And imagine what a future their son or daughter would have if he or she found the book! The same was true for Hank's mother and father. The day of the search, dressed in clothes even nicer than on their wedding,  they joined Hank, who was well dressed too of course, to the entrance of the old library. Just five years old, Hank didn't realy know how important his task was. But since his mom and dad had been talking about it for weeks now, Hank hoped he would not let them down. He was determined to find the book and make his parents happy and proud!

All of the kids waved goodbye to their parents and entered the library simultaneously. The first one to enter was Arnold, a tall ten year old boy. From a wealthy family, one of the richest in all of the wide country. He entered the room with thousands of books, all placed in bookcases made of the finest wood and reaching all the way up to the ceiling. It was impressive, but he had seen nicer things and -according to him- of more value. As he learned at home, something so important as the Book of Truth had to be something very expensive and beautiful. So Arnold searched and searched for a golden book. Since gold was the most expensive thing he knew, for sure that would be it. Soon he found a bookcase with easily 100 books of gold. Mesmerised by such wealth, Arnold flew up the , but he was too wild and fell down, followed by the books that landed upon him. Arnold's search ended here.

Esmeralda was the fifth to enter the room. After Arnold the children went in search of the pretiest books, since beautiful it had to be, that great Book of Truth. But all three left the room without the book they were looking for. Esmeralda thought that the Truth would be well hidden. So she looked for a hidden, far off bookcase, but in that search, Esmeralda got lost in the labyrinth and couldn't find her way back.

Juliana had been tought by her parents that 'beauty was not everything', she went to look for the most ugly book. Since it wouldn't surprise her the Book of Truth would be ugly, dusty and broken. When she found such an ugly book, she turned very sad when it did not turn out to be the Book of Truth. She damned the ugly book and went in search of the most pretty amongst all books, but never could she decide what the pretiest of them all was. And she kept searching, leaving her forever unsatisfied with any of the beautiful books.

Little Hank was the last one to enter, the three kids before him went to look for the book in the highest of closets and went so high that they were too scared to come down. Hank entered the room, impressed by the magnitude and beauty of it all. He had already decided just to follow his heart. And he walked straight to a book, in the middle of shelves and not more pretty or ugly than any other book. It was not big, not small, neither thin nor thick. And just as he was ready to pick out the mediocre looking book, he thought of his mom and dad. How they both counted on him so hard, and he released the book he was about to take. And in anxiety of letting his parents down, he remained undecided and was unable to pick the Book of Truth. And for ever and ever Hank is standing now in front of the bookcase, thinking of ways not to let his parents down.

Tale of the Sad Eyed Gentleman

Everyone stared at him, the Sad Eyed Gentleman wandering through town. They all mocked and despised this lonesome stranger, lost in empty streets, covered by rain, looking at the buildings and people with his grey, dull eyes. Everyday he went out with this cloud above him, completely dressed in grey. Everything in his life seemed grey: all the buildings were grey to him, people were colorless, dull and irritating to him. He was bitter and sad, he felt as he had turned into a grey, ruinous statue.

I always felt bad for him, especialy after my mother told me that once, a long time ago, he was the happiest child on earth. He was known for his beautiful deep blue eyes. They would send out rays of sunshine all through the day, and looking in his eyes one could admire a clear blue sky accompanied by the strongest burning sun one had ever seen. At nightfall, as the sun in his eyes set, clear shining stars took over. And when he smiled, all the stars in his right eye would twinkle. He had the possibility to turn sad people happy and in that the little boy would find his amusement.

I asked my mom why he turned into grey then? Why did the beautiful, deep blue eyed boy turn into the Sad Eyed Gentleman? She told me that, as all suffering known to us humans, it was caused by rejection and the lack of love. But how could that be, I wondered. He was such a pretty boy, for sure people must have loved him, no?

According to the story, the Sad Eyed Gentleman didn't lose his shiny eyes overnight. It was a slow process that people must have noticed, but no one seemed to have had the courage to help. All people wanted was for the boy to turn sadness into happiness, no one cared for his heart, his need for some happiness. Old men and women, children, teenagers, everyone came to the blue eyed boy in search of happiness.

And every day he would be there, help sad and suffering people, and he did it with all he could. Only sad people visited the boy, and only happy people left him. All he needed was for the happy people to return once in a while, as happiness was the fuel of his eyes, those blue sunny eyes. But selfish as people are, once happy they didn't look at his precious eyes anymore, they were happy forever, so they didn't feel the need to go back. To share their happiness with the boy that gave them such gift.  Were people really that dumb, to think that happiness was an unlimited source, didn't they realise, were they that selfcentered?

The twinkling starts in the boy's right eye were the first to go, he smiled but there were no more twinkles. And next were the stars in his lift eye, they dissapeard together with the rays of sunshine. Still people would come, and altough somehow dissapointed -because these were no longer magic eyes- they asked for happiness, received it and left the boy alone. One ray of sunshine remained in his right eye, the left one had already completely turned grey.

One day a sad young woman came up to the boy, requesting him to give her the happiness. She needed it so much, she was suffering and could not handle anything. She promised to give him anything he wanted, if only he could help her. 'But I only have one ray of sunshine lef' - said the boy. 'After helping you, my right eye will turn grey, just like my left one. You will have to come back to share with me your moments of happiness, only then I will help you.' The girl agreed, of course she would do this, how hard could it be? And in tears she accepted and swore she would share the happiness with him, her saviour. And moments later, the sad young woman turned into a smiling beauty. She felt great, almost untouchable. She thanked the sweet boy that had given her the happiness, and promised she would be back in a few days. The boy's eyes turned grey, but he was happy. He was sure that the returning happy woman would bring him enough fuel to regain his powerful, blue healing eyes.

But the girl never came back. The boy started wondering through town, looking for this girl which he had turned so happy. But when he found her and asked her if she could give him some happiness, as to regain strength, she answered: 'I am sorry but I can not take the risk of losing my happy feeling, goodbye little man'. And she walked away. In that instant the clear grey eyes became dull, darker in grey and the boy turned into the Sad Eyed Gentleman still wandering the streets today.

What I want

I want to fly, like an eagle

I want to run, like a leopard

I want to sleep, like a koala

I want to be a poet, like Wilde

I want to be a writer, like Hesse

I want to be an actor, like Dean

I want to be rich, like Slim

I want to be good, like Mother Theresa

I want to be rebelious, like Dylan

I want to be happy, like you

I want to be smart, like him

I want to be pretty, like her

The Romantic in the Sun

His satisfaction can not be found in friendship.

