tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80072465124617156302024-03-21T01:13:46.791+01:00Brussels Nerds' Creative Writing ClubObviously, you can only adore usDottirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00023845428743462001noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-83696876658035166792013-02-22T17:30:00.000+01:002013-03-18T17:51:59.602+01:00Paula<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Last Saturday Paula turned 39. She didn’t go dancing with her friends. She didn’t leave for a fancy holiday at the sea. She didn’t have birthday sex. She couldn’t. She couldn’t for the past 12 years, since her husband had died. That’s right. No, she wasn’t the faithful type or the one feeling sorry for herself, or for her dead husband. She couldn’t because of the fucking accident. Her husband died, she survived.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You won’t be able to walk anymore”, doctors said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Can I still have sex at least?” Paula asked hopefully.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The doctor looked down in sorrow, saying nothing. Since then, Paula stayed home all day. She watched TV, though she hated it. All these romantic movies, all those sex scenes, all those pretty girls with their beautiful long legs, getting naked, slowly, and being fucked so wildely in front of the camera. No, Paula couldn’t stand movies. Documentaries were not any better: even animals could have what she couldn’t. They could run around, freely, in the jungle, being screwed. The worst that could happen to them was being killed and die. Dying wasn’t painful after all. Her husband had always been the lucky one. Even that day, when the accident happened.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At least Lianne was ugly. “<i>Life is fair”</i>, Paula thought when looking at the white haired woman taking care of her. Winters were the best period of the year. Rain, snow, greyness: what a gorgeous day they announced. Paula loved cold. In the cold, people get sick, they look miserable in their beds and the idea of sex gives them extra nausea. How wonderful! Summer time brings unhappiness and frustration instead. Paula could picture bare legs everywhere: running in the street, cycling, standing at the bus stop. Dreadful! She would then lock herself up in the bedroom; shutters down, lamp on, ready to write. The accident might have taken her life away, but not her dreams. She wrote pages and pages of unmade sex life; her imagination guided her pen so wildly, for hours and hours. The only breaks allowed were the TV-watching sessions.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Lianne, where’s the remote control?”</span></span></div>
Ylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747532168795392610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-65774871091219617722012-11-01T10:52:00.000+01:002012-11-01T10:52:04.743+01:00Capitalisation<div style="text-align: justify;">
« What does your father do for a living ? » the teacher asked. The child didn’t answer. The teacher thought the child was dumb; in fact, she thought all children were dumb. You never knew what happened in their brain. Images, words, sounds following each other like a multicoloured thread, nonsense which made sense only to them. So the teacher said again, “what is his profession?” </div>
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The child was thinking, perhaps not fast enough, scenes of her father crashing in her head, crushing her under their weight. She never thought about her Daddy’s Profession. Daddy left in the morning and he came back at night. She did that too, she noticed. She went to school in the morning and came back home in the afternoons. And Mom didn’t. </div>
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They had talked about Daddy’s Profession. They had used words for it. Work, Job, Wage, Overtime and Pension. Tu as encore ramené du Travail à la maison. Complaints about dog’s hair on his suit. Leather shoes, leather briefcase, leather wallet. The child knew why Daddy was working, he worked for a Living. He worked to pay for the house, and for the food, and for the holidays sometimes. But what did he do? What could he do? Recent memories of the sunny weekend, only two days before. They went biking. Her bike had four wheels, Daddy’s had two. Daddy took a sick tree down. Daddy chopped wood, lots of wood, and piled logs for the winter. </div>
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“So what does your father do?” the teacher asked. </div>
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“He is a Lumberjack”, the child answered. But apparently being a Lumberjack wasn’t a good thing on those days, because her mother’s neck was burning with shame that evening. </div>
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“A Lumberjack!” she scolded her. “Un bûcheron!” </div>
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But when the child finally asked about her Daddy’s Profession, the answer made no sense. Avocats were round, green and edible, and Daddy didn’t even like them.
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Bibilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06124099063927408009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-29315843487172085132012-10-11T00:35:00.000+02:002012-10-11T00:35:43.940+02:002012/10/10 Exercise: HorrorThere they go again. Every day at precisely half past seven in the evening I hear the couple upstairs having sex. Brutally. Like the world was going to end the next day. I hate it. I hate them. But I can't restrain myself from listening, from imagining their sweating bodies tangled, her nipples being pinched, his back scratched by her fingernails.<br />
<br />
Another day at the office came and went uneventfully. Nothing to remark. Conversations about the weather and another Excel spreadsheet filled.<br />
<br />
The tram ride back home shows me the same faces, the same fatigue, the same lives going down the drain.<br />
<br />
I have never seen the couple upstairs, so now I try to find them everywhere. This girl sitting in front of me could be her, but for some reason her face doesn't fit the moaning and the shouting I hear upstairs. That postman could be him, but he's not strong enough for that loud spanking.<br />
<br />
It's half past seven and I hear their bed creaking. The beginning is always like that, quiet. The rough stuff comes later. Today, they have a whip.<br />
<br />
I have been laid off at work. My last spreadsheet was a disaster. Maybe my mind was too full of handcuffs, cocks, nipples and hardcore penetrations.<br />
<br />
The faces in the tram are different at this time of the day. But I guess that man in a suit is not him and that teenage girl with the headphones is not her.<br />
<br />
It's half past seven and I don't hear anything.<br />
Eight o'clock and nothing yet.<br />
I look for porn on the Internet and then go to bed.<br />
<br />
I have nothing to do.<br />
<br />
It's half past seven and not a sound from upstairs.<br />
I look for S&M porn on the Internet and go to bed.<br />
<br />
I'm beginning to worry. Today is the third silent day. Maybe I should call the police, but how would I explain the situation? Maybe I should go check myself.<br />
I look for extreme sex on the Internet and go to bed.<br />
I can't sleep.<br />
I can't sleep after masturbating.<br />
I get up. I should see if everything is alright upstairs.<br />
<br />
The corridor is dark but I don't dare to turn the light on. My mobile phone guides me. I put my ear against the door. Everything is quiet.<br />
I decide to exit through the window onto the fire escape. Their apartment is dark. A window is a little bit open, so I pull it up and crawl inside.<br />
<br />
I get up on my feet and walk towards what I assume is the bedroom, based on the distribution of my own apartment.<br />
I hear noises. A soft moaning and heavy breathing.<br />
The door is not locked, so I push it gently.<br />
<br />
There is a couple having sex. She is riding him, so none of them can see me.<br />
<br />
'What the hell are you doing?' I ask<br />
She cries loudly, startled, and jumps to the side.<br />
'What the fuck!' he shouts.<br />
'Why are you having sex like regular people?' I shout in return. 'Where are the whips? The spanking? The hot wax on her nipples?'<br />
'Are you crazy?' she asks, still shouting.<br />
'What are you talking about?' he says, trying to understand.<br />
<br />
I go to the kitchen and take the biggest knife.<br />
When I get back to the bedroom, he is getting dressed and she's still hiding underneath the covers, tears in her eyes. He freezes.<br />
<br />
'Undress' I say, voice as cold as ice. He does.<br />
'You, on all fours' I order her. She does.<br />
I tell him to spank her. 'Harder! What are you, a mouse? HARDER!'.<br />
He does and she cries.<br />
'Get inside her. Now.'<br />
There are tears in his eyes too. I slap him so he doesn't cry any more.<br />
'You, girl, stop the tears. You, in her ass.'<br />
She says no with her head and turns to me. As he's about to speak, I punch his imploring face with my fist and he loses some teeth.<br />
<br />
The door bangs open with a kick and two policemen materialize. I can see some neighbours behind them. Fucking neighbours.<br />
<br />
'Freeze!' the policemen shout. How unoriginal.<br />
<br />
So I slash the hand of one of them and the pistol drops and I laugh loudly. The other policeman has fear in his eyes, but he fires his gun anyway.<br />
A sea of pain paralyzes my senses, but I still have the ability to put the knife in that bitch's side, just above the waist.<br />
<br />
The last thing I hear is a cacophony of shouts, sobs and sheer terror.<br />
