Hi there,
I did some spoken word recordings that I would love to share with you. Do keep in mind. That it is a puzzle piece, that it is configurationally half-assed, doodle, scribbles, figuring-outs-to-be-done.
Hi there,
I did some spoken word recordings that I would love to share with you. Do keep in mind. That it is a puzzle piece, that it is configurationally half-assed, doodle, scribbles, figuring-outs-to-be-done.
It’s mid January. I’m strolling in between what seems to be the longest ping-pong match I’v ever assisted in my head. On the left hemisphere we have team B which consists out of not dropping out and on the very end of the right hemisphere we have team A which is ragingly screaming “drop the fuck out”. I fold a letter from school stating how the tuition fee will raise this upcoming year and I sit I calm the fuck down and I sit right in the middle, yes, on the pineal gland, I release the tension, set all the remorse and cynicism to flame and start what some may call a breathing exercise and others may call meditation, this match is gonna take a toll on eternity, so I sit down, and write. I have to write my way out of this ping pong match before it drives me crazy and I think, I’m half way thru eternity already might as well stick it thru and I think about how hard it’s been to make friends, how hard it’s been to make lovers, how hard it’s been coping, with the ever feeling that I, I do not want to belong here, I’v been scratching an urgent itch to leave, to wait tables, to save enough money and travel but no I write: “Whilst escaping what seems to be a one-night stand gone bad I met Bianca. Mid February, Bianca comes bashing out what seems to be a pub, its winter storming and Bianca looks at me with a look that secures me that once, once somewhere far away we were sisters. She grabs a handful of snow, makes what seems to be a snowball and launches it at me. Before I could utter —“you are not serious”, Bianca launches the snowball vigorously, and bursts out laughing, I’ve been living in Amsterdam for 2 years, and it took me one stormy winter night and Bianca to start seeing the glass half full and not half empty. Mid February, I’m thinking about monogamy, I’m thinking about the unfairness, about how you sell yourself short in capital letters, how love should be free, how the problem hovers upon how we want to own people. I rough draft what seems to be an A4 filled with streams and rivers of consciousness, I’m figuring it out, I repeat to myself, I’m figuring it out, I shouldn’t be so harsh on my self. Waking up with a huge boner for the unspeakable is good enough. I still have 5 grams of psilocybin waiting for me to decide upon it some day, some-days.
“As a child, I would have these plastic telephone toys. I would use them to imaginatively convert them into lab parts, not a methlab, a real intricate lab, that I’d construct in my grandpa’s backyard. I distorted all my toys, all their functions and made them into intricate machines, once upon a time, I pressed the telephone receiver against my crotch, I think I was 6 or 7, thats the first time I experienced an odd kind of pleasure. Some call it empirical investigation. I call it living without obstructions and parental instructions. It was the first time that I realized and took on my own account, the fact that life, is a series of pleasures, and you should full fill yours, regardless of what the church, your 9 to 5 mother or any other institution says. Of course hormones and puberty distorted most of these very insightful ideas. But the moral of this story is simple. You should always have a plastic telephone receiver around for when your crotch decides upon life.”
Tape Recorder Responds.
My childhood consisted out of flashing bulbs, home work procrastination, domestic intolerance, Godly placebos and much of “I’ll have to gather the guts to tell.”
“Have you ever gone thru days lapsing days of Deja vu, knowing to the core-and-back of things that you’ve been on this plateau before. The external structure of this place coordinates with the inner landscapes of your mind (New agy sighs) . Have you ever gone thru days topping days of feeling that this, all of this is just practice, that you need not to take these tasks seriously, that you’ve been thru these tasks, you haven’t failed either succeeded, but you’ve been thru. The books have already been read regardless of your moments of deep clarity, which just might have been the jiff you slipped in between your tongue and took for a fresh breath of clarity, but in truth, you completely and utterly understand, the next step, the stem-out, the break thru, grasp them—sometimes you settle your mind on this notion and you just really want to believe it.”
Tape Recorder Responds. It takes a long time to wear of all what your theist mother imprinted. It takes a long time.
“……”
Tape Recorder Responds. Breathe..
“And then there’s this, these hands knowing its way to these words, to the repetition of words, specifically, pacing, easily upon the paper in the hope of a deconstruction, an inner-crooked map. Besides, I shouldn’t convince you, it should resonate with you. It should strike many chords, many many chords.”
Tape Recorder Responds. Don’t become so cynical, life is a series of experiences, see it for what it is, don’t let your emotions heighten something as mundane as living.
