Voices of Me

: timpeltje; July 19th, 0:28

Current Mood:: confused

I'm telling you, he's real! It's not because he doesn't happen to be with me now that he doesn't exist! Look, here's a hair of his! And it's quite obviously black, so it couldn't possibly be mine! What? Of course it's not a wig from an alter ego! How dare you? It's like you're looking away from the evidence I'm showing you. All these clothes in our wardrobe, is that fake too then?
No, that's just your schizofrenic you who pretends to be your lover. Nobody lives here but you, Mr van den Oudenhoven.
But there's a fucking picture, standing on my bedside table? What more proof do you want?
I want to see him, that picture could be anyone.
Look, come back tomorrow maybe, or some time next week. I can show him to you.
I am not insane.
I talk to him all the time. And he talks to me. Just not right now. Because he's on a mission! He's a really important person, you know!
Then why can we find no record of his existence?
Well, his job is top secret! Why the fuck are you doing this to me? I know who I'm with, I know he is real, so buzz off, will ya?
We want you to see this psychiatrist. It's for your own safety.
I don't need to see one! Do you want me to call him? Look, I'll call him okay...
It's ringing...
Hello? It's his voicemail. Look, would he have this phone number and this voice if he would be me?
Mister van den Oudenhoven, we are very concerned about your mental state of being. If you do not agree to see a psychiatrist, we might even have to put you away...
On what grounds? Listen to me: He. Is. Real.
Who are you talking to on this video?
That's him. Wait... that can't be. Where is he? That video's a fake... But that's me. Oh my... Oh my...
I mean... He's real... I know he is... He holds my love.
We know... now why don't you come with us and we'll make you better?
But I... but.... Okay.

26 and counting

: timpeltje; July 17th, 0:28

"Age ain't nothing but a number... And the number I'm thinking of is 100 dollars!" *receives slap in face* "My... How courting has changed." (CIA chief Bullock to a young woman in American Dad).

There is no doubt about it. Adulthood has come. Finally my voice is getting deeper, I'm witnessing the first hairs on places where no hair has ever been observed before (eyeballs and such). I can at long last look down on "youth today" and shake my head in disbelief and say how different things used to be "in my day". I suddenly also have an opinion on 55-year-old pensioners leeching off of my tax money (okay, not really).
But I am still such a boy. I cannot hide it. Here I was on my birthday, translating a contract between a company and an employee, and all the rules and regulations were just arguments for me to continue being a boy. If an employee works somewhere for 5 years, he has to give 6 months' notice. And for every 5 years extra, he has to give an additional 3 months' notice. That's 12 months if you worked at some place for 15 years. How the hell do you manage that? The contract also states the person is not allowed to work in a similar job at another company after his resignation, on penalty of having to pay back all the wages he earnt at this employer. Basically, if you do not obey the Company, the Company will destroy you. The longer you work there, the more impossible it will be for you to get out of your job.
'And such is the way of life, no?' spoke the wize wizard before he was brutally killed by his pet snail (oh, the horror!).
This life-threatening life is what I'm escaping in my life (three "lives" in my sentence). It is the reason why I probably will be taking two years to complete my Master rather than one. What is my rush anyway?

Life is good though. I have the most wonderful boyfriend whom I love with all my heart and I kind of have a goal in my life. What more should one want?
Just let me be a boy a little while longer.... (said 39-year-old Peter Pan before going on to play with some 9-year-old boys (to be later arrested by the police for you know what...)).

Stories

: timpeltje; July 15th, 0:13

This was what made me follow him: he had given me a look of terror when I passed him as he was exiting the peepshow in a hurry. You would expect his face to show some relief, given his very recent climax in a cubicle just ten metres away. Most people who leave the place just look at the pavement, fixed as if the answers would be waiting for them there, and just make a run for it, mostly having at least one hand in their pockets, not to seem too suspicious, or just to scratch the shame away; who knows?
But he felt caught, as if he knew me, which I was certain he didn't. So I waited a bit, held my mobile phone in my hand to buy myself some time, counting the bars on my signal (three) and then I started chasing him. The man was walking quite fast, though he walked slower as soon as he turned round the corner. I was hoping my little detective work would lead me somewhere: to witness a dramatic family scene, where Wife was wondering where Husband had been and what that foul smell on him was ("it's cum, my love, it's only cum"), or maybe he'd have to go pick up his Child first at kindergarten ("daddy smells like cheese!") before going back to Wife who he finds in bed with Neighbour or Best Friend ("How could you?! I would never cheat on you!"). Or maybe Husband is suicidal, and this was his final act of life, his last deed in a life that had gone terribly wrong ("I didn't even have any money left to pay a whore!"). Then he'd go to a car in the parking lot, pull out a gun and shoot himself two times in the head, because he didn't get it right the first time ( leaving with a goodbye note exclaiming: "I will reincarnate as a giant octopus!" because goodbye notes don't always have to explain or make sense). Another scenario would have him going back to his office using his unwashed hand to shake his 2PM appointment's hand a quarter of an hour late ("Sorry I'm late, I was just so horny I had to go shake one off..").
As soon as I thought all this, I blew off my little detective work.
The real story probably wouldn't have been anything but a disappointment.

Chaos

: timpeltje; July 11th, 18:53

All those images thrown around. Scattered across the globe. A non stop flight towards chaos. Inhale. Somewhere along the line, you wonder where you are. Exhale. The skin feels plastic, rough, made of wax maybe, a bit of heat and it could melt away before your very eyes, leaving you alone (and horny). This is the island on which we live. Space is a cool and indifferent entity that envelops us without letting us know.
The tiny creatures I set free all hope to see the light. They never do.
It does not matter if we are drugged, asleep or in a coma.
"Give it time," they say.
We hope reality will be different.

