Vandaag ben ik klein
En zou je
(als je dat zou willen)
Me kunnen omsluiten in je hand
Ik zou verdwijnen in een hoek
om daar heel stil
klein te zijn
Vandaag ben ik breekbaar
Gemaakt van glas
En als je te hard vast
Houdt, dan spat ik onmaakbaar uiteen
in duizend kleine stukjes
voorzichtig
ik ben breekbaar
Vandaag ben ik weerloos
En val ik om
Met een zuchtje wind
En krimp ik ineen
Bij elk woord dat scherp schampt
Omdat ik mij
Niet weren kan
Dus blijf weg vandaag,
Morgen mag je weer
Hou me niet, raak me niet
Ga niet tegen me tekeer
Morgen ben ik groot
Morgen ben ik sterk
Mogen ben ik weerbaar
En mag je me best strelen
met een blik bedoeld als troost
zaterdag 20 november 2010
donderdag 28 oktober 2010
The roller coaster experience
I love roller coasters. No, I don't love roller coasters; I love what my mind does during a roller coaster ride.
A roller coaster ride is a typical example of a situation which is unrealistic or absurd. How strange it may sound, but I do not assume that our bodies and minds were evolutionary programmed to deal with being swung around, turned upside down, stop and turn in quick succession. I realised this all the more when I was in Amsterdam and was levitating upside down above the city.
In an absurd situation such as a roller coaster ride there are several possible reactions. Mine however seems to be of utter relaxation. My brain cannot really comprehend what is happening with my body, the information it has to deal with, seems both dangerous and utterly unrealistic. Before I am on a roller coaster there are feelings of excitement, maybe anxiety even , but once it's started that's over. It feels like I stop trying to comprehend what is happening, and relax into it. My brain just lets it happen instead of running scared or protesting.
Now, this "roller coaster experience" (brain: "dude! this is so weird, I'm not even gonna try, but let's just enjoy it.") is expandable. For example: "Kafka on the shore" was a roller coaster experience. The surrealism in this book went past the comprehensible. Trying to understand the why and how of this book would only cause terrible head aches.
I found the same works for social experiences. Absurdity works. Create an abnormal social experience and I seem to get along easily, keep my calm and stay relaxed. Perhaps even enjoy it. "Go along with the ride," so to speak. I even thrive there.
This is part of why I enjoy surrealism, fantasy, art, riddles, mind breakers inevitability, randomness, or infinity . If I cannot understand something, when a certain border is crossed, I cease to question and I cease to be scared. I am curious about my borders, how far can I go? Where are the limits? I must be careful not to view most experiences as interesting experiments.
So life, give me what you got, I'm just going to enjoy the ride.
A roller coaster ride is a typical example of a situation which is unrealistic or absurd. How strange it may sound, but I do not assume that our bodies and minds were evolutionary programmed to deal with being swung around, turned upside down, stop and turn in quick succession. I realised this all the more when I was in Amsterdam and was levitating upside down above the city.
In an absurd situation such as a roller coaster ride there are several possible reactions. Mine however seems to be of utter relaxation. My brain cannot really comprehend what is happening with my body, the information it has to deal with, seems both dangerous and utterly unrealistic. Before I am on a roller coaster there are feelings of excitement, maybe anxiety even , but once it's started that's over. It feels like I stop trying to comprehend what is happening, and relax into it. My brain just lets it happen instead of running scared or protesting.
Now, this "roller coaster experience" (brain: "dude! this is so weird, I'm not even gonna try, but let's just enjoy it.") is expandable. For example: "Kafka on the shore" was a roller coaster experience. The surrealism in this book went past the comprehensible. Trying to understand the why and how of this book would only cause terrible head aches.
I found the same works for social experiences. Absurdity works. Create an abnormal social experience and I seem to get along easily, keep my calm and stay relaxed. Perhaps even enjoy it. "Go along with the ride," so to speak. I even thrive there.
This is part of why I enjoy surrealism, fantasy, art, riddles, mind breakers inevitability, randomness, or infinity . If I cannot understand something, when a certain border is crossed, I cease to question and I cease to be scared. I am curious about my borders, how far can I go? Where are the limits? I must be careful not to view most experiences as interesting experiments.
