Good morning.
This will be my last English post for a while, unless I'm mistaken. I happen to intend to do something I might regret rather soon; I will participate with NaNoWriMo since I'm too much of a wuss to ignore the mails about the subject clotting up my inbox. It's a challenge, and I'm too proud to miss a challenge. I know very well I tried it last year and screwed up halfway. I know all to well I have a lot more things to do this month then last year. I am well aware of my limitations, that's why I will do a few things differently to help myself out. First of all, the story is a hell of a lot simpler then the previous one. It's also less ambitious and structured beforehand. Second (oh well, this is more like the fourth point, but who cares about counting) I will write the entire damn 50k thing on my blog. In Dutch. That means: yes, blog posts, yes, you get to read my book, but forget about quality and I will not heed your criticism until the end of the month. So there. The book will be written in 22 posts, each about 2237 words or more. It won't be a normal story in the sense that it could happen to any other person or that the story takes place in the familiar reality. So fantasy, and the vague sort. Like I said, the story is simpler. That means it's simple to write, not necessarily to read.
But enough about NaNo. There is fun stuff in the world too. I'm going to a jazz-thingie tomorrow evening, which sounds nice. Near the end of the month I might go to another musical thing which I don't intend to write about because I want to write a book at that moment instead of wasting internet space with my blathering. (Excuse me while I try to discern NaNo and mindless blathering.) Next week's weekend I believe I'll be occupied with other activities then writing. The penultimate weekend of next month I'll be far away from computers and I'll be having an awesome weekend instead, filled to the brim with all the joys that also accompany the platonic student's life. In other words, it looks like the next month is nice. It also looks like I picked the wrong month to pretend to write a novel. Four out of five weekends will probably end up unsuited for sitting in front of a monitor. I feel weird for grieving for having too much fun to write a novel. Anyway, starting sunday, it's Novel Month at Esnesnon. Yay.
Hugo Maat.
30.10.09
28.10.09
Esnesnon 28-10-09
Good morning.
There are a couple of things I'd like to write a few words about. They are rather unrelated and I haven't put them on the right place in my mind yet. The first issue I'd like to address has to do with the picture of a zebra left of the text. Please say hello to the zebra, zebras need a lot of food and attention to be happy. Second point will be about three things I encountered yesterday evening, things of power and of drama. I have a bit of a problem with coherently explaining them. Third will be about the question of what drives human beings in their life, what drives all humans, and if I happen to stumble onto something else on the way to the last sentence, I'll incorporate it as a point four. Can't guarantee the fourth thing though, I'm only leaving some room for myself to go crazy. Actually, I don't have to make room for myself to go crazy, I can do it whenever I want. Well, let's hold that thought. In the spirit of freedom to be barking mad: the Zebra.
Equus Zebra. Stripes, four legs with hooves, tail. Herbivore, mostly harmless. It's a distant cousin of the horse, who is indefinitely inferior to the noble zebra because it isn't striped. The zebra is a savannah dweller, but occasionally he can be found in urban environments, although those are rare occasions. The picture of the zebra has been on the left of my posts for months now if I'm correct, and pretty rarely anyone wonders what it's doing there. Well, in a certain way, the zebra is me. In my life there are just two people who actually call me Zebra, not in the complete literal meaning of the word, but as a name as well. They are not exclusively the only ones using that title for me of course, okay, but consequent use is quite rare. This name, Zebra, describes not me, but a part of a greater personality. Zebra is a facet, formed by corresponding character traits, which has the tendency of presenting itself when its name is used. Facets like Zebra, emanations of a complete personality, are neccesary for everyday social life since the whole of personality combines a number of traits that contradict eachother in practical matters. Selections are made to represent a rather diverse and divided self without complications. Since these facets are small combinations of traits that reinforce or overlap, the other end of contradicting personality traits, the character emanations like Zebra are shallow and one-sided. The result is a simplified form of social contact, easy and often amusing. Why a zebra? The reason is silly. There is a distance between the Zebra that was named and the eventual Zebra, a result of a personality leading its own life. The latter overshadows the first to such an extent that it doesn't matter where the first got its name or what it actually was.
Yesterday evening, I encountered three immaterial entities. The first was truth, the others were envy and parting. All three refer to trivial, particular occurrences, but loaded with a very heavy negative connotation from my part. The negativity stems not from the particular cases but from the universal meaning of the entities. Yet I am trying to defeat the negative part from the particular angle. That means reasoning from particular reasons and consequences, placing these factors on the level of universality, instead of reasoning from meaning and from idea towards reality. The first method of reasoning is better because reality is either always correct, or it is incorrect but always more relevant than the matters of mind. The mind can contain incorrect information from the perspective of reality, as I know all to well. It is for that reason that rational knowledge must restrict its field of influence to other purely rational subjects. Better said, what is made in the mind must stay there. Truth is according to my rationality negative because the human doesn't wield power over it. The human can hide truth but cannot change it. Being an unchangable force, truth must be avoided as it threatens human liberty and the happiness derived from happiness. Envy is wrong according to my rationality because happiness is derived from content with one's possessions, material and immaterial. Envy creates unhappiness because it places the requirements for happiness outside of human possession. Parting is wrong because it's always combined with sadness or anger for the loss of something one is attached to. If one is not attached to something, no parting is needed, the thing or person in question simply disappears. Attachment is broken by parting, and this is a painful action, thus it opposes happiness, which makes it wrong.
Yet, from particular examples, I have come to realize the positive meaning behind each of these three powers at work. The truth can be a good thing; a good person or a good friend (two terms I will not further clarify here) opens his heart to the truth and appreciates it. Even the negative side of truth, the side a wielder of virtu will combat or evade, has value in the eyes or ears of a good person or friend. To find and know a good person is one of the greatest fortunes one can encounter. Encountering a good person was a particular case. Envy is not a bad thing; in the very least it's neutral. It's a law of nature that dictates that water flows to the lowest point in the landscape, the air flows from the area with the highest pressure to the area with lower pressure. When the grass is greener at the neighbours', it is a natural reaction to be attracted; the flow will be in that direction. Envy is a motivator. It is a struggle, a conflict, born from the flow, and struggle brings out the best in its participants. Perhaps that's a bit too militaristic, though. Let's restrict it to 'struggle brings out some of the qualities of a person.' Parting can be good. That which is irreplacable cannot be promoted either, you know.
As for what drives all humans; my dentist told me all humans are driven by the desire for money, power and sex. I disagree. Money, after all, is just a form of power. Humans are only driven by the desire for power and sex. So there. Not that this means humans can easily be figured out. Perhaps you've realized that somewhere along the way in your life. I think I have.
Hugo Maat.
There are a couple of things I'd like to write a few words about. They are rather unrelated and I haven't put them on the right place in my mind yet. The first issue I'd like to address has to do with the picture of a zebra left of the text. Please say hello to the zebra, zebras need a lot of food and attention to be happy. Second point will be about three things I encountered yesterday evening, things of power and of drama. I have a bit of a problem with coherently explaining them. Third will be about the question of what drives human beings in their life, what drives all humans, and if I happen to stumble onto something else on the way to the last sentence, I'll incorporate it as a point four. Can't guarantee the fourth thing though, I'm only leaving some room for myself to go crazy. Actually, I don't have to make room for myself to go crazy, I can do it whenever I want. Well, let's hold that thought. In the spirit of freedom to be barking mad: the Zebra.
Equus Zebra. Stripes, four legs with hooves, tail. Herbivore, mostly harmless. It's a distant cousin of the horse, who is indefinitely inferior to the noble zebra because it isn't striped. The zebra is a savannah dweller, but occasionally he can be found in urban environments, although those are rare occasions. The picture of the zebra has been on the left of my posts for months now if I'm correct, and pretty rarely anyone wonders what it's doing there. Well, in a certain way, the zebra is me. In my life there are just two people who actually call me Zebra, not in the complete literal meaning of the word, but as a name as well. They are not exclusively the only ones using that title for me of course, okay, but consequent use is quite rare. This name, Zebra, describes not me, but a part of a greater personality. Zebra is a facet, formed by corresponding character traits, which has the tendency of presenting itself when its name is used. Facets like Zebra, emanations of a complete personality, are neccesary for everyday social life since the whole of personality combines a number of traits that contradict eachother in practical matters. Selections are made to represent a rather diverse and divided self without complications. Since these facets are small combinations of traits that reinforce or overlap, the other end of contradicting personality traits, the character emanations like Zebra are shallow and one-sided. The result is a simplified form of social contact, easy and often amusing. Why a zebra? The reason is silly. There is a distance between the Zebra that was named and the eventual Zebra, a result of a personality leading its own life. The latter overshadows the first to such an extent that it doesn't matter where the first got its name or what it actually was.