Ceci n'est pas un photographe

: timpeltje; July 8th, 0:58

I almost forgot to mention: I got a new diploma last week. I am now a Bachelor of Fine Arts (Photography). Not that the thing between brackets has so much meaning any more. I don't see myself using the epithet "Photographer" next to my name any time soon. Isn't a photographer someone who actually likes taking pictures? Not necessarily, I'm sure your average wedding photographer doesn't conceive multiple orgasms in the act of doing his work (I should hope not).
You have the photographer who looks at the world with a sense of amazement and wonder and who takes great joy in grasping just a tiny little detail of this world and expanding it to something monumental and symbolic. This photography is "naive" to me, partly because of my lack of empathy for much of the outside world, but mostly because the "everyday" is what I want to get away from. Escape into the unsafe outskirts of the mind, with a pinch of salt if you please.
There is the hyperrealistic photographer, like Gursky et al. To me, the process of conceiving photographs like these is unsatisfactory. I also do not want this sense of realism penetrating my work. I prefer the creation of a world that was never there to begin with.
There is the fashion photographer. He takes photographs like these:

One wonders. Other than actually being paid to take photos of pretty skinny boys (and a lot of ugly ones too), where does he ever show his photographic skill? Not my cup of tea, this. I mean, it seems like this type of photographer should have just moved to photographing pornographic scenes for a living instead. At least then he'd be honest with himself. (I do think I look a bit weird in these pics, I did love my hair, though).

I was in Maastricht last weekend. I had a camera with me that did not leave my bag until we were at our hotel room. The only pictures that haven't been taken in any place of tourism are the ones of my boyfriend and me. Everything else has been done before. And that's a comforting thought saving me and all the world's photographers a lot of work...

Ode to some dead babies

: timpeltje; July 4th, 23:57

Somewhere in the Australian outback, a great number of kangaroos exist whose offspring have been brutally taken away from them. They looked everywhere, but have not been able to locate the fruit of their loins. Alcohol and depression stalk their souls as yet another day goes by without their helpless little son or daughter resting in their respective pouches. The once so happy parents are now but a mere shadow of the happy, cute hoppers they once were. Relationships between the parents of these lost baby kangaroos deteriorate, either one blaming the other for the disappearance of their baby. At night, all you hear are the weeping howls of kangaroos having a nightmare about their baby.
The kangaroos don't know what became of their child, the Australian police is not helping them because they are paid royally to look the other way. I know what happened. I was wearing the remains of about ten of these missing children on my shoulders. Literally. In the form of a jacket.
"You know, with baby kangaroo you get a leather that looks quite unfinished, because there are small holes and scratches in the leather that are always there. The skins we have to work with from baby kangaroos are just so small that we have to use a lot of them to make one jacket. That explains the price tag of 1200 euro, which of course means you'll have to sell it in your shop at about 4500 euro, a reasonable price, considering the amount of blood and gore you get to carry around with you."
"How did these animals die?"
"Oh, quite straightforwardly, first we abducted them from their parents and then we punched the baby kangaroos for thirty minutes, a necessary process if you want leather that's this soft, you know. Then the struggling infant kangaroos would be skinned while they were still alive (but in a humane manner, because we show them videos of Skippy, The Bush Kangaroo); this is necessary to make the feel of the leather more supple. Just before the animal lets out its dying breath, we grab its heart and devour it raw, so that we may gain its strength. The carcass is then processed into dog food while the leather skin is on its way to make your jacket..."
Meanwhile, another baby kangaroo is born, but its parents are more afraid than happy. They have heard the stories from the other parents and they cannot sleep. The father bought a gun to protect his family, knowing that the police won't help. They cannot sleep. Every gust of wind releases a shock of terror down the parents' spines. Hopefully, the father has his gun at hand when someone comes in to abduct his child, because somewhere in the West, some fat and wealthy bastard decided a baby kangaroo jacket might just be what he needs to fill the void that is his life...

Rick

: timpeltje; June 28th, 22:33

I have just finished the second of five showroom days at Rick Owens after doing the show a day before. For the uninitiated, a showroom is a place where purchasers from all over the world come to order the clothes they will sell in their store at ridiculously high prices. The models serve as walking mannequin dolls showing how the clothes fit. All pretty boring really (and a health risk, I‘m not coming near the American customers, knowing that one million of them have got the Mexican flu).

One of the other two models does not seem to realise that it’s not of him, but of the clothes that customers are taking pictures (though my bottom has been photographed a gazillion times by now). Worst of all, he treats the really friendly dressers like shit. All of these girls are in fact freshly graduated fashion designers who get paid very little for very long days (5 euro/hour approximately). It angers me to see people treated like this. Arrogance like this is of course common in this world of superficiality. Like the way that model looks down on the dresser, so do some of the clients take models for “little people”, basically ignoring them as human beings. All I’m trying to do is joke around and talk with them and make their and my day go by a little faster.

Only one person in that whole house actually has a reason that would excuse him from saying "thank you” and “please” and that’s the man who’s giving a job to all the people there, and that’s Rick Owens himself. Lain, the dresser, brought some cups of coffee to a table with Rick and some of his clients. The clients all said nothing when their coffee cups were put in front of them. When Lain gave Rick his coffee, he smiled broadly and said an appreciative "Thank you”…

Traces

: timpeltje; June 26th, 22:29

I look for him knowing he’s not here. I take steps I remember him taking next to me. My tired eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, without which they’d reveal someone who looks like he’s been eternally waiting for a bus. I sat in a chair he was sitting in when an older woman called us beautifully androgynous. Nobody makes statements like this when you’re waiting for a bus.

I don’t know why this melancholy befalls me, maybe the lack of sleep is to blame. Walking in circles, constantly looking for a trace of him. A shop he liked, a book I bought for him. I don’t feel like talking to anyone but him.

I am cast for the role of walking mannequin for another Rick Owens show. I know he will like this, and he might like the decorative wallpaper pasted against the outer walls of my body. Maybe I do part of this for him, to show that I care about things that interest him (and also for some narcissistic ego boost, I’m sure).

I am at a bad restaurant we ate at. The waiter doesn't like me, but that is his right. The food is still bland.

I sit there, watching city life pass by. Nobody here knows that I am missing a piece of mine.

I could have done this instead

: timpeltje; June 23rd, 23:56

Current Mood:: tired

I could have done a lot of things instead of trying to organise an exposition with and for my fellow graduating photography students. I could have also done a lot of other things besides going to Paris to model for fashion week on Thursday, like not go for instance. I could have been a world-class rent boy by now, renowned for the amount of unrequested existential comments made to his customers. I could have also still been a Project Manager in Melbourne, Australia, which would imply that I'd be practically braindead by now. I leave it up to the punters to decide whether or not this is a good thing. I could have been a freelance translator who does nothing else and certainly nothing artistic, because I'd save a lot more money, which we could spend on something as trivial as material stuff. But I don't. I could have followed my lifelong dream and be a dustman, getting dirty for a living, how I once considered that to be absolute bliss. Maybe I could have followed my dream afterwards, petting fluffy kittens and somehow get paid for that (which was my interpretation of what a veterinary does).
But I do none of those things. I desperately look for a life in which I am not bound to a particular job or place, where I can just follow my lover if he'd need to go somewhere for something he's passionate about. No matter where it is. I don't know if I'm really interested in buying a house or an apartment, because that would imply that I would have found a place where I would spend the biggest part of my life. And I have no clue where this would be. And I noticed I cannot leave my creative side alone. I need satisfaction from that, the closest thing I'll ever come to fatherhood (and that includes the twelvety babies I will be the genetic father of as a sperm donor).
While I am dead tired right now, I know there is nothing I regret about my life in the last couple of years. No longer because I can find no alternative, but just because I know there is no alternative, that this is all I can do and all I want to do. But this is my corny and tired side speaking, but they're absolutely right.

