it wasn’t that

Funny how sometimes suddenly I’m writing again. It never really starts with writing though, it starts with thinking or rather it starts with some kind of clarity in vision. Suddenly my brain is free enough, the light is bright enough and my eyes are wandering, seeing things they haven’t for a while. The funny thing is that as I notice the life force inside of me that wants to get out somehow, even though I’ve missed it, I feel it must be tempered. Whatever freedom the internet an the 24 hour economy has brought us, the alghoritm tells us to be so regularly structured. Since although the creative person might not work on set time, and work in bulk and continuous rhymes, the consumer wants everything bite size.

Sometimes I think I could be a brilliant writer, creatier, person if only I could bear the burden of regularity, of planning. I recently told someone that I like to be free, and he asked me what on earth did i mean, and I told him. ‘That I can do things when they come up’- it means that I’d rather be productive than succesful. That I’d rather notice than work hard to be perfectly seen.

It is still the constant trap- the succes of anything is measured how well the pictures are taken and how many likes were given. I’ve always felt that so similar to ‘real’ life, that I just don’t have it in me to be online every ones cup of tea. In the end I create all these things for me, not for anyone or anything else.

This freedom however comes with a price. Being an imperfectionist and stubbornly so, even though I’m never that upset at the level that I get to, I can’t help but wonder, what anything would come to if I had the chance to plan it out. I’ve never been someone to plan and focus and sit and observe, until I loved someone who had so much less time than me, someone who always seemed to be a little out of reach.

It’s funny what kind of space is in your head when you are waiting. Waiting for the next thing. When you are ready for things to happen but they just leave themselves to be waited on. I found myself focused- in control of the incontrolable- I found myself planning plans that weren’t mine. I found myself the architect in a piece of mind that I found because my heart was partly missing and I didn’t know how to reunite with that what I gave so willingly, but had some how turned into a prison, or rather a waiting room.

So what to do when waiting- obviously, creating. When the use of the time is already labeled as ‘waiting’, everything else you do is bonus. They say that boredome is a neccesary evil that makes one creative. Perhaps cave paintings were made as the early humans waited out a storm or were on the run from some kind of threat that couldn’t get to them where they were painting, and yet, the couldn’t leave so they decided to just be – and make something where they were.

Being impulsive, and like me no suddenly writing again has it’s peculiarities. I’m not even sure if I know what that words means and if I use it the way i intend it. I mean it has it’s eigenaardigheiden. Impulsive writing has it’s own nice litle niece little things- If you write when you are insprired, there is no planning before hand, no ‘voorpret’ it just is. And since I’m not a perfectionist and by the end of writing this, I already am ready to do something else, which is hopefully to fall a sleep. A sleep I will fall to easily or rather not plagued by what if’s cause as I say I am not a perfectionist, I don’t have a clear picture of what this is or what it should be.

I’ve decided this piece of poetic proze should come to an end and i’ve forgotten what i’ve written so far. I’ll read it back, see some sentences I like, some I don’t mind, and rest my head. And so I go back and try to write the I’s right. And I wonder if this sudden strike of inspiration will come again. If this time it was born out of boredome or the simple joy of late-night inspiration. Why does anyone do anything? Why did the early humans make cave paintings. Why would I write this, why would I publish this, other than to say- I exist- and: look at these awesome sentences and images I found- and- I hope you’ll sleep well.

When do you?

They say the moment we fall in love,

is the moment we realise the other person feels the same way-

but isn’t that strange? Because if we love because the other does

and one thing causes another- who is to blame?

To feel the same way- I’m angry cause you’re angry,

I’m sad because you are sad, I’m happy cause you are happy

And there’s a chicken because of an egg.

The world they say was set in motion, by an unmoved one

who started movement- and ever since, we laugh, we

cry, we breath and hold our breath, just because the other does.

and yet? what does it mean- that we fall in love, that we feel

what’s in anothers hart and mirror? They say that we were

created completly equal, to stand next, opposit, behind, with-

the other.

Perhaps, that’s why they hurt so much- loves un answered,

tears onnoticed, smiles frowned upon.

I was shocked to learn- that harmony can be a need-

not a frivolous fantasy, but something that is genuinly longed for.

It seems that we more than thought possible,

meet the other where they are–

bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh at last.

Lost Wait

I wait

For something.

Some kind of sign

Some kind of life

Some kind of moment

to later recall and be the

source of hope for another

moment that surely will not change

Will not change my thoughts or cycles

will not inspire new words or rhymes

99 pages of the same thoughts

interupted by happenings

It has hapened before

It has happened

once again.

Waiting takes long, long, long long,

I sing and she smiles

What a long time waiting takes.

Another child the same smile

I’ve been waiting for so long long,

what a long time waiting takes

They laugh at my face and my voice–

I change my speed and tone,

‘waiting takes short short short’

Or rather the dutch version of that

sentence, which makes a lot more sense.

It’s funny how connected we are

to the songs and images we learn as a child.