“Take your sweater. Put it on the table. Sit on the hands of the seat, feel eternal and never ever complain about the singularity of this moment. Squeeze again and again if you have to. Color inside the lines, do not look the other way, make a circle, step in with me, stay there, you cannot taste, smell, see, feel anything else, I’ll entertain us, let’s start again, Monogamy, feel mad, let the anger bubble over, get mad again, scream, kiss, lick, have an orgasm, look me in the eyes, drop acid, remember in the circle, sleep, dream, you can take a break, dream a little bit more, about diversity, not mono, diverse, taste, feel, hear, other, wake up, alarm rings, improv, props, circle light.”
Tape Recorder Responds. Have revelations..
“It all went wrong when some male personage in the tribe asked if that baby in that woman’s womb is mine and somebody in the tribe forgot to tell him that it’s ours. So, he took the baby, took the woman, built an army, created an empire, with lots of other male personages being born to ask the same question: Is that baby in that woman’s belly mine?”
Tape Recorder Responds. Life happens, Ego happens, Domination happens.
“Fuck, I’m quite sure that if I should vanish right now I’d vanish into the light looking for the prism that gives everything sensation, looking for that thing that gives everything form, atmospheres, that which cannot park it’s vacant car in dictionaries, elusive things that language cannot hide”
Tape Recorder Responds. Breathe..
“I still have 5 grams of Psilocybin Mushrooms waiting for me to decide upon the “unspeakable”—as Alan Watts puts it. I can’t quite remember. I want to be against sexual objectification and in addition I want to be the object of desire as well. I want as much equality as I want to compete. I’m quite sure that it always started with the deviation. I once was the ugly and the absurd in a cast of enchanting fluffy things, but now I became either the one or the other. I became either your friend or your dispised neighbor, the one always too close yet not far enough, you wouldn’t want it that way, that would be boring. I became the wise one or the stupid fool. I was mostly categorized by the moods that I had and you had to keep going, as Vonnegut puts it. But it always starts of with a baby and then it started with language thats when it really kick started. I spend most of my nights drowning in language, drowning in ideas, drowning in the puzzle pieces. Always drowning never dying. I love swimming thats why I prefer sinking and thats why I haven’t decided upon the 5 grams yet, that would be dying, and who would want to come back from the death, only Jesus, the fool. Dying it is, its the beautiful cast of goo-y shit. And now I’m in between bitch and puritanical goo. Contradictions and consistency. Contradict, contradict, contradict the shit out of things I say. Behave everyday differently, unexpectedly, catch the fucker off guard, have yourself a fucking merry little christmas in June, who the fuck cares, why the fuck should we care, why not let the marbles be shaken in June.”
This is the part where it starts to end. Tape Recorder Responds.
”..”’
Armando Goedgedrag and I started a collaborative project where we try to explore what can be done with atmospheric melodies and intangible words, this is for your morning daze, close your eyes, pillows are in order, breath.
You should, hang-over more often. “Why?” There’s too much to be said and little thats being spoken about the affinity we create in each others presence. “Go on.” Let it be, let loose your heavy mind, thats, always on guard for the fluttery butterflies not to enter in your stomach, but you, you are Feelings child, all born out of the tense and touching and caressing and sometimes we forget it, sometimes we really forget to remind each other that the wind’s blowing in our faces, that feelings are here to be felt in its completeness, to be Caresses, not just to feel them but to be them. Not to judge, not to box them up, but to let them unravel marvelous worlds in front of you. Nostalgia, they call me Nostalgia for a reason. Somehow, all I find myself doing is thinking about feelings, thinking about the type of language that can convey those feelings. All I’m always thinking about is making sunsets out of your lips and having fiestas on your skin and little by little, wrapping my self in the Here, and forgetting about who I every was in your eyelashes.
We all wait in silence, for our feelings to come-in pressing against our bones, for our guts to turn over on its back, so we can witness the rebirth of ourselves, on the dinner plate, somehow, our appetite has been curbed, by our relentless desire to Experience. So now we wait for our little selves to come over, so we can start afresh from the bottom-up, we are scrolling up, our slacks, we are scrolling our faces, relentless desires on our plates reigns the ability out of us. The ability to concentrate upon each other.
