My Words

Let me just write down some CocoRosie

2007-12-13T08:24:00.000-08:00

Mais j'ai encore quelques rêves.

2007-07-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

Post deleted. No more sextalk for you!

Guusje

2006-10-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

We got him when I was seven. When we went to the family who was selling their pups, there were two left. I actually wanted the black & white one, but my mum and two sisters had already fallen in love with that playful, active little beige one. And at least the beige on didn’t poop and pee all the time, like the other one did. My mum and the man made arrangements, she would go and pick him up on Saturday. I had a football game that day, so when I left I already couldn’t stop talking about the dog we were getting. I forgot what the score of the game was, but I remember coming home and seeing the entire family smiling around a huge cardboard box. I hurried there, and there he was, looking a little confused at his new family. He was no bigger than my dad’s hand, cuter than the cutest cutie was cute.

I never came up with a good name (my preferences as a seven year old all revolved around words like Flappy), I think it eventually was my oldest sister who recommended Guusje. It had a nice ring to it, and we could vary. Guusje as the standard name, a more powerful Gust when he did something wrong or needed to listen.

It was amazing how quickly he became part of the family, and how he was like a little baby, and we all were the proud parents registering all his “firsts”. The first time he managed to pick up the little ball we got him to play with, but that was simply too big for his tiny little mouth those first couple of weeks. The first time he hopped on the couch. The first time he jumped on the terrace from the yard, which is about half a yard upwards. The first time he didn’t eat at the same time we ate, which made me think there was something wrong with him and he would die of hunger. But he just picked up his own pace, and from thereon just ate when he was hungry.

When he was about one year old, my dad decided he was actually no good as a watch dog, even though he barked every time he noticed something suspicious. But he wasn’t even a foot tall, so no real danger came from him. My dad then got an Irish Wolfhound, named Qalis. I think Guusje could fit five times in Qalis. They quickly became buddies, but make no mistake: Guusje was boss. He was the eldest of the two, this was his turf, and Qalis better listened. They were sort of the odd couple. We would often see Qalis run after Guusje all the way out back where they were beyond our sight, and then when they came back, it would be Guusje chasing Qalis maniacally. Qalis only stayed with us two or three years. We couldn’t really take care of him. He couldn’t go in the house because he would knock everything down (h was very wild, and I think, a tad retarded too), and he didn’t like the doghouse we put him in. He could howl for nights straight. One time, he somehow escaped from the doghouse and caused mayhem at the bakery’s, close to our house. There were racks of bread put outside to cool off, and Qalis knocked áll of them down. Expensive joke, and soon we found a farmer’s family where he could run freely, go indoors and such, where he would have a better life. A couple of years later, he developed cancer and died.

By then, Guusje was about 7 years old, and the entire neighbourhood knew him. He would go for walks well beyond our turf, say hi to all his girlfriends nearby, piss everywhere to make sure no dog forgets who rules this town, and then come back. He could stay away for hours straight. In many ways, he was more of a cat than a dog.

One evening, my dad and I took him with us to a pasture well out of town, where some of my dad’s horses were grazing. He disappeared. After looking around for about an hour, we headed back home, there was nothing we could do. I couldn’t sleep the entire night. What if we didn’t find him? We were going on holidays to the Greek island of Kòs the very next day! I was already 14 then, but I cried like a baby all night. When I went downstairs the next morning, my sister Michelle and my mum were carrying him up. Apparently, he found our house somewhere during the night. My mum found him sleeping before the door. He was dirty and exhausted, he must’ve had a rough night. But he was back, and went to some friends for the ten days we were away, and of course, stole all their hearts.

A year or two later, I really thought I was seeing him dying before my eyes. It was summer, and Peggy came to take care of our horses, because dad was out of town. Peggy has this giant dog, I forgot the name of that breed, but really huge. Guusje always barked at him, he wás a trespasser, and this time, that dog had enough. He picked Guusje up and tossed him around. We were alarmed by Peggy’s screams to let go, hurried to the stables, and there I saw that dog pick Guusje up again. His mouth was almost as big as our beloved little doggy.

The dog could’ve killed him easily. One real bite and Guusje would be perforated. I think the dog just wanted to teach our little guy a lesson. He let go, Guusje crawled behind my feet. He had some flesh wounds from the bites, and he was shaken and stirred, but he was okay. He never learned the lesson though, but his, uhm, arrogance never came back to haunt him again.