A great career, great inventions do not bring satisfaction either.

Nor does a long lasting relationship with a woman.

His anxiety lies within the absence of passion.

It comes to the surface when one reaches a goal.

Its retreat comes slowly, often not at all.

To overcome these he must accept the emptiness of existence.

Realise that nothing is worth striving for.

Only as such can he overcome anxiety, lose the need for satisfaction.

But in our world romantics are unable to reach this point.

For them the thing worth striving for is lust, uncontroled passion.

The absence of it leads to anxiety, an empty feeling, the lack of satisfaction.

A temporary solution would be to feel the touch from a dazzling beauty's lust.

Irrelevant to our society's romantic are her views, ideas, her hopes and dreams.

Just her touch, her kiss, her body are needed to fill his emptiness.

The enchanting queen able to comply with his needs, is rarely found.

Since the romantic will pretend to be in love, pretend to care for possible candidates.

He will act hurt by their refusal, and as such most of them will retreat.

Left for the great pretender is to fly away.

The absence of passion and lust eventualy lead him to the sun.

Knowing that with passion's presence he would gladly accept the rain.

In the sun the romantic, this great pretender, will find freedom.

The heat fills his soul, while scarcely dressed women satisfy his sences.

Every other thing becomes irrelevant, for only in the sun the romantic man is free.

 

Dear Doctor

Dear Doctor,

It's not all that difficult. Don't tell me I'm a lost cause. In fact, I shouldn't even be a case, I don't need a doctor. All I need is to leave, can I doctor? Can I? I'm not at home, my home is in a land far away, just let me go, please? Your keeping me here, in this limited environment, is affecting me, doctor.  Every day you tell me that I can travel anywhere I want, but you always give me a time limit. I don't even want to travel doctor, I'm not an adventurer. I don't want to discover the world, it's too big for me anyways.

I want to be locked, do you hear? But not in this place, doctor, no, not here. Can't you send me away to the land of sun and love? That is what would set me free. You keep thinking that it is here that I can be cured, why be so naive, doc? You tell me I can be a King here amongst my fellow men. I can become the envy of all. But I don't want that, I don't want to become an unhappy king, the unhappy ruler of my fellow men. I would rather become a prisoner in my far away land. Being a prisoner in that land is what would set me free. Why won't you believe me?

Stop handing me money, doctor. I can't use it, it's of no value to me. The more you give, the more these walls close in on me. I bought me the nicest clothes, I sculptured my body towards perfection, I have kissed the pretiest girls, I have seen beautiful places and I've been promised succes. And you told me that was the meaning of life. Altough all dreams of mine, none did set me free, not one did put a smile on me.

You are a good one, doc, you even got me so far as to forget my far away land. For 7 months I lived in the illusion that I could be happy here, in your institution. You offered me food, books, money, an occupation, limited freedom, hopes and dreams. I'm sure you meant well, I know you are a caring man. But can't you see, it's not helping me?

I need to confess doctor, since a while I have quit them, those little pills you forced on me. Why did you ever give them to me? With good intentions, I hope? They lifted my spirit and filled me with the dream of my own kingdom, you seemed sure that would set me free? No, doc, I give up on that idea, but don't tell society, they won't agree. Let me go, send me to my liberating prison. And if not, I will fight myself free. But if you help me, I promise to find me a girl to keep me company, so please, please doc, set me free.


Thank you for your kindness and consideration,

Fonchito

Cold Turkey

When you walk around and feel dizzy, lay down.
It feels good, right? Close your eyes. Rest.
Smile, imagine you are a cat. Spin, don't fight your contracting muscles.
The skin covering your face feels like it will shake off, let it shake.
Your biceps seems to be alive, let it live. Your legs feel too cold, cover them.
Your chest hurts, your back contracts, you want to pull your legs towards your chest.

Hold a pillow, breath deeply. Lay on your back, look straight ahead. Feel your lips shaking.
Don't stop the saking, your eyelids want attention. They trill worse than an earthquake.
Smile again, laugh out loud. Sing, don't shout.
It's cold, but you will now pretend it is warm.
Stretch, touch the air around.
Think of your friends, accept them.

Wonder about women, agree to it: you love them.
Don't fight your headache, it will go away.
Try to refind your equilibrium, try to stand up.
You lose it, you fall onto the bed.
Get up again, it's only your body fighting your mind.
Pretend to be a dog, bark. Chase away the cat.

Stretch your back, touch your face. It is still there.
Get back to bed, drink plenty of water. Sleep.
Wake up, go outside.
Greet the people you see. Your head hurts, your brain bangs and wants out.
Don't give in to your shaky self, the mind keeps playing tricks.
Think about God, love Him. Be spiritual, it's your last resort.

Why again were you doing this?
To fight the ideas they gave you, you want to be free from external control.
You believe you are stronger than the society made substance, perhaps you are.
It's been two weeks, your body shakes, your mind screams, you still breath.
You lose weight, your build up muscles break.
You feel like fainting, you keep going.

She opens up her arms.
You run into them.
She always wanted to have a lonely child.
You are willing to give yourself, to let her drain you completely.
In your mind you are special, you bring her joy.
In reality for her, it is just another night.

You lay in bed again, no more female warmth.
No baby around, but plenty of them in your mind.
Running from you, laughing at you, dancing and screaming, driving you crazy.
You let them seduce you, you embrace the cold and smile.
You drink water, you shake. Keep shaking, you are strong, although almost pure bone now.
The sun will return some day and you'll be pure of heart, free from the mindplaying drugs.

Never again

And never again is what I said

Until the moment her I met

So easy I did fall

Why I don't recall

And dancing on my feet

I longed to kiss her lips so sweet

Her poison I didn't taste

Too caught up in the haste

And the pain continued to grow

When the poison activated the blow

Never again I said

Holding up proudly my head

But look at this one here

I want her very near

She won't do me harm

I long to know her charm

Another blow was mine to get

Her love was all in my head

Never again I say

Love will never come my way

And it all sounds true
There is so much more I can do
Untill off course her I meet
And she sweeps me off my feet...

Gas money

Anthony went up to his room, exhausted, confused about what just happened. He did not want to figure out how it did happen, why and what the consequences would be. He took off his clothes and went to bed. A good night sleep might put things in perspective. Had this been his last day as a free man?