So life, give me what you got, I'm just going to enjoy the ride.
archive #020
20-06-2010
I believe I’m imperfect, but I also believe there are many worse than me, so I have a right to be optimistic. I also believe I am entirely justified in not liking myself sometimes.
I believe I am capable of loving beyond loving myself. I also feel I’ll never be able to such self sacrifice. I believe such sacrifices are made daily. I believe it is possible to love and to hate at the same time. I believe that love always ends up hurting.
I believe that after death people go where they believe they’ll go. I believe people create their own hell, just as I believe that people create their own heaven. I believe in God as a possible of many, many options
I believe my most precious commodity is my life. I believe that no-one has the right to take someone else’s life even if we should call it justice. I believe life is one’s own responsibility. I believe suicide is a cowardly action; however I believe that any well thinking mind who wants certain autonomy over one’s own life must’ve at least once considered suicide. I believe suicide when suffering constantly in one’s life is completely justifiable.
I believe children should be happy and loved. I believe fish make wonderful pets. I believe cats are better than dogs.
I believe in no universal truths and I believe that’s a universal truth. I believe science will never be perfect, but that it’s the best thing to go by.
I believe first impressions suck because I believe you can’t do without them. I believe first impressions are vital.
I believe the moon is a she. I believe that by actively talking to her when she’s full I might appear insane, but that there is something out there listening. I believe the world will end in 2012, but we might not be aware of the fact that it has.
I believe that our thoughts are a collective of action potentials and synaptic transmissions. I believe that the sum of the parts is less than the whole. I believe one and one can be two, eleven, one and everything depending on your assumptions. I believe our existence is by choice, but at the same time by chaos and that we’re hopelessly stuck in patterns we can’t get out of.
I believe seasons change me, but that I essentially stay the same person. I believe I change and am a different person sometime soon as all the cells in my body will have replaced itself.
I believe I am defined by my memories, my ideals, my social environment, my history and my genetics. I believe we should be able to overcome all these predispositions.
I believe that coffee is bad for you, and that there’s nothing better than Ice-coffee during a boring lecture. I believe chocolate is a definite medicine for all emotional problems, but won’t do anything for anything.
I decided to write my own set of personal religions, and yes this was totally inspired by Neil Gaiman.
I believe I’m imperfect, but I also believe there are many worse than me, so I have a right to be optimistic. I also believe I am entirely justified in not liking myself sometimes.
I believe I am capable of loving beyond loving myself. I also feel I’ll never be able to such self sacrifice. I believe such sacrifices are made daily. I believe it is possible to love and to hate at the same time. I believe that love always ends up hurting.
I believe that after death people go where they believe they’ll go. I believe people create their own hell, just as I believe that people create their own heaven. I believe in God as a possible of many, many options
I believe my most precious commodity is my life. I believe that no-one has the right to take someone else’s life even if we should call it justice. I believe life is one’s own responsibility. I believe suicide is a cowardly action; however I believe that any well thinking mind who wants certain autonomy over one’s own life must’ve at least once considered suicide. I believe suicide when suffering constantly in one’s life is completely justifiable.
I believe children should be happy and loved. I believe fish make wonderful pets. I believe cats are better than dogs.
I believe in no universal truths and I believe that’s a universal truth. I believe science will never be perfect, but that it’s the best thing to go by.
I believe first impressions suck because I believe you can’t do without them. I believe first impressions are vital.
I believe the moon is a she. I believe that by actively talking to her when she’s full I might appear insane, but that there is something out there listening. I believe the world will end in 2012, but we might not be aware of the fact that it has.
I believe that our thoughts are a collective of action potentials and synaptic transmissions. I believe that the sum of the parts is less than the whole. I believe one and one can be two, eleven, one and everything depending on your assumptions. I believe our existence is by choice, but at the same time by chaos and that we’re hopelessly stuck in patterns we can’t get out of.
I believe seasons change me, but that I essentially stay the same person. I believe I change and am a different person sometime soon as all the cells in my body will have replaced itself.
I believe I am defined by my memories, my ideals, my social environment, my history and my genetics. I believe we should be able to overcome all these predispositions.
I believe that coffee is bad for you, and that there’s nothing better than Ice-coffee during a boring lecture. I believe chocolate is a definite medicine for all emotional problems, but won’t do anything for anything.
