Colonic irrigation

The body is a vessel. A vessel that happens to accommodate germs, bacteria and parasites too. How many wars are being waged on hourly basis? How many hostages are being taken? Inside this body.

This is Spartaaaaa...
Sometimes the roars and cannon explosions are audible on the outside too. Sometimes the pangs of pain give away the riots within.

To extinguish the evil war-loving agents, we must introduce a new weapon. Inside this body. An ambush through the back door. It will flood the enemy and suck them into a whirlpool of annihilation.

When it's all over, flowers will blossom where once were war mines. And on the outside, the dust, the ashes and the deadly fumes of despair will be assimilated by sweet vanilla air freshener.

Future Baby

She's a 3-year old riding a 3-wheeler with a pink helmet on.
She is no pantomimical offspring.
She is her own.

A Future Baby.

Gayfeliciteerd!

I was in a hurry. Sweating like a pig. I had been shopping with a friend, yet I hadn't found what I was looking for. I needed a nice little number to wear to the party the next night. A Birhtday gift for myself. And I needed it quickly! I had to be home by four to call a client.

Where to go? There's always too much choice when you don't need it. Let's see...The Diesel store had to be good enough.
Once inside, a friendly young shop assistant smiled at me and offered his help. We started climbing the stairs. I had too many jumpers on, a rucksack on my back and an umbrella in my hand. Still sweating like a pig. And it was already twenty to four!

I was just about to change my mind and leave the store when I felt someone squeezing me tight and planting kisses on my neck.
"He's mine! My husband! My client"
I smiled, relieved. It was Maurizio, my Brazillian friend.
"Ok honey, you are rushing, right? What do you need? A t-shirt for tomorrow night? Dont we all?!"
I hadn't said a word.
"Ok", Mr Brazillian continued, "What are we looking for? Simple? Colourful? Too much? Demasiado?", he winked at me.
Then he handed me a couple of funky-looking objects d'art.
"This is You, this is You, this is definitely You! Try them all on. I want no objections!"

In the dressing room I took my many jumpers off, one by one. Maurizio stayed in with me, observing.
"Honey, your shoulders are huge. Whatever you are taking, I want to take it too."
"I don't like the sleeves of this one", I ventured to say, trying choice number one on.
"That's because you've lost some of your triceps, sweetheart. Try this one!"
I put the next t-shirt on. It was a perfect fit.
"That's it! You are sorted. Look no further. You can pay downstairs. See you at the party, doll!", Maurizio poured out and dashed away.
It was ten to four. I had found what I was looking for. And I was on time.

Actually, it's a wonderful gay world we live in, I thought to myself on my way home. I take back any homophobic statements I may have expressed in this writing shrine.
I had just received excellent and efficient service, a quick self-esteem boost and several kisses. Not only that, the shop assistant had actually read my mind and done all the thinking for me, making shopping immediate, effortless and sweet.
Needles to say, I wasn't sweating anymore. I could see zillions of rainbow flags billowing in the wind all around me. For a brief moment, I even became oblivious to my deep disdain for ABBA.

The Black Opal

Heed the words of the bard: Lisa Gearrard's newborn is about to grow on you.
The Black Opal is out.

The ambient material Lisa released in 2008-2009 was liquid and elusive. The Black Opal is substantial and tactile. A gem which weighs like a rock. It reflects light and casts shadows. It penetrates the imagination with colours and flavours which are saturated and intense.

The Black Opal makes one realise that Lisa's very own otherworldly language is not just a series of arbitrary sounds. Her non-words are non-referential yet meaningful and her narratives are carefully constructed.
The Messenger has one of the most intricate examples of this otherworldliness. The random profusion of elusive sonic bubbles, succulently bulging and bursting in Lisa's mouth, conveys a deeply intriguing story.
The Crossing is a cute rhythmical invasion, reminiscent of early Dead Сan Dance.

Then comes Redemption. The track with the highest intensity charge. Lisa Gerrard's evidence of Providence. Its structure is intuitive and loose. Its narrative is solemn and epiphanic. Weaving through infernal depths and angelic heights. Healing the wounds of sacrifice along the long and winding road of redemption. Emotions happen. The elixir contained inside the opal's core is released and spreads through the veins. Lisa is breastfeeding us the Milk of Life.

The overtly proverbial English-sung pieces add diversity to the album. Yet the words and their ideology take away from the vocal expression of the singer and clash with the hermetic strength of the abstract pieces.
The only exception to this being the intimately heroic Sleep. It is a hymn and a lullaby at the same time. Sung by a mother.

I feel privileged to be able to relate to the inner world of the artist Lisa Gerrard. Throughout the years, I have been doing this with consistency and devotion. She's been responding with quality and greater devotion. To her music. Providing evidence of Providence. Allowing for her newborns to grow on us. Breastfeeding us the Milk of Life.

The leather queens are leaving town

Their eyes are empty. Their feet are heavy. Their (leather) pride is over.

Whilst their travel trolleys pull them back, they soldier on. Towards Central Station. Trains will take them to Paris, Hamburg & Brussels. Back to their dachshunds, geraniums and opera records.

They made the most of it. They got physical. They opened up to other human beings. Now their bodies are sore, lips bruised, ammunition spent. Only their bull-ring piercings hold them together. They unleasehed the beast within and it did run wild. But then it shapeshifted into a weary teddy bear.

O this goes against the grain, this cannot be indured.
Will exileration and delirium circulate through their veins again instead of erwtensoep, agony and kamagra residues? Will pride and dignity reign supreme once more? Will the leather queens come back to town?

The Flesh is weak. The Spirit is weaker. The leather weighs heavy on a day like today.

Self-sufficient growth thrives

What in the world is happening,
What in the world could this be...




I have no contribution whatsoever to this pink prosperity. Not a single drop of water has sustained this metamorphosis.

Self-sufficiency. Self-sustenance. Self-transformation.

Other plants can learn from that.
Other newly turned swans too.

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Circle of Love

The Girl from the bakery across the street likes me. I can feel it by the way she looks at me, the way she touches my fingertips when I hand her my coins, the way she blushes when I throw a joke.
Once she told me I have beautiful eyes. She gave me a radiant smile, then looked away timidly.

She doesn’t know anything about me. Yet she likes me. It’s not a sexual thing. It’s something human.

What I give her back may not be what she needs. But I know it’s enough. I also know that the smiles we exchange in the morning linger on our lips all through the day.

I like the Man from the café next to my house. There is something reassuring about him. I like the way he moves, the way he instructs his son to make cappuccino, the way he smiles at me when he hands me my shake.

Sometimes I try to imagine him in bed with me but then my mind tiptoes away from the swiftly sketched mental picture. The smiles we exchange during my frequent visits to the cafe filter away everything which is petty, awkward and insignificant. What remains is…something human.

The Man works every day. The Girl works weekends only. Sometimes on a Saturday morning I drop by the café to treat myself to a fresh fusion of apple, ginger and carrot. Afterwards I walk to the bakery to buy a fresh loaf of bread. I know there is Love at the bakery. I know there is Love at the café. And sometimes on a Saturday morning the Love comes full circle.
It’s not the kind of love that involves togetherness happening happily ever after. It may not even be mutual or coming from both sides. But it’s something human. Hence, it’s enough.