The day started out as any other. Around 6.30 the alarm went off. Around 7 he had breakfast and read his morning paper. Being fully dressed and shaven he left for work at 7.30 sharp. Newsflas on the radio: "our beloved king has died!". Off course he did not care, why would he? A king, a child, an older person, a thirty year old, sick, healthy,  all of them were just human beings. Some didn't even deserve that term according to him. He got annoyed by the reactions on the radio station and switched off the radio. Still 15 minuts to go. His car made a strange noise, was it the engine? Or the cluth, the wheels? He knew little to nothing about cars, all he knew was that one day his car would break down in the middle of nowhere, he just didn't know exactly when. Perhaps today? He arrived at work somewhere around 8.15, greated his colleagues and pushed the power button on his computer. While the pc started up he went to get a coffee, at 8.30 he took place on his chair and started working. He noticed he had been awake for two hours without having done anything useful, and no redemption would come during the next 8 hours, that was clear to him.

His alarm rang, 12.30: lunch time. He walked to a little bistro down the street, where he would meet a friend. To catch up and discuss the important things in life. So they talked about sports, travelling and women. What else was there? Off course: literature, culture, but he would rather not discuss thse things. Those were holy and not to be touched in his mind. At 13.15 he said goodbye to his friend and left for work again. Another 4 hours of torture, or was it pleasure? It all became one. There was no good or bad, no horrible or great, there was just life.

17.15, time to go home. His colleagues had already left, so no one to greet. Just shut down the computer, hit the button to dim the lights, and walk to his car. Almost out of gas, he hated when that happened. Such a waste of time, having to stop at a gas station for a refill. It started raining, a car pulled up next to him. A guy approached him: "do you have some money for gas? ". Oh no, not this crap again - he thought to himself. He told the stranger that he did not felt like handing out money to a stranger for gas, but that there was an atm machine just 2 miles down the road. The guy kept staring at him, approached him and asked for gas money a second time, in exchange for 'a kiss from the babe in my car'. Annoyed by this proposal he refused the stranger a second time.

A woman stepped out of the car and came to stand next to the stranger. She handed him a gun. The stranger pulled the trigger, and shot her. "All because you did not want to give us gas money". He kissed Anthony on the cheeck, handed him the gun, and told him to drive home.

Lifelong Secret

I know I'll never be yours, you'll never be mine.
I don't love you, you don't love me.
But we are in our prime,
so let me have you just one more time.

Open yourself up to me, no one else will see.
Be mine just for one night,
make me feel allright.
Or during the day, please come my way.

Your breasts will be admired,
during a night of which you'll never get tired.
And your little tongue and sweet kiss,
God knows that's what I miss.

So before you go, take me inside.
After that I'll go to the other side.
All I want is your body so perfect, so slim.
While your love, your love you can give to him.

Oh goddess of beauty, don't deny this plee of mine.
Let me drink from you, it will make me shine.
It's all I wanted since the day we met.
But please, let's keep it our lifelong secret.

The Unexpressive Artist

How many of us are there? We must be with more then I used to think or believe . Maybe we are a majority? No, that would be an exagerration. Still, everyday I meet more jesters. And while all jesters share some basic interests, there is a wide variety among us. You have happy jesters, angry jesters, sweet jasters, loving jasters, hateful jesters, funny jesters, boring jesters and so on. I'm one of those jesters that keeps on moving, ignoring every fiber that says: STOP!

How nice must it be, to be able to put all your emotions into a song, to hit every chord of existence with just your voice? It must be such a privilige, it has to feel great, suffer but being able to express your suffering. The same goes for playing an instrument. Some jesters posses the magic to create sounds with their piano or guitar, if not their voice. And there is no problem for a jester without a singing voice or without the talent of creating music, as that jester has other options. But for me it is a problem, because I do have beautiful words and songs and music inside of me, but I am unable to express them, they are stuck inside and eat me from within.

Then you have the jesters, the ones that mastered painting, creators of beautiful sculptures. The first ones have a steady hand, the latter ones create beauty from mass. And they are hard working people,  they express the beauty inside of their minds. How I wish I had a steady hand, to paint the perfection I have in my mind. How I would love to create a unique creature out of a big mass. And again, wanting to free themselves from my mind, these images eat me from inside, crying to be free.

It's incredible how she moves, it is pure art. She did put a lot of effort in it, her focus is out of reach for me. And with dancing, she reveals that life is beautiful, she shows that there is beauty and elegance, purely in movement. And how sure I am of the fact that inside there is a dancer fighting to be free, to move and dance into freedom. But captured in the prison of shame, of public opinion and cowardness, it went to sit in a corner. Now that dancer is unable to stretch its legs, awaits death, and just smiles by thinking of a beautiful dance with a dancing queen.

The last resort in trying to express the anger and desperation inside, is to become a writer, a poet. So many times we read stories and wonder how the writer can touch us so deeply, so accurately? Even a writer from the 18th century can write in a way that we think 'I could've written the same thing'. As all human beings, a jester has stories to tell, perhaps even more and better ones. Not being able to find the right words, I tried and I tried but in the end I had to admit it: I am not a writer, not a poet. I failed the last source to express my thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams, my anger. What was left?

And so I became part of the subgroup of jesters, the one group a jester never wants to end up in. Plenty of jesters choose death above becoming one of us. But we, the ones alive, we accept it, me and the others belonging to the gang of Unexpressive Artists. There are many of us. Some are managers, others present radio or tv-shows, some became doctors, lawyers, accountants. But it seems that we are all over the place. And we all try to move on, sadly accepting and expressing our Unexpressive art.

Him, Her, Them

HIM: Shoes: Brown

                               Pants: Dark grey, showing his black socks while seated

         Shirt: Blue

                               Vest: Dark blue, brown fragments on the collar matching his shoes

         Freshly shaven, hair waxed into shape, classic perfume

                                Feels like: James Dean  /  Looks like: One in a dozen


HER: Shoes: Black (open) heels (6.9 cm)

                               Dress: Purple, one-shoulder neckline, length: right above the knees

                                              Coat: Long, Black
                 
       Made up, long dark straight hair, touch of purple on the fingernails, sweet perfume 

                 Feels like: A godess  / Looks like: An exceptionaly beautiful lady


THEM: Walk arm in arm through the city
                                 
                                   Arrive at the restaurant
               
                Have dinner
 
                                  Join in a social dance

                Walk arm in arm through the city
 
                                  Kiss and say goodnight

                 Go home
 
                                  Sleep                                       
                              
                            Feel like: In love / Look like: Stuck in a relationship

Let's go

-Do you believe in God?
-- Today I don't, yesterday I did and perhaps tomorrow I will.

-Do you believe in love?
-- Yesterday I didn't, today I do and I hope tomorrow I will.

-Do you believe in friendship?
-- I don't know, I guess so.