Yesterday evening, I encountered three immaterial entities. The first was truth, the others were envy and parting. All three refer to trivial, particular occurrences, but loaded with a very heavy negative connotation from my part. The negativity stems not from the particular cases but from the universal meaning of the entities. Yet I am trying to defeat the negative part from the particular angle. That means reasoning from particular reasons and consequences, placing these factors on the level of universality, instead of reasoning from meaning and from idea towards reality. The first method of reasoning is better because reality is either always correct, or it is incorrect but always more relevant than the matters of mind. The mind can contain incorrect information from the perspective of reality, as I know all to well. It is for that reason that rational knowledge must restrict its field of influence to other purely rational subjects. Better said, what is made in the mind must stay there. Truth is according to my rationality negative because the human doesn't wield power over it. The human can hide truth but cannot change it. Being an unchangable force, truth must be avoided as it threatens human liberty and the happiness derived from happiness. Envy is wrong according to my rationality because happiness is derived from content with one's possessions, material and immaterial. Envy creates unhappiness because it places the requirements for happiness outside of human possession. Parting is wrong because it's always combined with sadness or anger for the loss of something one is attached to. If one is not attached to something, no parting is needed, the thing or person in question simply disappears. Attachment is broken by parting, and this is a painful action, thus it opposes happiness, which makes it wrong.
Yet, from particular examples, I have come to realize the positive meaning behind each of these three powers at work. The truth can be a good thing; a good person or a good friend (two terms I will not further clarify here) opens his heart to the truth and appreciates it. Even the negative side of truth, the side a wielder of virtu will combat or evade, has value in the eyes or ears of a good person or friend. To find and know a good person is one of the greatest fortunes one can encounter. Encountering a good person was a particular case. Envy is not a bad thing; in the very least it's neutral. It's a law of nature that dictates that water flows to the lowest point in the landscape, the air flows from the area with the highest pressure to the area with lower pressure. When the grass is greener at the neighbours', it is a natural reaction to be attracted; the flow will be in that direction. Envy is a motivator. It is a struggle, a conflict, born from the flow, and struggle brings out the best in its participants. Perhaps that's a bit too militaristic, though. Let's restrict it to 'struggle brings out some of the qualities of a person.' Parting can be good. That which is irreplacable cannot be promoted either, you know.
As for what drives all humans; my dentist told me all humans are driven by the desire for money, power and sex. I disagree. Money, after all, is just a form of power. Humans are only driven by the desire for power and sex. So there. Not that this means humans can easily be figured out. Perhaps you've realized that somewhere along the way in your life. I think I have.
Hugo Maat.
25.10.09
Esnesnon 25-10-09
Ah, jazz.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
I love oral literature. Ordinary literature has a couple of shiny diamonds, but most of it is dross. As with other things, the adjective 'oral' is a nice addition. There are a couple of reasons oral literature is awesome with a spicy sauce. (Without a doubt, there is a truckload of outstanding reasons to prefer real literature, but I wouldn't do a good job in selling my story if I would tell anything but one side of the story. Also, the jazz messes with my mind. I'm getting a bit cloudy and laid-back. Moving on.) Just for the reading and writing comfort, I'll throw in a white line every now and then as the bassplayer goes nuts on the background. Give me a sec as I sip some wine and hit the 'enter' key.
Okay, easy with trying to converse with me in another language, people on another medium. I'm listening to jazz here and I'm trying to write. As I was saying. First of all, oral literature is something you share. Sharing is good. Therefore, oral literature is good. I mean, look at all the things involving sharing that aren't contagious diseases or communism. People share ambience and booze, comfort and something starting with the letter D. Sex is sharing too, the best form. And then we have sharing your sadness or joy, as shared sadness is half sadness, as we say in the swamps here, while shared joy is double joy. With oral literature, the speaker shares his story with the audience and the audience shares the story with eachother. Sweet.
Second reason is more of an, eh, reason pertaining to the contents of oral literature. You know, you can read the stories of literature. The other way around, you can tell written literature the way you would the stories meant for public speaking. But let me tell you, in case you don't agree with me already, it won't work. It's the same thing all over again about the adaptation decay. Don't turn a book into a movie, don't turn a game into a painting. Hold that thought while I light a cigar. Well, about the contents of oral literature, since I was trying to say something about that. Oral literature is shorter, it's more to the point, and it sounds good when you tell it. A lot of it is in rhyme, you have winged phrases, if you know what those are, and generally the stories are strong and to the point since you don't have an hour of talking time to throw around like you can fill a hundred pages to explain the details.
My eyes are half closed and these red, cushioned club seats are the best invention since some Iraqi decided to turn spoken words into marks in clay. Third, and for now the last point, I present the reason closest to my little bloodpump. Oral literature is drama. I'm a dramatic person, every now and then. You know, if I would have been born two thousand years or so ago, I wouldn't have become a farmer, or a beggar. I wouldn't have been a nobleman or a soldier. I would be a bard, I'd be a troubadour. I'd be a storyteller. Owning nothing but the clothes on my body and the stories in my head, I'd stroll the countryside, knocking on doors here and there, reminding people how Zeus is the patron of the guests. And inside, I would stand up by the fire and sing for my supper. I'd tell the news from the other cities and I'd tell of great deeds or passionate loves, long ago and far away. With a bit of luck, the host would let me stay for another day or two. After that I'd hear them out, looking for a new story or some news to share, and I'd be on my way. That is the life. The best part about it is the opportunity to add a bit of yourself to the story, to bring it with enthousiasm or passion. You're not just telling a story, you know. Oral literature is art, it's transmitting and creating emotion, and more... stuff. The Gods bless Louis Armstrong, incidentially.
So, to sum it all up, oral literature is funky like nine cans of shaving powder because it's about sharing, because it's good on the inside where it matters (and I could perhaps demonstrate it if you offer me a drink and a supper), and thirdly you can get all dramatic with it. Oh, and it's connected to that wonderful romantic idea of the traveling poetic storyteller. Hey, and it's more then a dream, unlike the top hats. I actually have oral literature to share with the world and I'm more then capable of earning myself a free drink with it. Watch out, world, I'm going to be a storyteller. Well, first I'll wake up from my jazz-doze. Doo be doo ba. Priorities, you know.
Hugo Maat.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
I love oral literature. Ordinary literature has a couple of shiny diamonds, but most of it is dross. As with other things, the adjective 'oral' is a nice addition. There are a couple of reasons oral literature is awesome with a spicy sauce. (Without a doubt, there is a truckload of outstanding reasons to prefer real literature, but I wouldn't do a good job in selling my story if I would tell anything but one side of the story. Also, the jazz messes with my mind. I'm getting a bit cloudy and laid-back. Moving on.) Just for the reading and writing comfort, I'll throw in a white line every now and then as the bassplayer goes nuts on the background. Give me a sec as I sip some wine and hit the 'enter' key.
Okay, easy with trying to converse with me in another language, people on another medium. I'm listening to jazz here and I'm trying to write. As I was saying. First of all, oral literature is something you share. Sharing is good. Therefore, oral literature is good. I mean, look at all the things involving sharing that aren't contagious diseases or communism. People share ambience and booze, comfort and something starting with the letter D. Sex is sharing too, the best form. And then we have sharing your sadness or joy, as shared sadness is half sadness, as we say in the swamps here, while shared joy is double joy. With oral literature, the speaker shares his story with the audience and the audience shares the story with eachother. Sweet.
Second reason is more of an, eh, reason pertaining to the contents of oral literature. You know, you can read the stories of literature. The other way around, you can tell written literature the way you would the stories meant for public speaking. But let me tell you, in case you don't agree with me already, it won't work. It's the same thing all over again about the adaptation decay. Don't turn a book into a movie, don't turn a game into a painting. Hold that thought while I light a cigar. Well, about the contents of oral literature, since I was trying to say something about that. Oral literature is shorter, it's more to the point, and it sounds good when you tell it. A lot of it is in rhyme, you have winged phrases, if you know what those are, and generally the stories are strong and to the point since you don't have an hour of talking time to throw around like you can fill a hundred pages to explain the details.
My eyes are half closed and these red, cushioned club seats are the best invention since some Iraqi decided to turn spoken words into marks in clay. Third, and for now the last point, I present the reason closest to my little bloodpump. Oral literature is drama. I'm a dramatic person, every now and then. You know, if I would have been born two thousand years or so ago, I wouldn't have become a farmer, or a beggar. I wouldn't have been a nobleman or a soldier. I would be a bard, I'd be a troubadour. I'd be a storyteller. Owning nothing but the clothes on my body and the stories in my head, I'd stroll the countryside, knocking on doors here and there, reminding people how Zeus is the patron of the guests. And inside, I would stand up by the fire and sing for my supper. I'd tell the news from the other cities and I'd tell of great deeds or passionate loves, long ago and far away. With a bit of luck, the host would let me stay for another day or two. After that I'd hear them out, looking for a new story or some news to share, and I'd be on my way. That is the life. The best part about it is the opportunity to add a bit of yourself to the story, to bring it with enthousiasm or passion. You're not just telling a story, you know. Oral literature is art, it's transmitting and creating emotion, and more... stuff. The Gods bless Louis Armstrong, incidentially.
So, to sum it all up, oral literature is funky like nine cans of shaving powder because it's about sharing, because it's good on the inside where it matters (and I could perhaps demonstrate it if you offer me a drink and a supper), and thirdly you can get all dramatic with it. Oh, and it's connected to that wonderful romantic idea of the traveling poetic storyteller. Hey, and it's more then a dream, unlike the top hats. I actually have oral literature to share with the world and I'm more then capable of earning myself a free drink with it. Watch out, world, I'm going to be a storyteller. Well, first I'll wake up from my jazz-doze. Doo be doo ba. Priorities, you know.