I feel like the waiting takes so long-

and so short at the same time.

I’m tired and exausted

waiting for something



I seem to be constantly waiting

for a past to change-

for a future I chose not to have.

no wonder I wait lost.

At in between the water

Under the weight of water.

In between the balcony and the gallery in front of my house

I am surrounded by rain falling on leaves strees gently and then wildly moving

peace or the pace of the world going up- how do I comfort myself?

where do I want to go?– I think of how my writing is insignificant.

I think of how my house becomes a mess every time I try to create some

kind of order and I remember the book my grandfather read when he was

25- to- improve your life just focus on the one thing that you don’t have yet

and put all your energy focused on that- If it’s not in your heart or in your art just

practice it. Practice it for as long as it take to make it a habbit.

But I feel overhwelmed by the list of to do’s that every day seem the same

and yet so little gets done. The morning’s gone- the afternoon sets in with rain-

although you know if I carefuly listen and watch I see that the drops no longer

fall and the leaves no longer sound melodiousunder the water fall, I only hear a car

drive to a puddle in the distance. If only I was unable to listen the voices that are

dragging me down- would I float or drown or even fly if only I was more free than I’ve known

myself to be.

There is a time of lying in the sun and watching the waves on the beach-

There is a time of letting the water hold you gently- there is a time of swimming

and dreaming of what it possibly could be that is beyond the horizon- And

there is a time of screaming at the water even if just internally and staying.

To let the waves of rage and sadness come and go. And to trust that if they come and

go so naturally so will joy and hope.


In pain out of focus

I’m Soul-like I say or rather the directly

translate Dutch variant which means

that I am pitiful. It’s how I break the news

to the friends and family and hope

they pity me as much as I feel shitty.

A knife in my upper back left shoulder-

no brain power to have a proper conversation,

not sure how long this will take-

worrying about doing so badly with so ‘little’

pain especially when my friends say that

this is part of growing old and honestly

my brain is like- what good will it do to

show more people again that you do not

handle being physically impaired well-

don’t you know how normal pain is for

so many of us.

Yet my soul is like. I’m sorry girl. i know it hurts

like hell. I hope you get well so soon. And also

i just hope, that you take a break from hopelessness

don’t you know how loved you are.

and so I write this poem not cause my pain is so

worth a poem but because everyone needs hope

and words and love especially when they hurt.


This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is dsc06914.jpg
When a one year old takes your camera.

I pray in a language – I know enough words

to pray like a child. To pray like someone who

has no words. I pray in a language I can’t make

proper sentences so I won’t be distracted by

my poetry. I pray in a language I know the same

amount of words as a three year old so I don’t

focus to much how to translate my heart to God.

I pray in a language in which I have only the truest

of words so I easily forgive myself if the nuances

I feel I have to bring to the highest of offices is absent.

I pray in a language I don’t properly speak like one

who choses to write by hand instead of typing

cause it slows down time.

Although my words are far and inbetween I don’t

search for them, I pronounce them as they come.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is dsc06911.jpg
when a one year old takes your camera part 2

And as I end the prayer- I run to my keyboard

I type lofty sentences about an utter holy experience,

as if I would forget if I wouldn’t.

That simple prayer was beteen me and God but here is the

complexity of simpleness that I would like to share

with the world with as many words as this poem calls for.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is dsc06896.jpg
When a one year old takes your camera part 3

And before I start I look up the word for prayer

in a language I don’t properly know but can pray in.



Peacock from the side.

life is long it seems.

And sometimes it seems

like the seams that i learned

to make i did them yesterday

and not over 15 years ago.

How does time pas in memories?

not really it seems, i know rationally

i remember less and different than it

was and yet it seems so close.

Those places don’t exist any more,

in the world i can visit by feet,

but my heart often goes to that

house when i sleep wandering the

rooms cause somehow we still

have a key and maybe even we

will live there again. If only the

ones that live there now won’t find out.

It’s seems that time can only be measued

by the things I own and when i don’t

wear them any more. I look different now,

on the surface, and depths have been

uncovered within me.

Yet I miss the ritual. The doing the same thing

like I did before, like we did before, in the places

that don’t change. And yet- every visit grows new

memories. And we write over what was there before

And so when i walk alone I’m never lonely,

I have so many versions of me walking with me

talking to different people holding hands seeing

trees seemingly for the first time.

Time somehow seems so linear and not liniar to me.

But it’s true what they say life is long,

and somehow after a long time it seems like

no times has passed at all, just the marks on

your skin and the things you pin into your

ears they’re different now.


I’m not sure,

If i know how to free my mind,

how to make any thought a captive,

I know a bit about what captivates me though

A memory, a sudden smile,

a place that remind me of home.

oh the home of loved ones near.

Does this mind I own gets to chose

who it loves? and how it does so?

I’ve wondered what makes an artist

sure enough to call what they make art-

and even more, what makes them say

that they are artists?