It’s only fluffy ‘cause I started writing the names upside down, the family names, the ones they gave me when I had to give birth to this world. It’s only fluffy ‘cause tomorrow I’ll continue the journey, the trick is to never go home, never twist your ankle twice, your mom taught you to sit straight in order for you to walk long distances, you’ll get used to it, spine up, never settle for comfort, not even when they twist their hair and look over their shoulders, ‘cause, they look for the journey in a glass withering flashing light, allowing them to prove to the world their existence. This, is never an honest response: “I was late for your meeting with what you presume me to be ‘cause I lost count of how many heartbeats it took me to get out of bed, midst winter, they speak loud inside my head, the clumsy heart beats.” For fear ever not to return to the page tomorrow, Existence rings in their ears at dinner time, thats why they are so quite and lacking small talks.
“I’m gonna start speaking in terms of making love instead of fucking now.” And I repeated myself. “I’m gonna start speaking in terms of making love instead of fucking now.” Do not misinterpret love. Do not see it as an electrical signal that busts your chest open whenever you do not exhale my name for breakfast, thats my euphenism for, don’t think of me as a ball and a chain—but more like passion strings thats in the process of weaving a blanket for winter, a blanket for the crusty wound of this world, think of the act of making love more like the reinvention of ourselves, picture it this way, we just flooded open the gates of multitudinous ”me’s”, we just broke the code, we are about to enter the inter-stellar galaxy, inheriting our birthright to feel and experience the metaphysical aspects of our cells, atoms and body. Think of it this way, and I quote: “Since consciousness forms matter and not the other way around then thought exists before the brain and after it, a child can think coherently before he learns vocabulary—but he cannot impress the physical universe in its terms, stop giving it terms, do not bound yourself to only feeling this magic linger on your fingertips, lets make flesh, whats in between us, by pressing against each other we are contributing to the existence of abundant eternal moments”. Love existed before I had to become “me” and before you created “you” so lets stop creating boundaries. Lets start thinking about the act of making love as a mutation, we mutated our imagination into flesh, and here it is, reenacting, what we always wanted to be. Some always asked me, what do I write for, and the words that get spoken—“I dont know” never seem to realign with the inner voices, singing to the choir, to get closer to God, to get closer to the unimaginable, the unspeakable, the plateau we stemmed out from. So here’s some poetry out of my ass:1)I used to think of myself as insignificant, as particles made unaware of the beauty they inherited, reverberating, rejuvenating the years to come. 2) I love, I love for living, I love for breakfast, dinner and lunch, I love hard and foolishly, wrecklessly, I love tongue tied, thats all I do, I feel, and when I lie, and look little bit cold or melancholic, maybe, its because I’m taming down the galloping under my skin, ready to burst out at any moment now, “hush” I murmur, to the galloping skin and cells, to the love armored atom, “be good to the world.” I’m quite sure, that if right now, I should vanish, I’d vanish into light, looking for the prism that gives everything sensations, colors and atmospheres. Looking for that thing that does not park its vacant car in dictionaries, elusive things that language can’t hide.
“I dropped out of school, but its okay” I tell the newlywed, gorgeous couple. “Its okay cause well, lemme sketch the plan for you, I’m gonna nail myself to the ukelele, flush the semester and become a bucks-making ukelele player, cutely smile and wear flower bandanas, and start traveling as soon as the first spring leaf buds out, that will be just, practice, ill learn stir it up, and make a vocation out of making people happy y’know, melt the winter icicles from their dull faces, and let the wrinkles around their smilling faces burst out laughing, break the ice as they say, dimples as deep as the atlantic ocean ill create.” “And, just incase, your plan does not work, what will you do”. I’m sure he said something about how marvelous my plan was before he sucker-punched my dream, something like, thats a grandiose idea, you should do it, but than came the “in-case”, in case , possibilities, we live in a world where dreams are only solid in dreams, so I think, not even think I just glance at a picture of me prostituting for a living, but, that was a split second glance, cause my gut was crunching at how the ukelele-plan, is a rigid and genial plan, so I laughed and I stutter something like, well, I guess we’ll just have to accidentally swallow one too many sleeping pills, they ignored the mumble, their future is reigning gorgeous babies and sleeping pills do not coordinate with their mind frame, in the mean while, ill be planting seeds, I’ll need the leaf to bud out soon, as I was saying summer will just be practice, cause the ukelele is going to be my vessel to Costa Rica, and from Costa Rica downwards, ill be singing to the touristy bays and talking to mid-life crisises, taking a dip whenever I want, in the crystaline waters, that washed away so many drop outs with ukeleles and smiles pouring songs, im gonna close my eyes and wake up in brasil, as I sip my 3rd glass of beer, it starts winter storming outside, I only half-assed talked my way out of staying, but I went, I went with the beautiful couple, with their beautiful neighbor, I needed to keep contemplating on the prospects of budding out this summer, y’know.
