22.07.2025 Ik betreur het lot van de zakenman. Op Schiphol Airport zijn zij de enige die van de door ING gesponsorde werkplekken gebruik maken terwijl ze met gekreukte voorhoofden naar hun beeldschermen staren. Zouden ze weten hoezeer ze zich laten inpalmen door de valse belofte van big corp: dat je pas iemand bent als je het woord 'manager' onder je e-mailhandtekening mag zetten? Zij verandert haar e-mailhandtekening maandelijks omdat het dan weer te professioneel overkomt, dan weer te diy. Zij komt alleen op Schiphol als ze samen op vakantie gaan en zij heeft zich er al bij neergelegd dat hij met de dood geconfronteerd moeten worden om te begrijpen dat je pas iemand wordt als je aandacht geeft aan diegene die daadwerkelijk van je houden. 15.7.2025 Together with some friends we are making a poetry bundle. It forces me to revise my poem(s) and it is great because words are worlds and I forget sometimes. So, here is an edited (not final) version of the poem posted two months ago. * holy, holy, holy without the sun the dutch landscape is protestant how can anything holy arise from modest churches scattered across sunless landscapes like the soon forgotten breadcrumbs on a stainless steel plate passing eagerly hand to hand believer to believer holy supper I remember the absence of clapping - baptism I remember the solemn voice of the minister - dad I remember time stretching infinitely - sermon I remember longing for the first chord of the organ I remember a fire yearning for freedom being restricted and confused with the descent of the holy spirit and the sun kept appearing in every landscape I drew ~ A view weeks after I wrote this poem my dad called me for my birthday. He told me that I was babtised during pentecost and that all people in the church sang "komt laat ons deze dag, met heilig vuur bezingen" in the classic modest monotone melody that is expected from proper protestants. 5.7.2025 Repeat after me: criticizing the qualitiy of an artwork does not make me a pretentious person 3.7.2025 I had an enchanting experience with my friends in Prague last weekend. The second night we did a poetry night at the fire, this is what we do and we know that we cannot take it for granted. We fell asleep as the morning light took over from the fire. It could have been a movie. Being back at work it is hard to imagine its the same life. I'm sharing the poems here, inspired by @elliott's personal writing and @polina's comment on my previous woodpecker-story, which was also quite personal. 1.Change I forgot that I'm longing for a home in you That friendships are homes Homes that travel from and towards you And a bee finds its way between the spring flowers 2. The tree awaits the bird to enclose it with its leaves The plant high and hides The animal protected While it feasts on its fruits How on earth is it possible 19.6.2025 In a meeting, the people are angry because of cuts cuts cuts Cuts in space, cuts in time, cuts in money Change offends people Changing offends people too All do their best, but who are they I asked a woman what we should do with ai She said, use the experts! use the crafts people! I asked what she meant She said, you must be new! how can you not understand! You know what it is it is the building the building is difficult the building the building building offends Written during that very meeting for distraction 9.6.2025 About (our) time Our lived experience is accelerating; thoughts, truths, moods. Take note of your reflexes and emotions, they are exhausted and your defense mechanisms dismantled. The richest took note that a tidal wave can paralyze — and that paralysis leads to obedience. Now, we are collectively spiked by the flood of political scandals. And still my grandpa, who is 87, who lived in a time when portable electronic music devices only existed in sci-fi novels, who fimrly believes that jews are the chosen people of God, who currently walks the heavy final season of his earthly life, he still prays to God that Elon and Trump come to their senses, that Gaza will be saved, that humanity will return. 27.5.2025 This year was not the year that I did not receive any birthday wishes from vague aquaintances on my Facebook wall. I had to think for a minute about the fact that it was even called a wall, a Facebook wall. Every year fewer people post on this wall but I never really notice who gave up. Until this year, I was sad to find out that Berend Zuur, my highschool dean (the legend) did not post a classic 'gefeliciteerd!' followed by a random emoji. Apparently, I had imagined that he would be the last man standing there, religiously posting the same brithday wish every single year. But the world is aging and the future always unfolds in the scenario's you did not imagine. 18.5.2025 'All the hands that touched it and now no one can anymore' is what Malla said after the alarm went off when I looked too closely at the ancient Buddhist sculpture in a German museum. Nine days in Berlin feel like a whirlwind here is an observation (1) In this city, our dark side is always near: the crack-smoking homeless people at HermanstraSe, the night that continues through the day, the lack of self-awareness about looted artworks, a casual park littered with old tombstones, organized places for the deepest darkest sexual desires of our species and calling it cultural heritage, and of course the (remains of) the divide: "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" 3.5.2025 holy, holy, holy - written for poetry night @leiden with the homies without the sun,the dutch landscape is protestant how can anything holy arise from that? every village houses a sober square church littered across the landscape like breadcrumbs on a stainless steel plate of the holy supper passing through the hands of the believers I remember the absence of clapping after a baptism I remember the hollow voice of the minister — often my dad I remember the time stretching into eternity during sermon I remember the desire to hear the first chords of the organ I remember that whenever I felt a flame arise in me I had to hide it and I remember wondering how this related to the descent of the holy spirit still the sun kept appearing in every landscape I drew