- What about yesterday, tomorrow and today?
-- Change the subject, babe, I don't feel like having a philosophical conversation. I don't even feel like talking at all.

- You have very weird hands.
-- Give me a kiss.

- Let's go.

Dream Chaser

And suddenly you have one,
a dream to live for.
The old ones are gone,
you don't want them no more.

You decide to make this one reality,
you're gonna take your time.
This dream will set you free,
"It will be beautiful, that life of mine".

After all the effort,
you catch the dream.
Did you reach your last resort,
or was it all just a scheme?

You feel unsatisfied,
is this all there is?
Was it not the last time you cried?
And you decide to chase another dream to forget about this.

The Tale of The Unique Individual

And the teacher said: every one of you is unique. There is nobody out there that is just the same as you. God made you special, just one "you" exists. People may look like you, people may have the same dreams, same goals, they might do the same jobs, but still you are unique. No one is exactly the same.

And the kids laughed, they knew this all along. They knew they were unique, their parents already told them this. Since they were five or younger they knew nobody was like them. That they could do what they wanted and become anything if they just gave it their all. So nobody cared about the teacher, nobody even discussed things with her. And the teacher accepted and was glad they all knew they were unique.

One day, when the teacher gave her speech, a little boy raised his hand. The teacher asked him if he needed something, never did anyone raise his/her hand during this typical speech. Perhaps he was sick, needed to go outside for a minute? The kid said all he wanted to do was raise a question. And a little surprised, the teacher gave him permission to do so. "Do you really believe we are all unique?" - he asked. The teachers eyes stared through the room and her mouth fell open. All kids laughed, what a weird question was that. Everyone knows the answer, crazy boy!

"Off course I believe that we are all unique, and it's not a believe little boy, I just know it. To decide if it's God that made you unique or evolution, that is up to you, we are all free in that. So, can I go on with the class?"

The little boy didn't bother in getting into this issue deeper and nodded to her, and while she continued her speech, every word she said made him realise he was not unique at all. Sure, he was unique in a way that every animal, every sheet, every drop of rain was unique. But to be free, to become anything he wanted, no that would never happen. He could become the best doctor in the world, the best accountant, the best lover, the best dancer, but he could never become unique. He would always remain human. And even if he turned out to be a halfgod, still there would be other halfgods, so he was not unique.

This thought didn't sadden him, it was just a realisation. And he saw the other kids, his friends, the beautiful girl in the class, all just accepting the tale of every individual being unique. And he felt sorry for them, and he would not ruin their lives by making them realise how dumb they all were. He knew he had an advantage at knowing this at only 14 years old, the others would find out some day, at 50, 60 or when lucky at 30 years old. And for them the shock would create doubts and darkness, while he -Fonchito- would just live on and think 'at least you dumb people had a childhood free of worries'.

Unwanted phone call

-Hi
-- Hey
-How are you today?
-- Ehm, I'm fine. You?
-Good, good
-- So, to what do I owe this pleasure?
- I just felt like hearing from you...
--Ow, but why?
- I just miss talking to you, I wanted to hear you.
-- Hm, ok, but perhaps you should've thought about that some years ago, no?
- Is it that bad? Can't we even talk?
-- We can, for sure we can, what do you want to talk about?
-You, your life, your dreams, anything.
-- Why would you care, come on... It's been too long since we spoke, I could tell you about my life, but what would be the point?
- So I guess that means you are over it all?
-- Damn, woman, what do you expect? You can not keep a man as a toy, you should know that by now. You must've met some during these years, right?
- Well, I...
-- I don't care, you do what you want. But you shouldn't call me without notice, it's just not what I need, do you understand? What we had was nice, but let's keep it to that, okay? I don't love you anymore, I don't need you. It's all gone.
-Let's be friends, no?
-- I can't.
-Why not?
-- Call me another day, okay?
- Tomorrow?
-- Yes, at eight, now I can't talk. Bye, talk to you later.
- Bye, bye (click).

° So, ready to go?
-- Yes, sure, all ready babe.
° Who were you talking to, you look mad.
-- No one babe, just give me a kiss.
° Sure my handsome, is that all you wish for?
-- Right now yes, come one and let's go.
You look lovely in that dress.
° Thanks dear (shut door).

Run, run, run!

He is chasing me, oh my God, he is chasing me! I'm running as fast as I can, but that guy just doesn't seem to get tired. Maybe I should stop running, damn I'm getting tired. Still, I should hold on and try to get rid of him. I've been running for 5 miles, and still he is there. At times I can see him lose some ground, but he keeps regaining strength. And now he almost caught up with me, he tries grabbing me. He grabs my coat, thank God I can escape from it. He holds still, I look behind me. I see him getting smaller, surely he gave up. Ok, he is out of sight. Let me walk and breath, find some peace.

Ah, there is the bus stop. People, safety. What a relief. How good it feels to sit on the bus, just 20 more minutes and I'm back home, my safe place. All that is left is a 500 m walk from the bus stop, nothing can go wrong there. It's over, you see? It's not bad to run, you can run away from bad things. I'll take a little nap, 2 stops left. Let me say thanks to the bus driver, I escaped danger, I'm happy. See you next time, and thanks.

I get out of the bus, I breath deeply. I start walking to my house. I hear people get off the bus, they walk in the other direction. I hear nothing. I can see my house, I can hear footsteps. I keep looking straight, don't look back. It's nothing. The steps are getting faster, I hear breathing. I can't keep ignoring it, I look over my shoulder. I can see a guy dressed in my coat. He keeps breathing, what can I do? If I enter my house, he knows where I live. I start running, I run past my home. I keep running, he keeps chasing me.

I look for the next harbour, the next safe place filled with people. I try to get lost in the crowd, he won't find me in a crowd. I run into a bar, I'm amongst plenty of people now, I'm safe. He won't find me here. How long shall I keep running? When will I face him, ask what it is he wants? Perhaps he will devour me when I do that, finish me, oh lord! One day I will stop running and face him, but for now let me run. I need to run! I'm so tired but here I go again: run, run, run!

Here Comes the Sun

Summer has come to an end, rain will come. I never like to say goodbye to the sun, it denies my bad temper to take over my person, the sunshine is always a little stronger. 

But here is that rain, the one that will wash away the layer of smiles protecting my soul. And as I wake up in the rain, the will to live will fade. Maybe the rain is just an excuse to let out the real me, the me that is in love with feeling bad. The one that looks for external reasons of why this life is so hard, the one that does not blame my own being for not enjoying. It's all the fault of the rain. It is like every rain drop is filled with the things I want to do in life, and every drop falls on the floor and explodes. Every falling raindrop is a dream ruined, until the sun comes back and tells me there is no need for dreams nor hopes, there is only sunshine and love.

