Wednesday, December 16, 2009


He looked at her as she scratched her nose, and the wind played with an unruly lock of her hair.
She smelled like the sun on a shimmering ocean.
And light.

He closed his eyes, trying to capture her essence,
as people passed them on the boardwalk.
Their footsteps merging with the waves beating against
the wooden poles on which it was perched.
Voices merged with the seagulls that drifted in the ocean air
like white paper planes.

They sat there for a while, eyes closed.
Breeze softly caressing their skin.
Sounds and smells merging.

Suddenly he felt an empty space on the bench beside him.
He opened his eyes as her skirt brushed against his leg when she passed him.
Fighting the urge to touch it, or maybe even grab it,
he watched it flutter in the wind, and the soft material contrast with his rough jeans.

For a split second their worlds merged.
Then she was a mere speck on the boardwalk.
One among many.
He smiled and slowly turned back, facing the ocean.

A seagull floated in the air before him, it's little orange legs dangling
helplessly beneath the grace of it's wings.
He couldn't suppress a roar of laughter....

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

The Honest Scrap Blogger Award

So...I was awarded a blog award of sorts...
The so called "Honest Scrap Blogger Award"

This by lovely @Angpang through her blog INCENSE AND PEPPERMINTS

However, my forfeit after receiving such a prestigious and lustrous award, is that I have to share 10 things with you.
Now, I must say I'm not a huge fan of these sort of things, as I prefer sharing my stuff at my own pace, more than being asked to. But, as I also do not shun from a challenge I hereby share those 10 things with the world.

9 things that are true...and one that is a lie...

1) I can roll my tongue up into a sausage shape. Not massively interesting, but from what I understand genetically predestined...which means that not everybody can "sausage" their tongues...I can...

2) When I was about 6 or 7 I had some bookshelves above my bed. One night, however, I managed to pull those loose, thus being buried under books, games, shelving, marble jars and whatnot. Suffices to say I'm not a big fan of shelves above beds anymore.

3) I hate, hate hate chicory. Why, do people eat that disgusting bitter leavage?

4) Had a secret crush on River Phoenix when I was a kid. Not only cuz I thought he was hawt, but also cuz I thought he was an amazing actor. Cried silently in my room for weeks when he died.

5) When I was about 5 years old I was in a Spaghetti Western. This was my first ever real acting experience. It was in the Spanish desert close to Almeria: they had built this Western town in the middle of it and my parents and I went there as tourists to look around (my folks knew I would love it, as I'd been declaring I wanted to be an actress since I was about 4, and rightfully so; I loved the Western town). But as it happens they were shooting some scenes in part of the Western town that day. So this lady asked my mum if I could be in it cuz they needed a kid for a scene. I got dressed into a Western-style dress and had to walk over to the bad guy and pull on his trousers, while I pretended to cry cuz I had lost my mommy. It was super weird to do this, I remember, but also a lot of fun!
And afterwards the lady gave me some fake dollars to play with, which I still have...somewhere...

6) When I was 10, my upstairs neighbor and I were best friends. He was my age and had a massive LEGO table that I envied ginormously. However tempting the LEGO was tho, we played outside a great deal. And at some point had come to believe that the garage in the street behind ours was building bombs to blow up the neighborhood. We'd go on reconnaissance trips to said garage to spy on the people working there and have lengthy discussions afterwards as to how we could save the neighborhood. At some point I even remember telling my folks over dinner about this scary shite, but (naturally) they wouldn't listen. So...we planned an attack.
I'd found some tampons in my mother's cabinet, and was sure it was dynamite sticks.
No idea why it didn't surprise me that my mom had dynamite sticks in her cabinet, but they sure came in handy...
So..we went to the garage, armed with tampons and matches...set some tampons alight and threw them into the garage (we were hidden behind a car, of course...secret agents we were)
What a day it must've been for those guys: working on a car, when suddenly...dozens of burning tampons get hurled at you...hahahahah

7) My maths teacher tried to help me with my exams during high-school. He had been harassing me for years, telling me I sucked at it, that I would never get my diploma, that I would flunk cuz of matths... And then, suddenly, come crunch time: he started whispering stuff to me...while there was an inspector in the room. I told him to shove it, and that I didn't need his help. And I didn't...asshole...

8) I have a shitload of music at much so, that my computer was getting borked because of it, so I had to result to buying an external drive to put the music on. My computer's much happier, but it's annoying not having all the tracks in my I'm still looking for a way around this...