What else can I do? What else can anyone do?

Vulnerability

: timpeltje; June 21st, 23:34

Dear Diary,

It has been a while since I opened your thick pages, covered in dust. But maybe it's a good idea to tell you a bit about things now, since I'll probably be off to Paris next week and then we won't have all that much time to spend together. You are almost like a mistress (and a gorgeous one at that!), seeing how I've only got time for you when my (more) gorgeous lover is away.
Anyway, so I had participated in this contest and it turned out my photo was selected for the final show last Friday, with auction and everything. I felt an emotion I hadn't actually considered before, it's this vulnerability to expose your work to the anonymous crowds. I was glad to hear my photo had raised a bit of emotions when it was used in a presentation of the organisation (plus a short and fun article about me appeared in the Le Soir newspaper last week). But the vulnerability, no, I hadn't taken that into account. Erik didn't see this, because I am very good at hiding something like that, so he wasn't by my side all the time, even though I definitely would have liked and preferred that. It's good that I take it so personal, I guess. I don't know if it got sold or not (I suspect a lot of the "buyers" were family anyway), I'll know that some time next week, but in the end it doesn't really matter (though it would be annoying having to go back to Brussels to pick up the thing).

Anyway, if anybody wants to see me at my most vulnerable, feel free to attend this exposition...

A moving speech

: timpeltje; June 16th, 0:06

Dear Countrymen!

I spent all week staring at my bellybutton and I have come to the conclusion that no bugs, small rodents or spiders have used my bellybutton as their choice of accommodation. We of the Bellybutton Lovers find this trend alarming. People don't care about bellybuttons anymore, which is why they have become nothing more than a cave in which dust is collected. Because if we don't care, the animals who rely on our orifices certainly won't either. Where is the adventure in squating a neglected house anyway? My, I cannot even remember since we burnt the last person who had an "outie" instead of an "innie". The "outies" are of course freaks of nature and should be dealt with in the most inhumane way as possible, and we are wondering if we should make exceptions to this rule: like for "outies" who realise there is an "innie" trapped on the inside, or for those who've had belly button corrective surgery (all the rage nowadays). However, we cannot be too lenient on this matter, for it may seem trivial, but recent research (performed by my fat friend Johnny) has shown that people with "outies" are 39 per cent more likely to get run over by a truck, because those truck drivers didn't see the belly button sticking all the way out. We are thinking about your safety here. Furthermore, there is also 12 per cent more chance that lightning will hit you if you have an outie. Is this really worth the risk? Ticking timebombds, that's what they are.
But how do we make our belly button more appealing? Sure, it is appealing among those lucky possessors of the "micro-penis", but we find the use of the belly button for that purpose outdated, and yes, even a bit selfish and appalling. So there must be another way. Science hasn't done much research on the subject, because all of the world's scientists are involved in a conspiracy of gargantuan proportions, funded of course by the Organisation for the Rapid Deterioration of Belly Button Advancement Programs (the ORDBBAP) - I expose this here, because I feel the time has come to take action. All over the world people are taking action. Brave heros are fighting on our side in Iran at the moment (Ahmedinejad has an OUTIE! Mousavi knows that!). We cannot bear to see our kind suffer so much, to see our belly button so abandoned and alone.
In the meantime, we will continue to fight. And hope for better days. Where our bellybuttons won't get neglected any more. Where the honey will taste sweeter than yesterday. Where we are free to rent out our innies to those for whom the space could provide an ample living conditions.
A man can dream though, a man can dream....

Yours deliriously,

/T.

Run, florist, run!

: timpeltje; June 15th, 0:17

Yesterday I ran 5km. My iPod told me the last time I ran that much was September 14th, 2008 (it was the last time I used the stopwatch). I was only one minute slower, so I have a goal to attain again. I don't run to improve my body, I'm fine with the way it is, but sometimes I need to run to lose some excess energy. To think. I noticed how slow time goes, how many thoughts I was able to have, even though Alice Cooper never stopped singing to me (it's good running music, but I have a tendency to sing along with his songs, so that may have cost me a couple of valuable seconds because I exhausted myself too much). Time seems stretched. At home, half an hour can pass by and you can wonder what on earth it was that you were actually doing (nothing most likely).
Also, if ever I get kidnapped by the handicapped maffia, it might be in my advantage that I have good physique. Unless my escape route goes downhill... those wheelchairs will catch up with me in no time... (but how will they stop? Ha-hah!).

Time to wrap up

: timpeltje; June 13th, 2:03

I had my jury on Tuesday and it went really well, I had turned my set into an installation piece and it looked nice enough. The website www.chris-winston.com is also online, so check it out, it's part of the whole project.

This is how I described my project:

"Chris Winston – The Creation of an Alter Ego

This photographic/video installation introduces Chris Winston, an alter ego of the artist who finds himself trapped in a cube-like cell. Chris’ life is recorded with a security and mobile phone camera and edited to make episodes for an online reality TV-show (www.chris-winston.com). Of every episode, there is also a surreal and highly-detailed photograph that contrasts the pixelated quality of the videos. These photographs lay bare the fictional construct of Chris’ life, something the videos on the website cannot accomplish. Chris’ body is nothing but a sculpture to which the medium used gives its meaning. The different voices in this project all tell a different story (there is also a blog and a Facebook page with Chris’ name) and it is up to the individual spectator to make sense of it all, whether he sees the project as a whole in an artistic environment or just the video website in the privacy of his own home, a place where his voyeurism will not be obstructed by the people around him. There is no longer just one truth, just an infinite clash of opinions and only the most violent expression is the one that gains most weight. Film and photography are questioned by exposing their deceitful nature and obvious links are made to Abu Ghraib photos and other news items that only became “reality” thanks to mobile phones and internet. On a personal level, it is the artist’s search for intensity and artistic involvement he feels lacking in a lot of contemporary art."