The rain is making me crazy, it is telling me what I want: I want to dance, act, write, travel, work, study, meet new people, live a solitary life, live in a foreign country, get used to a little basic life in my own country, it tells me I want to speak Spanish, German, Russian, Italian, French and even Tsjech. I want a girl for myself,  I want to have a lot of different women, I want to fall in love, I want to hate,  I want to change the world, help people, I want to be selfish, get a lot of money, buy a house, a nice car. I want to forget about past lovers, I want to hold on to every love I had. I want to forget about everything, at the same time I do not want to forget about anything.

The rain laughs in my face by falling all day long and throughout that day, by making my hopes and dreams explode on the ground, or even in my own hands. There are so many things I want, so many,  that because of that I do not have anything.

I keep running behind every rain drop, but never can I catch one. And after being tired of running,  I sit and wait for the wind to remove the rain and tell me: here comes the sun.

Feeding a ghost

I was unhappy being a writter, so I became a painter. At first I started painting some of the characters out of my stories, painting myself was never an option. I promised myself never to paint anything ugly, that included selfportrets. The first character I did put on the canvas was Portian. A young man with half long blond hair and a heavy beard, with in his right hand the hamer he used to make his sculptures with. Portian always fascinated me, he was a man I loved to use in my stories. In plenty of my writings he was the man that sculpted the images of lovers in an embrace or kiss, of ancient gods in which he believed, or the perfect woman, his beloved wife.

When I was happy with seeing Portian with my own eyes, the time was right to start my next painting: The sweet Anita in her lovely blue dress, laying on the grass, staring at the sky, dreaming of things to come. Anita was a woman in her twenties, always putting on a dress and wearing high heels. Long, very long, black hair. Beautiful brown eyes, a lightly colored skin, a cute little nose and   kissable lips, a woman too beautiful to be alive. A challenge to draw and put her on a canvas, a mission impossible. Nonetheless I was happy with the result, her dress just above her knees, the right knee bend and the left leg covered by the grass she was laying in. With next to that leg her blue heels, the ones she always wore under her sexiest dress.

Now I wanted to draw the Ice Queen and Cassiopeia together on one canvas. My first two works were lightly, happy work. I wanted to get some more drama into my paintings. So why not put on two of the characters that brought out the dark side in me? The Ice Queen was rather easy to draw,   an ice covered woman up in some mountains of ice. But Cassiopeia, I never imagined how she would be, she was a ghost, a beautiful one. I never could seperate her from a woman I knew in real life, my own Cassiopeia. And I became unhappy, after the unhappiness as a writer, now I felt unhappy being a painter. And all because of Cassiopeia.

The solution would be easy, I loved writing until I wrote about Cassiopeia. I loved painting until I painted about Cassiopeia. So why not write and paint about things that were not that ghost? I could not do it anymore, every story or painting would now be filled with her, I was doomed to change directions...

And so I became a singer, next a poet, next a sculpturer, but all stories ended the same. Nothing made me happy, and all because of a ghost. Ghosts can ruin our lives if we feed them...

Top of the Hill

And I was the only one able to run to the top of the hill. The ones left behind begged me to come down and help them reach the top, but I shouted: "The ones worth of the top can reach it by themselves, the ones left should accept their fate".
And it felt good to be on top of the hill, I was lonely but superior to my former equals. I made it while they kept on struggeling and were trying to get higher, to reach the top, to be as high as I was. Some did get close to the top, some didn't even make it half way. All they needed was a hand to pull them in, since I removed the branch that enabled me to acces the top. But I never gave them that hand, why would I help someone below me to grow to be my equal? I would just be 'one of them' again, and now I was finally what I always wanted to be: unique.
The people seeing me, almost able to reach me, cursed me. "How can you be so selfish? Just give us a hand, what is the problem in that?". But when I asked them why they didn't help the people, unable to even reach their point, first up there, they replied "they have no obstacles, they way up here is straight, you do not need a helping hand to reach the point where we are, but to get to the top you do". -"I see, well I was able to overcome the obstacles first, so I deserve my spot at the top. And to show you I mean good with all of mankind, I will give you a hand once all people are on the spot where you are, close to the hill."
And to this day, I am still standing alone on the hill. I never expected them to get all of mankind close to the hill, but I am wondering why the ones below me do not just lift one person up, that person next being able to pull everyone below in. So in the end we would all be up on this hill, but let's be realistic: we never will.

Aim for the stars...

And in the end it all comes down to the same thing. In the end nothing changes. You win some, you lose some.We are alive and on this earth and we need to get on with it. What could've been, we will never know. What if I had been rich, what if I was a cat, what if the sun exploded yesterday? Don't worry, be happy. Feel great, feel crappy. It's whatever you want, in the end whatever we do means nothing. Change the world? It will be changed again. Dictate your will, it shall be overthrown. We all dream of so many things, some struggle to get there while others accept they never will. Whatever works for you, whatever works... But know that after all your struggles in this life you will learn one thing, and one thing only. Meanwhile I can give you one advice: Aim for the stars, it might get you over a bridge.

Never to forever

I couldn't resist the attraction,
Seduced by the world of love.

I couldn't deny the passion,
Flying on your wings, my dove.

I wouldn't let you slip away,
Opened up my heart so true.

Look at me...
Hold me!
Kiss me!
Love me...

We both thought "from here on never".
It resulted in "forever and ever".

6-5-4-3-2-1

I regret not being a genius.
I regret not being a singer.
I regret not being a writer.
I regret not being an artist.
I regret not being the best.
I regret not being in love.

I regret being mediocre.
I regret being medium.
I regret looking weird.
I regret hurting you.
I regret hurting me.
I regret doubting.

Where must I go?
What must I do?
Whom must I meet?
Which must I choose?
Why must I care?

Do you see me?
Do you hear me?
Do you feel me?
Do you exist?
Do you resist?

I might not even be me.
You might not even be you.
He might not even be him.
She might not even be her.

The birds do sing.
The dogs do cry.
The cats do scream.
The lions do roar.

Good morning.
Good afternoon.
Good Evening.

I'm hungry.
I'm thirsty.
I'm sleepy.

It's day.
It's night.

Cold is not warm.
Warm is not cold.

You look lovely.

I am growing old.

Apologie

Dearest finder of these notes, I am sorry for some of the stories within. They are terribly awful, I feel ashamed of being the one that created them. But I see it as unfair to leave them out, I hope you learn something from both the good and bad things, don't just ignore it. But be sure to realise what is worth spending time on...