About the same time I started college, we began to notice the first real signs that Guusje was getting old. He always had an amazing health, if we took him to the vet for a check up she was always amazed at the quality of his teeth, which was beyond good for a dog his age. But now he began to get sick more often. His bones began to show signs of rheumatism, his blather kept causing him problems. But every time he got sick, he also got better, and even though he slept more and more and played less and less, he could still be incredibly active, running around the house, and he was always equally excited, every single night, when my dad went outside to put the horses in their stables. He just had to mention the word “horses”, and Guusje knew what would happen. He would rush out with my dad, and bark at the horses like he was bossing them around. The horses never cared much, they always got used to him real quickly.

But you can’t stop age, so when two months ago he got réally sick, it wasn’t even such a surprise. But it was his worst time yet, and I was pretty sure he would die. He did come really close to dying, that weekend. But he survived it, got better and thanks to the painkillers we gave him, kept running around pain free. But it was still clear he wasn’t going to last much longer. Like he was that little puppy again, he had trouble jumping in the couch, I always had to give him an extra push on the butt before he could crawl between my arm and my body, and he started peeing in the house again, something he hadn’t done since he was very little. But still, he was active enough, even more so when we got him off the medication. He did become more and more attached to us by the day, couldn’t spend a second without us unless he was sleeping, and followed my mum or me everywhere we went. When sister Isabelle came to visit yesterday, she was amazed just how jumpy Guusje still was.

My mum found him in the coat closet, his favorite place in the entire house, where he spent most of his nights, surrounded by coats and warmth and a gentle darkness. He died in his sleep. I always woke up when I heard him at night, my room was exactly above him, and I didn’t wake up last night. He probably didn’t have a lot of pain, there were no traces of urine. Before, when he was in pain, he kept leaking a little. No, all signs indicate that Guusje died pain free, very harmoniously, in his sleep, and in his favorite place in the whole world. He turned 14 the week before.

This was a very, very special guy. He saw me grow up. He was there the entire time. I remember the last two dogs we had before him, German Shepard Flash and stray dog Tripp, but I can only recall them as them just “being there”, there are very few real memories I have of them, the day Flash died is my strongest memory, because my big brother was so incredibly sad and in shock about it. Guusje has been around for the biggest part of my life so far. I have lived more years with him than without him. He was there throughout my puberty, my adolescence, the whole thing. Especially the last 5 years, we became real buddies. Before he kind of was Michelle’s favorite, she’d spoil him rotten. But she left, and then it kinda became me. And mum, of course. He was her dog, always had been. But even more so, he was just part of the family. The first one to greet you in the morning, always equally enthusiastic, always like he hadn’t seen me for months. He felt it when you were sick, and he would take care of you. Usually when he laid next to me in the couch, he would lie in the same direction as me, facing the television. But when I was sick, or when he just wanted to say an extra hello, he turned, head facing my head, and then put his head on my shoulder.

He loved two things more than life: caressing his belly, and rubbing his ears. His favorite dish was spaghetti Bolognese, his favorite toys were the empty rolls of toilet paper. He loved to chase the chipmunks in the yard, even though he could never catch them. He forged a compromise with the jackdaws that swarm our yard every evening in the summer. The lawn they could have, but one step on the terrace and they’d be dead. I think he loved the horses even though he always barked at them, and I think the horses didn’t dislike him either. He did, however, hate the neighbour’s cat.

Dear Republican senator

2006-09-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

You legalized torture today.

Not only have you, in the words of Hillary Clinton, already lost the war on terrorism, you now have blood on your hands, in some cases innocent blood. You pushed your country back five hundred years. You have turned your country into that which you pretend to fight. You have lost your right to be heard. You have lost the respect you once deserved. You have lost everything, today.

Fuck you.

sex

2006-08-17T15:46:00.000-07:00

Fuck me suck me kiss me lick me taunt me teach me rub me scratch me caress me progress me thumb me bite me tear me part me blow me butt me push me cuff me knife me spoon me fork me wash me love me

Weird Days

2006-08-15T17:15:00.000-07:00

Televisions crying, dogs dying, bellies aching, hearts breaking, friendships holding, friendships folding, lights flickering, eyes glittering, food burning, kids learning, moods dropping, sodas popping, songs touching, rags crutching, rain falling, feelings crawling under vains and stains that remain unnamed just to fuck it all up.