Hugo Maat.
24.10.09
Esnesnon 24-10-09
Good morning.
Last night: I got (slightly) drunk. I loudly sang songs while sitting in a bar with beer, along with other very manly men. I ran into someone I hadn't seen for about six years and flirted for a while, perhaps only to kill the image she might have had of me from back then. In the end it turned into rhetorical games and verbal assault, so I stopped. I drunk whiskey, beer and wine, in that order. The music started out bad, got better and ended rather good. I stumbled from one bar to the other. I taught someone a dance I learned last summer. I remained well dressed all evening, to the astonishment of several people (who just happened to be rather foolish people, as I have just deducted from the fact that they were astonished by the way I dressed, which is a silly thing to bother about in the context.) I killed a couple of brain cells, but I can still name several important people and dates from ancient Greek history. I wonder what I did kill in there if it wasn't my knowledge of history, the songs and poems I know by heart, the pile of stories to tell, the music, or my cynicism, because after that there isn't much left of what's inside my head.
I spent last week abstaining from alcohol and any other thing that might make you act funny, including extra sugar (beyond the second iceberg, I reckon) and 'modern' music. I was studying, and as with many things, there is a sharp distinction between a normal way of doing that and my way. My body hates me. Eating badly and at irregular intervals, sometimes not eating at all, depriving myself of sleep, cloistering myself in my house or even just my chamber, severely neglecting my personal hygiene, no physical activity whatsoever, but my mind functioned very well. In fact, in such a week my mind starts to detach itself from my body in the figurative sense. I looked down on my fleshy mortal coil. All of that is in the end a week of preparation for one of the best kicks I get out of life. I call it the overdrive, and it sets in when my brains are warmed up and I'm done learning new things. The course of information turnes and everything that worked its way in finds a way out in a new form. My mind starts working at double speed full time and my body can't get along and doesn't have to. It feels awesome, and I yet have to find the artificial stimulant to reproduce that state.
Maar. Ik verkeer nu in de nasleep van een goede avond en twee afgeronde tentamens. Mijn hoofd is moe en ik ben redelijk chagarijnig. Een van de redenen dat ik chagarijnig ben is dat ik gisteravond iets heb gedaan waarbij ik een ruil maakte tussen wie ik ben en wie ik was, of andersom. Het is een kwestie van verschuiving van denkkaders waarbij er eerst een periode is van gedeeltelijke overlapping van het nieuwe en het oude. Ik kan het nieuwe en het oude nog niet van elkaar onderscheiden. Het is verwarrend, ik ben moe en ik heb hoofdpijn. Ik ben het vermogen verloren om te onderscheiden wat ik heb waargenomen en wat ik denk te hebben waargenomen, waarbij het laatste alleen maar een oud hersenspinsel was dat ik daarna alleen maar in een droom beleefd heb. Ik mag niet denken vanuit dat laatste. En chocola. Afzettingen van dat spul dat normaal in je ooghoeken zit als je wakker wordt, maar dan op iemands lippen. Ik ben geen steen. Het is ooit mijn ideaal geweest er een te zijn. Tegenwoordig staan al mijn idealen tussen aanhalingstekens en zijn ze zo inwisselbaar als accountants. Niet alleen koken, maar ook de adl-adl. De imker was bedroefd want zijn bijen waren weg. De zanger trok zich ontroostbaar terug op een rotsplateau in het onherbergzame Thracië, en daar zong hij vanuit de smart in zijn hart, terwijl de dieren zich aan zijn voeten schaarden. Hoc est amoris poculum. Langzaam abstraheert alles wat we gemaakt hebben totdat we het leven alleen nog maar als droom kunnen ervaren met het onvermogen het te communiceren. Er is geen einde. Jij bent slimmer, maar ik ben/was gelukkiger. Hoe durfde ik. Mijn tegengif is uitgewerkt. Aan al mijn wereldlijke pretenties komt een einde. Een sigaar moet eerst worden opgewarmd. Waarvan het een zich te Roermond en het ander zich te Parijs bevond. Uiteindelijk is het wiel opgehouden te draaien, alles ligt uitgespreid langs de randen of alles ligt in het midden. Ik zoek een Rorschach. Ik hou niet langer het voorwendsel mijzelf te begrijpen en dat is een ernstig verlies.
Ik denk dat het misschien een goed idee is om op te houden met brabbelen en mijn hersens weer wakker te krijgen.
Hugo Maat.
Last night: I got (slightly) drunk. I loudly sang songs while sitting in a bar with beer, along with other very manly men. I ran into someone I hadn't seen for about six years and flirted for a while, perhaps only to kill the image she might have had of me from back then. In the end it turned into rhetorical games and verbal assault, so I stopped. I drunk whiskey, beer and wine, in that order. The music started out bad, got better and ended rather good. I stumbled from one bar to the other. I taught someone a dance I learned last summer. I remained well dressed all evening, to the astonishment of several people (who just happened to be rather foolish people, as I have just deducted from the fact that they were astonished by the way I dressed, which is a silly thing to bother about in the context.) I killed a couple of brain cells, but I can still name several important people and dates from ancient Greek history. I wonder what I did kill in there if it wasn't my knowledge of history, the songs and poems I know by heart, the pile of stories to tell, the music, or my cynicism, because after that there isn't much left of what's inside my head.
I spent last week abstaining from alcohol and any other thing that might make you act funny, including extra sugar (beyond the second iceberg, I reckon) and 'modern' music. I was studying, and as with many things, there is a sharp distinction between a normal way of doing that and my way. My body hates me. Eating badly and at irregular intervals, sometimes not eating at all, depriving myself of sleep, cloistering myself in my house or even just my chamber, severely neglecting my personal hygiene, no physical activity whatsoever, but my mind functioned very well. In fact, in such a week my mind starts to detach itself from my body in the figurative sense. I looked down on my fleshy mortal coil. All of that is in the end a week of preparation for one of the best kicks I get out of life. I call it the overdrive, and it sets in when my brains are warmed up and I'm done learning new things. The course of information turnes and everything that worked its way in finds a way out in a new form. My mind starts working at double speed full time and my body can't get along and doesn't have to. It feels awesome, and I yet have to find the artificial stimulant to reproduce that state.
Maar. Ik verkeer nu in de nasleep van een goede avond en twee afgeronde tentamens. Mijn hoofd is moe en ik ben redelijk chagarijnig. Een van de redenen dat ik chagarijnig ben is dat ik gisteravond iets heb gedaan waarbij ik een ruil maakte tussen wie ik ben en wie ik was, of andersom. Het is een kwestie van verschuiving van denkkaders waarbij er eerst een periode is van gedeeltelijke overlapping van het nieuwe en het oude. Ik kan het nieuwe en het oude nog niet van elkaar onderscheiden. Het is verwarrend, ik ben moe en ik heb hoofdpijn. Ik ben het vermogen verloren om te onderscheiden wat ik heb waargenomen en wat ik denk te hebben waargenomen, waarbij het laatste alleen maar een oud hersenspinsel was dat ik daarna alleen maar in een droom beleefd heb. Ik mag niet denken vanuit dat laatste. En chocola. Afzettingen van dat spul dat normaal in je ooghoeken zit als je wakker wordt, maar dan op iemands lippen. Ik ben geen steen. Het is ooit mijn ideaal geweest er een te zijn. Tegenwoordig staan al mijn idealen tussen aanhalingstekens en zijn ze zo inwisselbaar als accountants. Niet alleen koken, maar ook de adl-adl. De imker was bedroefd want zijn bijen waren weg. De zanger trok zich ontroostbaar terug op een rotsplateau in het onherbergzame Thracië, en daar zong hij vanuit de smart in zijn hart, terwijl de dieren zich aan zijn voeten schaarden. Hoc est amoris poculum. Langzaam abstraheert alles wat we gemaakt hebben totdat we het leven alleen nog maar als droom kunnen ervaren met het onvermogen het te communiceren. Er is geen einde. Jij bent slimmer, maar ik ben/was gelukkiger. Hoe durfde ik. Mijn tegengif is uitgewerkt. Aan al mijn wereldlijke pretenties komt een einde. Een sigaar moet eerst worden opgewarmd. Waarvan het een zich te Roermond en het ander zich te Parijs bevond. Uiteindelijk is het wiel opgehouden te draaien, alles ligt uitgespreid langs de randen of alles ligt in het midden. Ik zoek een Rorschach. Ik hou niet langer het voorwendsel mijzelf te begrijpen en dat is een ernstig verlies.
Ik denk dat het misschien een goed idee is om op te houden met brabbelen en mijn hersens weer wakker te krijgen.
Hugo Maat.
13.10.09
Esnsnon 13-10-09
(Ik zou een stuk citeren uit de muziek die ik op het moment luister, maar ik ben bang dat ik er geen hout van versta. Ik luister wat Slavische liturgie en ik vermoed dat het Latijn is. Het is best aardig, een beetje gregoriaans maar ritmischer van tijd tot tijd. Geen kwaad koortje, moet ik zeggen. Niet aan te raden aan andere mensen natuurlijk, ga gerust normale muziek luisteren.)