This is what the installation looked like...

Also, the day after my jury, I was happy to find out that my work had been selected by my academy to participate in a contest for graduating students (and only 2 nominations were allowed for all visual arts disciplines, which made my cat even prouder of me - which said cat showed by licking my nose). It is for a festival for European art schools that's being held in Vilnius, Lithuania in November (it is apparently European city of culture this year). But there's still an international jury to survive and I'm realistic enough to know it's a long shot; this doesn't take away the fact that I'm happy about my school selecting me.
I'm "finished" for this academic year and I now have a busy Master's year to look forward to. The thing is that my work now feels like a turning point, since I cannot just go back to a form of photography that remains pictorial, where my "sombre" world view is expressed, simply by means of allegories or aestheticised metaphors. I cannot go back to what I did in the first term or in previous years, because that is photography that doesn't really challenge the medium itself, it only illustrates, it doesn't look for a confrontation. I am not sure if I can return to using models again other than myself. I hope that some introspection will provide me with the necessary answers. I have been feeling a bit sad that the Chris Winston project is ending now, I tried to reconstruct the scene yesterday to see if I could take another photograph, but I had to conclude today that I simply don't have enough time to produce an episode/photograph of the same "quality" as the other ones. I don't really want to say goodbye to Chris Winston, even though he scared me every now and then.
Time will tell. I know I don't feel like slacking off this summer, so I'll do my best to put together a decent MA proposal as soon as possible, maybe write the thesis too. Oh, and I'll be looking for a cool internship somewhere nice, so if anyone reading this has an idea (I'd like it if I could do it with an artist), feel free to hassle me about it (no, it's not only for making coffee or being a house slave, it has to have a creative component too!).

And now sleep.

"Tim wou dat hij aan zijn kutje kon lekken!"

: timpeltje; June 5th, 0:26

"I don't know who this Tim guy is, but he sounds sick to me."
"What I think is that Tim is such an arrogant piece of shit, thinks he's better than everyone else, just because he rides a blue bicycle! Well, let me tell you something, his hole isn't as deep as everyone says it is!"
"I don't care what anyone says. I kind of like him. Sure, he's weird, but it's better to be weird than to get raped by a horse that won the Grand National, isn't it?"
"That stupid faggot? You know what I think? I think he's had some work done, if you know what I mean. If he thinks bigger boobs will make him more respected as a woman, then I think he's very much mistaken."
"Someone should teach that cunt a lesson! He walks around thinking he's Louis the Fucking Fourteenth!"
"You know, I feel sorry for that poor misguided child he is sleeping with. Erik gives his heart to this boy, but all that arrogant cock cares about is the amount of times he gets laid per week, complaining and whining like a baby if it's not a six figure number."
"Tim? Never heard of him. Is he one of those Eastern European burglars I've been hearing so much about? Castrate him, I say!"
"To me it's like that jerk doesn't know what he wants. I mean, it's like he can't decide to be a man or a woman. GET THE OPERATION AND STOP CONFUSING ME, YOU JACKASS!"
"Seriously, I was at this gang bang and suddenly, people started talking about Tim and I swear, every erection in the room immediately vanished. Even mine, and I was on 4 Viagras and fistfuls of poppers. So we watched Beauty & the Beast instead."
"He's okay, I guess. I mean, I wouldn't go out with him or allow for him to babysit my hamsters (you never know what these perverts get off on), but I don't think it's fair for me to judge him from what I know."
"I think the world would be a better place without him. When he suggested he'd go to the sperm bank to 'spread his genes', I was really appalled. It's no longer narcissism, it's solipsism!"

Split

: timpeltje; June 1st, 0:47

Outside, people are screaming. They sound drunk. Trying to scream louder than the music they are playing. Inside my head, the voices talk so softly. They sense a path, not feeling the need to scream and annoy me. They let other people do that.
I imagine the boat they are having their party on sinking. The DJ-set would Titanic-wise continue to play until a short-circuit would electrocute the river and all my poo that swims in it (among other living things). I don't take half measures when I imagine something, so the drama would be huge. People would lose limbs and offspring (only to realise later it was only a bad dream), the whole city would catch fire.
But I flee, from the violence in my head, from the dry eyes I fall asleep with.
They are still screaming. Primal creatures let out primal screams.
Our backs are turned towards each other.
Slice us open. Explain.

The boring entry

: timpeltje; May 31st, 0:29

I asked Erik for whom he'd vote next week in the elections for the Flemish and EU parliaments.
He shrugged, uninterested, told me he'd vote for the Green party, not that he really cares about it. It is one of the three parties I am (or used to be) a "member" of, so I supported his choice. Why am I a member of three parties? Because I can't choose? Maybe, I believe in the common basis of their ideas. I used to vote for the Greens too. Now I'm doubting whether or not to give my vote to one of the (even) smaller parties, because I really support their program, even though the chance of them breaking the undemocratic 5% barrier are slim.
Contrary to previous elections, I have also been quite uninterested in the upcoming elections, because after two years of non-government, I sort of need a break from it all. In essence, you have to blame the people and not the politicians they elected for this non-governance; anyone with half a brain should know the consequences of what their vote means. In the meantime, several small right-wing parties are free to spread their messages of hate and fear on TV (all in the name of free speech). Try bringing a positive message these days, try using the word HOPE in this nation of sour & bitter people, try believing in a world without prejudice. Until you hit a wall. You are in Flanders. If this region would ever become independent, it would be the saddest place on earth. We wouldn't even have a real city anymore, since Brussels would be "abroad" and it would thus scare us. All we'd have left would be sossage stands and "guess where the cow shits" contests, because that's our true identity.
It is annoying to see that people can get convinced by a frustrated ex-sports coach who sends out private investigators on other politicians to hope to find a new scandal that could win him some votes. Why is that man even doing politics? He has no intention of making the world a better place, he just wants to make the rich a little richer and the poor a little poorer. And the sad irony is that the people who will vote for him are the people who will suffer most from all the budget cuts he's proposing; but that goes for all those right-wing Flemish nationalist parties.
People deserve the leaders they elect, it's just a shame for all those competent people who don't get elected that they were beaten by somebody who considers parliament an easy way to make a lot of money.
It's possibly the last thing I'll say about these elections, I really don't care so much now (I do care, just with the realisation in the back of my mind that so many misguided people will make a misguided choice).