9) My name is Basque. The Basque country used to be a separate country located in what is now the north of Spain and south of France. It was completely isolated from Spain & France thanks to the mountains surrounding it. And kept its independence until in the 1800's it became a part of Spain & France, still, however, keeping its language, laws and culture. After the Spanish civil war, however, General Franco (the dictator who came to power) forbad any Basque activities, and also the usage of the language. Basque names were out of the question, and Basque law and traditions were forbidden. After he died Spain slowly gave back the Basques their identity, and now Basque is mandatory in the Basque regions, and they have their own government and police, within Spain.
Of course the history is far more complicated than this, and it's still in turmoil, but this is it in a nutshell.
Basque is a language on its own, just like Keltic and Latin...
It's not derived from anything, and studies have shown it's ancient.
In fact, my name: Itxaso, means "Sea" in Basque... In Spanish this would be "Mar", and in French "Mer". doesn't look like Spanish at all...

10) I have a turquoise star tattooed on my left wrist

So...there you have it... 9 truths, and one falsehood...

And with is MY turn to choose my Honest Scrap Award Winners...

I have a select few, because I simply don't read a gazillion million I think it's nice to choose a select few...

So here goes (click on names to be directed to blogs!):

I nominate the 5 people that follow my blog:

And...I would nominate Angela Montague...had she not been said person who nominated me first...

Would therefore also wish to nominate:


All of which are also lovely tweeps!!

Congratulations folks!!
I pass the stick to you....


Oh, and the official rules I'm deviating from are:

a. 'The Honest Scrap Blogger Award' must be shared.
b. The recipient has to tell 10 (true) things about themselves that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass on the award to 10 more bloggers.
d. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

Paper Cut

Copy machines whirr in the background
Muffled telephone conversations
Ringing phones
Bad coffee in styrofoam cups

Warm blood
Gushes from the wound in her thumb
Dripping onto her blue t-shirt
She looks down at it
The blood makes strange patterns
That change
With every drop that's added

People around her
Rush to help
Trying to stop the bleeding
Thinking she must be in pain
"Are you ok?!"
They scream

"But why?", she thinks
"It's just a paper cut"
She suppresses a chuckle
Pretends to be part of
The grey agony squad
Thankful for some

In reality
She likes the changing blood pattern
On her t-shirt
They give color
To the dark, grey office

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Repost: The Laughing Heart

Just saw that I accidentally deleted this blog post from a few months back...
So here it is again:


Saturday, November 21, 2009

Gallery visitors in the wild...

Whilst working in an art gallery, all kinds of people walk in and out.
However, I've come to notice that people who visit art galleries tend to fit in one or more of the following categories:

* The "I am VERY interested in art" look:
Frown, arms crossed, chin resting on one arm, finger/sunglasses in mouth or against lip (sometimes ticking against it), loads of pointing, nodding and mumbling

* The "I can't afford any of this but I wish I could" look:
Shy & appologetic entry, blending in with background, looking at objects in awe, quick dissappointed pricetag glances, nervous looks towards gallery personnel

* The "I'm a connaisseur and collector" look:
Quick entry, quick walk-by, selecting pieces in a matter-of-factly manner like you're choosing sweets; very blase and whateverish, bark at gallery personnel, look on face like you're smelling poo

* The "I'm a connaisseur but have no money" look:
Quick entry and exit, inbetwixt loads of showing off what you know about the artist to gallery personnel

* The "I don't give a damn about art but I need a place to hang/perv on gallery personnel" look:
Slow tigerish entry, ignoring artwork, looking at boobs, grinning and chuckling

* The "Oh my GOD, I can't believe you have [insert artist name] in your gallery!!" look:
Quick entry, loads of exclamations of joy, pointing, telling your companions how wonderful it is that you can see x's work in the flesh, doing the same towards gallery personnel

* The "I'm an art student, but believe me I'd rather be home playing on my XBox" look:
Slow entry, oftentimes in packs, with art history teacher, wandering around thinking about how you think your lover is cheating on you and that you want to eat pre-fab pizza for dinner tonite, whilst pretending you're interested. Asking if the postcards are free, taking a few to show you were there. Getting the hell outta there as soon as you can

* The "It's raining outside, do you mind?" look: Quick dripping entry, loads of umbrella shaking and clothes flapping, mixed-feelings walk-thru, loads of glances out of the window

* The "I'm an artist too, maybe you want to showcase some of my work?" look:
Nervous entry, quick look-see, slowly move towards gallery personnel, ask gallery personnel how they tend to find the artists they showcase, try to do this matter-of-factly but slowly dying inside. Pull out book with images of own artworks, try to do this matter-of-factly but dying a tad faster inside. Ask if gallery personell would be interested in exhibiting your work, try to do this matter-of-factly but completely dying inside. Walk away nervously

* The "I'm a tourist, I know nothing about anything" look:
Bewildered entry with backpack whilst looking at worn-out map, walking around lost, talking in tongues, asking directions as you leave

* The "A video! You have a video!" look:
Normal entry, walk around looking at artwork, suddenly spot the videoscreen, get overjoyed. Spend at least 45 minutes watching the video whilst changing positions
. Walk away when video ends/starts over

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Fall cityscape

Massively windy day.
Am in a being blown away kinda mood.
Only thing missing is a wild ocean:

foamy waves breaking on rocks, filling the stormy air with salty droplets...