Good morning, or as one of my professors said while passing me on the stairs: Good afternoon. (paraphrased) I think the man is a couple of hours ahead of me.
Currently, I am engaged in a self-study about the effects of sleep deprivation. I've slept little over four hours last night, due to my total self-negligence (I could swear I mis-spelled that). I woke up at half past six, forced myself out of bed and into the train, consuming large amounts of sugar and foodstuffs halfway. I need to sustain myself to twelve o' clock in the evening in the very least, while spending quite some time mentally active. I need to be a smart-ass in college, a attentative musician, caring, charming and sweet. All that costs quite a great amount of energy and if I use too much I'll instead turn into an arrogant bastard in college, I'll screw up beautiful musical masterpieces and I'll be a horrid person to be around, cynical and grumpy. That would get in the way of all the things I'm trying to achieve today. I've already used twice the proper daily amount of sugar, drunk some coffee and took half naps whenever possible, but it mainly creates more physical energy, getting me hyperactive. I'm still getting quite tired in my head, the second-worst part to get tired when you're me. I need my head, and I need it in a good condition. That condition won't improve when I'm thinking at full speed all day long, damn it. If only I could stop thinking. That's not in the way of "Oh, I wish I could stop thinking about you, blink blink, I'd like to thank the Academy and God, and like, stuff," but more in the way of "I'd like my brain to stop overclocking, my cooling isn't very sophisticated." Unfortunately, my brain builds up stockpiles of verbal bile quite easily. For instance:
People are stupid. Yuck. I don't know how far your general education has progressed, but let me state clearly, and hopefully for once and for all, what Apocalypse means. And NO it is NOT the end of the world. Yes, it is indeed a Bible book too, but the Bible has no exclusive rights to the use of the word. If people call something 'the Apocalypse' they are most likely trying to refer to all kinds of bad shit that is described in a part of the Christian Bible, the last part specifically. Nothing about the word Apocalypse has anything to do with the destruction of the world or the end of times. Just take a look at the word Apocalypse. You can split it in two parts, apo and calypse. Perhaps you understand it now, perhaps not. I'll make it a bit easier. What does calypse mean? It's derived from the word Calypso. And don't you dare thinking of Pirates of the Caribbean first! (Those damned clowns at Disney, randomly scanning a wikipedia page about mythology and stealing two or three names to vomit them out on a script page again, completely out of context, spreading false and dumb ideas amongst the equally dumb masses... Someone ought to send them to the Locker. The Odyssee, anyone? Dear Zeus, smite...) Calypso is being used as a name occasionally, yes. It's also a Greek word meaning secret. Now, is there yet anyone not getting the point? Apo-Calypso means, quite literally: de-secretizing, de-hiding. Or, with an easier word: Revelation. Epiphany. Apocalypse is the Greek name for the Revelation of Johannes. (Not John, you English morons. By the way, it's not King Herod either, or Marc or Matthew or Luke, it's Homeros and not Homer, Ovidius and not Ovid. Use Livius instead of Livy, and for gods' sake, Jacob instead of James. It can't be that hard.) Sure, the Revelation in the Bible describes a lot of doom and despair (more of a planned demolition anyway) but Apocalypse can refer to any kind of revelation. I have several Apocalypses every week! There have been millions of Revelations. If you are talking about the end of the world, please just use Armageddon or doomsday or something. Like, totally.
Ugh. I hate people.
Hugo Maat.
Ps: The four riders of the Apocalypse are correctly named though, and according to Johannes they will appear just before the end of times, but they are not called that way because they bring about doom and destruction.
Pps: While the English blokes are at it, why not just abolish the jury system, accept the euro and drive on the right* side of the road from now on?
*No, right isn't left.
Good morning, or as one of my professors said while passing me on the stairs: Good afternoon. (paraphrased) I think the man is a couple of hours ahead of me.
Currently, I am engaged in a self-study about the effects of sleep deprivation. I've slept little over four hours last night, due to my total self-negligence (I could swear I mis-spelled that). I woke up at half past six, forced myself out of bed and into the train, consuming large amounts of sugar and foodstuffs halfway. I need to sustain myself to twelve o' clock in the evening in the very least, while spending quite some time mentally active. I need to be a smart-ass in college, a attentative musician, caring, charming and sweet. All that costs quite a great amount of energy and if I use too much I'll instead turn into an arrogant bastard in college, I'll screw up beautiful musical masterpieces and I'll be a horrid person to be around, cynical and grumpy. That would get in the way of all the things I'm trying to achieve today. I've already used twice the proper daily amount of sugar, drunk some coffee and took half naps whenever possible, but it mainly creates more physical energy, getting me hyperactive. I'm still getting quite tired in my head, the second-worst part to get tired when you're me. I need my head, and I need it in a good condition. That condition won't improve when I'm thinking at full speed all day long, damn it. If only I could stop thinking. That's not in the way of "Oh, I wish I could stop thinking about you, blink blink, I'd like to thank the Academy and God, and like, stuff," but more in the way of "I'd like my brain to stop overclocking, my cooling isn't very sophisticated." Unfortunately, my brain builds up stockpiles of verbal bile quite easily. For instance:
People are stupid. Yuck. I don't know how far your general education has progressed, but let me state clearly, and hopefully for once and for all, what Apocalypse means. And NO it is NOT the end of the world. Yes, it is indeed a Bible book too, but the Bible has no exclusive rights to the use of the word. If people call something 'the Apocalypse' they are most likely trying to refer to all kinds of bad shit that is described in a part of the Christian Bible, the last part specifically. Nothing about the word Apocalypse has anything to do with the destruction of the world or the end of times. Just take a look at the word Apocalypse. You can split it in two parts, apo and calypse. Perhaps you understand it now, perhaps not. I'll make it a bit easier. What does calypse mean? It's derived from the word Calypso. And don't you dare thinking of Pirates of the Caribbean first! (Those damned clowns at Disney, randomly scanning a wikipedia page about mythology and stealing two or three names to vomit them out on a script page again, completely out of context, spreading false and dumb ideas amongst the equally dumb masses... Someone ought to send them to the Locker. The Odyssee, anyone? Dear Zeus, smite...) Calypso is being used as a name occasionally, yes. It's also a Greek word meaning secret. Now, is there yet anyone not getting the point? Apo-Calypso means, quite literally: de-secretizing, de-hiding. Or, with an easier word: Revelation. Epiphany. Apocalypse is the Greek name for the Revelation of Johannes. (Not John, you English morons. By the way, it's not King Herod either, or Marc or Matthew or Luke, it's Homeros and not Homer, Ovidius and not Ovid. Use Livius instead of Livy, and for gods' sake, Jacob instead of James. It can't be that hard.) Sure, the Revelation in the Bible describes a lot of doom and despair (more of a planned demolition anyway) but Apocalypse can refer to any kind of revelation. I have several Apocalypses every week! There have been millions of Revelations. If you are talking about the end of the world, please just use Armageddon or doomsday or something. Like, totally.
Ugh. I hate people.
Hugo Maat.
Ps: The four riders of the Apocalypse are correctly named though, and according to Johannes they will appear just before the end of times, but they are not called that way because they bring about doom and destruction.
Pps: While the English blokes are at it, why not just abolish the jury system, accept the euro and drive on the right* side of the road from now on?
*No, right isn't left.
12.10.09
Esnesnon 12-10-09
Hey.
Harboring general madness, learning intensively (but not at this very moment), dancing internally, disturbing teachers, dreaming of black curtains, being rather clumsy in French and Italian, blogging, escaping notice, ignoring fashion sense, searching for contact, singing softly, wasting time but using it extremely well, missing foreign places and loving the direct environment, stopping random writings for food.
I don't use twitter. I am old-fashioned modern. (By the way, who was the idiot who decided that we live in the 'modern' age and that we used to make 'modern' art in the freaking past so now the time of 'post-modern' art has come? Does this mean we are at the doorstep of the 'post-modern' age? What kind of extreme Zeerust is this, a world where modern has become a thing of the past, where modern is passé? There is no way in which I'm the only one who thinks this is crazy. You know what, never mind the first bracket, I'm going to continue this point all alinea. A decent definition of modern: "Pertaining to the current time and style." According to some folks modern also refers to a bunch of stuff that happened more then a century ago, or perhaps even several centuries ago. I believe that the moment a new art movement appears it is allowed to be named 'modern,' at that one should find a new name for the previous 'modern' movement. Calling something 'post-modern' is awfully pretentious and reeks of stupidity. Post-modern would imply that it's art that does not pertain to the current time and style, but that it eventually will. And it won't. Imagine how historians, art historians and wikipedia editors in the twenty-second century will feel. "Somewhere near the end of the twentieth century humanity collectively lost their minds as they decided their contemporary school of thought and newest art styles were too special to 'just' be called modern, so they called them post-modern. Halfway the twenty-first century, we had no choice but to invent post-post-modernism, and we all got rather confused when books with the title "Modern Age" got so damn heavy we had invent the "Post-modern Age," to mark the period in human history where we stopped basing political ideologies on oral literature over four-thousand years old. Then, when the human race finally stopped letting itself be ruled by the people with the biggest smiles and the fanciest speeches, putting all power in the hands of computers instead, and people were finally capable of spending their lives on art and historiography, pursuing their hart's desires while society was operating flawlessly, we had to think of a new way to the contemporary time period. We tried Modern Age 2, and Modern Age (but this time for real), The Revenge of the Modern Age and The Return of the Modern Age, but nothing really worked. Eventually we went with Post-post-modern Age." All because of those idiots in the Modern Age.