~Fonchito~

When, then.

When you are tired, sleep.
When you are not, don't.

When you are loved, love.
When you are not, love.

When you are young, be young.
When you are old, think young.

When you are a woman, be a man.
When you are a man, be a woman .

When you are strong, act strong.
When you are weak, act stronger.

When you talk, say something.
When you listen, hear something.

Free as a bird?

It has been a while since I read in Fonchito's book. I must admit my dear friends: I got tired of it. Sometimes the writer just seems to be without any inspiration. Must I admire Fonchito for even adding some horrible stories to that fascinating book? Perhaps, it shows us that even the greatest people are just dull or stupid at times.

As I was walking through town yesterday evening, the universe made it clear to me that I should re-open Fonchito's storybook. I was on my way to meeting a friend, just to have a quick drink before heading to my bed. We set up to meet around 10, I was-as always- a little early. So I decided to make a little tour downtown. As I have said before, I love walking around and watching people in the daily routine, just as Fonchito actualy. I saw two men arguing, I saw three girls laughing, I saw four kids playing and five dogs running. Nobody seemed alone, nobody but me. Altough the little bird on the rooftop of a small café seemed pretty lonesome. Could I compare myself to that little bird? I guess not, I was about to meet my friend. So I must not be as lonesome as the little bird. But what's the harm in being alone if you can fly freely through the sky?

The bird took off, as telling me 'mind your own business'. I walked towards the little bar where I would meet my friend. The bartender -a 'connaisance'- told me John just called that he would not be able to make it. I smiled, ordered a drink for myself and took a place next to the window. Here I was, lonesome as the bird, but not being able to fly anywhere. I decided not to stay too long, I drank my order and left within 10 minutes. On my way back I saw two men laughing, three girls gossiping, four kids fighting and five dogs barking.

Before entering my door a bird landed on my doorstep. It walked around for about ten seconds and flew away. With his wet little feet he wrote 'Fonchito'...

Even you can turn ugly

There is beauty in the streaming river. There is beauty in the trees. Beauty is in the sky, it is in the sand and in the field. There is so much beauty in this world. But I am undecided, what is the most beautiful thing, will I ever know?

In shape, obviously it is you, the most beautiful creature. The sun is big and yellow, orange at times, red when it feels like. But you, oh you, you have beautiful dark hair, a skin baked brown by that lucky old sun. Your shoulders are in perfect proportion with your hips. Resting on your firm legs, supporting your upper body. Your breasts attract my eyes and lead me towards the rest of your body, appreciating beauty in it's essence. Your image holds my perfection. Oh, how I envy all people, all able to see your beauty. How I wish I had it for myself. But oh, beautiful as a whole would only be your love for me. Since without love, even you can turn ugly...

The breakfast of no return

Ansgar woke up and walked towars the window. He looked outside and saw a woman and child on a bycicle. He watched them turning around the corner, dissapearing. It seemed like a nice day, a typical spring day. Ansgar went to his bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved himself and combed his hair. He then walked towars his closet, picked out his grey pants and a blue shirt. He put them on, searched for a black pair of socks and his shoes. After tying his shoe-laces Ansgar stepped out the door and went looking for some breakfast. It was too nice a day to eat at home. He would be out all day, enjoying the sunshine.

While enjoying his breakfast in a small café, a man asked Ansgar to join him. And why refuse a nice offer on a sunny day? The stranger, named Wilfred, told Ansgar how he loved to come here for breakfast. And everytime he came here, he would invite someone to join him. 'As I don't like to eat alone, you see?'. Ansgar asked him why then, he didn't eat at home with his family.

'Well, as you see I am not that young no more. I have been eating at home for over fifty years. And I have learned that having breakfast everyday with your family is a burden.' -

Why is that?

 Wilfred smiled; you will find out yourself someday. Or maybe you already know, since you are here alone? Ansgar looked down, towards his cup of coffee. "I have no family yet to eat with sir, right now I'm just with myself."

'I see, don't be with yourself alone too long boy. Nothing is as beautiful as having a woman that loves you, you know that?'

What happened after saying this words never happened to Wilfred before. Did he say something wrong? He would wonder about that the rest of the day as Ansgar stood up from the table, ran home, closed his curtains and hid from the sun, that damn sun. Mocking him, seducing him to go out, to run into this situation, to meet this old man talking about the love of a woman. All he had was a ghost, oh Cassiopeia, why can't I let you go? Why can't you let me be?

The day after this silly incident Ansgar decided to look Cassiopeia up. It seemed the only solution to this uncontrolable haunting situation that had been going on for five years. But where to start?

Ten men and ten women

Picture ten men. Picture ten women. How long did it take you?

Picture one man leaving the pack. Picture him walking towards the group of ten women. Make the women dissapear. What happened to that man? Did he keep walking? Did you make him stop and wonder? Did you make him dissapear? Did you make him run after the illusion? Did the women dissapear at once, or did you make them run and hide? Did you ever wonder why the women had to dissapear?

What happened to the other nine men, what did you do with them? Did you make them dissapear? Did you have them stand in a line? Were all ten men equal? Why did u pick just that one to walk towards the women? Where the women pretty? Where they young or old? Did they laugh? Did the ten men and women stand close at first or did you picture them seperately? Have you wondered about anything?

Did you picture yourself among the men and women? Or did you look upon them, created by you as if you were God Himself? Make the image dissapear, the ten men and ten women are an illusion. Maybe we are an illusion in the eyes of God. Would it make any difference? We were created and we remain. Regardless of what He thinks of us. We are here, we run towards others and sometimes they dissapear.

Poem to Cassiopeia

I want you, I refuse you
I miss you, I forget you

You feed me, you starve me
You lift me, you drop me

I adore you, I despise you
I love you, I hate you

You seduce me, you repel me
You fly me, you crash me

We future us, we past us
We stick to us, we part from us

I need you, I am swayed by you
You contain me,  you addict me

I use us, you use me
Sweetheart, I love thee

Being part of society

The question we must ask ourselves at some point is: do we belong in society? For those who can answer this question in a positive way, I might be jealous of you. For those who often respond to this question in a negative manner, I feel for you. We are all part of society, at least as long as we live, breath, consume, communicate with other creatures from the human race.

Last night I did put on my nicest clothes, combed my hair and put on my best hat. I walked through the city, passing by people, more concerned with myself than with them. Passing a store I looked at my reflection in the window. Long black coat falling a little higher than my knees, dark gray pants and polished black shoes. A nice blue scarf and one of the best dark blue hats one has ever seen. How amazingly nice must it be for others to see me pass by? Oh, I guess I just bring happiness to others.