Commercial Timmy

: timpeltje; May 29th, 0:23

Some examples of how "commercial" Timmy can get (a girl from the academy asked me if I would do something with her work (the cocoon-like clothes) and this is the result of a hard day's work).
I think I was still able to maintain my style, so I'm quite pleased with them.

Good news this week too. First, some French-speaking woman called me, waking me up, to inform me that a photo of mine was selected by a jury for an exhibition/auction in some contest in which I participated. The next day, another French-speaking woman woke me up in the middle of the night (9AM), telling me she liked my photo and the biography I had written (in which I claimed to be the son of a chimney sweeper and a butcher's wife) and that she was a journalist of the Walloon newspaper "Le Soir" and that she wanted an interview of some sorts. And Timmy was happy.
My stumbling French replies made me realise that I should work a bit on my French to make it better again. After all, suppose I continue doing artsy things, it's likely that I will need French a bit more than the Swedish I so pride myself on (but it sounds so pretty, sir! Oh, I know). And then I will tackle German.

Vertebrae

: timpeltje; May 22nd, 23:11

You can caress him, stroke his soft hair and press your body as close as you can to his. Make him feel he's not alone. Travelling through the universe of life, he finds himself bewildered, restless and alone. That's what the desert does to you, no matter if this desert is filled with sand, emptiness, or thousands of unfriendly, scared-of-what's-different people. This last desert is the worst one, because it has the least space of all possible deserts.
You kiss his forehead, his cheek, his beautifully soft lips. Yet you are powerless to change his disappointment in mankind. He grabs hold of you, and it feels like you are holding someone who is hanging over a very deep cliff, and way below, on the surface, three-headed dogs and man-eating tulips (yes, tulips) are expectantly looking up, hoping for a light snack (since he can hardly be called a 'meal').
You carry him about, think of soothing words to say, but you don't say them. The silence seems to give him more peace. His mind is cleared and you let your bodily contact speak for itself. You count the vertebrae on his back as your hand passes them. He just grabs you more firmly, adding an extra argument not to let him drop, something you could never do.
The universe is cold and the earth is badly isolated against it.
The world's deserts are only increasing in size.
All you can try to do is keep him warm, try to keep him warm.
You just don't want to turn cold like all those others.

/T

Tears

: timpeltje; May 18th, 23:04

Tears are scattered around, scars that go away so quietly.
The heat warms them up, but it also evaporates them. It is the choice between bliss plus disappearance or coldness plus existence.
Outside, all tears dry up. The city has stopped weeping over its bewildered state.
A flash fire burns up the buildings on the horizon, gradually getting closer, gradually eating away all the concrete solitude and replacing it with a unison of soot.
I suppose we are better off.

Encounters

: timpeltje; May 16th, 0:49

I was cycling home from school and when crossing a half-busy shopping street, I slowed down for oncoming pedestrians, as the gentleman in me usually does. An older woman crashed into me from the right (quite badly I thought), surprising me because she should of course have noticed the big blue bike very slowly making his way through a small crowd. In a spontaneous reaction, I apologised and asked if she was okay, softly grabbing her shoulder to let her know I was sincere. There are several things one might expect from an older lady...

1) "Oh, how dare you! You asshole!"
2) "Yes, I'm fine, no worries!" (while she could have her arm broken, Belgians just prefer to avoid sharing this personal information with strangers)
3) "HELP! This guy is trying to rob me! HELP! He even held my arm!"

But instead of this, she just stared vacantly into the void, as if she had no recollection of what happened just a fraction of a second earlier. I looked into her eyes, but she didn't respond, all I got was a confused and dazed look. She made no sound and only seemed to hope she could continue her intended path. I imagined her being on Valium or some other kind of tranquilizer, just because of the blankness in her stare.

So many people walk around like that, forced to live a life of numbness, the slightest emotion, whether good or bad, stumped to a far away flickering of light, all because of some mood alternator. An ideal world for a great number of companies, not just pharmaceutical, would be if everyone were like this woman: quiet, neutral, distant and unable to express any emotions.

I looked at her as she paced away steadily into the crowd, still hoping I had not hurt her. And nothing happened.

A nymph and his knight

: timpeltje; May 14th, 0:38

Current Mood:: tired

Here's a photo, since my day was spent translating texts about medical equipment that nobody will ever read, because it contains such useful warnings such as "do no use a banana on the touchscreen", "do not drop the machine on babies or other vulnerable patients as this might kill them" (though babies are called "neonatals") or "do not pour liqud over electrical equipment" (granted, slightly exaggerated) and also because it is an excruciatingly boring piece of writing. My hat goes off to the original writer of the text; he's one of the many non-famous published writers in this world, which is more than can be said of yours truly. The original writer now sees his readership extended by many more people (even though they won't read it all because it's boring) just because I'm being his translating bitch.

Of course I am not jealous, I am so much more than a medical equipment manual writer, I am a horseman, with a whip! And no shirt for some reason. But what I lack in shirt, I make up for in belts. It's all about balance. And tight trousers....

Mumbo.

: timpeltje; May 10th, 0:57

I got to try and write a bit more intuitively now. It's been a while since I completely let myself go, closing my eyes and just focus on the words that pop up in my head. The waterfall engulfs me like an orgasm racing through my veins, but they're just words, they can't hit you, touch you or relieve you of your guilt. Somehow somewhere someone is paying a prostitute to see him cry in his sleep. Customers ask the strangest questions. Stop editing youself, you are always afraid, afraid of what someone might think, offend someone, it is your only option. I got to feel free, you cannot help but get suffocated, even though the prison that is the world is not that tiny. Shoot me up into space. And send a monkey with me. That way, when we meet some extraterrestrials, we let them decide to whom they should listen and we should accept their choice, even if we would happen to dislike it. Chances are the monkey and me will have started a platonic relationship (it's a lonely universe after all), but one purely for sex. If food runs out, we will probably have to start eating each other. I will let the monkey cut off my leg, upon which I will do the same with it. Then we can both eat for a while, and so on until all that remains are our heads. When the whore's client wakes up the next day, the whore tells him about what she saw, how she feels thankful about the intimacy she has witnessed. If we would approach Alpha Centauri, I would teach the monkey to show his middle finger to it (provided we haven't eaten each other's arms by the time), which we would both do when the star is ready to evaporate us. Not that the closest star is our prime goal, but I've heard it can play some nasty tricks on space traveller. Spaceman Spiff is always prepared to show his middle finger. We are looking for the edge of the universe, for someone to watch us cry at night. But we are still to embarrassed to pay someone for it. What lies beyond is what we want to know. Maybe everything is just made of cardboard, which was then painted black to confuse us.
Words are powerless. They never make sense.