Coat heavy with salty water, wet hair swooshing in every direction, bright moon and stars above.

Sand sticking to boots, heavy with ocean spray.
Lips tasting of salty air.

In reality:

Little tornado's of golden leaves swirl among the swaying x-massy lit trees.
While thickly wrapped people make their way bowing to the wind.

Trees sigh, whisper and moan.
Eyes water.
Streets shimmer in darkness...

A multitude of dark shadows flicker & play with graffitied brick walls.
Caressing them softly as they pass.

A lone forgotten skateboard stands among the leaves.
Dreaming of a passenger it can carry on its withered back...

The wind sways the long hairs of a dog, turning it into a black hair mass, fighting nature's harsh breath.

Saturday, November 14, 2009


I'm as transparent
as glass

As foggy as a stormy

Have my
heart on
my sleeve for all
to see

Hide innermost
in dark

Tell all

Keep quiet

I'm an intricate
molecular structure

goes awol from
to time

Like any apparatus

not perfect

Nor do I claim to be

But I love


Friday, November 13, 2009


She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled shyly as he walked past.
A soft breeze followed, as he opened the diner door.
The little bell tinkled.
A ray of sunlight fell through the gap onto the tiled floor.

She sighed.

Straightening her apron she turned and went behind the counter.
Pretending to occupy herself filling sugar shakers.
Hopefully nobody would talk to her for at least 10 minutes.
She needed to pull herself together first.

It made no sense.
No sense at all.
But every pore of her body.
Every breath.
Was directed towards him.

Shaking her head she put the sugar down and walked off to the bathroom.
The cracked mirror showed her face in several smudged pieces.

"That figures" she thought as she pulled a small box of pills from her pocket.

Taking one, she felt it travel down her throat as she closed her eyes, waiting for it to take effect.
Her mind wandered off.
Vividly, the image of his eyes, burning into hers appeared before her mind's eye.
Sunlight falling on his hair, softly moving in the breeze.
His smell filled her nostrils.
The warmth of his skin tingled on her fingertips.
Soft wet lips smiled and spoke.

Then they were gone.

She opened her eyes to the cracked misty image in the mirror.
Nothing was as it should be.

Wiping a strand of hair from her face, she turned towards the door to resume her position behind the counter before her boss would come to get her.
Her hand trembled softly.
Tears welled up in her eyes.

Surprisingly a strange crunching sound came from under her sneakers.

Brushing away her tears she looked down to the floor.
The tiles seemed darker than usual.
She forced her eyes to focus through the humidity.
The dark smudges on the tiles seemed to move.

Pressing her hands on her eyes she tried to concentrate.
It wasn't the pill, she knew that much.

Her hands slid off her face slowly as she opened her eyes and looked down again.
She gasped.

The floor was covered in small, black beetles.

She stood for a few seconds, regaining her composure, then slowly looked up towards the door.
Moving like a sea of black waves, the beetles flowed and pulsated over every surface of the little bathroom. Making a soft rustling sound as they moved on the shiny white tiles.

Slowly but steadily she edged towards the door, doing her best to crush as few beetles as she could. The ones she crushed left a gooey black substance smeared over the white tiles.
"This is not happening, this is NOT happening!" she mumbled softly.
Sweat soaked her uniform and formed little droplets on her forehead.

At the door, she reached for the handle, with a trembling hand, turned it, and flung the door open.


His eyes burned into hers again...

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Kilimanjaro and the bloody mess that followed....

Halloween you say?
Well, then I guess it's time to write a gory scary story, innit?

I COULD of course opt for one about phantoms, zombies or other ghouls...
But what about scary stories that actually happened in real life?

Here's one that happened when I was 7 years old....

Whilst on holidays in the south of Spain, my parents, aunt, uncle, cousin and me visited a small picturesque village. You know the ones: white washed houses, pink flowers everywhere, streets covered in irregular cobble stones. It was guidebook pretty.
Not another tourist in site. Just us, the old geezers sitting in the shade of little orange trees in the village square, and the occasional old lady dressed in black, hanging wet clothes on wash lines that ran from one side of the narrow streets to the other.
It was a peaceful, sunny day.
The kind that make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
And warm and fuzzy I was, and so was my cousin, cuz we were promised ice-cream AND a Coke, if we behaved. Which we naturally did (we refrained from hitting each other and fighting for the time being, the reward was TOO tempting).