Isn’t it funny that he other way around

it’s easier to say you are someones lover

than that you love them?

What makes a lover, a mother, an aunt,

To care for or to care about, to take care-

what subtle nuances in to and fro.

I’ve learned freedom, by knowing what

haunts me, what protects me, what stops

me- the walls in side of me and around me-

What if I get to be safe- comfortable-

in harmony with my surroundings,

to simply be,l be good enough-

be like a first draft-

they say that perfect is the enemy of good

enough- what if God, when he said that it

was good- very good, he knew that it was

good enough, because there would always

be, a second draft?

And so I live my life in the strange trust-

that what I have is good enough, and I don’t

have to live beyond expectations- I can treasure

little things in life- and i can hold on to good

memories. I don’t have to know all things,

just to put one foot in front of the other-

and I get to change my mind- any time.


The days are longer again,

the nights are softer

and to walk when the light

shifts and mixes the colours

making them harder to tell apart-

The birds singing their last song

of the day. It was good-

I’ve missed the kindness of

the outside world after a winter

that seems so long- I even thought

seeing chocolate marketed with ‘love’

that valentines day must be coming up

only to realise it’s may already.

And I briefly wondered how I could be

so confused about the time of the year

when I realise that it hasn’t been so cold

this time of year for a long time.

Being inside before nine for months-

made me forget how wonderfully quiet

the city is after the shops close.

It’s such a kind moment- like a hug from

a friend or a lovers hand slightly touching yours.

And the simple joy of being alone

and safe and free in a beautiful world

The empty city

Across the rising sun

I’ve haven’t written non-fiction proza here in forever. I actually started this blog to have a place for all kinds of creative work- my photographs, my poems and my more eleborately written down thoughts. I guess that for a long time I haven’t really been in the space that one has to be to write a bit of random non-fiction. It’s somehow ‘seductive’ to write some kind of grand explaination of that, or some kind of intepretation of the fact that, honestly, I just haven’t.

Ofcourse today my connection to writing non-fiction proza, or my ‘story’ with it continues. I’m sitting on my balcony in the sun, typing on my worn out laptop. It’s worn out because I treat my laptop as others do their phone, a.k.a. take it everywhere, let it drop on the floor, eat next to it. Somehow I Iike it like that. I’m sitting on the balcony of my ‘new’ house. I’ve moved last december and it’s great to slowly discover the seasons as I am setteling into this house. I’m on the top floor so this means this balcony gets a lot of sun and I can see a lot of sky- a very blue sky today.

That the sky is blue and the sun is shining does by no means signify that it is a warm day- In the sun, protected from the wind, the weather is wonderful, but when going oustide a winter jacket is still appropriate. But here on the balcony far from the wind, I can just sit in a sweater, and type.

Street art? a sunrise drawn oposite the sunrise.

Last night I traveled along the largest strip of ‘wild nature’ in the netherlands, and saw the sun go down. This obviously man made piece of nature has the natural border of a traintrack. It takes 10 minutes to pass by the plane that is sometimes full of wild horses- and the setting of the sun was a wonderful sight to see. In that moment I remembered I saw a similar scene that day, but on a photograph, and not from a setting sun but a rising sun. I decided then and there, that I should set my alarm at 6 and try to make my way to the nearest ’empty plane’ (a little lake 25 minutes from my house) and watch the sun rise. Now, 4 hours later, I’ve had my 3 hours walk to the sunrise, sitting and seeing it rise, taking some pictures, and walking along the lake avoiding eye contact with the now bright white sun that seemed so save and warm when it was just rising. On my way back home I made it to a supermarket where I for the third time bought a reusable bag because even though I planned on probably going to the super market on the way back from my trip to the lake. Planning for such an predictable outcome seemed more of a hassle than just buying anonther bright pink and yellow reusable bag- It’s just 1,50 and it has bananas on it- What’s not to like?

I missed going out in the city before it wakes up. Funnily enough all of my out of town recent visitors said ‘but the city is so quiet’ it definetly is and yet I prefer it even quieter. The city before 9 is so quiet, the shopping street without the masses walking from one ‘essential’ shop to the other. And the people that are around seem to be peaceful. In the park I saw a couple with a puppy, appearantly dog parents sometimes go out at 7.00 am. I saw some people running since this is one of the activities outside that is great to do on your own. I even walked a stretch along the water, singing songs to myself, the heavens and the birds.

The empty and yet not quiet city is in absense of humans filled with the sound of birds, the wind, the water and the highway in the distance. Funny how when most people are still in bed and at home the city becomes a peaceful companion. And as I type these poetic words hearing the birds in the distance, a voice on the phone, some kind of manual work or machine in a distance, the sun on my skin my eyes tear up of sleepyness, I yawn and I feel peaceful, rested, and sleepy. After all, I’ve done a lot already. I’ll put away this laptop, put some laundry and in the machine and be like the city in the morning, oddly satisiyingly empty, at peace and quiet.