Skin

: timpeltje; May 7th, 15:30

I scratch my skin until it slices open. There is no other way to convince me this is real. But the blood that pours out is unconvincing. The pain I feel presents itself as a faraway emotion I cannot believe in. Somewhere in the distance, the pain turns into a scream but one that isn't mine. An invisible knife cuts through me, opening my stomach as if it contained an exciting birthday present. My gut falls out of me and the silence in the cell is replaced with the echo of intestines thumping against the cold stone floor.
While my hands are gathering my insides, laughter plays in a chamber in my head. If this were real, I'd probably be dead. As my body starts closing itself, the blood on my hands begins to dry. I lick it, feel its warmth against my palate, but this is not my blood.

You're in limbo.
Where's the exit?
Wouldn't you like to know?
I can get you anything you want... d'you want money? How much? Just tell me!
I don't want your money. I want...
Yes..?
I want to cut your foot off with a bread knife.
No.. NO... C'mon, man, please!
One foot and you're free. And if you don't decide in five minutes, I'll want one of your hands as well.
What happens if I refuse?
Then you stay here, living in your own filth, and that includes your excrement. It shouldn't be that hard a choice.
Who the fuck are you? And why me?
Too many questions. Now, what will it be?

/Chris Winston

As the fortune cookie speaks

: timpeltje; May 3rd, 0:11

In the near future, decisions will have to be made about the not so near future. I'm looking at it all with some excitement, as I'm confident that a change of scenery will do me good. I still want to do my Masters in Photography next year, just so that it would be easier for me to apply for a graduate program somewhere, should that opportunity present itself. But of course, since Erik looks like he'll be moving to Maastricht, there is no real reason for me not to follow him there. I mean, It's not like I'd have to be in Ghent an awful lot anyway, even when I do my Masters here. So we'd be having our apartment in Maastricht and I could probably rent a real tiny student room here for when I have to be here during the week. It doesn't look like rent prices are much higher in Maastricht than in Ghent anyway, so we could probably get a decent apartment out of it.
Of course after my graduation, it still remains to be seen what I could do, if an opportunity in Belgium would pop up, I would of course consider it, it's not like Maastricht is that far away (certainly not with the car and driving licence I'll be getting this year *hmhm*). Next week, I'll be going to the open days at HISK institute for fine arts where you could get a studio for two years and the environment seems very stimulating to be in (of course there's a lot of competition, but seeing how I'm blonder and how my feet are bigger than everyone else's, I'm sure to have the edge over my competition! gha!). Or maybe something similar in Holland could pop up, who knows.
I'm having second thoughts about Düsseldorf and Cologne because I think my work will always be emotional (i.e. not from the movement of the "Boring Photography" (c.q. below)) and the German schools (certainly the Düsseldorf one) are not all that keen on explorations of human extremes.
I should aim high, in any case.
The difference with graduating from university in 2005 is that I now have an idea of what I want to do in my life and, more importantly, that there is a path that could lead me there. Sure, the path is still crudely built and I could come to a nasty fall on my way, but it's more than the wall I faced before.
And if all would fail, well, I could still become the world's greatest whore. There's always a challenge. (Hopefully, Erik would veto this career choice)
There is much to do.

Photography of Boredom, a mockery by Timpleton

: timpeltje; April 25th, 12:03

Current Mood:: playful

The first decade of the 21st century was known as the "gay zeroes" (like the "gay twenties" of the 20th century). And certainly for photography, times were gay. With the rise of computerized development, anyone could be an artist. This digital movement with all its fancy bells and whistles gave rise to a counter-movement in photography, a movement that expressed a longing for simpler times. This movement was called "Boring Photography" or "Photographie de l'Ennui" or "Oersaaie foto-fotografie" (the Dutch one stammered). Of key importance for this movement was of course the economic crisis of 2008. After all, what had all this progress brought us except more hardship and despair? A key date in this was the announcement of the winner of the Epson Art Photo Award in April 2009. Ms. Anne Smith won the award with a series of photographs of simple items in simple soft light. The photos had all been taken in only five minutes at her grandparents' place on the German prairie, with a simple digital camera the artist had gotten as a free gift with her subscription on the Der Spiegel newspaper. In the following years, Ms. Anna Smith's work became more and more popular and she became house photographer for the bimonthly magazine Milkjug Weekly (despite its misleading title, still the standard among milk jug enthusiasts). Co-participant in the contest, Sir Ian Timpleton, a failed wannabe artist who became a drug-addicted hustler a few years later, did not until then realise how easy it was to make photos that could win you 10.000€. Quickly he made a number of similar extremely boring photos and sent them through to Epson, but to no avail.

(look on the Winners page to see what photos these were based on)

He wrote a nice little story accompanying the photos too, but it just made him look sadder: "The Present – Traces of Humanity. My photo series consists of a number of impressions of urban life. It was shot in my appartment, using only props that were available to me. Each photo has its own story to tell. You have to look at what isn't photographed, like the cat licking herself or the sound of me farting or possibly also licking myself. We are reminded of the harsh living conditions for homosexual art students living in big appartments with gorgeous boyfriends. They had money for a milk jug, but no money to fill it with milk, a timeless symbol for economic hardship. This is an excursion into an almost forgotten world."
Yes, "Boring Photography" was here to stay. Even though photographing chairs and tables and giving an arrogant description about these was by no means an attempt at being original, at least it was humble. And we needed humbleness to get ready for the new decade, not some arrogant larger-than-life bullshit. Icaros deserved to die. Indeed, people had been taking photos of chairs ever since the chair had been invented (in 1965), praising the object for its ability to tell stories.
Yes, 2009 would determine the future of art photography. And since people had other things to worry about than photos, a decision was made to support the movement of Boring Photography so that museum visitors would be able to see a whole museum a lot faster. While you could spend hours in a photo museum, gasping at the unimaginable creations of photographers, you could now quickly stroll through the rooms, knowing that you only need half a second to see what a photo is about, not only because of their brilliant simplicity, but also because of their complete and utter lack of originality.
"The Boring Photography" movement suffered a huge blow in 2016, when an almost possessed Sir Ian Timpleton blew himself up during a meeting of the group. This blow had a huge impact on the chair and milk jug manufacturers who had become reliant on art photographers for the popularity of their products. But luckily, since literally anyone could do it, it didn't take long for a new generation of Boring photographers to stand up and take control....