I smile.Quique Medardehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764569023919906639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-29817253887499550572012-09-30T10:29:00.000+02:002013-03-18T17:52:36.143+01:00Leaving Brussels<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The radio is passing that song</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ne me quitte pas</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">” it implores.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Laying down on my terrace</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I can observe the autumn leaves </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">coming and going,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">continuously,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">from the trees,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">in the breeze.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Arial; line-height: 28.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The white pages of my diary are waiting for me</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Arial; line-height: 28.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">to be filled.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Lost for words, </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am just dreaming all my memories.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Seven years have gone by</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I can now feel the heat on my skin</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">burning me </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">with an unusual ray of light.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A light made</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">of love</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">of family</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">of feeling home.</span></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“C`était au temps où Bruxelles rêvait “</span></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Jacques still sings</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and I keep on dreaming.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Arial; line-height: 28.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Until suddenly,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">the Belgian rain,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">dripping in and out my eyes,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Lucida Grande; line-height: 28.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">shuts the doors of my memory behind.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Lucida Grande; line-height: 28.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Je m’en vais, je quitte,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Lucida Grande; line-height: 28.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I leave. Au revoi</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">r.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Ylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747532168795392610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-72239498499498713932012-07-05T17:21:00.000+02:002013-03-18T17:53:08.209+01:00hidden secret of Brussels<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Dear friend,</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">how are you? I’m good, I’m good. Don’t worry too much, I’m good. I eat every day, and yes, I can drink milk. I don’t feel as a stranger because I can take the bus or the metro or the train to go from one side to the other. I can even walk, and it feels amazing. Even in the greyness, even at night. I walk every night back home. Sometimes I walk to somebody else’ home. But don’t worry, here that is fine. The buildings are not so tall, so you can still enjoy the full moon view when it’s not cloudy. And when it’s cloudy, you can still see through, because once you live in the greyness, you learn how to do that. And you do that by closing your eyes. See? That’s the city where everything is possible. So, I’m good, I’m good. And how are you? I miss our pillow talks. I miss our laughs. I miss our silence. In the grey city everyone feels the need to talk. Let’s talk about politics, let’s talk about trips, let’s talk about the world, let’s talk about us. I never wanted to talk about us, my friend. You wanted to. There are so many streets around. There are so many people. There are so many walls. But walls are not enough to cover for the noisy talking around. That’s the real mistery to me. That’s the real mistery to everyone. This is the city of talks. I hear people and trees and objects talking all the time. Even mice. There are lot of mice under the ground, you know. They shout and shout. “It smells here”, they say. Let’s talk, let’s talk. You wanted to talk. Why do you do that, what do you think of this, when do you come back to me, where did you go to school. Let’s talk, let’s talk. I thought things don’t talk. I’m not a thing, you said, you’re not a thing, I said. I’m good, how are you my friend, I’m good. You know, I avoid bars. They never serve snacks along with beer. People get drunk, they start singing, they are drunk. Then they vomit and yet can’t keep silent. They shout like mice “it smells here, it smells, help!” They fall asleep, sometimes at home, sometimes in front of the bus stop, with their back leaning against the wall. They are waiting for a bus which is not coming. Not till 5 o’clock the next morning. They have nightmares and shout about the dragon wanting to beat them with a flower; but it’s an iron flower and so they are scared. They shout their fears loudly. I can hear them at night. Often. I can hear everything. The city speaks. Its people speak in too many languages. Its buildings shout when they crash down. The sky is the worst. It cries all the time. And even when it doesn’t, it looks at you with threatening crying eyes and it feels almost as if it’s trying to say something. And I hear that too. You know, dear friend, I came here to escape the noise of talking. It’s a grey city, I thought, it must be a quiet place. Well, it’s not. It also wants to talk, like you did, let’s talk let’s talk. Even the air talks and the wind blows loudly through the half open door. I’m good, my friend, I’m good. Let’s talk, you said. Since I have been living here in this city, I have learnt that there are many other ways of talking, rather than the actual talk. So, let’s try one. Let’s talk in silence. Let’s write letters. How are you my friend, I’m good. I’m good.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It’s great to be finally able to talk with you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Love,</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">J.</span></div>
Ylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747532168795392610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-44027146612093250792012-06-24T13:45:00.000+02:002013-03-18T17:53:27.873+01:00the silence in between<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Julia arrived late in the morning. She slammed the door; then looked at me looking at her; then apologised. Julia was never late or at least never later than me. ‘I don’t like sleeping’, she always said. </span><br />
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‘Something happened?’ I asked. </div>
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‘Nothing happened.’ she replied. </div>
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Julia sat at her desk and turned the pc on. She placed the take-away coffee just beside the pile of documents on the right side of the desk. She must have walked all the way from her house. The coffee had gotten cold. She took off her coat. Then her scarf. Eventually her bracelets and jewellery. I could not stand the noise of bracelets when typing on a keyboard. I am glad that she remembered it.</div>
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The phones kept quiet for a couple of hours. Silence was a loved presence in our office. Something we aimed for. Collegues used to say we hated each other because we only talked if necessary. We didn’t hate each other. It was just a matter of respect. Nobody should be let free to interpret the silence between two people. </div>
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Suddenly Julia stood up and opened the window. ‘It’s hot in here, isn’t it?’</div>
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‘It isn’t’ I replied.</div>
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‘Oh. Should I close the window then?’</div>
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‘Yes, you should. Please. Thanks.’ </div>
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Julia closed the window and went back to her desk. ‘Be polite and you’ll get what you want’, I told myself. Some people are afraid to express their needs. Some others do express them, but in an aggressive way. Like Julia. She closed the window, still she was hot so she became histerical. She started using documents and stickers and enveloppes to wave some air at herself. I ignored her. She opened the door, left the room for few minutes and came back. I looked at her. She closed the door behind. She picked up the phone, dialled a number, immediately hung up. She didn’t even waited for any reply. She looked nervous.</div>
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‘Are you nervous?’ I asked</div>
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‘No, I’m just hot, I guess that’s it’ she was annoyed.</div>
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‘Oh, I see’ I replied as if her statement did not concern me at all. Actually it didn’t. I wasn’t hot, she was.</div>
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Julia stood up again, opened the door, left the room for minutes, then came back. This happened five times in an hour. A bit too much. When she stood up the sixth time, I asked ‘Julia, what’s up? I can’t work if you keep on moving and acting histerical like this. Please!’</div>
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‘Nothing is up, I told you, I’m just hot. And by the way, I can’t work either today.’</div>
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‘Why were you late?’</div>