So, there we were...strolling through the winding streets.
Parents taking the occasional photograph.
My cousin and I pointing out flowers, old ladies and statuettes in windows to each other.

But then....
I had to pee.

Unfortunately, this village was so quaint and small, that it didn't have a bar.
We looked around, but there really was no way we could find a public restroom.
So, since I was about to pop, I *went* behind a dumpster in a small alleyway.
It was a great relief, let me tell you...when you're 7 having to wee can be a total crisis, so when relief comes it's almost like you managed to climb the Kilimanjaro on flip flops and Mars bars.
So great was my relief, that when I saw a cat I was overjoyed.

"Oh look, A CAT!!"

I screamed at the top of my lungs, followed by a ferocious howl of pain.
My mother came running.

"What's wrong??"

I looked down at my feet.
A pool of blood was forming on the cobblestones.
I had stepped into a broken bottle with my thin summer shoes, and it had cut right through into my left foot.

"Oh GOD!!"

My mother grabbed me, pulled me up and ran out of the alley with me in her arms.
My smiling relatives, turned around and smiles faded as they saw what was going on.
There, in the summer sun they sat me down and peeled the shoe off my foot: a large gush was visible, I was bleeding heavily.
I looked at my foot between the tears and at the blood that had dribbled all the way from the alley to where my foot was.
My mother's hand, holding my foot, was covered in blood, it dripped from her wrist to the floor, forming a puddle.

"We need a doctor!"
"Put something around the wound to stop the bleeding first!"

My aunt took a cloth hankie from her purse and they wound it tightly around my foot.
Then my dad lifted me off the ground and the whole group ran towards the village centre.
There my mother asked the old men sitting under the orange trees, if there was a doctor somewhere in the village.

There wasn't.

We then rushed to the place where our car was parked.
In those days, nobody wore a seat belt in the back, and we often travelled with loads of people on the back seat, kids on laps, you know the drill.
This time had been no different.
So we crammed into the back, me sitting on my mother's lap, and drove off.
We had to drive to the next city to find a doctor, the old men had said.

We drove faster than I've ever driven since, my uncle beeping the car horn fanatically as we went. And then....there was a traffic-jam.
The cars moved sloww, very very sloww...
I was feeling really light headed.
My foot was thumping like there was a full-blown African drum band inside.
It felt wet.
And I knew that was blood, but I didn't want to look at it anymore.
The atmosphere in the car was tense.
My cousin was crying too, my mother was cussing cuz of the traffic-jam and telling my uncle to drive around it somehow. My uncle was yelling back, over the horn beeping, my aunt was holding a white hankie out of her window to show people we had an emergency, and my dad was trying to calm everybody down.

After what seemed to be hours, we finally managed to get off that road I guess, because the next thing I remember is us rushing into an emergency room.
Doors flew open and people were talking hurriedly.
The pungent smell of bleach filled the green hallways.

And then I was laid down on some sort of table, covered in white paper.

Before I knew it I was pinned down onto the table by two nurses.
One was holding my legs, while the other one pushed down on my shoulders.
My mother kneeled beside me and said:

"Don't worry honey, it will soon be over"

Soon? Over? What would soon be over?
And then I saw the doctor....he moved towards me while he put some string on a huge needle.

The moment the needle went through my skin was much more painful then when I stepped into the glass. I screamed loudly and tried to wiggle free.
The nurses pushed on me but I was too wild for them to control me, so my mother and father had to help them hold me down.
While I screamed my lungs out till I hardly had a voice left.

The doctor then proceeded to stitch me up.
He didn't use anaesthetic.
Every time the needle went in, every tug on the thread surged through my body, and made my sore throat howl out a screechy scream of pain.
My tears had dried up; there were no more tears left to cry.

Weeks later, back home, when my doctor wanted to take the stitches out with a small surgical knife, I kicked him in the face. Hard.
NO WAY he was going to stick something sharp in me too!
We had to come back a 2nd time, so he could do it with scissors instead.

So much for ghouls and zombies, eh?

Happy Halloween everybody!

Thursday, October 22, 2009


What is life?
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

-Crowfoot (Sahpo Muxika)-

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Lost your dog?

"Hey pssst, psssst tssk tut tut tut"

Oftentimes when I pass a man on the street, and even more often when I pass a pack of men, such sounds get hurled to me with hushed voices or, if they're in a pack, loudly for all to hear.