I decided to write my own set of personal religions, and yes this was totally inspired by Neil Gaiman.
archive #019
28-03-2010
Ontbijt, mijn vader, ik en een woordenboek:
Als ik een gijzelaar ben, kan ik zowel een gegijzelde als een gijzelnemer zijn.
"Dus dus gijzelaars overvielen hun gijzelaars, daarmee werden de gijzelaars de gijzelaars" is een legitiem
Martelen is gelijk aan folteren.
Een martelaar is niet gelijk aan een folteraar.
Dus "De folteraars martelden de martelaars." Kan wel
De "De martelaars folterden de folteraars." lijkt onmogelijk
al kunnen martelaars wel folteraars zijn afhankelijk tot welke groep je behoort.
Martelen is ook synoniem aan kwellen
Een kwelleraar bestaat niet, maar klinkt als een zangvogel.
Een Kwezel is een overdreven vroom iemand of een sufferd
en niemand raadt wat een kwispedoor is.
Ontbijt, mijn vader, ik en een woordenboek:
Als ik een gijzelaar ben, kan ik zowel een gegijzelde als een gijzelnemer zijn.
"Dus dus gijzelaars overvielen hun gijzelaars, daarmee werden de gijzelaars de gijzelaars" is een legitiem
Martelen is gelijk aan folteren.
Een martelaar is niet gelijk aan een folteraar.
Dus "De folteraars martelden de martelaars." Kan wel
De "De martelaars folterden de folteraars." lijkt onmogelijk
al kunnen martelaars wel folteraars zijn afhankelijk tot welke groep je behoort.
Martelen is ook synoniem aan kwellen
Een kwelleraar bestaat niet, maar klinkt als een zangvogel.
Een Kwezel is een overdreven vroom iemand of een sufferd
en niemand raadt wat een kwispedoor is.
archive #018
13-02-2010
We are an alien kind, shy and polite. We observe. We walk with our eyes cast to the ground in crowded places. Hold open doors and step back when people want ahead. We stumble on our words when we are surprised by being spoken to; the rare occasion when glances don’t pass us to the more salient people in our vicinity.
We know our kind when we glance around: the people who draw back, the people who are tolerated and well liked, but ignored and unacknowledged. We recognize them and smile. We feel no pity for the others of our kind. Not even when the crowd ignores them and our eyes meet, for we realize that we both know each other. We know our nature. We know it is in us to survive. It is in us to control.
You can find us in the background. You can find us in offices, in bookstores, in libraries and in universities, behind the scenes of the television. We have an urge to see, but no urge to be seen. They hand us their empty coffee cups to refill together with their files and folders to check, the scripts of the newsreaders to correct, the political speeches to write, the books to edit. We do not mind this. We will gladly clean your dirty cup. We’ll smile about it; tell you good luck and that the extra material is no problem. Our vocabulary exists of: please, thank you and no problem. As long as when you are out there you say and do what we want you to say.
We check the policies and correct them to our liking before sending them off. We determine if the books say what we want them to. We stand in the back mouthing with the famous speeches to see if they’re delivered correctly. We determine what you see, hear and even believe and are glad to give up the spotlight for that.
So, please, do not heed us, and we will expand our empire. We will watch you. Behind security cameras and policies, body-scans and chipcards that check wherever you’re going. We will watch your mobile phones and we will know all about you, while you nod and thank us for it, when we hold the door open for you.
The assimilation of your planet will be done, soon.
We are an alien kind, shy and polite. We observe. We walk with our eyes cast to the ground in crowded places. Hold open doors and step back when people want ahead. We stumble on our words when we are surprised by being spoken to; the rare occasion when glances don’t pass us to the more salient people in our vicinity.
We know our kind when we glance around: the people who draw back, the people who are tolerated and well liked, but ignored and unacknowledged. We recognize them and smile. We feel no pity for the others of our kind. Not even when the crowd ignores them and our eyes meet, for we realize that we both know each other. We know our nature. We know it is in us to survive. It is in us to control.
You can find us in the background. You can find us in offices, in bookstores, in libraries and in universities, behind the scenes of the television. We have an urge to see, but no urge to be seen. They hand us their empty coffee cups to refill together with their files and folders to check, the scripts of the newsreaders to correct, the political speeches to write, the books to edit. We do not mind this. We will gladly clean your dirty cup. We’ll smile about it; tell you good luck and that the extra material is no problem. Our vocabulary exists of: please, thank you and no problem. As long as when you are out there you say and do what we want you to say.