I don't use twitter because blogging worked fine two years ago and nothing significantly has changed since then so there is no reason blogging has lost it's positive points. Twitter is newer, but that's all. There is no inherent quality connected to the youth of methods for transmitting of thoughts and opinions. It's not like methods of communication start to smell after a while, except for pigeons and horse heads. If you leave that part out of the comparison, then what makes twitter different and why would it be an improvement? (I don't know anything about twitter apart from some things I vaguely remember hearing or reading about it, maybe I should point that out first.) Twitter can be used to convey short messages, people can sign themselves up for notifications of updates, and you use it to tell others what you are doing at that instant. Well, blogs can do that, but you can also use them for more then that. Since twitter doesn't seem to add anything and only narrows the possibilities down I hereby declare it is infinitely inferior to blogging. You know, history exists to allow people to make mistakes once. History enables people who have shining new ideas to find out someone else has had a better idea already. By taking note of all things of the past and present, good and bad, historians offer a nice alternative to empirical learning method of trial-and-error, which is terribly time and energy-consuming. Par example: in the third century AD a man with a name I instantly forget when I read it had his army burn down the library of Alexandria, destroying a shitload of works of classical science, like books about blood circulation and the human nerve system, discoveries which would slumber for more then a millenia until we had finally reached the level to do it all over. He did it because he knew a book which was supposed to hold all relevant knowledge. Any information not in this book was false and had to be destroyed, any information already present in this book was irrelevant and had to be destroyed too. After all, the contents his special book were made up by an invisible superior entity, whose existence could not be proved, who could not communicate or be communicated with, except for a few lucky, dead people who everyone has to believe unconditionally. None the ideas in the book needed argumentation or proof. Since the rebirth of science and the ways of thinking associated with it life expectancy has improved a lot. On one hand, we have the man who believed we were done improving, on the other hand we have the people who enabled improvements to the quality of life on earth by believing we weren't done. The former belongs to a category I'd like to call modern. The latter belongs to a category I call awesome.
The morale of the story is that historians of all sorts, both amateurs and people who should know better, have succumbed to extreme arrogance, naming all things in the universe from their perspective and implying or claiming history has ended. Of course I'm allowed to say such things about others, since I'm a perfect, virtuous flowerchild with love and care for all God's creatures, in case I had forgotten to mention that.
Hugo Maat.
Harboring general madness, learning intensively (but not at this very moment), dancing internally, disturbing teachers, dreaming of black curtains, being rather clumsy in French and Italian, blogging, escaping notice, ignoring fashion sense, searching for contact, singing softly, wasting time but using it extremely well, missing foreign places and loving the direct environment, stopping random writings for food.
I don't use twitter. I am old-fashioned modern. (By the way, who was the idiot who decided that we live in the 'modern' age and that we used to make 'modern' art in the freaking past so now the time of 'post-modern' art has come? Does this mean we are at the doorstep of the 'post-modern' age? What kind of extreme Zeerust is this, a world where modern has become a thing of the past, where modern is passé? There is no way in which I'm the only one who thinks this is crazy. You know what, never mind the first bracket, I'm going to continue this point all alinea. A decent definition of modern: "Pertaining to the current time and style." According to some folks modern also refers to a bunch of stuff that happened more then a century ago, or perhaps even several centuries ago. I believe that the moment a new art movement appears it is allowed to be named 'modern,' at that one should find a new name for the previous 'modern' movement. Calling something 'post-modern' is awfully pretentious and reeks of stupidity. Post-modern would imply that it's art that does not pertain to the current time and style, but that it eventually will. And it won't. Imagine how historians, art historians and wikipedia editors in the twenty-second century will feel. "Somewhere near the end of the twentieth century humanity collectively lost their minds as they decided their contemporary school of thought and newest art styles were too special to 'just' be called modern, so they called them post-modern. Halfway the twenty-first century, we had no choice but to invent post-post-modernism, and we all got rather confused when books with the title "Modern Age" got so damn heavy we had invent the "Post-modern Age," to mark the period in human history where we stopped basing political ideologies on oral literature over four-thousand years old. Then, when the human race finally stopped letting itself be ruled by the people with the biggest smiles and the fanciest speeches, putting all power in the hands of computers instead, and people were finally capable of spending their lives on art and historiography, pursuing their hart's desires while society was operating flawlessly, we had to think of a new way to the contemporary time period. We tried Modern Age 2, and Modern Age (but this time for real), The Revenge of the Modern Age and The Return of the Modern Age, but nothing really worked. Eventually we went with Post-post-modern Age." All because of those idiots in the Modern Age.
I don't use twitter because blogging worked fine two years ago and nothing significantly has changed since then so there is no reason blogging has lost it's positive points. Twitter is newer, but that's all. There is no inherent quality connected to the youth of methods for transmitting of thoughts and opinions. It's not like methods of communication start to smell after a while, except for pigeons and horse heads. If you leave that part out of the comparison, then what makes twitter different and why would it be an improvement? (I don't know anything about twitter apart from some things I vaguely remember hearing or reading about it, maybe I should point that out first.) Twitter can be used to convey short messages, people can sign themselves up for notifications of updates, and you use it to tell others what you are doing at that instant. Well, blogs can do that, but you can also use them for more then that. Since twitter doesn't seem to add anything and only narrows the possibilities down I hereby declare it is infinitely inferior to blogging. You know, history exists to allow people to make mistakes once. History enables people who have shining new ideas to find out someone else has had a better idea already. By taking note of all things of the past and present, good and bad, historians offer a nice alternative to empirical learning method of trial-and-error, which is terribly time and energy-consuming. Par example: in the third century AD a man with a name I instantly forget when I read it had his army burn down the library of Alexandria, destroying a shitload of works of classical science, like books about blood circulation and the human nerve system, discoveries which would slumber for more then a millenia until we had finally reached the level to do it all over. He did it because he knew a book which was supposed to hold all relevant knowledge. Any information not in this book was false and had to be destroyed, any information already present in this book was irrelevant and had to be destroyed too. After all, the contents his special book were made up by an invisible superior entity, whose existence could not be proved, who could not communicate or be communicated with, except for a few lucky, dead people who everyone has to believe unconditionally. None the ideas in the book needed argumentation or proof. Since the rebirth of science and the ways of thinking associated with it life expectancy has improved a lot. On one hand, we have the man who believed we were done improving, on the other hand we have the people who enabled improvements to the quality of life on earth by believing we weren't done. The former belongs to a category I'd like to call modern. The latter belongs to a category I call awesome.
The morale of the story is that historians of all sorts, both amateurs and people who should know better, have succumbed to extreme arrogance, naming all things in the universe from their perspective and implying or claiming history has ended. Of course I'm allowed to say such things about others, since I'm a perfect, virtuous flowerchild with love and care for all God's creatures, in case I had forgotten to mention that.
Hugo Maat.
9.10.09
Esnesnon 9-10-09
Good morning, afternoon, or whatever is appriopriate in your time zone on the exact moment you started reading this sentence.
I don't know Italian. I do know about magical thinking. I'll attempt to explain what I mean with that, but I'll need to wake my brain up first. Coffee is a good start in theory, but physical activity is not required in this case. I should calm down, rather, take a deep breath, and wait four days. Starting now. Well, I don't mean I won't do anything for four days, that would be weird and extremely boring. No, I mean I won't attempt to speed up time. Time is precious enough as it is and rather then fast-forwarding to the moment you anticipate one should try to enjoy all the other little niceties of life while waiting for the good stuff. It's what I call the 'buffet' approach (if that's a correct translation) instead of the 'roadkill' approach (this is the other way; I don't have a clue what a proper Dutch term for roadkill would be).
Okay, I'm calm, and I have to wait quite a long time, so I should be able to write.
This was written the day before yesterday. I'm still not capable of clearly formulating my thoughts in a way I'd like to present to you all. I know what I'm thinking, what it is that I want and how I feel, and I know what I would like to tell some of you and in which way. To one of you I would simply smile broadly and do a dance, gleefully cheering. "Words are not be the right way to express myself," I would tell you. Another I'd tell the whole story, interrupting myself occasionally while cheering giddily. I'd say: "You are maybe the only one who can really understand why I would be this happy. Yay for similar souls! High five!" (Well, probably not literally those words.) Yet another would have to suffer through a conversation about another subject, during which I would occasionally take a glance out of the window and sigh in eternal bliss, to provoke a rather obvious question. My answer would be: "I'm sorry, I'm just really happy," refusing to let my mysteriousness slide. The only purpose of such a conversation is to annoy someone really badly. Also a possibility, in the case of some people who never read this blog but who share in my nonsense anyway, is to listen to my exaggurated tales of great exploits. I won't even give an example, because they are shamefully untrue, laughable, stereotypically 'manly,' and rather sexist. Also, that way I would be giving away my strategies and my hidden mindset. I don't want to show all my cards just yet, that would ruin the whole game.