Interestingly enough they don't expect any reaction from the female they make funny noises to.
I mean; they'd prefer a smile, but an angry "leave me alone you perving asshole" face, seems to be preferred as it evokes even more commentary, and when travelling in packs that is the way to go.

So, my question is:


Some of the sounds emitted are of the kind people generally make towards their pets.
A lot of whistling and smacking noises seem to be all the rage.

Once I turned around, faced a pack of dudes who had just made dog hailing type sounds and said; "Did you loose your dog?"
They were shocked, looked at me in utter confusion and seemed to be frozen to the spot.
So much for taking action.

The German who whispered French sweet nothings in my ear on the packed dance floor of a Finnish disco and thought I wouldn't understand him, probably still stands there with confused glare, after I told him off in French and said he was boring me. "Dude, I'm sorry but you're SO lamo *yawn*"

Do they REALLY think it's attractive?
Do they expect us to hurl ourselves into their arms swooning and smiling?
Do they think we'll say "oh come home with me tiger and show me all corners of my bedroom"
Is it EVER successful?
Don't get me wrong; I love guys, you rock my world.
But WHY this shite?

Yeah, if your sweetie says those things to you, in a making out session, or whilst doing the dishes, sparks ignite. And wild action may follow. But that's the lover, the one you WANT to hear sweet nothings from.
The stranger on the street...not so much...

I guess it's better than the man who crossed me in the street a few years back, and just made a grab at my lower regions in passing, and no, not my ass...
He laughed loudly and walked away after I successfully blocked his had with mine.
I turned around tho, ran after him and gave him the hardest shin kick he has probably ever felt.
He screamed of pain as he grabbed his painful leg, which I used to give him a kick on the ass.
He fell to the ground in a pile of dogshit, as I walked away...

I guess he found his lost dog after all...

If I could...

If I could...

I'd lick 
the world's face
and tell
it that
everything will be

Sending out
a beam of 
to engulf
every nook and
With warmth

If I could...

I'd inundate
the world
in a warm
Shake its core
Make it
its limitless

If I could....

Thursday, October 8, 2009


(photo by me)

Fall has fallen
with it
come clouds
in every

Dark and menacing
and tender

Clouds hold
the sun
it's safe
for it to

In the winter sky

i have found what you are like

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows


-in the woods


And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
your kiss

- e.e. cummings -

You, Darkness

You, darkness, that I come from
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world, 
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you. 

But the darkness pulls in everything-
shapes and fires, animals and myself, 
how easily it gathers them! -
powers and people-

and it is possible a great presence is moving near me. 

I have faith in nights.

-By Rainer Maria Rilke -

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Across the Universe

Words are flowing out
Like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe

Pools of sorrow waves of joy
Are drifting through my open mind
Posessing and caressing me

-from: The Beatles - Across the Unverse -

Just when I was about to go to bed tonite something struck me & made me cry.
Not because I'm depressed or anything, but because I suddenly realized what a massively special year this has been so far.
And that it has been quite meaningful for me in many many ways.
There's much I could say about it, I could explain every detail as to why it has been so special and why it means a lot to me.
But I guess that for now, expressing that it has (and is), suffices.

Some things, I guess, are best kept and shared with the people that are closest to you....

I did feel the need to voice it, however.
And typically enough when I started on this blank page, initially thinking I'd voice it in a poem, the lyrics from The Beatles' Across the Universe popped into my head and prevented me from coming up with anything that could voice more perfectly the way I'm feeling at the moment.

Slight melancholy, yes, but all covered in a kaleidoscope of colors....

Full of joy.



Thursday, September 17, 2009


When my grandpa was a little boy, during the Spanish civil war, they were very poor. So every piece of food was cherished and seen as something very valuable.

One day my great-grandmother managed to get one of those salted, dried fish that are still eaten all over Spain, bacalao.
She hung it in the kitchen pantry, high enough so the cat couldn't reach.
And there it hung, waiting to be cooked at a later date.
Or so she thought...

Because, from the day it hung there, my grandfather pinched little bits off the back of the fish & ate them in secret. He liked the salty taste of the fish, and it was a welcome addition to the plain meals of potatoes, bread and olive oil they generally had. He seemed to be continuously hungry.

The fish, however, gave him away: slowly, as he pinched little bits of fish, the skin of the fish started to harden, and curl, until it turned into a leathery, salted tube of fish.

One day, my great-grandmother walked into the pantry, ready to cook part of the fish.
And there it was; hard and round like a baseball bat.
It didn't take her long to figure out who had been eating it, though.

She took the rock hard fish and spanked my grandfather's tush until it was red and palpitating.

Needless to say; he never pinched pieces of fish again.
But his love for salty seafood remained....