Around nine in the evening I stopped at a theatre. "Literature and society", the title of the evening. I walked inside and wondered if I could still enter. As I found my way to the crowd my mood I had during the day switched. First I crossed two young men all dressed up and nicely trimmed. Not one hair wrong on them. 'How superficial' I thought to myself. Next I saw an old couple. The men with a moustache, long brown coat and face down. The woman looked as well any woman of a certain age, I felt pitty for her. But at the same time a horrible feeling about human beings came to me. By the time I reached the responsible for the entrance, who offered me to take a seat in the back row, I was all messed up. I refused the place and blamed that woman offering me the spot for her ignorance and looked down on her. I left the building to walk out in the night.

It had started to rain 'typical' I thought. What's the point in dressing nice, in gathering with humans? They are so, but oh so the same. Where are those special people I sometimes think about? Do they even exist? Or is it just me? Am I, too, a human as there are so many? Perhaps I'm not unique? Or maybe I am but would that matter? I kept walking, and with every step my dissapointment grew bigger. Is this what life has to offer? - I wondered. How can I even respect another human being? How can I expect to be respected? How can I love one of those crazy human beings? Perhaps it's better to love a ghost and direct my life towards an illusion? Why in God's name did the story of Ansgar appear in my head?

Society, what would you do without me? What would I do without you? My precious love, what would I do without you? What would you do without me? Question one and four are easy to answer: society and you would just continue my dear. But me? Oh dear Lord, what about me?

Sixteen

I used to regret not being able to turn back time. How much energy I wasted on that thought, I can't even express. But it was quite a lot. And since no magic seems in sight, yet, to turn back the hands of time, I believe there is only one way to relive the past. How I, at times, wished I would enjoy the most beautiful moments of being sixteen again. But I turned older. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, fourty,... And the further I grew away from that magic sixteen, the more I longed for it. And well, it was eating me for all those years. Friends, lovers, kids, no one could take that longing feeling away from me. But one day I had the sweetest dream, I was sixteen again but with more wisdom than back in the day. In my dream I realised this was the most precious moment in life, and how much sweeter it was than the 'real' sixteen-old me.

I was walking the streets with her again, climbing the snowy mountain, rolling around in the snow, holding the hands I once adored so much. Once again I was talking to her, smiling at her. Once again she told me how she loved me, oh how I remember she really loved me. And how dumb I ever was in real life, but not in my sweet dream. Oh no, the magic moments all came together in this dream. Chasing butterflies in the sun, sitting by the water, hiding in high grass, fooling around on the hills of the mountain, laying on a blanket in the sun. Walking that same mountain in winter time, watching the snow fall, falling in the snow, rolling around, kissing her sweet lips, walking to her house, watching her mom cover her while she had to get out of the wet, cold clothes.

And how all this brought me to that magic moment a young man is blessed with. That precious first love that feels free enough to change clothes in front of him. That magic when she shows more of herself little by little, as it all is so new, so magical. How it all started with a forced meeting, holding hands, talking sweet, giving kisses. So obvious, but so precious. Perhaps those moments will never be met again in life. Maybe those are the best moments in life, or is that just too silly to think?

As I can not relive them, I am glad I can dream them. Whatever life brings to me, I had that beautiful sweet sixteen in my life, not all people in the world can say that. And one day, dear reader, one day I will find peace with it all and fly back in time to make sure I tell my old sweetheart what she meant to me. I believe we all should, no?

The real idiot

There are plenty of things about human beings that irritate me. One that is high on my irritation list is the need to be the center of attention. The need to be liked, ok I can understand that in a way. But the need to be the center? I just don't get it.

Shouting, fake interest, bad jokes, showing off, laughing (too loudly), giving others nicknames.

-Shouting is okay in case of an emergency, during a sportsgame (as a player) or at the tv in an intimate circle of friends. Not to get attention from all people in the room.

-Fake interest is never okay, I have been blamed in my days for not showing interest. But it's more honest to show the fact that people can't interest you than to pretend, altough it is socialy accepted to do so.

- Bad jokes: some people are just not funny. Still some of the 'audience' laughs. Which is worse, I don't know yet. Maybe the 'funny' person doesn't realise he is a boring fucker? In that case I can blame the few people around him, lauging or getting into what was just said by the 'funny' guy. In any case, someone who is not funny but keeps on trying to is an idiot. And laughing with an idiot is idiotic. So I decided that the person and his crowd are all to blame, that's why I take my distance from a group where the above happens.

- Showing off: is this ever permitted? I'm not sure, I am tempted to say 'no'. But I show off myself at times. The difference between me and certain people I have in mind, is that I know about it and can realise how stupid I behave. The fact that some don't realise and keep talking, keep showing, keep needing to be praised... Oh, boy, oh girl, can we also call those people idiots? Perhaps they are bright in the intelligence department, but believe me, intelligent people can be idiots. Are they more too blame than 'dumb' people? Oh no, just as much. In 'dumb' people we can sometimes admire the showing off, it becomes just too funny. For the 'smart' people it is just annoying, they are the top of the idiot race.

- Laughing at unfunny things is already pretty low, as I explained before. Laughing too loud at it is socialy unacceptable. Even at a good joke it should never be done.  And it mostly is the 'one that hungers to be the center' that laughs the loudest, just as a way to get accepted, to be known as the one that likes certain people. This is just so sad, I saw it yesterday, I sighed, took up a book and left to read. People can really be a waste of time.

-Perhaps the dumbest thing I heard yesterday was 'give me a nickname'. Why would someone want that? It can be a teenager asking this, but in a group of people, why would you 'need' a nickname? Nicknames grow out of something, you can't 'create' a nickname for someone at the moment. Okay, I can, but I'm in a way just better than most of the people I see. So please accept not having a nickname, or when you show of your nickname, know how to pronounce it right. The guy I heard yesterday couldn't even pronounce his own nickname, so just shut up, ow please shut up.

I am not an artist in doing the 'social acceptable' thing. And yesterday, as I left the table, I realised: thank God I am not. How much hours would I have wasted listening to people that just could not say any useful thing? Maybe without that 'I need to be the center'-guy it would have been different, maybe the other idiots were nice? Or did I want to be the center, and can't I admit it? Don't I have what it takes? I guess, once again, I'm the real idiot after all...

Cassiopeia

Cassiopeia was preparing for a night out. Her friend's father organised a dance and he specifically asked Cassiopeia to come. He had always liked her, he saw that girl as a good influence on his daughter. So Cassiopeia accepted the invitation and she was now preparing for the night out. 