On saturday nights we would, swim in a pool of oxytocin, we would love each other clean, strip bare of our mistakes and caress our cheeks, we would take with us 2 or 3 film rolls, just for memories sake, we would renew our vowels and soap up the corner of our hearts, with spongy teeth we would nibble upon each other. Its what we could do best, with words we danced, interlaced fingers around collarbones, I would swing inside his chest and lock eyes, upon his neck, I’d launch in there forever. “Ill read you stories, what if we become postal friends, Im good with words, sometimes, you have to give me relapse time, but I’m good with them, and, I’d like you to become my postal friend.” Naturally, Ill learn spanish and then jump to french and write to you about all these characters I met on the streets, like, Bianca. Whilst taking a stroll in a winter storm, I met Bianca, she looked at me as if I was her long lost sister and made a snowball and launched it at me. I reacted or responded like a little sister. “You are not serious right”—“Yes” she nodded as she hits me on the head with snow, I burst out laughing, this was my first snowball fight, I was a snowball-fight virgin until I met Bianca, and she came towards my snowball-cherry with vitality, it was exactly 5am, Amsterdam was glowing, orange, magical, I mean, how I hugged Bianca goodbye, I hope she has a prosperous life filled with “micro-moments of positivity resonance” and kisses, we need kisses, on a 5am winter stormy morning. I was on my way.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, on my knees on my cheeks as the matter a fact I am my heart, on speed, feeling too much, pushing, tossing, turning beating as time weighs heavy on her vessel, for you see these eyes, skin, hair is nothing but a dusty cabinet, patient and willing, a walking closet in a cabaret, waiting for enthusiasm to barge in, any moment now, dancers from every corner will gather up on the plateau, waiting to rejoice in the pure bliss of being. On the spot light of all events, on the rhythm of her walking. Walking a way from a crooked sleeve. Realizing that she owes beauty too much dazzlement to be so neglected, neglected by what but her thoughts, thoughts of who she is and will not be, the gap in between, there’s always a gap and a bridge that leads to the same circular movement.
I get home, prepare the douge, make coffee, shower, put Buddy wakefield on, sit at the table, in the attempt to write a poem to get my shit together. The mental noise as Etchart puts it has been buzzing non stop about how I’m only making a drama out of this life situation. I give him credit really, drama is the right word for the mental noise. “The problem arrises when you start identifying with that mental noise” he says. I repeat the words in my head, angry-angrily-odd-pleasure-swimming in a bloodbath. A bloodbath reminds me that I should really get my shit together, shit together, its okay, I say to the bloodbath memories, to the strength made up in weakness, particles waiting for my shit to get apart again. Enthropy, is the natural law in physics, that explains or introduces Chaos as the natural order of things.
“He nibbles on your sanity doesn’t he?” I was always caught offguard when the inner reassurance spoke to me. “Yes” I whisper, softly, under my sheets, as if to dust of the heavy load. I see him from afar, gorgeous really, I get reinvented by his presence, its hard not to look.
Somethings, cannot be described in language, I belief most things can’t, and all that gets lost in between your nod and my “yes, I understand”, that’s what I want to catch, like fireflies, catch them like precious clumsy traits, like how I adore brushing my hands against yours and knowing for my self that you will never know the jolt that goes thru my body when I do, or how I love to hear you speak, or how we stand before the traffic light waiting for it to turn green, and we grow silent, and we are mutual in that silence, or how you say”___”, I’m not that brave yet, cant start giving you signposts for these clumsy traits, or how I just see you all, all of you, or how I cannot call you, or make appointments, cause my heart starts doing funny things, like skipping two fucking beats, or how I’d love to meditate with you, and see you fall in love, and see you grow old, and see you fall in love again, and write that book, and see you take many routes, plenty of paths, and meeting that mind blowingly beautiful girl, and see your eyes glimmer when you do, and hear your heart skip two beats, many call it a weird fetish, but I believe that that’s what real love is all about you know, seeing Love love, hearing, smelling, feeling love live, thru your words, and know that I don’t have any input, I don’t manipulate a thing, I don’t give opinions, I don’t have any, I just want to see you live, really closely, almost scrutinizing, for me that’s magic, it justifies everything, every breath, rather toxic or not, please just let me see Love and live.