I often think about this story.
Not only because it's one of the stories my grandfather loves to tell (with a grin and a mischievous glimmer in his eye), but also because, in a way, it's a metaphor for life.

No matter what age you are, or who you are in life, it seems that learning never ends. Every day sheds a new light on your life and that what you're doing with it, or what you should be doing with it. You often don't know when decisions will have a good or bad outcome, until you've taken them.

We take little snippets of that what is handed to us, and sometimes want more than what we get. So we take risks. But how do you know when the fish is going to curl up, and tell you you've been taking a wrong turn? 

And even if you do; wasn't the fish worth the smack on the bum?


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

as freedom is a breakfastfood

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
-long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
-long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
-long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts and thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
-time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

- by ee. cummings-

Wednesday, September 9, 2009


She scratched her shoulder & looked out at the downpour.
It had been raining for over a week.
Bored she sat down on her sofa, turning on the TV with her remote.
Her TV had been disconnected.
"Great, just what I needed", she said glumly, turning the TV off again.
She looked around her at her uncommonly neat living room and let out a sigh.
It seemed like nothingness had crept in and left her lifeless & bored.

"So this is what they call 'nothingness' in The Never Ending Story", she thought to herself.
Closing her eyes, she envisioned how bits of her living room were slowly dissolving into an empty void.
"Hey, will ya cut that out!"
The voice in her head startled her.
Opening her eyes she looked around her bewildered.
Had she really heard a voice?
Was she already turning into a crazy cat lady at the age of 32?
She shook her head.
Nah, it must 've been her imagination....

"Exactly! It IS your imagination! What the hell did ya think I was, huh? Ya couch?"
Freaked out she jumped off the couch, looking underneath it in a reflex, just like she did when she was a kid. Nothing there of course.
"What the f....?!"
"Jebus, it's THAT bad, huh?!"

"Who the hell IS that?!"
"Just told ya, I'm your imagination, dumbass"

"It can't be..." she mumbled, looking around her full of suspicion...had somebody placed a camera and speakers there? Was she part of a prank?
"George? Is that you? You're not being funny!"
"Gawd, you really ARE brain dead, aren't cha?"

"Will you CUT THAT OUT!! Whoever you are!"
"I can't, sugar. I'm in your head. Well part of me anyways, the last remainin' snippet of me. Yo been a real dull lady lately, ya know! So I thought I'd give a signal o' life."

"Yeah, well I don't appreciate that! -Goddamnit I'm going bonkers-"
"Neh, not nuts, in fact, you're not nuts ENOUGH. Not anymore..."

"Well, what the hell do you want from me?"
"Geez, do I have to draw it out for ya? No wonder... I'm talkin' to ya, cuz ya gots ta take action, before it's too late!"

"Too late? Too late for what??"
"Before ya turn into a boring old sod, without any imagination. Before I gets to move out n find another home. And THAT I don't appreciate, missy!"

"What the FUCK?!"
"HEY!! Foul language won't help ya no mo! I ain't no easily intimidated so n' so, I'm your friggin' imagination, so deal with it!"

"Bloody h..."
"EH! What did I just say to ya?!"

"So...what 'cha gonna do about this little situation, we gots goin' here?"

"How the hell should I know? YOU'RE the one approaching me? I was just minding my own bloody beeswax!"
"Yeah, and letting in the 'nothingness' in the process, miss bright light."

"Listen, if you want me to do something for you, IF I say. You've got to stop calling ME names!"
"Alright, comprendo. I's just annoyed 's all. Ya gots ta do somethin' quick, fo realz!"

"Right. Anything to get you out of my brain."
"I'm ALWAYS gonna be in yo brain, always ha..."

"Whatever. So, how do we do this?"
"How the frack do I know? I'm yo imagination, but you 'se got to put me to work, not the other way round..."

She looked around her trying to find something that would help her & make the voice stop talking to her.
Suddenly she remembered how, as a kid, she used to make cartoon-like drawings.
She grabbed a notebook and a pen and sat down on the sofa.

"That's bitchin, girrl!"
"Shh...let me think....hmmm....mabye something to do with a princess or something?"

"Not very imaginative but it might work, it's kinda' dull with no color tho."
"Well it will HAVE to do!"

After drawing a complex drawing with a princess on a horse, in front of a castle that's on fire, while the prince is somewhere laying next to a lake talking to a giant frog with bunny ears.
She sighed a sigh of relief.
There....that had to do it...

"Meh, sorry, chica. Still a big void here, it's kinda' cold too by the way. Speed it up, will ya?!"

Suddenly she had an idea...
She jumped behind her computer and started writing.

