Esnesnon 17-9-09

Good afternoon.

Yes, I'm writing in English. Yes, I have a (not very valid for normal people, but perfectly valid for me) reason which I'm not going to tell you. I have two possible reasons, which haven't effected my decision at all, of which I will tell you. First of all, the blog's very name is derived from an English word, and the url is also more English then Weird-swamp-language-ish. The blog therefore could do with an English post every now and then too. And voila, it's an English post. It could very well be horrible English, but I'm not the person to care about such insignificant details as correct grammer or spelling. Second, I like to ask at least one person not extremely skilled in my native tongue to read this blog for once, and that's quite hard if they can't read what I've written down. Oh, and third, if I'm at it anyway, I might as well name all the shitty reasons, I'll have to become an epe/academic someday and appearantly you need to be able to write and read English, or perhaps speak it fluently if you're really advanced. You'll immediatly lose all chance of ever becoming a Dutch politician, though, I warn you. In order to prepare myself (no, not you, do I look like someone who tries to help others) for the academic stuff I'll write a few horrible posts in English. Moving on.

Then an idea struck me, like a flying rooftile in a storm hitting an old lady. Why not go all the way, and make this blog accessible for all kinds of people with nothing on their hands and an intense hatred of amusement? How, you may ask. Well, with pictures. Pictures are universally comprehensible, I believe. Of course, I'll add some kind of explaining text to screw with the people who can't read and for that reason don't check blogs anyway.


This is my piano, a Petrov special edition, there are 140 of these on the planet and I happen to own number 13. It's probably the most valuable object in the world to me. It's an medium for art and beauty, a way to express feelings, it's my place of worship and meditation, and it's surrounded by a bit of a mess. Hurray.



Oh, and this is just my room. I don't believe in order. Strangely enough, I've heard people say, repeatedly, that my room is not a mess according to the standards of people who are not me nor an adult. I owe it to the fact I don't possess enough junk to decently mess up my room. I'm actually considering throwing away half the contents of my room since I don't use anything. There are books in there I won't read a second time, random decorative mess I just had to put down somewhere without caring, and stuff which isn't supposed to be in my room anyway. I have two tables and always room to put more useless things if I happen to bring them along. I'm intending to empty the room next weekend, I'll just drag a big, black bag upstairs and shove everything I don't use weekly into the dark, after which I'll dump it in the river, pissing off the ducks.


If you use your imagination or strain your eyes, you should be able to see my old school out of my window.


And finally: the tickets for the musical-thing I'm participating in by the end of the month, ensuring my mother and little brother will be present to watch me fumble. I have yet another repetition this evening, that makes four in one week. I'm going to play Phantom of the Opera songs in the breaks and do some mental coaching for Sabrina, who has a golden voice but carries lead in her shoes. My conductor actually instructed me to give her more confidence. I'm hereby nominating him for the category 'Worst Judge of Character 2009.'

Hugo Maat.