Benvolio Speaks

2006-08-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

Because the lot of you must be DYING to hear my voice, here it is. That's like: wauw, isn't it? Yeah, I know. Spectacular, to say the least. I know. Intimidating, right? Yeah, I know.

Boy:

2006-06-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

What is this love? Is love the perfect thing? Is love the purest emotion I so crave it to be? Have I ever loved?

What am I struggling about? Why can’t love make me cum?

Why won’t love find me? Why do I have to write about love or talk about love to feel love? Watch tv-shows to see love? Why does the lack of this love make me so angry? Why does love make me punch walls and tear up cartoons and cry? Why do I need love so?

Why isn’t love fair?

Is that love? Is this love?

Why have I never come to fucking someone I love with all my heart?

Because I’m lucky?

(from Untitled Script)

Outside of my dream

2006-06-19T01:38:00.000-07:00

Can I see you outside of my dream?

Can I see you anywhere but there?

Can I meet you

By the basketball court down the street?

I could wait for you after sunset.

We could hold hands and lie in the grass

And listen to each other.

I could ask you what you’re thinking of

And you could tell me what I’m dreaming of.

We could crawl under the sheets of my moonlit bed

Where you could be me and I could be you.

I could bring you breakfast that morning

And open the door for you when it’s time for school.

I could go out shopping

Buy you the most beautiful ring

And write our names in the dust of dusk

If I could see you outside of my dream.

There would be no questions or demands

If I could see you anywhere but

Here.

Dick

2006-06-05T14:14:00.000-07:00

Niet zo lang geleden kon ik de uitvinder van het split-screen format wel kussen. Met een gelukzalige smile lag ik in m’n luie zetel te kijken naar het tennisduel Norman-Monfils. Ofte: de oudste speler van het circuit tegenover een jong Frans veulen aan de voet van een indrukwekkende carrière.

Na een gesmaakte partij waren de tegenpolen al aan de vijfde en beslissende set aanbeland. De Franse regisseur van dienst vond het, god prijze zijn inzicht, een leuk idee om voor het begin van Norman’s zoveelste opslagspelletje het beeld in split-screen te verdelen en zo de twee spelers simultaan in beeld te brengen. Prach ti ge televisie die daaruit voortkwam.

Aan de linkerkant: Dick ‘Dickie’ Norman. 35 Jaar oud, woonachtig te Waregem. Belachelijk groot, zeker voor een tennisveld. Dickie is altijd een okay speler geweest, maar nooit een écht goeie. Hij is evenwel erg leuk om bezig te zien en te horen, en zijn dagboek op zijn officiële site is gewoon de max.

Aan de rechterkant: Gael Monfils. 19 Jarig Frans raspaardje, zwart, met een lijf, look en outfit die eerder thuishoren op een basketbalplein in de Bronx dan de terreinen van Roland Garros.

Gael springt recht uit zijn stoeltje, raast naar zijn plek, merkt dat Dick nog maar net zijn wandelstok heeft gegrepen om recht te geraken en begint dan maar wat te stretchen. Hij rolt zijn spieren, op de achtergrond kijkt een ballenmeisje met ontluikend seksueel ontzag. Ondertussen zien we Dickie zich voortslepen naar zijn kant van het terrein. Zijn rug is krom, zijn armen bengelen langs zijn lijf als twee uitgewrongen en -getrokken schotelvodden. Zijn knieën kraken tot in de huiskamer, zelfs het dichtvallen van zijn oogleden, telkens hij zijn ogen knippert, maakt een angstaanjagend dof geluid. Zijn weelderige krullen weten niet meer hoe ze moeten staan, de hoofdband evenmin. Dick krijgt zijn racket nog amper van de grond en vraagt de ballenjongen de balletjes op zijn racket te leggen, ze moeten opvangen zou waarschijnlijk te moeilijk gaan.

En dan begint hij aan een zoveelste kastijding. Hij slaat onhandig tegen de bal en ziet die voor hij er erg in heeft alweer gepareerd door de op ultra-hyper geprogrammeerde Fransoos. Als hij een punt scoort lijkt dat compleet toeval. De Franskiljon mist per ongeluk zijn return of de bal belandt per toeval op een goede plek op Dick’s racket. Hij oogt zo out of place op dat tennisveld. Ik wil uit mijn zetel rechtveren en schreeuwen: “het is bijna gedaan, Dick! Ik haal je wel weg uit die drukke menigte!”