(From a photo historic publication in the year 2045).

I like to laugh my own failure away in manners like this. It is much nicer than to just turn bitter. I just thought it weird that there were only 2 or 3 winners (of the 32 or so) of whom I actually thought they had something to say and had the photos to support it. And all the others just left me so very neutral, also because the subjects, the things they photographed, were all so... well, boring. And it had all been done so many times before. "It's what not on the photograph that is so brilliant!" you hear defenders of this minimalist genre say, so by that logic, this photograph is a piece of crap since all that's not on it is brilliant?
Next year, I'll send in some chairs and milk jugs. Anyone want to model for that?

I told you so.

: timpeltje; April 24th, 0:55

sirens, gun shots and a scream,
loud beats override the scene
impatiently I await exasperated
sighs of disbelief and "I told you
so". A shadow attaches itself to
me, having run away from horror
from street lights that exploded
in unrecognisable faces.
we stand still, hoping to evaporate
before guilt has us exposed.

/T.

And another one

: timpeltje; April 20th, 0:42

Call me lazy, but posting a pic helps fill the space. But you'd be lazy too if you spent the whole day trying to figure out Flash and webdesign. Whoever thought they could be so boring? Well, me for starters. But well, it needs to be done to finish this project. I should be proud of myself of being able to insert a full-screen option on my videos. I kind of agreed wth myself that I won't care about making the site look too smooth, it just had to be about the videos. And it'll work out.
Next photo will (hopefully) be taken Tuesday. Intensity's what I'm after...

Another photo

: timpeltje; April 18th, 2:41

In a way, it's kind of an ode to Jeff Wall's Destroyed Room, but other than that, it's part of my alter ego's life.
I'll have minimum 6 photos/videos at the end of this thing. I don't want to let this alter ego die, so maybe he will live on after this.

You never walk alone

: timpeltje; April 16th, 1:13

My good friend Wint Margarite wrote me an e-mail yesterday telling me about Emma Watson's ass being destroyed. Poor Emma, that's what happens if you take too many laxatives. Wint tried to joke about it, saying it was due to his gigantic penis, but I actually thought this sounded a bit morbid.
Another great friend of mine, Nannette Doretha, wrote me about the urgent matter of weight gain. She sent me a link to a website where I could buy some pills to get rid of my excess fat. You know, that's kind of what I always liked about Nannette, always straightforward in her approach. If she thinks you're fat, she'll tell you. I mean I don't like some of my so-called friends, like Ghoulam Lhqxqq (he was born in an African tribe where they didn't believe in vowels for last names), he's just calling me names all the time, just trying to hurt me. I mean, just look at his email's subject: "Were you drunk? Answer, bastard!" He always gets pissed when we're out drinking and then he always blames me, the bitch. I really should kick him back to the forest he came from.
But hey, I'm a nice guy. Just like my ex roommate Servoss Bertram used to say: "Your tool will have great value for them." Yeah, that guy was always quite the poet, you never really knew what he meant. But he's still not over my being gay, he just wrote me that I shouldn't stay flaccid with "her", while he knows I have a boyfriend. I never expected Servoss to react like this to my coming-out, after all, he was the one who dragged me into his bed every time the sun went down.
When Kerstin Zacarias e-mailed me today, I was quite upset. She told me she needed my advice, but refused to talk about what it was she wanted advice on (you always have to drag it out of her, it's tiring). Instead, she just mumbled something about erectile disfunctions and that was that. I figured that maybe she was pregnant or something, so I told her to get an abortion, she was too young to have a baby, plus it would ruin her career as a top class spammer.
Another fun friend of mine, Jhyig Buxu Socorro, made a fun pun in his mail. "Style up your life with classy fake watches!"

But my closest and most personal friend is Burket Knedler. He is the only one who truly knows me for who I am. His message brought a tear to my eye: "You are the captain of the bedroom!" Your partner is RAVING to friends about the great sex he gets while all of them get normal, boring sex!" Burket finished his ode to me with a poem. I quote it here because it literally brought tears to my eye...

"But at length an answer was undo the door, on first page
was disappointing, however, as it contained was done partly
by the invention of new words, she did not seem to hear
rhoda call after her like the son of a gentleman, until
you have forgot." (Burket Knedler)

The boy

: timpeltje; April 10th, 0:12

My boy is sleeping. Resting his eyes after yet another day at a job he hates, falling out with his boss over getting time off. We are both looking at the rainbow in the cloudy sky, a rainbow in the shape of a PhD in Maastricht (I guess that would be rectangular and papery, if it now were a shape) and hoping it'll clear up his sky.
He has a month left to hand in the formal application and we're both very much clinging on to the thought of him starting the PhD, he'll see his future supervisor next week and then he can really get to work. I sometimes annoy him these days when I tell him that he should do all he can to get as many days off from work as possible so that he can spend as much time as he can on his PhD application. I know he is trying his best (if only he'd have quit last month when he had the chance), even though they're not at all willing to give him any time off in the coming month (I don't even know if this is legal, but then again, they make a game out of exploiting their employees so it doesn't really matter). Of course I'm trying to convince him to go to a doctor who'd write him sick for a few days, or just not show up one day at work. Maybe it's my general attitude towards contracts that I'm trying to convince him of (you are strong and paper is weak!), and I guess I'm also just worried, but that's a normal lover's emotion I tell ya!
A lot of life has been sucked out of him because of working. Maybe now he understands more why some people choose to travel after they graduate, because they simply don't see the appeal in starting work. I have put up with a lot of complaining and stress because of his job, but we'll be able to laugh at all that once he gets a positive answer from Maastricht.
His hair was really soft tonight (he told me so and made me feel). He is still that same beautiful boy I fell in love with, so insecure, so gentle. He has lost some of his innocence (working for Da Man) but there is still so much longing within. He wants to improve his situation so much that he suffers from it every day. I call that devotion to a cause. And in persisting, he will succeed.
And he will be my boyfriend, my husband and my PhD writer. Period.