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‘Does it matter?’</div>
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‘Maybe not, but I am curious anyway’.</div>
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She started murmouring something, then suddenly stood up again and run out in the corridor. This time she forgot to close the door behind.</div>
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‘She must have eaten Chinese last night. That’s it.’ I thought.</div>
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Julia had a delicate stomach. I noticed it three weeks ago, at John’s farewell party. One of those nice shrimp-sauce sandwiches had been enough to send her straight to the loo. Weirdly enough, she seems to eat very healthy and still not being able to keep fit. Julia came back to the room and didn’t look alright.</div>
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‘Hard night?’ I asked.</div>
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‘Hard night indeed’ she replied and went back to her desk.</div>
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I thought she referred to the Chinese take-away. </div>
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That night though, what Julia could not digest, was not some Chinese noodles or some cheap shrimp-sauce sandwich. No. Rumors reached me weeks afterwards. Julia wanted to keep her baby. Her boyfriend didn’t and had left. She had stayed awake all night, arrived late at work, felt sick and miserable all morning. Nobody should be let free to interpret the silence around. I did, and I was wrong.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Ylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747532168795392610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-79000609022649592952012-06-20T16:20:00.000+02:002013-03-18T17:53:46.913+01:00TV's fault<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I have no reason not to answer the door, so I answer the door.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Hello, is James in?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘No sorry, James is not in. In fact, he’ll never be in because no James lives here.’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It’s 11pm, it’s Wednesday, nothing good on TV. A young British guy giving cooking lessons. A somewhat famous writer of a supposed famous series is buying new shoes. I-dont-remember-his-name is solving some crime case. The doorbell rings again.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Hello, is Claudia in?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘No sorry, Claudia is not in. Who is Claudia, by the way?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Hem, the blond girl dating Kristian?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Interesting. I don’t know any Claudia dating Kristian. Actually, I don’t know any Kristian.’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I flip channel again, hoping in some cheap laughs before going to bed.The doorbell rings once again. I look at the clock. 11.45pm. Almost midnight.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Hello, is Jennifer in?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I start losing my patience.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘What is it tonight, Halloween? Why everybody keeps ringing the bell looking for someone who doesnt live here? By the way, no there’s no Jennifer and now fuck off.’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I close the door. What a weird way of ending a Wednesday night. As if having nothing good on TV wasn’t bad enough. Time to go to bed, I tell myself. The doorbell rings again. Silence. They’ll go away, I think and stay motionless by the stairs. Another ring. Silence. A ring, again. It’s my mobile, this time. It’s John.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘John, thanks God is you, I was almost freaking out ...'</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘I know, darling, I know, all those people looking for strangers, they must have scared you ...’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Yes, they did ... But how ... how do you know?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Darling, we need to talk’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘What do you mean, John? What do we need to talk about? By the way, where are you?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Im in front of your door darling ... open it.’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I hang up the phone and can see my hands trembling of fear. Something weird must be going on outside the main door and it seems I am the only one not aware of it. I walk slowly towards the door. Slowly; as if this time there may be a reason not to open it. But John is out there and I trust him. Usually, I do. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I open the door.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Was it you ringing the door just few minutes ago?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Yes, darling. Can I come in?’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Sure’, I answer, while investigating his face, his expression, his body language. He looks alright. Awake. Not drunk. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">He enters the living room and sits on the big sofa and pulls me down to sit beside him. He looks now a bit confused. He is probably looking for the right words in his head. I can’t resist. It’s passed midnight and I am actually quite asleep. I can’t help it and start asking questions.</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘So, honey, tell me, what’s happening? how did you know about the ringing bell and the people and all ...’</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘You dont remember?’</span></div>
<div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Remember?... what should I remember? I was watching TV, and, you know, it’s Wednesday, there’s nothing on TV ... ‘</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Silence.</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘There’s nothing good on, right?’</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘You’re right honey, there was nothing on TV ... That’s why you drove to my place and picked me up to go for a drink ... and ... ‘</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Me, driving tonight? ... it’s crazy, I was watching TV .. have you been drinking?’</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘No, darling ... there was another car ... James, Claudia and Jennifer were in it ...’</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘James, Claudia and Jennifer? who are these people? you must be drunk ... I dont know who you are talking about’.</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘We are dead, darling. We are all dead.’</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I put my nose forward, closer to his mouth to check if I could spot some alchool or funny smell. Nothing. I pull it back and start laughing. Hysterically. </span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Sure, we are dead. We are sitting here on the sofa, the clock still marks the minutes, we are chatting and we are dead. Yes, darling. Of course.’</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">John cries a tear. He looks serious now. I don’t laugh anymore. I can’t laugh when he looks so serious.</span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; line-height: 15.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The home phone rings. I can hear my mum stepping downstairs quickly. She answers the phone. Few minutes go by, till she hungs up and starts crying. I could see her, but she could not see me anymore. It was one of those Wednesday night when there’s nothing good on TV; when there's nothing good at all<b>.</b></span></div>
Ylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747532168795392610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-43287496963826514222012-06-17T16:46:00.003+02:002013-03-18T17:54:43.947+01:00the dots of happiness<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Shit. I got homework to do.
“Write about happiness”. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 7.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I open the window. The sun
is giving me its last warm rays. ‘Summer is getting closer’, I think. Here's
the World’s Happiness story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">___</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 7.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When Happiness was born it
was a sunny day in the city called World. I am pretty sure about that. It came
out in a half-moon shape completed by two dots. Nobody could say in which order
they came out.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 7.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dot, half moon, dot.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 7.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Half moon, dot, dot.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 7.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dot, dot, half moon.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 7.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Trying to identify the
shape of Happiness was a real question mark in the World. Finally, some
endorphins took over and declared that Happiness was born
as a double dot plus half moon shape. They called it “smile”. At the beginning
the whole World did not love Happiness so much so it was wasted away randomly, in
any possible manner. In no time, the whole World was full of Happiness. Kisses
were full of Happiness. Houses were full of Happiness. People were full of
Happiness. Until the point that it started getting lighter and lighter.
Weaker and weaker. The more Happiness was spread around, the less it was
perceived. Suddenly the World was not able to feel it anymore. To be fed by it.