Maar ik zie dat hij geniet. Hij zuigt de sfeer in met volle teugen, elke nieuwe slag tegen dat vervloekte gele balletje zorgt voor evenveel zeer aan zijn tot spons veredeld geraamte als genot voor zijn simpele brein. Hij is er toch maar weer, die lange, ouwe Belg, in de tweede ronde van de Franse Grand Slam.

Dick verliest, “hoe kan het ook anders” klonk nooit minder beledigend.

Xavier

2006-05-29T11:02:00.000-07:00

Xavier schudt wat met het hoofd, sloft naar de andere kant, slaat zijn hand slapjes tegen zijn racket, kijkt een laatste keer vol onbegrip naar de ref, mompelt wat en vraagt uiteindelijk twee balletjes van de ballenjongen. Hij stopt er één in rechterzak, stuit het andere balletje enkele tegen tegen de grond, mompelt nog eens wat, gooit op en knalt een bom van een ace voorbij zijn onfortuinlijke Chileense opponent.

Een wedstrijd van Xavier is altijd een belevenis. Geen speler die zoveel dipjes kan kennen in één wedstrijd om uiteindelijk met een zege afscheid te nemen van het juichende publiek. ‘Dipjes’ is eigenlijk een eufemisme. Xavier crásht. Het sportieve equivalent van de aanslagen op de Twin Towers is een controversiële arbitrale beslissing in Xavier’s nadeel. Na een verloren punt in de vijfde set rakelt hij een “bal die uit werd geroepen maar eigenlijk niet helemaal uit was” uit één van de allereerste games van de wedstrijd weer op. Hij geeft fortuinen uit aan rackets die hij na twee spelletjes toch tot moes slaat, lijnrechters zijn bitches en arbiters zijn blind. Hij doet het niet op de clowneske wijze van een John McEnroe, hij doet het op zijn eigen “eigenlijk geef ik er geen rotte moer om, maar je mag best wel eens een goeie call roepen van me”-manier. Xavier heeft altijd gelijk.

Ik hou van’m. Ik hou van zijn spel, hoe hij lange balwisselingen met één hysterisch snel zoevende forehand naar zijn hand kan zetten, hoe hij al schreeuwt nog voor hij de bal raakt voor een beauty van een passeerslag, hoe hij met drie matchpunten tegen vier aces op rij slaat. Nog meer hou ik van alles errond: het zal’m worst wezen. In interviews mompelt hij een resem clichés met moeite aan elkaar. Hij loopt of dartelt niet over een veld, hij sloft. Hij heeft een buikje en na een half uur spelen hangt zijn tong al op de grond en hijgt hij zo luid dat toeschouwers op het belendende plein nieuwsgierig over de haag kijken om te kijken welke kat er gevild wordt. Elke wedstrijd lijkt een martelgang voor hem, soms denk ik dat hij alleen maar vijfsetters speelt.

Hij is zo onvoorspelbaar, Xavier. Met open muil en amper de kracht om zijn arm op te heffen voor een zoveelste pijnlijke opslag knalt hij een ace, waarna iets in het publiek hem niet bevalt, hij weer begint te mompelen en de ene unforced error na de andere strooit. Daarna lukt hem weer iets, per toeval, al zal dat zelden zo lijken. Plots verschijnt het vuistje, plots zijn de winners daar weer. Het keert elke wedstrijd zo een keer of zeventig. Ik stop expres een week of twee met nagelbijten voor Xavier aan een grand slam begint, zodat ik niet op mijn blote huid moet kauwen tijdens zijn wedstrijden. Examens blokken lukt niet, als Xavier speelt. Roland Garros, dat traditioneel de aftrap geeft voor de examenperiode, is een vloek voor elke studerende tennisfan. Kiezen tussen een mokkende paardenstaart op een achterbaan van de Parijse tennisclub, of een kleurrijke cursus Engels: het is snel gebeurd. Later zal ik mijn kleinkinderen vertellen over Xavier, als ze me vragen waarom ik er zolang over heb gedaan om af te studeren.