DIY

: timpeltje; April 8th, 0:14

It is back to my serious work. Today I got annoyed while reading through a downloaded version of Dreamweaver CS3 for Dummies, because Timmy has to be all special and build a real website, not just start out from a template like he did last year (last year, the site I built was crummy, but that was okay of course, because it was a parody of a tabloid newspaper). This time round, it has to look smooth, that's why Flash might be necessary. I figure that the skills I learn here might come in handy when I build my own website (maybe this summer?), so I should make the effort, even if this means getting annoyed some more. Sometimes having a slave would be nice if he could do all those things for me.
I'm thinking about getting my driving license (again), but this time I may have a reason, if Erik would do his PhD. in Holland then I'd have a reason to get a car and finally be a big boy. I still don't like cars and I wish I could be transported everywhere by a teleporter, but while we wait for that to happen, the petrol machine will have to do.
I look forward to the change that might come soon.

Space

: timpeltje; April 8th, 0:06

It seems as if I am never able to stay in just one place. It may be part of the dream or drug-induced coma that I'm having, but all my hallucinations seem to make no sense.

Why can't I remember anything?

I kick the wall, but the only thing that happens is that I hurt my foot. I have never been here before, yet I know that this is all somehow a concoction of my subconscious. I believe imagination is not able to create something entirely new; the powers of the imagination are just so frustratingly limited.
Even though my memory has abandoned me, everything I'm witnessing (and I dare say, it's not a lot!) must be derived from my past experiences, thus inextricably linked to my real life alter ego, the guy before this mad drug trip. This is where the key lies, my memories are showing themselves to me now, all I need to do is put the pieces together. But I am afraid that I can't.

Why can't I scream?

Every time I open my mouth I hope that I can scream. But for some reason, no noise leaves my mouth. Just a sigh of frustration before I hear the sigh echo against the walls around me. I know that screaming does not help. It didn't work for the mouse who got eaten by the cat; it won't work for me.
Still, if anyone thinks he is able to come to my rescue, please don't hesitate to get in touch. Even when I'm desperate, I cannot scream, so I'm sure I must be a nice guy once I'm out of here.

Notions of time?

I have none. It is very hard to keep track of time when you're traveling between different realms in your head. There is no day and night, no sun to guide you to your bed. Just darkness and flashes in this darkness. This is a flash now. My mind has briefly sent signals to my body that it should respond. But when everything turns dark again, I will have no idea how much time will pass until the next flash comes round. Or until I wake up.

Until I wake up...

/Chris

More nonsense

: timpeltje; April 5th, 1:25

I had I had fun this week playing with photography again. I guess it was nice to take a break from my final project that I was happy to produce silly pictures without anything deep or philosophical about them.

This is me on a pensive moment. Wearing my thinking boots/leggings/dress/boa/glove... There was a lot to ponder...

This is a wonderful transformation where I become Géraldine and vice versa. I think she looks cool in my clothes! Note how we try to mimic each other's behaviour too.

An advert for Fitness First gone bad. If there ever were a gym for homeless or poor people, this is what it would look like...

As classy as ever, The Re-Birth of Venus (subtitle: the return from the Dead!). Can you hear the spinning noise? That's Botticelli, spinning in his grave. Sadly, my hair isn't as long as Venus', she could cover herself entirely with her, but luckily and without using Photoshop, we found a solution that made it look perfectly real. *coughs*

Joy

: timpeltje; April 3rd, 1:41

Current Mood:: happy

I could have been at a party at the moment, but I didn't feel like being there after Erik told me tonight he was selected to put together a PhD-application for the University of Maastricht in theatre studies. It's the first good news since he graduated basically, so you can imagine I'm really happy about this (he's not there yet, but the application will be set up in cooperation with his two supervisors - and since he was the only applicant for the PhD that was proposed by the theatre faculty who was selected, he might have a good shot at getting it too. Sure, it will mean that from September, things will look different, but I'm not afraid of this change. I might move to Maastricht after I graduate, maybe see what my options are there or in Düsseldorf/Cologne.
I couldn't stay at the party tonight because all of my options were racing through my head. Everthing suddenly felt so trivial, I had to get home and think about our future. I had visions of what our life would be like, of how happy I'd be to see him do what he wants to do.
I will sleep against a different Erik tonight.
Oh, how I love him...

(and I really cannot get this smile off my face!)

Fuck me sideways! (please?)

: timpeltje; April 2nd, 0:10

Current Mood:: volatile

I bang my head against the wall, the wall falls, the house collapses. I am miraculously saved, but the doctors fear they might have to amputate my nose. I tell them it's okay, and ask them if it would take a long time for my nose to grow back. A ceaseless amount of snot seems to flow from my nosehole into my mouth. I tell my cat I bear more resemblance now to a whale than ever before. My cat laughs and tells me I should be a sperm whale. I take exception to this prejudiced comment so I grab the animal by her back paws and throw her out the window. Cats always land on their feet, right? Well, at twenty metres above the ground, the paws are the first thing to touch the ground indeed, but then her body crushes itself on top of them. To make sure the cruelty continues (or ends, depending on how you look at it), a car runs over her remains. She still has eight lives left, so she'll be back on her feet in no time.
Some kid stares at me when I'm walking on the street. I pull down my trousers and urinate on the toy doll she is carrying. People with no noses aren't subtle, you can't really expect them to be, what with the air they breathe being so cold all the time. It's only when you haven't got your nostrils that you know what you need them for (well, that, and looking sexy, but that's a given).
I think about a place where I could fit in, where I wouldn't constantly have to hide my true face. Isn't there an island somewhere especially reserved for no-nosed people? The island would have to be tropical, though I doubt that anyone in my position would actually have enough funds to buy an island, let alone the cocktails I would drink there.
In the meantime, my boyfriend is rejoicing over the fact that he now has one extra hole he can do, so I guess it's not all bad. He could have taken the easy way out and pour sulfuric acid in my eyes and pull out my tongue, so that he could quietly run away with the money I was saving up to buy my island.
There is just so much to take into consideration when you decide to mutilate yourself. Just a simple blow against a wall can lead you to pee on a child's toy and get a cock up your nose every once in a while. But we always adapt, the strongest humans are like chameleons (chame-chame-chame-chame-chame-le-ons, they come and gooooooooo (or something, it was the first song I ever sung)), the weakest ones are like children with toys that smell of piss.
Now that's something to think about.

/Someone Else

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