To be overwhelmed by it. And, surprisingly, just as when Happiness had become
less present, the World started to love it. To miss it. To need it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Doctors in the World started
prescribing drugs in the hope of gaining some rare spells of Happiness. Meantime, endorphins were
starving at the World’s corners and asked for help. Serotonins came to help
releasing the pain. It was a temporary relief though, and soon it came to an
end. Happiness had become so thin, almost invisible that none in the World
could reach it anymore. Day by day, the light faded away. And took the
half-moon shape with it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The smile was over. The
double dots found themselves alone in the dark World. Without their half-moon
they were nothing. They were lighter, but meaningless. They were scared. They
learnt that when there's too much of Happiness around it becomes a habit. It becomes
granted. Till the point the World thinks that it doesn't have to feed it any
longer, as if Happiness could feed itself on its own. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The lonely dots built up a
fake half-moon shape and went on hanging around in the darkness of the World wearing
a fake smile. At last, the World became full of fake smiles, all cheerfully
waving at each other.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">___</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 7.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Happiness. How naive. </span></div>
Ylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747532168795392610noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-24604859564055874802012-04-10T14:26:00.000+02:002012-04-10T14:26:45.405+02:00E-mails and happinessMrs. Nörönenbörger walked home with a satisfied feeling. She had forwarded 124 emails in <i>one single day</i> - she could almost not believe it. Seventy-two emails had been briefings and requests for modifications to the contractors, all of them including wishes of the hierarchy. Twenty-one emails she had sent to her superiors. Not too many, because they should only read the most positive and the very important.<br />
<div> <br />
<div>And yes, there was this one email with animated pictures of fluffy little animals in funny situations that she had forwarded to her husband. She had opened this email when her head of unit had just walked into her office, entering from the back. She felt her chubby cheeks turning red when she thought about it. She even noticed she had stopped walking when this memory crossed her mind, and quickly continued walking, as if this would provoke happy thoughts.</div><div> </div><div>She thought of the seventy-two emails with instructions she had sent out, <i>seventy-two!</i> This did indeed caused a little glow of happiness inside her chest. She imagined all these companies filling out order within her given deadlines. Now she was definitely happy.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But as she came closer to the school of her son, this enthusiasm started to fade again. She wanted to tell her little Günter what his mommy had accomplished today, but somehow felt that he would prefer playing with his Wii. Maybe he would learn to appreciate these kinds of things when he would grow up.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-58719962395759260292012-04-09T20:12:00.000+02:002012-04-09T20:12:45.377+02:00GuestbookThank you Mr. Harris!<br />
<br />
You don't know us, but we very much enjoyed spending our honeymoon here. In contrast to what our friend told us, from the pictures in your house we can tell you're a very kind person. So we feel we should inform you about our appreciation of your unconscious hospitality.<br />
<br />
We have taken some of the champagne - tasted great - and have replaced it with some fine sparkling Elzas wine. We hope that's fine. Other than that we ordered our own food that we very much enjoyed eating on the patio. Oh, except the one fish that we caught in the pond - delicious!<br />
<br />
You may wonder which dear friend was so kind to provide us access to your beautiful home, but we're not sure he would appreciate this. He told us the location would be a good deal, though, and he didn't lie a single word! We did not believe him when he told us the beach would be at 60 feet distance, but it seems some bastards are really lucky!<br />
<br />
Anyway, we should probably leave before you come back and we're not too sure when that is. Should you ever wonder who we are, you won't be able to find us. We live far away and don't have internet. Neither did we leave any traces (except for the wine which we bought at 7/11, in case you're interested).<br />
<br />
We hope you live a blessed life and that you may continue to welcome people in your home and share your with - with or without your knowledge!<br />
<br />
Sincere greetings from a a poor but recently happily married couple.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-44492008285304966542012-02-10T11:37:00.002+01:002012-03-08T23:21:32.858+01:00Johnny<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>HU</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> 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mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I sit down at the bar. I sit down, I order a drink, I order a drink, I drink it, I order another one. I sit here, I look at the bottles, I look at Johnny, I drink. People are coming and going, only Johnny is staying with me. He pours me a drink, he doesn’t say it was enough, he pours it, I drink. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">There are other regulars too, sitting at the bar, we don’t talk much, we drink. Johnny drinks too, he doesn’t talk much, he pours and he drinks. When someone is filled, soaked, ready to leave, he leaves. I am never ready, I am never filled. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We don’t get sick, we don’t get bored. We are professionals, the tightest circle of guests around Johnny, we are not guests, we are family. We are an orchestra and our conductor is Johnny . He conducts and we drink. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We are family. We are loyal to Johnny and Johnny is loyal to us.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He would always serve us first, before serving the irregulars. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Today I arrive early, there are only two other regulars and one irregular at the bar, Mickey, Elise, and a blind man with a black dog. I sit down next to Elise, she greets me I greet her. Johnny comes and says:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Hello Marianne, he says, hello hello.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Hello Johnny, I say, good to see you Johnny.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Good to see you too, Marianne, he says, good to see you too.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Good to see you too, Johnny. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The blind man puts a coin on the table, and clears his throat. Johnny pours two glasses of wine, he puts one in front of me first and, only then, he puts the other in front of the blind man. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Marianne, Johnny says, could you keep an eye on things for a bit? I gotta go to the loo. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Sure Johnny, I say, and I’m keeping an eye on things. I’m keeping an eye on Mickey, an eye on Elise, an eye on the blind man, and on the black dog. And an eye on the door, where anyone could come in anytime and make trouble. An eye on Mickey, and Elise, and the blind man, the dog, the door. No one moves, I’m keeping an eye on them, Johnny can trust me, there won’t be trouble, I will keep an eye on them, so there won’t be trouble. He can trust me, Johnny. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">‘We are the same,’ Mickey says, and laughs loudly, spitting on the bar, ‘Aren’t we the same, Elise?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">‘We surely are,’ Elise laughs with Mickey.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">‘We are the same, aren’t we, Marianne?’ – Mickey goes on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I nod, and I laugh with Mickey, keeping an eye on him. I nod and laugh and I don’t argue so there won’t be trouble while Johnny is on the toilet, but that’s not true that we are the same, we are not the same. Johnny asked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">me</i> to keep an eye on things, we are not the same. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">‘We are the same,’ Mickey continues, ‘We came here first, cause we felt miserable, and now we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">are</i> miserable.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He laughs and Elise laughs with him and I’m keeping an eye on them. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">But that’s not true, I don’t come here because I feel miserable, I come here for Johnny. </span></p>Dottirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00023845428743462001noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-538562760914998642011-12-17T14:04:00.002+01:002012-02-10T11:37:29.397+01:00Intro to Disgrace (in K. 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lang="EN-GB">All this happened, more or less. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">did </i>sleep with someone half my age, who could have been my daughter. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">did</i> get fired from my job and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">did</i> move to the countryside. My daughter <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was</i> raped by three men. Her neighbours <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">did</i> pretend that they didn’t notice a thing. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">When I can’t sleep at night I wonder if my daughter wonders if I am any different from those men who raped her. You need to know that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">am</i> different. Those men were full of hatred when they did what they did. I was full of love when I did what I did, or at least ’love’ is the word I could find in the Encyclopaedia Britannica that is the closest to what I felt. I still have my doubts though, but who hasn’t.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">My daughter doesn’t talk much to me anymore. I don’t talk much to her either. It’s difficult to tell if it’s the pity or the relief that stops me talking to her. Then again, we still jolly well behave. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I live with my daughter in a place that would be God’s anus if God had a digestive system. God beyond doubt doesn’t have a digestive system, but had he had one, I would be living right at the end of it, with a red neon sign above my head, that would say: EXIT. You can’t get any further from here without stepping into outer space. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I’m not here because I like to be here. I’m here because I don’t have any other choice. I don’t have any other choice because I have difficulties with controlling the strongest drive mammals have on this planet, that requires them to match their genitals with the genitals of other mammals, regardless their age. If God had genitals (which he beyond doubt doesn’t) he wouldn’t ask us to control ours either. </span></p>Dottirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00023845428743462001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-5334623608610364242011-12-17T13:55:00.002+01:002012-06-07T10:54:47.271+02:00Doll<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My body is laying on the bed and Mark’s body is laying on my body. The two bodies are moving slowly, rhythmically. We could not possibly be closer to each other than we are now, and we couldn’t be more separate. I feel his warm, wine coloured breath on my face and his sweat tickles my skin. We are pretending and we both know it. I want to stroke Mark’s face and tell him that we don’t have to, but I don’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Our bodies are laying on the bed next to each other. Something uncomfortable is coming and maybe I could prevent it. I could say something comforting. I could ask him a question about how his day went or cuddle up to him and hug him. Our bodies are laying next to each other with the appropriate distance between them, with a distance that is right and suffocating in its rightness. I sense that Mark is looking at me, my closed eyelids serve as shields.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">’You know,’ he says. ’You know.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I know but I don’t let him know that I know. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I sense his cold hand on my shoulder for a second. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Hanna?’ he asks, ‘Are you up?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Mmm. I say. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I hear him sighing. I open my eyes, and turn my head in his direction. He is looking at me in the dark. I look back at the ceiling. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The bed is slightly and rhythmically moving under me again, Mark is scratching himself. I want to ask him to stop scratching himself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘You know, Hanna,’ he says, ‘you know I was thinking about you, just now, and, and as I was thinking, all of a sudden I realized what you are. You are an inflatable doll.‘</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I sit up in the dark. I guess he’s right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘That’s what your function is. That is what you are. So shouldn’t I treat you accordingly? Do you have any arguments why shouldn’t I?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I push the blanket off me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">’Of course you don’t have any. Because you are an inflatable doll.’ </span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I stand up and I walk out of the bedroom. I walk through the dark living room, its darkness and silence is comforting, the cold floor makes my bare feet ache. I open the door of the toilet. The King is sitting on the toilet, his elbows are on his knees, his chin is in his palms, his crown is balancing insecurely on the top of his bald, shiny head. He wakes up as I switch on the light. He stands up slowly, like and old man, lets me take his place, and pats my shoulder before leaving. I sit down on the toilet and smile at him. 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mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- I only have one question. It’s my birthday and you said you were gonna…. coz it’s my birthday. So one question. Help me understand it, ok? I need to… I need to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Will you help me understand it? Will you? Say that you will. God damn it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- I will.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- What?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- I said I would. I will.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- What made you who you are? I want to know. I want to know what happened to you that made you… who you are. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Mark, please. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- No, no, no, no, no ’please’, tonight. There is no ’please’ tonight, all right? Today is my day, you said so, you said that today was my day, ok? Did you say it or did you not say it? So stop saying ’please’. You said that you would do anything I asked from you today. You said that didn’t you? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Yeah, I said that. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- There we go. There we go. So, I want you to tell me what happened to you that.. the thing that fucked you up. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB">Silence.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- You’re not gonna tell me. I knew it. You’re not gonna tell me anything. You’re just gonna, you’re just gonna sit there in silence until I lose all my dignity and shut up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You’re just gonna do that. Coz you always do that. That’s what you do. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- That’s not what I do.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Yeah, that’s what you do. Coz you’re evil. Aren’t you evil. Answer me, will you?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- I am not evil. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- It’s my day. It’s my goddamn birthday. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. I’m so happy, Hanna, I’m so happy. Look at me. Look at me how happy I am. Waiter! Waiter! Come here, please! Look at us we’re so happy. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Mark…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- What? What’s wrong? I said please. Didn’t I say please? Didn’t I? I was a good boy. Waiter! Please, bring another bottle of champagne. We’re celebrating.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Yes, sir. Anything else? Desert maybe?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- No. No desert maybe.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- For the lady?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Don’t ask her. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She’s not a lady. She’s a robot. A robowoman. Ro-bo-wo-man. She can’t speak poor thing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- No, thank you. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">–</i>Hanna says<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">.</i> – I’m fine. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB">The waiter takes notes and leaves. The couple from the neighbouring table is staring at them. </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- What are you looking at? She is really not a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She doesn’t have hair on her body. And she’s not getting old. She’s from another planet. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Mark, stop this. – says Hanna. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- OK, I’ll stop. I’ll stop if you help me understand. I want clarity. (…) I’m so tired Hanna. I’m, I’m so tired. I wanna go home. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- You wanna go home? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- No. You gotta talk to me. Coz it’s my fuckin’ birthday. And then we’ll go home.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- OK. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- OK? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- OK. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Did you say OK? Did you just say OK?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Yeah, I said OK. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- So you’re gonna… what are you doing?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- What?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Are you smiling? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- I’m not smiling.