2006-05-24T07:13:00.000-07:00

Sweep me off my feet. Touch me, feel me, kiss me, hurt me. Make me alive, make me live. Take me, I'm yours. Don't ask questions but jump in and take my hand and drag me with. I want you to be my breath, I need you to hold me up. "Surround me, hold me, heal me, enfold me." Be my hand, my foot, my nose, my lips. Be the soundtrack to my life.
Or
be whatever it is that you are, but be it here.

tear

2006-04-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

I almost cried tonight.
no reason
I really wish I had.
no reason

memory

2006-03-03T10:53:00.000-08:00

It was a parody of Little Red Riding Hood. Laurie was Little Red Riding Hood. Albeit a rather unconventional Little Red Riding Hood. She was Little Red Riding Hood With The Bouncing Boobies. "Hi, I'm Little Red Riding Hood With The Bouncing Boobies, and I'm looking for my prince, the son of a bitch ran away!" she said, bouncing her boobies. And I remember thinking "how cool," and "that girl's got balls". One of the first things I ever told her must've been "keep bouncing". That very same afternoon in early september 2002.

I wrote this one years ago, for my junior high sweetheart

2006-02-28T13:47:00.000-08:00

You're heaven.

You're it.

You're everything.

I'm me.

We're us.

I'm you.

And I love you.

bus

2006-02-28T13:38:00.000-08:00

I’m standing in the bus and I remember I hate standing in busses. The black chick in front of me almost shoves her hair into my face. She smells like dry paint. There’s an open seat behind me but no one wants to sit there because there’s a drooling hobo sitting next to it. He looks embarrassed, which makes this moment the first time I’ve ever seen an embarrassed bum. Traffic’s a bitch. Outside it snows like it’s the apocalypse and then the hobo farts. I prefer the smell of dry paint. Two kids, old enough to use the potty but young enough to forget, are jumping into each other all the time. They block one of the doors. At the next stop, they keep an old man from hopping on. He looks frightened at the two hyperactive black kids and backs away, crawling back into the bus stop shelter. The bus starts moving again and I look at the old man and I think he’s crying. A second later I realize it’s just a snowflake melting. I turn my head. The black chick’s hair tickles me. I wonder if it’s her shampoo that smells of dry paint, or if she just hasn’t washed her hair since she renovated her apartment with her lover. Those were good times, the chick must think, and she rubs her hand over her belly. She probably doesn’t know her man is doing an anorexic gypsy with a strap-on dildo. Shit, I’ve come to the point I’m inventing stories about randoms. Where am I? Fuck, still a long way to go. The parents of the hyperactive monsters don’t pay attention to their offspring. Or to eachother. They stare in front of them, into the hypnotizing snow. The woman probably wonders who her first client of the day will be, and the man remembers the time he almost emigrated to Detroit to pursue a professional career in hip hop. If Greg hadn’t been involved in a car accident he would’ve done it. But now he had to take care of his brother, which is why he couldn’t run away from his pregnant prostitute wife. Fuck Greg. The kids have started to bang their heads against each other. I scratch my balls. Because of that, the back of my hand rubs the black chicks ass. I immediately get a hard-on. I take away my hand and discretely turn my pelvis so that my cock and her ass connect. Fuck me this is hot. The bus stops again, the doors open and she pushes the kids away and gets off. Damnit. I look at the prostitute and lose my erection. This bus is taking too long.

smile relentlessly

2006-02-26T07:16:00.001-08:00

You smile and look at me.

Stay. Stay forever.

We will conquer.

We could.

You look at me and I smile.

Evening neon and no starry sky

But the night is clear like rain.

I fell.

I smile and look at you.

Picture perfection is up for grabs.

Remember this, this night.

And forever.

I look at you and you smile.

Relentlessly.

Come and find the world in me

2006-02-26T07:16:00.000-08:00

I held your head up high

When bright colours came to claim our night

And like you said your farewells, “goodbye”

You could not look at me

“It’s not right, all of this”

I muttered to my pale reflection

“And all I can feel is fingertips”

These wounds for worlds to see

“Come and find the world in me”

My Words

2006-02-26T06:39:00.000-08:00

I gave in. I will keep my blurty and my msn space, but I couldn't resist the temptations of these blogs. What I will post here are my words, nothing more. It won't be so beautiful all the time, it won't be extremely lyrical. It will just be things I've written. Bad things, mediocre things, good things. Old things, to start with. English, Dutch. Words.