We check the policies and correct them to our liking before sending them off. We determine if the books say what we want them to. We stand in the back mouthing with the famous speeches to see if they’re delivered correctly. We determine what you see, hear and even believe and are glad to give up the spotlight for that.
So, please, do not heed us, and we will expand our empire. We will watch you. Behind security cameras and policies, body-scans and chipcards that check wherever you’re going. We will watch your mobile phones and we will know all about you, while you nod and thank us for it, when we hold the door open for you.
The assimilation of your planet will be done, soon.
archive #017
24-09-2009
Sometimes I fashion myself shouting down a well in desperation: “Who am I!?”
“Am I… m I… I… I…… I………” it echoes back. “And who are you?!” “Are you? … r you… You… You…… you………” It leaves me empty and filled with riddles and truths. (Lovely, two contradictions in one sentence. I am most definitely on a roll.)
I occasionally get lost in my memories or thoughts. I find myself staring into space reliving fragments of my past. They’re always just short and little things. Memories aren’t stories. They are feelings, fragments or images; burned inside of me. They’re scar tissue, a cancer and sometimes soft, fuzzy pillows with hot chocolate on clouds of nostalgia. I find my thoughts meander and keep striking cords, pasts, histories and people. They’ve formed me to what I am. Often enough when someone asks me where my thoughts are at they are probably on some odd remembrance which was struck by the occasion. Too embarrassing or too personal to tell.
Time passes too quickly sometimes. It’s so many years, since I haven’t spoken to a particular person. Years ago I’ve been hurt. Today a year ago my grandfather passed on. Yesterday three months ago I got a question asked. All images so vibrant, precious and some painful, but it’s not only these markers stick. Words somebody said, bits of conversation, but the in-betweens, the contexts are forgotten.
My past has shaped me. Though, it are usually just occasions, or critical moments that stick in your mind and they ultimately will to yourself define your pas to yourself while you are an odd collection of the whole.
What would I be without my memories? I often find myself wondering that. How much of my personality is shaped by that which has come before? Was my personality different than when I was just a smaller, younger, more inexperienced version of myself? And if I read this is a year or ten will I understand these questions and fascinations or will this questioning, doubting young woman have become a stranger to me? I’ve begun to hope that I progress and that my surroundings progress with me; that I’ve learnt from my past and am advancing as a person, as a being and as a whole. However, at most I see circles or ellipses; a harsh and endless repetition of mistakes, wrong presumptions, hopes and faltering. Do I really have a memory to learn from? Or are those images that haunt my thoughts only disruptive forces that make me prone to err? Some tell me to look ahead. I shouldn’t remain inflicted by my self cast mesmerizing. There feels there is nothing ahead. There seems little to look at but uncertainties. I find the future frightening. I start thinking about the consequence of every action I take and feel my course is hopeless. I suffocate at the thought of what might be the future, how things are determined for me. What am I to be? (“To be?... o be… be…… be……”) It’s definitely far easier to nourish yourself with the past, it’s steady, it’s there, and it’s been. Simultaneously it’s absolutely maddening. Living in the now? That’s worth to try, just be, without question, without thought. It sounds impossible to me.
Truth to be told: these states are better temporary. Sometimes I need forceful pulling out by either myself or someone else. Some kind of assurance that what is here now is tangible and real, more real than what has been, more real than the stories I tell myself. I’m happier that way.
Sometimes I fashion myself shouting down a well in desperation: “Who am I!?”
“Am I… m I… I… I…… I………” it echoes back. “And who are you?!” “Are you? … r you… You… You…… you………” It leaves me empty and filled with riddles and truths. (Lovely, two contradictions in one sentence. I am most definitely on a roll.)
I occasionally get lost in my memories or thoughts. I find myself staring into space reliving fragments of my past. They’re always just short and little things. Memories aren’t stories. They are feelings, fragments or images; burned inside of me. They’re scar tissue, a cancer and sometimes soft, fuzzy pillows with hot chocolate on clouds of nostalgia. I find my thoughts meander and keep striking cords, pasts, histories and people. They’ve formed me to what I am. Often enough when someone asks me where my thoughts are at they are probably on some odd remembrance which was struck by the occasion. Too embarrassing or too personal to tell.