My problem with the story is, as aforementioned, that I cannot find a way of telling it that appeals to everyone reading this. I tried it before, an attempt that failed because it was too freaking vague a story. I am compelled to transmit my story though, like many humans with me. Everybody has something to tell and great joy lies in sharing your tales with a willing audience. It's the reason great villains tell the heroes of their master plans before they activate the unneccesarily slow and intricate machine of death, because they are hopeless social rejects who really just want people to pay attention to them. (It's all because their parents never showed enough affection to them, you know.) I would make a good villain, I think. Telling everything there is to tell, and then killing the person you told it to sounds like an excellent therapy. Maybe I should start trading in the abduction business, selling poor souls to rich bastards in need of therapy. Sounds like fun.
The solution to my dillemma (in short, my dillemma consists of my desire to tell my story and my desire to tell it in a diffrent way to everyone who reads this) is continuing the story. Which I will, next tuesday.
Hugo Maat.
Ps: If I were an apple-pie, I'd spontaneously collapse. If I were a soufflé, I'd quickly close the oven.
Okay, I'm calm, and I have to wait quite a long time, so I should be able to write.
This was written the day before yesterday. I'm still not capable of clearly formulating my thoughts in a way I'd like to present to you all. I know what I'm thinking, what it is that I want and how I feel, and I know what I would like to tell some of you and in which way. To one of you I would simply smile broadly and do a dance, gleefully cheering. "Words are not be the right way to express myself," I would tell you. Another I'd tell the whole story, interrupting myself occasionally while cheering giddily. I'd say: "You are maybe the only one who can really understand why I would be this happy. Yay for similar souls! High five!" (Well, probably not literally those words.) Yet another would have to suffer through a conversation about another subject, during which I would occasionally take a glance out of the window and sigh in eternal bliss, to provoke a rather obvious question. My answer would be: "I'm sorry, I'm just really happy," refusing to let my mysteriousness slide. The only purpose of such a conversation is to annoy someone really badly. Also a possibility, in the case of some people who never read this blog but who share in my nonsense anyway, is to listen to my exaggurated tales of great exploits. I won't even give an example, because they are shamefully untrue, laughable, stereotypically 'manly,' and rather sexist. Also, that way I would be giving away my strategies and my hidden mindset. I don't want to show all my cards just yet, that would ruin the whole game.
My problem with the story is, as aforementioned, that I cannot find a way of telling it that appeals to everyone reading this. I tried it before, an attempt that failed because it was too freaking vague a story. I am compelled to transmit my story though, like many humans with me. Everybody has something to tell and great joy lies in sharing your tales with a willing audience. It's the reason great villains tell the heroes of their master plans before they activate the unneccesarily slow and intricate machine of death, because they are hopeless social rejects who really just want people to pay attention to them. (It's all because their parents never showed enough affection to them, you know.) I would make a good villain, I think. Telling everything there is to tell, and then killing the person you told it to sounds like an excellent therapy. Maybe I should start trading in the abduction business, selling poor souls to rich bastards in need of therapy. Sounds like fun.
The solution to my dillemma (in short, my dillemma consists of my desire to tell my story and my desire to tell it in a diffrent way to everyone who reads this) is continuing the story. Which I will, next tuesday.
Hugo Maat.
Ps: If I were an apple-pie, I'd spontaneously collapse. If I were a soufflé, I'd quickly close the oven.
7.10.09
Esnesnon 7-10-09
Hallo.
What a night. It wasn't what I expected nor deserved, I believe. The consequences are hitting me already, in a different form than the more commonplace hangover or any such a banal thing. I'm being struck with guilt. Yes, I am capable of feeling guilt. As a matter of fact, I feel guilty more often than I'd like (once a month or something) and when I feel guilty it's a rather bad case. My guilt isn't caused by others, but by myself. Nobody objected to my actions, everyone acted as I pleased and allowed me to, well, act on instinct. Even now, several people think I did nothing wrong; not only do they condone my actions but they encourage them. They have encouraged them and they my plans for the future are also approved of. Yet I feel guilty, and all of that comes from myself. I see my own mistakes better than anyone else I know. I can lie, or better said, I'm a master of falsehoods. Yet I'm not capable of fooling myself. If I wish to see the truth, as V said: I need only look into a mirror. I have only myself to blame for blaming myself for doing something nobody objected to. I guess I'm a twisted mind.
Rewind. Forsooth, this is quite a vague text. I'll attempt to clarify without giving away the slightest bit of information. After all, I feel rather guilty and would like to avoid the subject if possible. Not going to happen, I know. Well, I'd have to say it's all about Ireland, about the dream of Ireland. The land of Guinness, harps, catholics and wonderful golfing courses. Ireland was taken, invaded, out of purely selfish reasons. Ireland was oppressed. Perhaps it still is. I wonder, who feels guilty for what happened Ireland? Was there ever some Englishman who thought: 'Damn, I'm ashamed for what happened there.' And I don't mean he felt sorry for his country, for being an Englishman, perhaps I should just drop the Englishman-part at all. Could anyone without connection to Ireland have thought: 'I feel guilty,' of 'I should have acted otherwise.' Could one of the invaders have thought, in the act or later on: 'I'm not okay with this, I'm not okay with myself.' That would have been a silly thought. After all, what are you really talking about? Ireland is an island! Technically, it's just geography. It has a name for everyone's convenience, the people living on the island are aware they live on that island and they use the island as a reference point for their place in the world. Guinness is just a weird-tasting lukewarm brew made in that region, ancient Egyptians had harps too, catholics are really anywhere, damnit, and the golfing courses are again just geography. In this line of thought, every country and culture is hollow. But they aren't, are they? We as species happen to have human nature.
I dream of Ireland. The dream of Ireland can be translated into concrete forms like the climate and the nature, but those are rather banal things. If one would describe the dreamt Ireland by her appearance or her character, the true meaning would not be relayed. I believe it's called adaptation decay. Turn a book into a movie and you'll have to leave parts out. Turn a painting into a written story or a play into a statue, and you'll lose parts of the message. Writing about music won't do and won't impress one like the actual performance will. I can't describe the dreamt Ireland with the limited means of language. This leaves me alone to dream, and to feel guilty.
Hugo Maat.
Ps:
Par un dimanche au soir, vive l'amour!
Par un dimanche au soir, vive l'amour!
En m’en allant veiller vivons là pi vivons là,
En m’en allant veiller pi vivons là la liberté!
What a night. It wasn't what I expected nor deserved, I believe. The consequences are hitting me already, in a different form than the more commonplace hangover or any such a banal thing. I'm being struck with guilt. Yes, I am capable of feeling guilt. As a matter of fact, I feel guilty more often than I'd like (once a month or something) and when I feel guilty it's a rather bad case. My guilt isn't caused by others, but by myself. Nobody objected to my actions, everyone acted as I pleased and allowed me to, well, act on instinct. Even now, several people think I did nothing wrong; not only do they condone my actions but they encourage them. They have encouraged them and they my plans for the future are also approved of. Yet I feel guilty, and all of that comes from myself. I see my own mistakes better than anyone else I know. I can lie, or better said, I'm a master of falsehoods. Yet I'm not capable of fooling myself. If I wish to see the truth, as V said: I need only look into a mirror. I have only myself to blame for blaming myself for doing something nobody objected to. I guess I'm a twisted mind.
Rewind. Forsooth, this is quite a vague text. I'll attempt to clarify without giving away the slightest bit of information. After all, I feel rather guilty and would like to avoid the subject if possible. Not going to happen, I know. Well, I'd have to say it's all about Ireland, about the dream of Ireland. The land of Guinness, harps, catholics and wonderful golfing courses. Ireland was taken, invaded, out of purely selfish reasons. Ireland was oppressed. Perhaps it still is. I wonder, who feels guilty for what happened Ireland? Was there ever some Englishman who thought: 'Damn, I'm ashamed for what happened there.' And I don't mean he felt sorry for his country, for being an Englishman, perhaps I should just drop the Englishman-part at all. Could anyone without connection to Ireland have thought: 'I feel guilty,' of 'I should have acted otherwise.' Could one of the invaders have thought, in the act or later on: 'I'm not okay with this, I'm not okay with myself.' That would have been a silly thought. After all, what are you really talking about? Ireland is an island! Technically, it's just geography. It has a name for everyone's convenience, the people living on the island are aware they live on that island and they use the island as a reference point for their place in the world. Guinness is just a weird-tasting lukewarm brew made in that region, ancient Egyptians had harps too, catholics are really anywhere, damnit, and the golfing courses are again just geography. In this line of thought, every country and culture is hollow. But they aren't, are they? We as species happen to have human nature.
I dream of Ireland. The dream of Ireland can be translated into concrete forms like the climate and the nature, but those are rather banal things. If one would describe the dreamt Ireland by her appearance or her character, the true meaning would not be relayed. I believe it's called adaptation decay. Turn a book into a movie and you'll have to leave parts out. Turn a painting into a written story or a play into a statue, and you'll lose parts of the message. Writing about music won't do and won't impress one like the actual performance will. I can't describe the dreamt Ireland with the limited means of language. This leaves me alone to dream, and to feel guilty.