She loved these dances. It always brought her a happy feeling,   it remineded her of her childhood. How she, as a little girl, dressed nicely by her mom went along to the dance. And how her dad always came to her, while she was sitting on her mothers lap. Her fater gave her a kiss on her little head, and lifted her, asking her for a dance. And Cassiopeia would smile, hug her father and shout 'yes, yes'. And so she would stand with her little pink shoes on her fathers leather shoes, leaving white spots. And the image of a proud mother came to her mind again. How beautiful they were, her days as a little princess.


Cassiopeia opened her closet and took out a beautiful blue dress, picked out fitting heels and a coat, to protect her from the cold night. She spread all the things out on her bed, opened the small box on her desk and picked out her earrings, a bracelet and her necklace with the llittle diamond. She overlooked it all and was sure it would fit perfectly. Cassiopeia never tried things on, she just picked out her clothes and it always worked out fine.


Cassiopeia walked in the shower, scrubbing her body, washing her long black hair and enjoying the water falling on her face. Very delicately she touched the two scars she had on her shoulders. Her dad used to tell her that God had mistaken her for an angel and was adding wings to her shoulders. And that her parents told God it was their little girl, so He appologised and removed the wings.


Very elegantly Cassiopeia got in her dress, put on make-up, her necklace and bracelets. Her hair fell perfectly on her shoulders, just covering the little scars. She put on her heels, closed them at the top, picked out a purse, kissed her mom and dad goodbye, grabbed her cote and left.

Snow and milk

Ansgar was walking alone through the city. He looked up at the sky and saw the snow falling down on his face. He smiled and thought 'there is so much beauty'. He walked on, saw three girls laughing, falling in the snow. He saw a mother with her kids, a father with his daughter. And it was all so nice, he remebered how it was long tima ago, how sweet it was to experience snow as a kid. Ansgar  and his friends used to play in the snow all day long, build a giant snowman, throw snowballs into the neigbour's garden, run, roll, jump in a white carpet of snow. And after a tiring day he would run back home, drink a warm cup of milk and hide under a warm blanket. He wished the kids he was the same happy feeling as the one in his memory.

Thinking of the warm milk Ansgar stopped by the first café he saw, to warm up and enjoy the snow from behind a window. Ansgar walked in, greeted the barman and took a seet behind a corner where no one else sat. There were just two tables behind the corner. He ordered a warm milk, took off his hat, put his gloves next to him on the bench and placed his coat on top of them. While waiting for his drink, Ansgar saw a small book laying on the floor. He picked it up and read the back cover. He was not convinced by what he read at all. He often pictured that he would once find a book in a lost place that would guide him through life. But well reality was that this book must've been of an idiot, so he did put it back on the floor. Maybe this is were the book belongs.

The waiter brought him his warm milk, accompanied by a piece of cake. Ansgar broke of a piece of the little cake, put it in his milk, pulled it out and ate it. He always did this to see how hot the milk was. A little too hot apparently. Ansgar warmed his hands on the warm cup when Cassiopeia decided to haunt him. Why on such a winter's day would Cassiopeia feel the need to bother him? Couldn't he leave her alone for one day? And instead of the sadness that normally befalls him, he got angry. He got mad at Cassiopeia. If she could not love him, why didn't she leave him alone? And he told the haunting ghost to go away! As far away as you can, you damned Cassiopeia. But when he saw her leaving and fading he whispered: 'but don't go too far, I might need you soon again'.

While chasing away Cassiopeia two people took place at the table in front of Ansgar. Taking off their pretty hats, scarves and coats, he saw there two snow angels. Oh, how beautiful to see this happy sweethearts gossiping about friends and lovers. How he wished he could still be a teenager at times, perhaps this is how his foolish crushes used to talk about him in highschool. Well, that was in the past. Now, who would talk about him in such a naive way? His innonence got lost a long time ago, and Cassiopeia took away his last hope on true love. But today was not a day to think of such things, today it was sufficient to look at the snow and face life with a smile.

Ansgar finished his milk, put on his gloves, hat and coat. He stood up from the bench, greeted the two girls with a smile, walked towards the bar, payed his milk and walked out into the snow.

The closed door

- Close the door!
-- Fine!

- Open it again...
--Ok, better now?

- No, close it again.
--As u wish.

- Open it again, please.
--...

- Hello? Please?
--...

- Ow ...

Complexity

My mind is too busy to concentrate on the story I was writing. I would never become a good writer, I am mentaly unstable, I can not continue or write one story for longer than 4 days. But well, maybe someone can once put all my thoughts and sheets together and create a comprehensive line of my sidesteps. I wish that person luck, I, myself, I can not see things clear.

To get a clear mind, what can one do? I have tried a few options so far:

1) Seek the company of friends
2) Seek the company of family
3) Seek the company of music
4) Seek the company of strangers
5) Seek the company of food
6) Seek the company of  exercise
7) Seek the company of traveling
8) Seek the company of reading

After spending my days doing these things seperately I will try now a combination of things. First of all I will start reading, a good book can comfort me, get me lost in a world someone else created. In order not to get lost in that world I will seek contact with my friends, as we need to feel a basis, a foundation of real life. And what better for that than friends? Thirdly I will make sure my body remains active, a reading mind without exercise turns into a desperate and lost human being. These three points will be the essence of my inner ressurection, of my search for peace.

On the side I will do my best to give love to my family, to be nice to strangers, but I can not promise these groups anything right now. Perhaps in another stage of my life, but at this point I guess all I can do is dissapoint them.

Music is always around, it has an effect on the state I am in while the state reflects the music in return. Focussing on music as such would be a dramatic choice, a road that would lead to pure destruction.

Once I feel my search for peace has effect I will travel the wide world, some say this is an action one can do in order to find that peace. I don't share this view. One can only enjoy the beauty of the world when one has found peace in oneself, or better when one is finding the peace. Without this peace perhaps we can appreciate beauty, be overwhelmd by it, but we can not relate to it, not connect it to our deepest soul. On the other hand perfect peace we will not find without seeing beauty in the outside world, we won't find it without the touch of nature or human beings. So travelling is not something one should do at the start of a peacefinding journey, nor at the end of it. I guess time will tell when the moment is right.

I guess the dear reader of my pages is wondering where love or women come in my search for peace. As this seems to be of such importance in my life. Well, dearest person, I have no idea, I can't tell. Maybe it can only regain acces to my mind when the peace returns? And since I talk about love in accordance with the mind, as a smart person, you know what that means.