Time passes too quickly sometimes. It’s so many years, since I haven’t spoken to a particular person. Years ago I’ve been hurt. Today a year ago my grandfather passed on. Yesterday three months ago I got a question asked. All images so vibrant, precious and some painful, but it’s not only these markers stick. Words somebody said, bits of conversation, but the in-betweens, the contexts are forgotten.
My past has shaped me. Though, it are usually just occasions, or critical moments that stick in your mind and they ultimately will to yourself define your pas to yourself while you are an odd collection of the whole.
What would I be without my memories? I often find myself wondering that. How much of my personality is shaped by that which has come before? Was my personality different than when I was just a smaller, younger, more inexperienced version of myself? And if I read this is a year or ten will I understand these questions and fascinations or will this questioning, doubting young woman have become a stranger to me? I’ve begun to hope that I progress and that my surroundings progress with me; that I’ve learnt from my past and am advancing as a person, as a being and as a whole. However, at most I see circles or ellipses; a harsh and endless repetition of mistakes, wrong presumptions, hopes and faltering. Do I really have a memory to learn from? Or are those images that haunt my thoughts only disruptive forces that make me prone to err? Some tell me to look ahead. I shouldn’t remain inflicted by my self cast mesmerizing. There feels there is nothing ahead. There seems little to look at but uncertainties. I find the future frightening. I start thinking about the consequence of every action I take and feel my course is hopeless. I suffocate at the thought of what might be the future, how things are determined for me. What am I to be? (“To be?... o be… be…… be……”) It’s definitely far easier to nourish yourself with the past, it’s steady, it’s there, and it’s been. Simultaneously it’s absolutely maddening. Living in the now? That’s worth to try, just be, without question, without thought. It sounds impossible to me.
Truth to be told: these states are better temporary. Sometimes I need forceful pulling out by either myself or someone else. Some kind of assurance that what is here now is tangible and real, more real than what has been, more real than the stories I tell myself. I’m happier that way.
archive #016
19-06-2009 Speech gehouden op de begrafenis van mijn oma
Hendrika van der Does- Kwakkelstein 02-01-1922 -- 15-06-2009
Ik miste je al oma, maar nu mis ik je nog meer. Nu is het echt gedag. Een vaarwel voor de kleine lieve vrouw die mijn oma was.
Een tengere vrouw, een lieve vrouw, maar een vrouw die vooral in mijn optiek gewoon oma was.
Iemand die gek was op planten en dieren, vooral vogels.
Ik weet niet hoe vaak ze me mee genomen heeft naar de kinderboerderij onder aan de flat aan de Bronkhorstlaan. Als ze me dan mee nam, vertelde ze over wat we zagen.
Ik herinner me handje vast met oma, grote rode bloemen, ik heel klein.
“Wat zijn dat oma?”
“Dat zijn klaprozen”
Nu ben ik groter, lijken de bloemen kleiner en is de wandeling naar de kinderboerderij korter, maar nog steeds als ik klaprozen zie dan denk ik aan handje vast met oma.
Ik miste ja al oma, maar nu mis ik je nog meer.
Ik mis de lieve dame die ons altijd voor het weg gaan even mee nam naar haar slaapkamer waar ze een klein doosje had.
Het was wit en blauw meen ik me te herinneren.
In dat doosje zaten dropjes, muntdrop vaak in kleine stukjes geknipt of het waren kokindjes. Dan kregen we er één mee, voor onderweg, voor in de auto.
Soms waren er ook wel chocolatjes die stonden wel in de keukenkast, maar er was geen uitzondering, we kregen er één mee.
Ik miste je al, maar nu mis ik je nog meer.
Ik mis de vrouw die ons altijd uitzwaaide vanaf het balkon. Zelfs al vergat ik soms omhoog te kijken, toch stond ze daar en zwaaide naar ons.
Ik mis degene die verwonderd mee liep in de dierentuin en zeer gefascineerd naar de dieren keek, geheel verbaasd, en soms niet werkelijk wetend waar ze was.
Ik mis de oma die me complimenteerde op mijn rapporten en altijd als we er waren vroeg hoe het ging op school. Ze vroeg ons allemaal hoe het ging en hoe we het deden. Ze was altijd bezorgd om ons.