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Yes you’re smiling. You’re laughing at me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- I’m not laughing at you. I’m just nervous, OK? I’m sorry. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have to laugh when I’m nervous, you know that I have to laugh when I’m nervous.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">- Fuck your nervousness. Fuck it. Let’s go home. I wanna sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p>Dottirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00023845428743462001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-86109413111409273312011-12-16T10:15:00.000+01:002011-12-16T10:17:48.112+01:00One syllable writing - afternoon in a parkI lie down in front of her, on the grass.<br />“Do you think we’ll go to hell, for what we did?”, she asks. She laughs.<br />I look up. The tree branch makes a shape on the sky which makes me think of a hand. My gran’s hand, as she helped me get up from a fall.<br />Pink blooms stick out from the hand. They speak of spring and life and light. I reach out, to touch her face. Her cheek and ear and nose. I trace out her lips. They are soft. Red. I can’t breathe – for a bit.<br />I say, “No, I don’t think so. It felt too good.”<br />Her hand finds mine, moves it back to her lips, to be met with a kiss.<br />A leaf falls.<br />The sky up there looks down. The sun shines through the branch. The pink buds bloom. I smile.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-71793467121416600812011-10-20T17:20:00.001+02:002011-10-20T17:22:15.948+02:00VISITE¡ La reine de Saba !<br />La reine du samedi soir.<br />Ma reine, cette fin de semaine.Ignaciohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18191389281765455017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-67727429946621803622011-10-13T12:03:00.004+02:002011-10-13T17:21:48.062+02:00RECTIFIED CALIGRAMMES , (Exercise chez Monica 12.10.2011)1.<br /><br />Your schedule palpitates<br /> but you heart<br /><br />always<br /><br />beats<br /><br />regularly<br /><br />-------------<br /><br />2.<br /><br />What´s the point for a tightrope walker to have an umbrella<br /><br /> when he´s falling so quickly<br /><br /><br /><br /> as the rain<br /><br /><br /><br />-----------<br /><br />3.<br /><br />-"In a coach sits an engineer. He´s designing a long train full of empty minded people"<br />- Where did you get this ? <br />- Well, I found it on my i pod while coming home in the subway...<br /><br /><br />4. <br /><br />Breast hurts because it is not yet<br />or it has been.Ignaciohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18191389281765455017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-91343179278192697612011-10-04T11:07:00.000+02:002011-10-04T11:08:30.038+02:00PROJET DE GRAFFITTI DANS UN BATIMENT ABANDONÉLa spéculation est le miroir de ton calcul <br /><br />¡ Oh belle ,<br /><br />qui traverse la villeIgnaciohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18191389281765455017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-22342114676993708092011-09-08T21:12:00.001+02:002011-09-26T15:41:18.904+02:00Talking Sheep<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Leia carried her enormous rucksack off the bus, a bit disappointed there was no handsome country side guy willing to help her. Her map said Mr. Pritzgenschtall’s farm was only 200 metres away. It would have been a small effort for Mr. Pritzgenschtall to pick her up from the bus station. Not very gentlemen, these farmer men.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Hans Pritzgenschtall took a last look at the living room: a vase of freshly-picked flowers on the table, the calendar on the right month, everything seemed in order. Would this Leia girl know that he was a single farmer? (He figured he would introduce himself as single, not divorced. But then he realised he still had some pictures of his ex-wife in the hall and decided it would probably better to be honest anyway.)</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Hans was in love as soon as he opened the door. Immediately he fell some hundred kilos heavier, thinking of how he would try to hide this childish love for an entire month from this beautiful female specimen. Would she dance salsa? It was the new thing he had dared to learn and apparently this was hot "in town".</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So, tell me about your, er, PrD., Hans asked.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span>- PhD? Leia smiled.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">- Uh yes, tell me what it is about! If you think I can understand it, of course. Haha.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">- Oh it’s very simple. I am finding out how sheep talk to each other.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">- Well, that’s something I know about! You’ve come to the right place! I can tell you they say a lot of bèèèèèèèh and BAAAAH! </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">(Hans did not know why he had to scream out that last sound at such a loud tone. It made him feel embarrassed about himself.)</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">- Yeah, they do say that, but actually by doing so they tell each other a lot more than we think! When they say bèèèh, they for example mean: You’re pooping in my area. Whereas béééh means: You’re hot.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Hans looked at Leia with big eyes, even though his eyes were small. How could this girl presume all this, while most likely it’s the first time in her life she is staying at a farm?<i> He</i> should know about this much better than her! But then, this girl had this very high degree, so he did not feel he could get into a debate about this.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So instead he asked carefully: how did you get all this wisdom?</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span>- I will show you, Leia said. If you show me your sheep, I will do some translation for you.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As they headed off to the field, Hans started to feel a little anxious. What if his sheep would talk negatively about him? They have been able to do this their entire lives without ever getting caught for it. And beside Bertha and Hans and Stine and his parents several years ago they had not seen many people. What would their impression of him be? Hopefully it would not be too embarrassing; he would certainly not want Leia to know.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So they sat down on a rock, near the sheep, and the sheep remained silent. They probably could tell Leia understood Sheep and remind silent on purpose, Hans figured. But how would they be able to tell? </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Then one sheep made a bèh! sound. It was very short. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Leia said it meant: who is that creature? </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It’s what sheep always say when they encounter something new that they do not like, she explained. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It took a long time before a bigger sheep answered bèèèèèèèèèèh, which was supposed to mean: oh you wussy, why should you care. Go eat grass in that corner.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Hans asked Leia: aren’t you insulted? They are not very friendly about you. Before Leia could answer, suddenly al the sheep started yelling multiple kinds of BEEEHHHHHHs with different intonations and in varying volumes, and Leia looked both fascinated and worried at the same time. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Yes, well.. She fell silent, which did not seem to be something that happened to her very often. It is quite shocking indeed, she murmured. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Leia really looked a little pale.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Maybe we can go back to the house for a while, is that OK for you?</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span>- Sure, Hans said.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">- I’m really sorry, Leia said. I’ve never heard sheep going crazy like that before. It was really, well, I guess I shouldn’t tell you.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">If Hans were honest with himself, he felt quite relieved. He did not dare to ask what exactly had shocked Leia, because it would be indiscreet, and because deep down he did not want to know himself. This evening, and he smiled by the thought of it, he would teach Leia how to dance salsa in his living room. </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-71205891352037648362011-07-27T23:21:00.000+02:002011-07-27T23:21:34.669+02:00Tax Return<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I have never liked filling the forms for the tax return. I remember the first time, when it was new and exciting, so many years ago. I also remember that feeling being substituted by an incredible boredom and the notion that I would never manage to do it by myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> That is the exact feeling that I'm having right now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I look at the stack of papers that I have in front of me and the delicious idea of suicide briefly crosses my mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Would you like some Doritos and a glass of wine, dear?", my wife knows me better than myself. In any other occasion I would have said yes without even letting her finish the sentence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Yes. No. Whatever. Later. I love you.", I say instead, and immediatly feel like an idiot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "O.K. Love you too.", she is the best woman in the world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I look out of the window, where the sun is shining, kids are playing and couples are holding hands and saying nonsenses to each other. Except this is Belgium and the sky is concrete grey. And except for the fact that from my window I only see a big, dirty, ugly building.