Hugo Maat.
Ps:
Par un dimanche au soir, vive l'amour!
Par un dimanche au soir, vive l'amour!
En m’en allant veiller vivons là pi vivons là,
En m’en allant veiller pi vivons là la liberté!
5.10.09
Esnesnon 5-10-09
Good afternoon.
J'ai le feu du volcan,
La chaleur du désert
La saveur de la terre,
La lueur d'une lune claire
Je n'ai rien que dans le coeur
l'immensité du ciel ouvert...
Well, it's another completely normal day, there is nothing special going on today and nothing at all has happened. Please stop telling me otherwise. Yesterday was a special day, the day before, that was a special day, tomorrow is special to me, but today isn't. I'll explain in rather random order. I won't explain anything about tomorrow, it has something to do with harps and Guinness. And a flying cat, if I'm at it anyway. Yesterday was 'animal's day,' which probably has a better sounding name in English. If it doesn't, I don't want to know. We (that being a couple of people and not me) ate chicken, pieces of a cow, goat and we made jokes about bestiality. Then me and my little brother performed a sketch about Buddha beating the crap out of his roommate. As two Dutch comic figure ducks commented: 'Dierendag, de enige dag waarop seks met dieren mag.' So much for animal's day. The day before that was october the third, a local Dutch holiday. Several traditional, crazy people, and the population of the city of Leiden, celebrate the lifting of the siege of Leiden in 1574. I happen to study history, so I'll explain: The Netherlands were property of the Spanish king in those years, and a huge source of income. It wasn't really a country, just a couple of bustling cities and spatially challenged swampy lands. Every city liked to stick to it's own traditions and rights, but the Spanish king wanted to end that and rule the Netherlands as one region with the same taxes and laws. The cities stubbornly resisted. Also, we had quite some protestants, who were at odds with those catholic Iberian fatso's. The Spanish sent a small army and the inquisition and a war broke out. That was about 1567. In the years that followed, the Dutch cities were either captured or besieged, while the Dutch armies, led by William of Orange, also know as 'the Silent,' were defeated and did little more then guerrilla warfare in the swamps.
Leiden was also besieged. The Spanish simply waited outside of the walls, starving the city until the people of the city would surrender. They almost did. Mayor Van der Werf stood on the square, sword drawn, vowing he'd rather cut off his own arm to feed his people then surrender the city to the Spanish, nicknamed 'the Bacons,' I kid you not. He did not cut off his arm and neither did the people surrender. Well, this could have gone on for a while, but one fine morning some Dutch guerrilla (which is a Spanish word) bastards flooded the low lands around the city and the Spanish cowards fled for the rising water. Early in the morning, two young boys scoured the streets of Leiden (I refuse to write Leyden), and decided to take a peek over the wall. They noticed the Spanish camp was deserted, they had left in all haste. The two boys lacked the brains to inform the citizens first, and instead they climbed over the wall (this part of the story is a bit strange) and walked into the Spanish camp. There they found a huge pot of... I don't know what it's called in English, it's some kind of stew. First they nearly killed themselves eating, then they alerted the citizens, and then they ate some more. The Spanish were gone, the people of Leiden were free to eat all the food the Spanish left, and on top of that the Dutch guerrilla bastards came by on flat-bottomed barges with a lot of stolen food: herring and white bread, which they handed out so everyone could eat until they got really sick.
Guess what, 435 years later people still eat herring, white bread and the strange stew, now an essential part of the Dutch cuisine, and as the people of Leiden say: that herring's gotta swim. In other words: they all get completely pissed. Fortunately 3 october is a saturday this year, so everyone gets their hangover on sunday. We were guilty at home too: we honoured the tradition by eating herring (well, I didn't eat herring because I'm barking mad), white bread, the stew-stuff-thingie and hitting the alcohol before lunchtime. Good times. We had some family over, who were there to celebrate Leiden's Liberation and some other, unrelated thing, not worth celebrating. During the weekend I kept playing Nocturnes, like the bittersweet, almost painful number 12, and going maniacally depressed. Good times. Oh, and I painted a part of the shed in our back yard yesterday. It was dull and my wrists started to hurt after a while. While I was at it, I had a bit of a Zen experience. Not that I saw the light by painting a shed, or that I discovered how wonderfully romantic ordinary labour is. (If there would be anything glorious and romantic about hard, menial labour, the duke of York would be tending his own damn garden.) No, I was able to calm down and slow down my thinking process. I need that, because my brains are doing overtime all week unless I'm careful.
While I was painting though, I struck me that I might suddenly learn karate, after which I could win a local karate championship, get admired by everyone, get revenge on a couple bullies, and somehow manage to get a car and the admiration from a foolish American girl. Then my brain started to complain. No, said my brain, why the hell would you want a car or the affection from a brainless American female, who won't put out and will probably lack a sense of humor and the ability to have a normal conversation too? A girl who will leave you the moment someone else learns karate, for appearently that's all it takes? Why do I want revenge on some small minded local idiots or admiration from other total idiots? I can't identify myself with the karate kid at all. At that point I elected to put down the brush and rethink my life. It didn't work out. My life has been rethought for me, by a figure with a black top hat and pink feathers. All I can do is admire, dream and stroll through life. And when I encounter another lifeform or a computer, I make snarky comments.
But hey, let's not go all passive! What would I like to change about my life? Here's my chance, I have a blog, a purple scarf and a university! What more can a human being need to become independent? I would like to become less tired. I don't know exactly how, since sleeping doesn't really work and I don't want to let go of all my mentally exhausting activities. Maybe if I'd find some more physically exhausting activities that everything would line up again. Maybe I should stop being a good student. But a better idea would be to find a way to unwind, get myself a hobby that does not involve huge amounts of concentration, maybe I should get a life, maybe I should start using cannabis more often. I don't feel for any of those things. I want to keep playing the eternal game. Nothing should change. I don't want to get old, I don't want to be tied down. Let them hate me as long as they tolerate me.
I should stop writing, Chopin is playing in my head again.
Hugo Maat.
J'ai le feu du volcan,
La chaleur du désert
La saveur de la terre,
La lueur d'une lune claire
Je n'ai rien que dans le coeur
l'immensité du ciel ouvert...
Well, it's another completely normal day, there is nothing special going on today and nothing at all has happened. Please stop telling me otherwise. Yesterday was a special day, the day before, that was a special day, tomorrow is special to me, but today isn't. I'll explain in rather random order. I won't explain anything about tomorrow, it has something to do with harps and Guinness. And a flying cat, if I'm at it anyway. Yesterday was 'animal's day,' which probably has a better sounding name in English. If it doesn't, I don't want to know. We (that being a couple of people and not me) ate chicken, pieces of a cow, goat and we made jokes about bestiality. Then me and my little brother performed a sketch about Buddha beating the crap out of his roommate. As two Dutch comic figure ducks commented: 'Dierendag, de enige dag waarop seks met dieren mag.' So much for animal's day. The day before that was october the third, a local Dutch holiday. Several traditional, crazy people, and the population of the city of Leiden, celebrate the lifting of the siege of Leiden in 1574. I happen to study history, so I'll explain: The Netherlands were property of the Spanish king in those years, and a huge source of income. It wasn't really a country, just a couple of bustling cities and spatially challenged swampy lands. Every city liked to stick to it's own traditions and rights, but the Spanish king wanted to end that and rule the Netherlands as one region with the same taxes and laws. The cities stubbornly resisted. Also, we had quite some protestants, who were at odds with those catholic Iberian fatso's. The Spanish sent a small army and the inquisition and a war broke out. That was about 1567. In the years that followed, the Dutch cities were either captured or besieged, while the Dutch armies, led by William of Orange, also know as 'the Silent,' were defeated and did little more then guerrilla warfare in the swamps.
Leiden was also besieged. The Spanish simply waited outside of the walls, starving the city until the people of the city would surrender. They almost did. Mayor Van der Werf stood on the square, sword drawn, vowing he'd rather cut off his own arm to feed his people then surrender the city to the Spanish, nicknamed 'the Bacons,' I kid you not. He did not cut off his arm and neither did the people surrender. Well, this could have gone on for a while, but one fine morning some Dutch guerrilla (which is a Spanish word) bastards flooded the low lands around the city and the Spanish cowards fled for the rising water. Early in the morning, two young boys scoured the streets of Leiden (I refuse to write Leyden), and decided to take a peek over the wall. They noticed the Spanish camp was deserted, they had left in all haste. The two boys lacked the brains to inform the citizens first, and instead they climbed over the wall (this part of the story is a bit strange) and walked into the Spanish camp. There they found a huge pot of... I don't know what it's called in English, it's some kind of stew. First they nearly killed themselves eating, then they alerted the citizens, and then they ate some more. The Spanish were gone, the people of Leiden were free to eat all the food the Spanish left, and on top of that the Dutch guerrilla bastards came by on flat-bottomed barges with a lot of stolen food: herring and white bread, which they handed out so everyone could eat until they got really sick.