Ik mis oma die met ons mee naar buiten keek met de verrekijker vanuit de flat. Oma die een paar keer getracht heeft me te leren haken of breien. (Die pogingen zijn jammerlijk mislukt voor mij)
Ik mis de vrouw die ’s ochtends een paar druppels citroensap bij haar thee deed. Die altijd koffie ging zetten zodra wij er waren en dat wij, de kinderen, mee mochten naar de koelkast om te kijken wat we wilden. Waarvan ik de koekjes uit de kast mocht halen. Die weleens gember koekjes in huis had, al vond ik die stiekem niet lekker.
Ik mis de vrouw die van puzzelen hield, die me haar puzzels liet doen, me daar mee hielp en die ons haar libelles liet lezen. (Met name de strips aan de achterkant)
Ik mis degene die de platen van haar kalender zo mooi vond.
Ik mis samen kijken in het fotoboek.
Ik mis de herinneringen aan haar die ik vergeten ben…
Lieve Oma, ik mis je.
Hendrika van der Does- Kwakkelstein 02-01-1922 -- 15-06-2009
Ik miste je al oma, maar nu mis ik je nog meer. Nu is het echt gedag. Een vaarwel voor de kleine lieve vrouw die mijn oma was.
Een tengere vrouw, een lieve vrouw, maar een vrouw die vooral in mijn optiek gewoon oma was.
Iemand die gek was op planten en dieren, vooral vogels.
Ik weet niet hoe vaak ze me mee genomen heeft naar de kinderboerderij onder aan de flat aan de Bronkhorstlaan. Als ze me dan mee nam, vertelde ze over wat we zagen.
Ik herinner me handje vast met oma, grote rode bloemen, ik heel klein.
“Wat zijn dat oma?”
“Dat zijn klaprozen”
Nu ben ik groter, lijken de bloemen kleiner en is de wandeling naar de kinderboerderij korter, maar nog steeds als ik klaprozen zie dan denk ik aan handje vast met oma.
Ik miste ja al oma, maar nu mis ik je nog meer.
Ik mis de lieve dame die ons altijd voor het weg gaan even mee nam naar haar slaapkamer waar ze een klein doosje had.
Het was wit en blauw meen ik me te herinneren.
In dat doosje zaten dropjes, muntdrop vaak in kleine stukjes geknipt of het waren kokindjes. Dan kregen we er één mee, voor onderweg, voor in de auto.
Soms waren er ook wel chocolatjes die stonden wel in de keukenkast, maar er was geen uitzondering, we kregen er één mee.
Ik miste je al, maar nu mis ik je nog meer.
Ik mis de vrouw die ons altijd uitzwaaide vanaf het balkon. Zelfs al vergat ik soms omhoog te kijken, toch stond ze daar en zwaaide naar ons.
Ik mis degene die verwonderd mee liep in de dierentuin en zeer gefascineerd naar de dieren keek, geheel verbaasd, en soms niet werkelijk wetend waar ze was.
Ik mis de oma die me complimenteerde op mijn rapporten en altijd als we er waren vroeg hoe het ging op school. Ze vroeg ons allemaal hoe het ging en hoe we het deden. Ze was altijd bezorgd om ons.
Ik mis oma die met ons mee naar buiten keek met de verrekijker vanuit de flat. Oma die een paar keer getracht heeft me te leren haken of breien. (Die pogingen zijn jammerlijk mislukt voor mij)
Ik mis de vrouw die ’s ochtends een paar druppels citroensap bij haar thee deed. Die altijd koffie ging zetten zodra wij er waren en dat wij, de kinderen, mee mochten naar de koelkast om te kijken wat we wilden. Waarvan ik de koekjes uit de kast mocht halen. Die weleens gember koekjes in huis had, al vond ik die stiekem niet lekker.
Ik mis de vrouw die van puzzelen hield, die me haar puzzels liet doen, me daar mee hielp en die ons haar libelles liet lezen. (Met name de strips aan de achterkant)
Ik mis degene die de platen van haar kalender zo mooi vond.
Ik mis samen kijken in het fotoboek.
Ik mis de herinneringen aan haar die ik vergeten ben…
Lieve Oma, ik mis je.
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