"Hey, you 'se writing 'bout me!"
"You've got THAT right!"

Like a ferocious predator she attacked her keyboard and wrote.
Suddenly the heaviness that had been upon her all day vanished, and she felt much more energized. Her boredom, she noted, was gone.
But so was the voice....

"Hello? Are you still there?"


She looked at what she had just written, and realized her imagination had just been unplugged once again.

"You dirty little bastard....", she said, and smiled....

Friday, September 4, 2009

Prelude to a rainstorm

Like a deserted island, the gallery stands barren.
As outside clouds pack together to create a watery curtain.

Loudly flapping marquees and flags, mark the coming of stormwinds.
As do swaying cyclists and girls with ruffled hair.

A tiny dog shivers, and seeks refuge behind its owners legs.
While its hair blows in the wind, as were it skydiving from a plane.

Above it, the clouds form a dark pack in the once blue sky.
Minute drops start their long journey towards the ground.
Splashing down at irregular intervals.

Umbrellas are no match for what's to come....

Sunday, August 30, 2009



Windswept alleys

The rage

That fills your inner



Like angry


Packed in a cage


Scratching the

Metal bars

Its not just

The loud


That reek


Thursday, July 23, 2009

Eternally Unmashed?

Eternal Mash, Catherine van Campen (2007)

Ruurd Walecht's interest in historical crops began when he was very young. He started a life-long crusade to protect, preserve and maintain them. This Dutch Don Quixote of rare vegetables built an incredible collection of hundreds of crops that were on the brink of extinction. A few years ago, Ruurd suddenly moved to Sweden leaving his colourful mix of helpers behind. Eternal Mash tells the story of this master horiculturist and his Green Ark. Because his life's work is very important to all of us...

Supermarkets are lined with shelve upon shelve of products wrapped in colorful packaging and plastic foil. 50 types of butter stand in line, like girls in a beauty pageant, trying to lure eager shoppers to fall for their charms.

However, the vegetable department seems barren in comparison. You can almost imagine tumbleweeds rolling by as, amidst of all the color and splendor of the canned and packaged goods, you enter the deserted vegetable area.

Vegetables lie in puny piles in what is often the smallest section of the supermarket. Here you can’t find a vast array to choose from. No limitless rows of produce. No sexy luring. Only one type of broccoli, one type of cucumber and, if you’re lucky, 3 types of lettuce. (True; you can now decide whether you want to buy them sliced or whole, but that’s got less to do with choice and more with inner-city laziness.)

All this is due to international legislation that has permitted the influx of countless artificial and pre-packaged products, but has determined that only one species of cucumber is to be produced for consumption, ruling out all other variations of the vegetable. Consequently 75% of what used to be farming produce has irretrievably disappeared.

Instead we have opted to create genetically manipulated vegetables and fruits, shaping and re-shaping them until they grow faster, and look uniform and perfect in our eyes. No wonder lemons (normally yellow for only a few months a year) get a useless and slightly toxic coat of industrial wax to make them shine. Uniquely shaped fruits and vegetables are out of grace.

Produce is now grown under strict, sterile conditions in carefully monitored boxes and this is visible in the food we eat. Tomatoes might look beautiful, but inside they are filled with water and lack the taste that drew us to them in the first place. Vegetables have turned into Mediterranean coastal towns; once visited by foreigners for their uniqueness, and now built to the rim with high-rise uniform hotels, defacing and standardizing them. Gone are strong flavor, unique shape and size variety.

In Eternal Mash the maker addresses this very problem. For years Ruurd Walrecht had seen how vegetables were changing and being formed into glorified Xerox copies of their original ancestors, or disappeared altogether. So he started a project of collecting as many variations of plants, in their original, un-edited form, to preserve for posterity in a carefully kept field somewhere in the north of the Netherlands. Unfortunately, it seemed to be for def ears. As he fought to make government organizations see the purpose of his project, he only received support from a few fellow concerned citizens. So great was the non-support for his project, that after fighting it for some years he couldn’t stand the pressure anymore and left. Packing his belongings and moving to Sweden. Leaving behind disconcerted helpers, who’s life he touched, and an invaluable collection of seeds and beans. As with every such project, its value is only seen once it seizes to exist. And in this case it was no different. His seeds have been stored in so called gene banks, in order for the species to survive the rigorous regime of the uniformisation.

But this survival is as sterile as the conditions vegetables are grown in these days. Packaged in air-tight sealed sachets and frozen in huge refrigeration chambers, the seeds now wait until one day somebody might remember them and make them grow again. However, the gene bank employee tells us; “If there’s interest in using them for genetic manipulation they will also be released.” Thus destroying the whole purpose they were collected for in the first place.