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The mind is an awesome thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> There is a box where I have to write my income from last year. I consider throwing some random numbers at it, but instead I shout over my shoulder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "This is torture! Do you know where my pay sheets are?!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Under the blue folder to your right!", the voice of Layla is like music to my ears, so I have to repeat the question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Where?!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Blue folder! To your right!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Thanks, love!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> There <i>is</i> a blue folder to my right, and the papers <i>are</i> underneath it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I have to add all the numbers together, though, and my basic math skills have abandoned me. Memories of exams pass through my mind. I can feel the fear in my lips again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Thank god for calculators, the inventor should have been made World Hero or something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I write the numbers and the box accepts its defeat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The kitchen is paradise right now. I take a mouthful of Doritos and wash them down with some wine. I kiss my wife and I suggest watching a movie. To her, I am transparent. She knows what I have in mind. She takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom.</span>Quique Medardehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764569023919906639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-10828660863479836542011-07-24T12:26:00.002+02:002011-07-24T12:28:07.531+02:00Happy vegetablesWhen he arrived to the supermarket, Uncle George went directly to the cold department, for he knew himself as a very efficient and straightforward person and valued himself for owning these noble characteristics. It was a Friday evening, and Uncle George was in charge of buying something that would serve at the main course of the dinner party. In the cold department all the meat and frozen food were stored. But for his bitter surprise, it was very cold in the cold department. He hadn’t felt this cold in years. He felt so cold that it activated the fight or flight response in his brain. Fight or flight or freeze. From these options, flight was clearly the right response. So he opened the freezer that was next to him, took out the first thing that his hand could grab and left the cold department. <br />It was only at the cashier where he noticed what he actually bought. He noticed it at exactly the same moment when the lady in white with tattooed eyebrows asked him: <br />‘Would you like anything else, Sir?’<br />It was a straightforward question. Firm but just. If he wanted something else, this was the moment to say so. <br />Uncle George looked in the basket in front of him. What he saw was an Iglo bag of carrots and peas laying in it. The carrots and the peas were mixed. The mixture was called ’Happy Vegetables.’<br />Uncle George looked back at the lady and her tattooed eyebrows. <br />‘No,’ he said resolutely. <br />There was an explanation on the bag that clarified why the product was called Happy Vegetables. Uncle George noticed this when he was already sitting in his car, observing his pray, trying to figure out what could be done out of it for dinner. The mixture was called happy vegetables, because Beta Carotin helped the brain produce opiate and opiate made people feel happy. On the bag, Uncle Iglo explained that if children ate happy vegetables every day, a kind penguin would take them to Happy Vegetable Country. So, all in all, it was clearly a good buy. <br />However, Uncle George was not sure if Uncle Iglo’s reasoning would convince his wife too that he made the right choice. But going back to the supermarket was not an option. The lady at the cashier already asked him if he wanted something else and he said no. Going back would have been admitting publicly that he was a weak character. Someone, who didn’t know what he wanted. <br />So Uncle George started the engine, and drove home listening to evergreens in the radio, with the bag of Happy Vegetables on the passenger seat. <br />Aunt Alexandra was already waiting for him in the kitchen. She had just finished preparing the potato salad. Uncle George stood behind her, covered her eyes with his right palm, and put the bag of Happy Vegetables on the table in front of her. Aunt Alexandra got slightly aroused by this sudden blindfolding, and pushed her buttocks close to her husband crotch. Uncle George stepped one step backwards automatically, which made it clear that he had no erotic intentions. This movement left both of them standing in an unnatural posture. It also left Aunt Alexandra somewhat irritated. <br />’I got something very special for tonight,’ Uncle George said. <br />’What is it?’ Aunt Alexandra asked. She forced herself to smile despite her irritation. She smiled because she knew that it was smiling that good natured people did when they were offered a gift, even when they were slightly irritated. Aunt Alexandra thought of herself as a very good natured person.<br />’Something special for tonight’s dinner.’ Uncle George lowered his hand. <br />Aunt Alexandra looked at the vegetables and didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything because her mind was blank. This often happened to her when she was about to say something particularly offensive. It was a defence mechanism of her brain that kept her marriage alive in the last ten years. It was a common defence mechanism among the brains of people who thought of themselves as good natured persons. Over the time it made these people embittered, but Aunt Alexandra had another defence mechanism to cover her embitterment. Aunt Alexandra’s brain was a perfect matrix of hundreds of defence mechanisms. <br />’They are happy vegetables’. Uncle George whispered. <br />Aunt Alexandra nodded.<br />’We can make a ratatouille out of them.’ Uncle George said. <br />‘A ratatouille.’ Aunt Alexandra repeated. Repetition was another defence mechanism that helped her win time when her reptilian brain was urging her to bite the person nearby. <br />’A happy ratatouille.’ Uncle George said.<br />’A happy ratatouille.’ Aunt Alexandra repeated.Dottirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00023845428743462001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-58416094697627893822011-07-19T10:18:00.001+02:002011-07-19T10:27:10.076+02:00NA ZDROWIE !NA ZDROWIE !<br /><br />Love each other <br />as you love your liver. <br /><br />So I did , <br />and drank the vodka <br />in a single shot.<br />Cul sec.Ignaciohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18191389281765455017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-35427238875658104252011-07-17T06:49:00.008+02:002011-07-18T12:32:29.397+02:00The comedian, who was secretly fatAndrej, the secretly fat comedian was standing at the train station with his wife, Veronika. They were waiting for the train that was going to take Veronika to the city where her sister gave birth recently.<br /><br />Not even Veronika knew that Andrej was fat. Andrej kept his weight carefully in secret since 2008 when he got fat as a result of a period of binge eating, which was the result of a period of intense performance anxieties. The spouses didn’t see each other naked since their son was born seven years ago. <br /><br />Veronika didn’t suspect that her husband was fat, but she knew that Andrej was keeping something in secret from her. She thought that her husband had a lover, the liberated, communist wife of the local orchestra’s blind conductor. Veronika had an old-fashioned view on men, which allowed her to accept the suspected adultery. According to this view men were like infantile porks, who couldn’t help themselves when it came to food or genitals. However, Veronika didn’t wish to be confronted with the truth, because that would have put her in the unpleasant position where one has to take a position, and Veronika didn’t like to take positions, in fear of regretting them later. <br /><br />‘You can go home now,’ Veronika said. ‘I will get on the train.’ <br /><br />She kissed Andrej’s soft, big, cold face, first on the left cheek and then on the right. Then Andrej kissed her soft, cold cheeks back. All their cheeks were kissed now. <br /><br />'Don’t forget to clean his nose in the evening.' – Veronika said.<br /><br />She meant the nose of their son, Levin. <br /><br />'I will not forget to clean his nose in the evening.' Andrej said seriously. <br /><br />In his private life he was always serious. After fifteen years of being a comedian, he was truly sick of joking. When a friend told a joke at the dinner table, he wanted to cry. He compared his situation to the gynaecologist’s who, after a long day at work, has to look at his wife’s vagina. <br /><br />'It’s important for hygiene.' Veronika said. 'The nose needs to be clean.'<br /><br />'I agree.' – Andrej said and he meant it. <br /><br />'Bye now!' <br /><br />Veronika climbed the stairs of the train, but then she heard her husband shouting after her, so she turned back. <br /><br />This was what Andrej shouted after her: <br /><br />‘Wait!’ <br /><br />Veronika waited.<br /><br />Andrej stepped closer and continued shouting: ‘I forgot to tell you something!’ <br /><br />‘You don’t need to shout Andrej. I hear you well.’<br /><br />‘I have to tell you something Veronika.’ Andrej said. He was sweating. Not only he was sweating: he was breathing heavily too. <br /><br />‘So tell it!’ <br /><br />‘Veronika,’ Andrej said, ‘I’m fat.’ <br /><br />And at the moment he said it, he regretted it. He never told his dirty secret to anyone, hoping that eventually he would lose weight and leave his fatness - as a bad dream - behind. But now he said it and it felt that the spoken words made his fatness real, irreversible; that they validated and enforced a fat existence from now on, forever. How he wished he could go back in time. <br /><br />Veronika felt relieved. She was worried for a second that Andrej would reveal his affair with the communist, and she would need to take a position. <br /><br />‘You’re joking,’ she said. <br /><br />‘Yes,’ Andrej said and nodded vigorously. ‘I was joking.’ <br /><br />Veronika never heard her husband making a joke before. She was never interested in humour or comedy so she never went to see Andrej’s show in the theatre. <br /><br />‘Ha Ha,’ Veronika said. As far as she knew, this was the appropriate thing to say when someone made a joke. <br /><br />‘Ha Ha,’ said Andrej too. <br /><br />Veronika tapped her thigh uncertainly. This was what people did in movies when they laughed. <br /><br />‘Ha Ha.’ she said again. For a second, she thought about adding: <span style="font-style:italic;">Hilarious!</span>. Then she decided not to. She only said: ‘Bye now!’, and stepped in the darkness of the carriage.<br /><br />Andrej sighed deeply. He adjusted his corsette and waved goodbye.Dottirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00023845428743462001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-89933016022128006092011-06-15T11:56:00.034+02:002011-06-20T11:25:30.086+02:00One Day I Wrote - Our creative writing workshop!<b></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje7eFq-o3SjklBL5VC-CQRjMRJkOlcqM5RKzlywS-90krjLX3ji6ZQTm6l3qsKvZCuPcX5zgDqgHHYiew0CdlHEvc014ka6-i95XNX3xjYDVuYCRJ4qxx987445n-RSuSnZnQ77o-O1fc/s1600/BrusselsNerdsFlyerColour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje7eFq-o3SjklBL5VC-CQRjMRJkOlcqM5RKzlywS-90krjLX3ji6ZQTm6l3qsKvZCuPcX5zgDqgHHYiew0CdlHEvc014ka6-i95XNX3xjYDVuYCRJ4qxx987445n-RSuSnZnQ77o-O1fc/s320/BrusselsNerdsFlyerColour.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>One day you want to write a story. One day you will write a book. One day you will become a famous writer. Sounds like daydreaming? Not necessarily:<br />
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<b>Write for One Day at our creative writing workshop!</b><br />
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<b>When:</b> 2 July, 10.00 - 17.30 h<br />
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<b>Where: </b><a class="url" href="http://brussels.the-hub.net/public/"><span class="fn org">The Hub Brussels</span></a><br />
<div class="street-address">37 rue du Prince Royal, (Porte de Namur metro)<br />
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</div><b>Costs:</b> 10€ including sandwich lunch and creative cocktail<br />
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<b>Register:</b> by sending an email to: brusselsnerds@gmail.com<br />
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<b>What to bring along:</b> paper & pen, a book (for a book swap), and your magnificent creative mood.<br />
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During the day we will work on character, conflict & climax, with the goal to have a full short story and a cocktail at the end!<br />
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We are also happy to announce the <b>London-based author Oliver Harris</b> is crossing the channel to tell us what it is like to get your book published. He will be joining the workshop to talk about anything a writer with aspirations to publish comes across. <br />
Read a review of his book <a href="http://www.bookgeeks.co.uk/2011/05/23/the-hollow-man-by-oliver-harris/">here</a>.<br />
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You can also find us on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=167763286620480#%21/event.php?eid=167763286620480">Facebook</a>. <br />
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Click on "read more" to find the rest of the <b><a href="http://creativewritingbrussels.blogspot.com/2011/06/one-day-i-wrote-our-creative-writing.html#more">programme</a></b>!<br />
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<a name='more'></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Programme</span></b><br />
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<b>10h00-10h30 Arrival and registration, welcome</b><br />
Please pay € 10,- in cash and provide us a book you want to give away (it might make someone happy at the end of the day...)<br />
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<b>10h30-11h45 Getting started & Characters</b><br />
Afraid you will not get any inspiration? Do not worry. To get the writing going, we start off by using inspirational tools that should get tickle the imagination-provoking parts of your brain.<br />
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<b>11h45-12h45 Presentation by Oliver Harris (UK) </b><br />
This freshly-published author from London will tell us how he got inspired and how he carried out the crafting process to get published.<br />
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<b>12h45-13h45 Lunch break</b><br />
Sandwich lunch offered<br />
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<b>13h45-14h30 Conflict & Climax </b><br />
Now that you have developed a character, how does it get into a conflict? In order for your ideas to become a story, your character will have to overcome challenges. <br />
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<b>14h30-15h00 Coffee break </b><br />
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<b>15h00-15h45 WRITE! </b><br />
Ah, finally we will give you some time to leave you alone and do some proper writing! <br />
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<b>15h45-16h45 Feedback in little groups</b><br />
In little groups you will present your freshly-written stories and give feedback on your fellow-writers. And no, there is nothing scary about this, trust us :-)<br />
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<b>16h45-17h00 ‘Nano-stories’</b><br />
Summarise your story in 10 words <br />
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<b>17h00-17h30 Conclusion & (voluntary) presentation of nano-stories </b><br />
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<b>17h30 Creative cocktail</b><br />
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<b>18h00 End</b><br />
Do not forget to take along a book from the book swap! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8007246512461715630.post-62347179808806141912011-02-07T01:31:00.000+01:002011-02-07T01:31:23.725+01:00The Barbecue ManThey called him The Barbecue Man. Barbecue was his flavour; when pizza was ordered, he asked for barbecue; when he went to McDonald's, it was a McBarbecue he ate. He had a stash of barbecue sauce bottles in his house that he replenished quite often.<br />
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That one day, they were at a bar watching a football game. Everyone was having a pint of Jupiler, but for him. He didn't like beer. Well, he did, but only that very dark kind of beer. It reminded him of spare ribs with barbecue sauce.<br />
His childhood had been hard.<br />
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Anyway, they were watching that football match and he was having that spare rib flavoured beer when the referee signalled half-time. And then, there it was. The new ad from Pringles®.<br />
Apparently, the mad scientists that develop new flavours for the not-a-potato-snack company had synthetized the essence of the barbecue taste and so the new Pringles® Barbecue arrived to the market.<br />
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The Barbecue Man opened his eyes wide in disbelief. Finally, the field of not-potato-snacks opened to his tastebuds! Years of envy of other people when they popped open a can were over! Their satisfied smiles when they had a cheese-with-onion wave-shaped mouthful would be his!<br />
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They saw him leaving his beer on the table, getting his coat and rushing to the door, and they followed him. He looked like a lioness hunting, eyes and ears open, nose sniffing for a prey.<br />
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The shop's was the only light on in the alley. Inside, a pakistani man was reading the newspaper while listening to the news on the radio and watching a BBC News program on a muted TV.<br />
He jolted in surprise when The Barbecue Man slammed the door open. And he was followed by a crowd.<br />
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The Barbecue Man looked with his red eyes to the shopkeeper and said:<br />
- Pringles®. Barbecue.<br />
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The shopkeeper gave him the can and The Barbecue Man looked eagerly at it while he payed. Then he popped it open and pulled the lid out. A barbecue smell flooded the shop. The Barbecue Man took a single Pringle® from the can. He handled it like it was a newborn child. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he bit into it.<br />
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It tasted like egg.Quique Medardehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764569023919906639noreply@blogger.com0