Guess what, 435 years later people still eat herring, white bread and the strange stew, now an essential part of the Dutch cuisine, and as the people of Leiden say: that herring's gotta swim. In other words: they all get completely pissed. Fortunately 3 october is a saturday this year, so everyone gets their hangover on sunday. We were guilty at home too: we honoured the tradition by eating herring (well, I didn't eat herring because I'm barking mad), white bread, the stew-stuff-thingie and hitting the alcohol before lunchtime. Good times. We had some family over, who were there to celebrate Leiden's Liberation and some other, unrelated thing, not worth celebrating. During the weekend I kept playing Nocturnes, like the bittersweet, almost painful number 12, and going maniacally depressed. Good times. Oh, and I painted a part of the shed in our back yard yesterday. It was dull and my wrists started to hurt after a while. While I was at it, I had a bit of a Zen experience. Not that I saw the light by painting a shed, or that I discovered how wonderfully romantic ordinary labour is. (If there would be anything glorious and romantic about hard, menial labour, the duke of York would be tending his own damn garden.) No, I was able to calm down and slow down my thinking process. I need that, because my brains are doing overtime all week unless I'm careful.
While I was painting though, I struck me that I might suddenly learn karate, after which I could win a local karate championship, get admired by everyone, get revenge on a couple bullies, and somehow manage to get a car and the admiration from a foolish American girl. Then my brain started to complain. No, said my brain, why the hell would you want a car or the affection from a brainless American female, who won't put out and will probably lack a sense of humor and the ability to have a normal conversation too? A girl who will leave you the moment someone else learns karate, for appearently that's all it takes? Why do I want revenge on some small minded local idiots or admiration from other total idiots? I can't identify myself with the karate kid at all. At that point I elected to put down the brush and rethink my life. It didn't work out. My life has been rethought for me, by a figure with a black top hat and pink feathers. All I can do is admire, dream and stroll through life. And when I encounter another lifeform or a computer, I make snarky comments.
But hey, let's not go all passive! What would I like to change about my life? Here's my chance, I have a blog, a purple scarf and a university! What more can a human being need to become independent? I would like to become less tired. I don't know exactly how, since sleeping doesn't really work and I don't want to let go of all my mentally exhausting activities. Maybe if I'd find some more physically exhausting activities that everything would line up again. Maybe I should stop being a good student. But a better idea would be to find a way to unwind, get myself a hobby that does not involve huge amounts of concentration, maybe I should get a life, maybe I should start using cannabis more often. I don't feel for any of those things. I want to keep playing the eternal game. Nothing should change. I don't want to get old, I don't want to be tied down. Let them hate me as long as they tolerate me.
I should stop writing, Chopin is playing in my head again.
Hugo Maat.
2.10.09
Esnesnon 2-10-09
Puur ter zelfpromotie, voorafgaand aan mijn volgende woordenbrei, wil ik even aangeven dat mijn vorige maand qua blogposts productiever was dan alle voorgaande maanden: eerst was maart 2008 mijn recordmaand maar die koppositie is nu weg. De posts zijn ook langer en een stuk minder leesbaar, toevallig. Genoeg hierover, het gebruikelijke programma van Esnesnon hervat nu.
Hallo.
Misschien ken je de momenten, misschien ken je ze niet. Het zijn de momenten dat je een bekende plek voor iets als de honderdste keer ziet, maar ineens op een andere manier ernaar kijkt. Ineens ben je een nieuwe wereld ingestapt en is alles toch een beetje anders geworden. Het is een gevoel van bevrijding, waardoor je bijna zweeft van binnen. Je bent op vakantie in eigen land, je bent een zwerver in je eigen huis, je bent een schipbreukeling op droog land. Vernieuwing temidden van het oude. Wat is er veranderd als de omgeving eigenlijk nog de oude is? De waarnemer is aan een verandering ondergaan, heeft een andere kleur bril op, of is gewoon een nieuw mens. Wat je ziet bepaalt wat je weet, wat je weet bepaalt wie je bent. Som kan een klein gebaar dat alles veranderen, ineens. Wat voor een levensveranderende ervaring moet een mens ondergaan voordat de gehele wereld en hijzelf een andere gedaante aanneemt?
Eigenlijk is er niet zo bijster veel voor nodig. Mijn excuses voor iedereen die iets bijzonders verwachtte, maar ik heb het over vanochtend, toen ik bij de TNT vandaan kwam lopen met mijn studenten OV-jaarkaart. Tussen maandagochtend 4 uur en zaterdagochtend 4 uur kan ik vrijelijk gebruik maken van het openbaar vervoer in Nederland. En dat is een hoop vrijheid, mag ik wel zeggen. Dat is iets dat mij helemaal onbekend is: het vermogen om te kunnen reizen naar believen, tenminste, dat is wat ik er in zie. Ik zou in een trein kunnen stappen, een willekeurige trein, en niet uitstappen waar ik hoor te zijn maar ergens anders. Ik hoef niet meer vooruit te denken en kan kiezen op het moment. Ik kan gaan liften, feitelijk. Ik hoef geen kaartjes te kopen. Het is allemaal zoveel dat ik het eerlijk gezegd nog niet helemaal geloof. Ik heb al een conducteur weten af te bluffen door even de kaart te tonen, maar hoe zit dat dan in bussen? Zou daar de magie van de kaart ook werken? Ik vind het toch een briljant idee dat ik gewoon een kaartje laat zien en verklaar: 'Hallo, ik ben student, ik hoef niet te betalen!' Ik kan me nauwelijks voorstellen dat die mensen er in zouden trappen! Het is allemaal gewoon te mooi om waar te zijn. Ik ga het dus eerst even testen, of het wel waar is wat ze over de OV-kaart zeggen. Net als ieder mens dat net 'powers' heeft verkregen (ik vind de formulering zo belachelijk dat ik het niet durf het in het Nederlands te doen) wil ik ze eerst onder controle leren krijgen voordat ik megalomaan word. Pardon, megalomaner.
Voortaan ga ik dan veel in de trein zitten, lezen, schrijven, en dromen over Ierland.
Hugo Maat.
Ps: I can now use public transportation without paying for it because I'm just that awesome. Also, I often dream of Ireland. Figuratively.
Hallo.
Misschien ken je de momenten, misschien ken je ze niet. Het zijn de momenten dat je een bekende plek voor iets als de honderdste keer ziet, maar ineens op een andere manier ernaar kijkt. Ineens ben je een nieuwe wereld ingestapt en is alles toch een beetje anders geworden. Het is een gevoel van bevrijding, waardoor je bijna zweeft van binnen. Je bent op vakantie in eigen land, je bent een zwerver in je eigen huis, je bent een schipbreukeling op droog land. Vernieuwing temidden van het oude. Wat is er veranderd als de omgeving eigenlijk nog de oude is? De waarnemer is aan een verandering ondergaan, heeft een andere kleur bril op, of is gewoon een nieuw mens. Wat je ziet bepaalt wat je weet, wat je weet bepaalt wie je bent. Som kan een klein gebaar dat alles veranderen, ineens. Wat voor een levensveranderende ervaring moet een mens ondergaan voordat de gehele wereld en hijzelf een andere gedaante aanneemt?
Eigenlijk is er niet zo bijster veel voor nodig. Mijn excuses voor iedereen die iets bijzonders verwachtte, maar ik heb het over vanochtend, toen ik bij de TNT vandaan kwam lopen met mijn studenten OV-jaarkaart. Tussen maandagochtend 4 uur en zaterdagochtend 4 uur kan ik vrijelijk gebruik maken van het openbaar vervoer in Nederland. En dat is een hoop vrijheid, mag ik wel zeggen. Dat is iets dat mij helemaal onbekend is: het vermogen om te kunnen reizen naar believen, tenminste, dat is wat ik er in zie. Ik zou in een trein kunnen stappen, een willekeurige trein, en niet uitstappen waar ik hoor te zijn maar ergens anders. Ik hoef niet meer vooruit te denken en kan kiezen op het moment. Ik kan gaan liften, feitelijk. Ik hoef geen kaartjes te kopen. Het is allemaal zoveel dat ik het eerlijk gezegd nog niet helemaal geloof. Ik heb al een conducteur weten af te bluffen door even de kaart te tonen, maar hoe zit dat dan in bussen? Zou daar de magie van de kaart ook werken? Ik vind het toch een briljant idee dat ik gewoon een kaartje laat zien en verklaar: 'Hallo, ik ben student, ik hoef niet te betalen!' Ik kan me nauwelijks voorstellen dat die mensen er in zouden trappen! Het is allemaal gewoon te mooi om waar te zijn. Ik ga het dus eerst even testen, of het wel waar is wat ze over de OV-kaart zeggen. Net als ieder mens dat net 'powers' heeft verkregen (ik vind de formulering zo belachelijk dat ik het niet durf het in het Nederlands te doen) wil ik ze eerst onder controle leren krijgen voordat ik megalomaan word. Pardon, megalomaner.
Voortaan ga ik dan veel in de trein zitten, lezen, schrijven, en dromen over Ierland.
Hugo Maat.
Ps: I can now use public transportation without paying for it because I'm just that awesome. Also, I often dream of Ireland. Figuratively.
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