Is society so far digitalized that we don’t care anymore about what we put into our mouths? That we content ourselves with having a quick, tasteless TV dinner, because that’s all we have time for. Will this, in time, merge into the nightmare scenario shown in Wall-E where humans drink all food, processed and mauled, from a cup? Is the lure of colorful cans and packaging so strong that fresh produce can’t compete anymore? Will more and more produce remain eternally unmashed? I guess only time will tell...

Wednesday, July 22, 2009


"I remember singing "The Cross" by Prince in my head to focus on, while laying on a stage pretending I was dead, blood capsule in my mouth, it worked...

I was 16 and had just been theatrically slaughtered by a boy with angel wings and a violin...good times..."

I just tweeted that after the song triggered the memory.
And a good memory it is....
Which got me to thinking about my passion for soundtracking.


I call it that because much like soundtracks in films, I enjoy putting a soundtrack to my life.
This happens in two different ways:

1) HeadTunes
Unbeknown to onlookers I will have a song or tune playing in my head to accompany situations I find myself in. This tune might be triggered by something that is said (a word that corresponds with a lyric of a song) or an image that conjurs the song in my head.
For some freakish reason nature has blessed me with a brain that stock-piles needless information, and among this information there's a full library of music and songs, oftentimes complete with (partial) lyrics.
My buddies sometimes call me "the human jukebox" because of this.

2) HeadPhones
I will have headphones squeezed into my ears whenever I can OR listen to music via players of sorts.
This in itself is not uncommon; these days quite a lot of people walk around like this.
But the difference is, that I'm not blocking everything else out....I'm coloring that what I see....
I apply this, for instance, when I'm reading a book; every single book I've read has had a soundtrack to it.
And every soundtrack is different, because every book is different.
Effect is that I can remember the story of a book whenever I hear a certain song, and especially what it made me feel.

Needless to say I always collect and dissect my own music for the plays I direct, as I'm well aware of the effect sound has on the over-all image.
And yes, I can get VERY annoyed when soundtracks to movies are bad...especially if they don't allow time to breathe, or at least give you the idea they do...



"I felt the blood capsule powder mix with my saliva and trickle down my face, as the boy with the angel wings played his violin, and I lay there, motionless in front of an audience of onlookers...all the while "The Cross" played repeatedly in my head...."

i go to this window

i go to this window

just as day dissolves
when it is twilight(and
looking up in fear

i see the new moon
thinner than a hair)

making me feel
how myself has been coarse and dull
compared with you, silently who are
and cling
to my mind always

But now she sharpens and becomes crisper
until i smile with knowing
-and all about

the sprouting largest final air

inward with hurled
downward thousands of enormous dreams

-e.e. cummings -

Seeker Of Truth

seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where

truth is here

-e.e. cummings -

Saturday, July 18, 2009


As hearts open to the world they inhabit
And dreams take shape
Some small, still shivering from the shock of birth
Others grown and gaining in strength
As days pass

The rain falls
Oblivious of all that occurs
Beneath it
It flows down
In a cooling curtain

Washing away
Fear, doubt, anger

Dreams and hearts moulding themselves
Into multi-colored shapes
Like ravanous beasts
Eager to be fulfulled

Salty drops of sweat 
Merging with rain water
Making things happen

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

The Gates

Film review I wrote during a documentary film festival for a film magazine.


Not a mere recording of the creation of landscape art for New York’s Central Park by famous artist Christo and his wife Jeanne-Claude; The Gates is a documentary which symbolises the general public’s perception of art.

Passing through a period of 26 years, it narrates the bureaucracy and narrow-mindedness the artists had to face to be able to complete the finished piece; a two-week display of 7500 saffron coloured gates located over the park’s walkways. A project that cost around 20 million US Dollars, and was funded by the artists themselves.

What, everybody wants to know, is its purpose? “Why don’t you use that money to feed people?” and “The park is a piece of landscape art! To place another piece of landscape art on top of it would be like asking Picasso to paint the Guernica on the surface of The Last Supper!”. Then, in 2005, they finally get the green light. Hidden behind trees, people reluctantly watch as the first steel gates are erected in their beloved park, whilst muttering and complaining to the camera crew. Yet all this ceases the moment The Gates are unveiled; at first the park turns into a theatre, with great crowds of enthusiastic onlookers, then into a mystical place where the wind blows the fabric attached to the steel into beautiful saffron-coloured waves, framing the parks’ vistas and reinvigorating a space that everybody took for granted.

As one of the park’s inhabitants, a homeless man, states: “People think why don’t you use the money for something else, like feeding them and shit. Something like this, the money is well spent! I think it feeds the soul.” He should know.